House in the Hills Read online

  Her mother’s aunt crooned an unrecognizable tune as they entered the airy room that served as eating, washing and living area in the house of Lopa Rodriguez, the most wonderful woman Catherine would ever meet in her life. But Catherine didn’t know that yet.

  The girl who had been used to a former palace now took in the details of a humble farmhouse. The walls were of rough plaster and appeared freshly painted. A series of cracks ran from floor to ceiling.

  The furniture was basic and rustic, though of good quality. There was a pine table and five mismatched chairs, one of which was a rocking chair. A pile of what looked like knitting sat on the table in front of it. Two ornate armchairs with cabriole legs together with a three-legged stool jostled for space in front of a fireplace. The fireplace took up one corner, its flue cutting off the angle of the corner all the way to the roof. To the side of the fireplace was a pot hanging on a tripod, a spit for roasting meat and the metal door of the bread oven. Near the fireplace was a red curtain interwoven with bright yellows, oranges and greens.

  ‘That’s the door to my room,’ said Aunt Lopa, drawing back the curtain to reveal a simple wooden bed, a woven rug and an ebony crucifix hanging on the wall.

  ‘Your room’s up there,’ Aunt Lopa added, her big body having a rolling gait as she ambled over to where a wooden ladder disappeared through a hole in the ceiling.

  Catherine’s eyes grew large at the sight of the ladder. The whole farmhouse would have fitted into the stables at Castile Villanova. At her old home the smell of her mother’s perfume, beeswax and flowers had predominated in the spacious rooms full of expensive furniture collected through the ages. Here the smell of fresh bread mingled with that of animal feed and one or two animals themselves. A black cat lay curled up on one of the handsome chairs. Its kittens lay mewling in the other.

  ‘It’ll be different to what you’re used to,’ said Aunt Lopa as though she’d read her mind. ‘But get used to it you will.’ Her bold expression softened along with her voice. ‘But at least you’re wanted here.’ With a sniff that could have been a stifled sob, she ruffled Catherine’s scalp with a meaty hand, before turning away. ‘Supper first. Then bedding down.’

  She was fed a hearty rabbit stew washed down with a glass of milk like none she had ever tasted.

  ‘I keep my own goats,’ said the big woman, having noted Catherine wolfing down the milk.

  Aunt Lopa stood over her as she ate, her fists resting on her ample hips. In looks at least she was nothing like Leonora, Catherine’s mother. Her voice too was different, almost masculine in its strength.

  ‘Drink. Grow big and strong. We’ll not have you growing up like your mother. Stick of a girl. Weak,’ she finally said, shaking her head as she turned away. ‘Weak and silly. Damn that man. Damn all men. Glad I never got saddled with one.’ She wiped the corner of her eye.

  ‘Dust,’ she said, noticing that Catherine had seen her do it. ‘I’ve got dust in my eye.’

  Catherine pretended to believe her and turned back to the food. It was all she’d had since leaving Porto, and even then she hadn’t eaten much. In fact she’d hardly eaten anything since her mother’s death. She managed to finish the whole dishful.

  Aunt Lopa’s face glowed with joy. ‘Do you like the stew? Would you like more milk?’

  Catherine nodded. Her great-aunt had an abrupt way of speaking that must frighten some people. Catherine saw through the bluff exterior, the broad body, the strong face crowned with a head of iron-grey hair streaked with pure white wings at the temples. She wore it in a long plait down her back that swung like a rope when she walked. Her skirt was woven out of the same stuff as the curtain. Her blouse was embroidered like that of a gypsy.

  Aunt Lopa settled herself in the rocking chair. Once it was pulled away from the table, Catherine could see how splendid it was, far too splendid for the simple surroundings. It had carved lion heads on the arms with red tongues and green eyes.

  ‘Eat,’ Aunt Lopa ordered, and was satisfied that Catherine did the rustic fare justice, eating a second bowl of stew.

