He nearly fell from his chair.
He drew back from the sight of her. “Who—who are you, child?” he whispered. Though he did not have to ask—he knew. No one else but Carmen could possibly have a daughter with such eyes, chocolate dark and slightly tilted at the corners, full of laughter and mischief.
“I am Isabella.”
Peter felt a pressure against his leg, and opened his eyes to see that she had emerged from beneath the chair and was now leaning against him. Her eyes were wide and curious as she looked up at him.
“Well,” he said. “How do you, Miss Isabella. It is my very great honor to meet you.”
“You did not introduce yourself!”
“Did I not? How very remiss of me. I am Peter Everdean.”
Isabella held out one tiny, dusty hand. “How do you do.”
Peter took her hand and raised it to his lips.
She giggled, then completely shocked him by clambering up into his lap. She was tall for her age, but as thin and delicate as a bird as she settled against his chest. Quite as if she had been sitting there all her life.
Peter was startled and, for one of the very rare times in his life, uncertain. He had never been around children, not since he himself had been a child, and had no idea of what the proper thing to do was in such a situation.
“Well, Miss Isabella,” he said, “do you always greet strangers by climbing into their laps?”
“Oh, no,” she answered blithely. “Never. That awful old Comte de Molyneux in Paris wanted me to hug him when he came to take Mama to a ball, but I wouldn’t let him. He smelled vile, like onions. But you smell nice.” She cuddled closer. “You must be a very nice man, not like the comte.”
“No. Not like the comte,” he said with a laugh. Then he carefully, tentatively, put his arm around her.
That was probably proper. After all, she was his daughter.
“Yes,” she announced. “I do like you, Mr. Everdean.”
What a quick judge she was. “Thank you, Miss Isabella. I quite like you, as well.”
“Good. Then, you will not tell anyone I am here, will you?”
Peter could feel the twist as she turned her little finger. Yes, he was well and truly caught. “Are you meant to be someplace else?”
“Oh, yes. I am meant to be napping where Lady Elizabeth put me, so Mama and Esperanza can talk. But I am not tired! I wanted to see who was at the party.”
“Well,” he said consideringly. “I suppose we needn’t tell your mama where you are, just yet. But won’t she worry?”
“Oh, no. She and Esperanza are still talking. I know because I listened at the door.” Her golden head drooped against his shoulder. “And you see, I am not at all sleepy ...”
Chapter Seventeen
Carmen had settled Esperanza in the small dressing room adjoining her own bedchamber, and had stayed with her for over an hour. Esperanza had seemed quite exhausted, pale and drawn; Carmen wondered if perhaps it was she who had been ill and not Isabella. She at last managed to persuade Esperanza to take some tea and lie down for a rest.
Then she went off in search of Isabella. But the little girl was not in the bedroom where Elizabeth had left her, ostensibly napping. Nor was she in the long gallery looking at Elizabeth’s paintings or in the drawing room or conservatory. Carmen even ventured into the kitchen, much to the shock of the chef and kitchen maids, hoping Isabella might have gone in search of sweets. But no sign of her was found.
Then Carmen went into the library, the last place she had to look before the attics. The large woodpaneled room was absolutely quiet, dim in the very late afternoon light. The fire had burned low, and no one had been in to light the candles yet.
She was backing out of the room when she saw the hint of golden hair above the top of an armchair drawn up before the fire. She tiptoed in closer.
And almost choked on a half sob, half laughter at the sight that greeted her. Her husband was asleep in the chair, with their daughter, also sleeping, leaning against his shoulder. Isabella’s tiny mouth was open against the fine blue wool of his coat, and one little hand was curled in his cravat, hopelessly mangling the once pristine folds.
Carmen pinched her own arm to be certain she was not having one of the dreams that had so plagued her over the years. Dreams where she had seen the three of them together, sitting close beside their own fire. She had always awoke to a cold loneliness, an empty bed.
A small sound must have escaped her, for Peter’s eyes opened and he looked up at her. He smiled slowly.
“Am I dreaming, Carmen?” he murmured.
“I thought the same thing,” she whispered. “I see you have made Isabella’s acquaintance.”
“Oh, yes. The imp was hiding beneath my chair, trying to avoid a nap.” Peter shifted in his chair. Isabella’s head lolled a bit, but she did not wake. “She is rather more weighty than she appears.”
“She gets heavier when she is asleep. But that is the only time she is quiet.” Carmen sat down in the chair next to his. “Shall I take her?”
“No, no. I have six years to make up for. She is so very beautiful, Carmen.” He looked down at his daughter’s sleeping face. “So very beautiful.”
“The most beautiful girl in the world.”
