Eliza’s Daughter (30 page)

‘The earthquake was felt here, then, as well as at Lisbon?'

‘Oh, yes, though not so severe.'

Sister Euphrasia reappeared, full of cordial praise.

‘We shall sing a special chant of thanksgiving tonight after evening prayer! Now there will be no more water disputes with the vine-growers farther up the valley. You have done us a most useful service, Meninha Liza.'

Marianne Brandon had wandered into the orchard, attracted, I suppose, by the commotion, to see what was going on. But when she saw that I had some hand in the business, her lip curled and she walked away again. I saw her at a distance, in the pine grove, pacing to and fro (limping slightly, I noticed); as she walked she read and reread a letter, plainly with dissatisfaction, for in the end she crumpled it in her hand and threw it on the ground.

‘
Pai dios!
Look at that child!' cried Sister Luisinha, for Triz had by now completely lathered herself with mud, and was smiling like a happy nixie. She was wheeled away, and the nuns followed.

I, ever curious, went over to the pine grove, which Marianne had now quitted, and picked up the paper which she had thrown down.

‘My Adored Marianne,' it said, ‘for so you will always be, though well I understand that I have no shadow of a right or claim upon you. I know that I once did you an irreparable injury, I know that to you I must seem the greatest villain upon earth. I left you – I callously abandoned you, to marry a rich woman for whom I had no regard, then, or ever. It was you – you – that I always loved. Yours is the image that has been constantly before me. I have been in continual agony since that parting. O God! what a hard-hearted rascal I was. There is nothing to be said in my defence. Yet I beg you – I beseech you – to consider my misery and my penitence. I have heard that you are now free again – that your excellent husband who, I am aware, deserved you as I never did – that he is no more. Can you ever consider returning to one who, likewise free, thinks of you continually, mourns you, longs for nothing but your company? I understand that you are contemplating a permanent retirement to the cloister; that you are at present in retreat at Nossa Senhora dos Remedios. O pray, pray think again before taking leave of the world! Remember one who loves you would be overjoyed to spend the rest of his days in your service. W.'

‘Post Scriptum. A letter in care of the English Factory at Oporto will find me and bring me speedily to your side.'

Well! What a thing to find lying crumpled on the pine needles of a quiet and God-fearing community of nuns! And, also, what an expostulation, what an outpouring to find from one's
own father!
I read and reread the missive in astonishment, wondering how
I
should feel if somebody ever addressed such a cry to me. (I tried to imagine Hoby penning such sentences, but wholly failed.) I wondered if Marianne would ever find it in her heart to soften her resentment against this man; judging from her reception of this letter it seemed unlikely. Did I blame her? I cannot say that I did. After all, he had used my own mother even worse; had never made any inquiry after her at all (so far as I knew) or any attempt to save her from the results of his careless seduction. It was entirely due to her own efforts – and the good fortune of attracting the Duke's attention and affection – that my mother had passed the latter portion of her days in some comfort and security. While, as for myself – when had Willoughby ever displayed the least concern for
my
welfare?

Here it occurred to me to reflect that, in fact, for the somewhat dismal circumstances of my own upbringing, Mrs Marianne Brandon was rather more blameworthy than Willoughby. True, he had never sought me out; but then quite possibly he was never even informed of my existence. But Marianne Brandon, jealous of my mother – though Heaven knew she had no need – had actively worked against the Colonel ever coming to visit me, or taking any but the barest interest in my concerns. And if letters about my school fees, or about the needs of the people at Delaford, had gone unanswered, it was to Marianne's account that this must be laid. Probably the Colonel, busy at Salamanca or Ciudad Rodrigo, had never even heard of these matters.

I went in to pass an hour with Triz (now rid of mud); rather absently I sang to her, and drew her pictures of sheep and oxen and men digging. She seized the pencil from me and herself drew more pictures, of men on horseback. At first, with an icy heart, I thought they might be portraits of her ravishers; but then, smiling, she explained them:

‘Carthur – Gal-had – Bidvere.'

