The Winding Stair (2 page)

‘I'm only just back. I work for the government, Miss Brett – for Lord Howick, the new Foreign Minister. You know; he took over from poor Mr. Fox. Oh, I serve him in a very modest capacity.' More bitterness in his voice than he liked. ‘You could say I run his errands. My latest one was to Lord Strangford, our representative in Lisbon. I'm sure I don't need to tell you, who are half Portuguese, that Portugal is our oldest ally. And one of the few we have left, just now, to help us fight Napoleon.'

‘Yes.' He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I can remember
how father and Uncle Miguel used to argue about it, back at the Castle on the Rock. And grandmother too.' This was a less happy memory. ‘Father thought the peace we made with France, back when I was a little girl, would give us – what did he call it? Peace in our time, he said. Freedom to expand the business, he talked about. Our wine business – you know?'

‘Yes, I know. And very good wine too.'

‘Thank you.' Playing the great lady, she reminded him extraordinarily of her extraordinary grandmother. She sighed. ‘He wanted to come to England, to reopen the English House. It would have worked, I'm sure, if war hadn't broken out again so soon.' She was trying to convince herself.

‘Of course.' He knew too much about her father to believe it for a moment. Reginald Brett had always been one for the easy choice, the quiet life. Surprising, really, that his daughter seemed to have so much character.

‘How did you know I was half Portuguese?' Her question, harking back to something he had said earlier, was a new reminder that she was no fool, this girl with the stammer.

‘My sister told me,' he lied, and wondered if it was a mistake. ‘Besides, there's your name. Such a pretty name: Juana.' He must not betray how much, in fact, he had made it his business to know about her.

‘But that's not Portuguese.' She pounced on it. ‘It's Spanish, after my mother. Not that she was Spanish, thank God,' she hurried to explain. ‘But she spelt it that way. It was some kind of a family thing.' Again she laughed that delicious laugh. ‘If you've seen anything of them, you must know that my family – my family in Portugal – are given to “things”. Oh dear.' It was a sigh from the heart. ‘How I wish I was back there.'

‘You really do?' Should he speak now? No, first he must write to her grandmother. After all, the final decision, like the final danger, was hers. And this girl's, he thought, with a qualm that surprised him. What was he doing, boggling at possible danger to an unknown girl. Ridiculous. He took her arm, and felt it tremble, ever so slightly, through the silk sleeve. ‘We must be getting in or my sister will have my head. But—' He found he really meant it – ‘You'll sing me the rest some time?'

‘ “What is love, 'tis not hereafter,”' she sang, then laughed. ‘You'll hear enough of it if you stay.'

‘Oh, I shall stay,' he said.

Lord Forland had built his theatre a little way from his house, and in the shape of a Greek temple. It was an admirable arrangement, said his wife, when the weather was fine. On this mild June night, the big doors behind the portico stood wide open letting out a blaze of light and a babble of voices, but no sound of music.

‘Do you think they'll have missed me?' Gair could feel his companion shrink into herself.

‘Well – since you're the heroine—'

‘I? Good gracious, what an odd idea. Lady Forland – Olivia is the heroine. I thought they would be working on her scene with Orsino for ages. Anyway—'

He could not help laughing. ‘Since you did not intend to return, it did not much matter? Don't look so frightened, Miss Brett. I'll stand by you.' They had entered the broad pathway of light from the doorway and he saw that she was both taller and plainer than kind moonlight had suggested. Tall and strongly built himself, he had not noticed, before, that her head came nearly up to his. Her boy's costume suited her, he thought. In women's clothes she would be a beanpole. Was she always so pale? He took her arm, and felt her tremble. ‘Courage,' he said in English. ‘It won't be as bad as you think.'

‘It will be worse. I shall have to speak English.' This, in Portuguese, with the simplicity of despair. ‘I shall stutter.'

‘If you think you will,' he said bracingly, ‘you're bound to. But don't worry: if you start, I'll interrupt you. It's “t” and “d”, isn't it?' he went on in English.

