Whispering (10 page)

He was due to pay his second visit to Miss Emerson next day and found himself looking forward to it more than he liked. He must not let himself fall under the spell of those magic hands in
that strange sea-cave of a room. And, equally important, he must decide whether to pretend that she had improved his condition. He was uncomfortably sure that she had a keen eye for pretence. Altogether, it was perhaps a relief to find Ralph Emerson sitting with his sister.

‘You are prompt to your hour,' Emerson greeted him. ‘I thought you might have difficulty finding your way up through the lanes from your new home. You are happily settled with the Wares, I trust?'

‘Yes, very happily, thank you.' Emerson's knowledge of his move confirmed everything Caterina had said about gossip-ridden Oporto. ‘It's just like being at home in England.' This got him a wry, amused glance from Miss Emerson, who had so far smiled but not spoken.

‘Where you may find yourself returning in haste any day now, if the latest tales are true,' said Ralph Emerson.

‘And what are they?'

‘I was sure you would have heard. Marmont is loose up on the border. They say he has thrown supplies into Ciudad Rodrigo, evaded Wellington and is ready to march either this way or down on Lisbon. With this way much more likely, of course, because of those bragged-about lines of Torres Vedras. And nothing but a parcel of guerrillas up in the mountains to stop him. You may find yourself packing up pretty smartly, Mr Craddock. But had you really not heard? I took it for granted that the Wares would keep themselves well posted. Young Frank spends a great deal of time at the English Factory, I believe. It is not a place to which I have had the honour of being invited, though my friend Joe Camo is sometimes allowed to darken its sacred doors. Do you believe that it is bound to end in war between our two countries?'

‘Because of the friction at sea? I'm quite sure it will not; we all have more sense than that. Napoleon is the great enemy to peace after all. Your Mr Madison must see that as well as the rest of us; it would be madness to let Boney drive a wedge between us.'

‘That is what you think he is trying to do?'

‘Do not you?' This was not at all a conversation he wanted to be involved in.

‘Who, me? I'm just an ignorant American from the backwoods. What should I know of world affairs? But I am keeping you two from your work. I trust my sister will do you great good, Mr Craddock. It seems to me that you are looking better already, but perhaps that is just the mild Portuguese air. I have a few errands to do in town so I doubt I'll be back before my dear Rachel has finished her ministrations, but I wish you well for them.' He rose, and it was Jeremy's cue to hand him the little bag of gold coins he had brought, while Rachel Emerson moved away to look out of the window. He found he disliked the whole business very much. And he was absolutely certain, for no good reason, that Ralph Emerson had made up or at least exaggerated the story about Marmont. Why? To spread alarm? Or to startle him into indiscretion? Probably both. He was glad to see him go.

‘Sit down, Mr Craddock. But first take your jacket off.' Rachel Emerson closed the shutters and drew cool green curtains across the windows. Now she put gentle hands on the back of his neck. ‘Oh dear! I should not have let you and my brother talk politics, Mr Craddock. You are worse than ever today. Did I do you no good at all?'

‘Of course you did.' Was he sure of this? ‘But it is quite true, I do feel anxious. If the tale your brother has heard is true, we are all in danger here. But I refuse to believe that Wellington could have let himself be out-generalled.'

‘I am sure you are right.' Her voice was soothing. ‘And now you will forget all about that, Mr Craddock, and think yourself back to that happy place where you were before.'

A happy place. Where had it been? It seemed a long time ago. Of course. He had imagined himself walking at Falmouth, with his cousin and her friend. But now, with those gentle hands soothing away thought, the happy place was here, in this cool, grey cave, with these magic hands gentling him. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘I am thinking of it, I am there.'

‘That's good, that's right.' Her hands moved up to his forehead. ‘Think of nothing, don't think at all, thought is your
enemy, Mr Craddock. Or, think of water, and trees, and a cool calm.' Her hands were on his shoulders now, quiet, resting there, binding him with her spell. He was calm, he was quiet, for the moment, but above and beyond all that, he knew himself entirely hers.