‘Yes, darling. King Arthur, Galahad, Bedivere. Beautifully drawn.'

‘I wish we had a few more drawing materials,' said Sister Luisinha. ‘I think it is a very remedial activity for her to portray events and men, like this, on paper.'

I had a brilliant idea. ‘Why should I not take a boat to Oporto and there purchase a packet of papers and paints and brushes? I should be happy to present them to the convent. And then other sick people could use them as well. I could go and return very quickly – in a very few days.'

The Sister was enthusiastic. ‘Yes! And there are other commissions that we could lay on you – several! I will inform Sister Euphrasia; she is always saying what a pity it is that we have nobody to spare for these errands. Silk thread for the altar frontals – medicines – needles – it is true the little Teresa will miss you, but it need not be for more than a few days, as you say.'

‘Do you think she will ever recover, Sister?' I asked. (Lady Hariot was not in the room.)

She looked at me gravely. ‘No, Meninha,' she said. ‘You are doing her immense good. Her mind is clearing of the poisons that were in it. And that is the best that we can hope for. She is no longer living in a cloud of horror. But that she may ever be restored to full, normal living – this I do not believe. I think she was always something a little different from such a person as you or I – weaker in body. Perhaps closer to the Eternal Spirit.'

A changeling.

‘Yes, Sister, I believe you are right.'

‘Of course I am right.'

‘Well, I will go to Oporto and get some paints.' But first, I thought, I will write to the Duke.

And I retired to my cell and did so. I wrote him a long, loving letter, giving a fairly full account of all that had befallen me, explaining that it might still be weeks, perhaps months, before I would feel free of my commitment to Lady Hariot and Triz – unless the Duke might feel inclined to offer them hospitality at Zoyland? Which, of course, could prove a most happy solution for all concerned. And I was, ever and always, his loving ward, Lizzie.

At supper that night Sister Euphrasia had a lengthy list of commissions for me to undertake in Oporto. Lady Hariot asked for some muslin kerchiefs. She had used all hers for mopping and bandaging. Innocently I inquired of Mrs Brandon if there were any errands or messages that I could perform for her? I would be visiting the English Factory, I added. No, she said coldly, she thanked me, but there was nothing. She looked as sour as the vinegary wine we were drinking.

‘You have to excuse her,' said Sister Luisinha to me later. ‘She receives considerable pain from her ulcerated leg.'

‘Oh, poor lady. I did not know. Was she wounded in battle, then?'

‘Oh, no, nothing like that. I think she hurt her leg when a mule she was riding ran up against a rock. For some reason the gash will not heal. She has had it for a long time.'

***

Now the convent vintage was in full swing. I passed the yard, as I rode down to the Douro, where, in the great granite
lagar
about seventy men, in rows of ten, each with their arms over the shoulders of the row in front, were tramping and chanting out, left! right! left! right! interspersing their shouts with wild cries and shrieks.

‘They will go on like that for many hours,' said the overseer.

I looked to see if, by any chance, my friendly rescuers were among the
lagares.
But it was impossible to tell, they were all so locked together. Then they began bawling out a song to a very catchy refrain. I could see that the words must be very bawdy; my guide hurried me away with a face full of disapproval.

At this time of the year there was continual traffic up and down the river, of dinghies, canoes, caiques, and boats like gondolas. The convent
barco
was about to set off, and I had a rapid passage to Oporto, both wind and current being favourable. We reached the town before dusk fell on the following day, and I was able to perform at least half my errands and leave my bundles, bespeaking myself a bed (on Sister Euphrasia's recommendation) at the Convent of Santa Clara.