‘You've noticed!' She answered in the same language. ‘Yes, they're the only ones. If I can just keep away from them, I can manage.' He felt her stiffen on his arm as they reached the wide doorway and saw the buzzing crowd of costumed figures inside. On the stage, his sister, Lady Forland, magnificent in Elizabethan ruff and sweeping black velvet, was appealing for silence. ‘Does no one know where she has gone?' she asked. ‘You Mrs. Brett? She said nothing to you?'

‘She never does.' A faded blonde in the demure grey of a lady in waiting, Mrs. Brett spoke more angrily than she had intended, looked angrier still as a result, and continued on a note of careful reason. ‘Did she not say anything to you, girls … Daisy? Teresa?'

‘No, mamma.' Two other waiting-women moved forward to speak in unison and Gair, noticing their likeness to their shrewish
mother thought he began to understand what the trembling girl on his arm had had to endure.

‘Vanessa!' He pitched his voice high enough to be heard across the hall. ‘Here's your truant. You must blame me for delaying her. But who could resist the chance of talking to Cesario in the moonlight?'

‘Gair: I might have known it.' But his sister's tone was indulgent. Three years older than he, she had been his first and was his most faithful slave. ‘Thank goodness you are here at last,' she went on. ‘You can settle the point that's been vexing us. It's the duel scene between Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Cesario. There's no music for it, I don't know why. Perhaps Mr. Haydn never finished the opera; perhaps the poor Duchess of Devonshire lost it. The manuscript was tattered enough when it was found. But there it is. We can't leave the scene out; it's the cream of the whole jest.'

‘Quite impossible.' Her husband emerged from the wings, Sir Andrew in flame-coloured hose. ‘I may not sing like Grassini, but I venture to think I can take a comic part without disgracing myself.' He looked round for confirmation.

His guests murmured sycophantic agreement, while Gair racked his brains. Here was his chance, if he could only take advantage of it, to make Juana Brett his friend for life. He led her forward through the interested crowd and up the flight of steps on the left of the stage. ‘Here's your Viola,' he said. ‘Or Cesario, rather. I found her out-singing the nightingale by the river and must congratulate you on your casting, Vanessa. But as to the duel scene; a pity, surely, to depart from Mr. Haydn's text? Why not mime it? Your audience, we hope, will be familiar enough with the play to understand, and surely your musicians can contrive some accompaniment, based on Mr. Haydn's own music, that will be more in keeping with the rest of the piece than a sudden intrusion of the spoken word?'

‘Gair! You're a genius! Of course that's what we'll do. You'll not mind miming, will you Miss Brett?' Without giving her time to answer, Vanessa turned back to Gair: ‘I only wish you could solve our other problem so easily.' And then: ‘Good God! How could I be so stupid! You'll do yourself! Don't you see the likeness?' She appealed to her husband, who was busy making practice passes with his foil at a potted plant in the corner of the stage.

‘Likeness, my dear? I don't believe I quite understand you.' His voice was querulous. ‘And as to mime: I'm not so sure about that. I've learned quite half my words already.'

‘And what a struggle that was.' His wife did not quite manage to conceal impatience. ‘Be grateful, my love, to be spared the rest. You will be able now to give your full attention to the niceties of the duel itself – and, don't you see, I've found you your opponent. Gair will make an admirable Sebastian. He and Miss Brett are almost of a height; they're both dark and pale-skinned; it is but to dress them alike and they'll be a perfect pair of twins. How odd it is.'

Turning to his companion, Gair saw angry colour along her prominent cheekbones to show that she had not missed the implication. He had always believed in facing facts, pleasant or otherwise. The fact of his own good looks was one he had early learned to take for granted and use at discretion. His appearance was, simply, one of the tools he must use to make his fortune. He might, at the lowest point of his London career, have gone hungry; he had never gone shabby. But the strong bones and dark, deep-set eyes that made him handsome made Juana Brett plain, and her unusual height, carried awkwardly, was the last straw.

Now her step-mother came forward to exclaim about the likeness and elaborate on the theme of Juana's unfortunate height: ‘Quite unlike my own girls! Would you believe it, ma'am?' To Vanessa. ‘I have to order a whole extra length for her gowns!'

