Portuguese Vignettes

19

Portuguese Vignettes

    Mr Luís Ainsley had deputed himself to pour the tea, which he, the Senhora Baldaya, Miss Bon-Dutton, and the Senhora de Figueiredo, a faded little widow who was so negligible that Raffaella had allowed her to stay on after the other Baldaya relatives had been dispatched, were taking in the company of young José da Silva, who had just happened to come over that afternoon. General Baldaya was not present: it was not his habit to take tea in the afternoon when staying at his country house. Indeed, should one venture down the corridor of the first storey of the house, his snores would be quite clearly audible.

    Somehow Mr Ainsley’s pouring the tea necessitated his sitting very, very close to the Senhora Baldaya on a charming little sofa which was just big enough for two. It was probably quite fortuitous that a few stray rose petals from the climber on the pergola under which they were sitting should have fallen onto the Senhora’s bosom just as he was offering her a plate of little cakes, but of those present, only little old Senhora de Figueiredo truly credited this.

    “Fate,” summed up José later with a snigger, “was clearly on his side!”

    “So was she, apparently,” responded Dick drily.

    “Hey? Oh, the Senhora herself! Well, she deed not seem to mind, Pa!”

    “Deed the petals go right down?” asked Martinho hoarsely.

    “Get out of here!” choked Dick.

    “No, um, but deed they?” he pursued, standing on one leg and hooking his foot around his ankle.

    “One would say,” responded José airily, “that they had gone a fair way, Martinho—weethout asking you for your definition what ees ‘raight down’, in thees context,” —Dick choked in spite of himself—“but in the case you were waiting for me to say the corset stopped zhem, you weell be disappointed.”

    Dick got up. “This story is far too indelicate for my chaste ears. –I don’t want to know!” he said loudly as José opened his mouth.

    José shrugged as his stepfather strode out, and proceeded to impart the full delicious details to Martinho.

    “I don’t know how he dared,” that young person concluded, his eyes very round.

    Since their pa was not present to insist they keep using their English, José lapsed into Portuguese. “Dashing fellows like Ainsley,” he explained with infinite distaste, “specialise in that sort of daring, old man.”

    “He put his hand right—?”

    “To full finger-depth, certainly.”

    “As far as was ascertainable with your telescope!” he choked, suddenly going into a wheezing paroxysm. “Admit it, you wish you’d dared yourself!”

    José merely winked, and lounged out.

    “Well?” demanded the Senhora Baldaya eagerly as Miss Bon-Dutton returned from a walk with Sir John in the warm air of a pleasant September morning.

    Eudora reddened slightly but replied calmly enough: “It was a very pleasant walk. You were right: the countryside is very brown, but the air is much fresher at this time of day.”

    “But did he not say anything?” cried Raffaella loudly.

    “No,” she said tightly, giving up any pretence at having a civilised exchange of polite nothings. “There is no reason he should.”

    “No reason! Dearest Cousin, he has been dangling after you for months!”

    “Raffaella, that is an exaggeration,” said Miss Bon-Dutton tiredly.

    “Eudora, do you not want him to offer?” she said urgently.

    “I—” Miss Bon-Dutton bit her lip. “You know I find him attractive,” she said in a stifled voice.

    Raffaella nodded her curls very hard. “Yes, of course! And you admire his principles, and on the whole you agree with his politics!”

    “Is that sufficient?” she said in a stifled voice.

    Raffaella seized her long, elegant hand in her own little warm one. “Dearest Eudora, I think it could be.”

    Eudora pulled away. “Perhaps he does not think so. And then, perhaps I do not find him attractive enough,” she said huskily.

    “But cara—!”

    “Don’t, Raffaella,” said Miss Bon-Dutton in a choked voice, suddenly running out of the room.

    Raffaella tottered over to a handy sofa and collapsed onto it. “Dio mio,” she croaked. “Is she in search of the grand passion, then?”

    “Could not you speak to him?” she said to her large husband with a languishing look.

    General Baldaya eyed her tolerantly. “No.”

    “But caro, I am sure he would take notice of you! If you were just to hint delicately?”

    “I might do it, if it were any ozher man under the sun. But John Stevens? No, I zhank you, my darling. He would wither me utterly. I assure you he is more than capable of it.”

    Raffaella subsided, scowling.

    “My dear, if he wishes for it, he will speak up,” said the old man kindly.

    “But he must wish for it! He drove out with her several times in Lisbon, and is staying so long in the district, and has called so often!” she cried.

    “Yes, well, I theenk that on some of those occasions he came because you had invited him, and his good manners would not permit him to refuse. No?” He watched tolerantly as his little wife’s cheeks reddened.

    “Then what is he about?” she said crossly.

    “I do not know; but at his age, a man looks twice before he leaps.”

    “Leaps!” she cried with withering scorn.

    He shrugged. “Crawls, zhen. Do you intend a party zhis evening, my dear?”

    “What? Oh: the Sortelhas are coming. You did say they were connections of Senhora Carvalho dos Santos from the Embassy in London,” she reminded him.

    He shrugged. “Yes. One has to have zhem. What a bore.”

    Raffaella gulped. “Érico, I won’t ask anyone in future without consulting you, if—if you dislike it.”

    He shrugged again. “No, no, my dear; you did perfectly right. One has to have zhem. Only, it is a bore. –If you will excuse me, I shall have my rest.”

    “Yes, of course,” said Raffaella on an uncertain note as he rose, bowed courteously, and strolled out.

