Rachel Trevellyan

However, the girl seemed stung by her husband’s contemptuous tone. Her voice when she spoke was low and attractive with little of the Cornish drawl evident in that of Malcolm Trevellyan. ‘Why is he here, Malcolm?’ she asked, rather heatedly. ‘What did he mean earlier about you finding some foreign place less demanding than here? What’s going on?’

Trevellyan looked to Luis for guidance and with a sigh Luis said: ‘You may or may not be aware, senhora, that your husband’s family cared for my mother many years ago when she was orphaned. Afterwards, she married a Portuguese, my father, but she and Senhor Trevellyan’s family maintained a correspondence and in latter years she visited England with my father and met your husband again.’

The girl looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t know that, but what of it?’

Luis’s lips thinned. He was not accustomed to being spoken to in that cursory manner, particularly not by such a slip of a girl.

‘Naturally when—when your husband became ill, my mother was concerned about him. I must confess she did not know he had taken a wife, but nevertheless she suggested to Senhor Trevellyan that he might come to Portugal, to our estates at Mendao, to recuperate for a few weeks.’

‘I see.’ The girl’s eyes were wide as she turned back to the man in the bed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Malcolm Trevellyan sniffed. ‘I wasn’t sure about the arrangements. I didn’t want to—raise your hopes unnecessarily.’

‘Raise my hopes?’ She stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘You mean I can stay here?’

‘No, that’s not what I mean!’ Trevellyan looked momentarily incensed. Then he calmed himself. ‘I simply meant that I didn’t want to raise your hopes about this holiday in Portugal until I was sure you would be welcome there.’

‘A holiday in Portugal!’ echoed the girl. ‘I—I don’t want to go to Portugal.’

Luis clenched his fists. ‘Surely you would not allow your husband, a sick man, to travel there without your ministrations, senhora?’

The girl Rachel turned stormy green eyes in his direction. ‘I’m sorry, senhor, if I sound ungrateful. But I can assure you my husband doesn’t require my ministrations.’

‘Rachel!’ Trevellyan’s face was grim. ‘Stop this at once! If Senhor Martinez will overlook this unpleasantness, naturally you will accompany me to Portugal.’

Rachel Trevellyan’s breast rose and fell with the tumult of her emotions. Animated like this, she was quite startlingly attractive and unwillingly Luis felt a sense of compassion for her. Whatever she had done in the past she had forfeited a great deal in becoming the wife of a man as old as Malcolm Trevellyan.

Then he inwardly chided himself. She had not been forced to marry him. A girl with more strength of mind, with more courage in her convictions, would have managed somehow, would have found a way to support herself and the unborn child. No, Rachel Trevellyan had taken the easy way out of a difficult situation and now resented the very person who had helped her most. Luis allowed contempt to replace his earlier compassion. Rachel Trevellyan deserved nothing else.

Malcolm Trevellyan shuffled across the bed. ‘Come along, Rachel,’ he said. ‘Pour Senhor Martinez some tea, and stop behaving like a spoilt child.’

For a moment Luis thought she was about to refuse, but then, obediently it seemed, she lifted the teapot and poured the hot liquid into two cups. Turning to him, she said: ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Thank you, sugar only,’ he replied quietly, and she added two lumps before passing the cup to him.

‘Do sit down, senhor.’ Malcolm Trevellyan indicated a chair now, and although it was not his nature to sit in the presence of an adult female who happened to be standing Luis subsided into the cane chair by the bed.

Rachel poured her husband’s tea, added milk and sugar, stirred it and then handed it to him. There were sandwiches on the tray too, and she proffered these, but Luis declined. He had had a late lunch on the way down, and although in his own country he could have enjoyed a late dinner, the idea of sandwiches did not appeal to him. In truth he wished he had made some arrangements to stay at a hotel, even though in the correspondence Malcolm Trevellyan had had with his mother he had suggested that Luis might stay here overnight; and now, late as it was with the mist outside and the evident lack of accommodation facilities nearby, he had no choice.

Rachel seemed to be on the point of leaving them, when her husband said: ‘Well, senhor? What arrangements have you made? And what conclusion have you reached regarding—Rachel?’

