Return To Portugal

Part VII. The Second Peninsula Campaign

24

Return To Portugal

    The voyage back to Lisbon was not a particularly smooth one, but since Raffaella’s claim that she, Aunt Eliza and Bella were all good sailors was perfectly valid, none of them suffered. The old lady largely kept to her cabin in the inclement weather but Raffaella, well muffled up in cloaks and wraps, spent a deal of time on deck. There was only a handful of passengers, and most of them were ill: no-one disturbed her, and she had plenty of time to think. Though she did not, really, come to any particular conclusion except that she was an imbecile ever to have imagined she could play the part of an English lady. Even if one’s companion in life were compatible—and Raffaella was almost sure that Mr Beresford would never have been that—but even if, the life one would be required to lead would be impossibly boring, proper and stuffy. She thought about the English matrons whom she knew, and could not forbear to shudder. Perhaps Lilian Q.-V. and Lady Lavinia Dewesbury, in their different ways, were the best of them. Unquestionably they had some excellent qualities—yes. But they were both proper to the bone. Glumly Raffaella, leaning on the rail and gazing out at a grey-green, storm-tossed sea and lowering grey clouds, admitted that she could never be that. Never. And whether it were a Jack Beresford or a Charles Quarmby-Vine in question made no difference: Eudora had been right in saying they would expect their wives to lead precisely the same sort of life.

    Raffaella was aware that she might have played the rôle of proper English wife to perfection for quite some years. She was good at playing a rôle: usually these performances seemed quite to satisfy the audience, too. Even that Season in London with poor Cousin Eudora had been nothing but another performance: the pretty, naughty, frivolous little Contessa dalla Rovere… Uneasily Raffaella thought about her marriage to Érico and of herself in the rôle of petted little wife of a doating elderly gentleman. She had sustained that quite well—after all, it was not unpleasant to be spoilt and indulged. But the only times she had been truly happy had been at the country house, whether managing her household or escaping to the hills. And if it had gone on much longer… Not that Érico had not been an utterly reasonable man. But if he had insisted on their continuing to lead a very fashionable life for a large part of the year, she might have done something very silly, merely out of boredom. And perhaps, if he had been rather younger and lived longer, she would, at best, have developed into something like a Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen. What a fate. And that sort of life at least had rather more variety than that of a Lilian Q.-V. or a Lady Lavinia Dewesbury—or of a Mrs Jack Beresford: quite.

    By the time the ship docked at Lisbon Raffaella was not quite ready to admit that she had had a lucky escape. But she was certainly both fair-minded and clear-headed enough about the thing to admit to herself that Mr Beresford had.

    And what of the Black Warrior in all this? Perhaps she had just too many real matters on her mind for him to put in an appearance. Certainly she did not give him a thought throughout the voyage—except for one morning, very early, when she woke to find the clouds had momentarily parted and a shaft of sun was peeping through her porthole. But somehow or another he was no longer the youthful hero with the melancholic hint to his smile and the tumbled back curls: a much wryer, drier, and older smile kept getting in there, and the eyes were no longer those stormy grey, now flashing, now dreaming ones, but rather quizzical and mocking. And after a short period of struggling to force him back into the old mould, Raffaella became very cross with him, abandoned him to the world of make-believe, and got up and went in search of breakfast.

    In Lisbon, after a short period at a sufficiently obscure inn, a little house in a quiet street was hired, and the two ladies and Bella moved in. And Raffaella embarked on the quest for a suitable country property: small, but with a farm attached…

    “If there are any, which I strongly doubt,” she said grimly to Aunt Eliza as Christmas approached, “my lawyer’s man has not managed to find them!”

    “No,” agreed Senhora Figueiredo uneasily. “Er, well, mayhap it is the wrong time of year?”

    “And mayhap,” said Raffaella very grimly indeed, “horrid João Baldaya has put the word out that no-one is to sell to me!”

    The old lady swallowed. It did seem not unlikely, given that a Baldaya connection had spotted them in church only the second Sunday after their arrival in the country and that since then they had had to support a stream of visits from interfering matrons, all intent upon informing the widowed Senhora Baldaya exactly how she should comport herself in the land of her late husband’s birth. Black draperies and complete obscurity for life: quite. The house they were currently living in actually received the nod of approval from João Baldaya’s wife herself, so their supposition that the neighbourhood was an obscure but respectable one had been correct. Unfortunately Raffaella made the mistake of revealing her plan to remove to the country. Unthinkable! The Senhora Baldaya, all other considerations aside, could not possibly take up the rôle of something only a little removed from a farmer’s wife. Various instances of neighbours of various country properties belonging to members of the vast Baldaya clan were cited as supporting evidence of this claim. Raffaella had met only a handful of these women but they had all certainly struck her as sensible and capable persons. Not to say, happy ones. She made the mistake of saying so to one of Érico’s daughters, her daughter-in-law, and the daughter-in-law’s well-connected cousin, all of whom had called in a bunch on an afternoon when Raffaella and Aunt Eliza had intended making a little Nativity scene for Bella, largely out of a confection resembling gingerbread. What with the aprons, and the smell of cake, and the tumbled curls… Not to say the spectacle of one’s own child in one’s sitting-room. At the end of that visit, Raffaella was reduced to hurling a cushion across the room. And even the meek Aunt Eliza announced grimly that it had been a waste of good tea.

    Most of the Baldaya connexions would, as usual, be spending the festive season on one or another of their country properties, and to Raffaella’s and Aunt Eliza’s considerable relief, no invitations to join them there were forthcoming. So they had a quiet time at home, going to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve at an obscure little church where no fashionables attended but where the priest was an elderly man with a sympathetic manner, not to say a fondness for gingerbread and small children.

    And so the New Year rolled round, and it was clearer than ever that no-one was going either to sell or to lease any respectable property to the widowed Senhora Baldaya. As spring approached a steady trickle of minor Baldaya connexions began to call, apparently in order to reinforce this point, for it was certainly not in order to invite Raffaella and Aunt Eliza to dine with them, or even drive out with them.

    “Should we think about going back to England, after all?” quavered the old lady on a blowy March morning.

    Raffaella glared out of the sitting-room window at the sufficiently exciting spectacle of one large woman in black with a basket, her shawl clutched round her, her skirts tossed by the wind, and replied grimly: “No. England is even stuffier than Portugal. And living is more expensive there. We shall find something here, even if it be the most obscure smallholding.”

    The old lady bit her lip. It would certainly be no more than that. And would it be even that? The great families owned so much of the land: most of the smallholdings were only leased.

    “I’m not giving up yet,” she stated grimly.

    “No,” agreed Aunt Eliza wanly.

    The next week was largely spent by Raffaella in a series of grim meetings with her lawyer and his man, and eventually this last, in spite of all his protestations that he had looked everywhere, and it was not that there were no properties, but no-one would let when they heard who it was for, was dispatched to try again.

    The week after that they had an unexpected visitor; one who had come, moreover, for the simple pleasure of their company.

    “Senhor da Silva!” cried Raffaella, bounding up and seizing both of his hands in hers. “Oh, how good to see you!”

    José was rather startled but not displeased by this rapturous greeting: he bowed over her hands, into the bargain kissing one, and said how pleased he was to see her back in Portugal, complimenting her on how well she was looking. Into the bargain kissing Senhora Figueiredo’s hand and complimenting her on ditto.

    “You have not been in town, I think?” said Raffaella on an eager note, as they sat down.

    José made a face. “No, been with my Uncle Enrique for nigh on six months. He insisted I stay on for Christmas, and Pa backed him up. It was shocking: five hundred of the stiffest relations, all in black, and every one of ’em had brought along a snaggle-toothed niece or grandniece!”

    “Not every one!” she protested with a gurgle.

    He grinned. “It felt like it, senhora.”

    “What, was there not one pretty little maiden with great dark eyes and a melting smile?” she said soulfully.

    “Thought there was at first, to tell you the truth, senhora. Certainly the great dark eyes, pretty as a picture, only when she tried the melting smile…” He shook his head sadly.

    “What?” gasped the innocent Aunt Eliza.

    “Snaggle-toothed, senhora,” he said sadly.

    Raffaella collapsed in giggles, and the old lady, very flushed and smiling, shook her becapped head at him and told him he was a naughty boy.

    The elegant Senhor da Silva did not seem in the least put out by this reproach, but grinned, and said: “Well, it was pretty frightful, but I eventually escaped unscathed. Popped home, to see how they were all doing.”

    “And how are they all?” asked Raffaella eagerly. “How is Martinho? And little Anna?”

    He reported, smiling, that they were all very well, and had had a very cosy Christmas without him. And that Caterina was to spend the Season with Aunt Lucinda, so Pa had made him bring her up to town.

    “Oh, I see: he forced you,” said Raffaella with terrific sympathetic.

    José grinned. “Not quite! Well, of course the Season is not under way, as yet, but according to her and to Aunt Lucinda she needed clothes. Not a rag to her back, had to smuggle her into town wrapped in a blanket.”

    “Stop it!” cried Raffaella, laughing, and shaking a fist at him.

    He grinned again, but obligingly stopped, and answered a great many more detailed queries about the family, the property, and the village and its personalities. Reporting that the Oliveira family en masse would happily desert the Baldayas and come and work for her if she would but move in nearby!

    Raffaella and Senhora Figueiredo exchanged glances, and Raffaella noted grimly: “That is not likely to happen.”

    “Er—well, it’s understandable that it might rouse sad memories, senhora—”

    “No, no, it is not that at all!” she cried vividly. “Of course I would go back, if only I could!”

