Man of Destiny (5 page)

When de Capuchos called for them they were trying not to look like a couple of cats that had stolen the cream. Caroline, bearing in mind a previous criticism, had selected a slim green and white dress from amongst the contents of her suitcases, and looked like a cool, golden-headed dryad instead of the well-trained governess she hoped to simulate. It was true that she had put her hair up and wore flat shoes, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. The absence of hair on her neck drew attention to its graceful shape, and the skin that had the warm tone of an extra creamy gardenia; and with low heels she lost height, which was never very impressive in any case.

De Capuchos looked down at her and studied her for a long moment with a kind of undisguised interest. Then he nodded his head.

“You have made the attempt, but I wouldn’t bother, if I were you,” he recommended. “Some people might mistake you for Ricardo’s sister—that is, of course, if you had the same colouring
!”
with his eye on a stray curl that had escaped confinement and bobbed against her neck. “But your colouring is so very different that we will have to think of you as his very good friend!” and he turned away as if
with that thought he had satisfied himself, at least.

The car sped through the suburbs and out into the genuine countryside, and for the first time Caroline saw Portugal wilting a little under the hot summer sun. But there was enough colour to dazzle
the eyes ...
every sunny wall was a sheet of purple bougainvillea or pink geranium, blue plumbago created a blue haze beneath the taller trees, colourwashed and white-walled villas stood in gardens that were ablaze with flowers and shrubs. There were fields of golden grain and silver-grey olives decorating the skyline, the dark, rich green of umbrella pines, and distant glimpses of a sapphire-blue sea.

A good many miles out into the country and they came upon flocks of sheep ambling along the dusty lanes, park-like estates where the great trees grouped themselves round belvederes and elegant eighteenth
-
century facades. They ran through picturesque villages and beside babbling streams, tunnelled through cork forests and skimmed the floors of enchanting, flower-strewn valleys. By lunch time they were climbing a little into the sierra, and then they dipped down again towards the sea.

In time for a late lunch they slipped between a pair of handsome, wrought-iron gates, and proceeded up a drive to what had once been a shooting lodge of the de Fonteira family. The long, dust-coloured, chauffeur-driven car came to rest before a flight of steps and the rosy-pink front of the building, and de Capuchos gave Caroline a hand to assist her alight, and then watched Richard jump down on to the drive. The child no longer had any fear that Caroline was going to be snatched away from him, and he glanced up curiously at the long rows of evenly spaced windows, with elegant little balconies abutting
on to each, and then around him at the fairytale garden in which, presumably, he would be permitted to wander and enjoy himself when this tall man who kept such a hawk-like eye on them had satisfied himself that the eye was unnecessary, and had departed and left them to their own devices.

And Richard hoped fervently that he would depart and leave them to their own devices very soon.

But that was not Senhor de Capuchos’ intention for the moment. He led them into the house and introduced them to the housekeeper, who was a very sober-eyed, soberly-dressed woman of middle age, and explained that Senhorita Worth would be remaining to take charge of Richard, and not merely looking after him for a few days. He then asked for a meal to be served to them immediately, and suggested that they would like to wash and refresh themselves before being shown the dining-
sala
.

The housekeeper, who had a face that gave away nothing, although her mouth was very primly set, conducted Caroline to a downstairs wash-room, and then left her to remove the grime from her own hands as well as Richard’s, and run a hasty comb through her hair. The wash-room was extremely luxurious, and through the open window they could see a corner of the garden and a tiled pavilion that looked as if it would be a delightful place in which to take refuge from the sun and rest or read a book. There was white-painted garden furniture on the platform outside the pavilion, and one wall was entirely covered in creamy pink and yellow roses.

The dining-
sala
, when they reached it, was in keeping with the rest of the house, and that was impressive enough on first acquaintance. All the rooms were large and airy, and had tiled floors. In the hall they were black and white, like marble, but in the dining-room they were golden-yellow, like a burnished apricot. Everywhere there were handsome Oriental rugs and tapestries, satin-surfaced tables and damask-covered chairs. The dining-table was enormous, and was loaded with silver and lace table mats, crystal and a magnificent bowl of fruit. A white
-
coated manservant and a girl in a crisp and rather attractive uniform stood waiting to serve them, and Senhor de Capuchos intimated that the service of the meal could commence immediately they were seated.

He had been quite affable on the journey, but now all at once he seemed aloof again, and remote. If he had been the Marques de Fonteira himself he could not have been more deferentially treated by the servants, and he had the air of fitting into the place by right, although he had already given her to understand that he did not live there.

“I have a house of my own not far away,” he had explained, while she was being constantly diverted by the scenery, and had not entirely taken in all that he had said to her.

But now, in the echoing silence of the dining
-
room, while he sat opposite her at the head of the long dining-table, as if he was indeed the host, she remembered something that had startled her a little when she first heard it, because it meant she had been addressing him incorrectly.