  As she ate the nourishing and tasty food, Catherine took in both her great-aunt and her surroundings. Aunt Lopa was taller than most men, and her shoulders were wide enough to fill a doorway. She was angular, her hands were big and she took long strides when she walked. Her dress was plain and clean, gathered at the waist and stopped just short of her ankles. Her shoes were made of wood and had metal tips on the toes. In time Catherine would recognize these as clogs.

  Once she’d got used to the animal smells, she detected the smell of fresh hay and the sweetness of grapes, almonds and apple logs. A cow lowed from a nearby bier. Catherine imagined a cock would crow and chickens would cackle in the morning.

  Aunt Lopa stifled a huge yawn. ‘Tomorrow, Francisco will show you around. You’ll meet his family. Tonight you sleep in your bed up in the roof.’ She pointed again to the narrow wooden ladder made of rough tree branches, the bark still peeling like short, grey ribbons. ‘Francisco made your bed. I don’t go up there. Would get stuck if I did.’

  Catherine eyed the ladder and the opening through which it disappeared.

  ‘It’s your job to clean and look after the room yourself; to change the bedding. And put your own things away. No servants here. No mother to run around after you…’

  It was the longest sentence Lopa had uttered. It was also the one that finally broke through Catherine’s iron resolve. ‘My mother’s dead! My father killed her!’

  Lopa raised her eyes. Her strong expression melted away and her face was almost beautiful. There were tears in her eyes. Her voice moderated. ‘Catherine, forget I said that. I wasn’t thinking. I’m used to being alone. I forget how I should speak. I’m nothing but an old fool.’

  Catherine put down her spoon. She held her head to one side and turned cool, resolute eyes on to her great-aunt’s ruddy face. ‘He married someone else and sent me away. But I’ll live there again one day, you just see if I don’t.’

  Aunt Lopa’s stern expression relaxed into a sadness seemingly centred on her eyes.

  She hesitated, as though considering carefully what she should say.

  ‘I think you will,’ she said softly. ‘And with all my heart, I hope that you do. God bless you, child.’

  Now it was Catherine who didn’t know what to say. She recalled her plan to hate Aunt Lopa. Not once had she been hateful to this woman, and all that she’d received from her was kindness.

  The pain of losing her mother was still with her. So was the pain of being expelled from her home. No, the farmhouse was nothing like Castile Villanova, but it had a warmth as tactile as her mother’s loving arms. There were no servants, but on the journey here she had done some simple things for herself. Surely looking after her own room would be simple too. And it would be her private place, her own domain. ‘I think I will quite enjoy making my own bed.’

  Aunt Lopa looked at her with one eye closed as if she could weigh her worth better that way.

  ‘Learning to shift for yourself will make you strong. Your mother was never strong. Beautiful, but not strong.’ Her expression turned hard. ‘Best to make your own way in the world and set yourself goals. Never count on a man to feather your bed. He’ll let you down.’ Her eyes seemed suddenly to darken as though a worrying thought had crossed her mind. ‘With those eyes you’ll need to be wary of men. I see passion in your eyes, just as I did in your mother’s. But I also see self-awareness. Strikes me you’ll always be the one driving the cart.’

  Catherine thought she knew what she meant. ‘You mean I’ll always be in charge. Not like my mother. My father was in charge, wasn’t he?’

  Aunt Lopa swiped at a tear that threatened to run down her cheek. She nodded, overcome by what her great-niece had just said. ‘I will try to make you happy here.’

  Two hours later, after helping her great-aunt to clear away and unpacking her things, Catherine lay in her bed beneath a patchwork quilt, her head on cotton pillowcases th
at were prettily trimmed with crocheted lace. The bed was on a level with a window that jutted out through the eaves. She had the whole of the night sky to look and wonder at. The stars fell like a waterfall on to the blue and black of the trees, hills and acres of vineyards. Here and there a light blinked in the darkness. It was like sleeping outside, without walls.

  Just as her eyes began to close, she heard a sound. Rising on one elbow she looked out on to the yard where it met the trees and the vegetation clustered around their roots.