    “Well, João Baldaya ain’t using the place, you know. They say he has never cared for it, and of course he’s lived on the principal seat this many a long year. Had a tenant in, last year, but he has given up the lease. Believe the whole place is standing empty. Er—well, you may not be thinking of such a large property, but then, the leasehold is just the house and its grounds, with the home farm.” He cleared his throat. “And now that it’s secured to the Baldaya family, dare say old João B. wouldn’t mind leasing it to you; why not? As it is, it’s standing there losing money hand over fist for him.”

    Raffaella looked at him limply. After a moment she uttered: “Dear Senhor da Silva, you are so very young.”

    Poor José flushed up, but said politely: “Am I, senhora?’

    She nodded hard. “João would never let the place to me—never. It would look as if he were climbing down—you see? His pride would never allow him to do so, after the court case. And even should he wish to—which he will not, I assure you—his wife would never permit it. She hates me.”

    José swallowed. With that last opinion, Lisbon polite society was certainly in agreement. “Er—mm. Um, it seems unreasonable,” he produced feebly.

    “Why, yes! But human nature is, caro!” said Raffaella with her lovely smile.

    “I see.” He thought about it. “Yes, of course you’re right,” he concluded glumly. “Dash it,” he added in English.

    Thoughtfully Raffaella translated that for the old lady. José looked at her, and smiled. “My father says that, Senhora Figueiredo.”

    “Yes, I can just hear him say it,” said Raffaella with a little sigh.

    José eyed her cautiously. “Aye. Um, well, if you’re not thinking of returning to the district, may I ask what your plans are, Senhora? Shall you stay in town? You seem very snug here,” he said with a smile, looking round the cosy room.

    “It is a nice house, but I don’t wish for a town life,” she said on an impatient note.

    “Er—no. Well, dare say you don’t desire to cut a dash, but there are concerts, and the opera, and one may always dine with friends—”

    “Dine with friends!” cried Raffaella loudly. “Huh!”

    “It is a sore point, senhor,” said Aunt Eliza hurriedly. “We have sustained I dare say two dozen visits from Baldaya connexions these last six weeks, and—and no-one has so much as offered dear Raffaella a ride in a barouche.”

    “Um, the weather ain’t been… No, see what you mean,” he croaked. “Lor’, are they all shunning you, then, Senhora Baldaya?”

    “Not quite that, no. Merely, they are giving me very clearly to understand that a completely retired life is to be my lot from now on. And the thing is,” she said with a scowl, “of course I could ignore them and move to a more fashionable part of town and go to the concerts and the opera, and set up my own barouche, but if I do that, it will use up all my money and I will never have the chance of purchasing a country place!”

    “Is that what you wish to do?” he said feebly.

    “Yes, of course! Well, that or lease, I would not mind which, but no-one will either sell or let to me! My lawyer’s man has been looking for months!”

    José opened his mouth, He shut it again, as realisation dawned.

    “Yes,” said Raffaella grimly. “Exactly. João Baldaya has put the word out that no-one is to do business with me. My lawyer’s man admits there are properties available, but as soon as my name is mentioned they become not available.”

    He licked his lips. “I see. Well, from all I’ve heard of him, wouldn’t put it past him, no… But why?” he said limply. “Mere spite?”

    “I think it is very largely spite, yes,” she said grimly. “Though no doubt he justifies it to himself with the explanation that it is not suitable for a Baldaya widow to dwindle into a farm wife.”

    “That is certainly the point that has been put to us,” agreed Aunt Eliza sadly. “Not that they dared to imply that family influence is preventing anyone selling. But we know it is!” she ended fiercely.

    “Yes,” said Raffaella with a sigh. “Do not let us dwell on it, dearest Aunt Eliza. Shall we order tea? And Senhor da Silva can try our new gingerbread receet!”

    Smiling gallantly, Aunt Eliza agreed to this proposition, and tea was rung for, and the story of their attempts to concoct a gingerbread receet that would appeal to little Bella’s taste and still be suited to forming a stable, manger, etcetera, was related merrily to José, and so the subject of the Senhora Baldaya’s intentions for the future was allowed to lapse.

    José, however, returned to Aunt Lucinda’s house in a very thoughtful mood indeed. And acceded without even blinking to a suggestion that on the morrow he might like to escort dear Caterina on a walk with one of the very snaggle-toothed grandnieces he had spurned over the Christmas period.

    The morrow dawned, and Caterina descended the stairs in her best pelisse, dowdy and hopelessly outdated though it was, and found that her brother had completely disappeared.

    “I knew he would let me down!” she said angrily to Aunt Lucinda.

    Mrs Wedderburn was standing in the small downstairs salon, holding a piece of paper in her hand. “Yes,” she said in an odd voice.

    Caterina Marchant was at an age which is naturally self-centred, but even she could not have ignored the expression on her aunt’s face. “What is it?” she said quickly. “Not someone sick at home?”

    “No, not at all. But he has rushed off home. Er—all he says in his note is that he has to see your father urgently.”

    Caterina stared at her, frowning.

    “Yesterday,” said Mrs Wedderburn, swallowing, “he called on the Senhora Baldaya.”

    Caterina knew that; she had wanted to go with him but her aunt had refused to let her. “What of it?” she said with a pout.

    Mrs Wedderburn sank limply onto the sofa. “Work it out,” she said sourly. “For what might he urgently wish to seek your father’s permission?”

    After a moment Caterina’s jaw dropped. “You cannot mean—”

    “He has always greatly admired her.”

    “Y— But Pa said it was nothing more than a schoolboy crush! And he would quickly grow out of it!” she cried.

    “My dear girl, he rushed off to see her the minute he heard she was in town: does that indicate he has grown out if it?” she said crossly.

    “Pa will never permit him to marry a woman like that!”

    “He will be of age before very long. Your father will not be able to prevent him.”

    “Then his uncle!” she cried loudly.

    “He is one of José’s trustees, but only until he comes of age.”

    “I don’t believe it!” she cried angrily.

    Mrs Wedderburn sighed. “No? Think of another explanation, then.”

    Caterina could not. She looked at her with a mixture of sulky fearfulness on her round face.

    “Your father,” said Dick’s sister very grimly indeed, “is just silly enough to let him, too.”

    “No! Surely not!”

    “And if,” said Mrs Wedderburn tightly, rising, “he gets the notion into his head that it will annoy the Baldayas, I dare say he will give his permission even more readily. It will not do. I cannot see the boy throwing away his life like that, even though he is not my own nephew.”

    “Um—no.”

    “You may go to Lady Foster-Smythe at the Embassy for the week, Caterina: she has been begging to have you, in any case.” Mrs Wedderburn rang the bell fiercely, ignoring the expression of ludicrous dismay that had now appeared on her niece’s features. “Prepare the travelling carriage immediately, if you please,” she said as the footman entered, “and tell my maid to pack my bag for a short trip to my brother’s country house. I intend leaving within the hour. And Maria may pack Miss Caterina’s things for a brief stay with Lady Foster-Smythe. I shall have a note for you to deliver shortly.”

    Numbly the footman bowed and withdrew.

    “Do you mean to go and see Pa? But—but could I not come with you?” bleated Caterina as her aunt sat down at her little rosewood escritoire and took up her pen.

    “Certainly not. Belinda Foster-Smythe will be aux anges to have you: she has been bored to tears since her own girl was married off.”

    Bored to tears she might have been, but Caterina Marchant certainly had seen no sign of it: Lady Foster-Smythe was the stiffest, most ceremonious lady who had ever walked, the which motion being only enabled, according to Dick Marchant, who had known her, as he put it, in another life, by the grace of God, given that ramrod she kept down her back.

    “But—”

    “That is enough, Caterina.”

    Glumly Caterina subsided. Not even daring to point out that interference from Aunt Lucinda would make Pa even more determined to do the exact opposite of what she decreed was right, proper and desirable.

    Dick was discovered in the fields, looking at the new green growth of oats. “Hulloa,” he said mildly to his smiling but somewhat uneasy-looking stepson. “Lucinda that bad, were she?”

    “No, of course not,” returned José feebly, trying not to snigger.

    “What, then? Dredged up another buck-toothed, yaller-haired Foster-Smythe gal for you, have they?”

    “Heaven forbid!” he said, laughing.

    Dick eyed him thoughtfully: it had been a somewhat uneasy laugh. “Come clean, José, you cannot have spent more than two full days in town, by my calculations.”

    “Um—no. Something like that. Well, had good mounts, coming down, Pa.”

    “You don’t mean you rode all the way the way home? Look, what is? Good Christ, Caterina ain’t got herself engaged to some ineligible already, surely?”

    “No! She has not even met any! Er, well, there is a Foster-Smythe son, just come down from Oxford without his degree—” He broke off: Dick had gone into a sniggering fit.

    “As bright as his mother, then,” he concluded, blowing his nose on a flag-like, grimy handkerchief. “But scarcely ineligible. Come in, what the Devil’s up?”

    José sighed: he had been intending to work up to it tactfully. Though, on second thoughts, Heaven knew how: of course turning up a week after he’d left would arouse Pa’s suspicions! “Well, nothing is up, Pa. The thing is, the little Senhora Baldaya is in town.”

    “Oh, aye? Covered in frills and flounces with one of them pointed things on the head, and asked you to form part of the train for her next scouting expedition abroad, did she?”

