The Jade Dragon (18 page)

“Really, Elinor, what can you possibly know of such matters?” Carlota said in a scathing tone. “You were brought up in a totally different world.”

I swallowed back my anger. “I shall need a carriage to take me to Miramar. I presume you aren’t going to raise an objection to that?”

She glared at me, but could find no possible reason for refusal. “You had better take the victoria. The
conde
might well require one of the other carriages.”

“The victoria will suit me very well. Naturally, I would not dream of incommoding the senhor
conde
or yourself.” The sting in my voice was something new. I would have to watch my tongue. Springing to Stafford’s defense like this was a luxury I couldn’t yet permit myself.

On Vicencia’s gentle face I saw a look of deep dismay, while beside her, Julio was regarding me with a dark frown. I realized that I must have betrayed myself just now, shown them unmistakably that I was in love with Stafford. If they had both been clinging to the hope that I might yet make a match with Julio, they knew now that it was out of the question.

I was grieved to cause them disappointment, yet I could not really blame myself. I had given Julio no encouragement. Or at least, only of the very mildest kind. Surely he had read far too much into our kiss, a kiss exchanged in the tension that had followed a moment of danger.

Vicencia said in an unusually critical voice, “When did Stafford speak to you about restoring Miramar, Elinor?”

“Oh, it ... it must have been the day we returned from Lisbon together. Yes, it was then.”

“He said nothing to me of such plans.” Then she smiled. “I
daresay he intended to surprise me.”

“Yes,” I agreed nervously, “I am sure it must have been something of the kind.”

I had to sit through the long, wearisome luncheon with them, although in my sudden excitement, every mouthful seemed as dry as sawdust, nearly choking me. And it would be the same at dinner tonight and at tomorrow’s luncheon, too. If only I could absent myself, but to pretend an indisposition and then set off for Miramar would be too pointedly obvious.

The moment I could escape, I ran up to my room, to read and reread Stafford’s letter. I hugged it to my breast, and my mind whirled with wondrous thoughts of what the future held.

* * * *

Pedro was waiting for me next day with the victoria as I emerged from beneath the portico.

Vicencia and Julio were not around for me to bid them goodbye but I could hear Vicencia playing her flute in the garden and I guessed that Julio must be with her. I was glad because I would avoid another sad, bewildered look from him, as if he couldn’t understand why I had insisted I could never care for him as he cared for me.

Pedro handed me into the victoria and we set off. We skirted the knot garden, with its nymphs and tritons and whispering fountains, and as we straightened into the avenue of cypresses, I glanced back at the palatial house. It was just as I had seen it on the day of my arrival, shuttered against the sun, silent and brooding. But now I did not care.

At the tall, wrought iron gates, with their gilded plaques, we halted while the gatekeeper came running from his lodge to let us through. In the stillness, without the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the grating of the carriage wheels, I could still hear the pure, lovely notes of Vicencia’s flute. She was playing a sad little lament—and perhaps I was the cause of her melancholy mood. Poor Vicencia,

she sorely needed a friend she could trust. Were I to marry Julio I would become her sister and we would always have a close tie. But now she had lost all hope of this. I made Vicencia a silent vow that she would never lose my friendship, that I would never desert her, come what may.

A few moments later, when we were on the road to Miramar, it came to me suddenly that this was an ideal opportunity to clear up the little puzzles that still lingered in my mind. I loved Stafford, and I trusted him completely. But how much better it would be if I could go to him now with these questions fully explained and dismissed forever from my thoughts. Casually, idly, I said to Pedro, “Maria showed me the pendant you gave her for her birthday. It’s very pretty. She told me that you bought it at the fair.” Pedro turned his head, giving me a gratified smile. He was a darkly handsome young man—a little over-conscious of his appearance, I thought—and he looked very smart in this green and gold livery and cockaded hat. “The pendant must have cost rather a lot?” I suggested, making it into a question.

He shrugged. “It is nothing. To please little Maria makes me happy.”

“Maria must be your special favorite, then,” I went on carefully. “You could hardly afford to give everyone in your family such a costly gift.”

“No? Pedro is not a poor man, senhora.”