Here, the portress – the same who had, on my former visit, declared herself unable to furnish Willoughby with news of Mrs Brandon's whereabouts – on hearing my name, uttered a soft exclamation, and begged me to give myself the inconvenience of waiting a moment or two while she went in search of the English-speaking sister. This person, soon making her appearance, gliding up to me at speed in her felt-soled slippers, ejaculated: ‘Ah, it is so fortunate that you have returned to us, Meninha! For we have, a few days since, received tidings concerning a friend of yours – or so we believe. A poor lady was picked up (doubtless by the especial intervention of Sant Iago himself), rescued half-drowned from the waves –'

‘
No
!' I exclaimed in utter astonishment. ‘Not Senhora Pullett?'

‘But yes, but yes! That was the name.'

‘Is she here? Can I see her?'

‘No, no. She is in Spain. Many leagues distant from here. At our sister convent, in the holy city of Santiago de Compostela. But, as soon as the poor thing was sensible and could make herself understood – which, we were told, was not for some little while – she was most urgent that you should be told of her whereabouts. She told the Sisters there that you were travelling to Porto, so messages were sent here. And we were not certain where you now were –'

‘She is really alive – really, really alive?'

What a weight off my heart!

‘Indeed, yes! Picked up by sardine fishers – so we were told – and taken to the Holy Sisters at Santiago. But now, at this present, still very feeble, very frail. She is mending, though, the Sister Infirmarian wrote. And her one hope is that you will come, as soon as you are able, to fetch her away.'

‘May I write to her? Can a letter be sent to Santiago?'

‘But certainly.'

So I wrote Pullett a joyful note, describing how I had finally found Lady Hariot and Triz (I skirted over my experiences prior to this), explaining that I could not immediately abandon them, but had plans for them, involving the Duke, which I hoped to put into effect as soon as possible, when Triz should be a little further amended in health. Meanwhile I besought Pullett to be patient, reiterated my great delight that she was still in the world, urged to her learn Spanish and embroidery from the Sisters, and promised that, as soon as lay within my power, I would return to England, calling at the port of La Coruña – or wherever was most convenient – to pick her up.

The English-speaking Sister undertook that my letter should be dispatched with their next budget of convent business to Compostela.

Now, with a huge expansion of spirit and a belief that, as all seemed in such propitious train just now, Fate might continue to smile on my enterprises, I made my way to the English Factory, handed in my letter for the Duke, which I was assured would go with the following day's packet, and inquired for the address of a Mr Willoughby.

‘Certainly, Senhora. He lives in the Rua dos Flores, among the silversmiths.'

I was given the directions, which involved climbing up and down a great many steps and traversing many of the narrow
ilhas,
or alleys, which thread between the greater thoroughfares of this steeply pitched city.

I found the door. I knocked at it. And thought of various probabilities: that the man I sought would have gone off to Lamego to be closer to Marianne; that he would
not
be the man I sought; or that he would simply not be at home.

But he was at home, and he was the man I sought. It was the same shaggy-locked, haggard-faced man whom I had seen making his inquiries at the convent. Only now he was not wearing hat or cloak, but simply indoor dress of shirt, velvet waistcoat and pantaloons, all decidedly shabby. His face, full of hope and delight as he pulled open the door, lit up momentarily – even more when I first pushed back my hat – then closed into a mask of disappointment as he realized I was not the person he expected.

‘Senhora – I think there must be some mistake. I am not expecting anybody.'

And that's a lie, I thought.

He began to close the door.

He had spoken in Portuguese. I replied in English.

‘No, sir, there is no mistake. You were not expecting me, but allow me to introduce myself. I am your daughter, Eliza Williams.—Or, I suppose I might say, Eliza Willoughby.'

‘I am your daughter,' I repeated to the man who stood silent in the doorway.

‘I don't believe you,' he snapped. ‘I don't understand! What is this? Go away! Go to the devil!'

But I said, ‘I have not travelled all this way in order to be shooed off so easily. You may as well allow me ten minutes of your time. Besides' – I produced the crumpled sheet of paper which I had picked up in the pine grove – ‘I have come from the Convent of Nossa Senhora. I can tell you – if you like – about the reception of
that.'