    “Very far from it,” replied José firmly, nobly trying not to gulp. “She is living in quite an obscure quarter of the town, in a very ordinary little house, and whatever rumours Aunt Lucinda may have had from England—”

    “They can’t all have been rumours: John Stevens wrote that they were afraid she was throwing the last of old Baldaya’s gelt down the drain with both hands.”

    “I am very sure he did not phrase it like that, however! Um, well, yes,” he admitted lamely. “S’pose that is partly the point.”

    Dick’s lips tightened. “Is she in need?”

    “Not that sort of need, no. She has been looking about her for a small country place—well, bit of farming land attached, you know the style of thing. To rent or buy.”

    “Very sensible. Glad to hear it.”

    “Yes, but Pa, horrid old João Baldaya has put the word about and no-one will sell or let to her! –It’s true!” he cried loudly as Dick opened his mouth.

    Dick shut his mouth again. After a moment he admitted: “I can almost believe he’d have the spite for it. Um—well, what sort of style of place was she intending?”

    “Well, that may be partly the point: I think. Nothing very lavish, and—um—they did say something about the damned Baldaya females having all warned her that the rôle of farm wife ain’t hardly suitable for a Baldaya relict.”

    “Mm. They want to see the poor little soul dwindle away in decent obscurity and black silk for the next forty years,” he acknowledged grimly.

    “Yes,” said José, swallowing, and looking at him anxiously. “I think so, Pa.”

    Dick scratched his chin very slowly, while José continued to look at him anxiously. After a moment he said: “Why the Devil have you come running to me? Er—no, old man, didn’t mean that, glad you did,” he said hurriedly as his stepson went very red and made a startled move of protest. “Thing is, what can I do? Not a dashed wealthy landowner, y’know.”

    During two days’ solid riding José had had time to think about this. “No, I know you ain’t got dozens of farms, Pa, but what about The Yellow House?” he said eagerly.

    Dick’s jaw dropped. The Yellow House, so called because at some stage in its history some optimist had slathered it in that colour, was little bigger than a cottage, and had not been inhabited since his wife’s great-grandmother used it as her dower house—retired there in a dudgeon because she could not stand the sight of her daughter-in-law lording it over her old servants, according to country gossip.

    “We could do it up for her!” urged his stepson.

    “Y— Look, it’s dashed dilapidated, old man. As a matter of fact I was thinking Olivio Balboa might use it.”

    Olivio Balboa, pace the distinguished surname, was their head shepherd. José urged: “Yes, but he has a decent cottage, and if he needs more room, we could always build on for him! And his wife would find The Yellow House a little out of the way!”

    “Wouldn’t the little Senhora? And, just by the by, am I ever going to be able to sell a grain of anything we might happen to produce,” said Dick, looking at his green field of oats, “if João Baldaya gets wind we’re sheltering her?”

    “Oh, pooh, he won’t stoop to speaking to the local grain merchants, Pa!”

    “I hope you're right. And we’ll always be able to feed ourselves. But seriously, José, if Baldaya does put the word out against me, I doubt I’ll be able to put anything in the bank for you children.”

    “I shall dower the girls out of my trust money,” he said, frowning fiercely.

    Dick forbore to smile: he was a good lad, and had grown up quite considerably these last few years. “Well, that is generous of you, old man, though it ain’t all that much. Well, we haven’t needed to touch the interest, it’s grown into a decent enough little nest egg.”

    “I know.” He took a deep breath. “Uncle Enrique explained it all. And you should have touched it, Pa, for there were years when you have not had a decent coat to your back, and the girls have been more or less in rags, and it was all left to Ma and then came to you outright: there was nothing binding you to tie it up in a trust for me at all.”

    “Nothing but decency, no,” said Dick drily. “Er—no, seriously, José, Baldaya has the power to make things very difficult for us all. He may not—but if he does, it won’t be funny.”

    “I know,” he said, lifting his oval chin defiantly.

    “Then are you quite sure you want us to go ahead?”

    “Yes.”

    Dick put a hand lightly on his shoulder. “All right, then, we’ll offer her The Yellow House. If she wants to farm, dare say she can use all that land what used to be leased out in your grandfather’s time.”

    “Half,” said José firmly. “We need the lower grazing lands near the creek.”

    “Very well, half,” agreed Dick meekly. “But seriously, the house is a bit isolated.”

    “What? Oh, well, she will have her servants for company, and then, it is not near the other cottages, but it is quite near to us! Um, look, I don’t need to go to town this Season. We can spend that money on doing the place up.”

    Dick rubbed his chin again. Then he said slowly: “Think we might have to. Until we see which way João Baldaya jumps—if he jumps—we don’t want to go chucking our gelt away on anything that might be classed as frivolities.”

    “No, of course. Shall I look out the plans?” he said eagerly.

    Dick blinked. “Um—of The Yellow House? You may look in the study, dear boy, by all means, but I don’t know that there ever were any plans.”

    “Then I shall draw some up,” he said firmly. “It has two rooms at the front, downstairs, that may be used as pleasant sitting-rooms, or perhaps a dining-room and a sitting-room, but I am not sure how many bedrooms it has.”

    “No, um—oh, it has got a decent cellar: when the old girl passed on your grandfather discovered she’d squirreled away several tuns of porto and all his father’s decent burgundy down there. And two garrets, I remember that, because your mother and I—uh, never mind,” he said, coughing.

    José looked at him enquiringly.

    “Ancient history,” said Dick, tugging at the grimy scarf round his wiry neck.

    “If—if it has memories for you, would you rather it were not reoccupied?’ he ventured.

    “Lord, no! Could be quite a decent little house! Tell you what, think about planting a few roses or some such, eh? Well, something like that dashed courtyard down at the Baldaya place—nothing so elaborate, of course.”

    “Yes,” said José, the almond-shaped dark eyes narrowing, “we could extend the back walls quite easily to form a courtyard. Oh, I say: she will need some sort of a stable block, too.”

    “Aye: roses need decent manure,” agreed Dick, grinning. “No, no, you’re right, that must be thought of! Um—the inside’s pretty much a disaster; think the walls are solid, though you’ll need to check them, but they’ll need replastering and painting. Um—get Anna on the job, perhaps? Well, not saying she has any taste, bless her, but she’d like to be involved; and you can guide her,” he said hastily.

    “Of course. And perhaps Martinho would like to collaborate in the design of the stable block!” His eyes shone. “I shall make a start immediately, if I may!”

    “Er—aye, do that,” said Dick limply. “Oy, hang on: have you eaten this morning?”

    “Yes, grabbed a bite in the village,” said José over his shoulder, hurrying off.

    Dick sagged on his crumbling stone wall and looked limply at his field of oats. “You’d better do dashed well this year,” he said feebly to the field in English, “because I think the nags may need to eat off you for quite some time to come.” He looked at the crumbling wall. “And you can count any repairs out of the picture for ditto.” He paused. “Uh—s’pose she’ll insist on rent,” he murmured. He rubbed his chin. “Oh, well, silver lining,” he admitted limply.

    They had over a full day’s grace before Mrs Wedderburn arrived: unlike José, she had not made a large part of the journey cross-country. In fact the family was sitting round the fire after dinner, Dick reading a book but the three young people all working on plans for The Yellow House. José was finalising his floor plans, Martinho was scowling over a slate and continually rubbing out tentative sketches for the most modern and convenient stable block ever built under God’s good sky, and Anna was laboriously painting colour schemes for the rooms: according to herself, flowers stencilled on the plastered walls would look very pretty, and just as good as any expensive wall-hangings a fine lady might have. And several of the cottages in the village had painted stone floors: what did they think? Martinho had thought a lady would want rugs, and José had thought, until reminded of the price of timber in these parts by his stepfather, that a lady might prefer decent wooden floors. Eventually the verdict had been that it could not do any harm for Anna to sketch out plans for the floors. She was incapable, it had now been discovered, of drawing anything that had any relation to anything approaching a notion of perspective, so José, more or less in self-defence, had done the outlines for her and she was now filling them in.

    “What in God's name—?” said Dick numbly in his native tongue, rising to his feet, as Senhora Wedderburn was announced. “My God, is Caterina all right?”

    “Perfectly all right,” replied his sister grimly.

    “Then what in God’s name are you doing here? And where is she?”

    “With Belinda Foster-Smythe,” replied his sister, tilting her cheek suggestively. “I need to speak to you urgently, Dick.”

    Numbly Dick pecked the cheek. “Why? –Look sit down, take your cloak off, at least, Lucinda! Um, have you eaten?”

    “No,” she said grimly, sitting down and drawing off her gloves. “Yes, good evening, Anna,” she said as Anna repeated her greeting.

    Anna picked up the page she was working on and came eagerly to show her. “Look, Aunt Lucinda, eet ees a plan for a seetting-room for The Yellow House, for Senhora Baldaya!”

    “Is it, indeed?” said Mrs Wedderburn, alarmingly grim. “In that case, I perceive my journey to have been a necessary one.”

    Dick rolled a startled eye at José; surely he had not confided in Lucinda, of all people?

    “You may send the children out, Dick. José as well.”

    “Uh—they live here, too, y’know. Oh, very well. –Go on, it’ll be a storm in a teacup,” he said to them with a sigh. “Probably discovered she ordered up the wrong stuff for Caterina’s dashed ballgown.”

    “Deed you?” faltered Anna.

    “What? No!” Mrs Wedderburn took a deep breath. “Run along, Anna. I shall see you later.”

    Shrugging, José put a hand on his little sister’s shoulder and guided her out, trying to explain in Portuguese what the English expression “a storm in a teacup” actually meant, what time Martinho, still frowning over his slate, followed them slowly, his lips moving silently.

