Rachel Trevellyan

Rachel leant forward in her seat, totally absorbed, for the moment oblivious of her surroundings, of her reasons for being there.

Then Luis said: ‘You like my home, senhora?’ and reality asserted itself.

She sank back in her seat. ‘Oh, yes, yes. It’s—unbelievably beautiful!’

‘My father’s family have lived here for many generations,’ he said. ‘Naturally in recent years the quinta has been extensively modernised inside, but not sufficiently to dispel its character, I feel.’

The car emerged from the trees and circled a central courtyard to come to rest at the foot of stone steps leading up to the arched entrance to the building. The steps were shallow, leading into the shade of a terrace which seemed to circle the quinta. There was a fountain in the courtyard which gave the sound of constant running water and this was the first thing Rachel noticed as she stepped unaided out of the car.

Luis had walked round to assist her with his innate sense of politeness and she looked up at him helplessly as she scrambled out. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not used to anyone opening doors for me—senhor!’

Luis’s lips tightened and then he looked up expectantly as an elderly man appeared at the head of the flight of steps.

‘Senhor Marquês!’ the old man exclaimed warmly. ‘Estimo muito ve-lo de novo.’

‘Boa tarde, Mario.’ Luis smiled, and Rachel looked away from the warmth of that greeting and leant into the car to say:

‘Malcolm! Malcolm, we’re here. At the quinta.’

Her husband opened his eyes reluctantly. ‘What’s that? What did you say?’

‘We’ve arrived, Malcolm. In Mendao. How do you feel?’

‘If you will permit me ...’

Luis was behind her with the folding wheelchair which he had taken from the boot of the car. Rachel drew back abruptly, almost cracking her head on the roof of the car as she did so. She was hot and nervous now that they were actually here, and the idea of meeting the old Marquesa was an intimidating one after what Luis Martinez had said.

She contemplated asking whether she might bathe and change before meeting anyone and thoughtfully went over the few clothes she had brought with her in an effort to think of something suitable to wear. But then she gave herself a mental shake. What was she thinking of allowing these people to influence her to such an extent that she was actually considering dressing to suit them? Good lord, she was not an impressionable schoolgirl, was she? She was twenty-two, and a married woman, completely indifferent to any reaction she might have on Luis Martinez’s mother.

At Luis’s instigation, the man Mario had drawn the wheelchair up the shallow steps and now Luis was lifting Malcolm out of the back of the silver limousine and carrying him up the steps to install him in the canvas seat of the chair. For the journey Malcolm had worn a dark blue tweed suit, and Rachel thought he must be feeling the heat as she was. Draping the jacket of her slack suit over one shoulder and the strap of her suede bag over the other, she mounted the steps after them, trying not to feel like the intruder she was sure she was.

Mario took charge of the wheelchair. Rachel sensed that Malcolm would have preferred her to guide him, but there was little he could say in front of Luis Martinez which would not sound ungrateful and he said nothing as Luis urged them across the terrace and into the coolness of the mosaic-tiled hall.

Rachel looked about her with sharpened interest. Every artistic nerve within her was throbbing with awareness of the magnificence of her surroundings. Carved pillars, a sweeping baroque staircase, a shadowed gallery above. There were long silk curtains at the windows the colour of wild roses, while on a marble plinth an enormous bowl of those delicately perfumed flowers provided a splash of scarlet. There were small statuettes of saints in the window recesses, reminding one if any reminder was necessary that this was a truly Catholic household, while to the right and left archways gave glimpses of other exquisitely furnished apartments.

If Rachel had imagined that the Marquesa de Mendao would meet them in the hall she was mistaken. On the contrary, at this late hour of the afternoon when the shadows were deepening and a certain coolness was entering the air the quinta was as silent as a cloister and only a small dark woman appeared with long black skirts and a white apron who was obviously another of the servants.

She greeted Luis warmly and then looked enquiringly at Rachel and Malcolm. Clearly she had not been expecting two visitors, but her expression was not reproving, merely expectant.

Luis spoke swiftly in his own language, apparently explaining that Senhor Trevellyan had brought his wife with him. Rachel recognised such words as espôsa and marido, but most of what he said was incomprehensible to her.