He snatched the paper, glaring at me. His eyes, I saw, were red and bloodshot.

‘What did she say –
what did she say?
Have you a message?'

‘Let me in,' I said.

So – ungraciously – he retreated and I followed him into a large shabby room with a worn grass carpet, a wooden ceiling, walls papered in dark red, a table with a soiled red damask cloth, two chairs and very little else. Some papers and a few books were strewn on the table. There was a bottle of wine and a glass, a plate with a lump of hard bread and a slice of sausage.

The room smelt stale, of smoke and dirt.

I sat down on one of the chairs.

‘I am your daughter,' I repeated.

‘What is
that
to the purpose?' He looked hastily at the letter, then, as if it stung him, flung it into a charcoal brazier where it flamed up, adding to the acrid smells in the room. ‘What do you want of me? Do you want money? I haven't got any.'

‘Of course I don't want money!' I shouted angrily. ‘If I did, I certainly would not come to
you
! I just wished to see you – to meet you – is that so strange?'

Apparently it seemed so to him.

‘What is your purpose in coming here? – Did, did
she
send you? M-Marianne?'

‘No,
indeed
she did not. If the truth must be told, I think she detests us both equally. You, I suppose, for leaving her; me, for being your daughter by another woman.'

‘Did your mother send you then?' he said suspiciously. ‘Eliza, was it?'

‘No!' I almost spat at him. ‘My mother is dead! How or where she died is no concern of yours. I am sorry, now, that I came to find you.
Nobody
sent me. I just wished – wished to make the acquaintance of my father. But now I see that it was a wasted errand. I am glad' – I was almost choking with rage and disappointment, though Heaven knows by this time I should have been prepared for disappointment – ‘I am glad that I have good friends, friends of my own.'

And how brightly they shone in this dismal atmosphere: the Duke, Lady Hariot, even Hoby and poor little Triz.

Willoughby seemed to me like a man dried up, a husk, with no juice or meaning left in him. The same thing had happened to him, I thought, as to Marianne: the vital spark had ebbed away and left them.

Now he seemed a degree less antagonistic. He sat down, rubbed his forehead, and addressed me, rather hopelessly, ‘She did not answer my letter? There was no message? None?'

‘She threw the letter away. I picked it up. But I think,' I said scrupulously, ‘that she is very unhappy. She is not well. Perhaps, if you waited a while, and tried again –'

‘How can I?' he muttered. ‘Already I owe rent on this place – twenty milreis. Wretched as it is, I can't afford it. I must leave Oporto and find some cabin in the mountains. She was my final hope.'

‘You are courting her simply because she has money now? Is a rich widow?'

‘No! Damn you! Get out! May the fiend fly away with you.'

He sprang up, so full of rage that I instinctively dropped my hand to the hilt of the knife in my boot. But then he sank down on his chair again, muttering wretchedly, ‘Oh, what does it matter what you think? Only go. I have nothing for you, nothing at all.'

‘No,' I said coldly. ‘I can see that very plainly. But perhaps
I
have something for
you
.'

And I laid forty milreis on the table, before letting myself out of the door.

Outside in the street I was not particularly surprised to observe a man leaning against the wall; a man who looked as if he had been waiting and listening there for some time. But I was dismayed when he slunk up to me and said: ‘Aha! It is the young Senhora who killed my friend João! And now, what will you give me, Meninha, not to inform the authorities and lead them to the spot where you concealed the body?'

At another time I might have been alarmed by this threat.

But the man, Manuel – now I recognized him – was such a small, unimpressive, ratlike character, and I was worked up into such a wrathy passion from the recent interview with Willoughby, that I simply thrust my right hand menacingly under his nose.