    Martinho and José having had an argument, over what no-one was quite sure, John Stevens had kindly taken Martinho out with him this morning, to get him out of his brother’s way. They had done a little shooting, the baronet bagging a couple of rabbits and Martinho one whole snipe, which he explained could well go in the pie with the rabbits, if they did not see any more, and had gradually worked their way over towards the Baldaya estate. According to Martinho, you often saw snipe in the fields there after the grain had been harvested. Be this as it might, no further snipe were sighted. Martinho shot a snake, apparently on the assumption that it was them or it, though it had been doing nothing but sun itself on a rock. Sir John did not reproach the boy; after all, it was his country. And possibly it had been an adder or some such, though it had looked like a harmless grass snake, to him. They came over the crest of a hill, and paused, at the sight of the charming scene before them.

    “It’s a picknick!” said the boy, beaming.

    Indeed it was. It appeared to be composed of the Senhora Baldaya, en cheveux, a very young maidervant, a basket which seemed to contain a child rather than provisions, a very small boy in the uniform of a page, and a skinny, sallow girl of, possibly, fourteen or fifteen.

    “Shall we go down? I am sure the Senhora would not mind!” urged Martinho.

    Sir John was not nearly so sure. “Er—that may be a snaggle-toothed niece or some such, dear old fellow,” he murmured.

    “Eh? Oh: her. Pooh, I don't care for zhat! I’m sure Senhora Baldaya won’t mind: why, at her party she said we must come on over any time: you remember, sir!”

    Sir John gave in. After all, Miss Bon-Dutton was not with them, so he would not be forced to show an interest where he was not yet sure he wished to show one. “Come on, then. And don’t eat ’em out of house and home.”

    Ignoring this shot, Martinho scrambled eagerly down the hill.

    The bundle in the basket was of course Baby Bella Baldaya, the pretty little girl in the maid’s uniform was her nurserymaid, and the stout little boy in the page’s uniform was just become the Senhora’s page—Olivio. Olivio beamed at them round a mouthful of cake: pretty obviously the duties of a page in the Baldaya household were not particularly onerous. The skinny, sallow girl turned out to be a great-niece. Er—great-great-niece? The granddaughter of the Baldaya daughter who had married some French princeling who had met his fate on the guillotine—something like that. Emilie-Marie-Antoinette de Plessis-Marly. Something like that. They were to call her “Emilie”, and she was absolutely to practise her English.

    Mlle de Plessis-Marly and Martinho Marchant appeared to take an instant loathing to each other. Which on the whole was better than the other thing, since, though the grandfather had gone to Mme la Guillotine, the father was very much alive, and in fact at the precise moment the French ambassador to Austria. Which did not explain why little Emilie had been dumped on her Baldaya relatives. Well, at a guess, because nobody in her immediate family gave a damn about her and someone had had the bright idea that if she were to be taken up by the new Senhora Baldaya, the responsibility for launching her into Society into two or three years’ time, finding her a suitable husband, and settling a suitable dowry on her might be taken out of their hands? John Stevens was familiar with this sort of thing in the great families all across Europe. His strong nostrils flickered a little as Senhora Baldaya explained who Emilie was, and he smiled his nicest smile at the poor, plain little creature. Reflecting that, unfledged though she was, it was really doing her the greatest unkindness imaginable to put her anywhere near Raffaella Baldaya’s glowing ripe beauty. Still, perhaps she would yet grow into good looks, poor little scrap.

    The picknick appeared to consist of the remains of a large fruit-cake in more or less the English style, a selection of small savoury pastries, and a basket of fruit. And a flask, which the Senhora, laughing, explained contained only milk. For they had crept out to the dairy and persuaded dear old José Oliveira to give them some!

    “That’s their cowman, sir,” explained Martinho helpfully through a hunk of the cake.

    “Yes, of course. I think we will not deprive you of your milk, Senhora. I have a flask of water.”

    “From our own well. Though I deed show him wheech of the streams Pa says are safe to dreenk from,” explained Martinho thickly, swallowing.

    “Si, of course you did!” she agreed, beaming. “Have an apricot, Sir John: I wager they are better than any you have eaten in England!”

    He bit into a ripe apricot. Hurriedly Raffaella held a napkin under his chin.

    “Thank you,” he said weakly. “Very ripe.”

    “Yes. We grow the best apricots in the district, so Érico claims,” she said, smiling.

    “Pa claims ours are the best,” said Martinho. “Our peaches aren’t that big, though,” he admitted, eyeing the basket.

    Predictably the Senhora urged a huge peach on him. Followed by a bunch of huge grapes, since apparently Dick’s never got that big. Something like that.

    After a little Baby Bella woke up and began to whimper. The Senhora picked her up and held her to her bosom, smiling. “Do not look, for I am about to feed her,” she said gaily.

    “We shan’t mind,” said Sir John mildly, since poor Martinho had turned beetroot.

    “The thing is, Martinho, I know that ladies do not, either here in Portugal or back in England. And certainly not in Italy; my mother would have a fit at the very idea that she should feed her own infant. But you see, I have so much milk, and the wet-nurse lost her milk, poor thing. So it seemed only sensible.”

    “Yes, um, I remember when Anna was a baby, Ma used to feed her,” he croaked.

    “Your little sister?” she said, smiling. “I am so glad to hear it.”

    “I am allowed to watch,” said Mlle Emilie suddenly, scowling at Martinho, “beut a boy meust to go away.”

    Sir John got up. “I don't think that’s necessary. Let me give you this shawl, Senhora,” he said, picking it up, and coming to arrange it lightly over her shoulders. “There. Feed her; you must not let her cry.”

    Smiling very much, Raffaella proceeded to feed Baby Bella in the scant shelter of the light summer shawl.

    ... “It was so well done of him, do you not think?” she said pleasedly to her cousin.

    Eudora was very flushed. “You mean he showed no gène at all?” she croaked.

    “Less than yourself! There is more to him than meets the eye, I think!” she said with a laugh. “And he was entirely pleasant and relaxed the entire time, not stiff at all! He clearly is very fond of little Martinho.”

    “Well, I suppose he is fond of young Jerry B., too,” she said on an uncomfortable note.

