The Jade Dragon (6 page)

I smiled at her. “I have never allowed myself to take too much notice of complimentary remarks. Young men are apt to be carried away and say extravagant things they don’t really mean.”

“But is there not some young man who wants to marry you?” Vicencia persisted.

To explain to her about Oliver would have been too complicated, so I merely shook my head. With a little shrug of disappointment, she continued, “Do you like this room, Elinor? It would be easy enough to prepare another for you if it is not to your taste.”

I looked about me, really noticing the apartment for the first time. In my concern over my grandmother I had only been aware of its magnificence, hardly taking in any of the details. The paneled walls were painted with a series of allegorical pictures against a pale, celestial background, rising to a lofty, gold-coffered ceiling. The four-poster bed was draped in peacock-blue silk, embroidered with a classical laurel-leaf design, the theme being echoed in the curtains at the two tall windows. A Brussels carpet with a pattern of entwined roses was laid upon the floor, and a matched pair of rose pink porcelain oil lamps stood one upon the dressing table and one upon the bedside console.

“It rather takes my breath away,” I confessed. “In fact, everything I’ve seen here does. It’s all so grand and so beautifully cared for.”

Vicencia beamed her pleasure. “Then you will not want to hasten back to England, Elinor. My wish is that you will stay for a long, long time.”

I hesitated. “I’m not sure if that is possible, Vicencia. Will
any
of the Milaveira family be able to remain here for much longer? I must admit that I am very confused. Mr. Darville told me that my grandfather left a great many debts, and he was emphatic that when these had all been settled, there would be virtually no money left over. But my grandmother insists that this is utter nonsense, that the debts are unimportant. I do not know which of them to believe.”

Vicencia sighed unhappily. “You must believe what Stafford says, Elinor. He knows about these matters. You may be quite certain that he would never tell you such a thing if it were not true. He is far too honest and sincere a person.”

I looked at Vicencia in surprise. Up until now, everyone to whom I had mentioned Stafford Darville’s name—Mrs. Forrester, Carlota, and my grandmother—had all reacted with marked disfavor. Yet Vicencia clearly approved of him. I wondered why. A sudden thought occurred to me, although if I were right, Vicencia’s attitude was all the more difficult to understand.

“You mentioned just now that your husband was a cousin of my mother’s. I gathered from Mr. Darville that his wife, too, was a cousin of hers. Does that mean they were brother and sister?”

She nodded her head and smiled. “I forget that you know so little about us, Elinor. By and by we will have a nice long chat together, and I will tell you all that you wish to know. But not now, I think, when you have only just arrived.”

“How tragic it was,” I heard myself murmuring, “the way in which your sister-in-law met her death.”

Vicencia’s eyebrows lifted. “So Stafford told you. And about little Eduardo too, I suppose? Poor Stafford, his marriage to Luzia brought him nothing but unhappiness.”

The sympathetic tone of her voice made me feel certain that she could not have heard about Stafford Darville’s relationship with Inesca, the
fado
singer. I said warily, “Do you mean that his marriage was never happy, even before the little boy’s death?”

Vicencia was about to deny the suggestion. But then she gave a deep sigh. “It is useless to pretend, Elinor. You would discover the truth sooner or later. My sister-in-law, you see, was quite the wrong wife for a man like Stafford. He needed a woman who would be a warmly loving partner, but all that Luzia wanted from her husband, apart from wealth and position, was a child. She devoted herself utterly to the baby and neglected Stafford shamefully. I believe that from the moment Luzia
knew she had conceived, she was never again a proper wife to him. You understand what I mean, Elinor?”

I couldn’t help being embarrassed by Vicencia’s directness, but I tried to consider calmly what she had told me. Did it not suggest a different explanation of why Luzia should have resorted to suicide, if indeed Mrs. Forrester was right in hinting that her death was no accident? If Luzia cared nothing about the man she’d married and allowed herself to become totally absorbed in her child, then might not the little boy’s horrifying death have carried her beyond the brink of despair? And as for her husband’s infidelity, about which Mrs. Forrester had been so disapproving, Vicencia had inferred that Stafford Darville was a man with a strongly passionate nature. Denied his wife’s bed, would he not have been driven to turn elsewhere? Perhaps, after all, Vicencia was aware of his liaison with the
fadista
and judged him blameless.

