asked pointedly, glancing down at the wheelchair.
Juliet drew a little closer. ‘Yes, perhaps it was a stupid remark. However, I couldn’t think of any other way of introducing myself.’
Teresa’s eyes flickered for a moment, and then she resumed her sullen expression. ‘Where have you come from? London?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Estelle never gives up, does she?’ Teresa gave a short laugh.
Juliet deemed it better not to answer this. She had no desire to take sides without first knowing all the circumstances of the case. So she seated herself in a basketwork chair, also placed near the table, and sighed. ‘What a beautiful place this is. You must love it here.’
Teresa shrugged her thin shoulders, and Juliet noticed how painfully thin she really was. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. She spoke with little accent, and Juliet could only assume she had attended a British school. ‘It’s better than hospital, anyway.’
Juliet bit her lip. ‘Yes. Were you in hospital long?’
‘Long enough.’ Teresa was scrutinizing her intently. ‘What did you used to do, before you came here?’
Juliet felt the colour seeping into her cheeks. ‘Well, I – er – this and that!’
Teresa sniffed. ‘Why did you come here? Did you think it would make a nice holiday.’
‘No.’ Juliet was swift to deny this. ‘No. I came because there was an advertisement in a British newspaper and I thought the job sounded interesting.’ This at least was true.
Teresa wrinkled her nose. ‘I hear my uncle did not exactly welcome you with open arms.’
Juliet had to smile at this. ‘That’s true,’ she answered.
‘I expect he was good and mad,’ said Teresa, a little enthusiasm entering her voice now. ‘After the last time!’
Juliet did not ask the question that trembled on her tongue, but Teresa went on: ‘Estelle keeps trying to get me off her neck, you know! I think she’s jealous!’ This was said with some satisfaction.
Juliet frowned. ‘Jealous? Senhora Vinceiro? Why should she be jealous?’ This was one question she could not help but ask. She was only human after all.
Teresa fingered the pleat of the blue skirt she was wearing. ‘Estelle wants Felipe – it’s as simple as that! She wanted him ten years ago when she married his cousin because he lived on Venterra also, and my uncle was obviously not prepared to marry her then. And Pépé – her husband – died two years ago, he was years older than Estelle, of course, and she was granted her wish. To live on Venterra – and to have a second chance with my uncle.’
Juliet swallowed hard. This – from a sixteen-year-old!
‘I think you’re dramatizing the situation, Teresa,’ she said, glancing round with relief as the young maid appeared with the tray of tea.
‘I am not!’ Teresa sounded angry. ‘Estelle hated it when Felipe brought me here, installing me in his house, making her plans doubly difficult.’
‘Oh really,’ exclaimed Juliet disbelievingly. ‘You’re his niece!’
‘Only by marriage,’ retorted Teresa, at once. ‘My father was not Felipe’s brother. My mother had been married before. My father died ten years ago. He suffered from heart disease.’
‘I see.’ Juliet thanked the maid, and stood up. ‘Shall – shall I handle this?’
Teresa nodded with some dignity. ‘Of course now I am an orphan. And family ties are strong among Portuguese families. I am just as much Felipe’s responsibility whether my relationship to him is distant or otherwise.’
‘I see,’ said Juliet again. Heavens, she thought to herself, what a situation!
The tea was weak, but hot, and the wafer-thin biscuits rather delicious. Teresa drank one cup of tea, but ate nothing, and Juliet felt greedy because she ate three biscuits. Conversation lapsed, and Juliet wondered what was going through the girl’s head. She was obviously obsessed with intrigue, seeing herself as a kind of innocent charmer, who couldn’t help but annoy a woman like Estelle Vinceiro. She seemed to imagine – what? That the Duque was perhaps attracted to her – or merely just sympathetic towards her. Did she imagine Estelle Vinceiro’s jealousy, if indeed it was jealousy, was based on truth? It was incredible! Juliet knew little, and had seen less, of the Duque as yet, but she could swear he was a man in his late thirties, and not some impressionable boy. Oh, it was ridiculous!
Teresa replaced her cup in its saucer, and placing it on the table said: ‘Is my uncle going to allow you to stay?’
Juliet hesitated. ‘I – er – I’m not quite sure. Why shouldn’t he allow me to stay, after all? You do require companionship, don’t you?’
‘No.’ Teresa was vehement. ‘Felipe is all the companionship I need.’
‘But at some time, someone did think you needed companionship,’ exclaimed Juliet patiently. ‘Or the advertisement would never have been devised.’
‘Estelle did it – it’s all her doing!’ said Teresa hotly. ‘She wants to provide me with a companion, so that Felipe will have more time for her. Odio Estelle!’
‘Teresa!’ Juliet started at the sound of that voice. ‘Que faz voce?’
‘Oh, Tio Felipe,’ Teresa held out her hands to him, and lapsed into her own language, speaking appealingly, her dark eyes wide and innocent, so that Juliet began to wonder just what she was telling him.
The Duque had changed now into a cream silk lounge suit, that enhanced the swarthy cast of his complexion. The close-fitting trousers suited the muscular length of his legs, while Juliet was surprised to see that the jacket was quite modern in design with a long centre back vent. She supposed she had expected Venterra to be quite out of touch with civilization, but a man like Duque Felipe Ricardo de Castro was hardly likely to allow anyone but a Savile Row tailor to dress him. Trying to view him emotionlessly was difficult; his personality was such that she was intensely aware of him as a force to be reckoned with.
Teresa had paused now, and he straightened from the lounging position he had adopted near Teresa’s chair, and looked straight at Juliet.
‘So, senhorita,’ he murmured, taking out a case of cheroots and placing one between his firm lips, ‘you have perhaps discovered that not everything you read in the newspapers is true.’ His tone was cool, but mocking.
Juliet frowned, resisting the impulse to jump to her feet. ‘Do you mean the advertisement, senhor?’ she questioned, at last.
The Duque inclined his head, lighting his cheroot from a slim gold lighter. ‘Of course. You have been – how shall I put it? – misled! I regret the circumstance, of course, but …’ He shrugged his broad shoulders.
Juliet digested this, and then deemed she would feel at less of a disadvantage if she did stand up. Getting to her feet, she said, rather unsteadily: ‘You – you regret the circumstance, senhor! Are you trying to