    Raffaella swallowed a sigh. “Yes. Pray don’t ask me how I could, dearest Cousin—I see it hovering on the tip of your tongue!” she said as Eudora opened her mouth to utter a polite prevarication. “I could because my baby was hungry, and that is all there is to it.”

    “Raffaella, I do not think that is entirely so. You might have asked him to retire a little, or requested Emilie and Maria to screen you. You were testing him,” she said tightly.

    Raffaella looked at her from under her lashes. “So? I think he came through the test with flying colours! He has gone up immeasurably in my estimation.”

    Eudora swallowed a sigh, and did not say that possibly Raffaella had sunk even further in Sir John’s.

    The fiddler, the flautist and the guitarist played valiantly, and the couples whirled round the larger withdrawing-room of the Baldaya country house. It was only an impromptu little hop, for there were not enough of them for a proper dance. An “impromptu little hop” of course had involved ensuring that the musicians would be there, that there would be refreshment for the musicians, that the servants would roll back the carpets in the big withdrawing-room— Forget it. At least it was not an huge ball, with the local worthies stuffed into their corsets and dress suits, looking down their noses at— Quite. Eudora tried to smile pleasantly as young Senhor de Figueiredo, some sort of nephew of the elderly little old Senhora’s, who must be all of nineteen, bowed very low and humbly begged a dance of her. Senhor de Figueiredo had conceived of a hopeless passion for herself. He would be far, far more suitable for little Emilie— Oh, forget it. She allowed him to whirl her—er—stumble with her, into the dance.

    On the opposite side of the room Dick Marchant swallowed a yawn. Old Baldaya himself had signed the invitation card, otherwise he would have sent the boys over by themselves. He had an idea that John was not too keen, either. Well, so far he had had one duty dance with the Senhora and one duty dance with Miss B.-D. Currently he was sitting out with old Senhora de Figueiredo. The subject they were discussing was very probably her everlasting tatting, and unfortunately for himself John’s Portuguese was good enough for him to be able to absorb every word. …On the other hand, would it be better for him to appear to take an interest in Miss Bon-Dutton, if neither truly cared for the other?

    “Uh—oy,” he said, as Martinho appeared from nowhere and sat down by his side, chewing. “Where did you get that?”

    “Oub there,” he said thickly, swallowing. He grinned. “Paolo Oliveira from the village is working here as a footman, Pa. He gave it me. They ain’t serving the supper just yet.”

    Dick sighed. “I noticed. There’s no sign of any more of that wonderful porto, either.” He lowered his voice to a whisper—in English. “Do the Baldayas know about Paolo’s P,O,A,C,H—”

    Martinho collapsed in sniggers, spluttering: “Zhey—can’t—do,—Pa!”

    Dick grinned but noted, eyeing the yellow-faced little Emilie sitting by the wall: “You ought to ask that poor brat for a dance, old man.”

    “Pooh, she don’t want me to!”

    This was possibly true, but it was not the point, was it? Dick found he was incapable, at least at the moment, of explaining the intricacies of the point to the fourteen-year-old male mind. He sighed. That porto of old Baldaya’s had been…

    “Huh?” he said, jumping.

    “I said, José said I was to remind you,” hissed Martinho in his ear, “to ask the Senhora to dance!”

    “She don’t need me, dear boy. Who is that fellow?” asked Dick groggily as the tall, handsome young fellow who looked a little like José deposited the Senhora back tenderly at her chair—rather unfortunately, next the yellow little gal.

    “Pa! You’re hopeless! That’s Senhor Ainsley!” he hissed crossly.

    “Don’t spit.” Dick blinked at the pair. “Is it?”

    “You have to dance with her,” repeated Martinho carefully, as to a doddering old Pa that was going slightly deaf in his doddering old age.

    “She don’t want to dance with this coat, old man.”

    “That don’t signify!” he hissed. “It’s manners!”

    Dick looked thoughtfully at little yellow Emilie, but didn’t try to say it. “No,” he said definitely.

    “Pa, you’re showing us up!” he wailed.

    “Shut it. If you’re beginning to think like that, it’s probably time I stopped letting you come to these damned does.” Dick yawned suddenly. “’Scuse me.”

    Martinho was very red. “I shall not speak any more weezh you, for it is obvious to me,” he said, getting up and looking down his nose at him, “zhat you have drunk too much of the General’s porto.” He stalked off, looking incredibly dignified.

   Dick blinked after him blearily. Great God, he looked just like his paternal grand-—no, in Martinho’s case, great-grand-—his paternal great-grandfather when upon his high horse. …By Jove, that porto of the General’s had been splendid. Splendid.

    “José says,” reported little Anna Marchant conscientiously, “zhat there’s more fine gentlemen come.”

    Dick sighed, and laid down his pen. Anna was only ten. That did not seem to stop the boys telling her damn’ near everything that came to their ears. Well, possibly they were influenced by the fact that the elder Marchant sister, Caterina, who was fifteen, despised them and all their ways, and refused to form an audience for them. –Dick, incidentally, had tried to institute “Catherine” when she was born—but somehow had not prevailed.

    “Come where, Anna, sweetheart?” he asked.

    “To General Baldaya’s house.”

    “Friends from Lisbon, I suppose. Come to do a bit of shooting, I expect.”

    “José says”—Dick swallowed a sigh—“zhat they’re foreigners.”

    “English?” replied Dick, not smiling.

    “Um, I theenk. One might be French. Pa, he couldn’t be a prince, could he?”

    “N— Uh, given that old Baldaya’s a nob, Anna, that’s not impossible. Didn’t you want him to be?” he asked with a smile as her round face fell.

    “No. I mean, Yes. I mean, I wanted José to be wrong.”

    “Very natural.” Dick coughed hurriedly, but too late, she was grinning all over her face.

