The Winding Stair (20 page)

Mrs. Brett sent for her next day for the first time since Lord Strangford's party. ‘She's a little better,' said Manuela. ‘But weak still. You won't let her tire herself will you? She insists on seeing you alone. She won't even have us in the antechamber.'

‘I'll try not to tire her. But it's hard …'

‘She tires herself.' Estella was waiting for them in the anteroom. ‘There's nothing anyone can do to stop her. But she'll make herself worse if she doesn't see you,
menina
.'

‘She's really ill?' Here was a new and terrifying thought. Had she let herself believe too easily in Elvira's theory of a selfish old woman caring for no one but herself?

‘We thought she was dying,' said Manuela.

‘Only she wouldn't,' said Estella.

‘We wanted to send for the doctor,' said Manuela.

‘And the priest.'

‘But she lost her temper and called us a couple of meddling old busybodies.'

‘So then we thought she would probably live.'

‘You will see for yourself,' concluded Manuela, opening the door of the inner room.

Juana did see. Her grandmother seemed to have aged ten years since the day of the party. If she had seemed withered before, now she was desiccated, ready to blow away, down into the darkness. Only her eyes still glittered with intelligence in the wreck of her face. ‘Those two have been frightening you, child. Don't let them. I won't fail you. I'm stronger than they think. But, before we talk, make sure the anteroom is empty, and leave the door open.'

‘Oh, grandmother, I'm sorry.' It was an apology for her own
suspicions. How could she have let Elvira convince her so easily? Guiltily, she almost felt as if it was her fault that Mrs. Brett had been ill, as if she had ill-wished her. But that was to think like Iago. Was there something about Portugal that made one superstitious?

‘Don't be sorry. It's a waste of time. Unless you are sorry that I have to go on living. It's no pleasure. But I mean to, so long as I must. Those old women out there wanted to send for the doctor, who'd probably have bled and killed me, and the priest, who'd have made all right with extreme unction. I'm not ready for that yet. There's too much to think about. We have to decide what you're to do if I die. I wish I could have seen Mr. Varlow yesterday, but it would have seemed too odd. Specially with Roberto here. What did
he
want, by the way?'

‘I don't know. Mr. Varlow said he didn't like it. He was so friendly. You remember what Pedro was like at the party?'

‘Yes. That is odd. They've always hunted in couples, those two. Don't trust them, Juana.'

‘Who can I trust?'

‘Me. Your Cousin Vasco, of course. Gair Varlow. Yourself. Maria, I think, in small matters, but remember that her husband—' She was tiring, and paused here for breath.

‘Is one of them. Mr. Varlow told me.'

‘yes. Tomas – and who else here in the castle? You'd think it would be' easy enough to find out, but I never have. Someone, I'm sure.' She pulled herself up among her pillows. ‘I've sent for my lawyer from Lisbon; Senhor Gonçalves. He's coming tomorrow. I've no choice now. I'll have to leave the castle to you. They won't like it, the rest of them, but I can't help that.'

‘Grandmother, no!'

‘But I must. Don't you see? If I should die – I don't mean to, but if I should—' She was looking past Juana, as if she could see death in the corner of the room, waiting – ‘You've got to be able to carry on. I shall say, in my will, that as my heir you are to move into my room. It would seem so odd otherwise, and of course you'll have to, because of the stair. You won't fail me, Juana; not now? You've been wishing you were back in England haven't you?'

‘Yes.' Useless to prevaricate.

‘Well then, think. At least, now, there is England to be homesick for. I don't know what it means to you? Freedom, perhaps?
Being able to say what you think, wherever you are? It's true, you know: even for us Catholics. No looking over one's shoulder there. We're working for a great future, you and I, for England and Portugal, free and friends as never before. For all the little freedoms of living … For them, surely, no sacrifice is too great. And, after all, inheriting a castle is not such a sacrifice.'

‘But it's not fair to Pedro and Roberto.'

‘I can't help that. When did they ever think of anything but themselves? You could marry one of them, if you really feel badly about it.'

