House in the Hills Read online

  Under her great-aunt’s skilled instruction, Catherine became adept at crochet, sewing and knitting. She also learned how to make goat’s cheese which she sold from her great-aunt’s stall at the local market. Aunt Lopa, blessed with a determination that this girl would survive in a hostile world, allowed her to keep the money she made.

  ‘Money makes money,’ she told her. ‘Never forget that.’

  Catherine knew she would not.

  In the course of that first, hot summer, Francisco Nicklau became Catherine’s friend. They ate bread and cheese together at midday in the vineyard and in the evening he’d sometimes come back with her to Aunt Lopa’s, devouring the thick soups and spiced rabbit legs, or whatever other food her great-aunt put in front of him. After that they would sometimes sit outside staring up at the stars until Aunt Lopa demanded he go home.

  ‘Have you no home to go to?’ There was a scowl on her lips but her eyes danced with amusement, the corners crinkled as though holding it all in.

  Nothing could dampen Francisco’s warm amiability. Every day that came, Catherine would find herself looking forward to seeing that smile which, like the sunrise, was a reaffirmation of a new day.

  She was drawn to him, thought she loved him, except for one niggling thing that she couldn’t quite come to terms with. Francisco disapproved of ‘fallen’ women. Aunt Lopa said he got it from his mother.

  ‘A sanctimonious old bat,’ she said, not caring if Francisco overheard her.

  It was one night in particular when his attitude particularly hurt her.

  ‘That star is my mother,’ said Catherine on one especially clear evening as they sat watching the sun go down and the stars spill on to the sky. ‘See how bright it is? That’s her soul,’ she went on. ‘She’s turned into a star. That’s what happens to people’s souls when they die.’

  She was surprised by Francisco’s look of disbelief.

  ‘Well, that depends,’ he said. ‘A person has to die in a state of grace before they can go to heaven, and your mother…’ His voice petered out, not just because he was unnerved by such large beautiful eyes, but because he was repeating gossip that should not be repeated – especially to her.

  Catherine turned abruptly. She detected no malice in his eyes, but what he said had confused her. ‘What is this state of grace?’

  This was one of those rare occasions when Francisco looked serious. He began fidgeting, which he didn’t normally do until it was time to go. As yet it wasn’t quite time.

  ‘Evil people do not go to heaven. That was all I meant,’ he said, diligently avoiding eye contact. ‘And your mother was not an evil person, in fact not even nasty I should think. Not if she was like you, that is.’

  If she noticed he was babbling, Catherine did not mention it, though the fact that his familiar smile was absent did unnerve her.

  ‘Why are you sad?’ she asked him.

  Sure that the moment of awkwardness was over, his teeth flashed white. The smile was back.

  ‘It is almost the end of September and we will not see each other for a while.’

  Looking alarmed, she shook her head at him. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here.’

  Francisco frowned through his amiable expression. ‘Then you’ll be here all by yourself. Lopa Rodriguez goes travelling in the winter. The house is locked up. You can’t stay here all alone.’

  Catherine looked away, fixing her eyes back on the single bright star. She didn’t want him to be right. This place was her bolt-hole, a little piece of heaven in a world she no longer trusted. If he was right and she couldn’t stay here alone, what would happen to her?

  Fear made her bridle with anger. ‘I think you should go before the wolves eat you,’ she said to Francisco.

  He got to his feet, his eyes darting along the trees around the edge of the yard. ‘Have you seen them?’ He sounded excited. ‘Gossip is that Aunt Lopa does feed the wolves. But then others say it’s not true, that there are no wolves left around here. None at all.’

  ‘Yes there are.’ Catherine also got to her feet. ‘But you’re not going to see them. I don’t want you to see them. Neither does Aunt Lopa. She won’t let you! Your mother’s a liar!’

  Her small face was screwed up. Her voice was as loud as she could make it.

  Francisco’s face creased with anger. ‘No she is not! She goes to church more than anyone else around here.’

