The Jade Dragon Read online

  “You mentioned just now that your husband was a cousin of my mother’s. I gathered from Mr. Darville that his wife, too, was a cousin of hers. Does that mean they were brother and sister?”

  She nodded her head and smiled. “I forget that you know so little about us, Elinor. By and by we will have a nice long chat together, and I will tell you all that you wish to know. But not now, I think, when you have only just arrived.”

  “How tragic it was,” I heard myself murmuring, “the way in which your sister-in-law met her death.”

  Vicencia’s eyebrows lifted. “So Stafford told you. And about little Eduardo too, I suppose? Poor Stafford, his marriage to Luzia brought him nothing but unhappiness.”

  The sympathetic tone of her voice made me feel certain that she could not have heard about Stafford Darville’s relationship with Inesca, the fado singer. I said warily, “Do you mean that his marriage was never happy, even before the little boy’s death?”

  Vicencia was about to deny the suggestion. But then she gave a deep sigh. “It is useless to pretend, Elinor. You would discover the truth sooner or later. My sister-in-law, you see, was quite the wrong wife for a man like Stafford. He needed a woman who would be a warmly loving partner, but all that Luzia wanted from her husband, apart from wealth and position, was a child. She devoted herself utterly to the baby and neglected Stafford shamefully. I believe that from the moment Luzia knew she had conceived, she was never again a proper wife to him. You understand what I mean, Elinor?”

  I couldn’t help being embarrassed by Vicencia’s directness, but I tried to consider calmly what she had told me. Did it not suggest a different explanation of why Luzia should have resorted to suicide, if indeed Mrs. Forrester was right in hinting that her death was no accident? If Luzia cared nothing about the man she’d married and allowed herself to become totally absorbed in her child, then might not the little boy’s horrifying death have carried her beyond the brink of despair? And as for her husband’s infidelity, about which Mrs. Forrester had been so disapproving, Vicencia had inferred that Stafford Darville was a man with a strongly passionate nature. Denied his wife’s bed, would he not have been driven to turn elsewhere? Perhaps, after all, Vicencia was aware of his liaison with the fadista and judged him blameless.

  I suppose my face must have registered something of my confusion and distress. Vicencia took my hand and pressed it sympathetically. “You must be tired, my dear. And I can see that you have scarcely touched your luncheon. I will ring for some tea to be brought—we do drink tea in Portugal, you know. Then afterward, would you like me to show you something of the quinta?”

  “Thank you, Vicencia. But perhaps,” I suggested tentatively, “I should go and see my grandmother again. That is, if she has recovered sufficiently by now.”

  Vicencia gave an emphatic shake of her head. “Dona Amalia will make up her own mind when she wishes to see you again, Elinor. She can be very difficult sometimes, and I am sure you want to avoid another unpleasant scene.”

  My tour of the house—a real palace—with Vicencia revealed to me new wonders at every turn. Each chamber we entered seemed even more magnificent than the one before, and I felt dazed by the splendor of it all—the gilded and painted ceilings, the delicately ornate furniture, the multitude of rich tapestries and fabrics, the chandeliers that I guessed would be a glittering blaze when lit, their myriad candles reflected in the huge rococo mirrors. I thought poignantly of Mama being brought up in such luxury and how she had renounced it all to marry the man she loved, to become simply the wife of an English country doctor. Yet I was convinced that my mother had never once regretted her choice.

  We had just reached an apartment that Vicencia told me was called the Chinese salon, when Carlota interrupted us. “Oh, Vicencia, there you are. I want you to make a small addition to the dinner menu this evening; so kindly see the chef and arrange it for me. Tell him to send a dish of pimientos to table.”

  “As you wish,” Vicencia said meekly. “I will finish showing Elinor the rooms in this wing. Then she can come with me to the kitchens.”

  “No, please go now. I will attend to Elinor.”

  Vicencia threw me a helpless little glance and departed. My heart turned in pity for her. She had to accept such humiliating treatment from Carlota, lest the new conde’s wife find some excuse to dismiss her and she be left without a home. I determined that I would use whatever authority my position as an heir gave me to prevent this from happening. But I wondered sadly how long it would be before the entire family was forced to leave Castanheiros. And what would become of Vicencia then?

  I inquired of Carlota how my grandmother was. She replied curtly that the old lady was as well as could be expected in the circumstances. “In the future, Elinor, kindly remember that your presence here puts a considerable strain on her. At least promise me you will not upset your grandmother again by any foolish or unwarranted remarks.”

  “My only wish,” I said earnestly, “is to help her understand the truth about my mother’s marriage. If I can do that, my visit will have been worthwhile.” Carlota made a dismissive gesture, as if she did not believe a single word of it.

  She was a far less helpful guide than Vicencia had been and stood watching with obvious impatience while I wandered about the salon, looking and admiring. The Chinese influence that gave the room its name was apparent everywhere. The chimneypiece was made to look like a pagoda, and the lacquer wall paneling was decorated in the chinoiserie style. Two glass-fronted display cabinets each contained a collection of fine Oriental porcelain. At the far end of the salon was a semicircular alcove flanked by slender columns, and there on a fluted pedestal rested a small green statuette. Coming closer, I saw that it was carved in the shape of some weird mythical creature, which I decided must be a dragon. It was grotesque rather than beautiful, I thought, and I wondered why this object above all else should have been displayed so prominently.

