Page 31 of A Captain For Clarissa
“Ghosts?” Her brows arched curiously.
“Not literal ones,” he said with a faint smile. “The war left wounds on the land, but also on its people. My family bears those wounds, as you will see.”
“Then we shall face those ghosts together,” she declared firmly.
“Together,” Rafael agreed, and for the first time since they’d met, she thought she saw a hint of vulnerability in his dark eyes.
They set off again soon after. As they travelled further inland, the lush green scenery was replaced by rocky outcrops and ancient stone walls. Clarissa noted the vineyards, once neatly tended, now choked with weeds. It made her sad; like so many other things she’d seen on this journey, it was a silent testament to war and neglect.
The carriage finally passed through the gap in the hills Rafael had mentioned and climbed up a steep slope to a castle perched on the edge of a sheer cliff. Clarissa caught her breath as she looked out the window at their destination. Torre do Rochedo was a tall, square structure with a central tower that rose five or six storeys high, its stone walls weathered but still strong, turrets reaching for the sky. Yet even from here, she could see the signs of decay; battlements crumbling into piles of rubble, ivy creeping over windows where glass had long since shattered, and parts of the outer wall lying in ruins.
“It’s larger than I assumed,” Marianne said quietly beside her, leaning forward to look past her out the window. “And in far better condition than most of the castles in Portugal which Napoleon did not destroy completely. The central keep, at least, appears quite intact.”
When the carriage drew to a halt, Clarissa had to resist the urge to leap down eagerly. She wanted to make a good impression on Rafael’s mother and sister, who were presumably waiting to greet them inside, and thus composed herself. Folding her hands together in her lap to stop them trembling, she waited until Rafael opened the door and offered his hand to help her descend.
“Welcome to Torre do Rochedo,” he said proudly as she stepped down from the carriage. “Welcome to my home.”
Clarissa placed one slippered foot on the cobblestone paving of the courtyard, feeling almost reverent, and turned slowly to survey the mixture of grandeur and decay. This place spoke of centuries of history, of battles won and lost, of a family clinging to dignity despite loss and impoverishment.
“Your home,” she said softly, looking at him. “It is magnificent, Rafael. A monument to endurance.”
“Thank you.” He inclined his head slightly, though she saw more emotion in his eyes than his words might have suggested.
Together, they walked towards the entrance, and Clarissa could only imagine what tales these walls could tell. Worn by time and history though it might be, Torre do Rochedo was no less majestic for its age. It stood as a symbol of resilience, a fitting home for the man who was guiding her inside. The large wooden door opened as they climbed the steps, and a woman stood there, face alight with joy.
“Mama,” Rafael said, and there was a thickness in his tone, an unfamiliar roughness.
Lucia de Silva was a small woman, slight and somewhat stooped with age and hardship, but her presence filled the space. Her eyes, tired and lined though they were, sparkled with happiness, and she hurried forward, eagerness in every step though it seemed to cost her effort, and threw her arms around her son.
“Meu filho,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
“Mother.” Rafael’s voice was equally choked. He embraced her tightly, then pulled back, grasping her shoulders, and said urgently, “Isabella?”
Lucia’s smile was all the answer he needed, and Clarissa felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She had feared they would arrive only to discover Rafael’s sister had died of some illness.
“She says Isabella was ill with pneumonia but has recovered now,” Alex whispered as Lucia spoke rapidly to her son in Portuguese.
“Thank God,” Marianne murmured, and Clarissa echoed the sentiment.
Rafael remembered his manners then, and introduced them to his mother. Clarissa already knew Rafael had sent a messenger on ahead; their arrival was no surprise to Lucia. The older woman greeted Alex and Marianne warmly, though, before Rafael turned to introduce Clarissa.
“Lady Clarissa, welcome to our home,” Lucia said in accented but clear English, smiling warmly at Clarissa. “It is an honour for us to receive you.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs de Silva,” Clarissa replied, dipping into a low curtsy. As she straightened, she took in Lucia’s plain gown. It was well made, but the fabric was worn and faded; here and there, tiny patches showed where careful repairs had been done. From what she’d seen of the estate so far, it looked much the same. Though the house itself still stood, its former glory had long since faded, and Clarissa suspected Lucia ran a tight budget to keep things running. She admired the older woman very much, even knowing that Rafael’s mother had not always approved of him.
“Please, come inside and rest. You must be weary after your journey.” Lucia gestured for them to follow her into the house. “Rooms have been prepared for you all, though I hope you will excuse any inadequacies.”
Clarissa looked around. The whitewashed walls were hung with tapestries, but they were old and faded, threadbare in places. Once, they must have been glorious, but time had taken its toll. The furniture, too, was simple, plain wood chairs with woven cane backs, a few small tables, a sideboard or two.
“Your hospitality is most generous,” Clarissa assured Lucia sincerely, following her into a small sitting room which, while somewhat shabby, was neat and clean, with a fire in the hearth adding welcome warmth to the cool room.
“I must go to Isabella.” Rafael excused himself, leaving them in his mother’s care as Lucia called over a couple of maids.
Clarissa almost asked if she might go with Rafael, eager to meet his sister, but held her tongue and smiled politely when one of the maids beckoned her to follow.
The guest rooms had clearly been hastily readied, windows thrown open to let fresh air blow through, linens stripped from the beds and replaced with fresh sheets. Though the furniture was simple, Clarissa found her room charming, and realised that though the buildings had survived the French, much of the original furniture might have been taken and burned for firewood, and the estate’s restricted finances meant they could not afford to spend much on guest rooms rarely used.
Still, the bed looked comfortable enough, and there was a small table and chair by the window where she could sit and write letters if she wished. She thanked the maid in her halting Portuguese, receiving a shy smile and a deep curtsy in return before the girl hurried off, returning shortly with a tray bearing a plate of sliced fruit, a few pieces of cake, and a pot of coffee.
