The Jade Dragon (7 page)

It was not until the fish course had been served—fillets of sole with banana, in a rich cream sauce—that my uncle addressed me. “I presume, Elinor, that when your mother was alive she often spoke to you about her life in Portugal, about her family?”

“No, Tio Affonso, on the contrary. I was explaining to Grandmama that I had no idea I possessed any relations until Mr. Darville came to Harley Street and informed me.”

“Indeed.” He seemed astonished. “I wonder why not.”

‘The explanation is quite obvious,” Carlota remarked scornfully. “Joanneira was too ashamed to admit the true facts.”

“Mama was not ashamed.” I burst out angrily, for by now I’d had more than I could take of this harping upon my mother’s disgrace. “The shame was not my mother’s, Tia Carlota. She had every right to marry the man she loved. It is the Milaveiras who should be shamed, for being so unforgiving. When I was born Mama wrote to her parents to tell them that they had a granddaughter. She pleaded for a reconciliation with them and begged for their blessing upon her marriage. She asked if she could bring me to Portugal so that they might see me.” I was shaking, and I had to blink back tears. ‘That letter was returned to her without a line, without a single word. It was the cruelest thing her parents could possibly have done to her.”

There was a shocked silence, and I saw the look of horror on Vicencia’s face. Then my uncle said in a doubting voice, “How can you know all this, Elinor? Only a moment ago you were telling us that your mother never spoke to you about her family.”

“It was not my mother who told me, Tio Affonso. I only heard about this recently, just before I came to Portugal. From Dr. Carlisle, my benefactor. It was he and his wife who brought me up after my parents were killed.”

“And this Dr. Carlisle—how did
he
come by such an extraordinary piece of information?” my uncle demanded.

“He and my father were close friends,” I explained. “And Papa told him in confidence many years ago.”

Carlota had been staring at me with disbelief. Now she said dismissively, “Utter nonsense. The entire story is a fabrication. I can remember your mother very well, Elinor. She was a willful, hot-headed girl—very much as you yourself appear to be. I can remember the deep distress she brought her poor parents when, in spite of all their pleading, she went off and married this penniless foreigner. A girl so thoughtless and uncaring would never have written this conciliatory letter you speak of, unless—” her eyes gleamed with spite, “—unless she did so at the prompting of your father, who was probably thinking of the wealth that would come his way if only Joanneira could persuade the Milaveira family to accept him.”

“That is a wicked thing to say,” I cried, springing to my feet. But across the table I met Vicencia’s gentle gaze, beseeching me not to leave the dining room, not to cause an open breach that would be difficult to heal over.

“I am sure Carlota did not mean to imply,” she said placatingly, “that your father was a dishonorable man, Elinor. It is just that ... well, I think the only possible explanation is that there has been a misunderstanding somewhere.”

My uncle swallowed down his wine and signaled a footman to refill his glass. His face was serious as he adjusted his monocle. “If what you maintain is true, Elinor, it would mean that my father, the Conde da Milaveira—and possibly my stepmother too—acted in a totally uncharacteristic manner. So you will appreciate that it is difficult for either your aunt or myself to accept this possibility. You, on the other hand, quite naturally feel the same about your parents, and I am sure you have every confidence in the word of Dr. Carlisle. Therefore, I am certain that what Vicencia suggests is the truth of the matter—that there was a most regrettable misunderstanding.”

Carlota flicked her fan and seemed about to make another scathing comment, but she managed to restrain herself. After a brief pause, my uncle went on thoughtfully, “I think I must ask you not to mention any of this to your grandmother, Elinor. We dare not risk making her ill again. As I say, I am sure there has been a ... a misinterpretation of what occurred. But let us suppose that this unhappy incident took place exactly as your informant related—nothing could be gained by raising it with Dona Amalia. If she herself had any hand in it, we cannot expect that she would be willing to admit the fact. If not, then it would cause her needless distress to learn that all those years ago her husband acted so ruthlessly in rejecting his daughter’s move toward a reconciliation.”

“But as it is, her bitterness is all directed against poor Mama,” I protested.

