“Lady Matlin?”
She had not expected to meet anyone, let alone Joaquín, who came up beside her on horseback. He was dressed for riding in buckskins, topboots, and a coat of claret-colored broadcloth, but the costume looked wrong on him, too informal. He was a man, Thea thought, more used to court manners and evening dress.
“Good morning, sir.” She was determined to let him pass on, but it seemed he had other ideas.
“Can you dismiss your groom?”
Thea looked at him with mild surprise. “You know I cannot. I know my husband would dislike it, and....”
“If I told you it was a family matter, cousin?”
Thea pulled sharply on her reins and stared at the man. “What did you call me?”
“Cousin? I wanted to introduce myself to you properly. I am Joaquín Ibañez-Blanca; I bring you greetings from our grandfather, the Barón Ib—” Thea did not let him finish.
“He dared to send me a message? That wretched, cold-hearted, miserable....” She ran out of words. It was obviously not the reaction the man had expected.
“Lady Matlin, cousin! Please! The old man, whatever his sins against you might be, is ill, he is dying. Can you not forgive....”
“No, I can’t. Believe me, cousin Joaquín, if all you have to say is that my grandfather sent me his regards, you had as well save your breath. That old man treated me and my cousin, Doña Clara de Silva, like dirt. Don’t, pray, expect me to have filial feelings for him now.” She found that her hands were clenched into shaking fists, as if they were a part of her she did not recognize. “I really think we have nothing more to say to one another.”
“Lady Matlin, I beg you, for the sake of Doña de Silva and the nuns with whom you stayed, hear me out.”
“You seem to know a great deal about what happened to us after the Barón washed his hands of us in Burgos. Can you tell me anything about Silvy—my cousin? She was not well when I left.”
His face fell. “I grieve to tell you this, cousin. The lady died a fortnight after you left the Sisters’ protection with that man.”
“My husband,” Thea corrected hollowly. She felt numb. A fortnight after they had left the convent, before she and Matlin had even reached England....” I knew it, I knew that night in the hills, I knew how ill she’d been. Oh God, Silvy, why did you let me leave you?” She did not, could not cry. Her eyes stayed dry, but it took her several minutes to recall Joaquín sitting beside her on his own horse. He was speaking to her, had been talking for some time. “What did you say?” she asked.
“Have you heard nothing I said, cousin? I am sorry to be the one to bring you sad news, but you must listen to the rest of what I have to say. It is bigger than one old woman, bigger than any person; it is all of Spain that hangs in the balance now. When I arrived in London and learned how fortunately situated you were, I knew that you must be a part of saving your fatherland. It was meant, married to a man with Whitehall connections; if the Barón had arranged it, it could not have been better....”
“Don’t speak of him,” Thea warned dangerously. “Especially not now, not if you want help from me, or my husband. He liked Silvy, and the Sisters, they saved his life.”
“Then he will be disposed to help me,” Joaquín concluded impatiently. “Will you listen?”
“If you will tell me what you want without scolding me. You are not in Spain now, cousin.”
He shrugged his shoulders irritably, but he managed to speak without the patronizing tone which had colored his last words. “I came ahead, an advance guard. Things are happening so fast in Spain now, and it was decided that we needed to know who in your government would be sympathetic if Spain asked for help in routing the French....”
“Routing them? France is Spain’s ally, I thought.”
“Was. An alliance made by the old regime, cousin, the old King and that Austrian bitch, and the Privado, the prime minister you would say. Godoy. Cousin, it is bad in Spain.” His voice lowered with importance. “Since Carlos abdicated in favor of the prince things have gone from bad to worse. We hoped the prince would be strong, would face Bonaparte on his own terms, restore Spain to its old glory.” Joaquín’s face was that of a man whose dream has gone sour. “He—we were wrong. He ceded the crown to Bonaparte; he has given Spain to the French. Good God, cousin, can you not have heard of el Dos de Mayo?”
“The second of May? No. What happened?”