    “What on earth is the matter with that boy?” demanded his aunt in irritation.

    “Mm? OY! Martinho! Shut the door!” shouted Dick. “He always forgets,” he explained. “No worse than usual.”

    “Muttering to himself!” said Mrs Wedderburn with huge impatience.

    “Just like his father,” murmured Dick. “He is doing complex arithmetic to do with areas and volumes, Lucinda.”

    “You should let me send him to the university,” she said crossly.

    She meant Oxford University, where all the Marchants had gone. Except Dick and his lot. Dick swallowed a sigh. “You know I’m grateful for the offer, but this is his home, old girl.”

    “I dare say. Never mind that. This is about José.”

    Dick raised his eyebrows slightly. “I was glad to see him taking a responsible attitude.”

    “A responsible attitude!” said Mrs Wedderburn with a huge snort. “It is not to be thought of!”

    Dick stared at her, frowning. “Look, I don’t give a damn if old João Baldaya and all his tribe shun me for the rest of me days.”

    “I dare say they may do, but what has that to say to anything?” she said impatiently.

    Dick winced slightly. “Nothing, I sincerely hope.”

    “They may thank their stars to see her so respectably settled!” she said sharply.

    “Er—mm. Well, The Yellow House ain’t a mansion, but we intend making it snug enough.”

    “It has not been lived in since your father-in-law was a young man: I am astonished to find you consider it suitable, Dick.” She took a deep breath. “Though scarcely so astonished as I am to learn that you apparently have given your consent.”

    Dick scratched his chin slowly. “The property is in my name: she could hardly settle there without my consent.”

    “Dick, will you please stop talking about that stupid little cottage!”

    After a moment Dick said slowly: “Lucinda, the cottage is the point. Or have you come hot-foot to see me for another urgent reason than to prevent my taking on the Senhora Baldaya as a tenant?”

    “As a—” Mrs Wedderburn’s substantial jaw dropped.

    “I thought we were talking at cross-purposes. Well?”

    “Do you mean to tell me he does not intend marrying the woman?” she croaked.

    Dick Marchant was, of course, far from slow, and he had begun to suspect she must have taken some such idiotic notion into her head. “He has no such intention at all. Merely, he thought it would be a dashed good scheme if we were to offer her The Yellow House and some of the lands adjoining it to farm.’

    Mrs Wedderburn just looked at him limply.

    “I suppose he just dashed off without an explanation? Well, quite proper of him to wish to broach it with me first, y’know.” His sister continued to sit and look at him limply. “Look, I’m dashed sorry you’ve had such a fright. But José’s got considerable more sense than you give him credit for. I dare say he may admire her—well, he does admire her. But he knows that it’s not the sort of admiration that leads to marriage, Lucinda. And also that she’s by far too old for him. Though if you work it out,” said Dick with a strange little grimace, “there ain’t all that many years between them. But—”

    “But certainly far too old in experience,” said Mrs Wedderburn limply. “Yes. Well, thank God!” she added fervently.

    “Mm.” Dick got up and came to pat her on the shoulder. “Thanks for coming, old girl.”

    “He is your son, to all intents and purposes,” she said, trying for her customary grim manner and not succeeding. “I could do no less.”

    “No,” said Dick with a little smile. “Apparently not.” He rang the bell vigorously. “Bring in a tray of dinner for Senhora Wedderburn, and a decanter of the good porto, please. And you may tell Senhor José that they may all come back.”

    “‘Senhor José?’” echoed Mrs Wedderburn a trifle limply as the footman exited.

    Dick propped an arm on the mantelpiece. “He’s nearly a man, Lucinda. I’ve decided it’s high time we gave him the title.”

    “Yes, you are very right!” she approved.

    Dick blinked. “Glad to hear it.” He waited.

    “Er—Dick, he could not have taken some scheme in his head that, once the woman is on the property, you might soften towards the idea of a match?”

    Dick shook his head. Well, he had every suspicion that José had taken the scheme into his head that once the little Senhora was on the property he, Dick, might soften towards the idea of making up a match with her himself: yes! But he wasn’t going to breathe a word of that one to Lucinda. Sufficient unto the day.

    “No, it ain’t like that,” he said firmly, as José, Martinho and Anna came in in a bunch.

    And somewhat to her surprise, during the day that followed, Mrs Wedderburn perceived that, indeed, it was not like that: Dick was right.

    “But have you thought through the implications?’ she said, as, the afternoon having proven mild and pleasant, the two of them returned from a short stroll to The Yellow House, having left there Martinho solemnly pacing and measuring to the rear of the building, and José and Anna inspecting the inside and giving orders to the estate carpenter about urgent repairs, not least to the windows, entirely lacking glass, and to the roof, before those patches of missing tiles resulted in worse damage than a few swifts’ nests in the garrets.

    Dick rubbed his chin. “About flying in the face of old João Baldaya’s known wishes? Well, more or less, mm.”

    “It could have serious economic consequences for yourself, and serious social implications for the children.”

    “If it do,” he said lightly, “I’ll let you take the girls back to England and find ’em pink-faced, cloth-eared husbands over there.”

    “I may have to. –No, of course I should be only too glad, Dick. Let me assure you that you need not worry further about the girls. But José and Martinho must live in this country.”

    Unless, presumably, he let her send poor Martinho off to Oxford. Dick refrained from saying it. “Mm. Well, to be brutally realistic about it, João Baldaya ain’t a young man, and neither he nor his influence can last forever.”

    “Dick, he may have another twenty years; the father was in his eighties when he died, horrid old thing!”

    “He was not horrid at all, but entirely charming,” said Dick, forbearing to smile. “Mm, well, the property is sound enough to support the family for the next twenty years. But I think that possibly, once they’re over the shock, the Baldayas may find themselves quite glad to see her safely got out of Lisbon and buried in the depths of the countryside. And as to José and Martinho… Well, Enrique da Silva don’t care for João Baldaya and never has: I think he will exert his influence to see that a suitable girl with a decent dowry, since we’re being so brutally realistic, is found for José.” He smothered a sigh. “I just hope that it don’t result in his going off to live on the other side of the country.”

    To his astonishment his sister patted his arm and said: “The da Silva principal seat is not so very far distant, my dear. I am sure you will still be able to see him regularly.”

    “Hope so,” he said, trying to smile. “That leaves Martinho. He’s a boy of simple tastes, Lucinda. I shouldn’t shed any tears to see him marry a simple farmer’s lass.”

    Mrs Wedderburn bit her lip. “It may come to that,” she warned.

    “Let it,” said Dick calmly.

    Raffaella and Aunt Eliza were delighted, if astonished, to receive Mr Marchant and Mr da Silva. And sat them down and plied them with tea and cakes immediately.

    “I am so surprised to see you in town, Mr Marchant!” confessed Raffaella, beaming at him. “I thought you never came up? Or have you come for the opera?”

    “Well, if there’s anything on, I might go, since I’m here,” admitted Dick. He could feel his stepson’s eyes boring into him. He cleared his throat. “Er—no, no more cake, thank you, Senhora Figueiredo,” he said as she offered it. He’d forgotten about the old duck; Hell, would there be enough bedrooms? “No, not here for the opera. Here to see you, actually.”

    “Me?” said Raffaella in astonishment. “Well, of course I am very glad to see you at any time! But do I rate a whole trip to town?”

    He’d forgotten about that dashed rallying manner she could assume. Doubtless it was because she was unsure of her ground, but in the precise instance, it was dashed irritating. Not to say, off-putting. “Mm. Well, it was José’s idea, actually,” he said lamely.

    “Yes? He came to see us, several days ago,” she said, giving José a brilliant smile.

    “Of course, and it was then I had the idea, as horrid João Baldaya has prevented you from finding a suitable country place,” said José on a firm note, giving his stepfather a pointed look.

    Dick groaned, and passed his hand through his short pepper-and-salt hair. “Look, I'd better just out with it. We can rent you some land and a little house, if you’d like it.”

    Raffaella’s jaw dropped.

    “On the property,” said Dick on a lame note. “Grazing land, mostly. You’d have to buy a few sheep.”

    “Really, Pa!” said José on an annoyed note. “We could let her have some sheep!”

    “Not if we have to eat ’em for the next twenty years,” replied Dick grimly.

    “Please!” said Raffaella with a weak laugh, holding up her hand. “Are you serious, Mr Marchant?”

    “Yes. Um, could we talk in English?” he said lamely in Portuguese.

    “Is my Portuguese so bad?” replied Raffaella in that language, trying to smile. “Um—of course. Will you excuse us, Aunt Eliza?”

    The old lady nodded, smiling, and Raffaella switched to English. “If you would not mind saying it again, Mr Marchant: perhaps I did misunderstand you.”

    “No. Don’t think so. We can let you have a small house and some grazing land on the property, if you’d like ’em.”

    “And according to heem,” put in José crossly, “you weell have to buy your own sheep, and eet ees too bad of you, Pa!”

    “And what’s more, you knew I’d make a mull of it,” said Dick heavily.

    Poor José went very red, and subsided.

    “Sorry, old man. All José’s idea,” he said to the Senhora Baldaya, “and the thing is, the house is little more than a cottage. You won’t ever have seen it, it’s on the far side of the place from the Baldaya estate, but not that far from our house. The Yellow House, we call it. Um, what I mean is, it somehow got named The Yellow House in English. Um, well, it were my late wife, she was trying to learn English, and said what is it, and I said ‘The yellow house.’ What she couldn’t understand, y’see. Then I had to translate. So its real name is ‘The Yellow House’ in English, y’see, comes out as Da Elão Hoas, more or less, but then for everyday purposes we translated it into Portuguese anyway… Sorry,” he ended glumly.