The woman, whose name was Luisa, eventually nodded and said something in reply which seemed to please her employer, for he nodded, too, and speaking in English, he turned to Rachel and her husband:

‘Luisa tells me that she has had a suite prepared for you on the ground floor, senhor. In the circumstances we thought it best that you did not have stairs to contend with. It will be a simple matter to prepare one of the adjoining rooms for your wife.’

Malcolm’s hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair tightly, revealing his tension, although his expression was complacent as he said: ‘I’m sure there’s no need to prepare a special room for Rachel. Naturally she will share mine.’

Rachel saw a spasm of something like distaste flicker across Luis’s face, and her own cheeks burned suddenly. It was as though Malcolm was speaking deliberately, as if he wanted to shock the other man, but why? What possible reason could he have? Back in England he had been only too eager to agree with everything Luis had said. She could only assume that since arriving in Portugal her husband had known himself home and dry and therefore he had no further need to behave subserviently. This was much more the man she was accustomed to.

‘Nevertheless, senhor, another room will be prepared,’ stated Luis quietly. ‘It is possible that your wife might prefer somewhere that she can undeniably call her own as well as sharing your rooms.’

Malcolm made an indifferent gesture. ‘Very well.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s Joanna?’

Luis stiffened at the familiarity. ‘My mother is no doubt resting, senhor. I suggest you allow Luisa to show you to your suite. We can all meet later in the library before dinner.’

‘All right.’ Malcolm inclined his head and looked round straight into Rachel’s face. ‘You wheel my chair, Rachel. I prefer you to do so.’

Rachel moved to do as he asked and Luis was forced to stand stiffly aside. But she sensed his silent impatience, his annoyance that in his house a woman should be made to do a man’s work when there was a man there capable of doing it. But he made no comment and with a brief bow left them, striding across the hall to take the stairs two at a time.

Luisa led the way down a hall to their left while Mario disappeared outside again to collect their cases. The hall was panelled, inset with narrow windows which overlooked the front courtyard where the fountain played. There were portraits on the opposite wall, grim-looking images of past members of the Martinez family, and Rachel thought how much more attractive the present Marquês was than his predecessors.

Presently Luisa halted before double white doors and throwing them open with a flourish, announced; ‘A sala, senhor, senhora. Is satisfactory?’

Rachel propelled Malcolm’s chair into the room looking about her with enjoyment. It was a large drawing room that they had entered, the polished floor strewn with skin rugs, the furniture all pale hide and coolly comfortable. Crossing the room she was able to see an inner courtyard which could be reached by opening long french doors, and she stared with wonder at the tiled patio outside, with its hanging baskets of hydrangeas and geraniums, and attractive striped garden furniture.

Malcolm had said nothing, looking about him without interest, but Rachel could not contain her enthusiasm.

‘It’s very satisfactory, thank you, Luisa,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m sure we shall be very comfortable here.’

Luisa smiled, her teeth very white against the darkness of her skin. ‘Is good. See!’ She opened another door. ‘The bedroom!’

Rachel looked into the next room and saw it was almost as large as the sala. A soft cream carpet covered the floor, there were lilac hangings at the windows, while the bedspread was of shades of African violet. Adjoining the bedroom was a bathroom also decorated in lilac and pink. Rachel was quite intoxicated by the beauty of it all.

Malcolm was waiting impatiently in his wheelchair, his fingers drumming on the wooden arms. Mario had arrived with their suitcases, but when Luisa offered to unpack for them, Malcolm was rude.

‘There’s no need for that,’ he snapped ungraciously. ‘My wife’s quite capable. Besides, I don’t want anyone poking around in my things. You can go.’

He dismissed them without a word of thanks and Rachel felt terribly embarrassed. She supposed she ought to be used to her husband’s attitude by now, but she was not, and here she had thought he would behave if only to present a façade of geniality.

Luisa and Mario closed the doors behind them and then Malcolm turned on Rachel. ‘What the hell do you mean by making eyes at that Portuguese all the way from the airport?’ he demanded.

Rachel’s lips parted in dismay. ‘What?’ she murmured faintly.

‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. Did you honestly imagine I slept all the way here?’

‘I—I—naturally I assumed you were tired.’ Rachel was too shocked to be retaliatory.

‘Well, I wasn’t. Not that tired, anyway.’

Rachel tried desperately to remember what she and Luis Martinez had spoken about on the journey. Her clothes, of course, but mostly they had argued. There had been no occasion when Malcolm could have imagined that the Marquês de Mendao was aware of her in any other way than that of the wife of a friend of his mother’s. Except for that moment at the foot of the drive ...

‘I think you’re the one who’s imagining things, Malcolm,’ she said carefully, dropping her shoulder bag on to a damask-covered ottoman. ‘Senhor Martinez and I spoke very little on the journey from the airport, and as you’ve seen to it that he regards me with scarcely veiled contempt, I fail to see how you can accuse me of making eyes at him!’

Malcolm stared at her for a long moment. ‘But you are attracted to him, aren’t you?’

Rachel gasped. ‘Of course not.’ Her expression hardened. ‘I’m not attracted by any man!’

Malcolm’s face grew ugly. ‘Well, see it stays that way. Or by God, I’ll find some way to make you pay——’

‘Please, Malcolm!’ Rachel pressed her arms about her thin body. ‘I’ve told you, you have no need to concern yourself about me.’

A little of the tension left him. ‘No. No, I suppose you’re right. In any case, a man like Martinez wouldn’t look at somebody like you, even without——’

He broke off abruptly and Rachel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even without what, Malcolm? Exactly what have you been telling him?’

Malcolm shrugged. ‘This and that.’

‘How did you explain—our marriage? Surely being married to someone so much younger than yourself hardly enhances your image.

Malcolm’s thin lips quirked. ‘There are ways of making the most of every situation,’ he replied.

Rachel sighed. It Was obvious he had no intention of telling her anything. And in any case, did she want to know? Wasn’t it better to remain in ignorance than to hear something which might make her feel even more embarrassed in Luis Martinez’s presence?

‘Now, get me out of these clothes,’ commanded Malcolm, unfastening his tie and the top two buttons of his collar. ‘I’m almost roasting alive.’

‘What are you going to wear this evening for dinner?’ Rachel asked, as she went forward to help him slide his arms out of his jacket.

Malcolm tugged his braces off his shoulders and made an indifferent movement of his head. ‘I don’t know. I may not join them for dinner. I can always feign tiredness after the journey.’

Rachel took charge of the chair to wheel it into the bedroom. ‘You surely don’t expect me to join them alone,’ she exclaimed.

‘No!’ He was adamant on that score. ‘No, indeed. You’ll stay here with me like the dutiful wife you are. I didn’t bring you here to Mendao for your amusement, Rachel.’

Rachel stopped the chair beside the bed and came round to face him. ‘Exactly why did you bring me, Malcolm?’

Her husband began levering himself forward in the chair and she helped him on to the bed. ‘You’re my wife, Rachel. I own you, don’t forget that. I wasn’t going to leave you behind in Mawvry!’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not blind, Rachel. I’ve seen the way men look at you. That Bart Thomas, for example.’

‘I’m not interested in the way any man looks at me!’ she declared. ‘You should know that.’

‘Huh!’ Malcolm stared at her impatiently. ‘That’s what you tell me. But how should I know what goes on inside that head of yours?’

Rachel heaved a sigh and began to help him off with his clothes. ‘I shan’t leave you, Malcolm. Much as I’ve been tempted to do. I made a promise, and I’ll keep it——’

‘Promises! Promises!’ Malcolm dragged himself up the bed to relax on the soft pillows. ‘I’ve heard that before. But you’re my wife, Rachel, and no one else is going to touch you, do you understand?’

Rachel straightened, hiding the pain in her face. ‘No one else would want to,’ she said quietly.

‘What the hell do you mean?’

Rachel turned away. ‘Nothing.’

‘Well, you listen to me: where I go, you go, do you hear?’

‘Then why didn’t you warn me—about coming here?’ she cried, turning back to him. ‘Why keep it all such a secret?’

