House in the Hills Read online

  A dowry. Yes. She liked the thought of that. Perhaps a dowry would help ease the Nicklaus’ opposition to the marriage.

  Father Umberto looked down at his clasped hands. His brow was furrowed as he considered the weighty matters needful of his careful consideration. ‘Would you like me to act as go-between in the matter of your wedding? I could negotiate the marriage contract on your behalf seeing as you have no living relative to hand.’

  ‘Will you inform his family that I have a dowry?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Because…’

  She looked up abruptly, but when he raised his deep-blue eyes, she lowered her own. Looking at each other was becoming dangerous.

  Still contemplating his clasped hands, he asked how long he had to arrange things.

  Catherine sighed. ‘One month. My father’s given me one month to lay Aunt Lopa and her matters to rest. If I am to be married, he won’t take me away. I’m sure of it.’

  Umberto nodded that he understood. If she was sure of her father’s response, he was most certainly not. There were ways around a contractual agreement, but he was less than familiar with that kind of thing. But he had to do what he could.

  For her part, Catherine felt devastated; in fact she had not felt so low since the day her mother died. In her mind she roasted her father over white-hot coals for what he had done. She’d never forgive him. And now he wanted her back.

  The formal way the letter was termed stuck in her mind: …one month is long enough to bury your mother’s aunt and resolve what small matters might need attending to…

  No words of sympathy. No asking whether she herself was keeping well. It was the first letter in seven years and might just as well never have arrived.

  ‘May I disclose the contents of the chest?’ he asked.

  Catherine stiffened. ‘I haven’t opened it yet.’

  There was something now in his eyes that made her feel uncomfortable, almost as though he were reading her mind and knew she was lying – or something close to lying.

  ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘They must take it on trust.’

  He looked surprised. ‘If Francisco truly wants me, then he’ll accept that. If not…’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll trust to fate. Who knows what’s in store.’

  Umberto narrowed his eyes into chilly blue slits. Strange how she could read him just as well as he read her. She knew what would come next.

  ‘You already know what’s in the chest. Am I right?’

  She smiled enigmatically. She had a small sum of her own. The contents of the chest could remain a secret for now.

  Sixteen

  Father Umberto hid his nervousness well as he was offered the best chair in the room at the quinta of José Nicklau, Francisco’s father. The room was opulent by local standards, having more than one room on the ground floor, the stone paving covered with thick rugs. The chair was upholstered in tan-coloured leather and had rosewood arms carved to resemble lions’ paws.

  ‘Fetch the priest’s cup,’ said José to his youngest daughter. The girl ran to a painted cupboard and got out a silver cup.

  ‘Wine?’ asked José, his manner deferential, his features ruddy by virtue of his outdoor life and the fact that he tested too much of the port wine he produced.

  ‘Just lemonade,’ said Umberto. ‘It was a warm ride,’ he said, excusing his own slightly flushed complexion as he raised the silver cup to his mouth. Donna Nicklau always kept a separate cup for the priest, whoever he might be.

  Before taking a sip, Umberto tried not to pull a face at the thought of his predecessor having shared the same cup. The old man had been dribbling somewhat come the end, so he’d heard. He consoled himself with the fact that Donna Nicklau was a house-proud woman. Doubtless it had been washed many times since the old man had last taken a sip. All the same, it was hard to blank the vision from his mind.

  ‘Much appreciated,’ said Father Umberto, returning the silver cup to José’s waiting hand.

  ‘Your visit is unexpected,’ began José, an anxious look in eyes that were brown and bordered with a yellowish white. ‘But of course we are always pleased to see you. Was there something special you came to see us about?’

  José looked worried; concerned perhaps that it had been at least six weeks since his last confession. Acting as go-between in this matter of the marriage of Catherine Rodriguez seemed a penance to the young priest. He could not have her, but Francisco could, and in order to alleviate his own desires, it made sense to put all his energies into the task of getting them married. However, it would not be easy. Francisco’s mother would see to that.

