She supposed it was natural that the Conde's eyes should flicker with surprise when she entered the dining room where he was standing by the window, his tall frame silhouetted against flaring lights illuminating the courtyard outside, with its mimosas and jacarandas, its fountains and its masses of exotic flowers. He had turned with a slow and fluid movement, and there was no indication of his surprise other than that faint flicker of the deep-set, dark grey eyes. She noticed the outthrust chin, the firm mouth above it, the straight classical line of the nose-the entire face, in fact, which seemed to draw her in some indefinable way that both puzzled and excited her. Not for two whole years had any man's attractions had any effect on her… but now…
Vaguely she knew she had gone to all this trouble with her appearance just for him, and although she knew a certain disloyalty to her husband's memory, all that seemed important at this moment was that the Conde should not despise her for looking drab.
A slow smile dissolved some of the austerity but not all; it was an inherent part of him, passed on from a long line of exalted ancestors.
'You look rested,' he observed and she thought that only a man like the Conde could be so very subtle in his comment on the change in her appearance. 'Would you care for a drink?' he inquired, his dark eyes sweeping over her again from head to foot. He had indicated a chair by the window, a low, beautiful upholstered chair in French tapestry. She realised that the room was in two parts, one being the dining-area and the other, much smaller, the 'lounge' where aperitifs or other drinks were usually taken when there were no large numbers of guests to be catered for. All was, therefore, intimate, and this atmosphere was made even more intimate by the flowers spilling from crystal vases, from a lovely wall container in Sevres porcelain, and from a hanging basket in which almond blossom had been placed along with the delicate, ornamental greenery that grew permanently in it. The lights were concealed beneath the pelmets of the long Italian brocatelle drapes which at present were wide open, as was the window, allowing the scents of the gardens to drift in. Soft music from four inconspicuous speakers overtoned the gentle sough of the breeze. On the dining table two silver-gilt candelabra, each with five branches, held the kind of candles Linda had often admired in shops like Harrods but had never been able to buy. The wineglasses gleamed as did the silver cutlery. Hand-embroidered table linen from Madeira, immaculately laundered, lent colour, as did the flower arrangements at each end of the table and at each cover.
She answered him after this swift glance around.
'Just a dry martini, please.'
He poured it for her; she noticed his clothes, the casual, blouson-type fawn jacket over mid-brown slacks. His shirt looked like pure silk which had been stiffened; it was off-white and the tie was the same colour as the slacks.
'You're very quiet,' he remarked after sitting down on a chair opposite to her and hitching up a trouser leg.
She felt herself colouring up. Her feelings were confused, for on the one hand she wished she were back in her bedroom, and yet on the other she knew a strange, inexplicable desire to be able to talk to him… to open up her heart and mind as it had never been opened up since that fateful moment when, on going to her front door, she had seen the policeman standing there, his face twisted by the news he had to impart to her. Yes, she had been tight inside for too long; her aunt had tried to loosen the knots which pain and loss had tied within her but much as she loved Auntie Sal, and grateful as she was to her, Linda could in no way open up and reveal what was inside her.
She said in answer to his comment,
'I was-surprised at-at your invitation.' She was conscious of the colour entering more deeply into her cheeks. 'I'd expected to-well, to eat in the kitch-er-somewhere else.'
If he noticed her stammering awkwardness he mercifully ignored it and spoke at once, as if he would put her at her ease. Assuredly he was a compassionate man, she thought-this despite the strong suspicion that, conversely, he could be hard to the point of ruthlessness if ever anyone should cross him.
'I felt you'd be feeling strange, and a little lost,' he said in that foreign voice that was beginning to have an effect on her which she was totally unable to describe. 'The tragedy is plainly still with you, and it was not good that you be alone this evening. I hope,' he ended with the hint of a smile, 'that you will enjoy your meal.'
Her mouth had begun to move convulsively when he mentioned the tragedy but now she managed to respond to his smile.
'I'm sure I shall, Dom Duarte….' Her eyes were wide and limpid as they met his. 'And thank you for-for your kindness in asking me to-to dine with you.'
To that he made no comment, but sat looking at the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes thoughtful and faintly mysterious; his lips were pursed and Linda felt he had drifted a long way from her, that an idea, still vague, had entered his mind.
The first course was brought in by a manservant, Vitor, who was about to serve his employer first but the flick of a hand sent him to the other side of the table. Linda was served smoked salmon on a thin bed of crisp lettuce with other garnishings to add colour and interest. She looked across at her handsome companion and waited until he was served before taking up her knife and fork.
The Conde soon opened a conversation, and once again Linda experienced this urge to talk about herself. The opportunity did not at this stage arise, as he was commenting on the varying qualities of the children's characters. She had to smile when he declared that Clara was a tomboy.
