Linda Kendall's forehead was creased in a frown as she pondered on the offer made to her earlier that day, relayed to her by her aunt. She could have a free holiday in Portugal if she agreed to accompany three children on the flight, children who were to join their uncle at his home at Monvais, in the Douro Valley. She would get her first class return fare, an unbelievably large amount of money as 'wages,' and a week at an hotel.
'You ought to accept,' advised her aunt with whom Linda had lived since the accident which had killed her husband and their two children-twins only three years old. Although it had happened almost two years ago Linda was no nearer to recovery from the shock than she had been at the time. Night and day the horror of it was with her; she had lost weight, could neither eat nor sleep, had no interest in her appearance so that now, still only twenty-six years old, she looked as if there were at least another ten years on her age.
'You think that a week-or perhaps a day or so longer-will cure this pain?' Linda felt ungrateful, because Auntie Sal had been so wonderful, insisting on having her come to live with her even though the old lady had often admitted she liked being on her own. She was like that, one of those exceedingly self-sufficient people who needed little more in life than books to make her last years of life pleasant and complete. That she had disrupted the set and smooth way of life of her aunt Linda very well knew, and she would have stayed in her own home but Auntie Sal had turned up one day and declared she would not leave without her.
So understanding! The old lady had in fact suffered a loss herself some twenty years ago when she lost her only son in a climbing accident. A widow already, she was left almost alone in the world and so she had a sort of kindred feeling and insight into just how her niece was feeling.
'It won't cure the pain, love,' she answered in that gruff but compassionate voice which now was so familiar to Linda. 'But it'll make a break. For over two years you haven't done anything but sit around, letting your grief take over completely. You ought to get a job, dear, just so you could be out, meeting people. However, that's for later: for now, well, this little task and trip seem heaven-sent to me and I feel you'd not only be doing yourself a disservice if you refused, but Alice would feel slighted because, after all, she picked on you especially owing to the way you are.'
Linda nodded absently. It was true that for two years she had stayed indoors, crying and thinking… dwelling all the time on her loss. It was no use telling herself-as Auntie sometimes told her-that others had suffered similar tragedies and had managed eventually to recover. Linda felt she did not want to recover and that, said her aunt, was the main trouble. Linda had had a wonderful husband and two lovely children whom she adored. A happier family could never have been found.
And in one stroke all was gone.
Linda always bemoaned the fact that when David had suggested she come as well, when he went to see his mother on that fateful Saturday morning, she had said she really must do some overdue chores as her friend and her husband were to come on a visit the following Tuesday. David was only going to take some cakes and pies which Linda had baked for his mother. It was to be a quick visit since David had things to do to the car, its being week-end and his having time off.
'If only I'd gone as well,' she had wept. 'I'd have died too.'
Her aunt had wept then, but maintained quite firmly that one day Linda would learn to live again.
'If you mean that I'll meet someone else-' She shook her head emphatically. 'No other man shall ever take David's place.'
'No, my love,' was her aunt's soothing agreement. 'But maybe a lovely man will find his own place in your heart.'
No more was said as Linda made it plain that she could not bear such talk.
***
'Do promise you'll give the trip some thought,' begged Auntie Sal, cutting into her niece's thought stream. 'As I mentioned, Alice Sutherland was the children's nanny but had to retire through ill-health.' She stopped abruptly, her eyes registering impatience. 'You know all this,' she added frowning. 'The main thing is that these children must go to their uncle to be looked after until their mother is out of hospital, and that could be a long time-probably a few months-from now. Their father went off with someone else….' Her voice faded. Linda knew this also. The children's mother was Portuguese, their father English. It was the mother's brother who was offering to take them under his care, because there was no one else and their mother had been greatly troubled at the possibility of their having to be taken into care.
'Yes,' answered Linda, when her aunt repeated her question. 'I'll give the trip some thought.'
***
She went to see Alice Sutherland the following morning. The sun shone down from a cloudless blue sky and all the glory of spring was before her eyes as she sat on the bus which traversed lovely winding lanes, the budding trees meeting overhead in many cases. England in spring!
How she and David had loved their garden in the spring when the bushes they had planted together had begun to bud and then flower, when the daffodils flared golden against the soft green lawn they had made from what had been a stony wilderness of weeds and trailing brambles.
