House in the Hills Read online

  Twelve

  Seven years after leaving Castile Villanova the view above the Douro Valley was the same. So were the smells of nightfall. As the evening breeze caressed her face, Catherine Rodriguez breathed in its infusion of tilled earth and the sweetness of ripe fruit.

  ‘No more school,’ she murmured, throwing back her head. She closed her eyes. The air she breathed trickled into her throat like a mountain stream, clean and fresh and revitalizing; the taste of home. ‘No more dusty classrooms, chalk and sour-faced nuns.’

  ‘Surely they weren’t that bad,’ said Francisco.

  She frowned at him. ‘Of course they were. Do you know that Sister Sophia warned us before leaving that if we went out with a boy, we must take a newspaper with us? A very thick newspaper?’

  Francisco looked at her incredulously and made a stab at the reason. ‘To hit him with?’

  Catherine teased him. ‘No. We were to place the newspaper on the boy’s lap before sitting on it.’ She grinned and threw him one of her catlike expressions. ‘Hence the very thick newspaper!’

  Francisco joined her laughter, though Catherine couldn’t help noticing that he’d turned slightly pink in the cheeks. Older than her he might be, but deep down he was still a boy. She found this endearing, so much so that for now she could set aside his comments regarding her mother.

  They were sitting once again on the wall of the goat enclosure, looking up at the stars. Catherine had endured being a boarder at the isolated girls’ school on the other side of Pinhao. The nuns had indeed considered her wild. Her summer sojourns on the vine-covered slopes were responsible for that. In the summer she did all the things she’d done that first summer; running through meadows and vineyards, enjoying the warm earth crumbling between her toes. She’d also made and sold goat’s cheese. Her small treasure trove was increasing.

  ‘What will you do with it?’ her great-aunt had asked.

  She’d hesitated before replying. Yes, she was resigned to marrying Francisco. She would work hard and together they would make enough money to buy Castile Villanova. It was just that she didn’t want him to know that yet. She didn’t want anyone to know.

  ‘I will keep it safe until I need it,’ Catherine had replied.

  Autumn had come and the air was as ripe with sweetness as the vines themselves, the leaves red, orange and yellow against a cobalt sky. In the west towards the Atlantic Ocean, clouds flocked in puffball splendour like white meringue piling ever upwards.

  Catherine’s hurt had been healed by this place and Aunt Lopa. She stretched again and threw back her head, smiling because she knew the effect it would have on Francisco. Aunt Lopa told her she was a tease. She was probably right. And Francisco was very attractive. She observed him changing, loving his firm, brown body, the masculine muscles newly forming into adult firmness.

  And he was noticing her. Even now she could feel his eyes on her. She shrugged her shoulders, which in turn sent her young, round breasts pushing against the tightness of her bodice.

  Francisco was beginning to get her measure, knew she liked teasing him, making him sweat as only a young man on the threshold of manhood could sweat when a girl like her was close by. He had only meant to glance at her before laughing, but instead his eyes lingered on the silky softness of her neck. ‘You have a neck like a swan,’ he said softly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

  She looked at him sidelong with flashing eyes that were slightly upturned above high cheekbones, her lashes dark and brushing her cheeks.

  ‘White and fluffy?’ she said laughingly, her laughter like water gurgling in her throat.

  His chin seemed to jerk backwards, but he recovered and again bared his feelings. ‘No. I meant sleek and silky,’ he said.

  She stroked his cheek. His jaw tensed beneath her fingers. She enjoyed that.

  ‘All of me is sleek and silky,’ she said in a tone of voice borrowed from a film star she’d seen in a movie.

  ‘Catherine!’ He tutted like an old woman and shook his head disapprovingly. A soft blush spread upwards from his throat and all over his face. ‘No wonder the nuns called you wild.’

  She laughed again, her eyes sparkling with happiness because she was here sitting beside Francisco in another September. And you have breasts now, she reminded herself, and your hips are wider and you are sometimes filled with the longings the girls talked about in the school dormitory. She remembered one of the girls being caught with her nightdress pulled up and her hands beneath the sheets, moaning and writhing in her sleep. The nun on dormitory duty had heard the culprit. The girl was given six strokes of the cane and her hands were tied to one of the iron railings of the bedhead after that. The poor girl.