'She might just be a handful for you,' he added. 'She's as mercurial as quicksilver. However, if you have any trouble you must call on me. Clara knows better than to try my patience.'
'I daresay all three children are missing their mother, though, and that could affect their behaviour.'
'They miss their father, too.' He spoke in a hard, brittle tone. 'You know all the circumstances, of course?'
She nodded her head.
'Mrs. Sutherland did tell me a few things. It's sad that they have no father any more.'
The Conde allowed that to pass without comment.
'Felix,' he said musingly. 'He's going to be the brilliant one. Rather too serious for a young child, but not without spirit, nevertheless. Vasco of course is always conscious of being the eldest and for that reason he needs rather stricter treatment than the others.' He glanced at her and added, 'Here again, if you have trouble you must come to me.'
She nodded, but absently. Linda could not imagine herself running to the Conde with complaints. Besides, she wanted the confidence and friendship of the children and tale-carrying on her part would do nothing to assist the building up of that kind of rapport.
'How long do you think I shall be here?' she ventured when they were sitting back waiting for the fish course to be served.
'There isn't any hurry for you to leave.' A statement, which left her without anything to say. It struck her that he was in no hurry for her to leave the Palacio! 'The children like you-Oh, yes, I have spoken with them in order to discover their feelings. They were very happy when Mrs. Sutherland was looking after them, and my sister believed they would never take to anyone else, hence her decision not to employ anyone to take her place. But looking after them was too much for her and when she eventually returns to her home here she will require a nanny.'
Linda's eyes darted to his. What exactly was he telling her? She said slowly,
'You did mention that you would be looking for a nanny, and that once you found a suitable one I could leave.'
His mouth seemed to tighten but his tone was friendly enough when he spoke.
'I don't see why you are so anxious to leave, Mrs. Kendall. From what I have gathered you have nothing to occupy your mind back home and that is not good-' He shook his head knowingly. 'In order to recover from the kind of experience you have suffered you must find something to take your thoughts away from it-'
'But I don't want to forget….' Her voice trailed as she realised that once again she had interrupted him. She was about to murmur an apology but he spoke first.
'Are you telling me that you enjoy dwelling on the tragedy?' He did not give her time to answer as he added with a sudden frown, 'Enjoy is not of course the correct word. You are more content-shall we say-in brooding, than you would be if you found yourself managing to have moments-perhaps hours-of forgetfulness?'
Linda averted her eyes.
'I expect,' she murmured, 'that you think I'm morbid?'
'Not at all.' The accent seemed somehow rather more noticeable than before. 'I have a certain understanding of your emotions, Mrs. Kendall, but although I can sympathise I also know that, with some kind of effort, you yourself can ease the pain and that eventually you will be able, in many ways, to enjoy your life again.'
She could only stare, bewildered by his gravity, his gentleness; and more than anything was she puzzled by the unmistakable emphasis on the word 'know.'
How did he know?
She hadn't time to speak before he was saying,
'The life you will lead here, with the children, the change in scenery and so many things besides, will take your mind off your loss-' He waved an imperative hand when she made to interrupt and soft colour tinted her cheeks. 'You must give yourself a chance,' he went on almost sternly now. 'How old are you?' he inquired unexpectedly.
'Twenty-six-almost twenty-seven.'
Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he express surprise. He said quietly,
'You were determined to let yourself grow old quickly, weren't you?'
'Yes, I was,' she admitted.
'Yesterday you looked all of thirty-five.' He sounded heartless, she thought, and wondered where the compassion had gone.
'I know-my aunt was always telling me to-to try,' she ended with a sigh.
'But when one feels one has nothing left to live for one is apt to let oneself go.' He paused and she thought: he has the most uncanny understanding of my situation. 'It's a natural reaction,' he went on at once. 'But it mustn't go on and on until you're old. You have much to live for, and remember-' Again he paused, this time to stare directly at her. 'Others have suffered losses and managed to live again.'
She nodded in mute agreement. And for several minutes all was silence as Vitor served the next course. Dom Duarte poured the wine, one of his own specials, he had told her, the grapes being grown on the valleyside where the mineral contents of the soil were excellent for the properties of the wine.
'I do realise that others have suffered as I have,' she said when eventually they were alone again. 'But it seems disloyal to my husband's memory-and to my lovely children-if I forget, and begin to enjoy my life again. Oh, it is so difficult to make people understand!' she cried, vainly trying to hide her distress. 'The truth is that I can't forget, even if I wanted to!'