Tears…. She dried them and wished she could die. No use dear auntie being so emphatic about the eventual recovery. It would be disloyal to David and the children if she did recover, she always told herself.
Alice was middle-aged and had had a stroke but she was managing now to do things for herself. She had been shattered when the marriage of her beloved mistress had broken up, and even more shattered when she had had to leave her because of her health. Marianna Skipton had been a wonderful employer. Born into the Portuguese aristocracy, she had in effect had a marriage arranged for her with a nobleman-friend of her brother-but she had rebelled and gone off with Frederick Skipton, the Englishman she had met while she was visiting friends in London. It had been a whirlwind courtship, and for a time the marriage had been happy. Alice had been brought in when the first child, Vasco, was on the way, and she had stayed on, living as one of the family, until she had the stroke six months ago. Marianna had then managed without help, but a week ago she had taken ill and on admittance to hospital she was found to have a serious disease which would take at least three months to cure. Alice had taken the children but already they were too much for her.
'I'd love to keep them until dear Marianna comes out of hospital,' she told Linda as she sat in the woman's small parlour drinking coffee. 'But even if I could their uncle would not agree. He's a very determined man-dictatorial, I would say. Marianna phoned him and he immediately told her that the children must go to him. She was relieved of course and so was I because it'd break my heart to see those little ones go into the care of a soulless authority. Besides, should anything happen to their mother, they'll now at least be taken care of until they grow up.'
Linda frowned at the idea of their mother's dying but all she said was,
'This uncle-you've met him?'
'Several times. You see, I always accompanied the family when they went on holiday to visit the Conde-'
'Conde?' broke in Linda, interested. 'He's titled?'
'Oh, yes, indeed. The Conde Duarte Alfonso Laurenco de Dominga is one of the highest in the land. So it was sad that his sister married so far beneath her. However, to get back to the Conde-we call him Dom Duarte, Dom being equal to "lord" in this country. If you address him then do remember to say "Dom Duarte" won't you?'
'I haven't said I'll take the children, Mrs. Sutherland.'
'But you must, dear. It'll be good for them to have someone like you, and also for you-well, your aunt's troubled about you, dear, and so you'll be making her happy if you take this little break.'
'I don't like the idea of being on my own in an hotel in a strange country,' murmured Linda knowing full well she would brood and weep and probably stay in her room all the time.
'Well, now….' The woman paused as if she were carefully choosing her words. 'I've been in touch with Dom Duarte on the phone and he feels that whoever brings the children should stay with them for a few days. Oh, they know him well enough,' submitted Alice on noting Linda's start of surprise. 'Yes, they are used to him all right because they visit twice a year at least-or did do until their daddy went off. But Dom Duarte's thinking that the children will need someone until he can get a nanny for them.'
Linda was nodding in agreement now. She couldn't imagine the children just being dumped and left, even though they did know their uncle. How well did they know him? A twice yearly visit wasn't much, since to a child six months' interval could be a very long time. Undoubtedly the children would not know their uncle intimately.
She sipped her coffee, declined the biscuits offered and said, her big grey eyes darkened, as always, with sadness,
'Auntie Sal did tell me a bit about the children, but I'd like to know more. Vasco's the oldest-he's eight?'
'That's right. Then comes Felix who's seven and Clara who will be six in November-well, that actually makes her five and a half now.'
'So they'd not be too much trouble to take….' Linda let her voice trail to silence, rather amazed that she should seriously be considering the offer made by the children's uncle. As she had just remarked, she wouldn't like to be alone in an hotel; but if she were to be kept on at the Palacio Dominga for a few days then she need not take the week's holiday offered. She could come straight home.
'Will you do it, dear?' from Alice on an anxious note. 'Dom Duarte asked me to find someone and so did Marianna. If you refuse I really don't know who to ask. I'd not care to advertise, for I don't know what kind of a person I'd get.' She paused, then added persuasively, 'Even leaving yourself out of it you'd be helping their mother and uncle, the children themselves, your aunt and me.'
At that a rare smile, the ghost of a smile, touched the wide and generous line of Linda's mouth.
'You're holding a gun at my head, Mrs. Sutherland,' she accused.
'I do hope you'll do this,' was all Alice said. But she looked hopeful, optimistic, noticed Linda, and it was then that her mind was made up. But she wanted to see the children who, her aunt had said, were lively. At present they were at the local school, Alice having managed to persuade the headmistress to accept them as she could not have them for the whole of the day. The headmistress was an understanding woman and so Alice did have the rest she needed during the daytime.
