Authors: Alicia Meadowes
“My dear Ann, such expressions you use! You are, getting harder to follow with each passing year.” His fond amusement touched
Marisa.
“There is much in the journals that is vicious in the extreme.” Marisa took up the conversation. “They say the duke will shoot
any poor Portuguese peasant who
does not follow his orders, and they cannot understand why there has not been further engagement of the enemy.”
“As usual, they report what will create dissension and do not trouble themselves with truth or accuracy,” Major Harding claimed
with more heat than Marisa believed him capable of showing.
“I think they dare such slander because our government does not support the Portuguese effort.”
“True. True,” Harding agreed.
“Lord Liverpool’s complaints are often written up, and naturally they stir the rabble to protest…”
“I see you exercise your wits over more than the latest scandal mongering, Lady Straeford.” The major looked meaningfully
at his wife, who pouted prettily.
“Fiddle dee dee,” she smiled airily, ignoring his attempt to chide her, and tapped his arm with her fan. “Who gives a fig?”
Turning to Marisa the gentleman added, “Your grasp of the situation is very thorough, Lady Straeford.”
Marisa flushed at the admiration in his eyes. “If I am so attentive to the press reports, it is only that they are my sole
channel of information about matters that concern me deeply.”
“I take your meaning, my dear lady. Let me set your mind at ease about his lordship. Presently he is stationed about one hundred
miles from here in a mountainous area to the north.”
“Does he know about my coming to Portugal?”
A slight flush stained Major Harding’s cheeks as he recalled that afternoon in Straeford’s tent. “I believe you may safely
assume he is aware of your arrival…”
“I see.”
Marisa’s crestfallen face caused the major to wish he had spoken less frankly, and he tried to cover what he knew to be Justin’s
attitude on the matter. “Then again one can’t be too sure of mail delivery in that region. And often there are enemy patrols
to contend with—skirmishes, you know—and it is sometimes many days that men are away from camp.”
These words caused Marisa such obvious alarm that
the major silently cursed himself for a blundering fool. “Lady Straeford, if I may speak openly for a moment…” He paused.
“Please do, sir. I look on you and Ann as my dear friends.”
“You do us honor.” Both he and Ann smiled warmly. “I do not wish to intrude in your private life, Lady Marisa. But if I could
offer a few words of advice, or perhaps, of explanation…” She nodded eagerly. “How shall I say it?” He paused again. “Justin
was forced to come to conclusions about life—and the fairer sex—at an early age, an age too young for proper understanding.
A man’s impressions undergo many transformations from the time he is a young man, transformations which Justin was not allowed
to experience. There are some attitudes that, unfortunately, have become hardened in him, but that I feel one such as yourself
may in time soften.”
“Perhaps it is too late,” Marisa replied softly.
“Do not believe it, ma’am. There is a warm heart beneath that thorny exterior. Just have patience, and you’ll see it for yourself.”
Marisa could not prevent the tremble in her voice as she spoke. “You give me hope when I am in sore need of it, Major. I shall
hold to the thought you have expressed. I am deeply grateful to both of you. And now if you’ll excuse me, I think I shall
retire for the night. Thank you again.”
Edward and Ann watched as Marisa left the room. They looked at each other silently, not daring to express the fears that fretted
their innermost thoughts.
A Christmas reception and ball at the palace had the ladies in a state of high excitement. It was the first formal occasion
to be held in honor of the wives from England, and each woman was determined to outshine the other. The remaining Portuguese
nobility would be present, as well as members of the British Legation and officers of His Majesty’s Royal British Army.
It was with a heavy heart that Marisa prepared herself for the glittering holiday affair. She allowed Lucy to arrange her
blond tresses in a mass of tumbling curls
starting high on her head and cascading down her back, in style imitating a waterfall.
She could not help being pleased with her reflection in the cheval glass. Her gown, which daringly revealed the creamy curves
of her bosom, was a sea-green froth of spider gauze sprinkled with brilliants that sparkled and winked beguilingly with every
movement of her graceful form. She would go to the ball and laugh and be gay, and Straeford be damned!