The housekeeper had greeted him as Dom Vasco, and that meant he had a title of his own, and was not simply Senhor de Capuchos. So now she thought she would seize the opportunity to apologise for the mistake she had made.

“You must forgive me,
senhor
,”
she said. “But if you’ll remember we were never properly introduced. That is to say, we had to introduce ourselves.”

“And you were expecting to meet the Marques, instead of the Marquis’s
man?”
He leant over Richard and removed the skins from a few grapes for him. “I assure you it is of no consequence,
senhorita,
and in future you can call me either Senhor de Capuchos or Dom Vasco as you please. But the name,” glancing in rather an odd fashion at her between his thick black eyelashes, “is, as I believe I did make clear when I introduced myself, Vasco.”

“And I’m Caroline.” She didn’t quite know why she said it, but the name leapt out. She flushed almost immediately, realising how unnecessary such a piece of information was to him, but Richard made the awkwardness seem less awkward by stating proudly that he was allowed to call her Caroline.

“Mama said I could, and I do, always.” He beamed across the table at Caroline. “Don’t I?”

“Yes, dear.”

But Dom Vasco frowned unexpectedly.

“I’m not at all sure that that is a good thing. A child of your age, Ricardo, should not be on familiar terms with his governess. And you, Miss Worth, would feel that your authority was enhanced if he called you Miss Worth.”

“Oh, but that’s ridiculous!” Caroline exclaimed, and then gathered from his expression that he didn’t think it ridiculous. “But of course, if you think so,
senhor,
we will have a different arrangement,” she corrected herself hurriedly.

To her surprise his dark eyes smiled openly.

“You mean you will instruct him to call you Miss Worth when anyone else is present, and Caroline when you are alone?” he said shrewdly. “Well, that
would be a piece of deception I couldn’t countenance, so you had better stick to Caroline all the time.
”

“Just as you think,
senhor
,”
she agreed demurely, and then laughed suddenly as he laughed, too, and Richard found the courage to join in.

“I am not an ogre,
senhorita
,”
the man assured her, with a whimsical curve of his lips that she found strangely attractive just then. “And although I blunder sometimes—” and she had little doubt he was referring to Richard’s decision to try and track her down—“I do not wish to make your life a misery while you are here at the Quinta de Fonteira. You will look after Richard in the way that you have been looking after him for the past few months, and unless either of you does something outrageous I shall not interfere.”

He rose, and suggested that they had coffee in the main
sala
.

“After which I must go to my own house, which is about a couple of miles from here.”

He remembered something, and produced it from his pocket.

“By the way, this was addressed to you at the Aviz, and I should have handed it over to you before.”

Caroline took the letter, and the round, school
-
girlish handwriting on the thick cream envelope that still smelled faintly of highly expensive Paris perfume informed her at once whom the letter was from. She knew that she would find the signature,
Il
se de Fonteira, scrawled inside, and still looking upon the latter as her employer she asked permission to open the envelope and read the contents.

“Of course.” Dom Vasco walked to the magnificent tall window that looked out over the garden, and
while his back was turned and Richard studied the portraits on the white walls with childlike curiosity, Caroline digested the brief message his mother had written—in haste, judging by the poor quality of the writing.

“Who is the man who took you and Richard off the ship? The old Marques could never look like that, unless I’ve been deceived about his age! Write to me at my London address, and be sure and give me as many details as possible
.

Yours,

Ils
e de Fonteira

Dom Vasco turned from
the window.

“Well, I will leave you now, Miss Worth.” He watched Caroline fold her letter and put it away in her handbag. “Spend the rest of the day getting accustomed to the house, and Ricardo can run in the garden.” He lightly rumpled the boy’s hair in passing. “In the morning I shall be here to conduct my usual business, and will see you both again. Anything you require will be provided by the housekeeper.”

“Thank you,
senhor
.”

She returned his stiff little bow with a slight inclination of her fair head, and took Richard’s hand as he left the room. But she was not
thinking
of Richard or Dom Vasco as she stood there in the dimness of the great drawing-room, while outside the sunlight made a splendour of the surrounding garden.

She was wondering how
Il
se had managed to see Dom Vasco, and she realised that having seen him she was impressed by him. And
Il
se was the type of woman who liked to follow up her interests, and keep tabs on them.

Even although she was planning to marry she could still not overlook an attractive—in this case intensely attractive, in an extremely masculine way—member of the opposite sex.

CHAPTER
SIX

FOR the next few days Caroline found that she and Richard were to be allowed a degree of freedom that surprised her considering her early encounters with Dom Vasco, and the views he had not hesitated to express about the bringing up of children, and small boys in particular.