'Yes, you can see them this afternoon,' she agreed in response to Linda's request. 'Shall you come back-or you could have lunch here and wait-'
'No, it isn't too far for me to go home and come back at about six this evening. Will that time be all right for you?' Linda caught sight of herself in a mirror on the wall and for the very first time since the tragedy she felt slightly ashamed of her appearance. Her hair hadn't been washed for over two weeks and it was straggly and greasy; her face was sunken and sallow, her clothes were shabby. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering with poignant intensity the way David had always admired her beauty. She would keep it till she was old, he had declared, for it was the kind of beauty that never fades. How little he had known when those words were uttered!
'Yes,' Alice was saying eagerly in answer to Linda's query, 'this evening around six will be fine.'
When Linda arrived back at her aunt's house the old lady was in the garden, pushing the mower.
'Give me that,' said Linda at once. 'Why aren't you leaving the lawn for Donald to do?' Donald was a 'jobber' who came in once a fortnight.
'His wife's just rung in to say he's in bed with a bad back.' Auntie Sal's lined, good-natured face pulled in a grimace. 'If you ask me it's lazyitis that gardener's suffering from! In bed! And he's only forty years of age! I'd rub his back with a brick if I was his wife.'
Linda said that perhaps this was a harsh conclusion and that Donald really did have something the matter with his back.
'It's the sort of complaint no one ever receives sympathy for,' she ended as she took hold of the handles of the mower. 'I saw Mrs. Sutherland,' she added when she saw the questioning look in her aunt's pale blue eyes. 'I'm going to see the children this evening. Are you coming with me?'
'I might.'
'I think I shall accept the offer.' She began pushing the mower slowly across the lawn. Her aunt walked beside her.
'I'm glad, dear. As I said, those children are lively so you'll earn your money. Take some games and books to keep them occupied on the airplane or you might have trouble. One thing: it's not a long flight.'
'Not too long,' agreed Linda. She was at the end of the lawn and she swung the mower around to face the other way. 'The uncle,' she said reflectively, 'he sounds rather overpowering.'
'How do you mean? What did Alice say about him?'
'Oh, not a lot. It's his name.'
'That!' Auntie Sal gave a laugh. 'Conde something-and-something-and something de Dominga. Is that right?'
For the first time in two years Linda laughed. Her aunt stared but wisely made no comment. She was feeling rather pleased with herself for putting her niece's name forward immediately oft Alice Sutherland's mentioning the children and the need for someone to take them safely over to Portugal and the uncle who had offered to take them into his care.
'If I remember rightly it's The Conde Duarte Alfonso Laurenco de Dominga, but I have to address him as Dom Duarte.'
'I should hope so! How could anyone be expected to get one's tongue round a name like that.'
'His home is called the Palacio Dominga. It's a palace, obviously.'
'Well, he is the nobility so his home is bound to be something special.'
'It must be very grand.' A hint of awe crept into Linda's voice.
'I expect so. Alice used to say it was gracious and dignified, that the whole aspect was one of wealth and good taste, that there was a sort of serenity about the grounds, which extended over many acres, and there are terraces and parterres and fountains and lily ponds. However, I don't suppose you will be seeing much of it, more's the pity. You'll be coming away from the Palacio as soon as you've delivered the children, I guess.' They were at the other end of the lawn and as Linda swung the mower around again her aunt told her to leave the rest until tomorrow.
'Mrs. Sutherland was saying that the Conde suggested I stay a few days, just until the children became used to being there.'
'He did?' Although the old lady's face brightened at this she did say, 'But the children are used to being there?'
'Not really. In any case, the Conde wants me to stay until he gets a nanny for them. I expect it will be a week at the very most but probably less.'
'Then you'll have your week's holiday in the hotel. That'll be a very nice long break for you, dear.'
'I shan't stay in the hotel, Auntie. I'll come home when I leave the Palacio.'
'But-'
'I don't want to be on my own, Auntie.'
'No, love, I understand.'
***
Auntie Sal did decide to accompany Linda that evening when she went to meet the three children. It was still fine and warm and not even dusk by the time they arrived at ten minutes to six. The children were in the small garden, playing with a large beach ball.
'Let's have a cup of tea first,' suggested Alice who already had the kettle on the boil. 'I've told them you're coming, Linda-you don't mind if I call you Linda, do you, dear?'