I suppose my face must have registered something of my confusion and distress. Vicencia took my hand and pressed it sympathetically. “You must be tired, my dear. And I can see that you have scarcely touched your luncheon. I will ring for some tea to be brought—we do drink tea in Portugal, you know. Then afterward, would you like me to show you something of the quinta?”

“Thank you, Vicencia. But perhaps,” I suggested tentatively, “I should go and see my grandmother again. That is, if she has recovered sufficiently by now.”

Vicencia gave an emphatic shake of her head. “Dona Amalia will make up her own mind when she wishes to see you again, Elinor. She can be very difficult sometimes, and I am sure you want to avoid another unpleasant scene.”

My tour of the house—a real palace—with Vicencia revealed to me new wonders at every turn. Each chamber we entered seemed even more magnificent than the one before, and I felt dazed by the splendor of it all—the gilded and painted ceilings, the delicately ornate furniture, the multitude of rich tapestries and fabrics, the chandeliers that I guessed would be a glittering blaze when lit, their myriad candles reflected in the huge rococo mirrors. I thought poignantly of Mama being brought up in such luxury and how she had renounced it all to marry the man she loved, to become simply the wife of an English country doctor. Yet I was convinced that my mother had never once regretted her choice.

We had just reached an apartment that Vicencia told me was called the Chinese salon, when Carlota interrupted us. “Oh, Vicencia, there you are. I want you to make a small addition to the dinner menu this evening; so kindly see the chef and arrange it for me. Tell him to send a dish of pimientos to table.”

“As you wish,” Vicencia said meekly.
“
I will finish showing Elinor the rooms in this wing. Then she can come with me to the kitchens.”

“No, please go now. I will attend to Elinor.”

Vicencia threw me a helpless little glance and departed. My heart turned in pity for her. She had to accept such humiliating treatment from Carlota, lest the new
conde’s
wife find some excuse to dismiss her and she be left without a home. I determined that I would use whatever authority my position as an heir gave me to prevent this from happening. But I wondered sadly how long it would be before the entire family was forced to leave Castanheiros. And what would become of Vicencia then?

I inquired of Carlota how my grandmother was. She replied curtly that the old lady was as well as could be expected in the circumstances. “In the future, Elinor, kindly remember that your presence here puts a considerable strain on her. At least promise me you will not upset your grandmother again by any foolish or unwarranted remarks.”

“My only wish,” I said earnestly, “is to help her understand the truth about my mother’s marriage. If I can do that, my visit will have been worthwhile.” Carlota made a dismissive gesture, as if she did not believe a single word of it.

She was a far less helpful guide than Vicencia had been and stood watching with obvious impatience while I wandered about the salon, looking and admiring. The Chinese influence that gave the room its name was apparent everywhere. The chimneypiece was made to look like a pagoda, and the lacquer wall paneling was decorated in the chinoiserie style. Two glass-fronted display cabinets each contained a collection of fine Oriental porcelain. At the far end of the salon was a semicircular alcove flanked by slender columns, and there on a fluted pedestal rested a small green statuette. Coming closer, I saw that it was carved in the shape of some weird mythical creature, which I decided must be a dragon. It was grotesque rather than beautiful, I thought, and I wondered why this object above all else should have been displayed so prominently.

“It’s made of jade, isn’t it?” I asked Carlota. She nodded, without speaking.

I sighed, and tried again. “I’m
not sure it is something I myself would choose to put in the place of honor, but I suppose it must be very valuable?”

“Its value to this family, Elinor, is not a question of what price it would fetch in a salesroom. It has a long and treasured history.”

“Oh yes---?” I said invitingly.

But already Carlota had turned away and was moving to a doorway at one side. I noticed then that some of the blue floor tiles near the pedestal were chipped and broken—the first sign of anything less than perfection I had seen at the
quinta.
I was about to comment upon this but decided against giving her the chance for another short answer. So, in silence, I followed Carlota into the adjoining room.

