Rachel Trevellyan. Anne Mather
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In the poor light shed from a standard lamp which the girl had switched on at his entrance he saw that this room was rarely used. It had an unlived-in air, a mustiness about it, and the stiff-backed chairs and horsehair sofa were reminiscent of the kind of places described in English literature of the nineteenth century. He had read a great deal of English literature when he was at the university.
Bric-à-brac lined the mantelshelf, and as a collector of antiques he ran a practised eye over them. But there was nothing there to interest the expert and he folded his hands behind his back and paced rather restlessly about the room.
A clock chimed somewhere in the house and he glanced again at his watch. It was half past nine. He had been travelling since very early that morning. No wonder he was beginning to feel weary and lacking in patience.
The door behind him opened suddenly and he swung round to confront the girl who stood in the aperture. There was a certain wary speculation in her eyes now and he wondered why. He wondered, too, what she was doing here at this time of night, and recalled belatedly that the doors had been bolted on his arrival. Why should she be staying here when she apparently knew so little of her host’s affairs?
Seen in this light she was perhaps a little older than he had at first imagined. Twenty-one, maybe, or twenty-two; surely no more. In her casual clothes she was, he thought, a typical example of emancipated youth, and he pondered what his mother’s reactions to her might be. Portuguese girls were not allowed to wear such attire; they were not allowed such freedom. They dressed conservatively. They retained, or so Luis had been brought up to believe, a certain detachment, an aura of mystery, that was only lifted to admit their betrothed, their chosen husband. He supposed there was a kind of Moorish influence still evident in his country that favoured the customs of the seraglio, the segregation of women both before and after marriage.
‘If you’ll come this way,’ the girl said now, and Luis unbuttoned his overcoat and nodded.
The girl led the way along the hall to a room at the back of the house which Luis suspected in daylight probably gave a view of the coastline. But tonight the curtains were drawn across the windows and the only light came from a lamp beside the huge double bed which dominated the room. There was an enormous fire burning in the wide grate which gave out an uncomfortable amount of heat, and propped on pillows in the middle of the tumbled bed was a figure in thick pyjamas who stared at him with piercing blue eyes.
Malcolm Trevellyan must have been about fifty, but he looked older. Thinning hair topped a face that was prematurely lined, and although he must once have been quite a big man now the fleshless skin hung on him.
Luis glanced round at the girl, who had remained by the door when he entered the room, and seeing that she was making no move to leave, he said: ‘How do you do, Senhor Trevellyan. I am Luis Martinez, at your service. You were expecting me?’
‘Of course. Of course. Come in.’ Malcolm Trevellyan spoke welcomingly, his voice strong and imperative. ‘Have you had a good journey? You’re later than I expected, but I suppose the weather hasn’t helped. Cold, isn’t it? Not what you’re used to, I suppose.’
‘No.’ Luis managed a faint smile. ‘How are you, senhor?’
‘Oh, I’ll be all right. Got to take it easy, that’s all.’ He indicated his legs outlined beneath the bedcovers. ‘Can’t do much else at the moment.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Luis glanced back at the girl again. ‘However, I am sure you will find Mendao a much less demanding climate.’
He heard the girl behind him catch her breath on a gasp, and suddenly the man seemed to remember she was there. Waving his arms about with obvious annoyance, he snapped: ‘Don’t just stand there, Rachel! Go and make our guest some tea and sandwiches. I’m sure he could do with something after his journey!’
Luis felt a creeping sense of disbelief invading his senses. Trevellyan had called the girl Rachel. Rachel! And down at the tavern in the village, the young fisherman had angrily thrown the name of Trevellyan’s wife at him and that had been Rachel, too. Deus, this girl could not be Trevellyan’s wife, could she? He felt almost sickened at the thought.
He looked round, but she had gone, and suddenly he wished he had let Juan or Alonzo come here in his place. He wanted no part of this.
But he was here, he was committed, and he had to ask the inevitable question:
‘That young woman, senhor? She is some relation of yours?’
Malcolm Trevellyan sniffed and gathered the rugs closer about him. ‘I suppose you would say that. I have to talk to you about her, senhor.’
Luis folded his hands behind his back again. It was a favourite position of his and right now he had no desire to sit in this man’s presence.
Malcolm Trevellyan seemed to realise that Luis was waiting for an explanation, and with a sigh, he began: ‘Rachel is my wife, senhor.’
Luis felt the muscles of his face hardening. ‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, but please, let me explain.’
‘You did not explain the situation to my mother, senhor.’
‘I know, I know. And I’m sorry. But there was no way I could, you see. It’s something I needed to talk to you about, to discuss with you, to explain the circumstances——’
‘What circumstances, senhor?’
Trevellyan tugged at the lobe of his ear. ‘Rachel and I have been married three years, senhor. She was only eighteen at that time, and her father had just died.’ He shook his head. ‘I am not one to judge people, but Rachel was a trial to her father. Poor man, he did not know how to deal with her. She’s an artist, senhor, and perhaps even in your country you know what artists are. They like to call themselves free-living individuals. For free-living, substitute free-loving, and there you have their way of life in a nutshell.’
Luis’s ring with its large inset emerald dug into his fingers. ‘What are you trying to say, senhor?’
Trevellyan sighed. ‘It’s not easy, senhor. Rachel is my wife, and I love her. But I don’t always understand her.’
‘Go on!’ Luis was impatient.
‘Very well. At the time her father died, Rachel was pregnant. The man, whoever he was, had deserted her, and she was alone. Her father and I had always been friends and I couldn’t see her destitute. I offered marriage on the understanding that she could continue with her painting, and she accepted. Unfortunately she miscarried, and the child was never born.’
‘I see.’ Luis felt a sense of distaste. ‘And you could not tell my mother of this?’
‘How could I? Is it something you could baldly write in a letter?’
‘Perhaps not.’ Luis shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘So what do you expect her to do now?’
Trevellyan lay back weakly on his pillows. ‘Rachel knows me, senhor. She knows my likes and dislikes, and she has cared for me, after her fashion. I wouldn’t like to leave her here alone, at the mercy of her own weaknesses.’
‘You are suggesting that—that your wife accompanies us to Mendao?’
The other man’s eyes sought his appealingly. ‘Would it be such a trial to you—to your mother? I promise you, she would cause no trouble.’
Luis could have almost laughed at the farcical aspects of this situation had it not been so serious. How could Trevellyan expect to control his wife from his bed—or even a wheelchair for that matter? Unless years of marriage with him had tempered her rebellious nature, destroyed the streak of wildness which had previously caused such unhappiness. He took a deep breath. Even after everything he had heard, the idea of that girl being married to Malcolm Trevellyan could make him feel physically sick. And he couldn’t imagine why. It was nothing to do with him.