Whispering Page 8

  ‘Sit down, Mr Craddock. But first take your jacket off.’ Rachel Emerson closed the shutters and drew cool green curtains across the windows. Now she put gentle hands on the back of his neck. ‘Oh dear! I should not have let you and my brother talk politics, Mr Craddock. You are worse than ever today. Did I do you no good at all?’

  ‘Of course you did.’ Was he sure of this? ‘But it is quite true, I do feel anxious. If the tale your brother has heard is true, we are all in danger here. But I refuse to believe that Wellington could have let himself be out-generalled.’

  ‘I am sure you are right.’ Her voice was soothing. ‘And now you will forget all about that, Mr Craddock, and think yourself back to that happy place where you were before.’

  A happy place. Where had it been? It seemed a long time ago. Of course. He had imagined himself walking at Falmouth, with his cousin and her friend. But now, with those gentle hands soothing away thought, the happy place was here, in this cool, grey cave, with these magic hands gentling him. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I am thinking of it, I am there.’

  ‘That’s good, that’s right.’ Her hands moved up to his forehead. ‘Think of nothing, don’t think at all, thought is your enemy, Mr Craddock. Or, think of water, and trees, and a cool calm.’ Her hands were on his shoulders now, quiet, resting there, binding him with her spell. He was calm, he was quiet, for the moment, but above and beyond all that, he knew himself entirely hers.

  Caterina and Harriet had finished two dresses each, and Caterina was having trouble with the sketches for the next ones when the note came. Old Tonio handed it to Caterina, very early one morning. She had gone down, before anyone else was about, to walk up and down the untended lower terraces and wonder what was going to become of her, and she was on the way back up the last flight of steps when he met her. ‘For you, minha senhora, to be read when you are alone.’

  ‘Thank you, Tonio.’ The colour had drained from her face, and he thought, for a moment, that she looked like her mother on her deathbed.

  ‘Father Pedro did not come back last night.’ It was disconcerting to have him read her thoughts. Her father’s confessor had been away for a few days and the whole household had breathed a secret, shared sigh of relief.

  ‘It’s early yet.’ She looked up at the shuttered house. ‘I’ll stay out a while. Thank you, Tonio.’

  ‘For nothing. We all love you, senhora, as we did your poor mother, God rest her soul. We’d do anything for you, remember that. Anything we can.’

  She actually found herself fighting rare tears as she thanked him again and turned back down the terrace steps. There was something so touching about the characteristic peasant realism of his statement. They would do anything for her that did not risk their livelihood or her father’s terrible anger.

  She held the note clutched in her hand, not daring even to make the giveaway gesture of tucking it down the front of her dress. The house looked sleepy enough, but there could so easily be a watchful eye behind one of those blind-looking shutters. Safe at last under the screen of rampant vines on the lowest terrace, she unfolded the note with hands that would shake. There had been no name on the outside; there was no signature; no need for either. She knew the handwriting, the way the note was folded; she had seen neither for more than three years, but how could she forget them? They were part of her heart’s treasure.

  Short and to the point, as always. No word of love. He knew, as well as she did, the savage need to keep the note small enough so that it could be concealed in a hand, in the fold of a dress. It had been always so between them. ‘We must meet. If you can trust your friend, take her to see the sights. A picnic at the Fonsa Palace in the late afternoon. I’ll be in the Temple of Venus. Waiting. Destroy this.’

  She re-read the cramped, small hand quickly, kissed the note, almost ashamed of herself for doing so, and tore it into tiny shreds, letting them flutter, here and there, down towards the dry bed of the stream below. It was an ingenious plan; it would work. The Fonsa house, out beyond the Carrancas Palace, had been wrecked in the French advance of 1809 and nothing had been done yet about repairing it. There would just be one old, bribable caretaker camped in the ruins of the house. Its terraces had the best view in town of the whole course of the river down to Foz. She could perfectly well take Harriet there, and leave her on the upper terrace while she kept her assignation in the folly below. They had played hide-and-seek there as children; he had kissed her there, the very first time, finding her hidden in the cool darkness behind the statue of Venus. It was the right, the perfect place to meet. She could trust Harriet. But could she trust herself? She had thought about this meeting so often; dreamed about it; prayed for it and been ashamed of herself for doing so. And now it was upon her and every nerve tingled and thrummed with it. And yet she was afraid. What was she going to tell him? How much was she going to tell him? Why did the word ‘folly’ echo so in her mind? She had tried not to think about what Father Pedro had said about Luiz going off with the French. It could not be true, or, if it were true, Luiz would explain.

