Authors: Alicia Meadowes
And so she took Lady Maxwell’s suggestion and came in haste to Portugal. She had not even waited for a reply to the note to
Lord Straeford that apprised him of
her coming. And Mrs. Harding had written to her husband, Edward, telling him of the countess’s sudden decision. She also warned
him that she was taking their son with her. At first Ann had considered leaving little Eddie at home with his maternal grandparents
and his nurse. But she could not bear to be parted from the child, and, instead, brought him and the nurse and all his infant
trappings with her to Portugal along with her newest and best friend, Marisa Straeford.
Valerie Claridge and the newlywed Carol Belvoir tried to dissemble their curiosity over Lady Straeford’s sudden decision to
accompany them, but secretly they burned to know the inside story of the Straeford marital relationship. The Earl of Straeford
and his countess were considered an ill-sorted match by the gossip-loving
ton.
Much speculation flew among members of that elite sect in eager anticipation of discovering a juicy morsel to satisfy their
avid hunger for tales of marital discord. During most of the journey Marisa had managed to turn aside her companions’ subtle
probings, and to keep her thoughts private.
Only Ann Harding knew what it cost the countess to chance the displeasure of that forbidding man Lady Straeford called husband.
Having known Justin for a time when she lived in India, Ann believed the man to be of a hard nature whose consuming interest
was the pursuit of war. That his lovely wife had lived in a state of anxiety ever since the news of the battle of Talavera
reached London would never occur to such a man as Straeford, Ann feared.
The threat of more battles need not have troubled Marisa. Unknown to the British public, the Duke of Wellington had no thought
for further engagement of the enemy. Talavera had been such a bloody battle so bitterly fought that both sides were forced
to a standstill. However, Wellington had succeeded in holding his position and the French finally withdrew late in July of
1809.
But it was a fruitless victory. Wellington was beset by a host of calamities that cost him his hard-won advantage. First the
Portuguese general, Venegas, did not appear as was planned; next, Soult was on the march again,
and finally, Cuesta did not hold Talavera as ordered, but evacuated it instead. As with Oporto, the British were forced to
call off pursuit of the French in order to regroup and recommence battle plans again.
No. Wellington was not about to engage again until he was quite ready. And when he did, it would be to fulfill a grand design
he was constructing for the safety of Portugal and the destruction of the French. But the British government and people, and
the Portuguese government and people, and even Wellington’s own men were fretful and discouraged, wondering why the duke so
often seemed to prefer caution to glory.
As the summer of 1809 wore on, there was hardly an officer who did not expect to embark for home. Wellington was under constant
pressure to provide reasons why the British should remain in Portugal with the outlook so unpromising. Even the Military Secretary
at the Horse Guards talked of sending Wellington to India should they evacuate Portugal. But the “Iron Duke” was not to be
stampeded into hasty action. His was a campaign, for the present, of “knotted ropes.” If anything went wrong, Wellington was
heard to say that he “tied a knot and went on.” He would wait his time. Nevertheless, the future success of his methods could
not be discerned at that time, and dissension was rife.
The temporary cessation in combat was unknown to Marisa however, and she suffered visions of Justin wounded in battle. She
wished him removed from harm’s way, even though she knew her lord lived for war—that he found the pursuits of ordinary life
dull and uninspiring—that a certain dark strain in his nature sought violence and conflict.
Still, she was sure there was another side to Justin—the one he concealed from everyone. Once she had seen a flash pf his
deeper and, she prayed, truer nature. That first night in her father’s house she had received an intuition of his torment
and yearning toward tenderness. Marisa had to discover whether her instincts about the man were true or not.
And what if she were wrong? What if there were no heart made for love and tenderness within the man, but
only stone clear through, as he had done his best to convince her so far?
Instinctively, she turned away from that thought. She would face it, if it became necessary, in time. For the present, she
only hoped he had received her latest letter and would be there to meet her when she arrived.
Straeford, in fact, had received all of his wife’s letters but had not replied because he deliberately delayed reading them.