That was difficult. What conclusion had he reached? Luis replaced his half empty cup on the tray. It was a decision he had never expected to have to make and he realised that had either Juan or Alonzo come here in his place they would have had to have deferred a decision until either his mother or himself had been informed.

As he was here things were different. If he were to contact his mother and discuss it with her, it would only worry her unnecessarily. After all, she could hardly withdraw her invitation at this late date, even taking the changed circumstances into account, and although he was well aware what her reactions to a young woman like Rachel Trevellyan would be, there was little he could do without disappointing Malcolm Trevellyan.

And there was not just his mother to consider at Mendao ...

Rachel Trevellyan stood by the door. ‘It’s obvious that Senhor Martinez does not wish me to accompany you to Portugal, Malcolm, whatever he says,’ she declared. ‘Why can’t I stay here? What harm would it do?’

Luis rose to his feet. Her attitude of dissension was reacting on him as an eagerness to accompany them would never have done. In his country women did not argue with their menfolk. They were mild and agreeable, totally feminine in every way. Rachel Trevellyan spoke without respect, assumed a responsibility for her own affairs which was not seemly in a young woman, let alone a wife.

‘I have thought the matter over, senhor,’ he said, addressing himself to Malcolm Trevellyan, ‘and naturally my mother would wish me to extend our invitation to include your wife.’

There was a gulp from Rachel Trevellyan at this point, but Luis ignored her, keeping his eyes on the man in the bed. A look of gratification was spreading over Malcolm Trevellyan’s features and he nodded in a satisfied way.

‘Thank you, senhor, that’s very civil of you. Very civil indeed. And when Rachel gets used to the idea, she’ll thank you, too, won’t you, Rachel?’

Again a strange look passed between them, and Luis saw the girl visibly shrink. ‘When do you expect me to be ready to leave?’ she exclaimed helplessly. ‘I’ve made no arrangements. What about a passport?’

Trevellyan fixed her with a stare. ‘You forget, Rachel. You went abroad with your father only a year before he died. I happen to know your passport is still valid.’

‘But—but I need time——’

‘Why?’

‘There are arrangements to be made——’

‘What arrangements?’

She shook her head. ‘Lots of things.’

‘Rachel, all you need to do is pack a suitcase. We leave in the morning.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. Naturally, Senhor Martinez will stay here tonight——’

Now Luis felt uncomfortable. ‘That’s quite unnecessary,’ he began automatically. ‘I can stay at a hotel.’

‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed Trevellyan. ‘Of course you’ll stay here. It’s the least we can do, isn’t it, Rachel?’

‘If you say so.’ There was a lacklustre quality about her now.

Luis controlled a sigh. He wished it were morning already. He had no desire to spend a night here, conscious as he was of Rachel Trevellyan’s resentment. But he could hardly refuse without throwing Malcolm Trevellyan’s hospitality back in his face.

‘I’ll go and see about making up a bed,’ said Rachel now, and her husband nodded.

‘That’s right. You can let us know when it’s ready. I’m sure Senhor Martinez is tired after his journey.’

While Rachel was away, Malcolm asked about Luis’s mother, the Marquesa de Mendao. For a few moments at least, Luis relaxed. It was reassuring to speak about his mother. At least there were no undercurrents there. He removed his overcoat and sat comfortably in his chair, lighting a cheroot which he favoured when Malcolm produced cigarettes.

By the time Rachel returned Luis was feeling infinitely less tense, although the atmosphere changed again as soon as she entered the room.

‘The room’s ready,’ she announced, and Luis stood up.

‘I’ll bid you goodnight, then,’ said Malcolm, apparently indifferent to his wife’s attitude. ‘What time do you want us to leave in the morning?’

‘I suggest we say as early as possible and leave it at that,’ remarked Luis. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’ Malcolm smiled, rather smugly, Luis thought, but then he accompanied Rachel from the room without another word.

They went upstairs and into a room at the front of the house. The rest of the building struck chill after the unpleasant heat of Malcolm Trevellyan’s bedroom, but Luis saw that Rachel had turned on an electric fire in the room he was to occupy.