  “It’s made of jade, isn’t it?” I asked Carlota. She nodded, without speaking.

  I sighed, and tried again. “I’m not sure it is something I myself would choose to put in the place of honor, but I suppose it must be very valuable?”

  “Its value to this family, Elinor, is not a question of what price it would fetch in a salesroom. It has a long and treasured history.”

  “Oh yes---?” I said invitingly.

  But already Carlota had turned away and was moving to a doorway at one side. I noticed then that some of the blue floor tiles near the pedestal were chipped and broken—the first sign of anything less than perfection I had seen at the quinta. I was about to comment upon this but decided against giving her the chance for another short answer. So, in silence, I followed Carlota into the adjoining room.

  “This is the library, Elinor. We have a number of books in English if you should become bored and want something to read.”

  “Thank you—although I’m hoping it won’t be too long before I am fluent in Portuguese.”

  “I doubt if you will find it worth the effort. Most visitors from England soon give up attempting to master our language.”

  Again she was making the point that I was unwelcome at Castanheiros and was not expected to stay for very long. Carlota, I decided, was someone with whom I would have to tread warily if I were not to make an enemy.

  I didn’t attempt to prolong the tour, but merely glanced around without asking any questions as we passed through the remaining downstairs rooms. When I finally escaped to my bedroom, I found a young maid unpacking my things, disposing of them in the commodious chest of drawers. She was a pretty, buxom, dark-haired girl of about sixteen. Bobbing a curtsey, she gave me a nervous smile and murmured something I did not catch.

  “Boa tarde,” I greeted her with an answering smile. Wanting to know her name, I tried to remember how to ask it. “Dizer-me sue nome,” I hazarded.

  “Maria, senhora,” she told me in a shy whisper.

  Other phrases came to mind, and I managed to converse with M
aria in simple terms. I learned that she had worked at the quinta for five years, that her father was the baker in Cintra, and that her brother was a coachman here.

  Maria obviously expected to stay and help me dress for dinner, but I explained to her that I had never been accustomed to a personal maid in England, and that I could manage very well for myself. I felt cheered, however, to have made a friendly contact with at least one member of the quinta staff.

  When I went downstairs an hour later, my uncle had arrived home. I found him in the anteroom to the sala de jantar. He was standing before an ornate Venetian mirror, a wineglass in his hand, and he seemed to be admiring his reflection. Hearing me enter, he spun around quickly and cleared his throat. “Ah. You must be Elinor. I heard that you had, er, safely arrived.” He removed his monocle and started to polish it with a black-bordered handkerchief, as if needing a moment to consider the situation.

  I smiled at him and held out my hand. “How do you do, Tio Affonso?”

  “I am well, thank you.” He paused, then added, “Your aunt will be down soon, I expect.”

  My uncle was not a tall man, scarcely taller than myself, in fact, but he had kept himself in good trim for someone in his middle years. Even had I not caught him before the mirror just now I might have guessed that his appearance was important to him. His dark hair was graying at the temples, and he wore a neat goatee, which he stroked with long fingers as he surveyed me. He did not smile, and his eyes just evaded mine. Could it be, I wondered, that he was as nervous at meeting me as I was meeting him?

  To fill the awkward silence I inquired whether my grandmother ever came down to meals. My uncle shook his head. “Not nowadays—at least, only on rare occasions. She is an invalid, Elinor, I hope that has been, er, properly impressed upon you. I understand that she had one of her attacks today.”

  “An attack brought on entirely by Elinor’s thoughtlessness,” a sharp voice interjected from the doorway. Carlota looked truly magnificent in her dinner gown. Of black taffeta with ruched flounces and a small train, it was cleverly designed to make her plump figure seem voluptuous. In her hand she carried a carved ivory fan edged with black lace. She gave me no chance to answer her contentious remark, but went on peremptorily, “Come, Affonso, let us go straight through.”

  My uncle hesitated. “But should we not wait for Vicencia, my dear?”

  “She can join us when she is ready,” Carlota said coldly. “I had to send her to the coach house with a message.”

  Although there were to be only four of us, we were dining in full splendor in the main sala de jantar, a vast, vaulted chamber that I had seen earlier during my tour. The walls were covered with blue and white azulejos similar to the glazed tiles I had noticed on many of the houses in Lisbon, but Vicencia had told me that these were especially rare and valuable. The floor, too, was tiled, in red and black, and through a Moorish archway was an indoor fountain that whispered gently in the background.

  Vicencia came hurrying in apologetically, not seeming at all surprised to find that we hadn’t waited for her. The meal commenced in an uneasy silence, with the butler, a grave and dignified figure, standing attentively behind Carlota’s chair, while the footmen in their white waistcoats and knee breeches scurried to wait upon us under his eagle eye.

  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 re
opening 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.