  ‘Then your mother’s a sanctimonious old bat!’ Catherine relished the hurt on his face. ‘My Aunt Lopa said so,’ she added, feeling an inner glow of satisfaction.

  It was an acrimonious end to a perfect evening. He accompanied her from the goat enclosure to the farmhouse, insisting she was too young to be out by herself. ‘You will be frightened,’ he insisted with boyish bravado.

  Now it is you who will be frightened, Catherine told herself as she watched him swing his lithe frame towards the packed mud track that passed for a road in these parts.

  But he wasn’t. He was whistling; his corduroy cap perched jauntily on one side of his head. She thought how brave he looked, unafraid of whatever lurked in the darkness.

  Through prayer that night she impressed on God just how wonderful her mother had been. ‘Not wicked, not even nasty,’ she said, remembering what Francisco had said. ‘She was good. Very good. Please look after her.’

  Crying softly into her pillow soon sent her to sleep, so she didn’t hear Aunt Lopa calling to the wolves or see their dark forms emerge from the shadows. Neither did she hear her great-aunt tell them that the time was coming when she had to go away and that there would be no one here to feed them until Christmas.

  Eight

  Adelaide Court overlooked the River Avon from its spot high on the Avon Gorge in the old seaport of Bristol. From here it was possible to watch the tide go in and out along with vessels from all over the world. Sir Walter’s home was a place apart from the rest of the city. A high wall protected it on one side, the steep cliffs of the gorge on the other. No one entered its ornate gateway unless invited to.

  The inside of Adelaide Court was as opulent as its exterior. Onyx pillars the colour of dark honey held aloft a creamy high ceiling in the reception hall. A frieze of dark honey, red and dark green separated the walls from the ceiling.

  The sitting room was rich with gilt, and with interesting and valuable furniture commissioned or bought over the last hundred years.

  The dining room was of the same ilk. Ruby-red wallpaper gave it a rich feel, perfectly suited to wining, dining and good conversation. No one should feel cold sitting at the long Sheraton-style dining table.

  Walter Shellard sat at the head of the table and exchanged a quick smile with his wife before rising to his feet.

  He used a teaspoon and a wine glass to gain his guests’ attention. The conversation ceased. Some of these people depended on Walter for their livelihood. They tended to adhere to his wishes.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight it gives me great pleasure to announce that my darling wife – sorry – that my wife and I, are expecting a very great treasure. The new addition to our family should arrive before next May.’

  Cries of ‘good luck’ and frenzied hand-clapping followed.

  In response to such exuberance, Walter took his wife’s hand and kissed it. ‘I’m the happiest man in the world,’ he said, his eyes meeting hers.

  ‘And I’m the happiest woman,’ returned Ellen.

  She was telling the truth. She still counted herself as being very lucky to have met and married such a man as Sir Walter Shellard.

  The Lord Mayor’s wife leaned across and touched her hand. ‘You have a very fine house, my dear.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I believe you have another house in Portugal.’

  Ellen nodded. ‘That’s quite right. It’s a beautiful place. It’s been in Walter’s family for some time.’ A faraway look came instantly to her eyes. ‘I love Castile Villanova – almost as much as Walter does. It’s so beautiful. So peacefu
l. I’m thinking of staying there until the baby is born.’

  Ellen thought of what she had said. It was indeed true that her favourite times were when they were at Castile Villanova. Walter seemed less distracted there and closer to the earth in a strange, husband kind of way.

  He was rarely at home when they were living in England, pulled hither and thither by business appointments – at least, that was what he told her. Business, business, business. Everything revolved around the wine trade.

  Ellen took a sip of elderberry wine. Someone had told her it was good for pregnant women.

  ‘It was a good evening,’ he said when they were alone later.

  ‘Very good,’ Ellen responded as she peeled her satin evening gloves from her arms. ‘The Lord Mayor’s wife complimented me on our beautiful house and asked me about Castile Villanova. I told her I was going there to await the birth of the baby.’

  ‘I insist,’ said Walter, whose idea it had been.