‘Do you see that hand, friend? Do you know what it means? It means that I have the power to change myself into a wild beast at night! I can tell you, now, that if you “inform the authorities” about me, you will never have an easy night in your bed again. Never! For I shall come, one night, in the dark, and get you with my teeth and claws; I shall come and deal with you as I dealt with your friend João.'

And I showed him all my teeth and thrust my face towards his.

He turned white as chalk, gave a lamentable cry, and scuttled away down the dirty alleyway.

I walked wearily uphill, feeling no triumph at all; and climbed the steps towards my hard narrow bed at the Convent of Santa Clara. Not until I was undressed and lying down did I remember that I had eaten nothing. But at that time I could not have taken any supper. It would have choked me.

***

Next morning, having performed what remained of the various commissions for Sister Euphrasia, I returned to the English Factory to pick up my other purchases. There I was greeted cordially by the manager, who, on hearing my name, exclaimed that he was holding letters from England for me.

‘Why, thank you, sir! I am greatly obliged to you. I will read them on the boat.'

I had bespoken a boat the day before, and was wild to be on my way. I wished that I had never come to Porto.

I waited until we were clear of the city, battling our way upstream between the huge terraced hillsides, before opening my letters.

One was from the Duke's doctor.

My dear Miss Williams

This will be sad news for you, I fear. I must break it at once. His Grace is no more. He fell into a melancholy after you had gone, from which it proved impossible to rouse him. He seemed to have a premonition that you would not return. ‘I shall never see her again,' he kept repeating. And, alas! this proved to be true.

But pray do not blame yourself, dear Miss Williams. I had been apprehensive of his failing ever since the spasm that he suffered prior to your departure. I think that your leaving only hastened an inevitable outcome. And, be assured, his end was an easy one; he simply fell asleep one evening and, the next morning, failed to wake.

He spoke of you a great deal – almost continually.

He has left you – as the men of business will inform you – amply provided for in funds and jointures.

I had rather expected that he would leave you Zoyland – since he knew that you are greatly attached to the house; but instead he has, rather oddly to my way of thinking, left the house to young Mr Hobart, with a proviso that you, during your lifetime, are always to have the use of your own apartments there. Doubtless you will be hearing also from Mr Hobart and his own lawyers about this. (I fancy the Duke cherished some matrimonial hopes in regard to you and Mr Hobart – since he was most deeply attached to you both – and planned by this means to further such a scheme.) He had Mr Hobart frequently with him before he died.

I send my best regards to you and Miss Pullett, and hope that your business in Portugal has prospered and is within sight of a happy conclusion. All the staff at Zoyland join me in good wishes and strong hopes of seeing you back here within the not too distant future.

Yr obdt srvnt
Elijah Swinton.

The second letter was from Hoby . . .

This one irritated me
so much
that I crumpled it and threw it over the side of the
barco.
And was visited, as I did so, by a sudden sympathy for Marianne Brandon, pacing in the pine grove as she read Willoughby's appeal for help. What
do
they take us for? Parcels, to be picked up and unwrapped at will?

But these thoughts were superseded by a heavy, a wretched, an overmastering grief for my old friend, my kind guardian and companion, so that I sat, for the remaining days of the journey, stricken, with my head in my hands, regardless of the churning current, the fresh, following wind, the animated scenes on the hillsides where grapes were gathering and oxcarts plied to and fro.

For the vintage was now well under way.

***

Sister Euphrasia had promised to send a pair of mules to meet me, with all my packages; present also at the anchorage, to my no small surprise, was little Sister Luisinha, who bore a pale and troubled countenance.

‘You have heard already then?' she exclaimed, when she saw my tear-swollen eyes. ‘But no – how could you?'

‘Heard what, Sister?' said I with a mournful premonitory lurch of the heart. But how could there be worse tidings than what I had already received?

It seems there could.

‘The little one – the little Teresa – she has left us. She has gone to the Holy Mother.'