'No, of course not.' Her eyes strayed to the window, which was open a few inches at the top, allowing voices to drift into the room.
'Vasco-you're kicking it too hard!'
'Well, you're a girl and can't run fast enough to get it!'
'Felix, make him kick it gentler!'
Auntie Sal smiled and said,
'They've all been given Portuguese names, it seems. The girl, you said, is Clara?'
'That's right. However, I remember there was a compromise after Vasco. Felix can be English and so can Clara. Marianna wanted names like José and Felipe and Casimira and Rosalia.'
'Will Marianna eventually return to Portugal?' asked Auntie Sal conversationally and Alice nodded her head at once.
'I think that she stayed on here because she hoped her husband would return to her and the children, but time has passed and as it's now unlikely, she did mention that she would like to return to her own country.'
'It's only natural,' from Auntie Sal. 'Poor thing. And her so highly born.'
'Yes; they're a very exalted family. The Conde is an arrogant man, full of his own importance and always conscious of the nobility from which he stems and to which he belongs. The Dominga estates are vast; they grow cork and citrus fruits; they have vineyards and they grow lots of other things besides. Dom Duarte is also in commerce. Apart from the vineyards he is in the wine retailing business too. He's a very wealthy man-a millionaire several times over.' Alice fell silent, thinking. She had poured the tea and she gestured for Linda and her aunt to help themselves to sugar. 'Dom Duarte is thirty later this year and will shortly marry, I shouldn't wonder.'
'He's engaged?' Auntie Sal looked interested.
'Not unless it's happened recently, for Marianna hasn't ever mentioned it. But he has a very lovely girl friend whom everyone expects him to marry. She's Dona Lucia Mendes, daughter of Dom Ronaldo de Mendes, another of the nobility of the region. It will be an excellent match, Marianna says.'
Linda merely sat and listened to this interchange between the two older women.
'Is this woman titled? I mean,' said Auntie Sal, 'is Dona a title in Portugal?'
'No, every woman is a Dona. The wife of a Dom would be a Dona. Dom, by the way, is a hereditary title. Not every Portuguese man is a Dom.'
'Sounds a bit complicated.'
'It isn't. One gets used to it-well, I have because I've been over there so many times.'
'Well, Linda will be getting used to it this time next week, I reckon.' Auntie Sal regarded her niece affectionately, thinking how pretty she used to be when happiness gave a glow to her lovely eyes, and health a bloom to her cheeks. She had a perfect skin, but these days it had acquired a sallow tint which unfortunately added ten years to her age. The Conde would take her for at least thirty-five, decided Auntie Sal, feeling depressed, which wasn't like her at all for she was always described as 'a happy soul.'
'I think you'd better bring the children in,' suggested Linda glancing at her watch. 'Auntie and I don't very much like going home after dark these days.'
'No; I can understand. I hate living alone but what can one do? It's awful when you have to be afraid like this. My only consolation is that those thugs who attack old people will be attacked themselves one day, when they get old.'
Linda frowned.
'What an awful thought.'
'Afraid I'm the vindictive kind,' admitted Alice. 'I believe in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, and I always shall.' Rising from the chair, she went to the door and called to the children, who all came in immediately. It was easy to see that for all her apparent softness Alice had been a keen disciplinarian in her role of nanny to Marianna's children.
'This is Linda-Mrs. Kendall. She's the lady who'll be going on the airplane with you to your uncle's.' All three stood very still and looked hard at Linda, faces serious.
'Hello, Mrs. Kendall.' Vasco was the first to speak. He had looked Linda over, from her drab dark grey blouse to her face and then his eyes had settled on hair that ought to have been deep gold but, unwashed as it was, it assumed the almost mousy colour of greyish brown. Linda felt colour rise in her cheeks and thought: My children always loved my hair… they loved to touch it, to bring it to their cheeks. 'Hello,' repeated Vasco and with a start Linda answered him.
'How do you do?' she said and held out a hand. Vasco took it and she was suddenly warm as his fingers curled unconsciously around hers.
'Clara, say hello to Mrs. Kendall.' Alice's voice was sharp and commanding.
'Hello,' a little shyly. 'I'm not going to live with my uncle. I don't like him.'
