The Portuguese Escape (45 page)

‘Well in the first place, Richard, I congratulate you most warmly. I think your little Countess is a splendid girl —pretty, intelligent, and learned.' He threw a glance at the plaques. ‘
And
a good cook! I think you've done remarkably well for yourself.' He cocked an eye at his Head of Chancery. ‘Now I'm going to make myself unpopular, and give some unasked-for advice.'

‘Please do.'

‘Don't patronise her, Richard. Of course she's got a good deal to learn superficially, but I suspect that her real knowledge begins where that of most diplomatic wives leaves off.'

‘I realise that, I think.' Richard spoke slowly; he hesitated, and then said—

‘How much do you think this will affect—well, what I do?'

‘Anyhow you can obviously never be sent to any Curtain countries!' Sir Henry said cheerfully. ‘That's an enormous let-off in itself. Think of those poor devils in our Missions in Moscow and Prague and Warsaw—what a life! You'll escape that.' He eyed Richard. ‘Are you worrying about it?'

‘Just a little.'

‘I shouldn't. It may prevent your being sent to Washington, at least for some time; but Washington is so infernally hot,
and
so infernally expensive!—that's really a let-off too. The fact is, my dear Richard, I think your little lady will soon turn into such a winner—if you don't cow her and make her nervous—that she will be a raging success anywhere.'

All this was nectar and ambrosia to Atherley, of course.

‘How would you like Rome?' the Ambassador asked suddenly.

‘Rome? Why, am I being shifted?'

‘Not that I know of. But I think they may want someone for Rome quite soon, and I could slip in a word. If, of course, it would suit you to be shifted. I should be exceedingly sorry to lose you,' Sir Henry said—‘but possibly you might prefer another post, now.'

‘Really I should be most grateful if you would slip in that word,' Atherley said. ‘In fact “grateful” is silly; I should hardly know how to thank you—sorry as I shall be to leave. But—well, I think a change might make things easier for Hetta.'

‘I think so too,' the Ambassador said drily. ‘Very well— I'll do what I can. And now how about telling me that story we hadn't time for the other day?—of the rescue. Didn't you say the Duke's little girl had played some sort of a lone hand? Another whisky?'

While Richard Atherley—keeping a furtive eye on his watch—was telling Sir Henry Loseley, with considerable relish, the full tale of Hetta's rescue in the Embassy courtyard in Lisbon, the news of the engagement reached Gralheira. Mrs. Hathaway was with Nanny and Luzia when
Antonio summoned her to the telephone; on her return she said—

‘That was Miss Probyn. It seems the wedding was quite splendid; she says she's busy writing up her despatch about it, but they'll all be back tomorrow afternoon, so we shall hear everything then. And Mr. Atherley is engaged to little Countess Páloczy. They settled it yesterday, on the drive down.'

‘Well, I call that very suitable,' Nanny said. ‘It's time he settled down, and she's a very nice young lady; well-connected, I understand, too, in her own country.'

Mrs. Hathaway glanced at Luzia. The girl's strange Celtic-classical face had taken on its Medusa look; it startled the Englishwoman—she watched that face, suddenly, with the sort of anxiety with which a disposal squad might look at an unexploded bomb.

‘Hetta is lucky,' Luzia said at last—and Mrs. Hathaway let out the breath which, quite unconsciously, she had been holding. ‘Atherley's wife will be very happy.'

‘
Mister
Atherley, Luzia,' Nanny said mechanically, as so often before. But on this occasion Luzia was recalcitrant.

‘Atherley's wife,' she repeated; ‘or
Richard's
. She is lucky,' she said again—‘and I hope they will both be most happy.' She sprang up from her chair and ran out of the room.

Mrs. Hathaway looked questioningly at Nanny.

‘Oh, ever since he came to the house to talk to Miss Probyn about the accident to her car, and all this business of the priests began, the child has been quite mad about Mr. Atherley,' Nanny said. ‘I'm sure you know how young girls are, Madam—at about sixteen their heads are full of poetry and beauty, and absolutely nothing else. They're just waiting for love, only they don't know it; and the first man they see they fall for. Well that's rather a vulgar expression,' Nanny said apologetically. ‘These girlish fancies, they're as fine-spun as cobwebs with the dew on them! But they can be very upsetting, all the same.'