“She looks very much like you.”
“Not at all! She looks like you.”
They sat quietly together while the shadows lengthened on the floor, the only sounds the soft breaths Isabella drew in her sleep. It grew a bit chilled as the fire died away, but Carmen did not feel cold even in the thin muslin of her gown. Indeed, she had never felt warmer in all her life.
“We will have to go change for supper soon,” she said at last when the sounds of people leaving the drawing room could be heard.
“Yes, of course. And the little one should be in her bed.” He stood slowly, careful not to jostle the child in his arms. Isabella murmured a little and twined her arms about his neck.
“Not sleepy,” she muttered, then fell back to snoring against him.
“Shall I take her to her nursery?” said Peter.
“I will go with you. Elizabeth put her in the floral chamber, just down from mine.” Carmen went ahead to open the library door.
Peter kissed her cheek as he went past her. “Thank you, Carmen,” he said.
“Thank you for what?”
“For giving me Isabella. For being here again.”
“You are very welcome, querido. And this time we will not be parted again!”
“Never. I promise you that.”
“I will hold you to that promise.”
Isabella did not even wake when her father placed her on her small bed, removed her slippers, and drew the bedclothes about her snugly. Carmen tucked her favorite doll next to her, and kissed the top of her tumbled curls.
“Will she sleep the night through?” Peter whispered.
“Of course! She is not an infant. But if she cries out, the maid Elizabeth sent up will hear her. We really should go now, or we shall be too late.”
“Yes, certainly.” With a last glance at his daughter, Peter offered Carmen his arm and escorted her to the door of her own chamber. “Will you walk with me in the gardens after supper, for a quiet talk?”
“I would love nothing more. Well—almost nothing more!” She made certain no one was hanging about in the corridor, then kissed him lingeringly. When his arms reached out to draw her closer, she pulled away with a laugh. “Remember supper!”
“Bother supper! I am not hungry for food,” he muttered, and reached for her again.
Carmen ducked under his arm into her room and closed the door on him. “Supper!” she called.
He protested, but soon she heard his footsteps move away down the corridor.
There was no time to ring for a maid, so Carmen quickly chose an evening gown that required small effort, a lilac satin that buttoned up the side of the low-cut bodice with tiny pearl buttons. It was only after she had pulled it on that she not
iced one of the buttons was hanging on only by a thread, and her white silk chemise could be seen through the gap.
“Oh, bother!” she cried. “I will never make it to supper until the dessert.” She pattered in her stockinged feet to Esperanza’s dressing room chamber, intending to ask her to sew up the button.
But Esperanza was not there. The bedclothes were rumpled, and candles were lit on the dressing table, yet no one was there.
Carmen went quickly to the dressing table where Esperanza’s valise was placed, intending to find a needle and make the repair herself.
What she found there was far more shocking than needles and cotton.
In the valise, beneath carefully folded shawls and caps, was a small wooden box. But instead of the sewing paraphernalia that Carmen expected to find, there was a small sheaf of cheap stationery, a clutch of pencils, a wax jack, and a few sticks of wax.
Black wax. Carmen knew for certain that Esperanza’s usual wax, used to seal all her letters, was red.
A knot of ice formed in her stomach, freezing all the delicious anticipation of the evening, all the warm life she had begun to feel again. As she opened the jack to look at the little bits of ominous black wax still inside, the woman she had been during the war seemed to take her over again. Calm, calculating, removed from the horrible things that were really happening around her. That distance had always served her so well through war and widowhood.
Through betrayal.
But Esperanza had been with her since she was born! She had been Carmen’s mother’s duenna, her own companion through her terrible first marriage, through the birth of Isabella, and all her wanderings. How could she have written those letters, those ugly letters?
Carmen had suspected Robert Means, when all along it had been her own Esperanza!
She sank down onto the dressing table stool, her knees suddenly like water. She had seen betrayal before, of course, had seen hatred and rage. Yet this was a woman she had shared her life with, had let her near her own child.
It was all so awful, so unfathomable.
Carmen threw the jack onto the floor in a flash of pain and anger, all her cold distance gone.
“Oh, Carmencita,” a sad, soft voice said from the open doorway. “I am so very sorry you saw that.”
Chapter Eighteen
Carmen slowly stepped backward, until she felt her hips bump against the edge of the table, and she leaned against it weakly. She knew her mouth was inelegantly agape, but somehow her mind would not connect with her jaw and tell it to close. She just stared at Esperanza, enveloped in a hazy cloud of unreality.
