Whispering (6 page)

‘No, sir.' Jeremy spoke at last. ‘Reverend Mother's idea. From your letter, I had taken Miss Gomez to be a child, never thought of the need; Mother Agnes pointed it out to me, and I was grateful to her.'

‘And she produced this amazon from her kitchens?'

‘No, father,' said Caterina. ‘Harriet is a friend of mine. I asked her to come and she did so as a favour to me. She is my guest.'

‘Is she so?' The two dark glances met and held. ‘Then, welcome, Miss Brown. I am sure you and my daughter will prove admirable company for each other. And for Mr Craddock. And now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.' With a gesture to the huge ledgers on his table. ‘I will look forward to seeing you at supper time, Mr Craddock.' He did not try to make it convincing.

‘Thank you, sir.' Jeremy held open the door for the two girls, resolving to start looking for lodgings at once.

Back in the long corridor, Caterina watched him close the study door behind them. ‘I won't apologise for my father,' she said. ‘What's the use? But I do welcome you both.'

‘Is he always like that?' asked Harriet.

‘When he speaks at all.' Caterina moved back down the long hall to open a door and lead the way into a room that contrasted in every respect with the gloomy study they had just left. This was a woman's room, full of light and colour, opening on to a shady terrace. ‘My mother's sitting room,' she told them. ‘I used to think father stopped speaking after she died. It was Maria told me how wrong I was. Tonio's wife.' She was fighting tears, and Harriet looked at her in astonishment. Through all the trouble they had shared, she had never seen her friend cry. ‘Maria brought me up,' she told them. ‘In so far as anyone did. She loved me. Now she is dead, and I never thanked her.'

‘There is no need for thanks,' Harriet told her. ‘Not when you were as close as that. She will know.'

‘But I didn't even say goodbye. Father wouldn't let me; said there was no time, hustled me on board ship as if the devil was after me.'

‘Well, the French were,' said Jeremy.

‘Yes, and Father wanted no reminders of his English connection. I don't know – and I don't want to know – what expectations you have from my father, Mr Craddock, but as a friend, let me tell you one thing about him. There is just one love in his life, and that is his vineyards. He married my mother for them – and for an heir to inherit them. And what he got was me. Maria told
me that after he learned from the doctors that mother could not have another child he never spoke to her again.'

‘But, surely, you can inherit?' This was Harriet, surprising the other two.

‘Oh, yes, I can inherit, but if I marry the name goes, don't you see? They won't be Gomez wines any more.'

‘And that is so important to him?' Jeremy Craddock could not believe his ears.

‘Oh, yes,' she told him. ‘More important than anything in the world, Mr Craddock. Never forget that in your dealings with him.'

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘I won't.' He felt himself in deep water again. ‘Lord, how bright the sun is.' They had moved out, by common consent, on to the vine-hung terrace, and he had been gazing down to where the river sparkled far below them. He put a hand to his brow. ‘Will you forgive me, Miss Gomez, if I play the invalid and rest for a while?'

‘Of course. How thoughtless of me. Poor Cousin Jeremy, do you feel one of your seizures coming on?'

‘I confess I have felt better.' He made it rueful. ‘Stupid of me; the doctors warned me about dazzling light … I am ashamed to confess it, but I do long for a darkened room.'

‘And you shall have one. We will all be the better for some rest and quiet before the delights of a family evening. I should warn you, cousin, that we keep Portuguese hours here; breakfast and dine early, with a siesta after and a light supper at night. The British, of course, stick to their own ways. It makes social intercourse a little difficult.'

‘I wonder what the Americans do,' he said. ‘I do feel the sooner I get in touch with Miss Emerson the better.'

‘I'll find out her where she lives while you are resting,' she promised him. ‘And I will have something to eat sent to your room, cousin. It's a long time since breakfast.'

‘It certainly is,' said Harriet. ‘I am starving.'

