The Yellow House

25

The Yellow House

    It was again a clear, windy day. Dick had given in and let the two of them drag him down to The Yellow House, though it was plain as the nose on your face that the woman wasn’t coming: they hadn’t had a word from town for two weeks, not even the signed tenancy papers from his lawyer for which he had been secretly hoping.

    “It’s yellow, all right,” he croaked—José had left orders for Theotonio to repaint the outside.

    “Theotonio says that’s the original shade,” explained Anna.

    “He can’t possibly know that, it hasn’t been painted since your grandfather was a lad.”

    “He might be old enough.”

    “Rubbish! He’s my age!”

    Dubiously Anna did arithmetic with the aid of her fingers, her lips moving silently.

    “Whose idea was it to paint the shutters and front door bright blue?” asked Dick feebly, though a moment since he had sworn to himself he wasn’t going to say any such thing.

    “Mine!” said Anna proudly. “Do you think they look good?”

    “Very—um, very bright. Cheerful,” said Dick feebly.

    “That what Theotonio says!” she agreed happily.

    “The colours will weather in the sun,” noted Martinho detachedly.

    Dick had to swallow.

    “The porch looks good, doesn’t it?” Martinho then offered.

    “Ye— Uh, what’ve they done to it, old man?” True, the place always had had a porch. Of sorts. Two crumbling stone pillars, or more accurately, piles, to about waist height, each topped by a weathered wooden pole, eaten away both at the foot and the top. Waving casually over these poles had been a raft of trellis work on which Dick could just remember having once seen an odd orange tile or two.

    Martinho burst into speech. José had ordered Theotonio to remove the poles, extend the stonework to roof level, replace the trellis with a sturdier framework, and retile the result.

    “Er—mm. Has he plastered over the lot?” croaked Dick feebly. The resultant pillars, though admittedly square, not round, would have done credit to the Acropolis itself.

    “Yes, then painted them!” said Martinho proudly.

    In that particularly offensive harsh yellow with more than a suggestion of ochre in its tones—yes. Dick peered. Whatever José might have ordered, under the paint and plastering of the upper portion of the giant pillars, each fully a quarter as wide as the porch itself, one could clearly discern the outlines of the local bricks.

    “Stonework takes far too long. Added to which the fellows would have had to lug it in from the hills,” noted Martinho.

    Added to which, Dick’s workmen weren’t capable of building much more than a drystone wall out of it: stonemasons, they were not. “Mm. Er, well, makes a decent entranceway.”

    “Exactly!” beamed Martinho. “Come round the back and take a look at—”

    “No! Come inside!” cried Anna.

    Dick looked from his boots to the ground. “Inside first, I think.”

    “Hurray!” Skipping, Anna led the way.

    The narrow hall of The Yellow House, which ran the length of the house, the main rooms opening off it to either side, was washed a nice pink. The curved archway which was a feature halfway down, and which had possibly once been tiled, for Dick thought he could recall the remnants of some cement once attaching to it, had been replastered and washed a nice pale yellow. To their right, the door of the sitting-room had been painted powder blue. Quite a bright version of that shade but still definitely a powder blue, producing that genuine feeling of nausea in the pit of the stomach. Opposite it the door to the smaller of the two parlours was a light orange. The stone floor, which actually featured quite handsome flags, was pink like the walls. One could only hope that the Senhora Baldaya, in the unlikely case that she did turn up, owned a nice long carpet. “Lovely,” said Dick faintly. Proudly Anna led him on. Just before the arch, the door to the dining-parlour was a light emerald. Were there any further light colours she could possibly have found? No, because on passing the arch and the narrow stairs, the door to the kitchen was discovered to be a fruity maroon. In some trepidation Dick opened this door: was there a cook in the world who could retain her sanity in a maroon kitchen? He sagged. Pale blue. The window sills and every other skerrick of visible woodwork were maroon, true, but— Numbly he let Anna lead him through to the scullery, not seeing it.

    “Eh?” he said, jumping.

    “Pa! Pay attention! When is the new stove coming?”

    After Dick got those signed papers and not before. “Uh—well, soon. Dare say her cook will make do with the spit for a while, hey?” How was he ever going to break the news to Anna that the damned female wasn’t coming after all? Glumly he allowed himself to be tugged back to the front of the house.

    Beyond its powder-blue door the sitting-room was, thank God—not that it could signify, she wasn’t coming—washed a pale cream, which Anna had then stencilled up to about shoulder-height—her shoulders—with scattered sprays of flowers. Dick had been envisaging an attempt at a regularly repeated pattern, which of course she would not have been able to achieve. His face brightened. This was very pretty! Anna beamed. And see, the pale yellow curtaining with the pretty sprays of flowers which Aunt Lucinda had sent just went with it perfectly! So it did. Dick forbore to say that to his untutored eye it looked more like a dress material and that to his untutored eye it smacked very much of the last century—in fact there was a portrait of his grandmother back in England wearing powder and a pannier over a petticoat of a stuff just like it. In her own drawing-room Lucinda had pale straw-coloured satin, in a pattern of brocaded stripes. Oh, well. The Yellow House was little more than a cottage, after all, and this was very pretty—and in any case the whole thing was academic!

    He allowed himself to be tugged into the smaller parlour, opposite. Light orange, behind its light orange door. Oh, well. Beyond the separating arch, which ought really to filled in by a pair of doors but Theotonio hadn’t been able to find any, the dining-parlour was washed the same cheerful shade of lightish—lightish but brightish—emerald as its door.

    “It’ll be full of dining furniture,” explained Martinho, reading his mind.

    Eagerly Anna explained where the sideboard and a dresser might go! Yes, that’d cover it up, some. The plain stone mantelpiece which was a feature of this room had been whitewashed, and then surrounded with a pattern of bright tiles: blue, yellow and green. Anna had seen and admired this effect in several houses in the village! Right. Good show.

    Resignedly Dick let himself be led upstairs. Entering the master bedroom was like entering a fully lined lady’s sewing box, all right: smothering pink. He admired the job Theotonio and his merry men had done—well, what else could he do? And pretended he had not seen the hefty chip they had taken out of the door getting the bedstead in.

    “Maria did the bed curtains; I don’t know if they’re right,” said Anna dubiously.

    Maria was Theotonio’s wife, and their own cottage did not include a four-poster bed—possibly why she had gone to town on this one. Dick scratched his chin. He had long since banished the stuffy curtains from his own bed. “Um—well, looks all right,” he said feebly.

    “Dare say the little Senhora can get rid of them huge bows, if she don’t like ’em,” said Martinho, reading his mind.

    Quite. What with the frilled curtains attached to each bedpost, and into the bargain a sort of draped canopy at the bed-head, and everywhere one could possibly imagine a bow might go, a huge bow of the pink fabric… Hastily Dick suggested Anna show him the rest. The bedroom destined for the little girl was liberally decorated with more sprays of flowers, very pretty, and featured the same curtaining as the sitting-room. “There was a lot of it,” said Anna simply.

    At last everything had been inspected inside, even the garrets, though he was spared the cellar, his daughter merely assuring him it was nice and dry and she dared say Senhora Baldaya would not mind those huge barrels being left down there—Dick made a mental note to investigate—and they went round to the back. A wilderness of clay, stones, bricks, mud, and workmen’s tools was revealed. True, an embryo garden wall now featured. Why had the boys decided to enclose so much? Were they aiming at something the size and style of old Baldaya’s damned courtyard? At least the stables were not on quite such a grand scale—but when did Martinho envisage they’d be finished? The year after next? Oh, well, what it could it signify, by this time next month it would have dawned she wasn’t coming, and Theotonio could start reusing all those bricks and stones…

    “Excellent progress,” he approved limply.

    Martinho beamed.

    Trying to smile, Dick went off gloomily to speak to the gardener. Where the Devil was the fellow? Breathing heavily, he followed the instructions of a very small garden boy, and found him in the remains of The Yellow House’s orchard. With a scythe.

    “Thiago,” he said with terrible restraint, “there are other more urgent things that could be done.”

    “This grass can go to the horses,” replied Thiago, unmoved. “Can’t have knee-high grass in a lady’s orchard. Them trees can do with manuring too, dessay it ain’t too late in the season for that. Setting fruit nicely,” he noted, squinting up at them.

    “I was going to mention, amongst others, beans and onions,” said Dick grimly.

    “Gave Cook a nice basket of spring onions this morning,” he said promptly. “Too early for beans yet.”

    “Have you even planted any?” shouted Dick terribly.

    “Planted a whole field of ’em. Told us yourself we was going to try for our own dried beans, this year. Over beyond the horse paddock,” he said kindly.

    “Uh—oh. So I did. Well, it’s a dashed sight more economical than buying them. Well, good. Um, what about green beans for the table?” he said feebly.

    “Too early for them.”

    “Planting them,” said Dick, breathing heavily.

    “We done first lot. Put ’em where we had the melons, last year. Don’t do to plant melons in the same spot, year after year. Nor beans, neither.”

    “Uh—oh. Of course.”

    Thiago began reminiscently: “In Mistress’s day…”

    Dick let him get through it. Yes, it would be pleasant to have a mistress again to supervise the garden, Thiago, he agreed evilly when he was at last allowed to speak, but as Caterina had no interest in gardens, he was afraid he would have to wait until Anna grew up, for that.

    “Dare say the little Senhora would be glad—”

    But Dick, breathing heavily, had stomped off.

    Nodding knowingly to himself, Thiago got on with scything the knee-high grass of The Yellow House’s orchard.

    Dick leaned on his crumbling stone wall, glooming at his field of oats.

    “Hulloa! Oats doing nicely!” said his stepson’s voice from behind him.

    Gasping, Dick swung round. “Where the Devil did you spring from?” he said limply.

    José grinned at him. “Town. How are you, Pa?”

    “I’m all right,” said Dick limply.

    “Good.” Grinning, José handed him a packet of papers.

    “What’s all this?” said Dick limply.