But why oh why had she received no word from that arrogant devil? Perhaps he would come to the ball and dance with her. For
a moment her spirits rose as she entertained a fantasy of herself waltzing deliriously in his arms, his heart beating close
to hers.
Ah well. She put aside the dream and greeted Ann, whose gown was a cerulean blue satin caught up with tiny velvet rosettes
on the bodice and hem. Her soft brown hair was gathered in loose curls fastened with more rosettes, and she presented a charming
picture of vivacious femininity.
Edward Harding was profuse in his compliments as he escorted the elegant pair to their waiting coach. After a short ride,
they pulled up before a massive marble palace whose windows were ablaze with lights. No less than three flights of sprawling
stairs led to a pillared entrance from which opened enormous gilded doors leading inside. Extending from either side of the
central building were additional wings lined with rows of fluted columns supporting carved entablatures and tiled roofs which
supported further ornate towers and domes.
Once inside, the Harding party passed through a long corridor lined with gilded mirrors which reflected a dazzling array of
bejeweled ladies in modish gowns accompanied by elegant gentlemen in evening attire. The receiving line was headed by a member
of the British Legation, Sir Arthur Ashington, in consort with Senhor and Senhora Almarez of the Portuguese Regency Council.
“I vow I shall never cease in amazement at the Portuguese display of wealth,” Ann whispered confidentially to Marisa.
“One can’t help being impressed,” Marisa agreed.
The coffered ceiling of the main ballroom was gilded and painted in a floral pattern of roses and vine leaves that were repeated
in side panels along the walls. Interspersed between these panels were floor to ceiling mirrors and glass doors leading to
supper rooms beyond. The vast floor was laid out in a figured marble of polished moss green bordered in white, and the entire
room was lighted by crystal chandeliers supporting huge clusters of candles. Urns and vases overflowed with red roses.
“Ann darling,” a lady called to them just as they were taking seats along the wall.
“Lady Claridge, how good to see you here,” Ann smiled happily. “Isn’t this exciting, Marisa? All our friends from the crossing
are here.”
Lady Claridge approached them in the company of a pale, faded-looking woman whose face showed traces of a lost beauty. She
stared hard at Marisa, who wondered at the lady’s undisguised interest.
“Ann dear, I want you to meet an old acquaintance of mine who is living here in Lisbon. Adele Buxton, may I present you to
Lady Straeford and Ann Harding, two of my companions who traveled to Portugal with me.”
“How do you do?” The. lady regarded them( with an hauteur that was barely concealed.
“How nice to meet you, Mrs. Buxton,” Ann claimed. “What good fortune for us to discover someone who is already familiar with
Lisbon. There must be so much you can tell us about this fascinating country.”
“There is not much to tell, really, not much that is fascinating, anyway. I find Portugal quite a dirty, inhospitable land.”
“Oh,” Ann replied stupidly. The lady’s ungracious retort for once silenced the irrepressible Ann.
“Have you lived here very long?” Marisa picked up the limping conversation.
“Since last spring. My husband is with the foreign office and works closely with the Portuguese government here—if government
it can be called.” Again a sarcastic rejoinder.
“Well, well,” Lady Claridge intervened nervously.
“Roger is with the foreign office, Adele. My husband finds the Almarezes and others to be quite agreeable.”
“Really?” Adele replied haughtily. “I’ve met that handsome husband of yours, Valerie. He
does
have a winning way about him. Perhaps he is inclined to look kindly upon the Portuguese.”
Marisa could hardly believe it, but the lady seemed to be deliberately implying something nasty.
“Why, they seem a charming people to me,” interjected Ann Harding who noted the sudden frigid stare of Valerie Claridge.
“Oh, I don’t deny their charm Mrs. Harding. As a matter pf fact, some of the… ah… Potruguese
senho-ras
are
very
charming.”
Mrs. Buxton’s pointed remark shocked both Ann and Marisa.
“Indeed.” Lady Claridge drew herself up into battle stature.
“Oh Mrs. Buxton,” Ann charged in indiscriminately, “it is not only the people, but their style of living. I mean they seem
so free and easy in their way of life…” Ann quit midway, realizing that she merely added coals to the pending fire, and looked
about frantically for a way out of a situation that was threatening to become very unpleasant.
