House in the Hills Read online

  ‘I wasn’t going to mend it. You were. Never mind. It makes no difference. I’ll fetch the needle and thread. You can do it out here if you like.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He looked abashed. ‘Of course,’ he said, recovering his equilibrium. ‘Of course I will do it.’

  She threw him a half-smile. ‘Wait a moment.’

  Once inside the house she raised her hand to her face and felt the warmth of her cheek. This was silly. They really should be acting more grown-up.

  But you are. And there lies the problem.

  She found what she was looking for in her aunt’s workbox, an elegant tripod table of cured walnut into which a linen bag had been stitched. The tabletop formed a lid, fixed with brass hinges to the frame.

  She took a deep breath before diving in to find black cotton and a needle. This will do, she thought, and closed the lid.

  When she got back outside he was running his fingers along the hem. His eyes met hers and he smiled.

  ‘I’ve sorted it out. I think I can manage without needing to mend it.’

  ‘So typical of a man! Of course it must be mended.’ She hit his hands aside as he reached for the needle and thread. ‘I’ll do it.’

  First she threaded the needle, turning the eye to the setting sun and finding it almost magical when a single ray seemed to split the steel on target. Licking the end of the thread, she eased it through at the first attempt.

  She was feeling numb with an inner coldness that left little room for emotion. Francisco had taken her warmth away. ‘Take off your robe.’ She’d done everything with swift, staccato movements, not looking at him, not showing emotion. Her voice and stance remained purposely abrupt.

  Father Umberto’s eyebrows rose questioningly.

  ‘Or I could kneel at your feet,’ she said just as sharply as before, ‘if that’s what you want.’

  He hesitated before silently disrobing down to his singlet and trousers. ‘It’s very dirty,’ he added. ‘I trust you can cope.’

  She took the robe from him as though it were nothing, as though she were unaffected by his presence. Perhaps that might have been true if she hadn’t felt the warmth of the cloth, the slight smell of fresh, masculine sweat. There was usually only a dusty, slightly mildewed smell to priests’ robes. The smell of Father Umberto’s robe was not at all like that. His physical presence was imbued in the yarn itself.

  She found herself forgetting he was a priest, thinking of another time, another place and the boy she’d desired before he’d become a priest. The fact that he was sitting there in singlet and trousers – like a normal man – didn’t help.

  With veiled glances, she discerned that the body beneath the white cotton was firm and his shoulder muscles and upper arms were well developed as though he chopped wood when he wasn’t saying mass.

  ‘There’s a bottle of late vintage in that cabinet behind you,’ she said suddenly. ‘Those glasses are fairly clean. I washed them in the well.’

  From beneath lowered lashes, she saw him glance into each glass before pulling the cork and pouring.

  ‘Not for me,’ she said as he filled the second glass.

  He looked at her. ‘No?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t like it.’

  He laughed lightly. ‘Your father wouldn’t like to hear you say that.’

  Her mouth tightened. ‘I doubt that my father would recognize my voice.’

  He understood her bitterness. Her great-aunt had told him something of her history.

  Catherine carried on. ‘He abandoned me. He hasn’t seen me for years. And before you make comment,’ she said, ‘I know he’s rich and he could have a wonderful life planned out for me. But why now?’ She stopped pushing the needle into the dense material and raised her eyes to meet his. ‘I can’t help thinking that he’s got an ulterior motive. One thing I do remember from the Castile Villanova is overhearing servants discussing his ruthless reputation. His actions confirm those whispers.’

  ‘It’s a very rich taste,’ the priest said suddenly, holding his glass of port up to the sun. ‘It looks like blood with the sunlight shining through it.’

  She looked and saw that it was. ‘Perhaps I should get to like it,’ she said. ‘Is that a good one?’

  His smile lit up his face. ‘Your aunt wouldn’t have anything second-rate. Taste it,’ he said, handing her the glass. ‘But don’t swallow it right away. Taste it with the front of your tongue, then each side, then the back. Your tongue is divided into different areas for different sensations. Sugar, salt, bitterness, dryness… Savour each as you drink.’