    “The tenancy agreement, of course. And a signed and sealed affidavit from João Baldaya, which the Senhora thought you’d best keep in your safe for her, promising to pay her an annuity equal to what we told him the rent would amount to.”

    There was a short silence. Finally Dick managed to croak: “What did you tell him it would amount to?”

    “Twice what you and the little Senhora had agreed,” he said calmly.

    Dick gulped. “Well done. …She got the rent out of João Baldaya?” he said dazedly.

    “Yes.” José counted on his fingers, his dark almond eyes twinkling. “It only took one concert, half a dozen receptions, and two visits to the opera in unsuitable company flaunting old man Baldaya’s diamonds—” He broke off: his father was having a choking fit.

    “By God!” he choked. “It was a plot, and you were in it!”

    “Yes,” he said calmly.

    “By God!” choked Dick. “So was damned Martinho! He was, wasn’t he?”

    “Yes,” he said calmly. “Well, someone had to be on hand to make sure you didn’t convince Anna it would never happen.”

    Dick choked. “For God’s sake, José! I don’t say João Baldaya don’t owe her something, but this is beyond the pale!”

    José eyed him tolerantly. “Don’t be an imbecile, dearest Pa. It was not a plot to squeeze money out of the Baldayas. In fact, the Senhora was as astonished as anyone when they offered.”

    “Rubbish!” said Dick angrily. He was now very flushed.

    José eyed him tolerantly. “It was a plot to save your bacon, you ape. You don’t imagine I’d have let Martinho in on it otherwise, do you?”

    Dick’s mouth opened and shut.

    José eyed him tolerantly. “Well?”

    “Stop looking at me like that, dammit,” he said weakly. “You’re your Uncle Enrique to the life.”

    “Well?” he repeated mildly.

    Gulping, Dick conceded: “Go on, then. Not that I’m prepared to believe it, mind.”

    “The Senhora took it into her head that once João B. learned you were offering her shelter against the family’s known wishes, he’d take it out on you. Spread the word the local grain merchants weren’t to buy”—he glanced at the field—“your oats: that style of thing.”

    Dick swallowed.

    “The same thing occurred to you, I think?” said his stepson delicately.

    “You know damned well it— Hang on.”

    “I didn’t breathe a word to her, what do you think I am?” said José crossly.

    Dick bit his lip. “No, ’course you didn’t. Beg your pardon, dear boy. Bright enough to think of it for herself,” he conceded.

    “Aye, that’s it. So she decided she’d better convince the damned Baldayas it was the least of the evils. Well, helped that she made it look on t’one hand, as if she was setting her cap at Martinho Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho, because they’ve got a Baldaya granddaughter lined up for him, and on t’other hand, as if she wouldn’t have minded accepting a carte blanche from the old Admiral.”

    “From old Ovidio Ribeiro de Castro Sobrinho?” he croaked.

    “That’s it, aye.”

    Dick went into a prolonged wheezing fit.

    José merely looked at him tolerantly.

    Finally his father said, blowing his nose heartily on a flag-like, grimy handkerchief: “What the Devil took you so long? Caterina wrote us you was at the opera weeks back.”

    “She would. No, well, we came at the pace of the waggons, Pa.”

    “Oh, I see— We?” he croaked.

    “Well, she’s brought a load of furniture. Knew you couldn’t put much in for her.”

    Dick swallowed. José was merely looking at him mildly. After a moment he said: “What are these lumps in this packet?”

    “Eh? Oh, what’s left of the diamonds that old man Baldaya got in Paris. She’s sold the tiara. She’d like you to keep the rest in the safe permanently, Pa. They’re for little Bella’s dowry.”

    Dick licked his lips. “Where is she?” he croaked.

    “Up at The Yellow House, of course. Overseeing the unpacking.”

    “Uh—s’pose I’d better go and welcome her, then.”

    “I would,” said José mildly.

    Dick turned. Then he hesitated. “Where’s Anna?”

    “Oh, she’s up there, too.” José eyed him tolerantly. “Boots and all,” he said in English.

    Smiling feebly, Dick hurried off in the direction of The Yellow House.

    José leaned on the crumbling stone wall, and smiled.

    “Pa!” screamed Anna, ere Dick had scarce set foot across the imaginary line between the two piles of rubble which according to Martinho would one day form a set of gateposts for a neat little gate to The Yellow House’s non-existent front path. “She’s come! She says I’ve grown so much she wouldn’t have known me! She’s brought lots of furniture!” She fetched up before him, panting.

    Given that the little Senhora had only met Anna a couple of times on picknicks with John Stevens to which Dick had been commanded to bring his lot, Dick sincerely doubted she’d have remembered her at all. Never mind, nice to know she had tact. “Good,” he said feebly.

    “She’s brought some more beds, just like Martinho said.”

    “Yes,” he said feebly. “Good.” Meant they’d have something to sleep on, anyroad.

    “She loves the bedroom!” she informed him, beaming.

    “Oh, good,” he croaked. Bushels of tact, then.

    “She brought a great big mirror, it was all wrapped up in quilts!”

    “Er—mm.” He could see movement in the passage.

    Anna seized his hand. “Come on!”

    “Ye— Um, give the fellows a hand with these chairs and so forth, shall I?” Dick turned to the nearest waggon and grabbed a dining chair. Oops, here she was. Big baize apron over a black woollen dress, and still in her black silk bonnet.

    “Mr Marchant!” she cried, hurrying down the stretch of well-trodden earth where the path would go. “Hullo!”

    “Hullo, Senhora Baldaya,” said Dick feebly in English over the chair. “So you got here.”

    “Indeed! We had a very easy journey, and José was so helpful!” she beamed.

    “Glad to hear it.” Dick had shoved the packet containing her papers and a king’s ransom in diamonds inside his worn leather waistcoat. He set the chair down, perforce moving aside to let two burly fellows cart a sideboard inside—good, that’d cover a fair stretch of those emerald walls—and said, producing the packet: “He tells me you’d like me to keep these for you.”

    Raffaella nodded. “Yes.”

    Dick fingered the lumps. “All of them?” he said pointedly.

    “Well, I sold the tiara.” He was nodding. “Did José tell you? Yes. But if you would not mind the responsibility, I should greatly appreciate your holding the rest until Bella marries.”

    “They’ll be secure enough in my safe. But won’t you want to wear ’em occasionally?”

    Raffaella looked him firmly in the eye. “No. They are for my daughter. Perhaps I should add that they belong to a period of my life for which I shall always be grateful, but which I am glad is now over.”

    “All right, then.” Dick shoved the packet back inside his waistcoat and did up the top button for the first time in living memory. “Come on, I’ll get this inside for you. Um—seen over the house, have you?”

    “Absolutely! I love it!” she said, beaming radiantly.

    Well, either she really did, or that was bushels of tact again, or she was happy to be here, or— Well, couldn’t be bad, hey? Dick hefted the chair and strode into The Yellow House, grinning like an ape.

    Martinho’s optimistic prediction was that they’d be married by Christmas, but it took a bit longer than that. For one thing, Dick Marchant was not at all sure that she cared for him as much as he did for her. For another thing, he wanted to be very sure she could put up with their dull country life. For another, he wanted to be damned sure that no trains of admirers would follow her to the country or be encouraged to hang round once they’d got there.

    But no trains of admirers eventuated, in fact not even one admirer. And Raffaella seemed very happy in The Yellow House, busily organising it to suit, tactfully not changing Anna’s colour schemes, and taking a great interest in the big house’s garden as well as in the new kitchen garden which Thiago in person put in for her, not even needing to be asked—Thiago appearing vindicated by these points, in especial the former, and Dick doing his best to ignore him utterly.

    Old Sortelha over to the south of Dick’s place was only too happy to advise the little Senhora on geese and orchards, and within the twinkling of an eye several crates of half-fledged goslings at the horrifically ugly stage arrived, Anna valiantly declaring they were sweet and Raffaella herself laughing and saying they were so ugly that they were adorable, like a growing boy at the hobbledehoy stage. Oddly enough, at round about this point Dick Marchant, though he could not for the life of him have said why, found himself actually starting to believe that she might settle in.

    After not so very long a small flock of sheep arrived, driven by a person stigmatised by all of Dick’s people bar none as a foreigner, though he was as Portuguese as they were. The sheep were not, however: pure-bred Spanish merinos. The little Senhora revealed happily that she had asked José’s advice. José’s stepfather had to gulp: he hadn’t realised that his elegant young stepson had taken in all that much about sheep. José then pointed out that they could interbreed the two flocks, but by that time nothing would have surprised Dick: he just nodded feebly.

    As the weather warmed the two households fell into a definite routine: Mondays were Dick’s and Raffaella’s days for doing their accounts, which meant that after he’d done his Dick would stroll over to The Yellow House, make sure she hadn't added up wrong, incidentally checking that she wasn’t driving herself into bankruptcy, and eat his midday meal there. Sometimes he would take Anna with him in an effort to improve her arithmetic. Of course, even if he was alone, the meal was not taken tête-à-tête: old Senhora Figueiredo and little Bella were always present. Initially Dick had tried to say she must not feed him, and then he had gone through a period of bringing a made dish or a leg of something over with him; but after she’d installed her own hens and her sheep had arrived, it gradually began to dawn that she wanted to feed him; it was her way of saying thank you. So he gave up bringing contributions. Monday had always been, if not precisely a black day in the Marchant house, certainly a grey one: Dick’s paperwork was efficient, but he didn’t enjoy it. It now became a red-letter day—though Dick’s household did not need to puzzle their heads as to why.

    On Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays the two households dined together at Dick’s house in the evenings. Bella was usually excluded from these feasts, but occasionally brought along for a treat. Anna being very interested to discover that Senhora Baldaya was quite right in saying that though she did not appear tired over dinner, the late nights made her fractious the next day. Dick’s household being Roman Catholic, Fridays always featured fish at his board: sometimes what he or his sons had caught in the local streams, sometimes just the salt cod that was a customary part of the Portuguese diet. To Dick’s relief Cook was graciously pleased to receive two different receets for this not particularly exciting form of nourishment from the little Senhora and Senhora Figueiredo, and actually made ’em, what was more.