  She heard her great-aunt making a cooing sound and saw her taking big but cautious steps towards the bushes. The foliage around the trees seemed to move forward on legs. Eyes flashed yellow, caught by moonlight. Three long, low figures emerged. Aunt Lopa had dogs? She hadn’t seen them earlier. She would ask her about them tomorrow. Her eyes closed and she was soon asleep so did not see the shadows move back into the trees or hear them howl as they returned to the hills and sang to the rising moon.

  Six

  ‘Fine Lady will be leaving on the tide in four hours, sir.’

  William Shellard acknowledged the captain with a brusque nod, but felt the captain’s questioning gaze.

  ‘I wanted to be early. It helps me gain my sea legs.’

  His explanation for being early was utter rubbish. He’d never experienced seasickness; in fact he’d always loved the roll of the ship, the chopping of the bow through the Bay of Biscay.

  The captain’s disquiet hadn’t exactly gone away; masters of merchant vessels were always uneasy when ships’ owners were on board. The shorter the duration of their presence, the better as far as they were concerned.

  ‘Carry on, Captain Durham. I’ll keep out of your way,’ William added.

  The comment was enough to further alleviate the captain’s nervousness. Touching his cap in a rudimentary salute, he went off to make final preparations for leaving.

  In normal circumstances, William might have accompanied him, taking note of what was going on. On the other hand, he might have breathed an audible sigh of relief at being left alone to enjoy the view.

  However, he did none of these things. Instead the tension he’d been experiencing all day intensified. Every muscle in his body seemed to be stretched to breaking point and he gripped the ship’s rail as though with one squeeze he could break it in half.

  His thoughts were in turmoil. At the centre of them was Leonora’s lovely face.

  But I did write, he reminded himself.

  So had she read the letter? There was no alternative but to accept that he still loved her – assuming she had actually received the letter.

  He eyed the bustling quay, heard the rattling of trams and watched as barrels were offloaded from the next vessel – this one belonging to Harveys, the famous sherry house.

  He became aware that someone was shouting his name.

  ‘William!’

  He took his time seeking out whoever it was.

  ‘William! Over here!’

  The upturned face of Robert Arthur Freeman shone with bonhomie and an over-infusion of strong spirits. He was not alone. Two girls barely out of school hung from each arm, their cheeks cherry red, their skirts barely reaching their knees.

  William raised a hand in acknowledgement and managed a smile. ‘Freeman. I see you are well.’

  He trained his eyes not to divert to the whores but kept them fixed on Robert’s glossy face.

  ‘Robustly so,’ beamed Robert. ‘And how is your lady wife, the beautiful Diana?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  It was not in his nature to border on the rude, but Robert Arthur Freeman left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Breeding and wealth do not necessarily a gentleman make. He remembered his mother bequeathing him that particular expression. Like William she’d been quiet, well mannered but gifted with great insight. He wished she’d been around when he’d fallen in love with Leonora. How would she have advised him?

  He brushed the thought aside. She was long dead, ten years before their father. He missed her. He always would.

  Whether Freeman had cottoned on to his rudeness, he couldn’t tell and what’s more, he didn’t care. If the state of the man was anything to go by, he’d be hard pushed to know what day it was. In time the fortune left to him would have gone on drink and loose women; an ignominious end for what had once been a respected family name.

  ‘Well, cheerio! Bon voyage,’ Freeman shouted before moving on, his whores clinging to his arm and his coat pocket. Whatever was in there would be long gone by the time he reached his front door, but William was in no mood to warn him. There were some people he disliked intensely and Robert Arthur Freeman was one of them.

  The tension he’d been experiencing returned with a vengeance at the mention of Diana. Fearing she might insist on coming with him on this trip, he had waited until she was away on one of her shopping days in Bath. As well as visiting her dressmaker, she also visited her sister while she was there. It was too good an opportunity to miss. She’d been gone less than half an hour before he’d grabbed the bag he’d had packed the night before and left her a scribbled note. A coward’s way out, but he didn’t regret it. Solitude would help him forgive himself for lacking the courage to face her years ago. All he hoped now was that he could find her again. He’d start at Castile Villanova.