‘Never! Besides they wouldn't have me.'

‘Not even for the castle?' Juana had a curious feeling that the old woman was pleased with her answer. ‘Well, it's their loss.'

‘Thank you.'

‘No compliment, child. I meant the castle, not you. As to marrying: I doubt if they will. Poor things, they try so hard to be good Portuguese, but when it comes to the women! I've seen their faces. They're ambitious, Juana, your cousins, but they're not stupid. It would be a mistake to think that. But they have neither of them ever cared a rap for me. Or for the castle. You at least had the grace to be homesick for it, when you were in England. And to come when I sent for you. I don't see why you shouldn't have it. Frankly, I'm beyond caring much. It will be a relief to have it settled. When I am dead, it will be your problem. Best tell Mr. Varlow you're an heiress, hadn't you?'

‘No!' Intolerable to think that if Gair Varlow knew he might well start pretending his pretence courtship was real. ‘Promise me, ma'am, that you won't tell him. If you don't promise, I won't go on.'

‘Very well. I won't tell him. Oddly enough, I still believe in love matches. And Gair Varlow's not the man for one of those. Nor the man for you. Use him, child, as he uses you, but don't hope for more. Unless you're prepared to take second best; to let him marry you for the castle – which I rather think he would, don't you? – and hope that love would come later?'

‘I'd rather die.'

‘No need for melodrama. We've enough of that as it is. The moon is full tomorrow. Sit down quietly there, by the bed, Juana, and tell me, in order, everything you must do.'

Senhor Gonçalves, the lawyer, arrived from Lisbon next day, a neat man in dusty black with a huge bag and an expression of perpetual disapproval. This was more pronounced than ever when he joined the family after his long session with Mrs. Brett, and Juana thought he had a very sharp look for her when he was introduced. No doubt he disapproved intensely of Mrs. Brett's new will. She hardly blamed him. She did not like it herself.

He had no intention of being questioned about what he had been doing, but drank his glass of wine and talked about the news from France and the prospects of the grape harvest, then rose firmly to take his leave.

‘Can I persuade you to take the Guincho road, senhor?' Prospero, too, had risen. ‘I promised I'd take advantage of the full moon to visit friends there this evening.'

But Gonçalves pleaded business in Sintra and left alone, followed by Prospero: ‘I'll be late back, don't wait up for me.'

Miguel withdrew to his own rooms immediately after supper, explaining that he had urgent business to attend to in connection with his Little Brothers of St. Antony. Elvira burst into rhymed couplets and followed him. Watching her go, Juana thought how odd it was that they should separate thus on this night of all nights. Was Miguel really writing letters in his room? And Prospero supping with friends in Guincho? And where was Father Ignatius, who had not appeared all day? Were they all, secretly, separately or together, dressing in the black robes of the Sons of the Star, ready to go out, when the house was quiet, down by some secret way to the Council Chamber? The great gate of the castle was closed and locked at night, but she could remember from her childhood that there had been two or three ways at least that a determined person could climb in and out. And yet it was fantastically hard to imagine either her uncles or the priest doing so. Very likely it was all coincidence, all imagination …

The session with the lawyer must have been an exhausting one. Juana found Mrs. Brett looking so worn out, so drained of strength that she forgot her own terror in concern for her, and dressed as fast as she could in the new black dress with its all concealing hood and deep pockets. But when it came to the fastenings, her shaking hands failed her.

‘Come here, child.' Her grandmother had noticed. ‘I'll do it.
There; now the hood, the key in your pocket, and you're ready. But it's early yet. Sit down, for a while, and rest.'

‘No.' Juana bent to kiss the withered cheek, and felt it cold with exhaustion. She must let the old lady rest. ‘I think I'll go now, ma'am. I'd rather feel I have all the time in the world and need not hurry down those steps.'

‘Sensible.' Mrs. Brett was at once approving and relieved. ‘Good luck, Juana. I wish I could come with you.' She was hardly capable of walking across the room. ‘But thank God I don't have to.' She sank back among her pillows and was already breathing heavily toward sleep as Juana felt for the secret panel at the back of the cupboard.

