The Jade Dragon (20 page)

Vicencia came by and by, followed by a maidservant with the light meal the doctor had ordered—a chicken broth with mint, and a fish mousse. She seated herself beside me and watched as I swallowed each reluctant mouthful, but finally I pushed the tray aside. “I’m sorry, Vicencia, I’ve had as much as I can manage.”

“Are you sure? Then I’ll ring for it to be taken away.” She hesitated. “Stafford asked me to say that he would like to come and see you, but I told him I didn’t think you were up to it.”

“Oh no,” I said, flustered. “I don’t want him to come.”

She nodded. “I’m
sure you’re wise. You must not overtax yourself. Shall I prepare the sleeping-draft now, Elinor? Then you can settle down for the night.”

‘Thank you.”

When she left me, I soon began to feel drowsy. But, in fact, I never entirely lost consciousness. My mind was too feverishly active, twisting and turning in a desperate effort to find some escape from the inescapable.

From the very first, I had not trusted Stafford Darville—and it was painfully clear now that my initial reaction to him had been justified. And yet, in spite of my instinctive mistrust, he had kindled in me feelings such as I had never felt for any man before, intense feelings of love that could not be dismissed at will. And now I was left with an empty, aching yearning in my heart. Stafford had ruthlessly misused my love for him, turning it to his own despicable advantage.

Later, hours later, I found that I was lying restlessly awake, staring into the shadowed darkness of my room. I suddenly knew that I could lie there no longer. I arose and went barefoot to the window, slipping between the long silk curtains.

The moon rode high in the sky, almost at full circle. The balmy night air, drenched with the perfume of a hundred blossom-laden trees, was a cooling touch upon my fevered skin. I stood and gazed out at the silvered fairyland of the gardens, hearing the fountains whispering in the nocturnal silence. From far off came the soft hoot of an owl. I became aware of a movement on the terrace below me—a man was strolling there. From his height, from the way he walked, I knew that it was Stafford.

Why should he still be up at this late hour, I wondered. Was he, too, unable to sleep for the torment in his mind—because, although he had successfully silenced Pedro, I still remained alive?

Stafford paused by one of the marble urns and lifted his head. It seemed as if he was looking directly at my window, but I knew that he could not see me where I stood in the shadows. Then behind me, I heard a sound. The door handle was being slowly turned. Someone was entering my room with the greatest stealth. The parting in the curtains was wide enough for me to look through, and against the glimmer from the wall sconces outside in the corridor, I saw the outline of a figure in a white nightgown.

My grandmother, walking in her sleep again. She stood in the doorway, hesitating. I could make out the shape of a candelabra held aloft in one hand, but this time the candles were unlit. Slowly, step by step, she crossed the room to my bedside and stood there very still, so that I was only just able to discern her white phantom shape. Suddenly, there was a flurried movement, and I heard a heavy dull thud as though the candelabra had been thrashed down onto the bed—and then again. There came a smothered gasp, and her ghostly figure straightened up and quickly fled from the room, leaving the door still slightly open. I heard the soft padding of her footfalls along the corridor.

I was shaking all over from head to toe, and I felt in my mouth the bitter taste of fear. It was all I could do to prevent myself from calling out to Stafford down there on the terrace. But Stafford was the last person whom I could ask for help.

The seconds throbbed by as I stood there at the window breathing deeply, trying to calm the frantic pounding of my heart. At length, I tiptoed across to the door and closed it firmly. Then I fumbled to the bedside console, found matches, and lit the lamp. On the pillows where my head might have been lying, were two jagged rents in the fine white linen, rents made by the heavy silver-gilt candelabra that normally stood on a lacquered cabinet in my grandmother’s sitting room—a weighty piece of metalwork that would have crushed my skull as though it were only eggshell-thin.

“How pale you are, Elinor. Did you not sleep well, after all?”

Vicencia had come to my room quite early and seemed surprised to find me already awake and sitting up in bed. In actual fact, I’d passed the hours until daylight on the chaise longue, the quilt wrapped around me, feeling too afraid to return to bed. But those sleepless hours had been spent in fevered thought, and I’d reached the conclusion that nothing was to be gained by recounting what had happened. So, for appearance’s sake, I climbed back between the sheets and reversed my pillow to conceal the two telltale rents.