    Of course at first Anna and Martinho had to be prevented from spending all their waking hours in Senhora Baldaya’s pocket, but after several shouting matches it sank in, and Anna was only down there half the time when she wasn’t supposed to be. And since Raffaella kindly volunteered to help her with her French lessons, that Dick hadn’t been making much of a fist at, she at least had a legitimate reason to be there on Thursday mornings. But possibly not so much of an one to stay on for the Thursday midday meal. Oh, well.

    He had found a decent fellow to be the little Senhora’s shepherd, the foreigner who had brought the little flock having long since departed whence he came, and a couple of the Oliveira boys came up from the village and appointed themselves, uninvited, as aides to this man. Incidentally bringing with them that small Olivio who had once been the Senhora Baldaya’s page. He promptly installed himself, uninvited, as general help and boot-boy to her household. Dick offered limply to get rid of the lot of them, but the Senhora, smiling, said that she thought they could do with their help. Olivio’s? he croaked. The duties of general help and boot-boy seemed no more onerous that those of page, in fact Dick had just seen him in The Yellow House’s very embryonic front garden assisting Bella to sit on a large, scruffy dog which heretofore Dick had been under the impression was the property of his head gardener. Laughing, Raffaella explained that he only got his keep. In the which case, noted Dick, she could shortly expect to be bankrupted: in the hand not helping Bella he had been clutching a large piece of sausage. Predictably, she only laughed. And did Thiago know the children were playing with his dog? he croaked. Yes, of course! He was round at the back at this moment, advising José on what plants would do best in the courtyard. Dick feebly corrected this last to “wilderness” but was not capable of any more. Though he did remark as he left that those Oliveira lads were huge, had she thought how much they were going to eat, and what she might do later with dashed Olivio, who would doubtless grow to a similar— All right, he was going!

    Apart from the more or less official get-togethers, the two households’ routines were naturally ruled by the usual duties of the house and farm. Dick and his sons were accustomed to get out and about on Fridays, partly to thrash the streams for fish in the hopes of avoiding Cook’s salt cod, and partly to speak to the shepherds, except for the hottest months when the sheep were up on the high pastures and it was a day’s ride to get to them. After a while Dick discovered bemusedly that she seemed to be copying them! For as he and José rode over the near pastures where their sheep were currently browsing, over to their right on the lands which the little Senhora was renting a smaller flock could be espied, herded by one wiry shepherd, two huge Oliveira louts, and one small figure riding side-saddle on a fat brown thing.

    “Is that—”

    “Yes,” agreed José mildly.

    “What in God’s name is she—”

    “That brown thing of Caterina’s that she christened Prince William. Well, he is used to a lady’s saddle, Pa.”

    All right, he was reading his mind. “Yes. What happened to—”

    He was reading his mind, all right and tight. “Yellow Pillow? Left him in England, didn’t want him to have another sea voyage. Think she gave him to—um—one of the cousins’ daughters, was it? No, daughter-in-law: rotten rider,” he said, grinning.

    “She’d need to be.” They rode on in silence for a few moments. Then Dick said: “Look, that slug’s never been higher than our horse paddock in his life!”

    “She knows. She goes very slowly, I’m told.”

    “By whom?”

    “Paolo Oliveira. He gets on down and fetches her,” he said mildly. “Don’t worry, she don’t ride out alone.”

    Dick sagged.

    “She’s got more nous than you give her credit f—”

    “All right!”

    José subsided, grinning.

    And so life went on, leisurely but quietly busy in the country way, into the hot months. The grain was gathered in, the beans matured successfully and were gathered and dried. The sheep had long since disappeared up into the high pastures. To Dick’s relief she didn’t insist on riding up there every week to speak to the shepherds. The normal long summer siestas were taken, Anna being forcibly prevented from trotting down to The Yellow House to take hers, and the evening meals, as a consequence, were eaten later. Summer was always a languid time, and as usual the children became bored and chafed. José rejected angrily a suggestion that he might be better over with his Uncle Enrique and the crowd of fribbles he always had at his country place around this time of year, and eventually packed a satchel with bread, sausage, and two flasks, and disappeared up into the hills to see the shepherds. Martinho was at a loss for amusement, for the new stables were up, half the size of the original design but sturdy enough, and started looking around for ways to improve his old Pa’s dump. Not to say, his old Pa’s ideas. Dick’s stables were all right as they were, thanks, never mind if they dated from Martinho’s great-great-grandfather’s time or earlier. Leave Cook alone: she didn’t want to hear what fancy foreign treats they might eat at The Yellow House, nor what rubbish Lucinda served up, and if he was that keen, he could join her and Caterina and the crowd of fashionable imbeciles at Society’s favourite seaside resort. Martinho subsided momentarily, but bounced back with a suggestion that they might institute a spit for roasting a whole— Well, at the least a sheep! Why not? Dick was condemned as a fuddy-duddy old Pa and he went down to The Yellow House to try to talk Senhora Baldaya into it. No clouds of smoke were observed from over that way during the week of heat that followed, so either she’d vetoed the notion or she hadn’t wished to sacrifice a sheep, or— Dick refrained from asking in front of the assembled multitude on the Tuesday, Friday and Sunday when her lot came up for dinner, but on the Monday he gave in to raging curiosity. He got up in the cool of pre-dawn, breakfasted and did his accounts, and was down at The Yellow House earlier than usual.

    The front door was answered before he could knock by Olivio. Tricked out in an ancient pair of cut-down nankeens that had once been Martinho’s, quite some years back, and, gulp, a smart pink waistcoat that if it didn’t exactly match that damned pink bedroom of hers, Dick Marchant was a Hollander in his clogs.

    “I’m wearing my livery, senhor!” he said proudly through the mouthful of bread and sausage.

    “So you are. Good show,” replied Dick feebly. “Where’s the little Senhora?” –It was pointless, totally pointless, to refer to her by any other name with any of the locals: they always corrected you, either overtly or covertly.

    Olivio swallowed a gigantic mouthful. “Over in the orchard, checking on the geese.”

    Nodding, Dick set off. Two seconds later he became aware of a small, stertorously breathing companion and a strong smell of garlicky sausage. “Er—I know the way, Olivio.”

    Olivio nodded agreement round the sausage. Oh, well.

    In the orchard the little Senhora was duly discovered, Dick did not even need Olivio’s pointing arm and announcement of her presence to see her, in a tight and rather faded print gown and a battered straw hat. Not a lady’s hat. She wasn’t inspecting the geese at this moment, she was consulting over the nut trees with, of course, Thiago.

    “Good morning,” said Dick mildly.

    “Good morning,” they both agreed, smiling.

    Oh, well. He gave in and asked after the little Senhora’s almonds. Doing very well, she would have quite a decent crop, though not enough to sell, this year. Thanks—of course—to Thiago’s sage advice and careful husbandry.

    “Yes. How are our nut trees?” asked Dick.

    That only rated a reproving look and the information that they were doing as well as ever.

    “The geese are getting fat,” he noted carefully in Portuguese.

    After a moment Raffaella collapsed in giggles.

    “They are!” cried Olivio, much offended.

    “Ignore ’im. Some sort of foreign joke,” advised Thiago, spitting.

    “Oh, dear. Yes,” said Raffaella weakly, mopping her eyes. “You see, there is an English rhyme… Never mind. But our geese are doing very well, are they not, Olivio?”

    “Yes,” he said, glaring at Dick.

    “Not bad. Dare say you might sell a few, come Christmas,” conceded Thiago. There was a long-standing feud between himself and Dick’s poultryman, who had been assisting old Sortelha to advise the little Senhora, though as far as Dick was aware, they both, nay, all three, agreed in principle that geese should be allowed to forage in an orchard… Oh, well.

    Eventually the consultation was over for the day, and Thiago actually took himself off to work on Dick’s property. Though apparently not hearing a remark to the effect that the ride down the pine plantation could do with scything before that standing hay in it took alight and they lost the whole kit and caboodle.

    “There’s bogles in that wood,” said Olivio—approximately, it was all in the local dialect, of course. Dick had never found a dictionary that suggested a translation for the term, so he always translated it to himself as “bogles”.

    “Bogles,” he said to Raffaella in English.

    “What?”

    “Bogles. Things that go bump in the night. Ill-natured fairy folk?” he suggested, raising his eyebrows at her.

    “Good gracious, is that what he said? Olivio,” she said in Portuguese, “there are no fairies in that wood.”

    “No bogles,” said Dick languidly in Portuguese.

    “Exactly,” agreed Raffaella.

    “They come out at night, and get you when you’re not looking!” Olivio did a lifelike imitation of a bogle creeping up and pouncing on someone who wasn’t looking.

    “No, that’s just a silly story. There are no such things as bogles,” said Raffaella on a firm note.

    “Yes, there are, senhora: Paolo and Augusto, they seen them!”

    “They were pulling your leg, you imbecile,” said Dick kindly.

    “Yes, they were teasing you, Olivio.”

    Olivio remained unconvinced, and Dick, advising the little Senhora languidly in English to give it up, offered his arm.

    “Children enjoy tales of horrors, had you noticed?” she said, smiling up at him from under the execrable straw hat.

    “Oh, Lord, yes! At that age, the girls just as much as the boys. They don’t seem to develop sensibilities until later.”

    “That is very true,” she said, nodding. “And in some cases, I think the sensibilities are assumed.”

    “Absolutely. But why do the older members of the distaff side encourage them to assume them?”

    “I don’t know, Mr Marchant!” said Raffaella with a laugh. “Though I concede they do! Perhaps it has something to do with the admiration evinced by the sterner sex for the frailties of the distaff side?”

    “Pax,” said Dick immediately, shuddering.