  Their fingers brushed as she took the glass. It surprised her when he didn’t snatch his hand away as she’d seen some priests do in response to female contact.

  In the past she’d sipped and disliked. Now, under his instruction, she savoured and learned. She did as he’d instructed, rolling the liquid around on her tongue. She found it amazing that one flavour was in fact made up of many.

  ‘You’re right. It divides into different tastes.’

  ‘So does wine,’ he said, his face glowing with pleasure. ‘Although of course it is less rich than port or sherry.’

  He pretended to examine the repair, though his eyes followed her. ‘Thank you. I couldn’t have done better myself,’ he added with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘I really mean that.’

  Despite everything, she laughed. Initially he’d come with bad news, but ultimately he’d lifted her spirits purely by way of his quiet, deep voice, the way his eyes twinkled, the way his-wide mouth curved into a smile. She felt very satisfied that she had waited all these years to hear his voice. The voice of the boy would have been nothing compared to that of the man.

  ‘I’m glad to have you as a friend,’ she said to him. ‘And I don’t mind being your part-time wife. I’m quite good at sewing.’

  The words had tumbled from her mouth. She bit her bottom lip and looked down into her glass, wishing she hadn’t been so impulsive.

  He seemed to hold his breath before responding. His eyes flickered. ‘I’m glad too.’

  He quickly pulled his robe over his head without undoing any buttons. If he was at all embarrassed by her comment, any betrayal in his expression was hidden.

  She turned abruptly away, watching as the last sliver of sunlight shimmered above the horizon.

  There followed a moment of silence. She presumed that he too was watching the day dip into twilight. When she turned she saw that his clear blue eyes were examining her in a disturbing manner.

  Why shouldn’t he? After all, he is only a man!

  Aunt Lopa again. The woman was in her brain. And always would be, said that same, small voice.

  All the same, that look and her own reaction came as something of a surprise. Unlike most people, she had known him as a boy – although from something of a distance – so accepted that a man existed beneath the black cassock. The garment was meant to create a demarcation between the religious and the secular. It did its work well. And now, although the robe was mended, she fancied something else was ripped.

  For a moment they had seemed frozen in time.

  ‘It’s time I was going.’ He looked at the sunset rather than at the watch he wore on his wrist. ‘I will see you again.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for coming.’

  Gone were the two people chatting amiably about the port wine they were consuming, enjoying the texture of the goat’s cheese, the freshness of the bread.

  He has replaced his uniform and returned to being a priest, she told herself. She wasn’t sure what she’d returned to, only that she felt cold and lonely and wished he could stay. Francisco was the second man in her life to let her down. The first had been her father. At least the priest had never let her down, but would he? She wondered if that fleeting moment would affect the frequency of his visits.

  Would he visit and listen in the same slightly vague manner he listens to all his flock, or would he really listen, really take on board her hopes and fears and the bitt
erness towards men, born when she was just twelve years old. Suddenly she couldn’t bear the thought of him never coming again, and yet, instinctively, she knew that to encourage could lead to both their downfalls.

  Her impulse won over common sense.

  ‘Will you come again?’ she called after him.

  He stopped in his tracks. She couldn’t read the look in his eyes, but the way his face reflected the roseate glow, she sensed a softening, a look of outright wonder.

  ‘Of course,’ he said quickly.

  Father Umberto tied the hem of his robe between his legs, reminding her of a peasant woman off to do her laundry. If Aunt Lopa was still alive she would have laughed and told him so.

  His movements were quicker than usual although he tried to disguise the fact, unwilling to seem in a hurry to get away.

  As she watched, she thought of the smell of his priestly robe, the hair growing on his arms and chest, the thickness of his neck. Francisco had aroused a similar response, but never as powerfully as this. Had she really loved him, or was her affection a result of her growing into a woman?