  He rubbed the palms of his hands over the chair arms, eyes lowered as he considered his words. He had a moment to do so. Francisco was already here, but his father had gone upstairs to fetch his mother.

  ‘Do you know why I am here?’ the priest asked.

  Francisco nodded. He was pacing up and down before the wrought-iron gates dividing the main room from the roofed courtyard, the light at his back. His shoulders were tense, yet there was agitation in the way he took three steps that way, three steps back.

  Francisco pushed back a dark lock of hair that had fallen on to his forehead. His thick brows met in a deep frown above the bridge of his nose. He looked worried, and had every right to be. His mother was not an amiable woman. Neither was she handsome in the way of most women. While Francisco’s looks were perfect but rigid; just like a statue of a saint, there was a weakness about the chin that to Umberto’s mind declared him to be a man who took the easy path. No doubt he took after his father. Perhaps in years to come he’d take to drink.

  Father Umberto pursed his lips and tried not to feel envious of this callow youth, this weakling who could not stand up to his mother. ‘And you have told your parents this?’

  Francisco stopped pacing, took his hands out of his pockets, throwing them in the air in exasperation. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it. She retreats to her bed every time I mention the matter.’

  ‘I see.’

  It was exactly how the priest thought it would be. Donna Nicklau was not an easy woman to persuade about anything. She adhered to traditional values and expected great things of her family. Francisco was her eldest son. Besides that, Donna Nicklau was a staunch defender of traditional Catholicism. She was not likely to tolerate him marrying the daughter of a woman who’d killed herself.

  ‘I will see what I can do to persuade her,’ said Father Umberto. In his heart of hearts, he wasn’t confident of being able to do anything to change Donna Nicklau’s mind. The Pope himself would be hard pushed to do that. But Francisco looked so troubled, thin and pale. There was also Catherine to consider, and himself of course. A married woman, especially if she had children, would be less accessible.

  Donna Nicklau preceded her husband into the room, just as, for the most part, she preceded him in life. She was shrouded from head to toe in black, her dress a dark sheath shaped like a dagger. A silver crucifix dangled on her chest. Dressed like a widow before her time, thought the priest, as though she was looking forward to a singularly bereaved state.

  She greeted the priest with a show of respect most people saved for a cardinal or even the Pope, bowing over his hand, her lips brushing his fingers.

  Father Umberto was uncomfortable with such a display. He couldn’t get the notion out of his head that she reminded him of sulphur. It was purely a personal thing. He had a habit of applying colours to people. Priests were black of course; young people were lime green like leaves in springtime. Donna Nicklau was unique. She was yellow. Her skin was the colour of old parchment; her eyes golden and fluid like olive oil. A black headscarf covered hair that had once been flame-coloured but was now streaked with grey. No one dared suggest to Donna Nicklau that such hair was evidence of non-Portuguese ancestry. She was fervently nationalistic and sanctimonious as well as being staunchly Catholic.

  The usual pleasantries were exchanged and drink and food were offered. Fath
er Umberto declined.

  ‘Perhaps it is best that I get straight to the point,’ he said and perceived an instant drop in temperature. They knew why he was here; there were no secrets in the countryside. He soldiered on. ‘For some time now your son has been close to a certain young lady, namely Catherine Rodriguez. In the absence of any locally living relative I act on her behalf.’

  He went on to formulate the suggestion as favourably to Catherine as possible. At the end of it he sat back against the cool leather, knuckles whitening as his hands tightened over the chair arms. It was now that he regretted refusing a second drink; not just because his mouth was dry, but tipping a glass before his face would protect him from Donna Nicklau’s fierce glare.

  Husband and son looked to the one woman standing alone among them. Father Umberto felt as threatened as they did. Sulphur, he thought to himself. Donna Nicklau is most definitely the yellow of sulphur.

  She said not a word, but listened with pursed lips as the colour drained from her face.