In his desire to impress, he forgot that I would have a fair idea of how little he would earn as a coachman. But I wanted to keep Pedro in a friendly mood, so I merely commented that Maria was very lucky to have such a kind and thoughtful brother.

“I shall give her more things,” he boasted. “Nice things. You will see, senhora.”

This wasn’t at all what I’d been hoping for by questioning Pedro. I was convinced now that he must be getting money from some added source. But from where? From whom? I felt compelled to press him further, but how was I to work around in a casual way, without arousing Pedro’s suspicions, to the curious episode in the pagoda when I’d seen him talking secretively with Stafford? I cleared my throat nervously. “How very tragic it was the way Dona Luzia met her death. I gather you were the one who drove her to Cascais, Pedro, so you must have been the last person from Castanheiros to see her alive.”

Did I see his back stiffen? Was he considering how to reply to my remark? After an interval that seemed unduly long and tense, Pedro turned to glance back at me again. But this time he wasn’t smiling. He looked puzzled, wary. “It was in this very carriage that I took her, senhora.”

For an instant I felt the presence of Luzia there beside me, and I shifted uncomfortably in the buttoned-leather seat.

“Why did Dona Luzia want to be taken to Cascais, Pedro? It seems odd, without telling anyone else where she was going.”

He lifted his shoulders in a slow, expressive shrug, this time not turning around. “It is not for me to know such things, senhora. I am only a coachman. I do what I am ordered to do.”

We were rounding another bend of the shady woodland road, and ahead of us I could see the gates of Miramar, standing open for us. I only had a few moments left. “All the same, Pedro,” I said coaxingly, “you don’t look to me the sort of man who could easily be deceived. If Dona Luzia had some special reason for the trip, I daresay you would know what it was.”

I felt confident that my flattery had pleased Pedro. But he seemed torn between an urge to boast of his cleverness, and his natural peasant reticence. “Perhaps, senhora,” he said at length, “I was
not
the last person from Castanheiros to see Senhora Dona Luzia alive.”

“What do you mean by that, Pedro?” He did not answer me as he turned the horses between the rusty iron gates, and we began to descend the driveway.

“Pedro, I asked what you meant by that remark.” He shook his head silently, and I knew I would get nothing more out of him.

The incline grew steeper as we approached the first of the sweeping bends. The land to our left fell sheerly, and I had a brief glimpse through the foliage of the
quinta’s
domed roof.

And then it happened, a sequence of events so swift that they were little more than a blur in my mind. I saw—or thought I saw—a movement from the laurel shrubs on our right, a hand, an arm, extended—something thrown. Then came the sharp crack of an explosion like a firecracker, seemingly from just under the horses’ hooves. The terror-stricken creatures shied and reared, then broke into a mad runaway gallop. The victoria swayed and swung upon its springs, and while I clung for dear life to the leather straps, Pedro fought desperately to bring the horses back under control.

But he had no chance, the bend ahead was too acute. With a terrible sickening, slithering movement and clouds of choking dust, the carriage left the road and plunged down, dragging the screaming horses after us. My fingers couldn’t keep their hold, and I was catapulted from my seat and flung violently into the bushes.

I remembered nothing more.

Despite the cushioned upholstery of Stafford’s barouche, the swaying motion as we drove back to Castanheiros was painful to my bruised and tender limbs. Beside me sat Guy Lambert, the architect, his long face deeply troubled. Stafford sat up in the driver’s seat, for his own coachman had been left behind at Miramar with poor Pedro’s body.

What had happened was like a nightmare, from those first moments of terror when the horses had shied and bolted and the victoria went lurching off the road. Would I ever forget the bellows of anguish from the poor crazed creatures as they were dragged down to their deaths?

I reiterated for the dozenth time, “It was deliberate, Stafford. Someone threw a firework, some kind of explosive, right under the horses’ hooves.”

He flicked me a worried glance over his shoulder. “Don’t think about it, Elinor. You have been badly shocked. I’ll send for the doctor the minute we get to Castanheiros.”

“But who could it have been, Stafford?” I persisted. “Shouldn’t we be doing something to find out?”

“It was nobody, my dear. Merely your imagination. And no wonder, after all you’ve been through. Just sit quietly and relax.”