  It was getting late; Harriet would be wondering where she was; she looked about her to make sure no betraying scrap of paper showed on the terrace and started back up to the house, repeating the words of the message in her head. Of course he could not speak of love, it was too dangerous; there would be time enough for that. Impossible to arrange the excursion for today; it would have to be tomorrow. Would he wait every day in the little temple, or had he, more likely, an informant in her house? Luiz had always been well informed about what went on in Porto; he used to boast of having a friend in every kitchen. She had loved him for his democratic spirit. Over and over again, since Father Pedro had told her about his throwing in his lot with the French, she had reminded herself how many other people had been deceived by their talk of liberty, equality and fraternity. It had amazed her to hear radical talk and read radical newspapers in England. Bowood House had been the nearest great house to her school, and the Marquess of Lansdowne and his family had been its benevolent patrons, much approved of by the nuns for their stand on Catholic Emancipation.

  She had read Lord Lansdowne’s speeches in the papers and they had astonished her. Brought up to think of Napoleon as practically the devil incarnate, she could hardly believe her eyes when she read of him as a great reformer, a man who had set France on its feet after years of misgovernment and tyranny. The odd thing was that, back in England, she had thought all this nonsense, another instance of English eccentricity carried almost to the point of madness. But now she was at home (or was it home?) in Portugal, with what she sadly recognised as misgovernment and tyranny all around her. Was everything different, or was she seeing it with different eyes? There must be something wrong with a system where a whole household held its breath in terror because of two men, her father and his confessor. She had thought the rule of her convent in England had been tyrannical; now she realised that she had had no idea what tyranny was. She had thought the poverty she had seen in Bath was abject and horrible, but that too was nothing compared to the deprivation here in her own country. If Luiz had taken sides with the French in the hope of giving the starving poor a voice, she could only sympathise with him, though she must think him wrong in trusting the French. Could she really be facing the possibility of thinking Luiz wrong?

  But here was Harriet, waiting for her on the top terrace. ‘I’m sorry, love, have I kept you waiting for breakfast?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Harriet never lied. ‘But, Caterina, there is horrid news. Poor Father Pedro was set upon on his way home last night. He was found in an alley, bleeding and unconscious. They have just brought him home; he looks terrible. Your father is out; the servants are getting him to bed; what should we do?’

  ‘We must send for a doctor; I’ll talk to Tonio; he will know who my father has not quarrelled with these days. But, it’s extraordinary – you say he was attacked? A holy father?’

  ‘I thought the servants were surprised too,’ said Har
riet, ‘even though I could not altogether understand what they said.’

  Chapter 6

  Senhor Gomez and Dr Blanco met on the doorstep, and Caterina’s swift explanation of what had happened amazed them both. ‘The reverend father attacked!’ exclaimed Gomez. ‘What is this country coming to? But I’ll not keep you from him, doctor. Let me know how you find him.’

  The patient was still unconscious, but breathing stertorously. Caterina, standing by while the doctor made his swift examination, thought his colour was beginning to come back, and the doctor confirmed her view.

  ‘A terrible blow to the head,’ he told her. ‘A deep concussion. He will need absolute rest for a few days, but should be none the worse in the long run, please God.’

  ‘Will he remember what happened do you think, doctor?’

  ‘Very likely not. Don’t question him, minha senhora, just look after him and see to it that he rests, absolutely, for several days. It’s the strangest thing. We all know that Father Pedro never carried money. A holy father needs no money. So why should he be attacked?’