    She merely laughed, and shook the frightful old hat at him. And they strolled on in perfect amity, Olivio hippity-hopping along beside them.

    In the wake of the little Senhora’s installation at The Yellow House, Dick had ordered up several waggonloads of gravel and had it sprinkled about in appropriate places, so that one might now get from the big house to her house, from her house to her stables, and from her house to her orchard, without having to wade through mud in the colder months or be stifled by dust clouds in the warmer. After a while Olivio, whose livery did not seem to include shoes, was observed to be having trouble with the gravel, so Dick heaved him up and set him on his shoulders. “Getting to be quite a big lad,” he said to Raffaella in Portuguese.

    “Yes, he’s ten, now,” she said, smiling.

    “I'm ten!” shouted Olivio happily, hanging on to Dick’s head for dear life.

    Dick would have put him down at no more than seven: he was a stunted little creature. He said to her in English: “Is he an Oliveira?”

    “Sort of. His mother was the girl there was a scandal over; you might remember it.”

    Dick thought back ten or eleven years. He swallowed. The Oliveira daughter in question had caught the eye of one of the Baldaya grandsons at the country house, nothing out of the usual there, but had refused point-blank to be married off to the amenable country bumpkin found for her by the parish priest. There had been an almighty row, or so the locals said, at the Baldaya estate, and the lad had been packed off. Then the girl had disappeared. Subsequently she had reappeared with the infant, left it with its Oliveira grandparents, and disappeared again, not seeming in want, at all: to the contrary, she had rolled up in a post-chaise.

    “I know this end of the tale,” he admitted. “Don’t think we ever heard what happened to the girl, precisely. Well—dare say he’s better off with his relatives, anyway.”

    “No, the family resents him,” she said, scowling over it. “An unwanted mouth to feed.”

    Dick nodded silently: to the average villager, of course it was not an inconsiderable matter. Added to which, his presence must be a continual reminder of their daughter’s shame. But no wonder the little Senhora was happy to give the poor brat his keep!

    “I wish, now, that I had kept him with me,” she said with a sigh, “but Érico and I were travelling a lot, and I imagined that it would be kinder to leave him with the life he knew.”

    “Mm. Hindsight,” said Dick.

    “Si,” she said with a sigh.

    They strolled on, Dick hugging the skinny little creature’s legs and Olivio apparently happy with his ride.

    They were almost at the house when he remembered what he’d meant to ask her. “Did Martinho broach that idea of a giant pit for roasting a whole animal on a spit?”

    “What? Oh! Yes, but I was very circumspect,” she said, twinkling at him. “I thought it odd that he should suddenly suggest it to me, so I asked him why he had not put it to you, and he had to admit that he had, and it had not been favourably received! So I said that I thought it was silly, too.”

    “Oops,” said Dick, grinning.

    “Well, it would be a lot of work, and my guess was that it would not be Martinho who would do the digging or forge the metalwork for the spit to hold the beast. Let alone to turn it: I asked him if he had any idea how turning cogs worked and he became very sulky and said that we were all alike!”

    Dick shook helplessly. Though retaining sufficient presence of mind to hang on like grim death to the whooping Olivio, who apparently thought it was all for his benefit.

    Raffaella’s eyes twinkled but she said: “Of course, if he wants it so very much it would be possible to get one of the local people to find that huge spit of Érico’s.”

    “Aye: falling over it as they happen to be out for stroll,” he said drily.

    “Sicuro!” she choked.

    “Don’t dare to suggest it, even in jest: that sort of thing is meat and drink to lads of Paolo’s and Augusto’s age. And Martinho’s,” he admitted ruefully.

    Raffaella shook her head, twinkling. “No, very well! But I think relations with the estate may be about to improve: I had a letter from Magnólia Baldaya, in that packet sent up from the village on Saturday, and they are to come to the house very soon.”

    “This is—uh—João’s daughter-in-law, right?” She nodded, and he said: “Why didn’t you mention it last night?”

    “Aunt Eliza and I thought I had best mention it to you first and see what you thought.”

    “Uh—thought about what?”

    “Well, do you wish your children to socialise with them? Or if you do not, do you wish them to know they are come, and to hanker after it? Because Magnólia will definitely invite me.”

    “Y— Uh, you mean if I don’t want my lot to have anything to do with them, you’d turn down their invitations?”

    “Of course.”

    “Don’t be silly; you must do what you wish, senhora.”

    Raffaella smiled at him. “I don’t particularly wish! Though it would probably be best to propitiate them than not. But you see, they lead the same sort of silly fashionable life as Érico and I did, and I know you do not want that for José and Martinho.”

    “Let alone Anna,” he said drily. “But they have to live in the world, after all, and I’d prefer them to be able to form their own judgements and make their own decisions, even if they turn out not to be those I’d prefer for them.” He paused, and grimaced. “Well, that’s what I ought to feel, at all events! But don’t be guided by me: see them if you want to, by all means; but on the other hand, don’t force yourself to socialise with them because you fancy José and Martinho might like to get on over there.”

    Raffaella sighed. “I rather thought that might be your attitude.”

    Dick hesitated; they were at the door of the house. Then he said, slowly lowering Olivio to the ground: “Did you expect me to make your decision for you?”

    “Not really.”

    He eyed her narrowly. “Thought you were all for being an independent woman?”

    “Yes,” she said flatly.

    He scratched his chin slowly. “Independence can be dashed inconvenient.”

    “Thank you, I needed to be told that!” she said sharply.

    “Mm,” he said slowly. “Well, you chose it, senhora.” He pushed open the door for her. “Accounts.”

    “Yes,” said Raffaella, going indoors with a frown. “Of course.”

    She was perfectly polite and agreeable for the rest of the morning, and all that was amiable over the midday meal. Well, she chose the best fig from the bowl and gave it to Olivio, even though quite aware that Dick adored figs and that the gnarled tree which fortunately José and Martinho had been persuaded to leave in the still unfinished courtyard produced much larger and sweeter ones than did his own fig trees. But apart from that, all that was amiable.

    Dick was not deceived, however: he knew dashed well she was annoyed with him.

    And sure enough, about ten days later, by which time João’s heir and his family had arrived on the Baldaya estate and issued invitations to dinner, Anna came dashing up in the early evening from The Yellow House, her eyes sparkling. “Senhora Baldaya is to have a big party, and guess what! They’re going to roast a whole sheep on the spit, it will be just like the parties old General Baldaya used to give!”

    Dick passed his hand over his forehead; but really, it was probably the least that might have been expected from a spirited woman like the little Senhora.

    The party was duly held. All the neighbourhood worthies were invited, even old Sortelha and his wife, stuffed into their best broadcloth and silk, beaming all over their broad country faces. The Baldayas turned up—his name was Érico, after his late grandfather, just to confuse things utterly—and somewhat unfortunately their numerous family included a pretty little daughter of around Martinho’s age who failed to look down her Baldaya nose at him and whom Martinho failed to despise utterly, and a bright-eyed little boy around Anna’s age whom she immediately took in charge. Oh, well, at least they had brought the brats, in the country style: possibly they weren’t as bad as the rest of their august family. And thank God there was no impressionable daughter of an age to attract José!

    So many people had been invited that they could not possibly have fitted into The Yellow House, but the fact that the courtyard was not even half finished, with no flags yet laid, didn’t deter the little Senhora. They had it out there anyway. Of course the ground was baked hard, so the flattest area was used for dancing, and she simply put down rugs over the rest. The roasting pit was at the back, by the half-built back wall, a handy height for the spit’s attendants, who seemed to number all her outdoor servants except the shepherds—though that was damned Paolo Oliveira or Dick was a Hollander in clogs—and most of his. Very fortunately there was no wind that night. It was only a sheep, not an ox, but nevertheless the giant fire in the giant pit had had to be built the day before so that the coals would be at an appropriate temperature to glow under the beast, and the roasting took the entire day— Oh, forget it. The brats and the helpers had a damn’ good time.

    José had not managed to persuade anyone that he was capable of designing a charming pond for the courtyard that would not leak, or grow green scum, or dry out completely in the hot weather, let alone a charming fountain for its centre; even old Thiago had got into the act, asking him if he knew about pumps, No being of course the scowling answer. So there was nothing for her to float saucers of candles in, but she’d done her best, with about five thousand of them sitting on every possible surface all round the place.

    She wasn’t in frills and furbelows, and had not asked him to get the diamonds out of the safe. Just a black silk gown, with her pearls. True, the gown displayed rather a lot of her, but Dick found he had no objection to that, at all. After some time he cornered José and said: “What happened to that lace thing that Caterina described in minute and incomprehensible detail?”

    “Eh?”

    “That she wore to the opera.”

    “Eh? Oh, the little Senhora!” he said with a laugh. “You do realise, do you, Pa, that every time you say ‘she’ these days you mean Senhora Baldaya?”

    Dick went very red. What utter nonsense! He did not!

    Grinning, José said: “I don’t know of my own knowledge, Pa, but Aunt Eliza tells me they have washed all the lace she owns, unpicked the gowns where necessary, dried it flat and ironed it, and after making sure it was perfectly dry, laid it up in lavender for little Bella.”

    “Oh,” he said lamely, not commenting on the minute and incomprehensible detail. “Uh, look, old fellow, should you be calling the old duck that?”

    “She asked me to,” said José, smiling tolerantly. For God’s sake! Next thing he’d be patting his doddering old Pa kindly on the—

    He patted Dick kindly on the shoulder and wandered off, smiling.

    The bones had been thrown to the dogs, the spit’s attendants were arguing over the best way to dowse the remaining glowing coals in the pit, the labour of covering them with earth not seeming to appeal, the myriad of candles were guttering, and the more august guests had already departed to their homes when Dick managed to corner her.

    “Is that the spit that belonged to your husband?” he demanded baldly.

    Raffaella laughed. “Yes, but it is officially on loan! In fact young Érico said that I might keep the damned thing, for the last thing he intends is to hold giant festivals with all of the countryside invited, after the style of the one they had for his coming-of age!”