Malcolm sniffed, running a hand across the hollow caverns in his throat. ‘I didn’t want anything to go wrong. I wanted to come here. Joanna owes me that much. If I’d had to tell her about you ...’ He shook his head. ‘It would have been difficult, very difficult. Portuguese women aren’t like English women. They have a very strict code of ethics. A man of my age marrying an eighteen-year-old girl!’ He pointed a finger at Rachel. ‘She’d have seen no possible reason for that.’

‘But this woman is English! And in any case, how can you now satisfactorily explain it? By telling the truth?’ She looked sceptical.

‘Joanna has lived so long in Portugal, she’s become like them,’ said Malcolm, ignoring her questions. ‘I saw that four years ago when she came to England. She came for my mother’s funeral, both she and Raul. That was her husband, the old Marquês, this man Luis’s father. Just like his son, he was. Cold and arrogant, conscious of his own importance!’

Rachel shook her head. ‘That still doesn’t explain——’

‘Leave it, Rachel.’

‘But why couldn’t you tell me?’ she sighed frustratedly.

Malcolm considered her thoughtfully. ‘If I’d told you what I’d arranged, how would you have reacted? Would you have been prepared to wait for this man to come and discover who you were?’

Rachel saw the logic of this. If she had known in advance she would have had to have written and told them the truth. She wasn’t like Malcolm. She couldn’t have waited, depending on their indulgence as he had done. And besides, Malcolm might have been afraid she’d run away at a crucial moment. She had wanted to do so many times in the past and he knew it.

She turned away. ‘I need a wash,’ she said vaguely. ‘I think I’ll take a shower. You’ll be all right, won’t you?’

Malcolm closed his eyes. ‘I suppose so.’ He opened them again. ‘And no disappearing if I fall asleep.’

‘Where would I disappear to?’ she exclaimed defensively.

‘I don’t know. But don’t, anyway.’

Rachel picked up one of the suitcases and flicked it open. Inside she found some clean underclothing and a towel. Leaving the bedroom, she entered the luxurious surroundings of the bathroom and although there was no need to do so, she locked the door. Then she turned on the shower and began stripping off her clothes. Her brain felt thick and fuzzy, and she was finding it hard to assimilate all this. It was too much in twenty-four hours, and she gave up the will to think ...

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN she returned to the bedroom some twenty minutes later and spoke to her husband there was no answer. From the heaviness of his breathing he was obviously asleep, and she tiptoed through to the sala and closed the door behind her.

She felt somewhat brighter now and infinitely fresher. She had cooled the water of the shower as she had stood under it, so that her flesh still tingled from that contact and her blood had cooled.

It was almost dark and someone had lit lamps on the patio outside. In the fading light all manner of moths and flying insects came to dance with death around the flames to fall with singed wings upon the mosaic tiling below.

Rachel put on a tall standard lamp with an exquisitely embroidered shade that shed mellow light over the room, and then stretched her length on one of the soft hide couches. It was early yet and she knew that dinner here was served much later. Besides, no doubt she and Malcolm would eat here in the suite.

But with the relaxation came time to think and she wondered with a sense of despair exactly what Malcolm had said to Luis Martinez to explain his marriage to her. She believed what Malcolm had said earlier. To these people such a marriage would need some explaining. He could not possibly have, told the truth.

She sighed. What was the truth? Did she know any more? Or had her mind rejected everything connected with this unholy alliance? If this state of affairs here, this unexpected removal to Mendao had changed her life overnight, how much greater had the change been three years ago when she married Malcolm Trevellyan?

She had lived in Mawvry for most of her life. She had moved there with her father when her mother had died and Rachel herself had been only seven years old.

Her father had been an artist, too. Until her mother’s death he had made a pretence at earning a living for her sake, but after she was dead he had seen the opportunity to remove himself and his daughter from the tiny house in Bloomsbury which he had owned, to an even tinier cottage in the Cornish fishing village of Mawvry.

Rachel had loved it. She had her father’s appreciation of beautiful things, and Mawvry was beautiful. Her father had indulged his passion for painting and sculpture, buying a small fishing boat to supplement his income during the summer months by taking tourists out for pleasure trips around the bay. They had lived simply and Rachel had never considered to wonder how her father managed to support them.

