Marianna (19 page)

‘And since that time? Have you never thought of accompanying your husband when he has made business trips to Madeira? I always hoped that you might come, Marianna, but you never did.’

Jacinto’s voice was laden with accusation and she longed to defend herself. But how could she admit that despite all her arguments, despite all her pleading, her husband had been adamant in his refusal to let her accompany him to the homeland she longed so desperately to see. Latterly, though, she had grown beyond caring. She realized that Madeira had nothing to offer her but added pain and heartache.

‘There seemed to be no purpose in my coming,’ she said. ‘There was nothing I could do to help.’

‘I suppose not.’

Their aimless wandering had brought them to the South Kensington Museum. By unspoken agreement they mounted the steps and passed into the lofty entrance hall. There were few people about on this weekday winter’s morning, and Marianna felt a little less exposed to view here. They strolled to an inner room and paused before a showcase of nautical instruments, seeing nothing.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ Jacinto said in a muted voice. ‘Your marriage – are you happy?’

‘Of course.’ But his dark gaze was challenging and she added with a shrug, ‘As happy as most wives, I expect.’

‘Are there any children?’

She felt the press of tears against her eyelids and glanced away. ‘No, William and I have no family, as yet.’ A chilling thought struck her. ‘What about you, Jacinto? You were supposed to be marrying that girl Tereza.’

‘No, I did not marry Tereza. Nor anybody else.’

Marianna’s relief was clouded by a feeling of shame. ‘What has become of Tereza?’ she asked. ‘I mean, after...’

‘After the fuss about her stealing that locket of yours? She was very lucky, as things turned out.’

‘Oh?’

‘Your father did not dismiss her — did you know that? — but Tereza would not remain at the
quinta.
Instead, she went to live with her brother and his wife in Camara de Lobos, to help them with their numerous children. Then shortly afterwards Tereza married a man from the Portuguese mainland, a stone mason, and now she lives in Lisbon.’

‘I’m glad that she has done so well for herself,’ Marianna said fervently.

Jacinto touched the arrow-shaped scar on his right temple in a gesture she remembered so well. ‘You are greatly changed from the girl I knew in Madeira.’

‘So I should hope,’ she said with a soft laugh. ‘I was a mere child then. A foolish, spoilt, unthinking child, with small understanding of the world.’

He pondered this. ‘If you had known then all that you know now, Marianna, would you have accepted Mr William Penfold’s hand in marriage?’

Her instinct was to flare at him as she would have done in the past, to berate him for his impertinence. But she could not. In a husky voice, she said, ‘I did what I thought was right at the time.’

‘You were dazzled by the man’s wealth and position, that’s the truth of it.’

Marianna closed her eyes against the harshness of his tone. ‘You seem determined to hurt me, Jacinto. Almost as if you hated me.’

‘Of course I hate you — because I cannot stop myself from loving you! I have hated you for three long years. It has been the spur that has driven me on.’

The passion of his outburst shocked her, yet an awareness of Jacinto’s love was a shining golden thread woven into the very fabric of her being. And the moment she recognized him in the street outside her house, she had known that he loved her still.

‘You must not say things like that to me,’ she said in a stern, determined voice. ‘It is all nonsense.’

‘But I do love you, Marianna. Can you doubt it? And you—what are your feelings for me? Once perhaps you loved me, I think?’

She endeavoured to treat it lightly. ‘We were children, Jacinto.’

‘I was old enough to understand the truth of my feelings for you. And I was angry with myself for loving a girl who must always be beyond my reach.’

A woman entered the exhibition room, holding the hand of a small boy in a sailor suit. Breaking away from his mother, the child ran up to the showcase where Marianna and Jacinto—stood and elbowed his way in front of them. With a sharp reprimand and a smile of apology, the woman caught his hand again and led him off. But the spell was broken.

‘I cannot think what I was about, coming here with you like this,’ Marianna protested, stepping away to put a greater distance between them. ‘Our friendship belongs to our childhood, and it ended three years ago. I wish you every success in the future, Jacinto. I am sure that you will make remarkable progress in your—’

He cut across her impatiently. ‘There is a teashop nearby. We could sit there in greater comfort while we talk. Will you come?’