    Raffaella was very flushed. “You—you are offering me a house to rent? And some land to farm?”

    “That’s it,” said Dick on a glum note. “Thing is, the dashed place is little more than a cottage, and now that I… Well, it won’t do,” he said, looking round the comfortable little sitting-room.

    “Of course eet weell!” cried José crossly. “Eet well be elegant as nothing once we have furbished eet up!”

    “They’re drawing up plans. Um, we thought it would do,” said Dick lamely.

    “Buh-but I am sure it will,” said Raffaella, now very much off-balance. Did he wish to offer her a house or not? Had his young stepson merely pushed him into it?

    “Of course eet well, for eet ees bigger than a cottage, with three—um—three— ” José floundered. “What’s ‘storeys’ in English?” he said desperately in Portuguese to his stepfather.

    “Storeys. Or floors. Three floors, but that’s including the garrets. And excluding the cellars,” said Dick heavily.

    Raffaella smiled. “Oh, but that is—”

    “But it ain’t got more than two decent rooms,” said Dick glumly.

    “No, no!” cried José. “One quite large seetting-room, senhora, as beeg as thees room, and one leetle parlour, which could be quaite charming, and one leetle dining-parlour! And there are four decent bedrooms!”

    “Y— Well, four bedrooms. You could fit a decent-sized bed into two of ’em,” conceded Dick.

    Raffaella took a deep breath. “I see. It does sound lovely. But I think, dear Mr Marchant, you have let Mr da Silva talk you into this, have you not? It is very kind, but—”

    “No!” cried José.

    “No,” Dick admitted. “I may not give the appearance of it, senhora, but I ain’t apt to be talked into anything at all by anyone. I own it was his idea, but then all ideas must come from somewhere, hey? But I made the offer because I wished to.”

    Suddenly old Aunt Eliza, who had been watching the faces attentively, got up. “I am quite sure, dear Senhor da Silva,” she said firmly in their native language, “that you will wish to come and see little Bella. Come along!”

    José scrambled up. “Yes, I should very much like that. If you will excuse me, senhora? I shall leave it to Pa to convince you that he does wish for it.” He gave Dick a very hard look and followed Senhora Figueiredo hurriedly from the room.

    There was a short silence in Raffaella’s cosy, comfortable little sitting-room.

    “Never thought the old duck had that much nous,” admitted Dick in English.

    “Er—no!” conceded Raffaella, laughing a little in spite of herself. “Well,” she said, taking a very deep breath, “now you may be honest with me.”

    Dick rubbed his chin slowly. “Think I have always been that, senhora. We-ell… For myself, there’s no rub. The place is empty: been empty for years, since Isabella’s father was a young man. Er—I’m sorry, that was my late wife.”

    “I remember,” she said calmly.

    Dick blinked. “Do you? Um—yes. Well, for myself, there’s no rub. But it’s a stone-floored little place that in spite of José’s claims is little more than a cottage. Plastered walls, you know the style of thing. Not that pretty, neither,” he said glumly, thinking of the profusion of coloured tiles that had decorated that courtyard of old Baldaya’s. “Dare say you might have seen the way some of the villagers decorate their houses with pretty little bits of tiling, that sort of stuff? Mm,” he said as she nodded. “Well. it ain’t got hardly none of that. Well, between you and me, my workers and their families seemed to have scavenged what decorations it once had, because I seem to remember the stairs being edged with ’em: on the risers, you know the local style. Aye. But now they ain’t.”

    “But that is no matter!”

    “Ain’t it? No. Um, thing is, senhora, I cannot afford to do it up for you in a suitable style. I’d like to, out of course. But all I’ll be able to manage is to make it weatherproof and make sure the damn’ chimneys draw. Oh, and it ain’t got a closed stove, but I’ll have one put in.”

    “That sounds perfectly fine, and should I hanker after coloured tiling, I shall pay for it myself,” said Raffaella on a firm note. She looked hard at him. “Is that the only impediment?”

    “No. You’ve been used to living the life of a gently-bred woman. It ain’t fit,” said Dick baldly.

    Raffaella looked slowly round the sitting-room. “I see what you mean. I shall not stress the point that you sound like the stuffiest of Érico’s relatives, for I quite understand that you mean it kindly. But you see, whether it be on your property or another, I am quite determined to lead a simple country life. In fact, I cannot afford to lead any other sort of life.”

    Dick’s mouth tightened. “Don’t tell me that John and Eudora Stevens haven’t offered you a comfortable home for the rest of your natural, for I know damned well they have!”

    “Yes. They have been very generous. But in the first place, I do not wish to hang on their sleeves for the rest of my natural; and in the second place, I don’t like England. I thought at least you would understand the latter point!”

    “Mm. I sometimes miss the damp and the green… Not often,” he admitted with a wry smile.

    “No, so I thought. I don’t miss them at all. Sometimes I miss the fine, gentle blue days, but in my last two periods in England there were sufficiently few of them to make me realise that I was merely romanticising my childhood. In fact, when I think about it objectively I remember as many cold, wet, miserable days cooped up in the schoolroom, forbidden to venture forth.”

    “Er—mm. Me, too. Well, remember being wet and cold, often enough. Though ’t’ain’t that, entirely… It’s something about the high, bare stretches of the hills, here.”

    “I know.”

    “So you do,” he admitted.

    There was a little silence.

    Dick swallowed. “Well, the place is yours if you want it. Most of that land used to be leased to a tenant, it does quite well as a separate property: will support a fair flock of sheep.”

    “Good. I was thinking of raising geese, too.”

    “Yes? Now, old Sortelha, over to the south of my place, can give you some tips on that: he has a flourishing nut orchard, claims the geese do best foraging under the trees.”

    “Yes? Almonds?” asked Raffaella with interest.

    “A variety. Walnuts and hazels as well as almonds. Mind you, he ain’t no gentleman farmer. Salt of the earth,” finished Dick on dry note.

    “And you do not know what he will make of me? No, well, no-one expects a young woman to wish to manage her own land. Only elderly widows are permitted to do so, never mind whether it be England, or Portugal, or Italy. Well,” said Raffaella very grimly indeed, “given time, I will develop into one of those. But I cannot wait that long to establish myself, or my capital will be all frittered away.”

    Dick scratched his chin slowly. “Yes. Good point. Best to put it into sheep and geese now?”

    “Why not? And nut trees, if the ground be suitable.”

    “Mm. Well, my people tell me that the old hag, loosely translated, Isabella’s grandmother, had a decent orchard out behind The Yellow House. There’s still some peaches and almonds there, run wild. Well, the children pick them—mine and everyone else’s!” he ended with a smile.

   Raffaella saw the smile with considerable relief. “So you will let me try?”

    Dick looked seriously at the piles of dark curls, unconfined by even a wisp of lace—that must go down well with the damned Baldaya connections, he found himself reflecting—at the curvaceous figure, flattered rather than anything by the sober black silk gown she was wearing, and at the great dark eyes, the velvet complexion, and the cherry-red mouth. Of course he was aware that appearances could be deceptive, but in the present instance, it was so damned hard to see past appearances! “Shall we put it like this? I won’t make it a ninety years’ lease or anything like it. You can pay me every quarter-day, and see how you like it. And if you don’t like it, you may give it up with no blame or recriminations on either side.”

    “I think you mean, not if I don’t like it, but if I have not the determination to carry on with it,” said Raffaella, sticking out her chin. “Thank you. I accept those terms, very gladly. And I will show you that I am very determined indeed.”

    Dick looked at the tilt of the chin, and at the stubborn expression around the cherry-lipped mouth, and did not express any of his own doubts. “Very well, then. The Yellow House is yours, for as long as you care to rent it.”

    Raffaella rose, and held out her hand. “And the farming land accompanying it.”

    Dick got up, perforce. “And the land,” he agreed, taking her hand. “It’s a bargain, then.”

    Her warm little hand squeezed his eagerly. “A bargain. And thank you, Mr Marchant!” she beamed.

    Dick tried to smile into the brilliant, sparkling dark eyes. “The children will be pleased,” he said lamely.

    Two full days passed after Mr Marchant’s generous offer before it struck Raffaella. In fact, it struck her in the middle of the night. She sat bolt upright in her bed with a gasp. “The horrible Baldayas will make him pay dearly for helping me!” she said, aloud.

    The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Not—not social ostracism, thought Raffaella, for Mr Marchant after all did not give a fig for Society and never came to town—though José would perhaps be made to feel it; she winced. And possibly Caterina, but at least she had her formidable Aunt Lucinda, the British Embassy, and the terrifyingly cool Lady Foster-Smythe on her side. No, but—but economically? Of course João Baldaya did not lower himself by dabbling in trade, but nevertheless the Baldaya estates were vast and the family controlled huge wealth. And Mr Marchant was by comparison only a small farmer, who needed to sell his wool and grain to earn his daily bread… His place was so horribly near to that estate owned by the Baldayas, and there could be no doubt that João Baldaya had his spies in the district. Word would get back, without any doubt at all. And then… Pressure brought to bear locally? And further afield? Where did Mr Marchant sell his grain and wool? Raffaella tossed and turned and did not manage to get back to sleep that night. Every sort of economic embargo was envisaged, from Dick’s wool piling up in his barns until the rats nested in it, to the local cottagers and butchers being forbidden to take his meat for their sausages… They used to sell eggs to the Baldaya estate, too, she recalled glumly: that would stop.