“I had a very disturbed night,” I explained to Vicencia, adding after a moment’s hesitation, “There is no key on my door. Do you think I could have one fitted—today?”

“Well, naturally, if you insist. But surely there is no need for that, my dear? You are perfectly safe here.”

Safe. When my grandmother harbored such bitter thoughts against me that in her sleep they were twisted into an urge to destroy me. I had to have some form of protection; I should never get a minute’s rest at night unless I felt secure behind a good stout lock and key.

I said apologetically, “All the same, I’d prefer to be able to lock my door at night. You see, it makes me nervous to think that my grandmother could walk in at any moment.”

Vicencia frowned. “Oh dear. Has she been sleepwalking again?”

“As a matter of fact, yes—last night.”

“You’re sure you didn’t dream it, Elinor? The doctor’s draft was probably a strong one.”

“No, Vicencia, I didn’t dream it. I wasn’t even in bed at the time.”

“Not in bed. Then where—”

“I couldn’t manage to sleep, so I got up and went over to the window for some fresh air. I was standing there when Dona Amalia came in. I watched from behind the curtains.”

“What happened?”

“She ... she stood there for a few moments, then she went out again.”

“Poor Elinor, it must have been unpleasant for you. I’ll see that you have a key fitted to the door at once. I daresay you’d like to stay in bed for a while, to make up for the sleep you lost?”

“No, I think I’ll get up, Vicencia. I’ve had enough of bed.”

“It’s for you to say, but I really wouldn’t advise it.” She paused. “By the way, Julio is returning to Lisbon today. His leave of absence is up.”

“Julio going? But he said nothing to me about it.”

She gave me a reproachful look. “That’s not really to be wondered at, Elinor. You have given the poor boy little encouragement to confide in you. I’m afraid Julio is rather upset.”

“I’m sorry, Vicencia. But it would have been useless to pretend.”

She sighed. “How beautifully things could have worked out if only you’d let yourself feel for Julio what he feels for you. However, it’s too late now.”

When I started to get dressed, I discovered that I was very tender and stiff. For once I could have done with the help of a maid, but in the circumstances I preferred not to ask for one. Poor little Maria, she had so adored her brother, so hero-worshipped him. I would call upon her at the bakery, I decided, just as soon as I felt up to it—tomorrow, perhaps.

Julio was in the great hall as I descended the stairs, almost as though he’d been waiting around for me. “Vicencia tells me you are leaving us,” I said regretfully. “I shall miss you, Julio.”

He seemed ill at ease, and I guessed that he didn’t know quite what to say at this parting between us. I felt a warm surge of affection for him. If only it
were
possible for me to return his love, I thought wistfully, how much happier I’d be at this moment. Julio would have been a fine choice of husband for me, if only things had been different.

I said, my voice a little shaky, “I’m sorry we have to part like this, Julio. But let’s still be friends.”

“Oh, Elinor, you cannot know how sincerely I wish you well.” He hesitated, then added in a different voice, “Have you considered returning to England? After all, that’s where you really belong.”

“To be honest, I’ve been wondering if it might not be the best thing, Julio.”

“You have? Then if I were you, I should catch the next mail packet. Within a week you could be home in London, and this terrible accident would seem no more than a bad dream.”

A living nightmare, rather.

“I shall have to see,” I told him. ‘In any case, I’m not fit to make the journey yet. I had a severe shake-up yesterday.”

“You could so easily have been killed, Elinor. It terrifies me to think about it.”

“It terrifies me, too,” I admitted. “But it is over now.”

Julio looked at me for a long moment, then glanced away. “Go back to England as soon as you can, Elinor, and then it’ll really be over.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Stafford coming across the hall to join us. Quickly, I held out my hand. “Well, good-bye then, Julio. I have to go up to my room now.”

“But you’ve only just this minute come down,” Stafford said, looking at me curiously.

“Yes, I know, but I’ve forgotten something.” Turning, I fled up the stairs.