“I understand how you feel, Elinor,” my uncle said in a tone of surprising gentleness. “But if you consider it, you will agree that nothing but harm will result from reopening old wounds.”

I heard Carlota’s gasp of impatience and, glancing around quickly, I intercepted the look she shot down the table at her husband, a look of scorn and contempt. I turned back to him. He was staring down at the food on his plate, carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes. Carlota, I decided, cared nothing for other people’s sensibilities. She clearly thought her husband a weak, spineless fool, because he wanted to spare his stepmother pain and at the same time soothe my injured feelings. And as for Affonso himself, I suspected that he was half afraid of his wife. Whatever it was that held these two together, it was not love, not even affection. Probably, I thought, their marriage was the kind of “arranged” marriage that my grandparents had expected of my mother.

Directly the meal was over, I excused myself and withdrew. I felt strangely tired after the events of the day. Upstairs, my room was softly illumined by lamplight, and all had been made ready for me, the bedcovers turned back, my nightgown laid out. I was surprised, and a little dismayed, to see a fire burning in the grate. Although it had turned a little cooler since sunset, the evening still felt very mild to me, accustomed as I was to a more northerly clime. I went at once to the window, drew back the peacock blue curtains, and threw open the casements to let in some fresh air.

Outside it was very dark and silent, except for the soft plashing of the fountains and the faintest rustle of a breeze. Presently, my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and the pale starglow was enough for me to pick out the terrace balustrades and the phantom shapes of the statuary. Somewhere far off a dog howled. It was an indescribably desolate sound, like a fateful cry of longing, the sad despair of an aching heart.

In the darkness at the end of the valley a pinpoint of light suddenly twinkled. As I watched, I realized that it was moving, purposefully, with infinite slowness. A ship at sea, I surmised. I wondered if perhaps it was heading for the shores of England, a thousand miles away. Feeling a strange tightness in my throat, I closed the windows and started to undress. When I had extinguished the lamps, the firelight still flickered, catching the tall mirror and casting weird, writhing shadows. I climbed into bed, pulled the covers up high, and tried to compose myself for sleep.

* * * *

I awoke to pitch darkness. The fire had died to ashes, so I could tell it was far into the night. Everything was hushed, but I knew that some sound had disturbed me.

Then I heard it again, the faint creak of the door. A sliver of light fell across the carpet. I sat up, tense with alarm. Who would come to my room stealthily, in the small hours? For what possible reason? The shaft of light broadened as the door opened wider, and I saw a two-branched candelabra held aloft. It was borne by a small ghostly figure in a white nightgown. Then I saw who it was and felt a wave of relief.

“Grandmama. What is it?” I whispered softly.

She gave no answer but advanced toward me, moving rather stiffly. Holding the blankets up to my chin, I watched her wonderingly, sensing something strange. She drew closer until she was right beside the bed and stood gazing down at me. Then she lifted the silver-gilt candelabra still higher and held it poised above my head—as though she intended to bring it crashing down upon me.

I froze with fear, knowing instinctively that to cry out for help would only heighten any danger I was in. The candlelight, striking obliquely across Dona Amalia’s face, cast deep shadows, giving her gaunt features an almost skeletal look. I saw her eyes glitter in their dark sockets. Was it anger? Hatred? Or could it be tears? I had no means of knowing. I heard a sigh, faint as the rustle of leaves. Then slowly, as though a great weariness was weighing her down, my grandmother turned away and moved with heavy, measured footsteps to the door. There she paused, looking back at me. I seemed to hear another sigh; then the door clicked quietly, and she was gone.

In the darkness I lay trembling beneath the covers. What had brought Dona Amalia here, I wondered apprehensively? What strongly felt emotion from my grandmother’s waking thoughts had remained with her into sleep, prompting the old lady’s unconscious mind to lead her to my room tonight? For clearly, she had been sleepwalking.

I was afraid I would not get to sleep again. But I must have drifted off eventually, for the next thing I knew it was morning, with daylight seeping through the window drapes. Instantly, the strange episode of the night hours flooded back to me. But was it real, I wondered, or merely the product of my fevered imagination? Had I in fact slept the whole night through and been left with this vivid recollection of what was only a dream?