  Catherine had sunk further beneath the bedcovers, closed her eyes and thought of Umberto, the altar boy with the striking blue eyes that always strayed to her. Physical pleasure was meant to be shared, she’d decided. She’d conveyed her opinions to Theresa and the others. ‘Preferably with Umberto, that gorgeous altar boy.’

  Some of the girls had been shocked. Awestruck by her outrageousness, others had giggled and eyed her admiringly.

  School was fine and she’d enjoyed learning. Her quick mind had absorbed lessons like a sponge.

  ‘You’re a clever girl,’ said one of her favourite teachers, Sister Cristabel, who taught English. ‘You really should consider university.’

  Catherine had shaken her head. ‘I’m no longer a girl. I’m a woman.’

  She couldn’t explain how she felt about her mother dying so young. All she knew was that she wanted to live to the utmost. And there was still the matter of Castile Villanova.

  I’m grown-up, she told herself. This year she’d kissed Francisco in the cool shade thrown at the back of Aunt Lopa’s quinta. Their bodies had seemed to stick together, their fingers exploring the contours of each other’s face, each other’s body.

  Breathless, they’d sprung apart, but Francisco couldn’t help coming back for more. Catherine was wary, more aware than he was of what could happen. At school, under cover of a darkened dormitory, her fellow pupils had talked of what could happen if you weren’t careful. One of the girls hadn’t been careful and had left the school in shame.

  ‘You will have to marry me if you want that,’ Catherine told him.

  Francisco responded hotly as though she’d said something insulting. ‘Of course we shall marry.’

  ‘It’s not as though we don’t know each other well,’ said Catherine.

  ‘It stands to reason,’ said Francisco. The wide smile she’d recalled when things at school had got too much for her, vanished. A thoughtful frown creased the face of the handsome boy who’d grown into a handsome man. ‘I think my father would be pleased for us. So will Lopa Rodriguez.’

  Catherine noticed he had not mentioned his mother. For a worrying moment it sounded as though he had doubts. The doubts were chased away the moment his smile returned.

  ‘How could our families not be pleased?’ he said, lightly caressing her cheek with his fingers. ‘Portuguese girls are the most beautiful in the world. I will be marrying the most beautiful of the most beautiful. I will tell them tonight.’

  Catherine laughed at his pronouncement. She didn’t remind him that she was only half Portuguese and that her father was English. It occurred to her that she’d have to ask for her father’s permission. She frowned at the prospect. Why should he have any say at all? In all the time she’d lived here, her father had not written or even sent a card or present for her birthday. In the vain hope that it might make a difference, she’d added a codicil to her nightly prayers. ‘Lord, give my father the reward he justly deserves for his sins.’

  She never hinted to God of what that reward should be, presuming that he’d know only too well how badly her father had behaved towards her mother.

  After she and Francisco had parted with a kiss and a lingering clasping of hands, she went into the house where Aunt Lopa’s crochet hook was flying through yet anoth
er batch of tray cloths, doilies and tablecloths. She looked up and smiled as Catherine came in the door.

  Catherine didn’t let on that she’d guessed Aunt Lopa had been watching them through a crack in the shutters. In Portugal unmarried girls were closely chaperoned until they were safely married. Aunt Lopa was only doing her duty.

  ‘So! Have you fixed the date yet?’

  Catherine found herself blushing. Aunt Lopa was nothing if not blunt.

  ‘No. Not yet. He has to tell his parents.’

  The way his voice had wobbled slightly came back to her. What about his mother? Donna Nicklau gave the appearance of being a pious and overly respectable woman. And that, in effect, was exactly what she was, though her piety bordered on sanctimonious hypocrisy.

  Catherine assured herself once again that this would be no problem. Francisco had told her himself that it would be no problem, so that was the way it would be. Wouldn’t it?