  She didn’t quite know but resolved not to be frightened of it. That night she dreamed of the way Umberto’s hair curled over his stiff collar and the cowlick that flopped on to his forehead. Like a picture of Lord Byron at the front of a book her mother had given her.

  Mentally he was indeed a good priest. Physically, he was still a man, a handsome man. The black robe was indeed a formidable barrier, but Mother Nature and man’s nature were ever stronger.

  Eighteen

  Walter Shellard was seeing a vision. In his vision he did not see the man of careless good looks and impeccable tailoring, but row upon row of vines ripening in the sun; not just hundreds of them, but thousands standing in close-grouped battalions all the way to the horizon. Three huge vineyards, one beside the other, and trucks of course; lots of trucks loaded with grapes on their way to the pressings, or bottles and barrels on their way to bodegas and eventually on to ships for passage to England and other burgeoning markets.

  The trigger for his musings of greater estates and greater wealth was standing in front of him. Robert Arthur Freeman was here in his study at his home overlooking the Avon Gorge. Although the man beamed with confidence, Walter glimpsed something else in the darting eyes. If viewed from the perspective of the Ten Commandments, Freeman was guilty of covetousness, greed, envy, lust – and perhaps of breaking a few other God-given rules.

  Envious of the wealth of others, such men attempted to acquire the same, but were too lazy to achieve business success; the majority suffered from lack of business acumen. Arthur Freeman fell into this last category, though he was too arrogant – or too ignorant – ever to admit his failings.

  ‘I’ve called to take my leave of you,’ he said, smoothing away a perceived smut from the cuff of his jacket.

  Walter’s tone of voice matched his eyes; measured, clear-cut and straight to the point. ‘Jolly good. I trust you have a good trip.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He could see the man looked a little uneasy about something.

  ‘I trust you’ve received the ten per cent promised you?’

  The eyes of Robert Arthur Freeman flickered nervously. ‘Yes. Yes, I have, but of course the warehousing side of the business was in need of an infusion of capital, and then I had a little investment I had to take care of…’

  A horse running in the three fifteen at Newmarket more like.

  Having foreseen this eventuality, Walter took out an envelope from a desk drawer.

  ‘Here. That should cover your expenses,’ he said, flinging the bulging envelope across the desk. Contempt like bile easing up his throat, he watched as his visitor reached for it, his greedy fingers flicking through the contents followed by a brief weighing of the envelope in his right hand, then his left. Satisfied with the sum – some five hundred pounds – he opened the sharply cut jacket he was wearing, sliding it into an inside pocket.

  ‘Wonderful!’ He said it in a rush of breath, as though the money had relieved a shortage of air.

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Walter. He disliked hesitation in business. He also disliked it in men’s general character. Get to the point. That was his motto. ‘The man who dithers, dies, Robert. Spit it out.’

  Although they’d never been close business associates – Walter had done more business with Robert’s father – he had taken to calling him by his Christian name. And why shouldn’t he? After all, the man was marrying his daughter – though the girl didn’t know that yet.

  Robert frowned suddenly. ‘I must admit to some concern about your daughter’s reticence to come to Porto. Do you think I depart too early?’

  Walter shook his head. ‘The sooner you get there the better. The trip will take you a week and I have arranged for you to visit a number of my estates in Portugal and to see what progress we’re making in Spain. I think you should have some input into that.’

  Robert nodded. ‘I just wonder whether she’ll like me enough to marry me.’

  The same thought had occurred to Walter. It was just a case of persuading her, he’d decided. Sanchia Juventa would see to that once she’d returned from a shopping trip to Paris.

  ‘Rest assured my agent will deal with the matter and will meet you there to ensure you are presented to my daughter in a favourable light.’

  If there was one person he could count on to do his bidding, it was Sanchia. She was strong-minded, independent and totally loyal. Besides that, she still had a firm body and curves a man could slide down.