  Father Umberto prepared himself for the worst. The worst happened. Donna Nicklau raised her hand to her chest and emitted a high-pitched wail. As those around her panicked, there followed a closing of eyes then a thud as she fell to the floor. The action was followed by outright pandemonium. A pitcher of water was called for; a pillow was placed beneath her head.

  ‘I… am… dying,’ groaned Donna Nicklau, her eyes rolling in her head. ‘My son… he breaks my heart…’

  Amid her wailing, José Nicklau was shouting for a second pillow and a blanket. ‘And where is that water? Fetch water! Fetch a doctor!’

  Father Umberto had sprung from his chair. Mouth agape, he caught the look on Francisco’s face.

  I told you so.

  The woman’s cries became more hysterical. Father Umberto’s expression clouded when she began calling for a priest. He hesitated. Her demand changed.

  ‘My son! Where is my son?’

  Poor Francisco. He looked so helpless – as though, Umberto guessed, two factions were waging war inside his head.

  Looking like a frightened boy, Francisco knelt at his mother’s side. ‘I’m here, mother.’

  Donna Nicklau reached for his hand. ‘I see death in the shadows, Francisco.’ Her eyes became round and staring, focused on some point beyond her son and her husband.

  Father Umberto, feeling suddenly vulnerable to her accusing gaze, moved out of her line of vision. But he needn’t have worried. Softening now, her eyes went back to her son.

  ‘You mustn’t let the shadows get me, Francisco. You mustn’t upset me so.’

  In danger of saying too many things he shouldn’t say, Father Umberto made slowly and softly for the outer vestibule, a stone structure leading to the front of the house. He should have conferred a blessing before leaving but, with grim-faced determination, he’d decided she didn’t deserve one.

  The fine day did nothing to lift his spirits. Just as he was mounting his bicycle, Francisco called to him. He waited, one foot poised on a pedal. There was a haunted look in his eyes.

  ‘Father. You can see how it is.’

  Umberto nodded. ‘What will you do? Adhere to your mother’s wishes, or marry the young woman you love?’

  ‘I want to marry Catherine, but I do not want to be responsible for my mother’s death.’

  Umberto bristled. He blurted out the truth even though he should appear impartial. ‘Your mother is as strong as an ox. I get the impression she is not in favour of this union. Am I right?’

  Francisco blinked nervously. Umberto sensed his panic and outright confusion. He swallowed the contemptuous bile that rose from his stomach. Francisco wasn’t the first man to be controlled by his mother and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.

  ‘Please convey my regrets to Catherine. Ask her to give me time. If all else fails, I’ll come for her. We’ll run away.’

  Father Umberto said nothing. He wasn’t supposed to advise people to run away together. His job was to solemnize their promise to each other in a marriage ceremony. He was also unnerved by two things; that Catherine needed support in this time of trouble, and also that if Francisco could be so weak-willed, he was not the right man for her.

  So who is? he asked himself and buried the immediate answer.

  It is not your place.

  He made ready to push off, about to heave himself on to the saddle. Francisco continued to follow.

  ‘Please understand,’ he said.

  Umberto sighed and looked at him. Although twenty years old, Francisco looked gangly and youthful, his arms too long for his body, his hands continually seeking out the deep pockets of his trousers.

  ‘Will you tell her I love her?’ His expression was strained; appealing.

  Umberto stopped. ‘Why not tell her yourself? Why not go over there?’

  ‘Not today. I mean, how do I know for sure that my mother isn’t seriously ill? The doctor says her heart may not be very strong. Please, ask Catherine to give me time.’

  Father Umberto pedalled away without promising any such thing. Francisco had made him angry – very angry! He frowned as Catherine’s lovely face came to mind; disappointment moistening those beautiful eyes. If he was Francisco he’d run away with her tomorrow!

  ‘Damn Donna Nicklau to hell!’ he yelled as he sped down a stony hill.