    In the morning Aunt Eliza looked at her drawn face and the shadows under her eyes and asked timidly if she was having second thoughts.

    “Not about the thing itself,” said Raffaella grimly; “but certainly about the results it might have for dear Mr Marchant.”

    The sapient Aunt Eliza was privately of the opinion that the main result it would have for dear Senhor Marchant was the providing of a nice little second wife for him. And, though dear little Senhor da Silva had been most circumspect during that visit upstairs to see little Bella in her nursery, she was very sure that that was his opinion, too. So she said without any evidence of disturbance: “Yes, my dear?”

    Raffaella burst out with it.

    “I see.” Aunt Eliza sipped coffee thoughtfully. “You know, my dear, although dear Senhor da Silva’s late papa was just a younger son, his uncle is a man of considerable influence. Possibly not so much as has João, but it is a moot point.”

    “So—so should I ask José to speak to him?”

    “It could do no harm, my dear.”

    Raffaella nodded slowly. “Perhaps I shall—but then, though he may have nothing against me personally, is there any reason to suppose that he will approve of the notion of a young woman’s managing her own property any more than the rest of them?”

    “No, well, that is a point.”

    She frowned over it. “I shall, because I think I must ensure that Mr Marchant’s generosity to me does not lead to his economic ruin. And—and possibly Senhor da Silva will have just as much influence as João with—with the people who buy grain, and so forth.”

    “Yes. I think wool is generally sold at auction, at the big markets.”

    “Is it? Well, could João control those?” she said eagerly.

    Slowly Aunt Eliza shook her becapped head. “I think he could control anything. Markets are run by men, my dear.”

    “Y— Oh! And all men are susceptible to influence. Yes.” Raffaella’s mouth tightened. “I shall speak to my lawyer. I have an appointment today anyway, at which I meant to discuss the rent, but I shall consult him about this, also.”

    Aunt Eliza nodded in agreement.

    Raffaella’s lawyer was also of the opinion that if he so wished, João Baldaya could exert influence anywhere at all with success. But, forgive him, senhora, would he bother to go that far?

    “I don’t know. I did not think he would go so far as to bring a court case over the country estate,” she admitted.

    The lawyer had: but that was a matter of letting property go out of the family. But then, it was true that considerable influence had been exerted to see that Senhora Baldaya did not purchase or lease anything… It had not done him all that much good to be associated with her, either. “How spiteful is he?” he asked glumly.

    “I think, only a normal amount, but his wife is a very different matter. And she has considerable influence over him.”

    “Ye-es… But senhora, to go so far as to victimise Senhor Marchant would be to risk making himself a laughingstock,”

    “Would it?” said Raffaella slowly. “I own, that had not occurred to me. Yes, you are very right. And in any case, if no-one will buy his wool here, I have contacts in England who will ensure that it will find a ready market there.”

    It was true that England’s manufactories were going ahead in leaps and bounds and there was a steady demand for fine wool. And according to herself, Senhor Marchant ran merinos, of excellent Spanish stock. “Yes? Well, that is encouraging, senhora. Though one must take into account the shipping costs, which may bite into the profit.”

    “Any profit is better than none,” she said grimly. “But I have another idea which may help. It came to me as you used the expression ‘laughingstock’.”

    The lawyer had known her long enough to wince as this sentence passed her lips.

    “Do not worry!” she said with a sudden laugh. “It will not be so very terrible! Just sufficient to make the Baldayas wish Lisbon were rid of me!” And, thanking him very kindly for his trouble and ordering him gaily to bring his wife to tea the very next Thursday, she shook his hand warmly and rustled out.

    The Lisbon opera house was a blaze of lights. Orders, satin gowns and jewels crowded the boxes, the pit was full of dress uniforms…

    In the British Ambassador’s box, Mrs Wedderburn stiffened. She bent forward a little, and raised her lorgnette. “Impossible,” she said under her breath.

    Next to her, Caterina peered. “Goodness, is that Senhora Baldaya? I thought she had gone to the country!”

    “Quite,” said her aunt neutrally.

    Lady Foster-Smythe glanced over at the box. “The story of her retirement seems to have been premature, my dear Lucinda.”

    “But— ” Mrs Wedderburn bit her lip, and stopped.

    Caterina was registering the details of the gown. “Is that gown all of lace?” she said faintly.

    It was the white lace gown with the black at the bosom and hem which Raffaella had once worn with great success in Paris, and which the Dewesbury sisters had vetoed her wearing to Eudora’s engagement party.

    “What there is of it—yes,” agreed Mrs Wedderburn grimly.

    Larry Wedderburn was now adorning the British Embassy in Lisbon, in a very minor capacity. “Wangled” for him, according to Dick Marchant; for it could scarcely have been on account of his command of Portuguese. “I say,” he breathed. “Sight for sore eyes, hey?”

    “Really, Larry!” said his aunt crossly. “That is scarcely an appropriate comment in front of Caterina.”

    Larry was adjusting the recently-acquired quizzing glass to the appropriate angle. “Mm? Oh, Lor’, Cousin Caterina don’t mind me, do you?”

    “No,” agreed Caterina on a sour note.

    “Good grief, is that José with her— I say, that’s old Ovidio Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho with ’em!”

    “Who?” said Caterina blankly.

    “Cousin, you do not know anythin’,” said Mr Wedderburn loftily. “Fellow in the uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet. Lord, he was dangling after her last time I was in Lisbon!”

    “I would scarce call it dangling,” said Mrs Wedderburn on an annoyed note. “He is an old friend of her late husband’s.”

    “I would,” replied Larry simply, still with the quizzing glass raised.

    “What is José doing?” said Caterina crossly. “He did not even send word he would be in town!”

    “Quite,” said Mrs Wedderburn grimly, as José looked over at their box, grinned and waved.

    “Dare say,” offered Mr Wedderburn with terrific generosity, “a fellow could stroll over and ask him, Aunt.”

    Young Mr Foster-Smythe had not spoken for some time, he had merely looked. Now he agreed quickly: “I’ll come with you, old man!”

    And before the two matrons could utter,  they were out of the box.

    Lady Foster-Smythe did not doubt her ability to control her son in the end. Nevertheless her lips tightened. After a moment she said grimly: “I do not think the Baldayas will be best pleased by her flaunting herself in this fashion.”

    “No-o… ” said Mrs Wedderburn slowly. “But she is only a young woman, Belinda: did they expect her to live retired in black bombazine for the rest of her days?”

    “Most widowed ladies do,” ventured Caterina.

    “Mm,” said Mrs Wedderburn, looking at the box again. Senhora Baldaya was escorted not only by José and Admiral Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho, but by three younger men in dress uniforms: one French and two Portuguese. All three gentlemen were considerably nearer to José in age than to the Admiral, and only two of them were single. The third was married to one of João Baldaya’s younger daughters, who was not in evidence tonight.

    Caterina looked at her aunt uncertainly. “Why are you smiling, Aunt Lucinda?” she ventured.

    “Mm? Oh—never mind, my dear,” she said, patting her hand. “Very possibly Senhora Baldaya has thought better of retiring to the country, at her age.”

    “But she was to have The Yellow House!”

    Mrs Wedderburn’s eyes lingered on the spectacle of Ovidio Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho and João Baldaya’s son-in-law competing eagerly to hold the little Senhora’s fan, programme and opera-glasses for her while she rearranged her skirts. “Mm. Apparently she prefers to cut a dash in town. And who can blame her?” she said lightly.

    “I—I shall write to Pa,” said Caterina on an uncertain note.

    “Oh, I wouldn’t bother, my dear,” she murmured.

    Raffaella and Aunt Eliza had one day’s grace. Which perhaps showed that, as the Season proper was not yet under way, the Lisbon grapevine was not yet in full working order. Then the visits started. Afterwards, Raffaella was to note that it had perhaps been a tactical error on the Baldaya family’s part not to have sent in their big guns first.

    José had offered to sit with the ladies that afternoon but they had explained primly that they were expecting visitors. At which the elegant Senhor da Silva had collapsed in gales of giggles that made him sound remarkably like his young half-brother. So they were tactfully alone when Senhora Augusto da Fonseca and Senhora Adolpho da Souza were announced. The former being a great-niece of Érico Baldaya’s and the latter the daughter of one of João Baldaya’s cousins.

    “Paltry!” summed up Raffaella with a giggle as the two callers retired defeated.

    Dick laid down Caterina’s letter, scowling.

    “What?” said Martinho nervously.

    “I might have known she wouldn’t stick to it. According to this, she’s flaunting herself all over the town in lace and diamonds worth a king’s ransom!”

    “Um, who?” he croaked.

    “Who? Read it for yourself!” Dick chucked the letter at him.

    Martinho read it through, skipping the long paragraph describing the Senhora Baldaya’s lace gown. “Um, well, dare say Senhora Baldaya is waiting in town for her lawyer to finalise the paperwork: you did say he’d want to go over it carefully for her, Pa.”

    “Waiting in town entails going to the opera in full panoply, does it? Complete with a train of geriatric admirals and your idiot brother,” he noted evilly. “So much for his giving up town for this year!”

    Martinho cleared his throat. “José’s only waiting around to escort her home, Pa. It was your own idea for him to go up again to fetch her.”

    “Rubbish,” said Dick irritably. “She gave me to suppose she was giving up the nonsense entirely!”

    Martinho cleared his throat again. “One last fling?” he offered weakly.

