The Winding Stair (7 page)

‘Good God, so you are.'

Catholic or not, Juana could not help a little shiver as the black-garbed representative of the Inquisition came aboard. Ridiculous, of course, to find herself thinking of the scaffold and the wheel. The days of
autos da fé
were gone for ever. So why did she feel this queer little shiver down her spine?

In fact, the formalities were accomplished with the greatest speed and courtesy, and the only objection was raised by Captain Fenton when Juana's papers came to be examined. ‘It's not sure yet that Miss Brett is landing,' he said. ‘I can't let her if there's any chance of a French invasion. As an Englishwoman, she'd be in the gravest danger.'

‘An Englishwoman?' The Portuguese official looked up from Juana's papers. ‘Nothing of the kind. On the mother's side, Miss Brett is of the Portuguese nobility. We are proud to welcome you home, senhora.' And then, as Juana curtsied her acknowledgement, he searched among his papers and brought out a note. ‘From the Castle on the Rock, senhora.'

It was short and to the point. ‘Welcome home, at last. I expect you tomorrow, without fail.' These last two words underscored several times. ‘Jaime will be on the quay at first light. Lose no time.' Again these words were heavily underscored. And then, without more greeting, the familiar signature, a little more shaky now, ‘Charlotte F. Brett.'

‘She expects me tomorrow.' It was disconcerting to realise that they were all waiting to hear what the note held. ‘She says nothing about danger.'

‘Of course not,' said the official.

And, ‘Absurd,' said the priest.

‘Well, I don't know …' began Captain Fenton.

‘I d … d …' Juana stamped her foot on the hot deck, stopped, and started again. ‘I've made up my mind, Captain. I may go ashore in the morning?' To the official.

‘Of course, senhora. I have instructions to give you every assistance.'

‘Thank you.' That settled it. Only, after the official boat had returned to shore, Captain Fenton tried once more. ‘You're sure, Miss Brett?'

‘Quite sure. At first light. Please?' There had been something oddly urgent about that brief note.

‘Very well. At least' – he was reassuring himself as much as her – ‘it's clear that you are powerfully protected. I understand now why I got my clearance so quickly.'

‘You mean—?'

‘Of course. It's not for everyone that those jack-in-office Portuguese officials will act as messenger-boys. I reckon you'll be all right, Miss Brett. It's odd to think of you as Portuguese.'

‘Yes.' Curiously enough, after all the homesick years in England, she found it a little odd herself.

But next morning she felt nothing but eager anticipation as she gazed shorewards from the packet's boat, straining her eyes to try and pick out Jaime, her grandmother's
camereiro mor
, or chamberlain, among the morning crowds in the Black Horse Square, as she still was English enough to call the
Praça do Comércio
. Home at last! But first – what about Gair Varlow? She still had not made up her mind. Was she really going to visit the church of St. Roque this morning? And what would she find if she did?

Still debating this, she looked up at the church on its hill above the harbour. It looked near enough, in the clear morning light, but would involve, she knew, a considerable delay if she decided to go. Jaime would not like that, and nor would her grandmother. Besides, what right had Gair Varlow to order her about?

What right? ‘Remember Sebastian,' he had said. He had been wonderfully good to her at Forland House. Did she owe him this? Or was she merely trying to convince herself that she did, because she wanted to go?

Would she? Would she not? The boat scraped against the quay and Jaime came hurrying breathlessly to shout a greeting and help her ashore. ‘Welcome home, senhora.' His hair had gone grey and he was smaller than she had remembered. ‘
Meu Deus
, but it's good to see you. The Castle on the Rock will come alive again, with you home. This is all?' He lifted her small box on to his shoulder.

‘Yes, but should you carry it, Jaime?' Disconcerting to find him old like this.

‘Who else? The carriage is here in the square. The boy is holding the horses.' He turned to lead the way, and she paused for a moment to thank the sailors from the packet in English, then in Portuguese again, ‘Jaime! You brought Rosinante!' She had recognised her own mule, tied to the back of the huge, old-fashioned carriage.

‘Yes. I thought you'd like to ride part of the way – when we are out of town.'