Mrs. Hathaway was struck by Nanny's percipience, and still more by the manner in which she expressed it. The neat elderly woman in the navy-blue suit and white silk blouse must at some point in her undiscoverable past life
have been impressed by the silver gauze, spangled with dewdrops, spread out on autumn pastures in Leicestershire —to the point of using it for a comparison with the lyric love of sixteen, as she had observed it. Or had she experienced it, too? Almost awestruck by this idea, Mrs. Hathaway gazed at her companion. But Nanny soon brought her down to earth.

‘Personally, I think the Major much the more attractive of the two,' she said. ‘But, of course, it's been obvious all along that he has no eyes for anyone but Miss Probyn; whereas this business of the Countess and Mr. Atherley has been what you might call short and sharp.'

‘Ye-es,' Mrs. Hathaway said thoughtfully. She had encountered Major Torrens with deep interest, and was still wondering how that affair stood, and whether he was really the person for her beloved Julia. She would have been rather glad to hear Nanny on this point, but could not quite bring herself to ask. Nanny, however, obligingly volunteered her views.

‘I don't know, I'm sure, whether Miss Probyn will take him or not. And I find it hard to make up my mind whether she'd be wise to. He's a splendid gentleman, but he's
solid
, and she's so quick—it mightn't work.'

‘You're very fond of her, aren't you?' Mrs. Hathaway temporised.

‘Of course—what's more, I
admire
her. Who wouldn't, that had lived and worked with her?'

Mrs. Hathaway's discretion was melted by this tribute.

‘Nanny, you think she—well, might blow him sky-high?'

‘She might; or he might pull her down. It wouldn't hurt
him
to be given a bit of a lift, but I should hate to see her wings clipped,' Nanny pronounced—and Mrs. Hathaway, deeply agreeing, could have embraced her for those words.

While this conversation was taking place the subjects of it were standing together at the window of the schoolroom in the Ericeira Palace in Lisbon, occupied with the same problem. The round table behind them was strewn with sheets of typescript; when the Major arrived Julia had been busy finishing her account of the wedding, which she
intended to take out to Portela by car to catch the late plane for London—Julia was rather good at wheedling pilots or bribing stewards into doing this sort of job for her. Torrens' arrival threatened to upset her time-table, but the moment he entered the room she realised that he was in a state of emotional urgency; she greeted him kindly, looked at her watch, and decided that he could have twenty-five minutes for whatever was eating him. She could guess all too well what it was.

‘Well, that job's done,' she said easily, after hearing his account of Father Antal's departure.

‘Yes, thank God. It has been a teaser, too. And but for you I should have mucked it—they would have nabbed us at the level crossing coming out from Estoril that night. In fact really you've done it all.' He looked at her. ‘The last time our lines crossed on a job you were against me, and you beat me; this time you were on my side. I—I very much prefer it that way.'

‘Well anyhow bless you, Hugh, for having taken Hetti out to the airport to see him off,' Julia said, still lightly and without stress. ‘That was a real kindness.'

‘You say “Bless you” so easily,' he said irritably. ‘But you know quite well that there is only one blessing I really want, and you go on and on withholding it. When are you going to make up your mind?'

The girl continued to stare out of the window onto the garden, where one corner of the lawn was rendered countrified by a coop in which a hen still sat on Nanny's bantam eggs—that good woman had decided against taking the clutch up to Gralheira lest the drive should spoil them. She found it hard to answer the man beside her —moreover, she had a slight sense of guilt on his account. When she had first met him in Tangier, just over a year before, he had seemed determined and masterful, almost aggressive—up to a point that was something she approved of, and she had rather fallen for him. She did still like him very much; physically he could easily stir her. But—oh, what was it? Somehow in this Portuguese context he had shown himself as
less
than he had in Morocco; occasionally he had been at a loss, or out of key. All that was natural enough: he had found himself plunged into a
totally strange environment, to her deeply familiar—it was no wonder that he had had to rely on her for a great deal. And to be just to him he freely admitted his debt. But— again—it was no good marrying someone whom you had to
be just
to! Perhaps later on it might all come right; in other circumstances, or elsewhere. She was angry with herself that at this moment there should arise in her mind, quite unbidden, the picture of Hugh sitting in the Land-Rover holding Luzia in his arms: that was irrelevant and unworthy—but having arisen, it stuck like a burr. Well he would have to wait, till she saw her way;
no, felt
her way, in a fashion which would make justice as irrelevant as his merciful care of that exhausted child.