Occasionally in the summer, he would sell a painting and then he would buy steaks and wine and he and Rachel would have a feast. But mostly they lived more modestly, with Rachel learning to cook and sew and care for them both.

Malcolm Trevellyan had always lived in Mawvry. His house was visible on the cliffs above the bay, and Rachel had soon learned that he was not liked among the villagers. He owned property in Mawvry, cottages which he rented to the fishermen and their families, but he was not a good landlord. He loathed spending money, and the roofs of his cottages leaked during the winter months, making them damp and unhealthy.

Fortunately, or so Rachel had always thought, her father had been able to buy their cottage so in that respect they had no dealings with Malcolm Trevellyan. She had never cared for the man. Ever since she was about fourteen, he had gone out of his way to speak to her, but she had not liked the predatory look in his eyes. Of course, she had not understood then why he should look at her in such a way.

Now she shivered and pressed the palms of her hands against the soft leather. If only her father had confided his difficulties to her, allowed her to get a job in one of the towns close by, instead of permitting her to spend her days painting, assuring her that they had no money worries.

When the crisis had come, inevitably Malcolm Trevellyan had been at the core of it. Unknown to her, he had bought their cottage several years earlier when her father needed money. Then, later, he had loaned her father more money, making no demands for payment, pretending to be his friend.

When Rachel was eighteen, his motives had become clear. He had asked her to marry him, and when she had almost laughingly refused, half imagining he could not be serious, he had given her father an ultimatum: persuade Rachel to do as he asked or he would ruin him.

Her father had been desperate. He could not believe that a man he had supposed to be his friend should turn on him in this way. Rachel herself had been distrait. She could see her father failing daily, unable to do anything to help himself. None of the villagers could help them. No one was wealthy enough to pay her father’s debts.

Rachel had inevitably come to a decision. She had no other alternative. She went to Malcolm Trevellyan and agreed his terms.

Her father had begged her not to do it He had assured her he would get the money somehow. He would take the boat out. He would start fishing for himself. These were good fishing waters. He would succeed.

But Rachel knew he would not, and she and Malcolm Trevellyan were married a few days later.

There began for Rachel the most terrible few months of her life. Adding to her anxiety for her father was her own revulsion for the man who had made himself her husband, and she submitted to his demands on her with a despairing humility.

To her father she pretended that everything was turning out all right, but he was not deceived. He saw her change from a glowing creature of warmth and vitality into a slender wraith of pale cheeks and hollow eyes.

He blamed himself, and he could not stand it for very long. Six months later he took out the fishing boat and never returned. A verdict of accidental death was reached, but Rachel knew her father’s death had been no accident.

It was as though the whole bottom had dropped out of her world and she had had a nervous breakdown.

It took many months for her to recover. To give him his due, Malcolm secured the very best attention for her, but his motives were not wholly altruistic. He wanted his wife again in every sense of the word, but nevertheless, during that period, she grew to rely on him to a certain extent.

By the time she was fully recovered, any thoughts she might have had of leaving him, of trying to get a divorce, had become distant and unreal, and she hardly needed his reminder that he still possessed her father’s promissory notes and would use them if she tried to thwart him.

Instead, she started to paint again, drowning the inadequacies of her life in her art, creating pictures which occasionally brought her money. What small amounts she did earn this way proved sufficient to buy the personal necessities she needed without having to ask Malcolm for every penny, for he seemed to grow meaner as time went by.

And then, just before Christmas last year, he had had a thrombosis. It had been a comparatively mild affair which had left him weakened but active. Although she urged him to take care, he seemed to imagine he was immune after recovering from the first attack so easily, but eventually, two months ago, he had had the second stroke, and it had paralysed him initially all down one side and made the movement of his legs impossible. With therapy, he had regained much of the use of his left hand and arm, but his legs remained helpless.

In consequence, he had become totally unreasonable, demanding Rachel’s company at all hours of the day and night. Her occasional visits to the village for shopping or to see her friends were curtailed by the use of the telephone, and he became insanely jealous of anyone, male or female, who spent any time alone with her.