The Jade Dragon by Nancy Buckingham Page B

left me at once with some trivial excuse about household duties. Watching her hasty escape, I was struck by a new and startling thought. In begging for my silence, was it Stafford whom Vicencia was protecting, or herself? Could it be that, having heard his wish so passionately expressed that the Jade Dragon should disappear, Vicencia had determined to make the wish come true? It was a grave risk for her to take, for discovery would surely jeopardize her position at the quinta. But perhaps it was a measure of the devotion she felt for Stafford, a devotion that was understandable when one remembered the contempt with which she was treated by others in the family.
    After my conversation with Vicencia, she seemed more busily occupied than ever with her domestic duties. Though I begged to be allowed to help in some way, she brushed aside my offers almost brusquely. Perhaps Vicencia was afraid to relinquish any of the tasks that might be her only passport to a home at Castanheiros.
    I became restless doing nothing, so I decided to try my hand at some sketching. A walk into Cintra one morning provided me with pencils and a pad of cartridge paper. On my return I changed into a cool muslin dress and went hatless into the gardens, taking a parasol to shield me from the sun’s glare.
    With no fixed plan in mind, I strolled wherever my footsteps led me—along a flagged terrace with clumps of yellow iris edging a pool, down a stone stairway where alpine strawberries ripened on a sunbaked wall and honeysuckle tangled through a trellis, past an arbor of red and white roses, and by way of a curving hydrangea walk to a wood of sweet-chestnut trees. These, I realized, must be the trees which had given the quinta its name. They were ancient now, their giant trunks twisted in tortured spirals, their massive branches meeting above me, spilling a cloying sweetness from their creamy catkins.
    Then, as I came to an open glade of neatly clipped lawns, I was surprised to find a pavillion built in the style of a Chinese pagoda. I hesitated, half tempted to sketch it. My inclination, though, had always been for natural subjects, and as I wandered further down the glade, my fancy was taken by a tree that flaunted striking, flame red flowers. A rustic seat nearby provided a suitable perch, and soon I was busy with my pencil.
    I became so engrossed that when next I glanced up, I saw from the position of the sun that some considerable time must have elapsed. Afraid that I might be late for luncheon, I quickly gathered up my things and began to walk back the way I had come. While I was crossing the area of mown grass in front of the Chinese pagoda, I heard a murmur of voices—a couple of the gardeners, I presumed, taking a few minutes’ surreptitious rest. I glanced through the fretted entrance as I went past—and halted in surprise. One of the men was Stafford Darville, and with him was the young coachman Pedro, the brother of my maid Maria.
    Neither seemed to have noticed me, and I wondered whether to disclose my presence. But there was a curious tenseness in the manner of each of them that decided me against it. I had a presentiment that Stafford would not wish to be observed talking to Pedro like this. If they had been speaking in English, I was close enough to have caught the drift of what was being said, but in Portuguese I could not follow their muttered conversation. Except that just one word leapt out at me.
    Cascais....
    Cascais, I reflected, was surely the name of the fishing village that Stafford’s wife had visited just before her mysterious death by drowning. And it was Pedro, I knew, who had driven her there in the carriage that day. Walking on, I recalled how a few evenings ago Stafford had talked of his determination to find out more about the circumstances of Luzia’s death. Could that be why he was questioning Pedro now?
    Lost in speculation, I suddenly became aware of hurrying footsteps behind me. Stafford caught up with me beside a