    Dick smiled limply. “They still talk of that.”

    “I am very sure they do, for according to report the celebrations went on for three whole days and nights, and as well as the obligatory ox, two dozen sheep were consumed!” she said with a laugh. “It was Érico’s idea, of course; João has not a generous bone in his body.”

    “No. Um, does Senhor Baldaya care to be called ‘young Érico’?” he asked lamely.

    “No, he hates it!” said Raffaella, laughing.

    Dick smiled feebly. “Aye.”

    “It went off very well, I think?” she said, looking round with a smile at the wreckage of the party.

    “Very well,” he conceded with a sigh. “But you did not need to give such a giant affair either to ingratiate yourself with the locals, or to make a point with me.”

    Raffaella looked at him uncertainly.

    “No, well, the country folk already love you. And as the turn-out tonight must have indicated, the minor gentry and the farmers are only too eager to roll up to anything you may care to offer ’em. And I had taken the point,” ended Dick heavily.

    After a moment Raffaella said: “What was the point, in your mind?”

    Dick scratched his chin. “I think, that I was being too dashed inflexible, and there was no need positively to insist on your—um—standing on your own two feet in the precise instance.”

    “Yes. But it was a test,” she said flatly. “You still don’t trust me, I can see that. I know you never believed I would come—don’t say anything,” she said as Dick opened his mouth. “If you had really thought so you would have had the paths gravelled before I arrived.”

    Dick bit his lip. “Something like that, mm. Ordered a couple of loads up, anyroad. And—um—exerted myself to see that Anna didn’t drown that room of yours in pink.”

    She laughed a little. “But I love it! Well, I am fond of pink, but I adore its naïveté!”

    “Good,” he said lamely. “Um—I apologise for testing you. It was a rotten thing to do.”

    “No, well, I own I was very cross at first, for I don’t think I came here in order to dump all my decisions onto your shoulders.”

    “No,” he agreed, scowling.

    “Though in the case the notion was at the back of my mind it was certainly a salutary lesson,” she said lightly.

    Dick gnawed on his lip.

    “But later, I simply got carried away at the idea of a party!” admitted Raffaella cheerfully.

    “Oh,” he said feebly. “Did you? Good.”

    “Um, it has not cost all that much,” she ventured.

    “No, well, I was surprised to note the absence of five hundred genteel jellies, trifles and blancmangers.”

    “So, I think, were Magnólia and Érico!” she agreed with a gurgle.

    “Aye. Nevertheless, your store cupboard must be considerably depleted.”

    Raffaella shrugged. “It is. But if we look like starving this winter I shall sell a pair of earrings of which I am not particularly fond. And the place is not yet producing enough to feed us and pay its way, so I think I would have had to sell them in any case.”

    “Yes. Look, it takes time to establish a decent nut orchard, and in any case you took out the lease too late in the year for Thiago to plant up—”

    “I know,” she said mildly. “But with the annuity from João, I am quite a lot better off than I had originally thought I would be.”

    “Well, that’s a point,” conceded Dick.

    “So am I a total idiot who will need to be rescued by Sir Dick on a white charger?” she said with a brilliant smile.

    “No! Look, I never meant to imply—”

    “No. But you cannot deny you thought it,” she said, smiling calmly. “Excuse me, I think Senhor and Senhora Sortelha are about to leave; I must say goodbye to them.”

    She sailed off, looking serene, and Dick was left to his reflections.

    During the autumn The Yellow House’s courtyard was finished, with a multiplicity of stone flags, a scattering of coloured tiles found God knew where, and an array of plants to add to the old fig. The Baldaya estate sent up two official lemon trees and one sturdy orange, all of which were planted out with due ceremony, and, after Érico and Magnólia Baldaya and their family had returned to town, a rather less official selection of cuttings of this, that and t’other. Not to mention, encountered at dusk one evening coming up Dick’s drive, a couple of shapely little bay trees in pots. Dick was driven to croak dazedly: “Won’t they miss these?” The stolid person who had brought them on a waggon under a token bit of sacking touching his forelock and replying: “No, senhor, acos they’ll’ve died over winter, see?”, he nodded feebly but was just capable of asking pointedly whether the fancy porcelain pots might also be assumed to have died? After some argument the bay trees were planted in a well-manured patch which report said Thiago had intended for some tomatoes and red peppers for next year, and the pots went back whence they came. The little Senhora subsequently being reported to have been thrilled by the sudden appearance of two well-grown bay trees in her tomato patch. A little later Thiago in person planted a lot of rose bushes for her. Or thorny sticks which he claimed would burst into miraculous bloom next year. It was quite possible that the Baldaya rose garden was coincidentally undergoing its usual annual trim at this point in time, but Dick forbore to remind anybody of this point.

    And so Christmas rolled round, celebrated in great style at Dick’s house with the entire complement of estate workers, his and hers, present, and even Lucinda and Caterina deigning to come down from town for it. Not to mention dashed Larry Wedderburn, who spent the entire period making sheep’s eyes at Senhora Baldaya. Oh, well, better than making ’em at Caterina. Because whatever Lucinda might think, Dick didn’t intend to see any daughter of his shipped off to cold old England to become the wife of a cold Englishman on whom Dick couldn’t keep his eye. He was driven to point this out to Lucinda early in the new year, and also the fact that Caterina, like her mother, had been baptised into the Roman Catholic faith, so Lucinda retreated to town in a dudgeon. To Dick’s relief Caterina didn’t seem in the least to resent the little Senhora’s presence, in fact she was down at The Yellow House more than half the time, doing her stitchery and learning up their receets, or some such similar stuff. After a while he noted that she could do her dashed stitchery just as well at home by their own fire, but was flattened by the reply that it was much jollier with someone to chat to, and that “Aunt Eliza” was teaching her all sorts of new embroidery stitches.

    The weather warmed, and the rows and rows and rows of sticks that Thiago had planted for the little Senhora in The Yellow House’s greatly enlarged orchard began to show tight buds—and Dick Marchant began to find the constant presence of his daughters in the little Senhora’s house distinctly irksome.

    “Look, Anna’s got a schoolroom, y’know,” he said to her one day.

    “Yes, but it is the most barren room imaginable!” replied Raffaella with her vivid smile.

    “What do you mean? It’s got a fireplace,” said Dick, frowning. “And rugs. Well, old rugs, the boys have given ’em a good drubbing in their time, but it ain’t a frozen waste, if that’s what you’re implying.”

    “Not physically, so much, though it is the opposite of cosy, certainly with one little girl in it, but mentally, I think it is.”

    Dick frowned at her.

    “There is no mental stimulation, save her schoolbooks, and that silly globe of which you are so proud,” said Raffaella calmly.

    “I am not!”

    “Yes, you are, Mr Marchant,” she said, smiling calmly.

    “Look, just because I bought it for José when I was first married— Oh, all right, I am. But the others didn’t seem to mind the place.”

    “No, but dear Mr Marchant, she is the last of them, poor little thing!” she cried.

    “She ain’t a poor— Oh.” Dick broke off, scowling. Finally he admitted: “Sort of overlooked that. I mean, up until last—well, this time last year, at any rate, Martinho was still more or less in statu pupillari, too.”

    “Yes. I think it was very sensible of you to let him give up his studies, he is not an intellectual boy, but a very practical one,”

    “Mm. Well, made a good job of those stables, though mind you the arithmetic I drummed into him helped.”

    “Sicuro.”

    Dick licked his lips. “Dash it, should I get in a governess for Anna?”

    “Well, if you wish, though I think we might manage between us. Aunt Eliza is helping her with the more formal aspects of her Portuguese composition, and I with her English and French. And if you continue with the mathematics and geography—oh, and history—I think that will be sufficient?”

    Dick scratched his chin. “She’s quite bright, y’know.”

    “Yes, and we shall encourage her to read. You know that Érico and Magnólia have said I must use the library down at the estate.”

    “Are there many books down there?”

    “An huge variety: Érico was a voracious reader, and many of them are his, but I think the basis of the collection must be those of the original owner from whom the Baldayas purchased the estate.”

    “Er—they’ve had it for over a century. Uh—look, senhora, I don’t know how much you know of sixteenth-century literature, but please don’t let her open anything by a fellow called Boccaccio—those will probably be in Italian, though I have seen Portuguese translations—or any by a fellow called Rabelais, will you?”

    Raffaella eyed him drily. “What about those by a fellow called Luther?”

    “There ain’t?” he gasped.

    “One or two. Possibly why that family sold up and vanished.”

    Dick nodded limply.

    “Perhaps the best solution will be for me not to take her down there at all!” she owned with a laugh.

    He nodded limply.

    “So,” said Raffaella, smiling, “shall we manage to teach her ourselves?”

    “Er—I don’t like to impose.”

    “I realise that, but it is not an imposition at all. We are enjoying her company. And much of the time she just works quietly in the dining-parlour. –Come and see!” she said with a smile.

    They had done the accounts, and were talking in the sitting-room: he nodded limply, and let her lead him over to the orange front parlour, where Senhora Figueiredo and Caterina were sitting by the fire, chatting over their stitchery, and thence into the emerald horror. A bright fire was burning within the ornamented fireplace and his younger daughter’s dark head was bent industriously over her books, the tongue, as usual, protruding from the corner of the mouth.

    “Hulloa. Working hard?” he said feebly.

    “Good morning, Pa. Yes, it’s an essay on Wellington’s tactics in the War.”

    He gulped. “Who chose that topic?”

