House in the Hills Read online

  And now…?

  Once their father was dead and buried, what had happened was inevitable. Although the business was, on paper, divided between them, it was Walter, the ruthless one, who’d taken the reins. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but a board of directors who saw their wealth increasing were glad, even grateful, to make Walter Chairman and President of the company.

  Unlike William or their father, Walter was not so much interested in the product they sold as in the expansion of the company into an empire. Very soon the company was to be renamed Shellard Enterprises. Their portfolio was growing, and it wasn’t all down to port, wine or sherry.

  Walter had leapt into the business straight from an army commission. From the start he’d run things as though he were going into battle. He had always wanted to be commander in chief of a huge battleffont, and that battlefront would be Shellard Enterprises.

  William wondered why he was feeling so peeved about it all. Even as a child his brother had wanted everything that was William’s. That covetousness had included women. Leonora had been the one he’d wanted most of all.

  William had met her first and fallen deeply in love with her, not able to sleep at night for thinking about her and her lovely face hidden behind her white mantilla. Unfortunately he’d got drunk one night and related his feelings to his brother, going on and on about how beautiful she was. Walter had not been able to resist. He’d had to seek her out and had waited outside the church where she prayed.

  As a child Walter had sometimes returned William’s possessions, but not Leonora. Not until now.

  Feeling disconsolate and light-headed, he took his leave of Seth Armitage and walked out of the hotel. Ribbons of peach sunset threw a pale light over College Green. The trees rustled in the breeze. He closed his eyes in order to blank out the trams going up Park Street and took a deep breath. He recalled what Walter had said to him just before his marriage.

  ‘You can see her once she’s resettled. Anyway, you must come over to Porto. When was the last time you were at the Castile Villanova?’

  William couldn’t bear to answer.

  Walter answered for him. ‘Not since Leonora was installed there.’

  He said installed as though she were a piece of machinery, something of use. William grimaced and wished he wasn’t such a coward. Why couldn’t he be more like his brother? Impossible! He could not.

  ‘One of these days you’ll meet your match,’ he murmured. A sudden breeze tousled his hair and took his words. ‘One of these days,’ he repeated and hoped it would be so.

  Two

  Catherine’s mother, Leonora Rodriguez, died on the day of the race between the rabalos, the cask-carrying boats of the great port wine lodges.

  The day started well enough. Twelve years old and on the brink of adolescence, she greeted the new day, laughing as she ran up the twisting steps that led to the roof of the Castile Villanova, the grand house owned by her father, a wealthy wine merchant and vineyard owner.

  Her hair was raven black, and her dark-grey eyes danced with delight. She had been blessed with her mother’s good bone formation, arched eyebrows, and a wide mouth that seemed always to carry an enigmatic smile.

  She could hear her nurse scolding her from the bottom of the ancient stone steps leading up to the roof, gasping for breath between each scold and each laboured step.

  In all honesty, Catherine was getting too old for a nurse, too old for toys and games and the innocence of childhood. But Conceptua clung on with the tenacity of a woman who has no other objective in life but to see that this girl remained a child for ever. She was blinkered to the fact that Catherine was no longer the thin, gangly girl with a ravenous appetite and eyes that seemed too big for her face. Even the coltish legs were developing some shape and the first signs of breasts were pushing against her bodice.

  Conceptua’s fat hips waddled from side to side like panniers of round cheese as she struggled up the last steps. She was not built for chasing anyone and slowed as each step seemed to double in height. Three-quarters of the way from the top, she clung more firmly to the wrought-iron banister and caught her breath, her flat, square hand resting on her copious bosom. She carried Sophie, Catherine’s doll, beneath her other arm. The doll had been one of Catherine’s favourites when she was younger. Conceptua still carried her around, wanting her little girl to remain just that.

  Catherine knew she’d be a few minutes catching her up, so took time surveying a view she never tired of. The slopes around the capital of the Portuguese vine-growing region, one of the locales that had given the country its name, sloped green and rich towards the River Douro.

