The Winding Stair (10 page)

‘I don't want to see it.' And that was a lie.

But it pleased Mrs. Brett. ‘Good girl! I'm going to like you, Juana. I'm glad we're to be allies. And now – run along. Eat your supper; bear with your uncles; be good to your poor aunt; and come back to me as soon as you can leave them without arousing comment. We have much to do tonight, you and I.'

‘But, grandmother—'

‘No time now. Your uncles and aunt will be waiting for you. Nothing must seem out of the way tonight of all nights. Be off with you, child; eat a good supper and rest while you can. We've a long night ahead of us.'

Juana found her uncles and aunt awaiting her in the big drawing room on the east side of the castle courtyard. Kissing
each one dutifully in turn, she thought that time seemed to have stood still with them. Perhaps her Uncle Prospero was a little solider and her Uncle Miguel a shade gaunter, but her Aunt Elvira was exactly the girlish figure she remembered. Her cheek was soft and fragrant as ever to the kiss, her smile still as sweet and impersonal as the touch of a butterfly's wing.

Only Juana herself had changed. She could remember finding Uncle Prospero a formidable and Uncle Miguel a sinister figure. Prospero was a scholar, who spent his days in the library working on what was to be the definitive edition of Camoens. Miguel was devout. He lived surrounded by indigent priests with whom he was to be heard day in, day out, discussing abstruse points of dogma. In the old days these activities had filled her with awe; only now, listening to Prospero as he stuffed himself with preprandial sweetmeats and held forth about the deplorable translation of Camoens'
Lusiads
published by the British minister, Lord Strangford, did she realise that it was all just talk. Probably, shut up in the library, he ate more sweetmeats, and slept.

As for her Uncle Miguel, even as a child she had had her doubts about his piety, having seen him look up from discussing the infinite mercy of God to ogle a maid or condemn a manservant to be beaten. She had never much liked her uncles, she realised now, and indeed it was hard to believe they were her father's brothers, so completely Portuguese did they seem. But that, she knew, had been old Mrs. Brett's plan. Their estates, their thriving wine trade, their entire wealth was in Portugal. Obdurately English herself, she had intended her sons to be Portuguese, and, with the exception of Reginald, she had succeeded.

Aunt Elvira put down her embroidery and rose to lead the way into the dining room. Here, too, nothing had changed. Solid family silver stood where it always had on table and sideboard; the hot air was heavy with scents of olive oil and garlic; a servant stood behind each high-backed chair, ready to pull it out when Uncle Miguel had said his elaborate Latin grace.

On his right, Elvira gazed vaguely downwards. Her own maid stood, as always, behind her chair and saw to it that she ate a few morsels from each dish. From time to time, she would smile to herself and whisper a snatch of song. She had been like this since the unlucky visit she had been sent on, as a girl, to her mother's aristocratic connections in England. No one had ever told Juana what had happened there. Perhaps no one knew. But
she had been sent back in haste, the strange creature she had remained ever since. Her brothers ignored her, as they had done for years, and, this evening, came pretty close to ignoring Juana too. They treated her, still, as the child she had been when they last saw her, and she expected that at any moment one of them would ask her if she had been a good girl and done her lessons today.

The meal dragged out interminably, but at last Elvira's maid bent to whisper in her ear and she rose to her feet, smiling vaguely:

‘
The moon is full, the hour is late
.

My true love waits me at the gate
.'

And then, for the first time, directly to Juana:

‘Come, child, away; the full moon rises; we must not stay.'

‘We'll be with you directly.' This was Prospero, on a note of reassurance. ‘We don't stay long over our wine, Miguel and I.'

Coffee after supper was always served in the Ladies' Parlour, a room old Mrs. Brett had had made over for herself on the southeast corner of the house. Protected from the sea winds by the whole bulk of the castle, it opened on to a vine-covered loggia that overlooked the Pleasant Valley. Tonight, the huge silver tray of coffee and sweetmeats had been carried out on to the loggia, where not a breath of air stirred. ‘You will pour out, senhora?' Jaime was waiting to guide Juana firmly to the appropriate chair.

‘I? But Jaime—' An anxious glance at her aunt, who had drifted over to the edge of the terrace and was picking herself a bunch of carnations.