The rambling house was immensely confusing. It had been built on various levels along the ridge, with steps up and down into its different wings, which must have been added haphazardly,
as they were needed. Jeremy was pleased to find himself alone in a remote guest wing with a view across the gardens to the stable block. ‘But don't try to go out that way,' Caterina warned. ‘It's quite the wrong direction, and you will get lost in the alleys for sure, and very likely robbed too, or mobbed by beggars which would be almost as bad.'

‘You mean the front door is the only way out?'

‘Yes. My ancestors were thinking of Spanish invasion when they built the house. You probably noticed how solid the door is, and the gate of the stable yard is almost a fortification. It stood in good stead when the French invaded; they didn't get in here, which is why we still have our valuables, and the gold plate in the chapel.'

‘They'd surely not have taken that?'

‘Oh yes they would! They took everything, cousin. The silver altar in the cathedral was only spared because someone had the wits to paint it over to look like wood. What they saw, they took, and anyone who protested got killed. Tonio told me about Maria. She was visiting her sick sister when the French stormed the defences and poured into the town. Unlucky for her; it was a house on the main road; a group of soldiers burst in, demanding food. Maria's niece Francesca was there – she was my age, and very lovely, skin like a lily. Maria and her mother tried to protect her – no use, they killed all three women in the end. With the children watching.'

‘You ought not to know these things,' Jeremy protested.

‘Why not? They happened. Better say they ought not to happen, Cousin Jeremy.' She swept the room with a swift, hostess's glance. ‘Ring the bell if you need anything. Someone will come in the end. We'll leave you to your rest.'

‘I hope you are not putting me in a guest wing miles from anywhere,' Harriet said nervously as they retraced their steps.

‘No, no, love.' Caterina squeezed her hand. ‘You are to be next to me in the women's wing. You will find the sexes kept very strictly separate, here in Portugal. I hope you won't find it too odd.'

‘I think I'll like it.' Harriet sounded surprised.

Having settled Harriet in her room, Caterina put on a wide-brimmed hat and went out by a side door into the gardens. Drifting, apparently aimlessly, from terrace to terrace, she worked her way gradually down towards the lowest level where, in winter, a roaring stream plunged down the narrow gorge to the river. The terraces got rockier and less well cultivated as she descended, degenerating at last into a tangle of vine and jasmine and myrtle bushes. The garden had evidently been allowed to go back to jungle while she was in England. At first she thought the way down from the lowest of the cultivated terraces had been blocked off, but when she reached the seaward end she found the beginnings of the narrow path that led on down. Glad that she was still wearing her serviceable travelling dress, she gathered its skirts in a firm hand and started carefully down. It got easier as it went on; the servants who had made the path as a short cut to their friends working on the estate across the gorge had had the wits to keep its start as unobtrusive as possible. If she had not expected it to be there, she would not have found it.

Parts of the bottom terrace had been eroded by the winter torrent that was now nothing but a dry bed. She made her difficult way back inland along it and found, as she had feared, that the rustic summerhouse that used to command a view of a small waterfall had been systematically destroyed. She stood looking at it for a long minute, remembering, wondering … then moved on, past its ruins, to where the gorge narrowed enough for a tall man to cross it. Here, too, everything was very much as she had expected. A barricade had been built of the timbers from the summerhouse, but had been subsequently broken down so that the way was open to anyone brave enough to cross.

She turned to retrace her steps. If she had hoped for a miracle, it had not happened. She had learned nothing that she had not expected, and, furthermore, she must not let herself be found down here. It was hot work climbing back up the path, and she was at the top, sitting on a stone bench, brushing burrs from her skirts, when something told her she was no longer alone.

The monk had come so silently along the terrace that it was only the smell of incense clinging to his brown habit that alerted her. She stood at once and made him a civil curtsey. ‘Forgive me, father, I did not hear you.'

‘I did not mean to startle you, my child.' He was automatically blessing her as he spoke. ‘You look hot, daughter. Should you be out here in the sunshine after your exhausting journey?'

‘The air is doing me good,' she told him. ‘And I wanted to revisit my childhood haunts, but,' looking ruefully down at her skirts, ‘the lower terraces seem to have gone to rack and ruin; I could find no way down to the stream.'