Why did Stafford refuse to understand, I thought helplessly. Why wouldn’t he believe me? But I hadn’t the strength to argue anymore. My brain felt too stunned, too clogged with fatigue. I desperately needed sleep, to find peace and oblivion from the horror.

As the barouche drew up before the portico at Castanheiros, Stafford sprang down from the driver’s box to help me out. But instead of giving me his hand as I expected, he swept me up into his arms.

“But I can walk perfectly well,” I protested. “You don’t have to carry me, Stafford.”

“Nonsense. I want to get you upstairs to your room without delay.” To the footman who came hurrying down the steps he gave orders for the doctor to be fetched at once. Another footman appeared as we crossed the great hall, and Stafford dispatched him for Vicencia.

“Dear heaven, whatever is the matter?” she cried, arriving flushed and breathless only moments after we reached my room. “Poor Elinor! What has happened to you?”

Stafford was laying me gently on the quilt. He turned to Vicencia and put a hand on her arm. “Now, it’s no use getting agitated. This is a time to be calm and practical. Elinor has had an accident and needs attention, though mercifully I don’t think there is any serious damage. Will you get her to bed, Vicencia? I’ve already sent for the doctor.”

She swallowed hard, pulling herself together. “Yes ... yes, of course. You can leave us now, Stafford.”

“What about Maria?” I cried distractedly. “She must be told at once about her brother. And the poor parents—”

“Be very gentle with her,” I begged. “She adored Pedro.”

Vicencia gave a gasp. “What is this? Are you saying that Pedro is
dead?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Stafford. “He didn’t stand a chance, poor devil. The victoria was smashed to pieces against a tree trunk, and he with it. The horses too, though for that I’m thankful. I wouldn’t have wanted them alive but injured.”

“Oh, how dreadful. It seems a miracle that Elinor wasn’t killed, too.”

“A miracle indeed.”

When he had gone, Vicencia worked swiftly, removing my torn garments, exclaiming in distress at the sight of my bruised and scratched body. “However did this accident happen?” she asked.

“The horses bolted as we were going down the driveway at Miramar,” I explained. “Oh, Vicencia, someone deliberately threw a firework under their hooves, to frighten them.”

Her eyes widened in amazement. “But who would do such a wicked thing? They should have realized it might cause a dreadful accident.”

I found myself trembling in every limb. I gulped, “Whoever it was must have
intended
to cause an accident. It is the only explanation. I think... I think they wanted to kill me.”

“Kill you,” she echoed incredulously. “How can you suggest such a terrible thing, Elinor? Who would want to kill you?”

“I ... I don’t know. But I would certainly be dead now, like poor Pedro, if I hadn’t been thrown clear as the carriage went over the edge.”

Having bathed my scratches and put lint dressings on the worst of them, Vicencia helped me into my nightgown. Thankfully, I sank back against the soft pillows.

“Did you see any sign of this person, Elinor—the one you say must have thrown a firework?”

“No, not exactly. There was a movement in the bushes, though.”

“Couldn’t it have been some animal? A mountain goat, perhaps, startled by the approach of the carriage.”

“But there was a hand, an arm. At least, I
think
so.”

“My dear Elinor,” said Vicencia comfortingly, tucking the bedcovers around me, “you have suffered a bad fright, and it is only too easy to imagine all sorts of things afterward. It was an appalling experience for you, coming so near to losing your life, and being upset about poor Pedro, too. But it is not the first time horses have bolted for no apparent reason, you know. Now you must try your best to put the incident out of your mind.”

“I’ll never be able to do that,” I said, shivering despite the warmth of the blankets. My thoughts circled frantically—who, who, who was my enemy? Who would want me dead? And who could have contrived such an accident?

I forced my mind to go back over the events of the afternoon, to recall every single detail from the moment the family dispersed after luncheon. I had gone at once to my bedroom, wanting to leave myself ample time to dress for my meeting with Stafford. Then, just as I was about to set out in the carriage, Julio had come up to speak to me for a few minutes before going to join Vicencia, who was playing her flute somewhere in the gardens. But I had neither seen nor heard anything of my uncle and his wife.