“This is the library, Elinor. We have a number of books in English if you should become bored and want something to read.”

“Thank you—although I’m hoping it won’t be too long before I am fluent in Portuguese.”

“I doubt if you will find it worth the effort. Most visitors from England soon give up attempting to master our language.”

Again she was making the point that I was unwelcome at Castanheiros and was not expected to stay for very long. Carlota, I decided, was someone with whom I would have to tread warily if I were not to make an enemy.

I didn’t attempt to prolong the tour, but merely glanced around without asking any questions as we passed through the remaining downstairs rooms. When I finally escaped to my bedroom, I found a young maid unpacking my things, disposing of them in the commodious chest of drawers. She was a pretty, buxom, dark-haired girl of about sixteen. Bobbing a curtsey, she gave me a nervous smile and murmured something I did not catch.

“Boa tarde,”
I greeted her with an answering smile. Wanting to know her name, I tried to remember how to ask it.
“Dizer-me sue nome,”
I
hazarded.

“Maria, senhora,” she told me in a shy whisper.

Other phrases came to mind, and I managed to converse with Maria in simple terms. I learned that she had worked at the quinta for five years, that her father was the baker in Cintra, and that her brother was a coachman here.

Maria obviously expected to stay and help me dress for dinner, but I explained to her that I had never been accustomed to a personal maid in England, and that I could manage very well for myself. I felt cheered, however, to have made a friendly contact with at least one member of the
quinta
staff.

When I went downstairs an hour later, my uncle had arrived home. I found him in the anteroom to the
sala de jantar.
He was standing before an ornate Venetian mirror, a wineglass in his hand, and he seemed to be admiring his reflection. Hearing me enter, he spun around quickly and cleared his throat. “Ah. You must be Elinor. I heard that you had, er, safely arrived.” He removed his monocle and started to polish it with a black-bordered handkerchief, as if needing a moment to consider the situation.

I smiled at him and held out my hand. “How do you do, Tio Affonso?”

“I am well, thank you.” He paused, then added, “Your aunt will be down soon, I expect.”

My uncle was not a tall man, scarcely taller than myself, in fact, but he had kept himself in good trim for someone in his middle years. Even had I not caught him before the mirror just now I might have guessed that his appearance was important to him. His dark hair was graying at the temples, and he wore a neat goatee, which he stroked with long fingers as he surveyed me. He did not smile, and his eyes just evaded mine. Could it be, I wondered, that he was as nervous at meeting me as I was meeting him?

To fill the awkward silence I inquired whether my grandmother ever came down to meals. My uncle shook his head. “Not nowadays—at least, only on rare occasions. She is an invalid, Elinor, I hope that has been, er, properly impressed upon you. I understand that she had one of her attacks today.”

“An attack brought on entirely by Elinor’s thoughtlessness,” a sharp voice interjected from the doorway. Carlota looked truly magnificent in her dinner gown. Of black taffeta with ruched flounces and a small train, it was cleverly designed to make her plump figure seem voluptuous. In her hand she carried a carved ivory fan edged with black lace. She gave me no chance to answer her contentious remark, but went on peremptorily, “Come, Affonso, let us go straight through.”

My uncle hesitated. “But should we not wait for Vicencia, my dear?”

“She can join us when she is ready,” Carlota said coldly. “I had to send her to the coach house with a message.”

Although there were to be only four of us, we were dining in full splendor in the main
sala de jantar,
a vast, vaulted chamber that I had seen earlier during my tour. The walls were covered with blue and white
azulejos
similar to the glazed tiles I had noticed on many of the houses in Lisbon, but Vicencia had told me that these were especially rare and valuable. The floor, too, was tiled, in red and black, and through a Moorish archway was an indoor fountain that whispered gently in the background.

Vicencia came hurrying in apologetically, not seeming at all surprised to find that we hadn’t waited for her. The meal commenced in an uneasy silence, with the butler, a grave and dignified figure, standing attentively behind Carlota’s chair, while the footmen in their white waistcoats and knee breeches scurried to wait upon us under his eagle eye.