“I had not thought that anyone, anywhere could be unaware of what happened.” He frowned heavily at her. “The people of Madrid revolted, cousin; dozens were slain, others executed later as a punishment. The heroes, Daoz, Velarde, Ruiz, others, all dead. For a short time the city was in their hands, but they—so few and brave against so many—could not hold out. Then Murat, that pig of a Frenchman, pronounced orders upon the entirety of Spain, punishment, license to kill—it is only for a Spaniard to be found with a pair of scissors and he is tried, summoned, and sent before the firing squad. What happened? It’s the beginning, cousin. We must have help.”
Thea watched her cousin, astonished. “From me?”
“I wait only word from my friends in Spain. We must have a body of people for your government to treat with. When some sort of government is in place, wherever, then, with your connections, I can surely get a sympathetic hearing from your Foreign Minister.”
“My connections?”
“Your husband is an intimate of the Foreign Secretary, is he not? He....”
“My husband, cousin Joaquín, was held prisoner by the Spanish government for over a year for the crime of being English. He was near death when I found him in the convent’s field. He might give you a sympathetic hearing, and he might not. If I introduce you to him, he’s likely to throw you out on your ear. You’d have done better to have sent a delegation of the peasantry. He liked the farmers we met.”
It was plain from the expression on Joaquín’s face that Matlin’s feelings were of minor import. “Diós, surely he can rise above such things. The fate of a nation, his wife’s people....”
“I am an Englishwoman, cousin. My Spanish family gave me precious little reason to consider myself anything else, and, but for Silvy and the Sisters, I have no reason to feel sentimental over ‘my people.’ Matlin has even less.”
“Is that your final word? You would deny me, deny Spain the aid of Britain because of the pride of a stiff-necked old man? Show a little great-heartedness, cousin. Don’t be such a woman. All I ask is that you persuade your husband to see me. I will do the rest. Who knows when it will become necessary for me to speak with Canning or Castlereagh—for the love of God, Dorotea, help us.”
It was the use of her full name that moved Thea. No one had called her Dorotea with that familiar accent since Silvy had bid her good-bye.
“I’ll speak to Matlin, cousin.” She said at last. “But he and I, well.” She faltered. “He may not wish to listen to me.”
Joaquín waved that off. “What husband listens to a wife when she meddles in man’s business? Cry for him, cousin, use your wiles, whatever it takes, but persuade him to speak with me.”
“I’ll try.”
As abruptly as he had arrived, Joaquín seemed ready to take his leave. “I will call upon you tomorrow to find out Sir Douglas’s answer. Good morning.”
Thea would have urged him to give her more time, but he had saluted her with a brief nod and ridden off before she could say anything. She was overwhelmed, so much information, so many surprises. Silvy; Silvy was dead. Blindly, she flipped the reins on her horse’s neck and took off in a canter down the Row once more, trying to clear her head. Silvy was dead; Spain, the sunny countryside she remembered from her journeys, in revolt; that cool, frightening man, her cousin; Silvy, dead.
When she stopped her horse she realized that her poor groom had dutifully been trying to follow her. She turned and smiled at him automatically. “I think we should go back to Hill Street,” she said.
Not until she had reached Hill Street and
left the groom to return the horses to the stable did a new thought come to her. If Matlin’s influence was as important as Joaquín seemed to think it, she could not risk something’s disturbing the precarious balance between them. That meant that, at least until Joaquín had met with Matlin and explained his mission, she could not tell him the truth about her pregnancy.
Chapter Eleven
“Dearest lamb, are you certain you wish to go out tonight?” Lady Ocott, fantastically attired in pink gauze and swansdown, fluttered nervously, patting at Thea’s hair and smoothing the fabric of her sleeve. “You look a little tired. No, not tired, but....”
“I’m perfectly well, Aunt Sue,” Thea said patiently. “Yes, I want to go to this party.” She made a last survey of her image in the mirror and noted with satisfaction that she looked pretty tonight. She wore a new dress of white crepe which fell in graceful folds to an embroidered hem; the neckline was low, trimmed with a line of very fine lace. If she was to speak with Matlin tonight about Joaquín’s introduction to the Foreign Office, she was determined to look her best.... The party, or the time afterward, was her first chance. Matlin had not returned to Hill Street at all the night before, while Thea lay in her room thinking of Silvy and Spain. Today he had sent a message home that he would be there to give his escort to this party, but he had not returned to the house in person. “I have to go to this party,” Thea murmured.