‘Certainly not. It is out of the question.’

‘Why so?’

‘Isn’t that patently obvious? I am a married woman.’ She should have left it there, but added fatally, ‘Suppose my husband were to come home and find me absent?’

‘But he will not come home. He took ship yesterday for Canada.’

Marianna stared. ‘You knew that?’

‘In the London shipping world such things are knowable. And I have made it my business to be well-informed about your husband. He will be away a month.’

‘Is that why you came to Cadogan Place today?’

Jacinto did not answer her directly, but said, ‘It is not the first time. My work takes me about London, delivering documents, and on several occasions I have contrived to walk past your house. But I have never summoned the courage to knock upon your front door. This morning fate was kind, and you came out to me.’

‘I should not have done so,’ she said unhappily.

‘Do you mean that you wish we had not met again?’

Marianna turned away from the searching look in his eyes, which asked more than his words.

‘No, no, I am glad to have seen you, Jacinto, to know that you are faring well. But I must go now. I am leaving London in the morning to stay at our house in Hampshire whilst my husband is abroad.’ She flushed as she realized that this might be construed as an invitation. ‘I... I meant that there will be no further opportunity for me to see you.’

He caught her gloved hand and would not let her pull away. ‘My Sundays are free. I shall take a train and we can meet at some convenient point nearby.’

‘I will permit no such thing.’

‘I shall come, nonetheless.’

‘And I shall refuse to see you.’ In quick alarm, she added, ‘You must not call at Highmount, Jacinto. Promise me that you will not.’

He pressed his advantage. ‘Only if you agree to meet me elsewhere. Name a place, Marianna.’

‘I cannot. It would be madness. Please, let go of me.’

‘For three years I have carried the memory of you in my heart,’ he reminded her. ‘You cannot ask that we part now, like this, never to see one another again.’

‘At least let go of my hand,’ she pleaded, terrified that someone might walk their way at any moment.

‘Then agree to meet me in Hampshire. Just for an hour, Marianna, to be together and talk. That is not much to ask of you.’

It was the note of bleakness in his voice that made her relent. Never to see one another again, he had said. The thought was beyond bearing. Surely an hour could be arranged without risk, an innocent hour spent in recollection of their happy childhood?

‘Very well, Jacinto, just once.’ She taxed her mind for a safe plan. ‘On Sunday, after luncheon — say three o’clock. If you walk from Edgeley station towards Highmount, and branch left where the lane divides, you will come to a small wicket gate which gives on to a path beside the river. There is a rustic bridge and I shall await you there. But if anyone else should be about, you must not acknowledge me but pretend to have mistaken your way.’

His dark eyes glowed with pleasure. ‘I shall be the soul of discretion, Marianna, you may count upon it. And now, I will escort you home.’

‘No, we must not be seen together again. Even now I fear that the servants’ tongues will be wagging.’

‘In Madeira,’ he said, ‘you cared nothing for wagging tongues.’

‘It was entirely different in those days. I was unmarried.’

‘Suppose you were still unmarried, Marianna, would you and I be able to meet? Would that be permissible?’

‘No, of course it would not. Not like this ... alone, unchaperoned.’

‘You and I used to spend hours alone together,’ he said. ‘By the
levada,
remember?’

Pain thrust at her heart. ‘Do I have to keep repeating it? We were children then.’

‘
I
was not a child, Marianna.’

‘But you were the son of my father’s
feitor,’
she said, and was instantly repentant. Jacinto took hurt as he had always done, by growing angry.

‘Just a ragged peasant lad, too lowly ever to dare cast lover’s eyes upon the
fidalgo’s
daughter. But I did, Marianna, God help me I did. Your father, I suppose, would have had me whipped if he’d known that I harboured such impudent thoughts.’

‘Papa was never less than kind to you,’ she protested. ‘He was kind to all his people.’

‘The benevolent lord and master! Like patting faithful horses on the nose.’

‘That is grossly unfair of you, Jacinto.’

