The Jade Dragon (3 page)

“But please—

She shook her head firmly. “One piece of advice I will give you, my dear, is to avoid Stafford Darville until you know more about him. I doubt that you will be hearing much to the credit of the man.”

Mrs. Forrester declined to say another word on the subject. As soon as breakfast was over, she invited two women of her acquaintance to sit with us in the lounge, which gave me no chance to persuade her to change her mind. After a while I excused myself and went up on deck. I was still there, pacing about restlessly, when from out of the misty distance I saw the coastline emerge—the rocky cliffs of Devonshire. Very soon now we would be putting in at Dartmouth before we finally left English shores and headed southward.

I went to the rail and stood watching as we turned into the mouth of the River Dart and edged upstream. Presently, the charming little harbor town came into view, the houses and cottages steeply terraced upon a craggy hill. A small knot of people was gathered on the quayside. Among them I could pick out a tall figure in an Ulster greatcoat that I guessed at once must be Stafford Darville. But I did not linger to make sure. I had no wish for him to catch sight of me standing there, as though I were watching out for him.

* * * *

All that day the weather worsened, and during the evening, when we entered the Bay of Biscay, we met the full violence of a westerly gale. The vessel rolled and pitched, and I quite expected to spend another disturbed night. But a feeling of weariness overtook me, and I found myself drifting off to sleep. By now I was accustomed to the steady pulse of the great engines, and it seemed a safe, reassuring sound.

In the morning, when I rose to get dressed, Mrs. Forrester looked up at me doubtfully from her berth. “You’d be better advised to remain lying down, Elinor. I intend to ask the steward to bring just a little dry toast to eat here in the cabin. Why don’t you do the same?”

“But I want to go on deck and watch the storm. It should be exciting.”

She smiled resignedly. “Oh, very well, if you must. But do take great care, my dear.”

Up on deck it was a new world to me. The wind tore at my skirts angrily, as though trying to break my grip on the brass handrail and fling me bodily into the seething water. Slowly, hand over hand, I struggled my way around to the leeward side of the vessel, where by contrast it seemed suddenly calm. The lone figure of a man stood leaning against the outer rail. He was bareheaded, his dark hair streaming in the wind as he gazed out to sea. Though just a silhouette against the white foam of the tossing waves, I knew at once that it was Stafford Darville.

I hesitated, wondering whether to retreat. Then he seemed to sense my presence and turned to look at me. “We meet again. Miss Rosslyn,” he called against the wind. “But would you not find it more comfortable to stay below in this weather?”

My hackles rose at his implication that poor, weak females made bad sailors, and nothing would have induced me to go back now. Luckily, I seemed to have found my sea-legs. I was confidently able to judge the moment to let go my hold and walk across the deck to join him, achieving the maneuver without a stumble.

“A storm at sea is a new experience for me,” I said. “I find it quite exhilarating.”

‘Then you are unlike most of your sex,” he replied. “But avoiding
mal de mer
is largely a matter of disciplining oneself. It seems you have the right attitude of mind, Miss Rosslyn.”

It was a change to hear a note of approval in his voice, however slight. After a moment’s hesitation, I ventured to put to him the question that had been in my mind since yesterday.

“Mr. Darville, why did you not tell me that you are related by marriage to the Milaveiras?”

“Perhaps I should apologize for being so remiss,” he remarked with heavy irony.

“I ... I only meant that as I shall probably see you at the Quinta dos Castanheiros, it seems odd that you didn’t mention the fact.”

“I am sure that my omission has been amply rectified by that good lady, Mrs. Forrester. Doubtless she gave you all the details, heavily embroidered.”

“She did not,” I said crisply. “She told me no more than is perfectly natural in the circumstances.”

“Which is?”

‘That you were married to a cousin of my mother’s, and ... and that you lost your wife and child very tragically. That is all she told me.”

“How very commendable of her to resist such a chance to gossip. I suppose, Miss Rosslyn, that you are now consumed with curiosity to know every last tidbit?”

I refused to be riled by his sarcasm and said evenly, “Your wife was a member of the Milaveira family, about which I know almost nothing, so I do not apologize for my curiosity. But naturally, I realize that it must be painful for you to speak of what happened.”

He turned away from me, leaning with his elbows on the rail. His voice was harsh, as though charged with anger. “My son, Edward, was burned to death, Miss Rosslyn. He was eighteen months old—just a baby.”