“Well, of course, lamb, if you wish to. I was only asking, after all. You seemed so strange yesterday.”
Thea said nothing.
“Well, we all feel out of sorts from time to time; don’t we? You look an absolute angel, dear. Let us go downstairs; I ordered turtle soup from Cook for dinner, and the bell should be ringing at any moment.”
There was indeed turtle soup and a profusion of meats and fowl and removes. Thea drank her wine, picked at her food, watched Matlin covertly from across the table, and thought of how handsome he was in evening dress. Would she ever be able to tell him that? There were other things to be said, first: Joaquín’s message and the truth about her false pregnancy. Then, perhaps, if they weathered all that, they could make a new start together. The thought was comforting as the thought of home; all she really wanted to do was to rest in his arms and cry out her sorrow and grief for Silvy, her sorrow at how wrong things had become between them; to rest in his arms and to be held and to hold him back.
“Thea, are you done with your meringue?” Lady Ocott asked.
“Oh, yes, Aunt Susan. I’m sorry, I was woolgathering.”
They drank tea in the parlor, gathered up their wraps, and were handed into Lady Ocott’s chariot by Matlin, who seated himself across from the two women. As they rode Matlin and Lady Ocott kept up a stream of inconsequential chatter, and Thea thought of the ride home, of returning to the Ocotts’ house, and of asking Matlin for a few minutes to talk. Before then, she must concentrate on greeting people and smiling and dancing and laughing at bad jokes. It would be hard work, she mused as the carriage slowed to a halt.
o0o
Matlin brought his aunt and his wife to the door of the reception room, was greeted with them by their hostess, and then, before he could do more, saw them both taken away by a press of people. Lady Ocott was borne off by two of her cronies to gossip, and Thea was encircled by a crowd of young people, mostly men. He saw young Chase there, of course, and his pretty sister, and there were others he recognized, including that damned foreigner. Looking about him Matlin espied Lady Sarah Jersey drifting by in diamonds and diaphanous silk.
“Sally!”
Lady Jersey turned to him with a delicious, knowing smile. “Douglas Matlin, where have you been? Letting that charming little wife of yours run tame at all the balls and musicales! Shame on you! If the child weren’t such a good little thing, it would be a scandal. Are you positively aux anges over her?”
“Head over heels,” Matlin replied lightly, with a smile to match her own. “Now, I want your help, ma’am. Who the deuce is that fellow?”
Lady Jersey followed Matlin’s glance to the dark-visaged man in evening dress who stood not far off. “That? He’s a mystery man, Douglas. His name is Joaquín. Someone, I can’t even recall who it was, brought him into fashion, and. someone—I can assure you it wasn’t me—vouchered him in to Almacks’. He is good looking,” she added judiciously. “Are you jealous, Sir Douglas?”
“As I am head over heels in love with my wife,” Matlin replied coolly, “is it so wonderful that I should wonder who her friends are?”
Sally Jersey broke into a delighted laugh that trilled above the voices of near-standers. “Oh, my dear, how lovely! You make me positively believe all the romantical nonsense about that Spanish marriage of yours. Look you, Douglas,” she continued kindly. “She is a good little thing, your wife, and she’s chosen her intimates wisely, and they won’t let her come to harm. It would not hurt her if you wished to spend more time out with her...just to show fellows like Mr. Joaquín that you are head over heels.”
Matlin grinned and thanked her. As payment for her advice she instructed him to dance with a young woman who was not surrounded by admirers, pointed him in the direction of a dish-faced debutante of good family, and disappeared herself. As he bowed over the surprised girl’s hand Matlin caught a glimpse of his wife; the dark stranger was at her elbow now, murmuring something to her in a very familiar manner while Thea listened intently, her face turned up to his. “Damnation,” Matlin hissed. Then the music began, and he was obliged to lead his partner out to the dance. A moment before, Lady Jersey’s words had had him in remarkably good temper; now that was undone, and he took every chance to search for Thea in the crowd; he wondered what the man Joaquín could possibly be saying to his wife.