One letter he had carried in the pocket of his tunic, and at stray moments when his hand inadvertently touched the thick parchment,
he would feel a start of pleasure that angered him. Then he would grasp the missive as if to throw it away but could not bring
himself to do so.
Eventually he did read it in the privacy of his tent at his outpost in the lonely Beira Valley, and as he read the softly
flowing sentences by the flicker of candle flame, he was transported back to Straeford Park. He felt the warmth of Marisa
reach out to him and saw the gleam of her smile, and wondered how it was that that white witch took such hold of his imagination.
She wrote that Meg had become engaged to the Fairfax boy and that every prospect for happiness now existed for the couple.
But her most important information was that she was studying Portuguese and reading Camoes’s Lusiads in translation. “I believe
the soul of a nation is expressed in its national epic,” she wrote. Witch! What was her muse that led her so unerringly to
those private pursuits that he felt were uniquely his own? He had tried to throw her off the scent that time he had found
her among his books in the library at Berkeley Square, but obviously to no avail. No doubt she would discover the convent
at Alcobaga too.
Not only had Marisa discovered the abbey in her studies, but she was planning to visit it as well. Straeford would have strangled
her had he known.
The day Edward Harding received his wife’s letter informing him of Lady Straeford’s projected arrival, he went in search of
Straeford and stuck his head in his friend’s tent.
“Busy?” he queried.
“I’m trying to finish a dispatch to Wellington if I could only find ten consecutive minutes without some damned interruption,”
Straeford replied, not troubling to dissemble his annoyance.
“Sorry, old man,” Harding rejoined without the slightest contrition and settled himself comfortably in a chair near his friend’s
desk. “Oh I say,” Harding noticed the pink envelope cast unopened to one side of the desk. “You haven’t read your mail.”
Compressing his lips, Straeford grunted something unintelligible.
“But it’s from the countess. Surely you want to know what she has to say.”
“No, damn it, I don’t!” Straeford exploded.
“Deuce take it, but you’re a damn odd fish, Just. But do as you please.” Harding walked out on his comrade.
Straeford watched him go, and then flicked his eyes to the pink envelope. Grinding his teeth, he went back to his report.
An hour later he thrust back his chair, and cursing, stared down at the blank sheet of paper. He strode to the other side
of the tent, stopped, came back and grabbed the pink envelope, ripping it open.
“My God!” She was coming to Portugal and it was too late to stop her!
Edward Harding and Roger Claridge acted as hosts to the party of British wives when they docked at Lisbon. The gentlemen met
the ladies and their entourage, at the quay with carriages ready to transport them to their hired villas which once housed
the Portuguese nobility. Marisa and Ann were to share a residence that Harding had secured for them, as Valerie and Carol
were to share another acquired by Roger.
Lisbon seemed a giant cauldron of teeming life. Brilliant sunshine flooded everywhere. Many of the narrow streets were crowded
with barefoot
varinas
carrying creels of fish to market in baskest delicately balanced on their heads, and peddlers of every description were hawking
their wares of birds and flowers and fruit. Soldiers also, both British and Portuguese, swarmed the streets, and none on his
best behavior.
As their coach pressed on through Black Horse Square where the statue of Dom José in plumed helmet dominated the lower city,
Marisa caught fleeting glimpses of broad, tree-lined avenues. Above them climbed houses and buildings that clung perilously
to mounting hills. They reached daringly into a sky of such crystalline blue that it took Marisa’s breath away.
The carriage ride was brief, and soon they turned through a pair of magnificent wrought iron gates. They followed a broad
circular drive lined with tall cypresses and pulled up before a three-storied structure of white stucco topped by a roof of
deep red tiles. Each window of the second story supported its own carved balcony over which flowed trailing vines and climbing
red roses. The uppermost story displayed a gallery of columns and arches in shadowy recesses that suggested an aura of mystery
and seclusion. The faint sounds of a mournful melody drifted hauntingly from the darkened corridors above.
“Hush,” Ann whispered to her companions. “What is that sound I hear?”