“Oh, how ... how dreadful!” I gasped in horror.

“But it happened eight months ago,” he went on. “It is time I put it all behind me, do you not agree?”

I shook my head but did not speak. I understood now that his
biting sarcasm stemmed from a deep, burning torment. When at last he spoke again, the bitterness was gone, and his voice
was flat, almost devoid of expression.

“I was visiting a wine grower I do business with, a big estate over the River Tagus by Palmela, when I received a telegraph message that my house in Lisbon had caught fire. I hastened home to find a blackened ruin. The blaze had started, apparently, in the room below the nursery, where my son slept. The house was an old one, the timbers dry as tinder, and by the time the pumps arrived, it was already an inferno beyond control. Little Eduardo perished, and his nursemaid too, poor woman—in trying to save the boy she lost her own life. None of the other servants were hurt. My wife escaped without an outward mark on her body, but ever afterward the tragedy played on her mind.”

“It is not to be wondered at,” I whispered huskily. “Nothing could be worse for a mother than having to stand by helplessly while her child dies.” I knew with piercing intensity how his poor wife must have felt. Had I not myself suffered a similar agony six years ago, powerless to help while only a few yards off my mother’s lifeblood ebbed away?

Stafford Darville remained silent for a few moments, absently twisting the gold signet ring on his finger. “Luzia was always delicate, and ... and highly strung, and little Edward’s death seemed to unhinge her completely. After the fire we took temporary refuge at the Quinta dos Castanheiros. It was my intention to set about acquiring a new home in Lisbon immediately, but the doctor warned me against taking my wife away from her family circle, where there would always be company to distract her. He was afraid that, left too much alone, she might brood and torment herself with feelings of guilt, and this would endanger any hope of her returning to a state of normality.” He gave a deep sigh. “But it was not to be. Within two months, Luzia, too, was dead.”

“You mean she died from grief?”

“Her death is a complete mystery,” he said quietly, “One day, when I had gone to Lisbon on business, my wife ordered a carriage and left the
quinta
without telling anyone where she was going. Later, the coachman returned alone. He reported that Luzia had ordered him to drive her to Cascais, a seaside village not far from Cintra, and had there dismissed him. From that moment on I have been unable to trace her movements. At dawn next morning, the crew of a fishing smack returning to harbor came across a woman’s body floating in the Tagus, just off Almada, some fifteen miles away.”

“So she was ... drowned?” I faltered. “But did no one witness the accident?”

“No one. And there is no explanation of why Luzia decided to go to Cascais that day. Clearly, she was in a very agitated state of mind, and we can only presume that she stumbled, or perhaps became dizzy, and fell into the water, and that there was nobody to save her.”

For a brief moment his dark eyes met mine, and I saw the pain in them. I longed to ease his grief, to bring him comfort. But I was afraid that any words I might find to say would seem so unbearably trite, so utterly facile, that I remained silent.

Abruptly, he let go his hold on the ship’s rail and straightened to his full height, towering above me. “Forgive me, Miss Rosslyn, for having burdened you with my private sorrows.” He bowed to me stiffly. “No doubt we shall meet again soon.”

* * * *

Two days later I was startled into wakefulness in the dark hours before dawn by the sound of hoarse shouting, the rattle of chains, and the heavy tramping of feet on the deck above. Through the porthole I could see the lights of a city. We had arrived at Lisbon.

Before long, the sun had risen, and it was full daylight.
As
I dressed, I felt a growing sense of trepidation at being so near the end of my journey. What should I find at the Quinta dos Castanheiros? What would my reception be?

But when, after a hurried breakfast, I emerged with Mrs. Forrester on deck, the fascinating scene that greeted us swept aside my anxiety. The ship lay at anchor in a wide estuary of clear, silvery blue water. Lisbon rose before us, tier upon limpet-like tier of white and pink and terra-cotta buildings clinging to the slopes of its seven hills. Everything was delicately gilded with a golden haze of sunlight.

“It’s so beautiful!” I exclaimed in delight.

Mrs. Forrester went to the rail and began bargaining with a swarthy boatman to row us ashore, an altercation that was conducted with perfect good humor on both sides. When a rate was finally agreed upon between them, our baggage was lowered into the small boat. Against the strong current, we made slow but steady progress, while Mrs. Forrester scanned the shore for a glimpse of her husband.