    “Rubbish.” Dick got up and strode over to the door. “Where’s Anna?”

    “Gone over to The Yellow House. Found some pink fabric in the attic what she thinks might do for a bedroom.”

    “Well, presumably that will cease and she’ll get back to her schoolwork when it dawns the woman ain’t coming,” said Dick sourly.

    Martinho cleared his throat yet again.

    “Yes?” said Dick sweetly. “Something the matter with your throat, is there?”

    “No. Er—wouldn’t give up on it just yet, Pa.”

    “Look, the woman’s used to being surrounded by all kinds of luxuries as the frivolous, spoilt wife of an old— ” Dick broke off, and strode out, scowling horribly.

    Martinho looked sourly at the letter. “Trust damned Caterina.”

    It was a clear, windy day with considerable high cloud. The sturdy person who fulfilled the function of estate carpenter, or, according to Dick, odd-job man, had come to see his master, ignoring reports from lesser persons that Senhor Marchant was gone into his study in a bad mood.. “The roof’s done, sir,” he reported in the accents of the country.

    Dick merely grunted.

    “Now,” he said, scratching his grizzled head, “that daft Paolo, he could make a start on painting them inside doors.”

    “If you think so, Theotonio, by all means,” said Dick on an unpleasant note.

    “Only thing is,” said Theotonio, unperturbed, “did you want ’em all colours of the rainbow like what Anna says?”

    Dick opened his mouth. He shut it again. After a moment he said in a very weak voice indeed: “One colour to each door, ain’t it?”

    “Ah! But she wants each door different, sir!”

    Dick cleared his throat. “Quite. Um—well, better get on with it.”

    “Right you are then, sir. –The plaster’s dry in them downstairs rooms. Such as it is,” he noted.

    “With all the rain we’ve had lately? You do surprise me,” responded Dick sourly.

    Theotonio merely looked at him expressionlessly.

    “Er—good show,” said Dick with an effort. “Carry on, then.”

    Nodding, Theotonio went out.

    Dick just sat at his desk and looked blankly before him for some time.

    “There is a concert tonight: I shall wear the Chantilly gown!” announced Raffaella merrily.

    “Yes, and make sure you encourage the Admiral, my dear!” squeaked Aunt Eliza, going off in a strangled giggling fit.

    The result of the concert was a call by one of Raffaella’s Baldaya grand-daughters-in-law and one of João Baldaya’s daughters. They had understood that dear Raffaella—the words like sour plums in their mouths, perceived Raffaella with glee—was to retire to the country?

    “Oh,” she said soulfully, rolling the big dark eyes, “but I had thought that dear João would not care for me to live in such rural obscurity?”

    João’s daughter could not imagine where she had had that notion from. She was sure it could not have been from dear Papa himself.

    “Is that enough?” said Aunt Eliza dubiously as the two ladies departed.

    “I think, not quite!” said Raffaella gaily. “But there is the reception at the French Embassy to come, remember: dear Mme l’Ambassadrice has been so understanding!”

    Aunt Eliza gave a snigger: the French Ambassador’s wife cordially loathed both Lady Foster-Smythe and João Baldaya’s wife.

    The best part of a week had gone by, with no more news of José or of Senhora Baldaya. A letter from Mrs Wedderburn was received, which according to her brother contained only “blithering Society gossip” which Martinho was welcome to read. He did not notice how eagerly Martinho seized it, nor the relieved expression which spread over his face as he reached the end of it. A large parcel for Anna was delivered from the same source. A new set of watercolour paints, a quantity of drawing paper, and sixty metres of a very pretty floral curtaining material. Anna was ecstatic. Dick retired to his study, muttering under his breath about counting chickens before they were hatched.

    At the reception Raffaella wore the drift of black gauze she had worn to Eudora’s engagement party, and Admiral Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho showed himself more attentive than ever. So did his son, one Martinho Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho, a dashing widower aged about forty. It did help that the latter’s late wife had been a Baldaya and had produced no sons—yes. Larry Wedderburn and Simon Foster-Smythe were also terrifically attentive and Raffaella, alas, did not discourage them.

    Strangely, though it had seemed provocation enough, there was no immediate sortie, not even a scouting party in the form of an obscure niece or cousin-in-law with the offer of a drive in a barouche. Raffaella could only conclude that the Baldaya side was gathering its forces. Though the mad thought did occur, were they hastily getting together a sufficiently large dowry to persuade Martinho Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho to take her off their hands for good and all? It would certainly have to be substantial, he was known to be a very expensive gentleman. She had best keep up her bombardment, and sally forth to the opera again!

    Another clear, windy day with much high cloud had dawned. Dick was down very early to breakfast but to his astonishment Martinho and Anna were before him. “What the Devil are you two doing up?” he said irritably in English.

    “Good morning to you, too, Pa,” responded Martinho.

    Frowning, Dick went over to the sideboard to inspect the dishes there. “Damnation,” he muttered. “No hot sausages.” He rang the bell fiercely, ordered sausages, and sat down.

    “Cook’s busy, she weell not want to cook up strange English breakfasts,” warned Martinho.

    Dick inspected the coffee-pot. “Hot Portuguese sausages do not constitute a strange English breakfast.” He poured coffee for himself. “Why are you two up at crack of dawn?”

    “Keep an eye on those dashed workmen of Theotonio’s at the new stables,” said Martinho in Portuguese with his mouth full.

    “Speak English!” said Dick irritably. “Your accent’s getting worse and worse. –Why are you?” he demanded of Anna.

    “I’ve forgotten the English words,” she replied calmly in that language.

    Martinho choked over his breakfast.

    “Your table manners are disgusting,” Dick informed him evilly. “Well?” he said loudly to Anna.

    “I said, Pa, I’ve forgotten the English—”

    “Tell me in Portuguese!” shouted Dick at the top of his lungs.

    Cheerfully Anna explained: “Theotonio is to hang the Senhora’s bedroom walls today. I have to superintend him. Aunt Lucinda wrote that the pattern must be aligned, and you know what men are: he won’t bother.”

    The main bedroom of The Yellow House was not large. And the pink material that Anna had found in their attic was a particularly cheerful shade. Dick was aware that she had got up a sewing woman from the village and roped in most of the female servants and the estate workers’ wives to make curtains and bed-hangings, but until this moment he had had no idea that she intended to hang the entire room with the stuff. His jaw dropped in spite of himself.

    “Eet weell look,” said Martinho cheerfully in English, “laike the interior of Caterina’s sewing basket. But peenk, not blue.”

    Dick nodded groggily: Caterina’s pretty little sewing basket, which had been her mother’s, was entirely lined in blue silk. The lid as well.

    “Only,” said Martinho calmly, reading his mind, “she does not intend for them to hang the ceiling weeth the stuff.”

    Anna nodded sadly. “That’s right,” she said in Portuguese. “They couldn’t manage it, except in the garrets, where the ceilings are sloping. And it’s a terrible pity Theotonio couldn’t manage a pretty plastered ceiling.”

    “He ain’t a plasterer,” said Dick feebly.

    “Nor,” noted Martinho detachedly through a mouthful of bread roll, “is Paolo. Didn’t stop either of ’em, though.”

    “There are not so very many bumps on the walls,” said Anna valiantly, “and in any case my frescos will cover them up!”

    “Sprays of flowers are not technically frescos,” said Dick on a grim note, getting up, his coffee scarcely touched.—“Take those damned things away,” he said as their footman hurried in with a dish of hot sausages.—“Though as the damned woman has no intention of turning up, can it signify?” he added evilly to his daughter. He strode out. The door slammed after him.

    “I’ll have those sausages, Romão,” said Martinho calmly.

    “I’ll have some, too!” cried Anna anxiously.

    Romão served them both, noting kindly as he did so: “I wouldn’t take any notice of your pa. In a bad mood.”

    “Yes,” said Anna, tasting the sausage. “Mm, good! –He thinks the little Senhora isn’t coming.”

    “Know that,” grunted Romão.

    “She is, though, isn’t she?” she said anxiously to Martinho.

    Romão was also looking at him anxiously. “No doubt of it at all!” said Martinho cheerfully, spearing a sausage with his fork. “Allspice, and I think thyme,” he discerned thoughtfully. “These the last of the batch she made last winter?”

    “Yes, with the chitterlings from that wild boar your pa shot, and the last of that fine porker what she done the shoulders on the spit,” said Romão, licking his lips in fond remembrance.

    “Oh, aye, I recall. Any of that porker’s hams left?”

    “Both. Still curing. She won’t let us touch ’em,” he said sadly.

    “Oh well, something to look forward to!” replied Martinho cheerfully with his mouth full.

    “Perhaps we may have one when Senhora Baldaya comes!” suggested Anna, beaming.

    Romão looked anxiously at Martinho.

    “Good idea. If Cook’ll let us.” He looked at Romão’s face. “Stop worrying, José’s got that well in hand.”

    “If you say so,” the footman agreed dubiously.

    Generously Martinho returned: “Go on, take the dish away, you can have the last sausage.”

    Brightening, Romão hastened out with the last sausage.

    “I could’ve eaten it,” noted Anna sadly.

    “Rubbish. Well, eaten it and busted, yes,” he said inelegantly. “Finished?”

    “Almost.”

    Tolerantly Martinho waited while Anna ate the last of her sausage.

    “She is coming, isn’t she?” she said as they went out.

    “Yes,” he said calmly. “Stop fussing. And you’d better make sure Theotonio finishes that master bedroom today, because we’ve yet to get the beds in, and we don’t want her to turn up and find nothing to sleep on.”