    Later interrogation of José revealed that it was probably a prince. He thought possibly French. Um, or Austrian. Um, some of them were English, Pa. And could they not go over?

    “To spy upon this putative prince? No,” said Dick with horrid finality.

    As yet unvanquished, José pursued with the charming, slightly impish smile that was so very like his late mother’s—a fact of which, Dick had found himself reflecting of late months, the dashed boy was possibly aware: “No, no: to spy on Senhor Ainsley and the putative prince together, Pa!”

    Dick got up and went silently into his study. Silently he returned with his copy of Dr Johnson’s Dictionary. “Look up the meaning, if you will,” he said nastily, “of the English word ‘no’.”

    Reddening, José tacitly conceded defeat.

    Dick retreated to his study, sighing. He did not, in fact, believe that a wish to spy upon any putative prince was the true motive of José’s desire to visit at the Baldaya property. Oh, God. Well, the boy was just twenty, and she could not be, even if one discounted fifty—no, ninety percent of Lucinda’s gossip as mere spite, more than twenty-three… Oh, God.

    Somehow acrostics on the sheltered terrace entailed Mr Ainsley’s sitting very, very close to the Senhora Baldaya on the one side, and His Royal Highness the Prince Henri-Louis’s sitting very close on the other… Miss Bon-Dutton reflected sourly that there was little point in wondering for what H.-L. could be hoping: it was, alas, all too obvious. General Baldaya, who was not present at this precise instant—the usual snores might be heard along the upstairs corridor—seemed to be encouraging his presence. Possibly the favours of a dubious Bourbon would lend one’s wife more of a cachet in Portuguese Society than those of a half-Spanish, half-English brother-in-law to an English marquis? There was no doubt that she, Eudora, was becoming soured in her old age, but then, was there not some excuse for her? For seated very, very close to herself on the charming little sofa which was just big enough for two, was young Senhor de Figueiredo. Openly adoring. Whenever H.-L. glanced their way—which he did not do often, true—but when he did, his shoulders might be observed to quiver.

    The weather was continuing very mild, although they were now just into October, and apparently it was just right for shooting parties which involved a very little shooting on the part of the gentlemen, absolutely none on the part of the ladies, and the involvement of regiments of enormous picknick hampers prepared by sweating tribes of Baldaya servants, unnumbered bottles of what little Emilie referred to as “that sour, fizzy wine”, three open carriages, rugs galore, silk cushions ditto, innumerable parasols, and, last but not least, a positive baldequin to shade the ladies’ complexions. Occasionally the General accompanied them, though all too often he did not. And whether or no he did, Mr Ainsley and H.-L. competed eagerly as to who should hand the Senhora into her carriage, help the Senhora down from her carriage, offer the Senhora the fruits of the shooting, open bottles of sour, fizzy wine for… Yes, well. Expectable.

    But really! Sailing the damned yacht all the way from England, timing the arrival so tactfully a couple of months after the arrival of the General’s brat… Forget it. It was, after all, entirely expectable.

    True, it was not positively clear why Mr Shirley Rowbotham and Mr “Val” Valentine were accompanying His Highness—at least, it was clear that they were present as a sort of camouflage, but not why they had consented to the rôle—except that the pair of them were too spineless to refuse the invitation. Eudora allowed the blushing Senhor de Figueiredo to force a little cake upon her, and once she had washed it down with a cup of tea was able to reflect more charitably that doubtless the two sillies had not been able to resist the excitement of a trip to the Continent. The which did not entirely excuse them. Though Mr Shirley, who according to Miss Hewitt had “a kind heart”, had certainly shewn himself very pleasant indeed to little Emilie. Er, being a Rowbotham, even if the dimmest member of that eminent family, he must know who her father—

    No. Absolutely not. Very firmly Eudora got up, excused herself to the company, and went upstairs to write an interesting, informative, and if not witty, then at the least determinedly cheerful letter to Miss Hewitt.

    The musicians played valiantly, and the couples whirled round the larger withdrawing-room of the Baldaya country house. Another soi-disant impromptu little hop. This time H.-L. and Ainsley were, of course, competing eagerly for the most dances with Raffaella. The General had had two duty dances with ladies from neighbouring properties and then retired to the card room with a group of cronies. The which, if Eudora’s memory served her, was not generally his habit in London. So… Was he simply not bothering, now that he was a married man? Or letting Raffaella have her head?

    So far, according to Raffaella’s own sunny report, H.-L.’s pursuit had not gained him any especial favours. Nor had Mr Luís Ainsley’s. The latter’s reputation did not give one to suppose that he was accustomed not to get what he wanted, and he was beginning to look a trifle miffed. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking on her, Eudora’s, part. Did Raffaella intend merely to keep them dancing on a string? Er, well, them and the dim Mr Shirley Rowbotham, who was now, it was only too apparent, horridly épris. And had had in Eudora’s dazed hearing a falling-out with Mr Valentine on the subject of “the little Senhora”, Mr Shirley claiming that she was utterly adorable and not a gazetted flirt—he must be blind—and Mr “Val” claiming the contrary. At least, allowing the utterly adorable but not t’other. –They had been on the terrace. Eudora had been in the library, which opened onto it. Its long glass doors had been ajar. Neither of the noddies, very apparently, had noticed the fact.

    She jumped, becoming aware that a gangling, youthful figure was bowing before her. Not young Senhor de Figueiredo, for once, but Martinho Marchant.

    “Martinho,” said Eudora very firmly, not pretending to be anything more than something that was more than old enough to be his mother: “hard though it is to credit that your very sensible father ordered you to dance with me, let me just thank you for the offer and assure you that I am officially letting you off the hook.”

    An expression of frank relief spread over his rounded, youthful features, and he grinned. “Pa said we was only allowed to come eef we would promise not to let any of the ladies of the house party seet against the wall weethout a partner.”