  Seemingly satisfied, Robert nodded. ‘It appears you have everything covered, except…’

  Walter was beginning to get restless. How far did this man’s greed go?

  ‘Time you were going, Robert.’

  His patience was running out. He reached for a sheaf of papers, and made it obvious that he’d finished with their interview.

  ‘I take it we will be included in family gatherings?’

  Walter fixed him with unblinking eyes of steel-bright blue. ‘Have you disobeyed my instructions?’

  A deep flush spread swiftly over a complexion that would have been as fitting for a girl as a man. ‘No. I’ve kept silent. Except with Armitage, of course.’

  ‘I’d trust Armitage over my own brother. You’ve told no one?’

  Robert shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Fine. You’ll both be introduced to my family when the time is right.’

  Robert frowned. ‘Of course…’ He hesitated. ‘I understand from Armitage that the family are unaware of Catherine’s existence.’

  Walter slammed the desk with the flat of his hand, sending papers quivering and a pen rolling across a blotting pad.

  ‘Damn it, man! She’s the child of a past liaison before I was married. Her mother died years ago. My wife will be informed when I feel the time is right.’

  To Walter it was perfectly logical. Robert Arthur Freeman had been told that Catherine Rodriguez was his daughter. Ellen had not. He saw no need to tell her and no need for her to get agitated. Where was the problem? William would probably find out too, but that was neither here nor there. He told William nothing unless it was of the utmost importance, and only Shellard Enterprises fell into that category.

  ‘Then I’ll be going.’

  They shook hands. After Robert had gone, he took out the details of land, yield and accessibility for the ex-army trucks he’d bought at a knock-down price. The vines were being grown in the old way, but some other things were moving on. Robert Arthur Freeman could not know that without his property, access to the Shellard vineyards would have been difficult – if not impossible.

  As for the costs? Walter smiled to himself. First rule in negotiation; know your opponent’s weak points. In Robert Arthur Freeman’s case it was ignorance. According to his informants, nothing much had changed on Robert’s estate since his father had died. He didn’t make it his business to visit in order to see what was happening but left mana
gers in situ. He took it as read, relying on other people. All Robert Arthur Freeman wanted to do was enjoy himself. He had the usual weaknesses; wine and women, both in equal quantities, and he was also a man of the turf. On top of his weaknesses, he had dependents: three children and no wife. Reeling him in had been easy and, by the looks of the projections, would turn out to be extremely profitable.

  The only concern he felt after their meeting was the fact that Seth Armitage had disclosed that the family were unaware of Catherine’s existence. This surprised him. Seth had never been so careless with the family’s personal details before. His look darkened as he replaced the top on his fountain pen and laid it neatly at the head of the blotting pad. Seth was getting old. Perhaps a younger man was needed; one more dynamic and in tune with the times.

  Yes, he decided getting to his feet. The time may have come to put the old warhorse out to pasture. It’s time I was looking for a replacement.

  Nineteen

  Pride kept Catherine from tramping the road to face Francisco and his family, though she did have moments of weakness when she wanted to run to him and throw herself on her knees before his parents.

  It was hard to come to terms with the fact that Francisco had not made any attempt to seek her out and explain. It hurt. He’d been her friend since the day she’d arrived at the train station and he’d driven her to Aunt Lopa’s quinta. She had not realized how strongly his mother had objected to their relationship, though she should have guessed. She remembered the tight expression and even tighter mouth, no more than a thin line in a narrow face. Yet he had continued to be her friend.

  Down in the nearby village she listened intently to the conversations going back and forth. It was said that Francisco had been sent away to his uncle’s vineyards. Sympathetic eyes and also those who relished the misfortune of others watched her as the gossip was passed from one person to another. Yet again he’d run away from disobeying his mother.

  Market day was in full swing, simple stalls set up on upturned buckets and boxes, live chickens and rabbits in cages, a few fluffy kids tethered to carts and bleating for their mothers.