‘Perhaps,’ he conceded. ‘I have no cause to speak ill of your father. There were many worse masters than he ever was. Pai and the other
caseiros
considered themselves fortunate, having a
fidalgo
who interfered so little and left us to get on with things in our own way.’

She met Jacinto’s glance and was caught in a rush of tender memories, visualizing the long summers when they had been children...

‘I must go,’ she said falteringly.

Without demur, he accompanied her to the museum’s entrance. Outside, he hailed a hansom cab and assisted her up the high step. It was hardly a proper vehicle for a lady to use alone, but better than walking through the streets. Jacinto stood at the kerbside and raised his hat. ‘Until Sunday, Marianna ...
até à vista.’

The dank grey November cold which hung like a pall over the Hampshire countryside was enough to seep into one’s very bones. At church, Marianna had shivered all through the service; and when after luncheon she went up to her room and summoned Hilda, expressing her intention of going for a walk, the girl exclaimed in horror.

‘Ooh no, ma’am, it’s ever so nasty out! Why don’t you stay indoors where it’s all nice and warm? There’s a lovely big fire in the drawing room.’

But it was turned two o’clock. In less than an hour Jacinto would be arriving at their rendezvous. Marianna felt a needless stir of panic that she would not get there in time.

‘I simply must have some fresh air, Hilda,’ she said.

‘Fresh
air, you calls it, ma’am?’

‘I find it so oppressive indoors. A turn about the park will do me good.’

‘Well then, you must be sure to wrap up real good and warm,’ Hilda declared, going to the wardrobe.

The sight of Marianna donning her plaid cape made the ageing mastiff, Cato, lumber to his feet from the bedroom hearthrug.

‘No, it will be too far for you, poor old chap! Better stay here and Hilda will beg a few tidbits for you from cook.’

The dog had always been regarded as Ralph’s, but William’s son seldom came to Highmount these days, and Cato had transferred his allegiance to herself. It surprised Marianna how fond she had become of the ugly old brute, whose scowls had once inspired her with terror. He followed her devotedly wherever she went around the house, but he became short of breath if he was walked any distance out of doors.

Marianna set off ten minutes later, in the opposite direction from the one she needed. She went by way of the walled orchard and descended to the little belvedere where the telescope was erected. This spot had become something of a shrine for her; on fine days she could sit and let her thoughts drift back wistfully to happier days in Madeira. But today she hurried on, making her way to the river by a devious route.

Normally, with William away and only herself to consider, Marianna found a measure of contentment in staying at Highmount. Never before had time seemed so interminable as these past four days waiting for Sunday, waiting for Jacinto. Yet over and again she had told herself that this secret assignation was madness. She should have kept things on a strictly formal level, inviting Jacinto to come to Cadogan Place later on, when her husband was returned. It would have been permissible, surely — a young man whose father had been her own father’s
feitor
and was now working in London would naturally wish to call and pay his respects.

But she knew, she was quite positive, that her husband would never condone such a visit. Once, when a dinner guest was inquiring about her life in Madeira, she had been horrified to hear William interject with a scornful laugh, ‘Quite the little missionary, was my wife! Her father was highly amused at the way she spent her days trying to teach his illiterate peasantry to read and write.’

As Marianna reached the bridge she heard the church clock in the village chime the three-quarters, a bleared sound in the damp air. Five minutes later she was well-nigh in despair that Jacinto would not come. Her view of the river path was obscured by weeping willow trees that drooped their fronds into the water, but — wasn’t that the sound of approaching footsteps? She gripped the rustic handrail with trembling fingers and prayed that it would be the man for whom she waited.

‘Where have you been?’ she cried, as he came into sight. ‘Oh, I thought you were not going to come at all.’

‘Am I late?’ he asked, concerned. ‘Surely I cannot be?’

Blushing for shame, Marianna inquired tritely about his train journey. Jacinto dismissed the question with an impatient sweep of his hand. For long seconds they stood looking at one another, not speaking, while the river flowed smoothly below them, gurgling softly as it lapped the piers of the bridge; and somewhere in the bare-branched trees a wood pigeon was calling.