  But no matter how many times she tried to tell herself this, a nagging doubt remained.

  The crochet hook paused in mid-stitch as Aunt Lopa nodded her head sagely. ‘Francisco will do things properly. And you will be a wife. You will be happy.’

  Loose and glossy, Catherine’s hair fell forward like a curtain, hiding a blush of deeper intensity. ‘I will be happy. I’m sure I shall.’

  The crochet hook failed to continue its diving in and out of the pattern already made. Aunt Lopa’s eyes were fixed on her. Her wide face and small mouth were in stiff repose as though she were holding something back, something that needed to be said, something she didn’t want to say.

  ‘Consider carefully, Catherine. Be sure it is what you want. What is good at sixteen is not necessarily as good at twenty-six or even thirty-six.’

  Catherine lowered her eyes. Marrying Francisco seemed such an obvious step forward in her life. She would be settled for the rest of her days and she’d expected her aunt to be overjoyed at the prospect. The fact that she was urging caution threw her completely off balance.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ she said, frowning and picking nonchalantly at the unpicked wools lying in a heap on the table among bone knitting needles and crochet hooks.

  Aunt Lopa leaned forward. A shadow seemed to cross her face, giving her fresh-coloured features a chill, greyish tint. ‘Don’t throw your life away until you have lived a little. I thought I knew what I wanted. It suited for a while but then I became restless and questioned my reasons for doing what I was doing. I found out that I had far too questioning a mind for what I’d thought I’d wanted at sixteen. There was no longer satisfaction or spiritual peace in what I was doing. Whatever your mother did – and some condemn her – she was doing what she wanted to do.’ She sighed reflectively, old wounds along with old memories dulling her eyes. ‘Love is like a young vine; plant it in the wrong soil and you reap a sour fruit, a bitter harvest.’

  That night as she lay staring out at the sky, Catherine thought about what Aunt Lopa had said. She had refrained from retorting that her mother should not have loved ‘that man’ because it was his fault she was dead. Shifting slightly, she pushed the window open a little more so she could smell the night and hear the sound of creatures flying or scurrying in the darkness.

  Up until now it had seemed a logical step to marry Francisco; was it because he was the only boy she knew intimately around here? Or was it really because she loved him and wanted to be with him for the rest of her life? And what, indeed, was passion?

  If a certain twist of fate had not occurred, she would never have discovered the answer until later on in her life.

  The news that old Father Benedict had died and that a new priest was taking over came to them three days later. Three days after that, the new priest appeared. He was cycling through the shade thrown by the lemon trees at the side of the road, appearing as a black shape in sunlit spots and disappearing completely in the shadows.

  Catherine and her great-aunt waited patiently as the priest propped his bicycle against a stone wall, shook the dust from his robe and straightened his hat.

  Catherine sucked in her breath. There was something familiar about this young, agile priest, something that brought back the vision of a gloomy chapel and being surrounded by sniffing girls in dusty school uniforms.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said, sweeping his hat from his head like some latter-day cavalier – minus the feather, of course. ‘I am your new priest, Father Umberto…’

  Thirteen

  ‘My thanks for your vote of confidence,’ said Walter Shellard with a businesslike smile. He hid his pleasure behind a pall of cigar smoke. He had their backing for company expansion – not that he’d expected otherwise.

  At the far end of the table, Seth Armitage, his financial director, cleared his throat and raised one snowy eyebrow above a cerulean eye. ‘It’s well deserved, Walter. Your plan to carry the company forward is well timed. It makes sense to increase our holdings in Spain at this time. Like the rest of Europe, its economy floundered somewhat after 1918 and land prices have plummeted. However, in view of the impending political unrest, I stress again the need to spread the liability. Who knows what the future holds. If you can achieve that, which you say you can, then we can expect success. Everyone is in agreement,’ he said, his all-seeing bright blue eye alighting on each of those present, as though daring anyone to find fault with the plan.

  Philip Marks, their diminutive Jewish bank manager who had earned the position on the board due to past financial support, leaned forward over clasped hands – a sure sign he wished to speak. ‘It’s a pity these two vineyards are some miles apart. I understand the land in between is also under vine cultivation. Is there any chance that we can purchase this too?’