  The same breeze that blew silky dark tresses across her face also filled the sails of the rabalos, the wine trade river-boats, the marks of their respective wine lodges, emblazoned on their sails. Like fat birds they were wallowing, reined in until the shot sounded that would start the race.

  ‘Your breakfast. You have not had your breakfast,’ her nurse puffed as she finally made the roof, sitting on the top step, her big bottom filling the gap between two stone balustrades. Sophie lay at her side.

  ‘Hmm,’ murmured Catherine, totally engrossed in what was going on down at the river.

  Her cheeks glowed pink in the early morning air. She took in the scene of a city lately roused from sleep. The warm sunshine was already kissing the twin domes of the cathedral and the roof of the Palacio da Bolsa, Porto’s stock exchange. Her gaze stayed fixed on the boats as they awaited the gunshot signalling the start of the regatta, an integral part of the Sao Joao Festival held every year in June. Weighed down with casks from stem to stern, the rabalos lay low in the water. Their sails were gathered to one side so they would not fill with wind. At the start of the race the crew would let go and the sails would billow like sheets on a washing line.

  Leaning forward, she clenched her fists in anticipation of the sound of the starting pistol.

  Crack!

  She jumped at the sound and gave a little gasp of surprise. It seemed louder and earlier than in past years and took her by surprise. Stiffening with excitement, she willed the boats to move. They didn’t.

  Frowning, she turned to remark on it to her nurse in time to see a flash of brown skirt as Conceptua disappeared back down the steps. She called out. ‘Conceptua? Where are you going?’

  She listened for a reply. Instead she heard wailing prayers being offered up to the Virgin Mary.

  Silly woman, she thought, and gave it no serious mind. Conceptua was always muttering prayers and crossing herself against some real or imagined disaster. Perhaps the gunshot had frightened her. Catherine turned her face to the scene on the river, relishing the fact that she was here unfettered by Conceptua’s fussing concern. She had a good view of the race, but not so good that it couldn’t be improved that bit more.

  Unsupervised by her overprotective nurse, she climbed on to the wall scraping the toes of her shoes on the rough stone. Only a wrought-iron rail protected her from the towering drop, but the climb was worth it. The view was tremendous, far superior to lower down.

  Another gunshot, as muffled and distant as in previous years, surprised her as much as the first one had. The crowd roared. The boats edged forward. If she stood on tiptoe she could just about make out the words on the sails, the name of the port wine lodges: Taylor’s, Graham’s, Sandeman and Shellard. Catherine felt a great surge of pride. Walter Shellard owned vineyards in Spain as well as Portugal and also acted as a middleman for many of the great wine lodges besides selling his own vintages in England. He dealt in wine, port and the Shellard Bristol Sherry which he boasted was a better quality than that of the famous Harveys.

  The boats disappeared behind the trees and buildings of the Ribiera, Porto’s riverside. She would have liked to see the end of the race, but no one had offered to take her.

  ‘Your father will take you when we are married,’ her mother had told her.

  The promise had been made a long time ago. Her mother had grea
t faith in her father. Catherine, although only a child, had ceased to believe the promises she’d heard year after year. She had smiled and said she would be patient because her mother chose to continue believing them and it pleased her to think she did.

  The distant river was now empty of boats: the crowd had moved on and her stomach rumbled. She was ready for her breakfast. Climbing down from the wall, she caught her skirt on an iron leaf protruding from the ornate trellis. There was a ripping sound and a shard of cotton lace from her petticoat trailed from beneath the hem of her dress. Nurse would not be amused and breakfast might be late in coming or, if she were in a particularly unforgiving mood, might not come at all.

  Accompanied by another rumble from her empty stomach, the entire length of lace was ripped, wound into a bundle and hidden behind a bush.