    Possibly that had been his father’s way of forcing the young horror to dance with poor little Emilie, but Eudora forbore to point this out. “I see. Well, you’ve done your duty, Martinho. Sit down, if you’d care to. And if you would care to, do explain why you’re at this dashed thing at all.”

    Grinning, he sank onto the chair beside her. “Pa wouldn't let José come by himself. He said possibly he wouldn’t make an utter cake of himself eef I was here to keep an eye on heem.”

    In Eudora’s experience they generally made greater cakes of themselves with a younger sibling present to admire them as they did it. “Er—oh!” she said, as young Senhor da Silva was seen to worm his way through the throng of fribbles surrounding his hostess and bow before her until the nose nigh to touched the knee of the pantaloons.

    “Yes,” said Martinho glumly as his brother then escorted his prize tenderly onto the floor. “I’d call that making a cake of himself, wouldn’t you, Miss Bon-Dutton?”

    Not as much he might in other directions, given the quantity and quality of the General’s wines, not to say the depth of the play at the General’s card table, but— “Pretty much. It’s his age,” said Eudora tolerantly.

    “Thanks. That geeves me something to look forward to!” said Martinho with a hoarse guffaw.

    Eudora eyed him with considerable liking. Pleasant boy. Quite bright, too. “You all have to go through it, I’m afraid, Martinho,” she said, and considerately turned the subject to horseflesh. Having decided firmly against any idea that might have floated to the surface of her mind, a few moments back, of asking him why, precisely, neither his father nor his father’s house guest had accepted the Baldayas’ invitation to this impromptu little hop.

    “It's reliably reported,” noted Dick drily as he and John Stevens emerged from a little wood to be faced not with the expected sight of a pleasant little valley and a tiny stream, but that plus a crowd of giggling fashionables enjoying what possibly they themselves would have characterised as a picknick but which clearly could be nothing less than a fête champêtre, “that that sort of thing has been going on for some time. Is one of them an actual prince?”

    Sir John shrugged. “Henri-Louis de Bourbon. On his father’s side, true, but it's through one of the by-blows of the Monsieur of the time.”

    “That takes him off with his cloak over his face, then,” replied Dick calmly. “Which?”

    “What? Oh; I beg your pardon, Dick. The unassuming-looking brown-haired young man, in the green coat.”

    “What, not even a coronet?” he said in huge disappointment.

    “Mm. Just as well little Anna ain’t with us. Do you wish to join them?”

    Dick cleared his throat. “Not all that much. You go on down if you’d like to, though.”

    “I shouldn’t like to at all,” he said calmly. “I should like to get these fine hares back to the house and introduce them to your cook and a jug of red wine, though.”

    Dick nodded and grinned, though inwardly he sighed a little. The handsome lady in the plain back riding habit was undoubtedly Miss B.-D. It looked as it if was definitely off, then.

    Eudora sat under the reddening vine of the little village tavern and cautiously sipped what the fat proprietor had assured her would be an excellent coffee. They drank it locally so strong it nigh to peeled your tongue as it went down. Raffaella claimed that the Italians took it even stronger, but for herself Eudora could not see it. For once she was blessedly alone: her young cicisbeo had undoubtedly been still snoring in his virtuous bed when she had got into her riding habit and ordered the biddable Paolo to saddle her up a decent horse. At least, her Portuguese would not allow her to phrase it so, but she had been able to order him “Not Yellow Pillow,” so the nag that had been produced was more or less acceptable, if not precisely feisty. The fat landlord had, if her limited grasp of the language had not betrayed her, professed himself overcome with admiration at the sight of her on it. Admiration or possibly horror. But his coffee was hot and his fresh brioche-like rolls delicious. The preserves he had proudly produced for her delectation were, however, very odd indeed. Eudora had made a pretence of eating some, feeling his beady black eyes hopefully upon her.

    “’Morning, ma’am!” said a cheerful English voice.

    Eudora jumped: she had been miles away.

    “Sorry, did I startle you?” said the possessor of the voice.

    “Not at all. Good morning, Mr Marchant,” said Eudora politely.

    Dick came up to her table, grinning. “You’ve let that fat fraud foist his ma-in-law’s fig jam on you!”

    “Good God; is that what is?”

    “Aye; odd, ain’t it?”

    “Very,” said Eudora drily.

    “Yes! –No,” he said, unaffectedly pulling up a chair, “actually I meant odd that the fresh fruit, when ripe, should be so wholly delicious and the jam taste so strange. But possibly that is due to the fact that she makes it from dried fruit, not fresh. I don’t dislike it, but then, I’m used to it. Think it’s different from the English preserves, ain’t it? More lumps in syrup, and less thick mush?”

    “Ye-es. Well, I am no expert. But my sister makes a delicious confection of plums in a heavy syrup like this, to which she adds a considerable deal of brandy. The consistency is similar, but as to the taste, there is no similarity whatsoever!” she owned with a twinkle.

    “No. Our cook makes brandied peaches and apricots in that way, but we only get awarded ’em on very special occasions,” said Dick with his friendly smile.

    Eudora smiled back at him and thought what a very pleasant man he was, and what a great pity it was about the somewhat tattered reputation.

    Dick Marchant for his part was thinking that she seemed an intelligent and very pleasant woman: very good-looking, too: the severity of the dark riding habit with just a little white at the neck suited her elegant facial bones. And that, if it was true she was as cold-natured as John had indicated, it was a very great pity. Both for herself and for dear old John.

    “There you are!” he said with a smile as Anna, panting slightly, emerged from the dark recesses of the little tavern. “Is it true?”

    “Yes,” said Anna, coming up shyly to his side and eyeing the unknown lady dubiously.