  ‘A personal grudge, perhaps?’ said Caterina, and wished she had not.

  ‘Against a man of God?’ The doctor sounded shocked. ‘Most unlikely, senhora. But I must make my report to your father.’

  ‘Of course. This way.’ Ushering him into her father’s study, she was glad to hear the doctor begin by praising the care his patient had received before he got there. ‘Everything done just as it should have been, senhor, I am glad to say. You have good servants, and, if I may say so, a capable daughter.’ With a civil bow for Caterina.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Without a glance for her. ‘But, doctor, will Father Pedro be able to tell us what happened to him?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The doctor shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. But, for the love of God no questions, senhor. If he remembers and tells you, good, if not, let it go. Anxiety, searching his mind, would be the worst possible thing for him. Let your daughter and the women care for him, they will know what to do for the best. I would advise that you do not visit him for a few days, until his strength is re-established, in case the very sight of you should set him racking his brains as to what could have happened to him. I am sure you can have every confidence in your admirable daughter.’

  ‘Good.’ This got Caterina a long, thoughtful look from under the habitually frowning brows. ‘Thank you, doctor. My steward will settle your account.’

  Father Pedro recovered consciousness that evening while Caterina was changing the dressing on his head. ‘Where –’ He looked about him. ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘You were brought here, father. Some wretch must have attacked you on your way home. You were found in an alley off the Cedofeita; of course they knew who you were, brought you home at once. Dr Blanco says there is no serious harm done, but you must rest, and not worry or try to remember what happened.’

  ‘Rest! How can I rest, when there is so much to do!’ He made as if to rise, but slumped back. ‘I’m weak as a child.’ He made it sound her fault.

  ‘You have had nothing to eat, father, for I don’t know how long. I will get you something at once, a little chicken broth perhaps?’

  ‘A whole chicken would be better. I am starving, daughter. I begin to remember now, I had missed my dinner. I was on my way home …’

  ‘Don’t think about it.’ She had finished dressing the wound. ‘The doctor says you must not. I’ll go to the kitchen and see what I can find for you.’

  ‘Quickly,’ he ordered.

  ‘As quick as I can.’ She had been amazed before at how much Father Pedro contrived to eat, fast and gluttonously, talking all the time, and still stay a gaunt wreck of a man. What did he do with it all? ‘I’ll ask Miss Brown to come and sit with you,’ she told him. ‘The doctor did not wish you to be alone today. Not until you feel more the thing.’

  ‘Tell her to bring her bible,’ he said. ‘She can read aloud to me; I shall understand it well enough; I do not wish to converse with Miss Brown.’

  Nor she with you, thought Caterina but did not say it. She was relieved when Father Pedro pronounced Harriet a surprisingly good reader and told her to stay and read to him while he dealt with the impromptu meal the cook sent up.

  ‘He ate the lot,’ said Harriet, awestruck, afterwards. ‘And I truly thought he was going to ask for more. Soup, and some bacalhau, and a great plateful of that savoury stew, and sent the boy running back to the kitchen because there were no sweetmeats on the tray. And all the time I was reading the Epistles of St Paul to him, about the sins of the flesh. I do dislike St Paul, Caterina.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he understood a word of it,’ said Caterina. ‘His English is not nearly so good as your Portuguese is getting to be.’

  ‘You’re such a good teacher,’ said Harriet. ‘You make a game of it.’

  ‘I enjoy it too.’ Something had changed in Caterina, Harriet thought, but lovingly refrained from questioning her.

  Calling early next morning, Dr Blanco pronounced the patient well on the way to recovery. ‘No need for me to call again, unless you find any new cause for anxiety, senhora. And no need to stay with him all the time either. He says he would very much prefer to be alone with his thoughts.’

  ‘I am sure he would.’ She did not add that the feeling was mutual. ‘In that case I think I will take Miss Brown for a well-earned outing this afternoon, doctor, if you think it is safe to leave Father Pedro. She has been reading to him devotedly and looks a little pale, I think.’