Caterina and Harriet had finished two dresses each, and Caterina was having trouble with the sketches for the next ones when the note came. Old Tonio handed it to Caterina, very early one morning. She had gone down, before anyone else was about, to walk up and down the untended lower terraces and wonder what was going to become of her, and she was on the way back up the last flight of steps when he met her. ‘For you,
minha senhora
, to be read when you are alone.'

‘Thank you, Tonio.' The colour had drained from her face, and he thought, for a moment, that she looked like her mother on her deathbed.

‘Father Pedro did not come back last night.' It was disconcerting to have him read her thoughts. Her father's confessor had been away for a few days and the whole household had breathed a secret, shared sigh of relief.

‘It's early yet.' She looked up at the shuttered house. ‘I'll stay out a while. Thank you, Tonio.'

‘For nothing. We all love you,
senhora
, as we did your poor mother, God rest her soul. We'd do anything for you, remember that. Anything we can.'

She actually found herself fighting rare tears as she thanked him again and turned back down the terrace steps. There was something so touching about the characteristic peasant realism of his statement. They would do anything for her that did not risk their livelihood or her father's terrible anger.

She held the note clutched in her hand, not daring even to make the giveaway gesture of tucking it down the front of her dress. The house looked sleepy enough, but there could so easily be a watchful eye behind one of those blind-looking shutters. Safe at last under the screen of rampant vines on the lowest terrace, she unfolded the note with hands that would shake.
There had been no name on the outside; there was no signature; no need for either. She knew the handwriting, the way the note was folded; she had seen neither for more than three years, but how could she forget them? They were part of her heart's treasure.

Short and to the point, as always. No word of love. He knew, as well as she did, the savage need to keep the note small enough so that it could be concealed in a hand, in the fold of a dress. It had been always so between them. ‘We must meet. If you can trust your friend, take her to see the sights. A picnic at the Fonsa Palace in the late afternoon. I'll be in the Temple of Venus. Waiting. Destroy this.'

She re-read the cramped, small hand quickly, kissed the note, almost ashamed of herself for doing so, and tore it into tiny shreds, letting them flutter, here and there, down towards the dry bed of the stream below. It was an ingenious plan; it would work. The Fonsa house, out beyond the Carrancas Palace, had been wrecked in the French advance of 1809 and nothing had been done yet about repairing it. There would just be one old, bribable caretaker camped in the ruins of the house. Its terraces had the best view in town of the whole course of the river down to Foz. She could perfectly well take Harriet there, and leave her on the upper terrace while she kept her assignation in the folly below. They had played hide-and-seek there as children; he had kissed her there, the very first time, finding her hidden in the cool darkness behind the statue of Venus. It was the right, the perfect place to meet. She could trust Harriet. But could she trust herself? She had thought about this meeting so often; dreamed about it; prayed for it and been ashamed of herself for doing so. And now it was upon her and every nerve tingled and thrummed with it. And yet she was afraid. What was she going to tell him? How much was she going to tell him? Why did the word ‘folly' echo so in her mind? She had tried not to think about what Father Pedro had said about Luiz going off with the French. It could not be true, or, if it were true, Luiz would explain.

It was getting late; Harriet would be wondering where she was; she looked about her to make sure no betraying scrap of
paper showed on the terrace and started back up to the house, repeating the words of the message in her head. Of course he could not speak of love, it was too dangerous; there would be time enough for that. Impossible to arrange the excursion for today; it would have to be tomorrow. Would he wait every day in the little temple, or had he, more likely, an informant in her house? Luiz had always been well informed about what went on in Porto; he used to boast of having a friend in every kitchen. She had loved him for his democratic spirit. Over and over again, since Father Pedro had told her about his throwing in his lot with the French, she had reminded herself how many other people had been deceived by their talk of liberty, equality and fraternity. It had amazed her to hear radical talk and read radical newspapers in England. Bowood House had been the nearest great house to her school, and the Marquess of Lansdowne and his family had been its benevolent patrons, much approved of by the nuns for their stand on Catholic Emancipation.

