into the boat. She had decided to wear a slack suit for the journey, and now she was glad she had. Getting in and out of small rowing boats was not the easiest thing to do while endeavouring to hold down a skirt.
The heat here was tempered by a faint breeze, and the boat rocked gently. The scents of the island, a tang of salt and sea and the perfumes of the flowers, mingled with the sweet smell of the cane, and Juliet took a deep breath, shedding a little of her apprehension.
Pedro, the boatman, was dark-skinned like Louis, but with more European features. He grinned cheerfully at the pilot and Louis, and gave Juliet a speculative glance before taking the cases and stowing them in the bottom of the small boat. After a brief conversation with his compatriots, he again took the oars and rowed rhythmically back to the stone jetty. Juliet was aware that their progress had attracted quite a deal of attention from women and children on the jetty, and she tried to interest herself in her surroundings to exclude her embarrassment. There was certainly plenty to see, the attractively painted cottages jostling each other, the fishing vessels with dark nets stretched out to dry, the palms that encroached almost to the water’s edge in places, and most incongruous of all a low-slung cream convertible which was parked on the road which wound between the narrow houses.
Pedro nodded to the automobile. ‘Miguel,’ he said, by way of an explanation. He pointed to himself. ‘Er – Pedro’s – brother.’
‘Oh yes,’ Juliet nodded politely, recalling that Mr. Forster had not said she needed a foreign language here. It would prove awkward if they all spoke mainly Portuguese. Although she knew Spanish, Portuguese was not one of her languages.
They reached the jetty, Pedro threw out the painter, and another man who was very much like Pedro caught it and tied the boat securely to the capstan.
He helped Juliet to climb on to the stone pier, and grinned down at his brother. His gaze turned back to Juliet, his eyes indicative of the appreciation he felt. ‘You are Senhorita Summers?’
‘Yes,’ Juliet nodded again. ‘Did Senhor de Castro send you to meet me?’
Miguel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Er – sim, senhorita. I suppose o Duque did send me!’
‘O Duque!’ Juliet translated rapidly. The Duke! What duke? ‘Who – who might the Duque be?’ she asked slowly.
‘O Duque Felipe Ricardo de Castro!’ replied Miguel calmly. ‘The man who is to be your employer!’
‘My employer – is – is a duke? I don’t believe it!’
Juliet was astounded.
‘But I understood from – from the solicitor in London—’ She halted again. She was asking too many questions once more. After all, there was a possibility that Mr. Forster had deliberately refrained from telling her that her employer was to be a duke. After the problems he had had hiring someone, maybe he had thought that such a revelation would jeopardize his chances of obtaining a satisfactory applicant.
Miguel was studying her with some amusement in his dark eyes, and Juliet gathered her scattered senses. After all, what of it? She had met dukes before, and they were only people like anyone else. What was there to alarm her?
She compressed her lips ‘Is this the car?’ she asked, amazed at her own composure.
Miguel inclined his head. ‘Sim, senhorita. Ah, Pedro, have you got all the luggage? Good. Come, senhorita.’
She followed Miguel across to the car, ignoring the speculative glances of the group of islanders who watched them with interested dark eyes. Really, thought Juliet, with something like annoyance at her own disturbed frame of mind, what was she getting so het up about? Just because she had discovered that her employer was a Portuguese duke. It was ridiculous!
But still she couldn’t banish the thought that a duke was slightly different from a mere senhor, and in her precarious position the fewer complications there were the better.
Miguel stowed the cases, had a good-natured chatter with Pedro, then slid into the front seat of the automobile, and set it in motion. They drove along the quayside, past the now waving children, whose mothers gave wide smiles, and up a curving track which led along the coastline. The steep gradient brought them to a higher road which wound round the heavily foliaged hillside. Here Juliet had a magnificent view of the whole coast, its bays and headlands giving it a wild and untamed beauty. The coves were white with coral sand, rocks rearing their ugly heads above the creaming surf. Inland was the exotic beauty of plant life, bushes of oleander and hibiscus providing brilliant splashes of colour, while some rarer varieties which Juliet could not name added their own pink and gold charm to the view. They were sweeping down again now, into a valley whose walls were networked by fast-flowing tumbling streams, at whose brink tiny blue flowers grew. A river ran through the valley floor and here were fields of waving sugar cane, and the sweet smell was intoxicating.
Unable to resist, she leaned forward, and said: ‘Does this plantation belong to – to the Duke?’
Miguel glanced round once, and then returned his attention to the road. ‘Senhorita, this whole island belongs to the Duque.’
‘Oh!’ Juliet sat back in her seat.
Miguel, encouraged by her question, remarked: ‘Do you think you will like it here, senhorita?’
Juliet bit on her bottom lip. ‘I – I’m sure I shall,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Is – is it far now?’
‘Not far,’ Miguel answered. And then: ‘You have come to be a friend for the young senhorita, is that right?’
Juliet hesitated. She had no wish to say too much, but his question seemed innocent enough. ‘That’s right,’ she said now, nodding.
‘Senhorita Teresa,’ murmured Miguel, almost as though he was speaking to himself. ‘Yes, it will not be easy.’ And with this cryptic comment he said no more.
They left the valley through a narrow pass in the hillside, towering bastions of rock on either side of the narrow road. They emerged on to a plateau, which fell away steeply at the far side to the shoreline at the other side of the island. The sun was growing higher and the heat seemed intense even in the open vehicle. Juliet fumbled in her bag, and slid dark glasses on to her nose, wishing the journey was over.
Now they were descending again, a winding road along terraces cultivated with coffee beans. Nearer sea-level, they branched on to a side road which brought them to tall gates, standing wide, and a drive which led up to the home of the Duque de Castro.
Juliet caught her breath in a gasp when she saw the quinta for the first time. Built of mellowed grey brick, it stood on three sides of a central courtyard, but Miguel brought the car round to the front of the building and halted on a gravelled forecourt. Surrounded by trees which provided a backcloth for its almost medieval beauty, with the sun turning its windows into golden tongues of flame, the quinta was imposing and impressive, and wholly unlike anything Juliet had even vaguely imagined. Without waiting for Miguel to assist her, she slid out of the car, and stood looking up at the arched portals of its entrance, emblazoned by the crest of the de Castro family. Through an arched hallway, the central courtyard could be seen where a fountain played in its centre, providing a constant and cooling sound of running water.
Miguel smiled at her expression, and said: ‘Come. Consuelo will show you to your room. You will have time to relax