‘I should hope not!' He gestured her to seat herself and now sat down beside her, the smell of incense stronger than ever. ‘The scandalous path across the gorge has been blocked for years. That is the past, to be forgotten. I am charged to say that to you by your father. As his spiritual guide, and I hope, his close friend, I am delighted to greet his beloved daughter. We are to be good friends, you and I.' It sounded as much threat as promise.

‘Thank you. But –' She hesitated. ‘I had thought Father Tomas –' He had been her father's resident confessor when she left, an amiable old man who thought of nothing much beyond his food and his drink.

‘Father Tomas died two years ago. Of what looked very much like a surfeit, I am sorry to say. I trust things have gone on more regularly in this household since I was so fortunate as to be asked to take his place. I am Father Pedro, child. Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. I had hoped that your father would have told you of the rock on which he now, I am happy to say, builds his security.'

‘If you know my father,' she told him bluntly, ‘you surely know that he does not waste much time – or talk – on me.'

‘Something that I may be able to rectify, dear child. I am happy to tell you that I have managed, God helping me, to bring Senhor Gomez to a state of grace in which I devoutly hope his daughter will soon join him. The past is to be forgotten; a hopeful future lies before you. I trust you have come back from your exile the obedient daughter so good a father deserves.' He
laid a soft, dry hand on hers and she was suddenly afraid. ‘It was natural to wish to revisit your childhood haunts,' he told her. ‘But I trust you were saying goodbye to them, Caterina. You are a woman now, and a handsome one, and your father and I feel it is high time you were married.'

‘Married? Oh, no!' It was startled out of her.

‘Indeed yes. The friends of your childhood are mothers long since. Your father and I have thought long and earnestly about your future. It has not been easy. I have told you that the past is to be forgotten, but of course it is not quite so simple as that. There were, I am afraid, whispers at the time of your sending away; the best of servants will talk; that Maria seems to have been a chatterbox if ever there was one. But we won't speak ill of the dead.' He had recognised her angry reaction. ‘It means, I am afraid, that marriage with a son of your father's fidalgo friends is out of the question. It would never have been easy, what with your foreign blood, and, now, your foreign education. I am sorry to have to tell you, dear child, that your looks are a little bold for a girl of your age and breeding. You should not meet a man's eyes when you speak to him. Not even those of a holy father like me.'

‘Forgive me, father.' She made it meek, and sat looking down at her folded hands, fuming, wondering what he would say next.

‘As for Luiz de Fonsa y Sanchez.' He spoke the name that had been in her thoughts all day. ‘You are to forget him, child, as his family have. Or remember him only in your prayers, as a lost soul. When Soult's French troops fled from Porto two years ago Luiz de Fonsa y Sanchez went with them, as their friend and ally.'

‘I don't believe it!' But it would explain so much. All that dreadful silence. She thought about it. ‘What had they done to him?'

‘Who?'

‘His family.'

‘They were angry with him, of course. Rightly so. His fault, the whole sordid business. I think the discovery killed his mother; she had such hopes of him, her only son. And then, when he went off with Soult, his father struck him out of the
family records. Cherish no hopes of him, my daughter. So far as Porto goes, he no longer exists.'

‘And the old lady?' Caterina made herself ask it. ‘His grandmother? She loved him so.'

‘A sad story. A great lady, I believe. I never saw her. She is shut up there, in her own rooms, quite out of her wits. Your doing, and her grandson's. The house is a fortress these days, shut up. Sanchez sees no one, does not even come to church. A scandalous, shameful business … I beg your pardon?'

‘Nothing, father. Only, if you hold me to blame for all this, I am surprised you and my father are even thinking of arranging a marriage for me.'

‘That is what I am trying to explain to you, child. It has to be to an Englishman, and soon, before the whispers reach the British community. What of your cousin, Mr Craddock?'

‘What?' Caterina could not believe her ears. ‘But he's not Catholic.' It was the first of the objections that crowded her mind.

‘Dear child, you have not been thinking about your position, your predicament. If a son of the church were to sue for your hand, it would be our duty, your father's and mine, to tell him the sad truth about you.'