    “We had a report that one of the kittens born here last spring has one yellow eye and one blue eye, so it had to be verified,” explained Dick solemnly.

    Eudora’s eyes twinkled. “Of course.”

    “Zhey are too beeg. Zhey are not really kittens,” ventured Anna.

    “No; they grow so fast, do they not?” she agreed kindly.

    “This is an English lady, Anna,” explained Dick solemnly. “Her name is Miss Bon-Dutton. Miss Bon-Dutton, may I present my younger daughter? Anna.”

    Miss Bon-Dutton acknowledging the introduction very properly, Miss Anna gave a wobbly bob and was allowed to sit down. Which she did, very close to her papa.

    “The village is quite a ride from our place,” explained Dick placidly after the landlord had hurried out to take his order, “so we don’t get down here all that often. But we had been promising ourselves for some time to verify that rumour of the blue and yellow eyes, eh, Anna?”

    “Yes. Caterina wouldn’t come. She said it was childish.”

    “Dare say it is. No-one can be grown-up all the time,” said Dick briskly. “Ah!” he said as the landlady, whom Eudora had never before been privileged to see, bustled out all smiles, with a huge tray of food and drink. From the which Miss Bon-Dutton duly deduced that, if Mr Marchant was not all that near to the village, he was certainly well known there and well liked.

    “Ees thees your breakfast?” asked Anna, as Eudora allowed Mr Marchant to force a slice of ham and a crusty roll upon her.

    “Yes, I suppose it is. I left before the household was up.”

    “Wha’ ’bou’—” Dick swallowed. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Manners!” he admonished himself, smacking himself smartly on the wrist. When Anna was over the resultant paroxysm he asked: “What about Senhora Baldaya?”

    Eudora smiled. “She had been up, given her orders, eaten her breakfast and retired to her bed again by the time I came down.”

    “See?” said Dick calmly to his daughter.

    Anna nodded solemnly. “Ma used to do that. I don't remember her very much,” she added sadly.

    “No: Anna was only four when my wife died,” explained Dick.

    “When Aunt Lucinda comes, she stays een bed for hours,” added Anna. “But she doesn’t come vairy often.”

    “Er—oh, of course, Mrs Wedderburn is your aunt, is she not? Well, many English ladies stay in bed for hours in the morning,” said Eudora calmly.

    Anna thought it over. “You deed not,” she produced.

    “No; I cannot abide lying around doing nothing when the morning is calling to me!” owned Eudora with a laugh.

    “Pa says the same theeng!” she cried, her round face very flushed.

    “Aye, I do,” admitted Dick, grinning. “John’s the same, mind you.”

    “Yes, Uncle John always gets up vairy early, even when he’s een England,” said the little girl earnestly.

    It was Eudora’s face which was now somewhat flushed. “Does he? That’s good,” she said stiltedly.

    … Dick Marchant was very silent during the ride home. Eventually his little daughter asked him what was wrong.

    Dick came to with a start. “Eh? Oh, nothing at all, sweetheart. Um, did you like the English lady?”

    “Miss Bon-Dutton,” said Anna carefully. “That’s a funny name. Yes, I liked her. She’s sensible.”

    “Absolutely,” said Dick with a somewhat forced smile. “Gets up early, gets out for a decent ride on a decent nag, eh?”

    “Like us!” squeaked Anna, going off into a fit of the giggles.

    Dick grinned and nodded. Pretty well one of us, yes. Not only that, but clearly the very same type as John, too. And pretty clearly, did care for him, after all. But… That manner of hers was cool enough, certainly, only that wasn’t always an indication. No reason a decent woman should wear her heart on her sleeve. But if she hadn't been able to let him see it… No, well, maybe he had seen, but concluded it was not enough? Which after damned Constancia de Miranda Lisboa, was hardly surprising. Damnation.

    Eudora was gradually making up her mind, if very reluctantly, that before she left for home, which she must do soon, she should speak to her cousin very seriously. On the topic, firstly, of whether Raffaella was—well, not truly happy: it would be both naive and unkind to phrase it so. Content, perhaps. Over the last few weeks Eudora had come more and more to suspect that, if she was genuinely fond of the old general, she was not truly content with her lot. Clearly she did not care enough for any of the fribbles who were dangling after her to make the bestowal there of her favours anything but a measure of— Not desperation, no: Eudora strongly doubted that Raffaella was capable of that emotion, eternal optimist as she was. But a measure of boredom? Was she, au fond, beginning to feel bored and restless? True, she was clearly enjoying managing her house and servants, and happily spending part of each day reading with little Emilie, quite possibly to the improvement of both their minds, and certainly to the improvement of Raffaella’s French and Emilie’s English… But the giggles with the fribbles over the picknicks, the tea parties and the card games, etcetera, were beginning to sound more and more febrile, as October cooled and the leaves began to fall. Possibly General Baldaya also suspected Raffaella was becoming bored: certainly he had declared firmly that they would spend some time in Paris later in the month. Eudora of course had been warmly invited to accompany them. We-ell… perhaps she would. She could go home via France: it would mean two sea voyages instead of one but at least they would both be relatively short.

    Whether she should address her cousin on the second topic depended rather on Raffaella’s response to the first. The second topic, was, of course, the inadvisability of becoming involved with anyone, and in particular Henri-Louis, so early in the marriage with General Baldaya. Never mind if he himself seemed prepared to accept it.

    Very probably Raffaella had read her cousin’s intention in her face, for she seemed—and Miss Bon-Dutton did not think it was her imagination—to be avoiding a tête-à-tête. Oh, dear.

    Dick Marchant had not consciously ridden out in the direction of the Baldaya estate this morning in the hopes of seeing the little Senhora alone, without the gaggle of dim admirers. Not really. In fact, he had not even admitted to himself that the idea was present at the back of his mind until he and his horse reached the brow of the hill, and there she was, just below them. All by herself: not even a horse in sight: she must have walked all this— All by herself under a gnarled olive, bawling her eyes out! Dick stopped thinking about whether it would be sensible, given their respective positions, to get on down there and allow himself to indulge in what was pretty near forbidden fruit, and urged his horse down the slope.

