the wife of a man as old as Malcolm Trevellyan.
Then he inwardly chided himself. She had not been forced to marry him. A girl with more strength of mind, with more courage in her convictions, would have managed somehow, would have found a way to support herself and the unborn child. No, Rachel Trevellyan had taken the easy way out of a difficult situation and now resented the very person who had helped her most. Luis allowed contempt to replace his earlier compassion. Rachel Trevellyan deserved nothing else.
Malcolm Trevellyan shuffled across the bed. ‘Come along, Rachel,’ he said. ‘Pour Senhor Martinez some tea, and stop behaving like a spoilt child.’
For a moment Luis thought she was about to refuse, but then, obediently it seemed, she lifted the teapot and poured the hot liquid into two cups. Turning to him, she said: ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Thank you, sugar only,’ he replied quietly, and she added two lumps before passing the cup to him.
‘Do sit down, senhor.’ Malcolm Trevellyan indicated a chair now, and although it was not his nature to sit in the presence of an adult female who happened to be standing Luis subsided into the cane chair by the bed.
Rachel poured her husband’s tea, added milk and sugar, stirred it and then handed it to him. There were sandwiches on the tray too, and she proffered these, but Luis declined. He had had a late lunch on the way down, and although in his own country he could have enjoyed a late dinner, the idea of sandwiches did not appeal to him. In truth he wished he had made some arrangements to stay at a hotel, even though in the correspondence Malcolm Trevellyan had had with his mother he had suggested that Luis might stay here overnight; and now, late as it was with the mist outside and the evident lack of accommodation facilities nearby, he had no choice.
Rachel seemed to be on the point of leaving them, when her husband said: ‘Well, senhor? What arrangements have you made? And what conclusion have you reached regarding—Rachel?’
That was difficult. What conclusion had he reached? Luis replaced his half empty cup on the tray. It was a decision he had never expected to have to make and he realised that had either Juan or Alonzo come here in his place they would have had to have deferred a decision until either his mother or himself had been informed.
As he was here things were different. If he were to contact his mother and discuss it with her, it would only worry her unnecessarily. After all, she could hardly withdraw her invitation at this late date, even taking the changed circumstances into account, and although he was well aware what her reactions to a young woman like Rachel Trevellyan would be, there was little he could do without disappointing Malcolm Trevellyan.
And there was not just his mother to consider at Mendao ...
Rachel Trevellyan stood by the door. ‘It’s obvious that Senhor Martinez does not wish me to accompany you to Portugal, Malcolm, whatever he says,’ she declared. ‘Why can’t I stay here? What harm would it do?’
Luis rose to his feet. Her attitude of dissension was reacting on him as an eagerness to accompany them would never have done. In his country women did not argue with their menfolk. They were mild and agreeable, totally feminine in every way. Rachel Trevellyan spoke without respect, assumed a responsibility for her own affairs which was not seemly in a young woman, let alone a wife.
‘I have thought the matter over, senhor,’ he said, addressing himself to Malcolm Trevellyan, ‘and naturally my mother would wish me to extend our invitation to include your wife.’
There was a gulp from Rachel Trevellyan at this point, but Luis ignored her, keeping his eyes on the man in the bed. A look of gratification was spreading over Malcolm Trevellyan’s features and he nodded in a satisfied way.
‘Thank you, senhor, that’s very civil of you. Very civil indeed. And when Rachel gets used to the idea, she’ll thank you, too, won’t you, Rachel?’
Again a strange look passed between them, and Luis saw the girl visibly shrink. ‘When do you expect me to be ready to leave?’ she exclaimed helplessly. ‘I’ve made no arrangements. What about a passport?’
Trevellyan fixed her with a stare. ‘You forget, Rachel. You went abroad with your father only a year before he died. I happen to know your passport is still valid.’
‘But—but I need time——’
‘Why?’
‘There are arrangements to be made——’
‘What arrangements?’
She shook her head. ‘Lots of things.’
‘Rachel, all you need to do is pack a suitcase. We leave in the morning.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. Naturally, Senhor Martinez will stay here tonight——’
Now Luis felt uncomfortable. ‘That’s quite unnecessary,’ he began automatically. ‘I can stay at a hotel.’
‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed Trevellyan. ‘Of course you’ll stay here. It’s the least we can do, isn’t it, Rachel?’
‘If you say so.’ There was a lacklustre quality about her now.
Luis controlled a sigh. He wished it were morning already. He had no desire to spend a night here, conscious as he was of Rachel Trevellyan’s resentment. But he could hardly refuse without throwing Malcolm Trevellyan’s hospitality back in his face.
‘I’ll go and see about making up a bed,’ said Rachel now, and her husband nodded.
‘That’s right. You can let us know when it’s ready. I’m sure Senhor Martinez is tired after his journey.’
While Rachel was away, Malcolm asked about Luis’s mother, the Marquesa de Mendao. For a few moments at least, Luis relaxed. It was reassuring to speak about his mother. At least there were no undercurrents there. He removed his overcoat and sat comfortably in his chair, lighting a cheroot which he favoured when Malcolm produced cigarettes.
By the time Rachel returned Luis was feeling infinitely less tense, although the atmosphere changed again as soon as she entered the room.
‘The room’s ready,’ she announced, and Luis stood up.
‘I’ll bid you goodnight, then,’ said Malcolm, apparently indifferent to his wife’s attitude. ‘What time do you want us to leave in the morning?’
‘I suggest we say as early as possible and leave it at that,’ remarked Luis. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’ Malcolm smiled, rather smugly, Luis thought, but then he accompanied Rachel from the room without another word.
They went upstairs and into a room at the front of the house. The rest of the building struck chill after the unpleasant heat of Malcolm Trevellyan’s bedroom, but Luis saw that Rachel had turned on an electric fire in the room he was to occupy.
It was a large bedroom, sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a wardrobe, and a kind of washstand. The only floor covering was a rag rug beside the bed, but as with the rest of the house everything was spotlessly clean.
‘I’ve put a hot water bottle in the bed,’