  Seventeen

  Catherine sat in her favourite spot watching the sun go down. She was close to giving up waiting for Francisco to come to her and began wondering what would happen if she travelled to Porto as her father’s solicitors had instructed. Her expression clouded at the thought of him.

  I’d probably kill him. Or shout; tell him exactly how much I hate him.

  Her heart was heavy and her eyes sore from staring at the road for so long. A figure appeared in the distance; Father Umberto, the front wheel of his bicycle bouncing over the hardened mud and stones.

  She stood up and waited, the setting sun bathing her in a warm, amber glow. She tried to look welcoming, but for the life of her she couldn’t countenance a smile. What news would he bring? Her heart raced at the thought of it. Somehow, she guessed it wasn’t good and her stomach tightened into a nervous knot.

  She remembered his gracefulness as an altar boy; he was still the same, his body seeming to flow with movement, even in the simple task of riding his bicycle.

  He glanced at her briefly, then bent to give close inspection to his front wheel. ‘That road is worse since the rains. It needs resurfacing.’

  ‘Would you like a drink, Father?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I’m fine. I had one with José Nicklau.’

  Folding her arms, she willed herself to show no emotion.

  His eyes flickered then widened before he looked away, bending low to brush the mud from his robe.

  Catherine guessed he was giving himself time to decide how to break the news as gently as possible. She trembled inside, but would not show it.

  ‘You know, Catherine, people can sometimes think they want something and when it’s denied them, they are upset; but years later they realize—’

  ‘Just tell me,’ she snapped.

  He looked surprised by her bluntness and the defiant stance. His eyes widened. In that brief moment she perceived that he was taking in every detail of her face, her hair, her body. He looked away, his gaze rising to the eaves where the tail of a swallow twitched from a hidden nest.

  ‘I’m afraid there will be no marriage. I’m sorry.’

  ‘They do not approve of me?’

  A lesser man would have licked dry lips and wrung his hands. Father Umberto stood straight and tall, his broad shoulders catching the last redness of sunset. ‘Donna Nicklau is very possessive of her only son.’

  ‘The woman’s a witch!’

  The priest’s lips twitched with a barely concealed smile. His blue eyes twinkled. ‘I wouldn’t go quite so far as to say that.’

  Catherine glared at the deserted road where weeds and tufts of grass were push
ing through the dislodged stones. Her thoughts fluttered to and fro like a butterfly beating its wings against a glass window in its efforts to escape. ‘And Francisco? What does he have to say about this?’ Her voice was firm. She would not, could not, allow it to tremble.

  ‘He asks that you give him time.’

  His eyes did not meet hers. She sensed there was something else he could have said but was unwilling to do so. She asked the obvious. ‘Have they arranged a marriage for him?’

  She was aware that her voice had an unfamiliar shrillness about it. Her heart was the cause of it, beating so loudly it was ringing in her ears, drowning out her voice.

  The priest’s eyes were full of concern. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Catherine searched his expression for one of those small signs that betray what a person is really thinking. A sudden blink, a nervous constriction of the throat as though swallowing guilt. At the same time she noticed the fact that the hem of his black robe had caught on his bicycle, was ripped and spattered with mud.

  Her gaze dropped to his fingers tapping nervously across his stomach.

  ‘There was something else. Something you disapproved of?’

  Surprised by her words and forthright expression, the priest seemed to hold his breath before meeting her eyes. ‘I cannot lie,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you can’t. You’re a priest.’

  ‘Francisco is a coward. I don’t think you’ll ever see him again.’ He looked down at his torn hem, grimacing as he fed it through long, sensitive fingers. ‘More sewing to do.’ He shook his head. ‘I hate sewing.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s you that needs a wife,’ said Catherine with a wry smile. ‘Come into the house. I’ll find a needle and some thread.’

  He looked panic-stricken. ‘Oh, no. Not indoors. Couldn’t you mend it out here?’

  She raised a quizzical eyebrow, sensing he feared being alone with her – just as she feared being alone with him.