    “What is it?” he said tightly, dropping to his knees beside the sobbing figure and seizing both of the hot, sticky little hands in his. “Not your little girl?”

    “No!” sobbed Raffaella, tears streaming down her face. “My—cat! He’s—dead!”

    Dick did not smile, or even evince any of the relief that he was feeling that there was nothing wrong with the baby. He just pulled her against his shoulder as he might have his little Anna or Caterina, and hugged her strongly.

    After quite some time the sobs abated and she looked up at him, sniffling. “He was very old. It’s silly to cry,” she said faintly.

    “Not if you loved him,” replied Dick, giving her a grimy handkerchief.

    Raffaella blew her nose and mopped her eyes. “Giampaolo dalla Rovere was his name. We never shortened it. He was the greatest ratter in all of the Romagna. But I must admit,” she said with a shaky smile, “that he got very fat and lazy in his old age.”

    “Aye, they do. So he dated back to your time in Italy?”

    “Yes. Gianni—that was my first husband—Gianni gave him to me when we were engaged. Not as an engagement present or anything silly like that. But he could see I liked him, and he liked me.”

    Dick blinked, but nodded: clearly, she meant the cat.

    “And nobody else in the family much cared for him, or wished to claim him. So Gianni said he could be my cat. After that he was with me always.”

    “Yes; I see.”

    She blew her nose again. “I am not pining after my girlhood, or missing Gianni, or anything stupid like that!” she said fiercely.

    Dick could see the fact that she had bothered to mention the point meant she was, a little. He merely nodded.

    “I miss him for himself!”

    “Yes. Had an old dog, once. Trevor. Damn’ stupid name for a dog, eh? Lived to be fifteen. Never cared for years after to get another dog. Well—shooting dogs, yes.”

    “Mm,” she said, scrubbing her eyes with Dick’s handkerchief. “José told me about him.”

    Dick’s jaw dropped: he had not thought that the sophisticated Senhor da Silva would have cared to show himself up by imparting that sort of cosy family gossip to the Senhora Baldaya. Nor, to say truth, that she would have cared enough either to listen, or to retain it. Though he did know that appearances lied, and she was not the flirtatious, be-frilled and parasoled thing that picnicked elegantly al fresco with assorted princes of the blood. We-ell… No, thought Dick Marchant, unaware that his long, narrow mouth had twisted a little: to be accurate, she was both that, and the charmingly warm-hearted and intelligent creature encountered upon the hills back at the beginning of summer.

    “Uh—yes,” he said feebly, aware that he was looking up at him uncertainly. “Had him with me during the Peninsula Campaign, poor old Trevor. He died a few years after I married. We buried him up in the hills, overlooking the house. Not sure why, except that it felt the right thing to do. Well—José was about Anna’s age when he died. He’s always called him the guardian spirit of the house.”

    “I know. That's why I decided to bring Giampaolo dalla Rovere up here,” she said, scrubbing at her eyes again.

    Dick became aware he still had his arms around the Senhora Baldaya. He released her gently. “That’s him?” he said, nodding at what he had thought was just a rolled shawl.

    “Yes. That was his shawl,” she said, the mouth beginning to droop again.

    “So you wrapped him in it? Aye, very natural. We wrapped dear old Trevor in his own blanket. You’ve brought a spade, I see. Let me give you a hand.”

    “Thank you, Mr Marchant,” she said, essaying a smile. “The ground’s very hard. That was why I started to cry again: I thought I’d never manage it.”

    Dick merely nodded, stripped his shabby brown coat off, and fell to.

    “Thank you so very much,” she said, when Giampaolo dalla Rovere had been laid to rest, the hole filled in, and a pile of all the loose rocks Dick could find heaped on top of the grave.

    “I’m glad I could help.”

    “I wanted to bring some flowers, but I couldn't manage to carry everything;” said Raffaella on a wan note, looking down at the pile of stones.

    “No. You could always come up later.”

    “Yes.”

    Dick looked at the grimy, crumpled, tear-stained little figure and suddenly put his hand on her rounded shoulder, gripping it hard. “Look, I’ll get off: leave you alone with him. But just remember, if you ever need any kind of help, we’re right next-door. Don’t feel you’re alone in a strange land.”

    “Thank you. We’re going to Paris next week,” she said dully.

    “I know. I didn’t necessarily mean next week, or even this year. Any time. We ain't going anywhere,” said Dick Marchant on a very firm note.

    Raffaella looked up at the thin brown face that was looking down seriously at her. “Thank you, Mr Marchant. That’s very comforting. I’ll remember.”

    Dick just nodded, got on his horse, and rode slowly away.

    A shaft of afternoon sun glowed on a couple of late roses on Eudora’s desk as she took up her pen.

My dear Lilian,

    This will be the last letter from Portugal, for we are off to France in the morning. I suppose I shall see you not so very long after this reaches you. I do not intend staying long with the Baldayas in Paris, although they have both urged me to do so. Penny writes that she and Joseph are heading home for Christmas this year, so I shall spend a few days with them at the Embassy and travel back to England with them. The Baldayas intention opening the Paris house and spending the festive season there. He declares she will enjoy it. She seems to agree, but—

    Oh, dear. Lilian, I suppose I had best come straight out and say it: the damned old cat has died, and Raffaella is almost completely overset by it. There was a storm of tears at the first, and she refused to let the servants bury it the day the creature was discovered stiff in his basket, but by dinnertime that day we all thought she was getting over it. But the next day it was discovered that she had gone up into the hills all by herself, rising well before dawn in order to do so, for no-one of the servants claims to have glimpsed her—and I do assure you that old Baldaya could have been heard shouting at them all over the house, so if anyone had been at fault, I think it would have been discovered. I beg your pardon, my dear; I am becoming as incoherent as he and she both were. She got up before dawn to take the corpse up into the hills, and buried it there. I have no idea why. Little Emilie was all prepared to have it interred in a little patch of lawn near the house, where they could offer it bunches of flowers whenever the fancy took them.