  She looked down the dark stairway and thought it strange that Conceptua had not reappeared. She didn’t usually leave her alone for so long. An uneasy feeling fluttered in her stomach; it couldn’t be put down entirely to hunger. She picked up Sophie from where Conceptua had left her. Holding the doll by one leg, she swung her to and fro as with dark, serious eyes, she looked down the stone steps.

  The sound of running feet echoed off the tiled walls in the corridor below. A wail like the screech of a buzzard, though drawn out and more plaintive, made her turn cold. Someone was crying in the same way as her mother cried when her father had broken another promise. The wail rose again. Then there was silence, a dreadful cold silence like a church empty of people, colour and statuary.

  Catherine placed one foot on to the top step and considered going back down but something held her back. The passage at the bottom seemed terribly dark, like a big black mouth set to devour her. Eventually Conceptua appeared, her lower face covered by an enormous handkerchief. She blew her nose, wiped at her eyes then blew her nose again. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her bottom lids drooped, exposing fleshy crescents.

  Conceptua froze two steps from the top. She stared, blinked and made a great effort to contain herself, holding herself stiff as if making a decision. After taking one more swipe at her nose she pushed her handkerchief up her sleeve.

  ‘We’re going out,’ said Conceptua decisively, her plump face set like a waterless jelly. She held out her hand, the fingers curved and moving like a claw. ‘Come along. Quickly!’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ whined Catherine, not wanting to go, wanting to stay and find out what was going on.

  ‘We’ll go and watch the rabalos. We’ll buy bread. We’ll buy fruit. We’ll have a wonderful day. Sophie will enjoy it too.’ She spoke in quick, sharp gasps, gripped Catherine’s hand very tightly, and almost ran along the passage.

  Though she had reservations that things weren’t quite right, Catherine was jubilant. She’d always had to content herself watching the regatta from the roof, but now she was off to take a closer view. She pushed concern for her mother to the back of her mind, promising that she’d tell her all about it when she returned. Despite Conceptua’s weight and inclination to breathlessness, they began to run.

  Running didn’t last long. Conceptua’s physical condition got the better of her. She began puffing like a steam train as Catherine surged ahead of her, dragging her along the passage. For once the pious peasant woman didn’t object. Her loose-fitting shoes – bought for comfort rather than speed – slapped on the hard stone floors as they ran.

  Catherine made as if to turn for the main part of the house. She was bursting to tell someone – principally her mother or even her rarely faced father – that she was going out.

  Conceptua pulled Catherine away from the passage leading to the main staircase. ‘Not that way!’ She took her instead through the cool passages and stairways used by the servants and tradesmen. This time it was Conceptua who led their headlong dash. To Catherine’s innocent mind, it seemed as if the overweight nurse was trying to put as much distance between them and the main house as possible. Just in case we get found out, she thought, and someone tries to stop us.

  She’d been told she had a quick mind and was instinctive, and that was why she couldn’t quite trust what was happening. On the other hand she craved excitement; she mixed so little with the outside world and led a sheltered life within the Castile.

  Outside the June sun was beginning to get hot. Northern Portugal was not as hot as the south, thanks mainly to the cool breezes coming down from the hills above the river.

  The mood of the crowds along the River Douro was infectious. There was drinking, there was shouting, there was dancing and lots of eating. The bread and fruit were good, and the air was fresh and tainted with the aroma of toasted almonds, fresh ham and the heady smell of vintage port drawn straight from the barrel.

  Overflowing with excitement, Catherine talked a lot, even with her mouth full. For once Conceptua said nothing about ill manners. She was strangely silent. Every so often she dabbed at her eyes with a huge lace-edged handkerchief. She sniffed incessantly, her nose turning redder and redder with each swipe of stiff lace.

  ‘You need to wash that handkerchief in lemon juice,’ said Catherine.

  In response, Conceptua sucked in her lips and nodded.

  The day was full of colour and gaiety. Catherine decided to make the most of it, observing and taking in everything in great detail so she could relate what she’d seen to her mother.

  As the sun dipped down towards the Atlantic, Conceptua finally took her home. Catherine chatted all the way, her excitement bubbling over as she recalled each tiny titbit of the scene.