  ‘But you won’t be there, darling,’ said Ellen, leaning forward and reaching for him with a long, graceful hand. ‘Will you visit?’

  ‘Yes. When I can. Business calls.’

  Ellen sighed. ‘Oh, darling. At times I feel more like a mistress than a wife,’ she teased.

  ‘You have nothing to complain about, my darling Ellen. You have everything money can buy. Accept your lot in life and be grateful. I have it in mind to expand into property in a bigger way, so there will be times when I’ll be away for quite long periods. And before you say it, no, you are in a delicate condition. I couldn’t possibly take you with me.’

  ‘But I could come. I’m strong as a horse,’ she retorted. She hated being away from him for longer than a day, two at the most.

  Walter was insistent. ‘You’re my wife and you’ll do as I say. No travelling for you until my son and heir is at least a year old. Is that clear?’

  ‘Who’s to say that the child will be a boy? It might be a girl.’

  He turned swiftly, his expression darkening. He raised his arm and pointed a finger at her, almost accusingly. ‘I want a son. Is that clear?’

  She nodded, unsure whether he was being serious. She stuck her neck out and managed to have the last word. ‘What will be, will be.’

  He was away on business for a week after that. Strangely enough, she was almost relieved. His behaviour had unnerved her. For some reason, possibly pure naïvety, she had presumed the Walter she married would act the same for ever and ever; an eternal honeymoon, his business interests and colleagues held at a distance.

  ‘You’re in love with your business,’ she said to him once.

  He’d looked at her silently for a moment, his face very still as though every cell in his body was being brought into play.

  ‘No,’ he said his gaze unblinking and steady. ‘I’m in love with power. At the end of my life I want people to say that I was a powerful man and that I left behind a larger business than I was left by my father. And I will do that. “May the best man win” is a saying I take very seriously. I will always win, my dear. Never doubt that. I will always win because I’m the best there is.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said laughingly. ‘At some point in your life you will be beaten by someone more ruthless, more powerful.’

  He sneered, then laughed out loud. ‘They would have to be well motivated to better me.’

  ‘By an emotion?’ she asked.

  ‘By anything.’

  ‘How about revenge,’ she said plucking the word out of thin air, for no reason at all except that it was there.

  He laughed again. ‘He would have to be very dedicated to his cause. It wouldn’t be my brother, that’s for sure. He wouldn’t dare come up against me – he takes after our mother.’

  ‘Mothers can be quite powerful and even vengeful,’ Ellen added. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Is there some woman you may have wronged in the past who might be vengeful?’

  His laughter melted away and a strange, questioning look darted across his eyes. What she had once interpreted as strength now manifested itself as ruthlessness.

  ‘No. It won’t happen.’

  The look on his face stayed with her. It was as if a curtain had been drawn. The Walter she’d married did not wear his heart – or his thoughts – on his sleeve. They were sometimes deeply buried. She assured herself she would dig them out. In the meantime she would be the good wife and support him in all he did. This child would be a first for both of them and likely to bring them closer together. This was what she thought, though later on she wasn’t quite so sure.

  Nine

  ‘Not a word! Not a word from any of you.’

  Serge, the butler, had flinty eyes that fixed each servant with a gaze you could knock sparks off. They were lined up in front of the main entrance. They had been warned how to behave, what to say and what not to say.

  ‘I know what a lot of gossips you are,’ snarled Serge as he walked the line, glaring intermittently into any face he thought showed defiance or was too honest to lie.

  No one dared meet his gaze. Some stared straight ahead. Some lowered their lids and looked at their shoes or a shady patch where a lizard paused before running for cover.

  William thanked Serge for his welcome, though he only glanced at the thin features, the hooked nose and ramrod straightness. It had been a long time since he’d visited his family’s Portuguese home, though he’d always loved this place.

  ‘You are always welcome to come and stay,’ he’d said and sounded sincere enough. But William knew his brother well. He’d had a certain look in his eyes when he’d said it, almost as though he were challenging him to visit. While Leonora was in residence his presence was not welcome at all.