‘Bless you, Jaime. I would indeed. No—' He had opened the carriage door for her. ‘We can't start yet: first I must go up to St. Roque.'

‘St. Roque? But,
menina
—' Unconsciously, he reverted to the old name for her, ‘little one'.

‘It's a vow, Jaime. An old one. You know I was born on his name day. I was so homesick: I promised him my first prayer on Portuguese soil if he would only bring me home.' She was ashamed of the lie as she spoke it.

Jaime was looking anxiously up at the sun. ‘It's early yet, it's true; and – a vow's a vow. But your grandmother said to lose no time. And you remember how it is,
menina
. The road goes miles round …'

‘But I shall walk up the steps. That's part of the vow.'

‘You can't.' He was horrified. ‘It's bad enough coming back like this, unattended. But you must remember, young ladies don't walk here. It was all very well when you were a child … But now – Mrs. Brett would never forgive me.'

‘I shan't be a young lady, Jaime.' It was odd to find that part of her brain had apparently worked out the whole plan. She pulled out her purse. ‘Here! You will bribe one of those old women over there – the sardine sellers – to sell me her shawl. I'll be a penitent, in black to the eyes. Nobody knows me anyway. Only, hurry, Jaime, or grandmother will really be angry. I'm going, you understand, so let's waste no more time in talk.'

‘Yes, senhora. You sound just like your grandmother.' It was hard to tell whether he meant this as praise, but at least he took the money she held out to him and hurried away to the little group of black-shawled old women who were shouting their wares on the corner of the square nearest to the fishmarket.

Juana had not thought how the shawl would stink of fish and
old woman, but she wrapped herself in it without flinching as they left the carriage at the end of the
Rua do Ouro
. ‘You may come too, Jaime.' She knew perfectly well he would refuse to be left behind. ‘But don't speak. I have my prayers to say.' And, liar, she said to herself again as they started up the steep cobbled lane, part path, part staircase, part sewer, that formed the direct route to St. Roque. She had forgotten how dirty Lisbon was, and how one had to pick one's way through piles of rubbish, some dating from the earthquake, some more recent and less sanitary. Had she, as a child, just not noticed?

The smell of the shawl she was wearing, familiar now, was almost a protection against the odours that assailed her as they climbed higher among the crazy conglomeration of houses, pigsties and cattlesheds. Lean, scavenging dogs snarled as they passed; a scrawny cat was tethered by a long rope to a doorstep rather cleaner than the rest; a woman leaned out of an upstairs window to empty her slops with a cry of ‘
Agua vai
!' Juana pulled her shawl more closely round her.

Jaime, who had been walking a step behind, partly out of deference, partly because there was only one path beaten through the piled-up filth of the lane, pulled almost level to speak quietly in her ear. ‘I told the boy to bring the carriage round to the church. It will be better so.'

‘Oh, thank you, Jaime.' She could have cried with relief. It was bad enough this time, but to have to do it again …

They came out, at last, into the purer air of the ridge where the church stood. ‘You will wait here, Jaime,' She made it a command, but was relieved when he made no difficulty about obeying.

‘Right here,
menina
. I'll watch for the carriage. It should not be very long. So say your prayers with a free heart.'

‘Thank you.' She felt horribly guilty as she pushed open the heavy church door, and her first action was to go forward to the main altar and kneel there, praying for forgiveness. It was no use. She could not forgive herself. She rose to her feet and looked about her. Lit only by flickering altar candles, the church was dark, almost empty, and smelled of damp, of wax, and old incense.

She stood there, irresolute. None of the shadowy half-seen figures moved toward her. Where was Gair Varlow? Had it all been some horrible practical joke? Had she made a mockery of her faith for nothing? And her grandmother was waiting, would
be angry … She could not afford to lose time, standing here, doing nothing. She began to move slowly around the circuit of ornate little side-chapels, hating herself for having come.

She had forgotten how tawdry and cluttered the chapels were, each lit by its own range of candles and hung about with gifts, some absurd, some touching: a bunch of dried flowers, a baby's shoe, a miniature copper frying pan. Why? she wondered, and entered the Chapel of St. John the Baptist, whose splendour of gold, and marble and lapis lazuli had struck her, as a child, as a kind of heaven on earth. Now it seemed almost embarrassing in its excess and she found herself thinking, with an odd little pang, of their parish church in England, cool, high and empty, decorated, if at all, with flowers in season, with primroses and daffodils and Easter lilies.