‘Those are Mrs. Brett's orders.' This phrase had been final in the household ever since Juana could remember. She sat down obediently and lifted the heavily embossed coffee pot with a hand that shook just a little.

‘The moon is rising.' Elvira drifted back to put her flowers into a coffee cup. ‘The night has come. Shall we go out, child, and dance on the cliff? The witches meet there when the moon is full. I've seen them, in their black robes, often enough. Why can I never see their faces?'

‘Nonsense, Elvira!' Juana had forgotten how quietly her Uncle Prospero moved, despite his vast bulk. ‘You're imagining
things again. We shall have to send for Father Ignatius if you do that, you know.'

The cup Elvira was holding splintered on the paving stones. ‘No, no, please don't! I'll be good, you know I will. I'm always good. I see nothing, nothing, nothing. I see nothing, because I'm good.'

‘That's my girl.' This with a brotherly tap on the shoulder. ‘Well then, say goodnight to Juana and off to bed with you. She's always at her worst when the moon is full,' he explained to Juana as Elvira took her maid's arm and withdrew.

‘Really? I'd forgotten. How do you like your coffee, Uncle Prospero?'

‘Black, thank you.' He settled heavily in his own large chair with its wide view of the Pleasant Valley. ‘No, you'd not remember. You were a child when you left, in bed before the moon rose. You'll find we still keep early hours here.'

‘Elvira been misbehaving again?' Miguel emerged from the shadows at the back of the loggia. ‘I met her on her way up; crying, poor girl. I hope you weren't hard on her, Prospero. She's harmless enough. God knows. Yes, black, thank you, Juana. How pleasant to have a lady's company for once. Mother seldom joins us now, even on her good days. How did you find her, Juana?'

‘Older of course, but just the same otherwise.'

He laughed a little. ‘Still ruling the roost? She'll do that till her last breath, will Mrs. Brett.' His tone now was in such contrast to the one he had used at dinner that she could only suppose the two of them had compared notes after she left them and reminded each other that she was grown up.

‘Yes.' Prospero, too, addressed her now almost as an equal. ‘You'll find she still likes her own way, our splendid mother. I hope you'll bear it better than my boys did, Juana. I believe you met them?'

‘Yes, with the court. I didn't know they'd left home.'

‘It made mother angry, I'm afraid. But she's a fair-minded woman …' Was he trying to convince Juana, or himself? ‘She won't hold it against them. After all, everyone knows the steward, Macarao, runs the business brilliantly. The old lady would not have let the boys interfere, even if they had wanted to. She must be proud to have them in such favour at court.'

‘Yes, of course.' She kept doubt out of her voice as best she could, and looked up with relief as Manuela came out, soft-footed
into the rapidly darkening loggia. ‘Coffee, Manuela?' Where did they eat, she wondered, Manuela and Estella?

‘No, thank you,
menina
. Your grandmother is asking for you.'

‘Oh, in that case!' It was a relief to say goodnight to her uncles and follow Manuela back across the central courtyard to her grandmother's tower. The sudden Portuguese night had fallen, and Manuela took a candle from the shelf by the door to guide her up the darkly winding stair to her grandmother's rooms. ‘The senhora is impatient,
menina
.' Advice or warning?

Mrs. Brett was dressed now, in the widow's black she had worn for forty years. She was sitting in her bedroom, bolt upright in her chair, only the rigid fold of her hands betraying tension. ‘There you are at last, child. Thank you, Manuela, that will do.' And then, as the door of the outer room closed behind her. ‘Have you a black dress, Juana?'

‘Black? No, ma'am.'

‘So I supposed. Well, for tonight we must manage as best we may. Look in the closet over there; quickly; we're much of a height you and I. There should be something that will do.' And then, as Juana moved obediently over to the big clothes-press that occupied almost one whole wall of the room, ‘Thank God, you've got the sense to do as you're told without a lot of questions. Start at the left. You'll need one of the ones I wore when I was younger.'

Obeying, Juana saw that a whole life's history was hanging there, from the bride's tissues and gauzes through a gamut of changing fashions in black. Clove oranges, here and there among the dresses, gave off their pleasant, aromatic odour. She reached in and pulled out a voluminous black cloak. ‘Would this do?'