  ‘I’ll never forget today,’ she blurted excitedly.

  Conceptua’s body stiffened, but her face drooped as though someone had stolen her bones. ‘Me neither,’ she muttered.

  To Catherine’s surprise, they re-entered Castile Villanova the way they had left. The coolness was welcome, but the house seemed oddly still, a place of shades and shadows after the glare of the late afternoon sun. Every so often its silence was interspersed by a sob or a sigh, running feet and shouted instructions.

  Catherine’s earlier disquiet returned the moment they left the sunshine and entered the shadows. A sudden chill ran down her spine. The air trembled. The walls glistened with moisture. Their footsteps echoed. She could almost believe that they were the only people in the house, except for the sobbing, the echoes of sadness radiating down from the house above them. She shivered and knew instinctively that everything had changed. She rarely left the house, and today had been such a great adventure, but for what reason, for what price? Her shrewd mind – inherited from her father, according to her mother – analysed the events of the last twenty-four hours, and her thoughts went straight to her mother. She had sounded so hopeful for the future, but last night she’d been crying. Suddenly, she wanted to be with her.

  She lunged forward, meaning to escape Conceptua’s hold. ‘Mamma!’

  ‘No!’ Conceptua gripped her hand more tightly.

  Catherine struggled. ‘I must go to my mother. I have not seen her this morning. She needs me.’

  ‘No,’ Conceptua repeated. ‘Wait.’

  ‘Mamma!’

  Her cry echoed off the cool walls and glazed tiles.

  A footman appeared where the passage intersected with another. He stopped when he saw them and indicated he wished to speak to her nurse. Conceptua brought herself and Catherine to a halt. The adults acknowledged each other with a swift nod, their eyes meeting in a way that made Catherine feel slightly sick.

  ‘Wait here,’ warned Conceptua, letting go of her hand. ‘And don’t move. Promise?’

  Although she was desperate to go to her mother, there was something about Conceptua’s tone of voice that made Catherine obey. She had a strange sensation of having swallowed a bowl of wriggling worms as she watched Conceptua lean head to head with the footman. Cupping his hand around his mouth, he whispered something in her ear. She tried to gauge what was being said from their changing expressions. Not easy.

  At last Conceptua nodde
d, muttered, ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  Catherine sensed something bad had been whispered, something that concerned her. She searched for the cause on Conceptua’s face. Her nurse was giving nothing away. There was an enforced blandness about it, as though the task set her was unpalatable but had to be done. All the same, the furtive shiftiness in her eyes was there to be read.

  ‘We can’t go into the house yet,’ she said, grabbing Catherine’s hand. With hurried steps, she dragged her back along the passage.

  Again Catherine looked up at Conceptua’s face and tried to read her expression. Something was definitely going on that they didn’t want her to know about. Adults only took on such furtive looks when something bad had happened.

  Catherine suddenly felt as though she’d been dipped in ice. ‘Where’s my mother?’

  Conceptua seemed to choke before managing to find her voice.

  For a brief moment Catherine thought she was going to be told the truth but Conceptua was no different from the other adults. What Conceptua said next confirmed Catherine’s suspicions.

  ‘Have you ever seen the wine cellar?’

  Angered by an obvious attempt to keep her occupied, Catherine frowned. ‘You’ve got something to tell me but you won’t. Why? What is going on?’

  Conceptua winced before the force of the little girl’s accusing glare and matter-of-fact tone. She tried blustering and adopting a merry expression, as though nothing was wrong; as if today was no different from any other.

  ‘I think your father would approve of you looking around the wine cellar. It is how he makes his living. The wine is what buys you pretty dresses, your lovely pony and everything you have. It would be good for you to see it.’

  Catherine sighed and resigned herself to the fact that for now she would go along with it if it would get her to her mother.

  She reeled off what she knew anyway. ‘Father has told me about the wine lodges and the casks. They’re very big. Very big indeed.’