  * * *

  Diana threw back her head and closed her eyes. She was sitting in front of the dressing-table mirror in a London hotel wearing nothing but a string of pink pearls.

  Today, the fourth Thursday of the month, was her favourite day; the day when she excused herself from the boring house she shared with her uptight husband, saying she was going on a shopping trip. And visiting her sister, of course. None of it was true, but telling lies was worth it for what she was presently experiencing.

  Her shorn hair tickled the nape of her neck along with Walter’s thumbs while his fingers massaged her shoulders. This was why she looked forward so much to the fourth Thursday of the month, and today there was no rush to get home. But there was more, much more that she couldn’t wait to share with her brother-in-law. She held on to the hope that he would fall in with her plans, but with Walter it was difficult to tell. All she had was hope.

  ‘William’s away and, better still, so is my sister. We’ve got the cottage all week. Isn’t that just divine?’

  Her eyes flashed open, meeting Walter’s via the mirror.

  ‘I can’t do that, sweet thing,’ he said to her. ‘I’ve got a business to run.’

  Diana’s lips formed a tight moue. ‘Oh, sweetie,’ she whined. ‘Can’t you leave things to old man Seth?’

  ‘No.’ Without pause, Walter’s hands ran down her upper arms then across to her breasts and the fine pair of dark aureoles surrounding her nipples. His touch sent her blood racing.

  ‘Darling, you do that so well,’ she breathed.

  An amused smile came to Walter’s wide mouth. ‘Better than my brother?’

  She moaned a favourable response.

  Perhaps snatched moments were better than prolonged domestic bliss, she thought. Snatched moments with Walter certainly were.

  She’d loved Walter since she was sixteen. He was the man who’d taken her virginity. Not once had she regretted this fact and the magic of the moment had stayed with her. She’d do anything for him, and had even married his brother at his request. Poor William. He’d never forgiven her. She couldn’t tell whether he’d ever forgiven his brother. Their relationship was strangely complex; the more dominant being allowed to be so – at least that was how it seemed to her.

  She was disappointed that Walter couldn’t stay the whole week. Walter had told her that his marriage to Ellen was only a business transaction and that in time she’d probably realize that and insist on a separation. ‘And that is when we’ll be together,’ she’d cooed into his ear.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he’d responded. It was hardly a promise, but Diana chose to believe that it was.

  The fact wasn�
�t lost on her that Walter hadn’t mentioned his wife as his reason for turning her offer down. But that was Walter; he had his priorities and first and foremost was making money.

  Seven

  The hot June sun ebbed into July then August; warm months when bees buzzed lazily over the idle landscape. Even before the sun was at its zenith the countryside looked unreal. Waves of heat rippled the horizon, and old and young folk slumbered in the shade, not venturing out until the trees cast evening shadows. September changed all that. The harvest months saw the ripening of the grapes and a quickening pace of life in the quintas and towns along the Douro Valley.

  Catherine too had ripened. Her complexion had more colour than it used to have and her legs and arms were as brown as her great-aunt’s and Francisco’s. The ringlets that had once been so rigidly curled around her nurse’s finger and fixed with sugar water, were now wild and untamed, though still glossy.

  To a casual observer it would appear she’d got over her change in circumstances. But the old life was still alive in her mind. Each night before snuggling down in her bed beneath the creaking roof, she knelt on the bare floorboards and said a prayer for her mother’s soul. She never included her father in her prayers. He was one part of her past she preferred to forget.

  Thanks to the fresh air and good food, Catherine grew out of her clothes. Aunt Lopa lengthened and let out seams on plain dresses. She eyed the more elaborate ones of lace and satin with outright disapproval.

  ‘Too fancy for these parts anyway,’ stated Aunt Lopa, though she did keep one or two good dresses. After taking down the hem and removing the over-abundance of lace and bows, she declared them fit for Sundays. ‘Use your old cotton ones for running around in.’

  Running around consisted of helping out in the fields, crushing the grapes underfoot to produce wine for local consumption. The grapes reserved for port – hopefully of a fine vintage – were squeezed by mechanical presses, though some of the older estates still kept the treading tradition alive.