‘Hugh, I can't make up my mind now,' she said gently. ‘If I did, it would have to be No—and I don't want that to be the answer, any more than you do. But you must leave it yet-a-while.'

Of course he argued, protested.

‘No!' she said at last, sharply—‘I won't be rushed. If you try that on, it's No for keeps! I expect I've been vague and daffyish, and I apologise, if so—but don't try to bounce me. I won't stand for it.'

‘If you don't want it to be No ultimately, I don't see why you can't make it Yes now,' he urged. ‘What
is
it, Julia?—what's in your mind?'

‘I don't know—Portugal, perhaps. But please leave it for now, Hugh.'

‘I believe you're in love with the Duque!' he said angrily.

‘No, I'm not—though I can't think
why
not; he's such a charmer. Of course the person he ought to marry is Mrs. Hathaway,' she said. ‘That would be so marvellous for Luzia.' She turned to him. ‘Hugh, when do you leave?'

‘Day after tomorrow.'

‘Where for?'

‘London, in the first place.'

‘And where's Colin?'

‘Back at Gibraltar—I heard this morning. He did that business at Cannes very well.'

‘May I tell Edina? Discreetly?'

‘Yes, I think so. Wait till it breaks in the Press, though.'

The mention of the Press reminded Julia of her despatch; she looked at her watch.

‘Hugh, you'll have to go now; at least
I
shall. I must get this thing off to my paper.' She moved to the table as she spoke, and began pushing the sheets of typescript together; then she left them, and turned to him.

‘Don't be angry with me, whatever you do. Drop me if you think I'm too much trouble to be worth while; otherwise just forgive me for wanting to be certain.' She pulled the velvet strap of the bell. ‘Goodbye.'

‘No, damn you, au revoir,' he said; and picked up his hat and went out.

The run out to Portela was a relief to Julia after this scene, which left her dissatisfied with herself, sorry for Hugh, but implacably determined not to marry him till her heart and mind should give the word together. The evening air came in at the windows and cooled her flushed cheeks; the horizon over the Tagus was a soft green and rose, and out in the open land the olive-trees detached themselves, dark and shapely, from the green and rosy fields. At the airport she handed over her package of script to one of the air crew, and then drove leisurely back into Lisbon. At this hour, just before nightfall, there was a wonderful quality in the light—the pale tones of the buildings glowed, street lamps burned like great stars through trees whose green had a depth and richness unknown by day; in the blocks of flats the windows were oblongs of soft light. Back at the house, after parking her car in the courtyard she rang up the Castelo-Imperial; but Hetta of course was out, dining with Richard at the Guincho. Oh well, never mind—tomorrow she would recover her car from Colonel Marques and flip out to see the child before driving herself to Gralheira.

She went up to the schoolroom. Her typewriter still stood, open, on the table; mechanically she clipped on the cover and set it in its place on the bookshelf, emptied an ash-tray, patted the faded cushions on the old sofa—there! But still the room, now tidy, was somehow full of poor Hugh and his distress. With an impatient shrug the girl went over to the window and leaned her elbows on the sill. And at once Hugh and his troubles fell away; Portugal and
its beauty enfolded her once more. The light was almost gone—the white shapes of the two swans who circled, cold and detached, in the pool on the lawn gleamed in the gathering dusk: she could barely distinguish the humble grey oblong of Nanny's hen-coop. To think of Nanny was to think of Luzia, and her mind lingered on that lovely child—Julia had guessed what Nanny had guessed, and she remained for some time wondering just how hard her pupil would be taking the news of Atherley's engagement. About that engagement itself she had no doubts—Hetta was as tough as Hell, she would learn what she needed to learn, and be the making of Richard, once that old poppet of an Ambassador had pushed him off to Rome. But what a funny,
rapid
business it had all been! The last thing she expected when she came out to cover the wedding for the
Northern Post
was to find herself involved in the escape of a little Hungarian priest and in Hetta Páloczy and her affairs; all the same these episodes, Julia Probyn decided, as she leaned from an upper window in Lisbon, were intrinsically much more important and exciting than the royal marriage which tomorrow would fill the headlines of the world's press.