Had he been able to hear their conversation he would have been calmer, though no more enlightened.
“Have you spoken to your husband yet?”
Dorothea regarded the back of her cousin’s head as he bowed low over her hand. “I didn’t see him before this evening. He has been away....”
“Cousin, I beg you will believe that time is of the essence,” Joaquín hissed. “Our country is overrun by the French. God knows what at this moment they are doing....”
“Cousin, if you will have patience, I mean to speak to my husband tonight. If you will not have patience....” Thea let her voice drift off and turned to smile at Bess Chase, who had just joined her again. “Now, I wish you will dance with Miss Chance, who looks as if she were dying for the music.” Parodying the manner of an Almacks’ patroness, Thea took Bess’s hand and placed it in Joaquín’s. “Go dance, Mr. Joaquín. I’ll speak with you both later.”
Unable to protest, Joaquín led a highly gratified Bess Chase out to the floor, and Thea was able to relax and to talk with other people. She was relieved when Joaquín and Bess continued for the second dance; later, she saw her cousin dancing with some nameless young woman, obviously a dance of duty. That is that for this evening, anyway, she thought with relief. Bess, glowing with pleasure at her two dances with Joaquín, had returned to Thea’s side, only to be taken off to dance again by someone else. Thea danced nearly as often as Bess; when Matlin appeared at her side during an intermission and asked for a dance, she was dismayed to find that she had promised them all. “I can ask if someone will release a dance to you,” she offered.
“Good God, and earn me a reputation as a spoil-sport? After all, I have the honor of bringing you home, don’t I? I can afford to be generous.” He looked around him. “Where is my aunt, by the way? She should be chaperoning you, surely.”
“You forget, sir, I am a chaperon these days. I think you’ll find Lady Ocott drinking lemonade with an old beau, a very fat man with a corset. It creaks,” she confided. Matlin grinned. For a moment they felt the old understanding they had shared sometimes in his sickroom at the convent and on the journey across Spain. When he left her to her dancing partners, Thea was conscious of an odd excitement, a deep pleasure. He was flirting with me, s
he thought. I was flirting with him!
“You look like the cat that caught the bird,” Bess teased her.
“Perhaps I have.” Thea smiled. “Did you have a good dance with your idol?”
Bess launched into a paean of Joaquín’s perfection of manner, of face, and of form. Would it be so strange, Thea wondered, if Bess won Joaquín just through sheer wanting of it? That would make the Chases her cousins, a comfortable thought. Thea listened to Bess’s enthusiasms; from time to time her attention wandered, and she would look for Matlin in the crowd.
An overanxious young gentleman who had been charged to procure lemonade for Bess ended by spilling most of it on her skirt, and Thea drew her away from the boy’s protestations and apologizes to help repair the damage. A few minutes’ ministry by Thea and the attendant in the ladies’ dressing room took care of the worst of the stain, and Bess went out to the saloon again to find her would-be swain and to assure him no permanent damage had been done. Thea stayed behind to tuck up a fugitive curl and to smooth out a wrinkle in her skirt; she was thinking of Matlin as she did so, smiling. She was still smiling when she started away from the dressing room.
“Lady Matlin? I must introduce myself. I hope you will forgive my familiarity, but I am really such an old friend of your husband’s.”
Thea turned and confronted the woman she knew to be Adele Towles. She was dressed this evening in sheer jaconet of a cream color, lavishly laced with blonde and sashed with a bright crimson ribbon. Her necklace, which consisted of diamonds and rubies, was gaudy for a relatively informal evening party, and the dress—both the plunge of the neckline and the way in which the garment clung to her—was just within the bounds of propriety, not the strictest bounds, either.
Lady Towles seemed to expect a reply; she had obviously been assessing Thea at the same time, and her smile made it clear what she thought: negligible.
Spanish Marriage Page 13