    “Ooh, is she coming very soon?” she gasped, hopping.

    Carefully Martinho closed one eye. “Sooner than you think.”

    The throng at the Lisbon opera house was favoured, this evening, by the vision of the Senhora Baldaya all in sober black silk—unexceptionable. True, the silk was very low-cut and accompanied by the blue-white blaze of diamond collar, bracelets and tiara acquired by Érico in Paris. Mme l’Ambassadrice was also at the opera that night, and apparently delighted to see Raffaella, for she waved gaily across the circle of boxes. And, as Madame had predicted, João and his wife in person were present: oh, joy! After responding in kind to Madame’s greeting, Raffaella awarded a very, very stately bow to the Baldaya box; and of course they had to bow back, or make themselves the occasion of distasteful gossip for weeks.

    “That weell do eet, I think?” said José in her ear, in English.

    “Ssh! Well, yes. But as I have it on the best authority that João’s second son’s daughter is destined for Martinho Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho, it cannot do our cause any positive harm to continue to encourage him, can it?”

    “Um—no. Whose authority?” he asked dubiously.

    Raffaella giggled. “His!” she hissed.

    José’s jaw sagged.

    “He does not wish for it,” said Raffaella behind her fan of black ostrich plumes, “but the dowry may soften the blow.”

    “Y— Um, but the first wife was a Baldaya, I theenk, also?”

    “Yes, but only a cousin.”

    José nodded limply. “Go for it, ma’am,” he said feebly.

    Above the large fan of soft, waving fronds, the perfect creamy shoulders shook helplessly: he sounded just like Mr Marchant!

    … “Shameless,” concluded João Baldaya’s wife grimly, removing her gaze from the shoulders with a wince. “That boy is younger than she is. And as for Ovidio Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho—making a spectacle of himself at his age!”

    João cleared his throat. The Admiral was considerably younger than his father had been when he married Raffaella. “Er—yes. Well, amusing himself, Constancia—nothing in it.”

    “She bears your family name, and she is publicly encouraging him to amuse himself, as you put it, João! Added to that, she has now apparently attached his eldest son to her train!”

    “Er—if that’s the gossip you had from the French Embassy—”

    “It is not gossip,” she said grimly. “You must do something about it without delay.”

    “She won’t go back to England,” he said glumly. “I asked Foster-Smythe: John Stevens has offered her a decent little house on his estate, but she turned him down.”

    “Yes, and will shortly be cutting out your granddaughter with Martinho Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho,” she said evilly.

    João watched gloomily as a middle-aged gentleman in the dress uniform of a colonel entered Raffaella’s box. “Yes. –That’s damned José da Fonseca,” he noted redundantly.

    “One of the most notorious womanisers in Lisbon,” she discerned grimly. “You must act. Ensure she takes up that offer from Senhor Marchant.”

    “But you said it wasn’t fitting— Um, no, very well, my dear,” he said, meeting her eye. “I suppose that was not just a rumour, was it?”

    “No. Maria had it from Lucinda Wedderburn herself. Or are you about to accuse your daughter of listening to gossip, now?”

    No, he wasn’t. Not after having accused herself of it. No.

    “What a surprise,” said Raffaella dulcetly the next morning as the big guns were at last wheeled out—João’s wife in person, with as reinforcements her eldest daughter, her eldest son’s wife, and a squashed cousin whose function seemed to be to carry her shawl and nod hard at everything she uttered. “How delightful to see you all again.”

    Tea having been ordered up, João’s wife noted grimly: “We were under the impression, my dear stepmamma, that you intended a retired life.”

    “Oh, well, I did intend it, you know, my dear Constancia, but it palled: Lisbon is nothing, after all, if one does not taste of the pleasures it has to offer!” Raffaella rolled her eyes. “So many different sorts, too,”

    Constancia Baldaya’s lips tightened. “Quite. Forgive me, but I would not have thought that you were in quite the financial position to support—er—the enjoyment of such pleasures.”

    “I have sufficient for a Season or two; and then, gentlemen are so very generous,” said Raffaella outrageously.

    “Permit me to say that the family would prefer you not to encourage such generous gentlemen,” she said tightly.

    “No, well, I own it is not my own inclination. But what is a poor widow to do? Lisbon is such an expensive city.”

    “Perhaps if you were to retire to a less expensive place?” said Constancia’s daughter-in-law.

    “Magnólia, cara, all my inclination is to retire completely to the country, for you know I love the country life! But between you and me,” said Raffaella, blithely disregarding the fact that there were four other persons present, “I was so very extravagant on my last trip to England that all I can now afford in the way of a country place is the sort of humble little property that would not do credit to the family name!”

    Magnólia Baldaya hesitated, and looked at her mamma-in-law.

    “A respectable little house would not be inappropriate,” said that dame grimly. “May I inquire if there might be the prospect of your finding such an one?”

    “Oh, well, I have looked and looked, and there seems to be not a property in the whole of Portugal to buy or lease!” said Raffaella on an artless note. “Ah, here is the tea-tray. This is a tea which is very popular with the English,” she added gaily. “You must all tell me how you like it!”

    “We think,” said Aunt Eliza bravely, “that it compares very well.”

    “Indeed,” Raffaella agreed. “And we have heard that the English are experimenting with growing it in India. The English commercial ventures in India have been so successful!” She poured. “As also their military ones—there and elsewhere,” she said carelessly.

    The Portuguese ladies’ lips tightened, but they said nothing at this deliberate insult offered to their national pride. And, perforce, praised the horrible tea.

    “I think possibly you exaggerate the—um—the situation with regard to country real estate,” Constancia Baldaya then ventured.

    “Do I?” said Raffaella on a blank note. “But the only property which I could find, that is, which I could possibly afford, for certainly dear Admiral Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho knows of a pleasant estate in his part of the country— Where was I? Oh, yes: the only property which I could possibly afford is a little house with some land attached on Mr Marchant’s estate.” She looked artless. “I think perhaps you do not know him, Constancia: he is Mrs Lucinda Wedderburn’s brother.”

    “Of course,” she said stiffly.

    Her daughter Maria added, perhaps unwisely: “Near dear Grandpapa’s summer place.”

    There was a short silence.

    “They call it,” chirped Aunt Eliza, “The Yellow House, is that not quaint? Quite small, but adequate, and could be made very comfortable! And quite a lot of grazing land attached.”

    “I see. Of course you would put in a suitable man to run it,” said Constancia Baldaya stiffly.

    Earnestly Senhora Figueiredo agreed: “Oh, well, yes, and I think Mr Marchant would be prepared to advise us.”

    “Yes, I dare say. It seems entirely suitable, my dear Raffaella,” said Constancia grimly, forgetting to address her as “stepmamma.”

    “Oh, do you really think so? I had ruled it quite out of consideration. Of course, it would mean leading more or less the life of a simple farmer’s wife.”

    “Hardly that,” said Constancia grimly. “And you have genteel acquaintances in the neighbourhood: it could not be thought ineligible.”

    “Well, if you say so, I shall be guided by you, of course,” said Raffaella dulcetly.

    “I am very glad to hear it, my dear. And João has asked me to assure you that the family would be more than happy to make you an allowance sufficient to cover the rent.”

    Aunt Eliza coughed suddenly, what time Raffaella’s jaw dropped: she had certainly not intended to blackmail them into offering financial support!

    “Papa particularly desired us to mention it,” contributed Maria.

    Raffaella nodded dazedly.

    “The family would not wish to be ungenerous, and certainly not to see you reduced to the status of a farmer’s wife,” added Magnólia. “My husband and I had no idea you might be in such straits.”

    Whether this was some sort of mild attempt to separate that generation from João and all his works Raffaella could not tell. But certainly it boded well enough for little Bella’s future, once Magnólia’s husband was head of the family! “No, well, I could always sell my jewels,” she said, looking pious. “In fact, the dear Admiral knows of a most respectable jeweller, with whom he deals hims—”

    “Not to be thought of,” said Constancia Baldaya hastily, rising. “João’s man of business will doubtless pen you a little note.”

    Yes, and doubtless it would require her to sign an affidavit that she would not return to the metropolis to flaunt herself under the interested gaze of all Lisbon. Raffaella eyed her drily but said: “You are too kind. So I really may write to accept Mr Marchant’s offer?”

    “Certainly. There can be no objection,” said Constancia stiffly.

    Magnólia held out her hand. “Indeed. And perhaps we shall see something of you, for Papa-in-law’s tenant has given up the lease of the summer house, and the children have been pressing us to spend the summers there ourselves.”

    Goodness! Almost aligning themselves against João and Constancia! Raffaella shook the hand. “That would be delightful, on the condition that the children absolutely do not address me as great-grandmamma!”

    Magnólia gave a startled giggle which she quickly stifled, with an anxious glance at her mother-in-law. “Of course. Goodbye.”

    “Au revoir!” said Raffaella cheerfully, as the footman showed them out.

    Aunt Eliza was at the window in a flash.

    “Well?” said Raffaella languidly.

    “They have a barouche… Sour plums!” she reported ecstatically. “Constancia looks as if she is about to choke on them!”

    “Good.”

    Aunt Eliza turned from the window, beaming. “Shall you accept the money from João?”

    “Why not?” said Raffaella grimly. “If it means the diamonds may be laid aside for Bella, instead of being sold to buy sheep and geese, so much the better.”

    Nodding, Aunt Eliza came over to the fire. “Very practical, my dear,” she approved calmly.

Next chapter:

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