    Poor General Baldaya merely asked her, in the mildest manner imaginable, why she had felt necessary to bury it in the wilds of the hills instead of in the garden—I admit that on consideration the phrase “the wilds” struck an unfortunate note—and she burst into fresh storms of tears. The dinner party planned for that day as a farewell to the neighbourhood worthies had to be cancelled, as she was in no fit state to preside at it. He indulged himself in some more shouting at the servants, I think more as a relief to his feelings than anything, as he clearly don’t give a fig for the neighbourhood worthies. She took to her bed for a full two days, admitting no-one save little old Senhora de Figueiredo.

    I suppose it was a blessing in disguise, for H.-L. took it as a hint that his presence was more ornament than use, and took himself and his two dim cronies off, at long last. Though threatening to meet up again in Paris.

    When she eventually arose from her bed, Raffaella refused to discuss the matter—certainly with myself, and certainly with the General. I know that for a fact, for he complained of it to me. I had no comforting explanation to offer, alas, except that she had had the creature since she was a chit of sixteen. He did not appear much consoled by the thought. Doubtless certain comparisons had risen to his mind, for if the late and apparently unlamented Gianni dalla R. gave her nothing else, he certainly gave her the cat. Oh, well. Poor girl: I suppose it was, in a way, the last vestige of her old life.

    As you know, I planned speaking to her before we left, but shall not do so after all. Talking pays no toll, does it? And then, whatever she may feel about her situation, there is nothing she can do about it. I do admit that the disappearance of H.-L. is a factor, yes. And then, if the General is complaisant, who I am to play stern duenna? Doubtless all Paris will soon be at her feet. Or at least the half in the dress coats and choking neckcloths. At the moment I cannot but hope it will serve as a distraction. Though doubtless I shall change my mind on that score once it happens—yes!

    You will want to know whether the baby is to accompany us on our travels, and I can assure you that she is to, yes. One supposes that if Lady Rock. can cart her brat up to town because she wishes to be in London when R. speaks in a debate in the House, a mere Senhora B. may cart hers over half Europe? No, well, frankly one cannot but approve the wish not to leave it behind, whilst deploring the decision to cart it over half E., so there you are.

    On the subject of R. and his connexions, Luís Ainsley has gone back to Spain at long last. Pouting, I am glad to say. As to whether it will induce him to allow various interested parties to force the Princesse P.’s youngest daughter upon him, I cannot say. Bompey du Fresne was certainly very evident in Lisbon this spring, and as there seems no doubt the girl is his, possibly rumour is right in declaring he would not be averse to the match. Well, Luís A. will have his Spanish madre’s estates, and she is certainly well connected, if one excepts the marriage to Sir H.A.!

    I think that is all of the gossip from Portugal, my dear. As you know, we are rather isolated here amongst the hills. I had a note from Lucinda Wedderburn mentioning that Sir J.S. is gone home to England, but I think I wrote you that in my last, did I not? Such a pity about Dick M.’s reputation, for he is such a very decent fellow to meet. Raffaella has declared, à propos de rien, that she will not hear a word against him. No-one was about to utter a word against him, not even myself, for in the wake of our encounter in the village of which I wrote you I have quite conceded that he is a loving father, a good family man, and must clearly be an excellent master and landlord, to be so popular with the local people. Indeed, I even ventured, far from uttering words against, that perhaps his stepson, young Senhor da Silva, might do for little Emilie? I was about to utter the rider “when she is a little older” but before the words could reach my lips Raffaella had burst out in an impassioned diatribe against very young marriages. Now, this was after the old cat’s death, yes, but precisely what was running through her head I confess myself at a loss to tell.

    Little Emilie is to accompany us to Paris, but burst into tears at the prospect of being dumped back on her parents. At which Raffaella pointed out that imprimis, they are not in Paris, but Vienna, and secundus, Emilie has a home with her for as long as she wishes. The General assented amiably to this last, though neither of them seemed to deem it necessary to wait for him to do so. Let us hope that they can marry the girl off respectably before he goes, as I would not wager a groat, amiable though the Baldaya connexions have been, that there will be very much for Raffaella in Portugal once she is left a widow. I have not broached the subject with her, in so many words: it is far too soon. But I did try to stress that she may always call on myself, you and Peter, or Susannah and Bobby if she needs friends or assistance at any time. Naturally she saw through my every word like a pane of glass. Never mind, at least it is said.

    I confess I have not very much wish to see Paris, and, delightful and exotic though the Portuguese meals have been, am longing to sink my teeth into the plain roast beef of old England!

    I look forward to seeing you all at Sommerton Grange before so very long, not excluding my latest nephew, Master Peter Q.-V., pray tell Susannah; all, I sincerely trust, continuing in your customary good health.

Your loving sister,

Eudora.

    Alas, the well behaved Mrs Quarmby-Vine’s reaction to this final missive from Portugal was to crumple it furiously and hurl it into the waste-paper basket before even Susannah had read it. It was just so like Eudora! Not a word to show whether she cared if Sir John Stevens lived or died, tossing off the news that he had gone home to England—which she had not mentioned before, remark! And that coolly cynical tone over the loss of dear old Puss: what rubbish! Why write of it at all, if she did not care! No wonder the poor man had not spoken, if that was the tone she— Oh! It was Eudora all over: she was her own worst enemy, and always had been!

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