There was to be no feminine interference, and no weakness. Certainly, if he had been depending on the housekeeper at the Quinta de Fonteira to take charge of Richard, there would have been no weakness. She was a woman who went about her duties with that tight-lipped look on her face that had caused Caroline’s heart to sink a little when she first met her, but otherwise she was a model of efficiency and almost certainly had her employer’s interests at heart above everything else. The de Fonteira family, as—she once or twice observed to Caroline when she condescended to open her mouth to her, had lived in that part of the world for generations. They were great landowners. The present Marques still held almost as much land as his forebears had owned, and he was a great gentleman. It was a pleasure to serve him, and every other surviving member of the family.

She drew herself up to her elongated height, handled the keys at her waist as if they were weapons to defend the family honour, and condescendingly added that Master Richard—as the next in line for the Marquisate—could command her at all times, and trust her with his life if need be.

But when it came to creating a playroom for him she was not so helpful. Every piece of furniture in every beautifully cared-for room had a history which demanded it be left where it was; the paintwork gleamed to such an extent that she plainly shuddered at the thought of small fingers marking it, and as to train-sets careering over the polished tiles—lovely aubergine tiles that melted and merged into the surrounding colour-schemes—and chinoiserie screens cleared out of the way to make room for Meccano and building bricks and a litter of childish books, such vandalism was something she couldn’t countenance until she had word from the Marques himself.

“But Senhor de Capuchos—I’m sorry, I mean Dom Vasco,” Caroline corrected herself, “said you would provide all that was necessary for the wellbeing of Richard. And a playroom
is
a necessity, especially on days when the weather isn’t very fine.”

“In this part of Portugal the weather is nearly always fine at this time of the year,” the housekeeper returned, her lips so thin that they practically disappeared into her head. “And it is much healthier for a child to play in the garden, or to be taken for walks, or trips to the beach. The sea is not very far away, and Joachim, the chauffeur, has instructions to drive you wherever you wish to go.”

“I know the garden is beautiful,” Caroline conceded, “and at the moment the weather is marvellous.
...We
never have anything quite like it in England!” hoping to conciliate that cool glint in the other’s black boot-button eyes. “But it is important that a period of every day is set aside for lessons, if not for play, and that means we must have somewhere where we can be undisturbed and work. If Richard
is to be sent to school very soon he has a lot of leeway to make up.”

Senhora Lopes looked entirely unconvinced.

“The arbours,” she suggested. “Why not work in one of the arbours? I will give instructions to Maria to have one prepared.”

Caroline gave up.

“When I see Senhor—Dom Vasco, I will mention it to him,” she said. “I don’t expect he will have to get in touch with the Marques before insisting upon a schoolroom. He seems to have a lot of authority.”

The Portuguese woman drew herself up.

“But naturally he has a lot of authority. Dom Vasco is a blood relation of the
senhor
Marques, and in addition he himself is a landowner. His wishes are always carried out without any hesitation at the Quinta de Fonteira.”

“Then perhaps you could tell me where he lives? And if he doesn’t come here in the next day or so Richard and I could drive over and discuss the matter with him.”

But Senhora Lopes could not approve of that.

“In Portugal unmarried ladies do not go calling on single gentlemen,” she said stiffly, as if it amazed her that she should
have to make such a convention clear. “Not even on married gentlemen, unless their wives first pay the visit and issue the invitation! Dom Vasco has business of his own to attend to, I have no doubt, but he will be here in the course of the week, or perhaps next week. The
senhorita
must contain her impatience until he comes
!”

Caroline shrugged, and went out into the garden, taking Richard with her. There seemed little point in continuing such a conversation with a woman as obstinate as Senhora Lopes.

The garden of the
quinta
was certainly a world of enchantment contained within high stone walls that were covered in climbing roses. Roses, in fact, were everywhere
...
formal beds of them, arbours smothered in them, walks bordered by them. There were lemon trees, too, and orange trees, creating a film of green with bright globes of fruit caught up amongst them.

At one
corner
of the garden a flight of steps led up to a music-room that was also used as a kind of ballroom on occasion, and Caroline loved to wander here and admire the statuary and the one or two magnificent pictures on the walls, as well as a series of murals that had been painted in more recent times. There were long couches covered in beautiful tapestry, little tables and bronzes supported by pedestals in addition to a fine Bechstein piano and a baby grand piano. There was also a harp that stood against a wall, and a collection of native drums that fascinated Richard.

“Do you think I might play them?” he asked, when he first caught sight of them, and promptly pounced on a pair of drumsticks. But Caroline prevented him just in time to prevent the housekeeper making an irate appearance, or sending someone to discover what the noise was all about, and discovering that the precious set of drums collected by the Marques on one of his trips abroad—very possibly Portuguese East Africa—was being put to inconsiderate use, by a child who ought to be content to walk in the garden.