It was a large bedroom, sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a wardrobe, and a kind of washstand. The only floor covering was a rag rug beside the bed, but as with the rest of the house everything was spotlessly clean.

‘I’ve put a hot water bottle in the bed,’ said Rachel, remaining by the door when he advanced into the room. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

Luis thought of his suitcase locked in the boot of his car, but shook his head. His eyes encountered hers. He had never seen such green eyes before and fringed as they were by long black lashes they seemed to overshadow her other features. The feeling of unease he had felt earlier stirred again and he didn’t know why. Something told him he ought to call this off here and now and refuse to take either Malcolm Trevellyan or his wife back to his home in Mendao. But that was ridiculous, he told himself angrily. He was allowing weariness to make him fanciful. What possible harm could come from offering the Trevellyans their hospitality for a couple of weeks? His mother might not welcome Rachel’s presence, she might take exception to her mode of dress, but surely that could be modified. For all her English upbringing, his mother’s forty years in Portugal had made her typically Portuguese in outlook.

And if Amalia considered it unseemly to have a young woman, albeit a married one, staying in his house in these weeks before their wedding, then perhaps some other arrangements could be made within the confines of the estate.

He realised suddenly that he had been staring at Rachel for an unconscionably long period and that her cheeks had suffused with colour under his gaze.

Forcing his attention to other things, he said: ‘Thank you, senhora. I have everything I need. I’m sure I shall be very comfortable.’

His voice was cool, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about this girl that disturbed him, and it was a new experience for him. Normally he was in complete control of his reactions.

‘Very well.’ She made to close the door. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, senhora.’

He gave a stiff little movement of his head and the door closed. But after she had gone, he was conscious that he would be unable to banish her so easily from his mind as from his sight.

CHAPTER TWO

SINCE leaving the coast, the road had wound through a series of lushly cultivated valleys, bright with blossoming trees and shrubs, scented with pine and citrus. Rachel saw vine-clad terraces, orchards of fig and almond trees, pergolas draped with the lemon-vine while the varied colours of bougainvillea rioted in every available space. She had never seen jacarandas growing wild before, or longed to touch the satin-soft petals of the oleander. It was all new and stimulating, and she could not entirely deny the rising sense of excitement that was stirring inside her. Her fingers itched to take her paintbrush and try, probably without success, she thought, to transfer some of this beauty and colour on to canvas. This was Portugal, the country of the lean, dark man seated beside her at the wheel of his luxurious silver limousine, the natural background of this aristocratic nobleman, this unexpected friend of Malcolm’s, who regarded her with obvious contempt.

Her lips twisted and she shivered in spite of the heat of the day which had already forced her to shed the jacket of the slim-fitting cream slack suit she had worn to travel in. Her husband, overcome by the temperature, was asleep in the back of the limousine, but Luis Martinez, Marquês de Mendao, seemed totally unaffected by the climate.

She glanced surreptitiously towards him. His concentration was all on the road ahead and for a moment she was able to look at him unobserved. Who would have thought that in less than twenty-four hours her life could change so completely? Yesterday afternoon she had spent at her easel, trying to finish the portrait of one of the village children while Malcolm slept, aware of a certain excitement about him which she had not been able to explain. That the explanation had come in such a startling way was scarcely believable. And yet, last night, when she had opened the door and found the tall dark alien on the step, she had known that he was in some way responsible for that latent excitement. But even then she had not suspected that Malcolm intended to take her away.

She drew a trembling breath. He had wanted to do so, goodness knows, only circumstances had prevented it. Since his illness he had been almost fanatical in his attempts to keep her away from people she knew, but she had believed his hands had been tied. How he must have laughed to himself to think that the very thing which she had thought would keep them in Mawvry among her friends, among the people she knew and cared about, was the very thing which had provided the means to get them away.

The car braked smoothly at a bend where a narrow bridge negotiated a rippling stream below them. The water ran swiftly over smooth stones worn by the passage of time, and an enormous elm spread its branches casting avenues of shade. The lush green turf invited relaxation beside the stream where the sunlight dappled quiet pools and muted the birds’ song. Rachel could have climbed out of the car then and paddled in that stream, and she sighed, attracting the attention of the man at her side.