    Evidently Anna had chosen it herself, and would he like to mark it? Dick agreed limply to mark it. He tottered back into the orange front parlour. Poor Senhora Baldaya had had very little choice of furnishings, with them dashed walls. So the curtains were a stout dimity in a “chocolate” shade—brown, Dick would have called it—and the little sofa, an old-fashioned thing with a Rococo look to it, was upholstered in the same stuff, with one of the armchairs similar. The other two easy chairs in that room, which she must have bought as a pair, had had coverings which were still good and which had been allowed to remain: a formal brocade in stripes of tan and cream. The one big woollen carpet which covered most of the stone flags was mainly brown, with bits of orange and dark maroon: Dick knew nothing of rugs but he would have said it was a Persian style. “A little worn but still good,” according to Caterina. Well, so far, it didn’t look bad. Though the walls themselves were pretty bare: what few little cabinets and so forth she had were in the larger sitting-room. But rather unfortunately Martinho had decided that the carpet was not enough for the ladies in the chilly winters, and so had presented the little Senhora with an extra rug, a fur rug, as a Christmas present. A very dead bear, if Dick’s opinion had been asked. Well, it was that size, and horribly hairy, and coarse as be-damned. Chosen by himself and bought with his own money, so what else could the poor woman do but accept it? It now adorned, though that was not the word, the area immediately before the fire. And according to the kind-hearted Aunt Eliza, kept one’s toes deliciously toasty. Little Bella had apparently decided that it had a personality—in which she was not entirely wrong, Dick now reflected, averting his eyes from it—and had named it “Uncle Bogle.”

    He then had to admire Caterina’s stitchery—for once it was something practical, one of a pair of pillowcases, not some damned decorated mat for a dressing-table that no-one but herself of his household ever used, though she was putting a fair bit of embroidery on it—and eventually escaped.

    Raffaella showed him to the front door, smiling. “So?”

    “Look, I had no intention of letting the two of ’em foist themselves on you all winter!”

    “I know that, Mr Marchant, but we are very happy to have their company. And except on Thursdays, we are making a point of sending them back home for their midday meal, for I have no wish to alienate your good Cook!”

    “Oh, good,” he said limply. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind, I think we probably can manage to get a few facts into Anna’s head, between us. Um—don’t let her read too many novels, will you?” he said awkwardly.

    “I do not let her read any during schoolroom hours,” replied Raffaella placidly.

    “Oh, good.” Awkwardly Dick added: “Thank you.”

    “It’s my pleasure!” she said, laughing.

    “Yes,” he said lamely. “Good show.” He opened the door, but hesitated. “Um, you wouldn’t fancy a ride on Wednesday, I suppose? Thought I’d take a look at those low-lying fields over in the direction of the village.”

    “I should love it.”

    “Good. Well—start right after breakfast?”

    She nodded, smiling, and he tottered out. Well—probably it was all right. And the girls both apparently adoring her was certainly preferable to their resenting her sudden intrusion into their lives. Dick strolled slowly along the gravelled path to the house, not noticing the chilly spring wind.

    Wednesday dawned clear, with some high cloud but no sign of rain. Dick came down to breakfast very much on edge to discover Martinho and José already down. After a very little space of time it dawned that they were also very much on edge, especially Martinho. In fact the expression “a bundle of nerves” sprang to mind. He did his best to ignore the pair of them, but eventually had to settle a loud, pointless and puerile argument over the rival merits of two different sorts of bread roll. Neither of which Cook had served up this morning.

    “What are the pair of you intending to do today?” he said on a firm note.

    Martinho jumped. “Um—nothing,” he said lamely.

    “Um, thought I might have word with Theotonio. Um, make sure The Yellow House’s roof’s come through the winter as well as he predicted it would,” said José feebly.

    Dick threw down his napkin and got up. “Mm. Well, while you’re at it, have a word with him about them blue shutters of hers, noticed one of the upstairs ones flapping t’other day.” He strode out.

    After a moment Martinho said lamely: “At least we didn’t have to hog-tie dashed Anna.”

    “Eh? Oh, to stop her going with them? No.”

    Silence fell.

    “I thought he’d have asked her by now!” burst out Martinho.

    “We know,” said José kindly.

    “Well, for God’s sake, it’s nearly a year!”

    “I can count.”

    Martinho glared sulkily.

    “Go and check the horses,” said José with a sigh.

    “What for?” he replied, glaring.

    “See if you can persuade old Vicente that that little yellow filly and her dam will be perfectly all right outside in the paddock, in fact will do better outside in the paddock than being fussed over in his damned stable.”

    “He intends her for Bella,” said Martinho dully.

    “I know that, but in order for a filly to be fit to be ridden, she has to have the use of her legs!”

    Scowling, Martinho replied: “He won’t take any notice of me.”

    José got up with a sigh. “Very well, we’ll do it together.”

    “Really? Oh, good!”

    “But I’m warning you, Martinho,” said his half-brother as they got into their coats in the dim front hall: “the slightest attempt to encourage Vicente, or Theotonio, or any of ’em to discuss today’s outing, will have the direst consequences!”

    “Eh? Oh!” Martinho grinned. “I should like to see you try! –No, well,” he admitted on a glum note as they set off, “I’d just as soon not discuss it, actually.”

    “Ye—”

    “Because he,” he said viciously, kicking at an inoffensive daffodil, “will be sure to make a mull of it!”

    José smiled feebly. He wasn’t too sure that Pa wouldn’t make a mull of it, either.

    The little Senhora was ready and waiting for Dick, on the brown slug with the inappropriately regal name. She was wearing the emerald velvet get-up in which the countryside was accustomed to see her ride out, but as a concession to the chilly weather had a sober brown cloak over it. Anna had already reported that she did not own a plain riding dress, so there was no need for Dick to ponder the point. He knew there was a matching hat, but today she was wearing a low-crowned brown thing with a widish brim. Certainly it would be far more waterproof than the green confection with the feathers on it, and with that face under it you could not have said the effect was hideous, but it was a very plain hat. Added to which, it was a man’s hat.

    “Where did you get that hat?” he said limply as they set off,

    “We found it in a cupboard of the house we were hiring in Lisbon. It’s very practical,” she said pleasedly.

    “Er—yes.”

    “And far more suitable for the country than my green riding hat!” said Raffaella with a laugh. “Added to which, we have decided to take the feathers off that and save them.” He was looking blank; she elaborated: “For a bonnet for me, or for Bella, when she’s older. But we haven’t yet got round to it, so I thought I would not tempt fate by wearing it; we don’t want the feathers to be ruined by the rain.”

    “I see. Don’t think it will rain, though,” he said, squinting up at the sky.

    “No, it’s nice and clear, isn’t it? It reminds me a little of my old Great-Uncle Ambrose Andrews’s place,” said Raffaella, looking about her with a smile at the greening hills and fields. “Lindenhall, near Linden Marsh, down in the south of England. It’s gone to my horrible cousin, now,” she added sadly. “What a waste.”

    This was the first Dick had heard of these relatives. “Oh, yes?” he said cautiously.

    “The Andrews side, though Cousin Peter is a Beauchamp: Uncle Ambrose had no sons. Well, strictly speaking they are not my relations at all,” she said with a sigh.

    “Eh?” replied Dick feebly. “Was that not your maiden name?”

    Raffaella gave him a sharp look. “So you don’t know? I thought Sir John might have told you.”

    “Um, well, he mentioned your parents had a place near his; that right?”

    “Yes: Mamma sold it up and moved to Italy after Papa died.”

    “Mm, you told me that,” said Dick slowly; he was remembering that very first encounter with her, on the hillside. Hadn’t she said something about… about there being a lot to tell, that was it. And the bits she had not told him were what the local cats might have been supposed to be licking their chops over—that was it!

    “Jeremy Andrews was not my real father,” said Raffaella abruptly.

    “I see,” replied Dick mildly.

    “Mamma came to England with the intention of establishing herself, and marred him,” said Raffaella grimly, “because he could offer her the sort of position she desired. However, she was not in love with him, and they had not been married so very long before she had an affaire with a man who was living nearby in a house owned by Sir John. In fact, his brother-in-law, Lord Brantwell, as he is now. He is my real father.”

    Dick merely nodded.

    “That was not generally known in England, but enough. It was largely Mamma’s reputation which prevented my making a respectable match. Oh, do you know about the Principe?”

    “Mm.” Lucinda had made sure he knew about that.

    “Yes, well, the whole of English Society knew, and in fact she did not attempt to hide it: she was generally known as the Principessa Claudia in those days. That was one very large count against me, but then, so was the story of my elopement with the Conte dell’Aversano.”

    Dick had to swallow. But he said firmly enough: “If you want to tell me, I think you had best tell start at the beginning and tell me the whole.”

    “Si, sicuro.” Raffaella told him the whole, not attempting to hide the fact that she had fully intended to marry the old Conte if he would have her.

    Dick nodded slowly. “You were well out of it.”

    “Yes, so I thought. Though I did not think so when I arrived at Lindenhall to find Uncle Ambrose bedridden and Aunt Miriam Beauchamp in charge!”

    “No. I collect this Cousin Peter Beauchamp was a bachelor?” he said drily.

    Raffaella laughed. “Well, yes! But he had always hated me. But the property was not entailed: that was the real rub. So then I went on to Sommerton Grange and dear Cousin Lilian Quarmby-Vine. And of course, Cousin Eudora was staying there for the summer.”

    “Mm. Told ’em the lot, did you?” said Dick on a dry note.

    “I did, though I put myself in the best light possible. Well, they are nice English ladies, full of sensibilities: they would not have understood my seeing marriage with the Conte as my best option and setting out to achieve it,” said Raffaella calmly.

    “No. What was the reaction, if I may ask, when you opted for marriage with old Baldaya?”

    Raffaella blinked, but said: “Cousin Lilian was both relieved and upset, not seeming to see the contradiction in her two attitudes at all, and very kindly urged me to stay on with them. But Eudora was nigh to hysterical. Well, as much as one with her perfect self-control ever could be. I think, to say truth, that she was nauseated by the idea. Well, you see, she was a maiden lady full of sensibilities, and was putting herself in my place.”

    “Aye, I can see that,” he said slowly.

    Raffaella looked at him cautiously. “What do you think?”