‘Left you? What do you mean?' I repeated stupidly. ‘Died? But she seemed quite well – quite especially so, when I took my leave the other day. Did she have a seizure? What happened?'

‘It was yesterday afternoon,' Sister Luisinha said, unaffectedly wiping her eyes with her veil as we rode slowly up the steep zig-zag hill. ‘The weather was fine so we took her, as so often, to the pool in the orchard; that was always her favourite place, ever since you discovered it. And there she sat, humming to herself in the way she does – did; old Sister Maria, who was with her, went to speak to Jorge about the vines, and Lady Hariot was coming over the grass, not too far away, when the Little One suddenly rose up and walked –
walked –
took several steps – which she had never done before, all the time she has been at Nossa Senhora – and she fell, poor child, into the pool. But before that she said something – Lady Hariot will tell you. Sister Maria ran back, and Lady Hariot was there, and they had her out of the water directly; she was in it no longer than the stroke of a bell; but that was enough to stop her heart which, you know, was enfeebled by what she had suffered before. She died instantly.'

‘Oh,
poor
Lady Hariot . . . '

‘Lady Hariot has a strong spirit,' said Sister Luisinha. ‘She bends like the bough of an ash tree; she will not break.'

I saw that this was so when I went to Lady Hariot's room where Triz lay, lapped in cloudy muslin and white roses, on her narrow bed. Lady Hariot rose from where she was kneeling and came to envelop me in a strong embrace, which I returned.

‘Oh, Lady Hariot! –
Why
was I not with you when it happened?'

I felt the greater guilt, because my errand to Oporto had been so full of self-interest; I had wanted to see Willoughby; my other errands had been trivial pretexts contrived to give an air of virtue to the mission.

But Lady Hariot said: ‘Listen, Eliza. You are not to reproach yourself. I think – I believe – that Thérèse wished to go. You had roused her mind from the slough where it had floundered for so long; enough so that she could see there was a way ahead for her. Out of this life into another. But – and do not take this hard, my dear girl – so long as
you
were with her, she did not like to leave you. It would have seemed ungrateful. Listen and I will tell you how she went. I was only a few yards away, coming towards her, and I saw her
stand up –
she, who had not moved from her chair for three years – she stood, she walked forwards, holding out her hands as if she saw something ahead, and she called out, quite clearly, ‘Come again, my dear Lord King Arthur, come again!' And then she fell headlong into the pool. I and Sister Maria were with her immediately and pulled her out, but I believe her heart had stopped before she ever fell.'

I received this in silence and remained so for a long time, looking down at the pale, motionless face which, now freed from its premature lines of suffering, looked like the ivory carving of some stern young angel.

‘Come again, my dear Lord King Arthur! It was the game we used to play.'

How clearly I could remember little Triz, in the garden at Kinn Hall, saying, ‘I wonder what Sir Bedivere did after that? I wonder if he ever
did
see King Arthur again?'

***

On the boat, coming up the Douro, my sorrow for the Duke had been tainted by anger and frustration, because I had hoped and planned to bring Lady Hariot and Triz back with me to Zoyland, where I was sure the Duke would receive them kindly. Now, with Hoby as owner, I felt this plan would not be possible. Would be out of the question.

But the death of Triz showed me, in a flash, how idle it is to engender such plans and contrivances; Fate tosses them aside, like leaves in autumn gales.

‘Thérèse will be buried here, in the Sisters' graveyard,' said Lady Hariot, blowing her nose. ‘They hold her funeral tomorrow.'

‘I will ask Sister Euphrasia if I may sing with the choir.'

‘Of course . . . how queer. I had forgotten about your voice.'

‘What will you do, where will you go now, Lady Hariot?'

‘I shall have to see,' she said doubtfully. ‘My sister is still far away in Brazil. The Portuguese royal family seem so comfortably established there, they show no signs of returning to Lisbon. I am really not certain where I shall go. Back to Porto, perhaps.'