I turned my head and gazed thoughtfully at the door by which I had seen my grandmother enter. Then a shock pulsed through my body. Sitting before the door, as if guarding my escape, was a large albino cat. It met my gaze and stared back at me unblinkingly with its pale pink eyes. So here was proof that what I remembered had been no dream. The cat must have followed my grandmother’s sleepwalking figure and become trapped by the closing door when she departed. I shuddered to think that this hostile creature had spent the night in my bedroom, silently prowling the floor as I slept, watching me angrily with its keen, feline vision that could penetrate the dark.

Irrationally, I felt afraid of the creature. I knew I was being foolish, yet I could not shake off the feeling. For the sake of company, I reached for the bell rope above my head and tugged it. And when Maria appeared a minute later, a bright smile on her round rosy face, the cat slipped past her through the open door and escaped.

During the afternoon, I was summoned for the second time to my grandmother’s presence.

I had been sitting alone in the garden room, where brilliantly plumaged songbirds in two large aviaries filled the scented air with their chirping. Before me on the scrolled metal table lay pen and notepaper. My intention was to write to Dr. and Mrs. Carlisle, informing them of my safe arrival. The opening paragraphs had come easily. A description of the voyage and the excitement of a storm at sea, the thrill of my first sight of Lisbon rising in tiers upon its seven hills, the magical, pellucid quality of the light that gave a soft brilliance to every color. But they would also want to hear about my grandmother and the kind of welcome I had received when I finally reached Castanheiros. And what should I tell them about that?

It was Josepha, my grandmother’s elderly maid, who sought me out. She stood in the doorway with set, sullen features and announced that her mistress was demanding to see me. I told her I would come at once and gathered up the pages of my letter, almost relieved to have an excuse for postponing its completion. As I followed the servant, I wondered uneasily if my grandmother would have any recollection of her sleepwalking visit to my bedroom during the night.

I was led through to the inner room, where Dona Amalia was propped up in her canopied bed against a mountain of lace-edged pillows. She wore gold-framed spectacles, and she was cutting the pages of a book with an ivory knife. At the foot of the bed, the golden cat and the black and silver tabby lay watching me.

“Well, sit down, Elinor.” A wave of Dona Amalia’s hand directed me to a tapestry stool drawn up to the bedside, and with an equally brusque gesture she dismissed her servant.

“How are you today, Grandmama?” I inquired.

“How should I be?” she returned. “Exactly as I always am—an old woman who is dying.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean.... It’s just that I want to apologize for upsetting you yesterday.”

“Do you imagine a slip of a girl could upset me?” she snapped rudely. “I happened to have had one of my seizures. I must expect them, so my physician says.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured again.

Even in bed she kept her back rigidly straight, her head lifted. She surveyed me with a look of cool disdain. “Since you are here, Elinor, you had better tell me about those parents of yours. Where did they live in England? Did your father practice medicine?”

“Yes indeed. Papa was the doctor for a village near Bath, in Somersetshire. He was greatly respected—everyone spoke well of Dr. Rosslyn.”

“I daresay he kept my daughter in near poverty?”

“Not at all.” I cried indignantly. “We had a beautiful house standing on several acres of land on the outskirts of the village. Papa had his own carriage, and ... and we had a paddock where I kept a pony—”

I faltered to a stop, realizing from my grandmother’s face that I was not impressing her. Compared to the grandeur of Castanheiros, the comfortable English middle-class life of my childhood must indeed have seemed like something very close to poverty. “We were happy, anyway,” I added in a crisp voice. “Very happy indeed.”

“Hmmm. You were the only child?”

“Yes. I believe that after I was born it was judged unsafe for Mama to risk another pregnancy.”

The
condessa
nodded her head slowly. ‘It was the same with me. I had only the one child—your mother. Things would have worked out very differently had there been others.”

For a while Dona Amalia remained silent, her thin fingers plucking loose a gold thread on the brocaded quilt. Then abruptly, fiercely, as if despising herself for a momentary weakness, she demanded, “How precisely was it that you lost your parents? When Stafford wrote to say he had traced you and that you were determined to come to Portugal, he mentioned something about a railway accident.”