  Although Walter smiled, his eyes hardened. If anyone was going to point out the factor that had proved to be a thorn in his side, it would be Philip.

  Ronald Parker, Walter’s brother-in-law, interjected. ‘I’ve been having discussions with the owner. He wants twice what we’re offering. He can’t have it. If we paid him what he wanted, it wouldn’t be worth our while.’

  Philip frowned. ‘Pity. If there were some way of persuading him, the bank would find it easier to supply the necessary backing. I’m not saying that we won’t. I’m merely saying that the returns on investment are likely to be greater.’ He looked pointedly at Walter and knew immediately that both the problem and its solving had already been considered.

  No frown creased his brow. No sweat spotted his forehead. He made a snap statement of intent that took everyone, except Philip, by surprise.

  ‘No need to fret, Philip. I’m taking personal charge of the negotiations. The vineyards – all of the vineyards – will be ours. I’m going to make Arthur Freeman an offer he can’t refuse.’

  Ronald looked devastated. He had a long face that lengthened further when he was disappointed. ‘But Walter, I was doing…’

  ‘Nothing,’ Walter snapped. Then more congenially, ‘You did what you could,’ he added. Walter sounded pleasant enough, but those around the table knew he was criticizing Ronald’s capabilities. Although well brought up, well educated and wealthy, he lacked experience and sheer gut instinct. Most of them thought he’d only got the job by virtue of his sister, Ellen, being married to Walter. For the most part, they were right.

  The meeting was brought to an end. A red-faced Ronald asked to speak to Walter alone. His eyes were moist, as though he were on the verge of tears.

  ‘Not now, Ronald. I have to speak to Seth.’

  Seth noted the comment and stayed seated, shuffling papers until Ronald was safely out of the room.

  Walter stubbed his cigar into an ashtray and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. He looked out of the window. The window looked out on Trenchard Street, an old part of the city where wine warehouses had proliferated since the sixteenth century. The warehouses of W.W. Shellard and Company backed on to those of Harveys, purveyors of the famous Bristol Cream.

  Walter watc
hed men unloading crates of clinking bottles. There were close on two hundred in the load and there were three trucks, each waiting to be unloaded. And there could be more. ‘So, Robert Arthur Freeman is proving difficult. How unfortunate that he owns the vineyard sitting between our two latest acquisitions. Think how efficient our operation would be if we controlled all three.’

  ‘I think we need to offer him something more,’ said Seth, who had been wracking his brains for a suitable solution. Offering too much would make the deal too costly and effectively nullify the plans they’d been entertaining. He watched Walter Shellard with one eye almost closed, as was his manner when scrutinizing a man or a business proposition. He knew from experience that Walter’s mind was racing, dashing about hither and dither. Like Philip, he knew him well enough to guess that he’d already reached a satisfactory conclusion.

  ‘An amalgamation of interests perhaps would do as well as an outright purchase,’ said Walter, who’d made up his mind that this plan would go through – on his terms, of course.

  ‘And it would leave us with excess capital,’ Seth Armitage replied, showing no sign of being surprised. The Shellard family had long ceased to surprise him. Especially Walter. When it came to business, Walter Shellard was second to none; like his father but even more so. Sometimes his ruthlessness quite frightened Seth, but he told himself that it was what was needed in this modern world. Hopefully it would replace war; he’d lost both sons, one in 1914 and one a year later. His wife had died shortly afterwards. Staying on as a director of Shellards helped him keep sane. Without it, he’d die.

  Walter’s gaze stayed fixed on the old stone warehouse opposite. ‘Look at it,’ he said, a self-satisfied smile on his lips, his eyes narrowing as they swept from window to window, floor to floor. ‘My family built that. My father’s great-greatgrandfather was a common seaman. By making the right decisions – and the right marriage, it has to be said – he got the show on the road.’ He chuckled and shook his head. ‘The right wine, the right time and the right wife. A shrewd man. A very shrewd man.’