    Dick grimaced. “I’m not a maiden lady, and I don’t think I’m full of sensibilities, neither—and I do recall that chat we had in the orchard, or rather between it and the house, with Olivio.”

    “Yes?” she said uncertainly.

    “I think,” said Dick Marchant very carefully indeed, “that you made the sensible decision, given the circumstances. But I’ll admit that my reaction would probably have been very like Eudora’s, without the self-control.”

    “Oh,” she said, swallowing.

    “The very first time I saw you,” he said slowly: “that wasn’t the time we met, out here on the hills: no, the very first time I saw you was at the opera.”

    “Um, yes, I remember: you said, that day.”

    “Did I?” Dick had forgotten that. “Um, probably did, yes. Well, what I said to myself then pretty well summed it up, senhora: ‘poor little thing’.”

    “What?” she croaked.

    “Poor little thing,” repeated Dick Marchant steadily.

    Raffaella swallowed hard.

    “No, well, the phrase ‘perfect little peach’—or in José’s case, apricot—got mentioned, too!” he admitted with a smile.

    “Y— Um—oh; did it?” she said, now terribly confused.

    Dick looked at the confusion in some amusement. “Did you think I was immune, alone of mankind?”

    “Um—no!” she gulped.

    He leaned over and gently pulled the brown slug to a halt. “Why did you tell me all this?”

    Raffaella put her chin in the air and looked him firmly in the eye. “I thought it only fair.”

    “Aye,” said Dick slowly. “Aye.”

    “Very well, I admit I thought perhaps Sir John had told you the lot, and you would despise me forever an I did not tell you!” she said sharply.

    “Yes, I was thinking that,” he murmured.

    “You still don’t trust me, do you?” said Raffaella angrily.

    “Not wholly, no. But you still have a pretty low opinion of me, don’t you?”

    She stared at him, frowning. “What do you mean?”

    “I was thinking that perhaps you thought John had told me the lot, yes; but at the same time I was also thinking that perhaps you thought it only fair to tell me.”

    Raffaella’s mouth opened very slowly.

    “Mm,” said Dick. “There are other critters on earth, though I don’t claim many of us, who are capable of seeing both sides of a question.”

    “And—and capable of giving someone the benefit of the doubt?” she said dazedly.

    “I hope so.”

    Raffaella swallowed. The horses moved on slowly, the reins slack in their riders’ hands.

    Eventually she said: “I suppose I have been used, all my life, more or less, to—to playing a rôle. To making others think of me either what I could see they wished to think, or what I wished them to think. Or—or more simply, being what circumstances seemed to suggest.”

    “I can see that,” agreed Dick mildly.

    “All that time in England… Poor Eudora: she was so very good to me. And I behaved—not so very badly, I suppose, but all that frivolous nonsense and the encouragement of unsuitable gentlemen, whom I knew were not in the least likely to offer… I do not say I did not enjoy it, mind you!” she said sharply.

    “No,” agreed Dick mildly.

    “But it was certainly absurd and meaningless. Though I suppose it was a true enough reflection of one side of my character.”

    “Mm.”

    “And there are many women who would not have had to pretend… No, I don’t mean that, quite. Not have perceived that there was any other possible rôle, or desired any other rôle, do you see?”

    “Aye: the world is full of silly, frivolous women, both here and on t’other side of the English Channel. Some of them with brains, too.”

   “Yes,” said Raffaella with a sigh of relief. “You do see it.”

    “Yes. But I admit I am not quite persuaded that the plain country life is what you really desire.”

    “I grew up in the country,” said Raffaella with a sigh. “I had not even seen a decent-sized town before Mamma dragged us off to Italy when I was twelve.”

    That point had not struck Dick before: he nodded slowly.

    “I don’t know what it will take to convince you,” she said on a wan note.

    Dick hesitated. Then he said: “Well, give it a little more time, perhaps. You’ve come through the winter very well, at all events.”

    “It was colder up here than I had thought, but not as bitter as an English winter. But did you think I would be bored to tears?”

    “Mm, something like that.”

    “No, no, there was too much to do!”

    “Aye, well, Anna’s dashed lessons, I suppose…”

    “Yes; and Aunt Eliza is greatly improving my sewing skills, and although it is a relatively quiet time on the farm, there are always things to be seen to!” she said with a smile. “You are not bored, yourself, in winter, are you?”

    “Well, sometimes. Sometimes get off to town for the opera for a week or two, y’know.”

    “Good gracious, you are human and fallible after all!” she said on a rallying note.

    Dick bit his lip. “Sorry. Been behaving like a curmudgeon. Swore to meself I wouldn’t.”

    “Did you?”

    “Aye. Well, on t’one hand, you’ve probably had enough of them, of all ages and both sexes, and then on t’other hand, it ain’t a rôle I relish.”

    Raffaella swallowed. After a minute she croaked: “Surely you do not assume rôles, sir?”

    “Not much. Not any more. Occasionally, though: yes. Think probably all people of intelligence do. Well, the most of my damned Army career was a rôle,” he said sourly. “Certainly the latter part. But by that time I’d grown up enough to realise what I was doing and why, and to make a decision to get out of it.”

    “I see.”

    “These days, sometimes play the rôle of the bluff farmer,” admitted Dick.

    Raffaella looked at him cautiously. “Oh, yes?”

    “Not much!” he said with a sudden laugh. “Most of the people for miles around know I’m a mad Englishman: don’t need to pretend no more!”

    “That is not true,” she said severely. “The local people adore you: you must know that.”

    “Glad to hear it,” he said a trifle wryly.

    They rode on slowly: Dick could have got there in less than half the time, but he had no wish to show her and the brown slug the short-cuts over the rougher ground, let alone encourage the brute to try for a canter. “Pretty low-lying,” he said, as the soggy area in question was reached. “Thought it might be water-logged, dammit.”

    “Yes.” Raffaella looked about her. “I see: that is the creek which runs down through the Baldaya estate, I think? So the house must be over there?”

    “Yes, hidden by that rise to the north-west. The village is over there, west and north of us. The road snakes around to the far left, past our gates, doesn’t come this way directly, y’see. You can get here by going down it but it takes longer, you have to cut through that thickety area.”

    “Si, si, I understand. You might drain this area, perhaps?”

    Drily Dick replied: “Aye: I put in a team of fellows to dig drains at considerable expense and effort, and then the very next summer the damned Baldayas decide they need the water and dam the thing further up. If you’ll forgive the pun,” he ended sourly.

    Raffaella replied soberly: “Can they legally do that? Do you not have water rights?”

    “Nominally, yes. But do I want to take damned João B. to court? –Hell: sorry!” he said remorsefully, as she winced.

    “No, no: not at all! He’s so mean, he probably would force you to do so!” She stared at the waterlogged ground, her eyes narrowed. “Rice,” she said slowly.

    Dick blinked. “Huh?”

    “It is warm enough, I think, and then, this area is well sheltered by the hills. And I know they grow much rice in Spain. Why not?”

    “Aye, then when they dam the creek I’ll have a legitimate claim that they’re destroying my established crops.” However, Dick looked again at the wide swampy stretches before them. “Uh—requires a lot of manpower,” he said feebly. “Not like sowing wheat or oats, is it?”

    “No: the little seedlings must be planted out. And it requires both manpower and womanpower! My stepfather has relatives in an area of Italy where rice is grown, and one year we visited there at the planting season: most of the local women were employed in the fields.”

    “Mm.” Dick rubbed his chin slowly. “It’s an idea… God knows if the local people would take to spending weeks up to their knees in cold water… We may not get sufficient rainfall, or not sufficient over a long enough period. But I’ll definitely look into it. Failing that—well, the house cows like it down here when it’s dried out a bit. But it’s too far to drive them every day. We did try milking them down here, one year: carried the milk home in the buckets on a waggon—put some cloths over ’em to kept the flies off.”

    “That sounds quite workable!”

    Dick shook his head. “No. Ended up with butter.”

    “Not really?” she choked.

    He grinned. “Aye. ’Fraid so.”

    “Oh, dear! Well, failing rice… I think I would grow vegetables. Late crops, once the ground has dried out a bit. Something fairly quick-growing that could be grown in bulk and dried or preserved.”

    “Beans, tomatoes, or peppers,” diagnosed Dick glumly.

    “Why not?” she said with a laugh.

    “Peas?” he ventured meekly.

    “No, peas have to be planted early, this ground would still be under water.”

    “Beans, tomatoes or peppers, then,” he sighed. “Don’t suppose you would have a different Italian receet for preserving tomatoes?”

    “An hundred!” said Raffaella with a laugh. “You will see, once my crop has grown! The Italians claim they invented the pomo d’oro, you know!”

    “On the contrary, didn’t Christopher Columbus discover them?”

    “He was Italian,” replied Raffaella severely.

    Dick collapsed in helpless sniggers, gasping: “So he was!”

    Raffaella twinkled at him. “If it will not waste your day, shall we ride into the village and have something to eat?”

    “Good idea.”

    They rode on slowly, not talking very much, but very comfortable together.

    Martinho, of course, declared crossly to his siblings that nothing had happened on this ride—but he was wrong. Both Dick and Raffaella felt they knew the other better and liked the other better. Into the bargain Dick was rather stunned that she had so easily perceived he was testing her, though he had known she was a very intelligent woman, and also rather stunned that she had been so cross about it. And, on thinking it over, very surprised that she had been so frank with him—not about her parentage, no, but about the other stuff: her feeling that she had so often been playing a rôle in her earlier life. For there was no need for her to have said any such thing.

    Raffaella for her part did not regret her frankness, the which rather surprised herself. She had never admitted so much about her innermost self to a living soul, not even to her sister Sally; and on awakening on the morrow she was very surprised indeed to find she did not regret it at all. And also very surprised, once she had time to think it over, that Dick Marchant had neither rubbished the whole notion soundly, the which she could very clearly envisage many men doing, whether or no they might have believed it were true, nor retreated from her in startled distaste. At the time, the thought had not occurred to her: it had felt quite natural to be speaking to him as she had done. It was only the next day that she said slowly to herself: “The concept neither surprised nor disgusted him. How very unusual.” Quite some time later it occurred to her that his mind had something of the quality she had so much admired in Érico’s: and she gave a surprised little laugh.