“Pardon me, Valerie,” Marisa came to Ann’s rescue. “Is not Sir Roger beckoning to you from across the room?” She was determined
to avert the mischief Adele unaccountably intended. “Perhaps he wishes this dance with you. A set is forming for a quadrille
at this very moment.”
“Oh, indeed it is, Marisa,” Ann joined in quickly. “And I believe we are promised for this one ourselves.” She cast about
a hopeful glance which was speedily intercepted by an eager youth from the British military, and soon the ladies were swept
away from further exchange with the perplexing Adele Buxton.
From that moment on, Marisa barely had a moment to herself. She dauced every dance—engaged by young men in scarlet uniforms,
elegant Portuguese courtiers and charming English diplomats. The night wore on to the
early morning hours, and she danced quadrilles, waltzes and a cotillion. Her radiant English beauty was much admired, and
Marisa drank deeply of the heady wine of admiration.
Two admirers escorted the countess to supper where she feasted on cold lobster and crepes stuffed with deviled crab. She imbibed
several glasses of champagne and felt her head grow light. What was happening to her? She had never relaxed her guard so greatly
before.
Back on the dance floor once more she found herself in the arms of a Latin charmer whose flashing black eyes continually devoured
her face. He held her far too closely, whispering soft endearments into her ear, and she did not discourage him. Whatever
had gotten into her? she wondered. And later when Vargas led her into the conservatory to admire the orchids, she gave but
little resistance to his advances.
As the gentleman’s passion became less restrained, however, and he ardently crushed her to him in an impetuous embrace, her
head suddenly cleared.
“Please,
senhor.
I beg you to let me go.”
“Ah,
menina.
Just one kiss. My lips burn to press your sweet mouth.”
“No, no. You must not.”
“Ah, but you are cruel. You dance with me and smile so sweet. You come with me to the conservatory. And now it is no, no.
I think you make a game with me.”
“You are mistaken,
senhor.
I did not mean for you to think…”
But it was too late. Senhor Vargas’s mouth was clamped to hers, crushing out all further protest—and for one foolish moment,
Marisa melted against him. Then wrenching away suddenly, she fled from the conservatory so flustered she collided with several
couples. In her confusion she suffered a further shock which set her legs trembling. For one terrible second she thought she
had glimpsed her husband’s dark head in the ballroom beyond. Her own head was whirling. She must be hallucinating!
Struggling to regain her composure, she darted to the
supper room seeking Ann Harding. When she found her friend, she begged that they leave and return to their villa.
Marisa fell into a dreamless sleep the moment her head touched the pillow, but she woke with a start when the first pale rays
of December sunlight crept into her room. For some inexplicable reason, she could not sleep longer. A sense of unease troubled
her mind as she lay in bed trying to discover its source. Last night had been wonderful. She never expected to enjoy herself
so much at the party. Of course there was that shocking little episode with Senhor Vargas… but actually it was nothing—no
need to dwell upon that trifling incident. Yet her peace of mind was unraveled, and she gave up trying to sleep and got out
of bed.
Garbed in a rose satin dressing gown, the countess went in search of the kitchen. Perhaps a cup of tea would soothe her nerves.
She had almost reached the bottom stair when voices drifting from the library reached her ears. Even before the words became
recognizable, she understood the reason for her early morning unease. It was Justin. He was here, and he was angry. Her heart
gave a sudden lurch before her brain relayed the threatening message it received.
“I tell you, Harding, Ann never should have encouraged my wife to come to Portugal.”
“It was not Ann who put her up to it, but Lady Maxwell. Ann merely assisted in accommodating your wife once the decision was
made.” Harding spoke in defense of Ann.
“That meddling old crone is at the bottom of this whole miserable affair.”
“Come on old man, you make too much of this. What is so terrible about your wife’s desire to be with you?”
“She has no business being here. Women and war do not mix. I cannot trouble my mind to dance attendance on her whims.”
“I do not think you credit the lady’s good sense. She does not expect you to ‘dance attendance’ on her.”