  ‘I think it’s time I visited Castile Villanova. It’s been a long time. I’ll check on our bodega while I’m there. I might even take another look at that vineyard I noticed on my last visit. It was owned by an independent, if I remember rightly.’

  He caught the look of surprise on his brother’s face. It was only to be expected. On previous business visits, he’d stayed in a hotel.

  ‘I’ll send a telegram,’ Walter had said.

  ‘Thank you. And if you could explain to Diana. I feel a cad going off like this and leaving her only a note.’

  ‘You’re my brother,’ Walter had said, slapping him on the shoulder and giving him that slow, controlled smile. ‘I’m sure I can take a little time to tell my sister-in-law where you are. Business is business.’

  Business is business. Yes, thought William with a bitter smile. He would take time to look over the bodegas and the vineyards while he was here. He’d told Walter that was his reason for coming, and it had been so long. But ultimately, he had another quest. He wanted to know Leonora’s whereabouts. He wanted to be in this lovely place where she had lived, albeit as his brother’s mistress.

  William took his time admiring the fine lines of the Castile Villanova. Like his brother he adored the place. How well he remembered these ancient walls, the shuttered windows promising shade from the summer sun. He looked up at the roof, the castellated embellishments like honeycomb cut-outs against a crisp blue sky. He breathed in the smell of warmth, of herbs and fruit and the dark, rich earth. He remembered a rose garden having been planted to the north west of the house where the shade was at its deepest and the sun weakest. His mother had planted that garden; compensation for a life lived in the shadow of an ambitious and powerful man. Lacking her husband’s affection, she had spent most of her time there, rarely leaving it towards the end of her life, talking to the flowers as if they were the love of her life.

  William jerked himself out of his memories. ‘Is my room ready?’

  A stupid question; of course it was. Serge was a stick of a man, not likeable but efficient for all that.

  ‘In the west wing,’ said Serge. ‘I will take you there myself.’

  ‘The west wing,’ William repeated, sounding surprised. ‘When Father was alive we were always housed in the ea
st wing.’

  ‘That is over the kitchen,’ said Serge. ‘The west wing is better.’

  ‘Of course. The setting sun.’

  It was late afternoon and already the sun was casting indigo shadows over the dark leaves of the lemon trees that rustled beneath his balcony. The room was spacious having its own settee and armchairs besides a magnificent bed of polished mahogany. A maritime painting of huge proportions hung over the fireplace. As a boy William had always loved this painting. It depicted the defeat of the Turkish Armada by Don Juan of Austria in the sixteenth century. The flags of the Knights of St John trailed across a turquoise sea from the battling galleys. This room was most definitely a man’s room and had belonged to his father. He felt some surprise at Walter letting him use it, presuming he would have preferred to keep it for himself. But there again, he thought. The Castile Villanova belonged to Walter. It was his to do with as he wished. William envied him.

  ‘Will you require me to run a bath?’ asked Serge, interrupting his thoughts.

  William nodded, his eyes fixed on the sunlight spearing through the trees, lengthening as the sun prepared to set. ‘Serge,’ he said suddenly. ‘Were you here on the day Leonora Rodriguez left?’

  Because the glorious sunset held William’s gaze, he did not notice the closed look descend in Serge’s eyes or the tightening of his lantern jaw. ‘It was my day off, I think.’

  ‘I see,’ said William quietly. ‘Leave my bath. I’ll run it myself later. I will dine at eight but would like a gin and lime in the orangery at a quarter to.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  Serge withdrew.

  William kept his eyes fixed on the view beyond the balcony until he heard the door close softly behind him. Serge’s answer was somehow no more than he’d expected. Perhaps one of the maids who’d served Leonora might be more forthcoming. In the meantime, this was his first time back for a very long while and he intended making the most of it.

  Although the room was cool it was too warm for the fine wool jacket he was wearing. Feeling sweat beneath his arms, he stripped it off and placed it on the back of a chair.