“That’s probably the gardener’s son serenading one of the upstairs maids. You’ll find the Portuguese to be a very musical
people, my dear,” Edward enlightened his wife.
“What a lovely sound,” Marisa added her thoughts to the others.
Once inside, the sudden shift from brilliant sunlight to shadowy darkness almost blinded the ladies. Gradually they were able
to discern the enchanting design of the home they were to occupy during their sojourn in Lisbon.
“It is breathtaking,” Marisa murmured to Ann.
“I cannot believe my eyes,” Ann rejoined eagerly. “It is a veritable palace.”
The floor on which they stood was a tiled mosiac of geometric pattern in varying shades of sienna and green. Hanging from
a high vaulted ceiling that reached the full three stories above hung an ornate lantern made of golden panes of leaded glass
supported by a massive black chain riveted securely into the darkened ceiling above.
Sunlight could be seen gleaming at the other end of
the long central hallway which was lined with doors and arches that led into chambers beyond. An imposing carved staircase
curved up to the second floor where a gallery circled above.
“But Edward, such a monstrously vast establishment you have chosen. Marisa and I shall be lost in these dark corridors. However
shall I find the nursery?” She was breathless with excitement. “And all the marble and gold…”
“The Portuguese nobility go in for a rather ostentatious display, my dear. I’m sure you can accustom yourself to the grand
style, can you not?”
“Well, dear husband, I should be needle-witted were I to complain of such luxury. What do you say to these sumptuous accommodations,
Marisa?”
“I’m all agog,” she smiled. “It is so good of you, Major Harding, to allow me to intrude myself into your plans.”
“Nonsense, dear lady. I am delighted to be of service. As soon as Ann’s letter reached me, I set about locating the best possible
establishment.”
“Nevertheless, I apologize for my rag manners in thrusting myself forward so unexpectedly, but my decision to accompany Ann
and your son was made rather suddenly,” Marisa continued to apologize.
“I’ll hear no more about it, madam. There was no trouble in finding a large enough residence, as you can see. Many of the
fine houses hereabouts are empty since the Regent and his court fled to Brazil. It was just a matter of choosing one magnificent
villa from among a plentiful array. This particular villa once housed the Trudenjos family.”
“Lud, you two, but I’m weary of your polite prattle. Is there a housekeeper or upstairs maid, Edward dear, who can see us
to our rooms? I do hope Nurse has your son and heir comfortably settled by now. As for me, I vow I must have a bath and a
rest before dinner. What do you say, Marisa?”
“My sentiments exactly, Ann. I feel such a shabby sight with the dust and stain of travel on me.”
In truth, Marisa could barely restrain herself from
cornering Edward Harding and bombarding him with questions about her husband, but she knew that she would have to bide her
time until the amenities of arrival were settled, and she could discreetly broach the subject. She yearned desperately for
knowledge of the darkbrowed earl, but must content herself to wait. She chided herself for a fool, and would admit to no one
her bitter disappointment that he had not met her at the quay. Romantic folly surely, to dream that he would magically appear
because she so ardently desired it.
Besides, their first meeting was certain to be anything but romantic. If the past were any guide to the future, she should
be quaking with fear instead of teasing herself with fanciful hopes.
Dinner that night introduced the ladies to Portuguese delicacies—some of questionable desirability. The smoked ham and melon
were delicious, as were the tawny peaches from Alcobaga served in creme.
Later, over coffee in the drawing room, the subject of Straeford was finally approached.
“Well, ladies, what news do you bring from London?” Major Harding asked.
“La, Edward, I scarce know where to begin with the latest tittle-tattle. You do know, of course, that Lady Claridge comes
to Portugal to keep the eagle eye on Roger. The on dit is that he has found himself a dusky bit of muslin this side of the
Atlantic, and she means to…”
“Ann, my dearest darling wife, the latest scandal broth is not the news which I seek to hear.”
“Oh dash it, Edward, what else is there?” She was abashed.
“I was thinking more of the press and its attacks on Lord Wellington…”
“Really Edward, since when have you ever known me to diddle my wits over politics and war?”