She had read Lord Lansdowne's speeches in the papers and they had astonished her. Brought up to think of Napoleon as practically the devil incarnate, she could hardly believe her eyes when she read of him as a great reformer, a man who had set France on its feet after years of misgovernment and tyranny. The odd thing was that, back in England, she had thought all this nonsense, another instance of English eccentricity carried almost to the point of madness. But now she was at home (or was it home?) in Portugal, with what she sadly recognised as misgovernment and tyranny all around her. Was everything different, or was she seeing it with different eyes? There must be something wrong with a system where a whole household held its breath in terror because of two men, her father and his confessor. She had thought the rule of her convent in England had been tyrannical; now she realised that she had had no idea what tyranny was. She had thought the poverty she had seen in Bath was abject and horrible, but that too was nothing compared to the deprivation here in her own country. If Luiz had taken sides with the French in the hope of giving the starving poor a voice, she could only sympathise with him, though she
must think him wrong in trusting the French. Could she really be facing the possibility of thinking Luiz wrong?

But here was Harriet, waiting for her on the top terrace. ‘I'm sorry, love, have I kept you waiting for breakfast?'

‘It doesn't matter.' Harriet never lied. ‘But, Caterina, there is horrid news. Poor Father Pedro was set upon on his way home last night. He was found in an alley, bleeding and unconscious. They have just brought him home; he looks terrible. Your father is out; the servants are getting him to bed; what should we do?'

‘We must send for a doctor; I'll talk to Tonio; he will know who my father has not quarrelled with these days. But, it's extraordinary – you say he was attacked? A holy father?'

‘I thought the servants were surprised too,' said Harriet, ‘even though I could not altogether understand what they said.'

Senhor Gomez and Dr Blanco met on the doorstep, and Caterina's swift explanation of what had happened amazed them both. ‘The reverend father attacked!' exclaimed Gomez. ‘What is this country coming to? But I'll not keep you from him, doctor. Let me know how you find him.'

The patient was still unconscious, but breathing stertorously. Caterina, standing by while the doctor made his swift examination, thought his colour was beginning to come back, and the doctor confirmed her view.

‘A terrible blow to the head,' he told her. ‘A deep concussion. He will need absolute rest for a few days, but should be none the worse in the long run, please God.'

‘Will he remember what happened do you think, doctor?'

‘Very likely not. Don't question him,
minha senhora
, just look after him and see to it that he rests, absolutely, for several days. It's the strangest thing. We all know that Father Pedro never carried money. A holy father needs no money. So why should he be attacked?'

‘A personal grudge, perhaps?' said Caterina, and wished she had not.

‘Against a man of God?' The doctor sounded shocked. ‘Most unlikely,
senhora
. But I must make my report to your father.'

‘Of course. This way.' Ushering him into her father's study, she was glad to hear the doctor begin by praising the care his patient had received before he got there. ‘Everything done just as it should have been,
senhor
, I am glad to say. You have good servants, and, if I may say so, a capable daughter.' With a civil bow for Caterina.

‘I'm glad to hear it.' Without a glance for her. ‘But, doctor, will Father Pedro be able to tell us what happened to him?'

‘Perhaps.' The doctor shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. But, for the love of God no questions,
senhor
. If he remembers and tells you, good, if not, let it go. Anxiety, searching his mind, would be the worst possible thing for him. Let your daughter and the women care for him, they will know what to do for the best. I would advise that you do not visit him for a few days, until his strength is re-established, in case the very sight of you should set him racking his brains as to what could have happened to him. I am sure you can have every confidence in your admirable daughter.'

‘Good.' This got Caterina a long, thoughtful look from under the habitually frowning brows. ‘Thank you, doctor. My steward will settle your account.'

Father Pedro recovered consciousness that evening while Caterina was changing the dressing on his head. ‘Where –' He looked about him. ‘How did I get here?'