‘You are tired?’ he queried politely, his clipped tones betraying a certain impatience.

Rachel shook her head. ‘No. Not tired.’ She did not add senhor, and she was almost sure he noted this.

‘What then?’

‘I was just thinking how delightful it would have been to paddle in that stream we passed,’ she answered quietly.

His long-fingered brown hands tightened on the wheel, but he made no comment. His hands were very attractive, she thought, her artist’s eye appreciating their length and shape. They were slender without being thin, the bones smooth beneath brown flesh. She wondered if they were hard hands; she felt sure they must be. In spite of the fact that they must have done very little actual hard work, they nevertheless possessed a certain strength and toughness evident in the bones of his knuckles. She would have liked to have touched them, to have felt their texture and shape for herself, to have painted them ...

She drew herself up sharply. There was no question of her being allowed to paint any part of the Marquês de Mendao, and in any case, why should she want to do so? She glanced round at her husband sleeping peacefully in the back of the limousine. It was just as well he was unaware of her foolish thoughts.

She settled lower in her seat, lifting the weight of her hair off her neck with a careless hand. Again her action drew the attention of Luis Martinez, and he said: ‘As your husband appears to be sleeping at present, perhaps this would be a good moment for me to make certain things clear to you.’

Rachel stiffened. ‘What things?’

‘First of all, I would prefer that you remember to add the word senhor to the statements you address to me.’ Rachel gasped, but he went on: ‘This is not something that is of a great deal of importance to me, senhora, but my mother is of the old school of Portuguese who expect a certain standard of behaviour. Also, it is more fitting that our acquaintanceship should be seen to be on a formal footing, do you not agree?’

‘I thought your mother was English—senhor.’ Rachel just remembered the suffix.

‘She was—she is, of course, although lately she has taken Portuguese citizenship. Nevertheless, the customs of my country have always been her customs.’

‘I see.’ Rachel’s tone was dry.

‘Secondly, your—appearance, senhora.’

‘My appearance?’ Rachel looked at him in astonishment.

‘Sim, senhora, your appearance. It is obvious that you do not pay a great deal of attention to the manner of your clothing, but in Portugal women do not wear slacks except on very rare occasions. They adhere to certain principles. A simple dress or perhaps a blouse and skirt are considered much more suitable—can you appreciate this, senhora?’

Rachel felt angry. It had not been her wish to come to Portugal, and now this man was daring to criticise her manners and her clothes. Just who did he think he was?

Controlling the tremor in her voice, she said: ‘I’m afraid I disagree—senhor. For me, trousers are the most comfortable thing in my wardrobe.’

His dark eyes encountered hers and there was unconcealed anger in their depths. His lips were drawn into a line of disapproval and she thought that even in anger he was the most disturbingly attractive man she had ever seen. He was not handsome; it would be an insult to use so paltry a term to describe the carved lines of his tanned features, the high cheekbones, the deepset eyes, that mouth, the lower lip of which when it was not drawn tight as now portrayed an almost sensual fullness. The whiteness of his shirt lay against the brown column of his throat, brushed by the straight black thickness of his hair. What woman, she thought, could not be aware of him as a man, of his extreme masculinity, even if she was married?

Now he looked back at the road, and said: ‘Do I take it you intend to oppose me, senhora?’

Rachel sighed, her own anger evaporating under other, more disruptive, influences. ‘I don’t intend any disrespect, senhor,’ she answered carefully, ‘but in the matter of my clothes, I consider I am the best judge of what or what not to wear.’

‘I see.’ His tone was chilling. ‘Perhaps I have approached this wrongly. Perhaps I should have mentioned the matter to your husband first and allowed him to broach it with you.’

Rachel’s face burned. ‘Is that a threat or a promise, senhor?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Surely it must have become apparent to you, senhor, that I am an—obedient wife?’

The dark eyes were enigmatic. ‘You do not wish me to mention this matter to your husband?’

‘Do my wishes matter—senhor?’ Belatedly she remembered to add the word.