What was the matter with her today? She had longed to be home. Why keep thinking, now she was here, of England? She moved quickly by the last chapels, merely glancing in to make sure they were empty. It was time to go. She had been a fool to come. She turned toward the main door and a priest came quietly up to her out of the shadows: ‘You wish to confess, my daughter?'

Gair Varlow. ‘No!' Her reaction was as instant as it was angry. Bad enough to have come here to meet him. Nothing would make her pretend a confession.

‘I'm sorry.' At least he understood. ‘This way then.' He guided her to a chapel whose lack of candles or offerings indicated that it belonged to one of the less popular saints. ‘We can talk here. Quietly.' His Portuguese was as fluent as her own. There was no reason why they should be noticed. ‘I apologise for asking you to come,' he went on. ‘I had to. There are things I must explain.'

‘Yes?' More than ever, now, she wished she had not come.

He must have sensed it. ‘I'm sorry. This is more important than manners … conventions. You've not asked me why I am here.'

‘Should I have?'

‘It would have made it easier for me.'

‘Yes?' She stirred on the stool where he had seated her. ‘My grandmother is expecting me, Mr. Varlow. I can't stay.'

‘I know,' he said. ‘That's just it. I must get a message to Mrs. Brett. Will you take it for me?'

‘Why, of course.' Was this all?

‘You must understand.' He leaned close, to whisper, so that she found herself wondering, absurdly, whether he disliked the smell of her shawl as much as she did. ‘This is urgent business; dangerous business. I am here with Lord Strangford, the English Minister. Your grandmother has been helping me. No, that's not right: I have been helping her. Three nights ago, the messenger we've been using was stabbed, murdered, here in the streets of Lisbon. It may mean nothing, or everything. Murders happen here, often enough. And there was nothing on him for anyone to find; the message was always verbal. But I don't know. Until I do there's no safety for any of us, not even for you, since I have involved you, God forgive me.'

‘I wish I had any idea what you are talking about.' It was not true. Passionately, she did not want to know.

‘You're not stupid. Don't pretend to be. I'm talking about spying – secret agents, if you prefer. I am one. Your grandmother has been for years. We brought you here in the hope that you could help us. Could help England. I wish to God I didn't have to ask you, like this, with no explanation, no time to tell you what is involved. But I must. It's too important. I beg of you to believe me, Miss Brett, and do as I ask you. Your grandmother will explain.'

‘She had better.' She was cold with anger, at herself, at him. It had all been a charade, a pretence. Memories mocked her: their first meeting, the moonlight, the nightingale … All false, a stage set to trick her. And that last day, in the maze. ‘I'm a poor man,' he had said, implying that he loved her. ‘Penniless … with my own way to make in the world.' This was how he made it. And she was to help him. She swallowed a sick lump of rage, and took a steadying breath. ‘It was all your idea, I take it?' She was proud of her voice. ‘You had me invited to your sister's; looked me over; decided I would do. I cannot imagine why. So: here I am. Very well then, since I am here, what can I do for you?'

‘No! It's not like that.' He began to protest. Then: ‘Well, I suppose, in a way, it is. You must see: in the end, I hope, you will see that there is more to it than that. But now, there's no time: not to explain, not to apologise. You
must
get to your grandmother's at once. She'll tell you why. And you'll tell her about the messenger. Tell her that until I find one I can trust I shall come myself. Your presence at the Castle on the Rock will
give me my excuse. Tell Mrs. Brett I'll come tomorrow. Ostensibly to call on you. You won't mind?'

‘Mind? Why should I?' At all costs she would not let him see how he had hurt her. ‘Very well. I'll deliver your message.'

‘Thank you. And – carefully. When Mrs. Brett's alone.'

‘I'm not quite a fool.'

‘I'm sorry. Sorry for everything. Look!' He turned away – with relief? ‘There's your man at the door. He must not see me. Forgive me.' And before she could answer he was gone, his borrowed robes brushing softly along the stone floor.