‘What a disaster!' Vanessa's tone made it a ruthless snub. She turned back to Gair. ‘I'll have your costume made up tomorrow like Miss Brett's – but what are we to do about her hair? We had proposed to put it up under her cap but that will never do if she's to look like you. How could you have yours cut so short, Gair?'

‘ “There was no thought of pleasing you,”' he quoted, laughing, and then, to his silent companion: ‘Can I not prevail upon you to follow my example, Miss Brett? I have the strangest feeling that it would suit you admirably. Our expressive faces – since we must plead guilty to the likeness – were not meant to be obscured by ringlets – however stylish they may be.'

His sister went off into a hoot of laughter. ‘I can just see you in ringlets, Gair!'

She was interrupted by an angry protest from Mrs. Brett:
‘And when I think of the trouble those curls cost me!' she concluded.

‘Precisely,' her step-daughter spoke at last. ‘I'll have them cut d … d …'

‘You'll do nothing of the kind.' Angrily. ‘I'll not have you making yourself any more conspicuous than you are already! What! A shorn head to top off that beanpole figure of yours? What are you thinking of, child!' Behind her Gair could hear a chorus of amused agreement from her two daughters.

It made him angry, a most unusual thing. ‘She's thinking that style is more interesting than beauty, ma'am,' he said. ‘And I, for one, agree with her. If you'll let my sister's man go to work on her, I think you will be surprised at the results. I suppose you have Antoine with you?' This to Vanessa, with a wry memory of their bleak, north-country childhood when they cut each other's hair and, as often as not, had to take it in turns to go out in the winter, having only one warm cloak between them.

‘Well, of course.' Since she had married money, Vanessa had made the absolute best of it, and, he thought, the best, too, of her poor stick of a husband. ‘Antoine is a genius in his way,' she told Mrs. Brett. ‘If you will let him look at your daughter's hair in the morning, I am sure he will know what is best to do.'

‘Your ladyship is too kind.' Mrs. Brett would never say no to Lady Forland. ‘Say thank you to Lady Forland, Juana.'

Juana Brett surprised them all, probably herself more than anyone. A long step forward into the middle of the stage and she swept a graceful bow to match her costume. ‘Your most obliged servant, ma'am.' She blushed up to the threatened ringlets as a little buzz of applause broke out among the audience in the body of the theatre.

‘Very pretty,' said Vanessa approvingly. ‘And you're quite right, Miss Brett, it's high time we got on with our rehearsal. We were waiting to do the scene where you and I first meet.'

The hint of reproach in her tone was not lost on Gair. ‘And I was detaining her, selfishly, in the garden,' he said. ‘Well, you must call it a brother's privilege, Vanessa.'

She laughed. ‘I wonder if you mean my brother or Viola's. Now, off stage all of you. The countess awaits the duke's messenger.'

As the orchestra struck up Gair retired to a secluded corner at the back of the hall with much to think about. A man of quick
decisions, he was at once surprised and irritated to find himself so uncertain about Juana Brett. When she had first started to stammer, he had given up his whole mission as hopeless, only to discover, a few minutes later, that she was as fluent as he in Portuguese. And she longed to go back there. Telling himself this, he recognised the real basis of his doubt. It was not so much about her fitness for the job that he was worrying as about the possible – no, probable danger to her.

It was fantastic. He, Gair Varlow, the devoted student of Machiavelli, the worshipper of enlightened self-interest, was worrying about possible danger to a lanky, stammering girl he had just met for the first time. What could be the matter with him? Anyway, was he not entitled to do what he liked with her? If he had not stopped her, she would be drowned by now, a modern Ophelia, floating to muddy death down the river.

Would she? Here was cause for thought. Impossible, of course, to tell how his Portuguese project might work out. His intention, so far as it was clear at all, was merely to use her as a tool, an informer; but suppose the situation developed unexpectedly? … He was old enough, by now, in the secret service, to know that that was how situations usually did develop. Suppose he should find himself compelled to take her, to some small extent, into his confidence, to make her his ally? And then if she should turn hysterical or even suicidal on his hands? It might be more than herself that she destroyed.

He was interrupted by her voice rising clear and full above the violins:

‘ “
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night
”'