His brows drew together in a frown. ‘I am afraid I do not comprehend your meaning, senhora.’

‘For once we agree. You do not.’ Rachel pressed her lips tightly together to prevent them from trembling, realising that this time she had forgotten to use his title altogether.

He expelled his breath through his nostrils. ‘Tell me what you think of Mendao,’ he said, changing the subject so unexpectedly and so completely that for a moment she was startled. ‘This is the valley where our village is situated, the valley of the Rio Meigo.’

Rachel forced herself to pay attention to her surroundings. They were descending into the valley through tree-clad slopes where the scent of pine was strongest. There were more vines, the sound of running water heralding the appearance of the broad but shallow waters of the Meigo which gurgled its way through orchards of cork trees.

Nearer the village, cottages came into view, colour-washed dwellings that while looking picturesque could not, Rachel felt, be very comfortable. They passed black-clad peasant women leading donkeys on which were laden baskets of fruit and vegetables, and children stopped what they were doing to watch them pass.

Many people saluted the car as they passed and Luis Martinez raised a casual hand in acknowledgement of their greeting. Rachel looked at him with sudden perception, beginning to appreciate his concern for formality. Here he was well known, the Marquês de Mendao, and while in England that might mean little or nothing, in his own country, in this valley where no doubt his family had been masters for generations, he was the Senhor, the Patrao, arbiter of their fates.

‘It’s very beautiful,’ she said at last. ‘But of course you know that. Do you own all this land, senhor?’

Luis shrugged. ‘The land belongs to all of us. We work for it, we till the soil and sow the crops, we gather the harvest; but no man can pronounce himself the owner of something that is the means of livelihood for so many people. The days of slavery are abolished, senhora. These people are free. Here in Mendao all men are treated as equals.’

Rachel considered this carefully. ‘Nevertheless, it’s obvious that you are regarded with—a certain deference. Surely you’re not saying that you compare yourself with these peasants!’

The hands on the wheel tightened perceptibly. ‘In my country, respect is given to the man, not to the property he calls himself master of.’

Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘Surely that’s rather a radical viewpoint for someone with such conservative ideas.’

He frowned. ‘We are talking at cross purposes, senhora. You think because my ideas of correctness and dignity seem old-fashioned to you that I must be backward-looking.’ He shook his head. ‘I assure you I am not. The system we have here will bear comparison with any system anywhere in the world and my people are given every opportunity to succeed.’

Rachel was looking at the village. It was quaint and somewhat unworldly to her eyes, but charming nonetheless. As well as a small store and a café, there was a school and a church, and the narrow footbridges over the river which divided the two halves of the village were arched and attractive. The road ran along beside the river for some way, shadowed by evergreen oaks and more of the spreading elm trees.

Beyond the village they branched on to a narrower track and presently came to a gate across the road with the word ‘Privado’ printed upon it. Rachel cast a questioning glance in Luis’s direction, but for the moment he ignored it, sliding out of the car to open the gate before getting in again and driving through. When the gate was closed behind them, he said:

‘I know what you are thinking, but that notice is not for the people who live here. They know they will never be turned away from the quinta. But we have turistas who can be quite a nuisance.’

Rachel had to smile at this. ‘Am I so transparent?’ she murmured lightly, and he looked at her.

‘To me—in this instance, yes,’ he said, and then as though realising the sudden intimacy between them he pressed hard on the accelerator and sent the sleek limousine cruising swiftly up the curving sweep of the drive.

Rachel’s first glimpse of the Quinta Martinez was through a belt of trees. Thickly foliaged trees and bushes encroached on the drive from both sides, successfully providing a natural screen between the quinta and the rest of the valley. It reminded Rachel of the thorn hedge which had grown up around the castle of the Sleeping Beauty in legend, and in fact, the Quinta Martinez did resemble a small castle at that first appraisal.

Nestling among trees, with dozens of small turrets outlined against a backcloth of deep green, it had an unreal quality, a fairy-tale appearance. Mellow stone was warmed by the rays of the sinking sun which winked on the small Gothic windows and gilded the sculptured façade.