‘Don't want to wear the old woman's clothes, eh? Well, I don't blame you. Put it on, child, and we'll see. My domino! Lord, that makes me feel a thousand years old. Yes—' She rose to adjust the cloak so that it entirely covered Juana's pale muslin. ‘That will do admirably. Now, sit down, and listen as if your life depended on it. Which it may. But, first, lock the outer door. No; leave the inner one open. So, it is impossible for us to be overheard.' She laughed. ‘You think I've gone crazy like poor Elvira?'

The thought had just whispered through Juana's mind: ‘Oh, no, ma'am,' she began to protest, but was interrupted.

‘Don't lie to me. Ever. Of course you do. And I don't much blame you. But I'm not mad, child, only very old, and very tired.
I must have help. I never thought, when I began, that it would go on so long. Neither of us did. Well, there it is. No good crying over spilt milk. And no stopping either. Not now. I've racked my brains as to where I could turn for help. No trusting those sons of mine, or my grandsons either. So I asked advice. I won't say I wasn't surprised at the answer I got, but it may do yet. At least you're not a fool, nor a coward. So sit down, and listen.'

‘Yes?' Juana pulled a stool close to her grandmother's chair.

But the old lady was silent for a moment, gazing past her into the shadowed corner of the room. At last she spoke: ‘It goes back a long way. To your grandfather. You know he and I were loyalists, of course?' She sighed. ‘ “Charlie is my darling!” Young fools that we were.'

‘I knew you were exiled in '45, ma'am, but I didn't know about Grandfather Brett.'

‘Why should you? It's ancient history now. George the Third's as safe on his throne as if the Stuarts had never existed. But when I was young, it was different. We still hoped for a restoration. My husband worked all his life for it. He founded a society: Catholic, loyalist, deadly secret. At the time, it spread all over Europe. There are advantages about being a merchant, you know. You have connections everywhere, reasons for travelling … But he worked himself to death, my poor James, with the business in the daytime and the society at night. We won't talk about that. After he died, the others lost heart; they met less and less often. I thought it was all over. In a way, it was. It had become more of an old men's dining club than a secret society. Then, much later, after the Revolution in France, something happened. It all began again, only different. It got taken over by another society – The Sons of the Star – some people say Pombal founded that one, that it went underground after his death, became dangerous. It's dangerous enough. What is it, child?'

‘Jaime warned me about them today. The Sons of the Star. He was terrified, even speaking of them.'

‘He was right to be. No one speaks of them if they can help it.'

‘Jaime said: “If they condemn you to death, you're dead”.'

‘That's about it. Luckily they need me alive. And you, Juana. Was your ship's captain surprised to get his clearance so quickly?'

‘Yes. You mean?'

‘I told them, at their last meeting, that I must have you here for this one. They think me an old fool, but a useful one. They
need me, you see, to let them into their meeting place. I'm part of the ritual. James arranged it so that they could meet when he was away on business. That ritual!' Her laugh was only a whisper. ‘Men are children in some ways, Juana. They won't change it, however inconvenient. Or only to make it more complicated. Never to simplify. So they need me. When I realised what they were doing, I got in touch with our minister – secretly, carefully. My God, but I was careful. Isn't it odd to think that for over ten years now, I, of all people, have been working for King George.'

‘Ma'am, I don't understand.'

‘No wonder. I'm an old fool to ramble on so. And there's so little time. They meet, always, at the full moon, at midnight. And I have to be there to let them in. James arranged it. He thought of everything. If they met here, he said, we would always know what they were doing. But I can't do it any more. All those stairs … you'll see. I'm crippled for days afterwards. So, last time, I told them you were coming to take over: a new Handmaiden of the Star. God knows, I was an old enough one. Fantastic, of course, that they should have accepted you with so little enquiry. But there were reasons … They think nothing of women. That helps. And being so powerful, so dreaded – it makes them over-confident. Besides, they don't know it all. You'll see. And, tonight, you will swear a dreadful oath to reveal nothing of what you see or hear. You will break it only to me. That is, if you are ready to help me?'