Ten minutes later, when I remerged from my bedroom, Stafford was still waiting below in the hall. So I did not dare go down again. Instead, I skirted the gallery to Dona Amalia’s door. It took all my courage to enter my grandmother’s room, but I’d decided to act with her as though nothing was wrong between us. Steeling myself, I lifted my hand to knock.

She was seated by the window, embroidering, and she looked surprised to see me. “I did not expect you to come this morning, Elinor.”

“I prefer to keep active,” I murmured.

My glance had flown at once to the tall, silver-gilt candelabra, which stood on the lacquered cabinet against the wall. As far as I could judge, it was undamaged, but, lingering as I walked past, I spotted that the tip of one of the golden leaves was bent over—not enough to be noticed until one looked closely. Probably it would remain undetected for weeks, and then some poor servant would be unjustly blamed for carelessness.

Dona Amalia said irritably, “For goodness’ sake, child, hurry up and sit down if you intend to help me this morning.”

And so I took my seat beside her, this woman who only hours ago had tried to kill me. Picking up a needle, I threaded it with crimson tapestry wool and began stitching. As far as my grandmother was concerned, it seemed that both the angry words we’d exchanged at my bedside yesterday and her murderous attack on me in the night were equally dismissed from her consciousness. But would her malevolence flare up again another night, so that in her sleep she would make a second attempt upon my life?

With sudden longing I thought of the placid calm of the Carlisles’ house in Harley Street, to which I could so easily return and where I’d be welcomed with open arms. And yet, could I really leave Castanheiros now? Could I desert my dying grandmother? And Stafford—by going away was I to allow him free rein in whatever dishonest scheme he had a-foot concerning the Milaveira estate?

A thought kept stirring in my mind. Could I be
certain
about what had occurred yesterday afternoon, in those moments before Pedro was killed and I myself escaped death only by a hairbreadth? So much had happened since that I was beginning to feel bewildered, unsure of the evidence of my own senses. Had it been a genuine accident, after all? The hand, the arm, appearing from the bushes—was that merely a startled animal, as Vicencia had suggested? And what had sounded to me like the crack of an exploding firework
could
have been a granite pebble splitting under the iron wheelrims of the victoria. Please, God, let that be the truth.

But however much I tried to make myself believe this comforting explanation, the arguments against it came flooding back relentlessly. Above all, Pedro’s final words reverberated in my brain like the tolling of some funeral bell—
Perhaps, senhora, I was
not
the last person from Castanheiros to see Senhora Dona Luzia alive.

“Why do you sigh like that, child?” asked Dona Amalia reprovingly. “It is no use dwelling upon what
might
have happened.”

I knew she was referring to the accident, and I marvelled that she could be so completely unaware of the dark inner forces that had driven her to try and kill me last night. How I wished I could pierce the armor of bitterness in which she had encased herself. I longed to break through to her, just as much for my own sake as for hers. I needed my grandmother’s love and affection, I needed the feeling of close kinship the two of us could share, if only I could find a way to her heart.

I said quietly, “Grandmama, I want to talk to you about my mother.”

I saw her stiffen, and her needle halted in the canvas, the stitch unfinished. “We had said all there is to say on that distressing subject, Elinor.”

“No, we have not. I want to make you understand. She loved my father, and I’m certain that she never once regretted marrying him. But I know, too—I can appreciate it looking back—that Mama suffered great sadness in being separated from her parents and cut off from her native land. She used to talk to me often, not about you and Castanheiros but about Portugal—the countryside and the people. I think it was the nearest she dared allow herself to speak of what was so close to her heart. It was mostly when I was a
small girl, before I went to school, and I’m afraid I’ve forgotten a lot of what she said. But I can remember clearly her telling me about vintage time, when the men climb into the huge tubs barefooted and link arms to tread the grapes, with a concertina and people clapping to urge them on, and about the village
romarias,
when the countryfolk from miles around put on their best clothes, and the children are dressed up as little angels, and after everyone has attended mass, they have a grand procession with a band and singing and dancing and feasting, and the day ends up with a great fireworks display.”