  ‘A delightful young lady,’ said Dr Blanco warmly. ‘You are lucky to have her for a companion.’

  ‘I know it. Perhaps you would be so good as to tell my father that you have given us leave to go out.’

  It got her a sharp glance. ‘I will most certainly do so, minha senhora. You, too, have earned your holiday, and I shall tell your father so. You could not have tended Father Pedro more devotedly if you had been his own child.’

  Their eyes met in a glance of sympathy. The priest was not an easy patient.

  Leaving the doctor at the door of her father’s study, Caterina went straight to the cheerful chaos of the kitchen to order the nourishing food he had recommended for his patient. ‘I am taking the Senhora Brown out for a drive this afternoon; the doctor says she needs a breath of air, and I thought I’d take her to look at the view from the terrace of the Fonsa Palace, and maybe dine there al fresco. Could you put us together a little something?’

  ‘With the greatest of pleasure, minha senhora. An afternoon out will do you both good. The Senhora Brown is not the only one who has been working hard and looks pale.’

  It was a useful reminder to Caterina that everything one said was listened to, passed on and discussed. She just hoped that some useful pair of ears had picked up the news that she was going to the Fonsa Palace that afternoon and passed it in the right direction.

  There was no need to go through the crowded centre of town, so she ordered the ponderous family carriage for their excursion. ‘Sedan chairs are so stuffy,’ she explained to Harriet, ‘and anyway they only hold one person. One must use them for the opera, of course, but for today we will make old Francesco the coachman earn his keep. I want to talk to him anyway about getting a gentle mule for you to learn to ride on. It’s much the best way to get about here, and it will be a good excuse to make a few excursions before the winter rains start. It will get us out of the house a bit.’ No need to say more. The brief respite of Father Pedro’s absence over, his brooding presence would soon be felt once more throughout the house. It was hard to tell which was the more oppressive, Caterina thought, her father’s occasional rages, or the friar’s habit of appearing, soft-footed, where he was least expected. But the doctor had told him to stay in bed for a few more days, and had also delighted Caterina by telling him he had suggested she and Harriet go out that afternoon.

  The carriage smelled of damp and old leather, but the two girls’ spirits rose as it lurched out of the stable yard and
down the lane that led out of town. Their progress was slow at first as the coachman cursed and sweated and forced a way through the home-going tide of ox-carts and mules and market women. Despite the curses, it all seemed wonderfully good humoured, and Harriet remarked on this.

  ‘Yes, they are a friendly lot, the Portuguese peasants, so long as you don’t tread on their toes. And of course Francesco is one of them – and my family have a name for being good democrats, though you might not think it to meet my father.’

  ‘Democrats?’ asked Harriet doubtfully.

  ‘Yes. Porto has always stood for liberty and the middle way. Our closest tie to the Braganzas is that Henry the Navigator was born here, but that was a long time ago. We Portonians have mostly preferred to keep royalty at arms’ length. There is no royal palace here in Porto, you know. The Barons of Nevogilde hold the Carrancas Palace on the understanding that the royal family have the use of it when they think fit to visit us. But that was all before that shameful royal flight to the Brazils. I doubt if they would get a welcome now, if they were to come back, and anyway the palace has been taken over as military headquarters. It’s where Lord Wellington sat down to eat Soult’s dinner the day he retook Porto. And there, at last, it is.’ She pointed out of the carriage window at a solid-looking granite building on their right.

  ‘It’s vast,’ said Harriet. And then, ‘It didn’t get damaged in the French attack?’

  ‘No, they came in from the north, from Braga, though there was fighting all down the Foz road, I believe, as the defenders retreated. I suppose that was when the Fonsa Palace got attacked; someone must have made the mistake of holding out in it. There were pockets of resistance all over the city, sniping at the French from roofs and windows, and very savagely they were dealt with when they finally had to surrender. I’ve heard stories about that first day that I will spare you, Harriet. I think it does the servants good to tell me, so I let them. I cannot imagine how Soult ever thought he had a chance of becoming ruler here after the way his rabble of an army behaved.’