“He will be there to meet me by the customhouse, if I know the major,” she said confidently.

My attention was suddenly arrested by a scene on the quayside, where a smart, open carriage had drawn up and the liveried coachman was loading a large leather portmanteau. Beside the carriage, talking animatedly with its occupant, was Stafford Darville. The woman seated within held a scarlet parasol with one hand. She was very elegantly dressed, with the features of a rare, haunting beauty.

Beatrice Forrester had noticed them, too. She remarked disapprovingly, “I am surprised they can be so blatant about it.”

“Who is she?” I inquired.

“Hardly a person I should want you to know, Elinor. If Mr. Darville must indulge in such an
affaire,
I do
think he might at least show a little more discretion. But then, Stafford Darville was never a discreet man, even when his wife was alive. It is no wonder that the poor woman was driven to—”

Mrs. Forrester broke off abruptly. I understood only too well what she had been about to say, though, and a tremor of shock ran through me. Mrs. Forrester believed that the death of Stafford Darville’s wife had been no accident, but a deliberate act of suicide. She believed that Luzia Darville had been driven to take her own life by her husband’s flagrant infidelity.

I looked again at the carriage on the quayside. Stafford Darville had climbed in and was seated beside the woman. I watched as they drove off at a brisk pace and rounded a corner out of sight. I felt sick at heart, all the sympathy he had won from me instantly swept away.

“Has this liaison existed for long?” I asked in a low voice. “I mean, even before his baby son died?”

“Indeed yes, well before that. From all I’ve heard it began shortly after the child was born—” Again Beatrice Forrester checked herself, then added in a sort of half-apology, “Lisbon is always seething with scandal and rumor, my dear. You mustn’t take too much notice of it. People who have too little to occupy their lives exist on gossip, you know.”

“But you believe it to be true, don’t you, Mrs. Forrester?” Then I asked again, “Who is she? To look at, she seems to be a person of ... some consequence.”

“Perhaps notoriety would be a more apt word. Inesca enjoys fame as a
fadista
—a singer of a certain type of popular love song. She has a wide circle of male admirers, I believe, as women of the demimonde so often do. The
fado,
as it is called, is sung in places of doubtful repute—places that no respectable lady would visit. Unless, of course, simply out of curiosity.”

“Have you ever heard Inesca sing?” I inquired.

“Well, yes. Once or twice my husband has taken me with a party of friends.” Suddenly, she started waving frantically at someone on the shore. “Look, there is the dear major now, come to meet me just as I said he would.”

Major Forrester, not surprisingly, was a man of upstanding military bearing. He had graying hair and a small waxed moustache. He clasped his wife in his arms, and their delight at being reunited was touching to see. After a breathless exchange of inquires about each other’s health and well-being, Mrs. Forrester broke free to introduce me.

“Delighted, Miss Rosslyn, delighted.” Her husband clicked his heels and raised my hand to his lips. “Welcome to Portugal.”

“Thank you, Major Forrester. I am very pleased to meet you.”

“Arthur, dear, I have a splendid idea,” Mrs. Forrester went on eagerly. “Elinor is traveling to Cintra, so what do you say to her coming with us in the carriage? Then, when we are delivered at home, Sancho can drive her on. I should feel happier knowing she is in good hands.”

My protest that I couldn’t possibly inconvenience them so much was swept aside as irrelevant. As soon as the official formalities were completed, I was squeezed in between the Forresters in their victoria, the calash top let down so that the morning sun shone upon us. Driving along the waterfront, leaving behind Black Horse Square with its gracious public buildings and the large equestrian statue (which was not black at all, but the green of weathered bronze), we soon turned into the Rua do Alecrim, translated for me as Rosemary Street. Up the long hill we climbed, the pair of lively mares undeterred by the steepness of the gradient. I enjoyed the strangeness of it all—dark-haired townsfolk swarmed everywhere, street vendors shouted their wares, and mule carts rattled impatiently past the slower wagons drawn by plodding oxen. The narrow cobbled streets were overhung with tall houses faced with colorful, patterned tiles, and from their balconies trailed lines of freshly laundered washing, and luxuriant ferns and geraniums in every possible shade of pink and red and purple.