'Of course you can't forget,' he agreed and now his voice was gentle again, compassionate. 'You never will, not as long as you live. But you can help yourself to forget the actual pain.'
'You mean-that I shall be able to remember without having any pain?' She shook her head because it seemed impossible.
'That's exactly what I do mean,' he said. 'The day can come when you can think about those loved ones-and undoubtedly you often will do so-but there will be no pain, just memories of the happy times you all had together.' He sounded faraway all at once, yet his eyes were on her, and there was deep kindness and understanding in their depths. 'Think about what I have said,' he advised her, 'and try-just try, and keep on trying.'
For a while there was silence, a sort of intimate, companionable silence, while they ate the delicious roast duckling in orange sauce. A confection of fruit and cream came next and then they moved to the other end of the room for coffee and liqueurs.
The Conde had changed the subject and Linda was learning something about the quinta-the vineyards on the hillsides, the extensive orchards where citrus fruits were grown in vast quantities, the fields where wheat and barley were cultivated. He mentioned the cork-oak forests and explained that some of the azulegos she would see when she explored the house depicted the cork-oak workers and others employed on the estate, such as the treading of the grapes. She had shown curiosity about the azulegos and was told that they were almost always blue, and were beautifully glazed.
'You will see azulegos on all kinds of buildings,' he told her. 'We love to decorate with them.'
She had found herself asking about such things as weather, and flora and fauna.
'We have all the flowers which you have,' he told her. 'Plus some others as well. Our poinsettias are magnificent, as are our magnolias and camellias. They grow well here. Moon-flowers too grow over great expanses, and also geraniums.' He told her of the trees-eucalyptus and cypresses and many other forest trees.
And of course the olives and the figs which grew in the quinta's orchards.
As Dom Duarte talked Linda found herself relaxing in a way she would never have believed possible. It was not just her mind, but her body too, and it dawned on her that even her muscles had become tensed. She now felt at ease, and the tragedy had, for the time, been put into the dark recesses of her subconscious. It was as if a miracle were taking place, performed by her companion, a stranger until a few hours ago. She seemed to bask in a new peace and when later she examined the situation, and the temporary divestment of her sorrow, she could only conclude that-amazing and impossible as it might seem-there existed some kind of a bond between the illustrious owner of the Quinta de Dominga and herself!
She now watched him as he poured a Grand Marnier for her and a Napolean for himself, and marvelled at what must surely be a dual personality. For he was all arrogance and superiority at this moment, his proud head-set on equally proud shoulders-held erect so that above his shirt collar the muscles of his throat stood out.
He brought the drink to her. Vitor had poured the coffee and left the room.
He said, after taking possession of a chair and leaning comfortably against the thick, duck down cushions,
'Can you bring yourself to tell me something about your husband and children, Mrs. Kendall?' and she knew without any doubt at all that the previous talk had not only been designed to draw her thoughts from her grief, but also as a leader to what he was suggesting now.
'I think so, yes,' she replied without very much hesitation at all. For this was what she had wanted… and it seemed that the man knew! His insight was as exceptional as his superlative personality.
'You were married young?' The words provided the opening she needed.
'I was twenty and my husband two years older.' She stopped as she noticed his expression. His lips moved and he seemed to be murmuring to himself,
'Twenty-two….'
'A year later our twins were born. We were so thrilled.'
'You didn't mind the extra work of having two babies instead of one?'
She shook her head and her eyes shone for the first time since the accident.
'No, not at all. David helped me all the time. It was lovely having the two growing up together.'
'You didn't want any more?' His interest seemed to increase as the question was asked.
'We did, yes, but-' She shrugged a little self-deprecatingly. 'None came along.'
'The loss must have been devastating. It's two years ago, you said?'
'Yes, just under two years.'
'So the anniversary is soon?' Dom Duarte's face was a mask.
She nodded and speech was difficult.
'In a month-the eighteenth of June, so it's less than a month.'
'You mustn't dwell on it,' he said and his eyes were hard and stern. 'I shall expect you to give much of your time to the children.'
He changed the subject before she could speak, and a short while later she was in effect being dismissed as he said, rising from his chair,
'You must be very tired. I feel sure you'll sleep.' He watched her get up from the chair. 'Good night, Mrs. Kendall. Leonor will bring up your breakfast. Dona Clementina will tell you what your full duties are-Dona Clementina is my housekeeper. You've already met her, of course.'
'Yes… good night, Dom Duarte.'
'Sleep well.'
She sent him a thin smile and moved to the door which he was holding open for her. Their eyes met as she came abreast of him and lifted her face. Some inexplicable flicker of emotion stole over her; she felt a tingling of nerves that was as bewildering as it was disturbing.
Just what was happening to her?