'Don't take any notice of her,' from Felix who was stepping forward, holding out his small hand. 'She's always getting told off by our uncle because she does naughty things. How do you do, Mrs. Kendall,' he added gravely as she took his hand after releasing Vasco's.
'Uncle Duarte only likes boys!' To everyone's surprise-or perhaps Alice was not surprised-Clara pulled her tongue out as if she were doing it to her uncle.
'No such thing!' declared Alice severely. 'Don't you dare to let your uncle hear you say a thing like that or you'll be in real trouble, young lady!'
'And don't let him see you pull your tongue out,' advised Felix still in that grave manner he had used towards Linda. 'He is very cross with rudeness.'
'I shan't let him see me-but I'll do it all the same!'
'She's a forward little madam for five and a half,' observed Auntie Sal. 'She wants her bottom smacked.'
The child's enormous brown eyes took on a glassy stare.
'Don't you give any cheek,' warned Alice sternly, 'or I shall certainly give you what you deserve!'
Linda looked at each child in turn, and liked them all, but in different ways. Vasco was the one who gave the impression of strength, and he was highly intelligent. He could be mischievous, she decided, a handful. He needed a man's hand to keep him in check. Felix, though gentler and more serious of manner, was yet showing strength of character and she felt he would accept responsibility even at this early age. Clara-well, she ought to have been a boy, thought Linda. She was in fact a tomboy while at the same time Linda strongly suspected she would use her sex to get her own way, use it as a weapon against the boys should they happen to act in a way she did not like-as when Vasco was kicking the ball too hard just now.
'I'm only a girl,' she seemed to be saying, 'so just you be more considerate to me.'
She had changed her expression and now there was a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
'No one can make me go to Uncle Duarte,' she said and all the while she was secretly admitting that what she said was carrying no weight at all. Alice, knowing her so well, summed it up very correctly indeed.
'She talks for the sake of it, and says things she hopes will annoy. She hopes to goad me into an argument but'-Alice stopped to wag a finger sternly at her-'instead, young miss, you'll get that spanking which Mrs. Smethurst said you deserved.'
Vasco broke in before his sister could speak.
'When do we have to go to Uncle's, Mrs. Kendall?'
'As soon as possible,' Alice submitted. 'His orders were that there was to be no unnecessary delay.'
'But I like the school,' inserted Clara. 'I've had two fights today and won them both.'
The two older women exchanged glances.
'The sooner the better,' said Auntie Sal with a disapproving glance at Clara. 'That one needs a man to keep an eye on her!'
Clara gave a deep sigh, and tugged at her long dark hair.
'I wish Mummy would hurry up and come back to us.'
'So do I,' from Felix. He was standing very still, looking at Linda through eyes even darker than those of his sister. His hair, like hers, was dark brown but otherwise there was little else in which they were alike. Clara's features were chubby, her mouth full-lipped but small-like a rosebud, thought Linda-very attractive. She'd be a real beauty one day. Felix's facial lines and contours were more severe; he carried the noble stamp of his mother's people, was Linda's verdict. Vasco, at only eight years of age, seemed exceptionally mature, both in his manner and his speech. Taller than his brother by about two inches, he seemed older than his age. He was springing up fast, using a great deal of energy. He would have to be watched in case he began to outgrow his strength, she decided.
'Off you go and play again.' Alice waved a hand and they obeyed at once, closing the door quietly behind them.
'Well, do you think you can manage them?' Alice inquired and Linda instantly nodded her head.
'I think I shall enjoy taking them,' she said and if she was aware of the look her aunt shot at her she chose to ignore it.
But she was glad that Auntie Sal was happy with what was taking place. She had been Linda's one and only prop, for both her parents were dead, Linda's mother having died four years ago, less than a year after her husband. And with no brothers or sisters, Linda had no one to turn to when the accident devastated her life, no one but Auntie Sal, who was a veritable giant in her support. Linda did have some in-laws but somehow she and they had never really hit it off, and so when David died the link was broken altogether. None of his family had thought to rally round his stricken widow, and now she did not want even to acknowledge them in the street-although she did force herself to do so if ever the necessity arose.
'So that's settled, my dear.' Alice was plainly relieved and as Auntie Sal was equally filled with satisfaction, Linda felt she had made the only decision possible under the circumstances.
And now that the decision was made she was staggered at the way she felt a lifting of the leaden weight that had lain on her for so long.
She was looking forward to something for the first time in over two years.