Why did the knowledge that her grandmother was already asleep make the dark journey down the winding stair seem so much worse? After all, waking or sleeping, she could not help Juana once the secret door was shut behind her. Feeling for the candle and tinder-box, Juana fought panic for a few endless moments in the darkness. What was to stop her going back through the doorway, back from this dank darkness to warmth, and light, and the familiar, reassuring scent of burnt lavender?

And have her grandmother try to go in her place? She took a deep, steadying breath, found the candle at last, and managed to light it at the second try. Its flame flickered for a moment, then burnt steadily, showing the stair plunging down into blackness. Her breath was coming too fast again. She leaned against the rough wood of the door and made herself count slowly to a hundred. Just as well she had come early. But now there was no excuse for further delay. If she did not start down, quickly, now, this minute, she never would.

At least there was no chance of mistaking the way. There was no choice at any point as the steep stairs plunged down, and down again, and sideways, into the heavy darkness. There was something steadying about the need to count the steps as she descended; and, mercifully, she had remembered about the bats. Reaching the bottom door at last she felt in her pocket for the big key, but paused a minute before she fitted it in the lock. So far, her only terror had been of the darkness. As long as this door was locked and bolted on her side, no one could reach the winding stair except through her grandmother's room.

Was she sure that the same was true of the other side? Might there not be more ways into the council chamber than the big
door that it was her task to unlock? It seemed unlikely, of course, but how could she be certain? She set her teeth, pushed back the bolt and unlocked the door. Silence greeted her, and a breath of the air of the cavern, perceptibly colder and damper than that on the stairs, reminding her that the Atlantic was not far off.

How long had it taken her to grope her cautious way down the stair? She made herself move forward at once into the darkness, and light the candles on the council table from her own. Then she felt in her right hand pocket for a taper and moved around lighting the braziers the acolytes had left ready a month ago. There was something wonderfully comforting about the way the resin caught and flared up at once. Now the flickering shadows on the cavern roof were red, instead of cold candle-light. But the warmth of the braziers merely served to accentuate the deathly chill of the council chamber. She pulled her hood more closely round her and looked about for the path to the cell door.

It felt much safer in there, with the brazier lit and the secret spy-hole opened (to make sure she could) and closed again. She sat down on the heavy wooden chair where, last time, her grandmother had sat, and resigned herself to the possibility of a long wait. Then she stood up, reluctantly. Why not make a fuller investigation of the council chamber while she had the chance?

It was rough going, since the rock was only smoothed away round the table itself and on the paths that led to the three doorways, and she wished that she had a lantern instead of the precariously flickering candle. She tried blowing it out, in the hope that she would be able to see her way by the light of the candles on the big central table, but found at once that this would not do, and had to lose what seemed a great deal of time feeling her way back to the central table and relighting her candle from one of the candelabras. Another time, she would carry the tinder-box in her pocket.

Her candle relit, she made her way back down the path to the cell and started off round the cave wall in the opposite direction to the one she had taken before. This way the going was rougher still, and she had to put down her candle, from time to time, while she climbed over one of the ribs of rock that ran out from the cavern wall. It was damp, too, and she wondered if she was nearing the source of the water-drip that seemed to echo her own quick heartbeat. Thinking of this, she took a careless step, slipped on the damp rock, and fell.

For a moment, aching all over, she thought she had broken a bone and gave way to pure, shaking fright. Then, slowly and carefully, she picked herself up, put her full weight on the foot that hurt most and decided it was merely wrenched. And, mercifully, the candle was still burning on the rock where she had put it.

How long had all this taken? New terror seized her. Any minute now the gong might sound, summoning her to open the big door. What would the acolytes think if she took too long to obey the summons? Already, as she thought this, she was working her way down a channel in the rock to the central table. She had just reached it, and settled, with a sigh of relief, on one of the heavy wooden chairs, when the gong did indeed sound, louder than she had remembered, echoing strangely in that strangely echoing place.