    As for that necessary attraction between the two parties, without which Raffaella had determined she would not marry again: that had been there from the first, and over the months she had spent in The Yellow House had but grown the stronger, certainly on her part. But was it strong enough, on his? Raffaella was not sure.

    The weather warmed, the grain ripened, and down on the low-lying land by the creek the late crop of red peppers and tomatoes was coming on nicely, helped by a system of small irrigation channels and the assiduous attentions of two of Thiago’s assistants. Bella’s little yellow filly had grown enormously and, if not strictly speaking yet broken to bridle, was so friendly and amenable that it was quite safe for a tiny girl or a small skinny general help cum boot-boy to sit on her plump back. Bella had been allowed to name her herself, and had chosen the descriptive but perhaps not exciting appellation of “Little Yellow Horse.” Well, as Dick noted, coughing, went well with “The Yellow House”.

    It was one of those whitish mornings which presage a very hot day to come, and Dick had decided he’d get on over to the far northern boundary, where his land adjoined the Baldaya estate, and take a look around. Specifically, at the precise course of that meandering creek, but also at the state of the hills. His head shepherd, Olivio Balboa, had reported crossly some time back that the estate was letting goats roam free up there. Well, wild kid, or more accurately, feral kid, made a very tasty dish, especially the way Cook did it on the spit, but Dick had no wish to see his pastures degraded by damned goats. He slung his shotgun over his shoulder, not quite admitting to himself that he was going to blast to Kingdom Come any damned Baldaya goat that had poked its nose onto his land, and set off.

    The creek was duly inspected, and found to meander through a stretch of Baldaya land which was merely scrub, good, and also discovered, as he penetrated further east amongst some rocky outcrops, to meander onto Baldaya land from his own land. Good show; if they dared to try damming it, he could put a spoke in their wheel by damming it further up! Dick turned his horse and rode slowly back towards the reputedly goat-infested area, whistling.

    “Hulloa,” he said under his breath, reaching the top of a hill to sight a fat brown slug tethered under a scruffy tree on the Baldaya estate, and a small figure in a faded print gown and a large straw hat kneeling atop the rise next to a small pile of stones, or cairn. The grave of Giampaolo dalla Rovere. He had had no idea she visited it. Uh—hang on, was it the anniversary of the creature’s death? Er—no, that had been later in the year, after Bella’s birth, and Bella had not yet had her birthday. He hesitated, and then rode slowly over to join her.

    “If I’m intruding, I’ll go away again,” he said as she looked up.

    “You’re not intruding,” replied Raffaella, smiling.

    Dick dismounted slowly. “How the Devil did you get that slug all the way over here?”

    “Very slowly!” she said with a laugh. “He is steady, and has stamina. And it is not much further than the distance to the horticulture fields.”

    He grinned: that was to dignify his vegetable patch considerably. “It’s steeper, though.” He looked dubiously at the cairn. Who the Hell had done that? It was three times the size it had been after he’d finished piling some additional rocks on it, not long before she and the General left for Paris, and into the bargain the stones were cemented together, and a bronze plaque had been added: “GIAMPAOLO DALLA ROVERE,” and underneath that in smaller letters, in English, what was more, “Beloved Cat”, and his dates. “Did you order that done?”

    “No,” said Raffaella on a wry note. “Have you not seen it before? Érico ordered it: he thought it would please me. I suppose that shows he didn’t know me as well as he thought he did.”

    “Um, did he?” said Dick very cautiously indeed. She quite often mentioned his name, but never anything to do with her marriage that verged on the personal.

    “Quite well, yes. We got on very well. I wouldn’t have married him otherwise, in spite of all the advantages of the match. Well, I don’t think I would.”

    “Mm.” He looked at the plaque. “He meant to be kind. The English is a thoughtful touch.”

    “Yes,” said Raffaella, swallowing.

    Dick saw that a tear was running down her cheek: Hell. “Sorry,” he said awkwardly.

    “No, don’t be,” she said, wiping the tear away and trying to smile. “I miss him: it’s ridiculous: I never thought I would.”

    “’Tisn’t ridiculous at all,” said Dick firmly, cautiously patting her shoulder. “You had him for years—my word, he was an age, wasn’t he?” he said, taking another look at the dates, “and he was your faithful companion.”

    “No!” said Raffaella with a shaky laugh. “Not Giampaolo dalla Rovere: Érico, you ape!”

    After a moment Dick said limply: “Oops.”

    “He was one of the few men I have ever been able to talk to.”

    “I see.” After a moment he said: “Told him about playing a rôle, did you?”

    “No,” she said, sniffing. Silently Dick produced his usual grimy handkerchief. “Thank you,” she said, blowing her nose. “Not that. But then, I don’t think I needed to. Added to which, we both enjoyed the rôle I played with him. It would have spoilt it, to discuss it.”

    “I see,” said Dick slowly. She was silent, looking down at the cat’s grave, on which she had lain a bunch of flowers. Roses, mainly: Thiago of course had been right, and those thorny twigs he’d planted in her courtyard had burst into magnificent bloom, damn his shrewd old eyes. “I’m glad it wasn’t all bad.”

    Raffaella turned her head and looked at him in surprise. “Marriage to Érico? None of it was bad, Mr Marchant!”

    “Oh,” he said lamely.

    “But,” she said, pinkening, “I suppose there were things it lacked.”

    “I think this ape is quite glad to hear that,” admitted Dick.

    “I didn’t mean to call you that,” said Raffaella weakly.

    “No,” he said vaguely. “Well, no two guesses needed as to where you picked it up: getting you into bad habits, hey? Maybe we’d better do something about it before it gets worse, mm?”

    “Um, nip it in the bud?” said Raffaella, looking at him uncertainly.

    Dick grimaced. “No. Keep it in the family. Get married.”

    Raffaella swallowed hard. “Is this a joke?” she said in a small voice.

    “No. Sorry. Couldn’t think how to put it.” He looked at her lamely.

    Suddenly Raffaella saw that he was very nervous. She didn’t ask if he loved her enough, or if he was marrying her out of pity, or if he truly believed they would be compatible, or any of the things that hitherto she had envisaged her new, more sensible self saying to a mature and sensible man who might propose. She just said in a tiny voice: “Yes, please.”

    “Eh?” said Dick, going very red, right up to the tips of the ears.

    Raffaella cleared her throat. “Yes, please, Mr Marchant. And please could you kiss—”

    Dick was kissing her.

    “Oh,” said Raffaella faintly, as he finally released her.

    Dick was panting. “Been wanting to do that for ages!”

    “Yes!” said Raffaella with a crazy laugh, flinging herself against him. “So have I! I love you so much, dear Mr Marchant!”

    “‘Dick’,” he corrected, removing the frightful straw hat and hugging her tight.

    “Yes, Dick, of course,” she said uncertainly. “Um, I always think of you as Mr Marchant.”

    “Then,” said Dick with a grin, “you’re going to have to accustom yourself to the other, because in the Marchant family, let me tell you, we absolutely dispense with that sort of formality!”

    “I know that, you ape!” said Raffaella with her gurgling laugh.

    “No,” he said severely.

     She blinked at him.

   “‘Dick, you ape’,” corrected Dick Marchant sternly.

    Predictably, Raffaella collapsed in ecstatic giggles.

    So they were married, once Bella’s birthday had come and gone, the grapes had been gathered in, the cooler October weather had come, and Mrs Wedderburn had been persuaded to come down to the country for it.

    Martinho, of course, had known it all along, and Anna, of course, was disappointed that Pa brought the little Senhora up to the big house instead of settling into The Yellow House with her.

    Back in cool, staid England, Eudora and John Stevens of course had known it was only a matter of time, and Lilian and Susannah Quarmby-Vine both claimed to have guessed it from the first. And little Lady Jerningham was ecstatic, immediately making plans to visit the newlyweds in the coming spring. Regardless, as Commander Sir Arthur resignedly recognised, of her own possible condition and of Mrs Marchant’s possible condition at the time.

    But what was perhaps the definitive last word on the subject came, rather surprisingly, from the Dewesburys. True, it was due less to her Ladyship’s undoubted perspicacity than to the facts that Sir Lionel, exceeding pleased by the good news, had lapsed into a speculative, ruminative vein, covering such points as just what little fried pastries might have been served up for the wedding feast, would it ever have happened if Ma Beresford had never got wind of the Senhora’s parentage, perhaps just as well after all that the frightful Principessa had snared poor old Jeremy Andrews, etcetera—and that Lady Lavinia had a busy morning planned.

    “One might even say, Lionel, that it was due to the P.W.’s marriage to Stamforth,” she murmured.

    “Eh?” he choked. “But Senhora Baldaya—Marchant—wasn’t even in town that year!”

    “Nevertheless.” Looking serene, Lady Lavinia sailed out.

    Breathing heavily, Sir Lionel began to work it out. “Um, say the P.W. hadn’t— No, that nag won’t run. Um, all right: the P.W. takes Stamforth… No. Well, I concede Katie’s marriage wouldn’t never have happened, probably, if Stamforth hadn’t carried off the P.W. from under Arthur’s nose, and I concede the P.W. was old Baldaya’s niece, but t’rest of it don’t follow! Uh—do it?”

    It took most of the day, but by the time the tea-tray was presented that evening he was able to say pleasedly: “You were right, me dear.”

    “On what point, Lionel?” she responded placidly, pouring tea.

    “Little Senhora Baldaya takin’ that Marchant fellow after the P.W. had took Stamforth.”

    Lady Lavinia eyed him drily. “Yes?”

    Sir Lionel nodded happily. “Aye. Inevitable, the whole thing!”

The End of the Campaigns

of

RAFFAELLA