Esperanza looked the same tidy, efficient lady Carmen had known since childhood. Her neat black silk gown was fastened at the throat with an ivory brooch that had been a long-ago gift from Carmen’s mother. The lace cap atop coiled gray braids. It was all the very same. Yet something in her faded brown eyes was very different. They were sad and calm, even a bit cool, as they regarded Carmen and her shocked face.
“Carmencita,” she said quietly, moving a bit nearer. “I did not mean for it to be this way.”
“It—it was you,” Carmen managed to whisper. “All this time. You were the one writing those letters.” She sat back down slowly, her ankles suddenly unbearably wobbling.
“Yes. When we were in Paris, I gave them to a friend who was traveling to England to post at regular intervals, so you would not suspect. Very clever of old Esperanza, si?” She chuckled, but her demeanor remained soft and regretful. “It was careless of me to leave these things about.”
“But, Esperanza! How could you do such things?” Carmen cried. She pounded her fists against her satin-covered thighs, like the lost child she felt inside. “You were like a dear aunt to me, even like a mother after Mama died. Why do you hate me so?”
“Carmencita, I love you! That is why I did this.”
“No. Those letters were full of hatred. No one who loved me could have written them. If you needed money, you know I would have given you anything ...”
“Do you not see, querida? I did not do this for money. I had to save you and Isabella from yourselves.”
Carmen stared at Esperanza, utterly aghast that she had been so blind to such madness for so long. It had been beneath her very roof, and she had not seen it. Slowly, she held out one hand to Esperanza, trembling so much that the emerald on her finger flashed and danced merrily.
“Esperanza,” she said slowly, forcing herself to remain placid and quiet as she once had with battle-mad soldiers. “You are not at all yourself. You are tired from all our travels, I know, and that is all my fault. You must have rest, a permanent home. Let me help you ...”
“No!” Esperanza suddenly cried. She moved closer, her fists in their innocuous black lace mitts opening and closing against her skirts. “It was you who were not yourself, Carmencita! That is why I did what I did. To make you see. I could find no other way.”
Carmen shook her head, bewildered. She was still reeling; she longed to scream, to cry. Instead, she stayed very still. “Tell me, then, Esperanza. Tell me what I must see.”
“That you have not lived your life in a way that your sainted mama and the Blessed Virgin would deem proper. That you must repent and change before it is too late.”
“Not proper?”
“No. In Spain, during the war, your mother and I knew that you were not with the Santiago family in Toledo, as you claimed. We knew what you were really about, riding around the countryside, associating with peasants and with English soldiers.” Esperanza practically spat those words out, making “English” sound the vilest curse. “You were messing about in war and politics, as no proper woman should. I knew you were caught in evil when you came home heavy with child and with no husband. And when you had not given your lawful Spanish husband an heir as you should have!”
Carmen pressed her fist against her mouth. She felt horribly like a chastened schoolgirl, awaiting some dreadful punishment from the Mother Superior. “I told you my husband had died!”
“What husband? I saw no marriage lines!”
“Esperanza, please ...”
Esperanza continued, unhearing. “I knew when I saw Isabella that she could be saved, if only you could be brought to see how wrong you were. If you could be brought to repent, to send the child to a convent to be raised.” She stepped up half behind Carmen, almost concealed. “She is so like you when you were a child, Carmencita. So lovely, but so very willful. And you never discipline her as you should ...”
Carmen closed her eyes, but she could not shut out dreadful reality. It still hung heavy about her, no dream at all. “Esperanza, please, let me help you ...” She half rose from her stool.
The next thing she felt was a sharp, heavy pain against the back of her head. There was a shower of light, a strange stickiness.
Then—nothing.
“I am worried about Carmen, Peter.” Elizabeth tugged on her brother’s coat sleeve, making him bend closer to hear her hurried whisper. She cast a quick look around at the guests gathered in the drawing room for cards after supper. “I do not wish to be a hovering hostess, but when she did not appear for supper ...”
Peter frowned. “I am worried as well, Lizzie. It is not at all like her to not send a message if she meant to absent herself. And she said she was going to dress for supper when we parted.”
“Do you think she could be ill?”
“She seemed well enough earlier. I will go and speak with her.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said with a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Peter dear. I am sure all is well, and there is some easy explanation.”
As Peter left the bright, chatter-filled drawing room and climbed up the dim staircase, the cold knot that had formed in his stomach as supper went on with no Carmen grew. He felt almost a sense of foreboding, an intuition that had served him well in battle.
Something was amiss with his wife.
Carmen’s bedroom door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the corridor.
Wishing he had his pistol, or at least a knife, Peter slowly opened the door completely and stepped inside.
Her shawl, gloves, and fan were laid out on the bed. On the dressing table, a jewel case sat open, but, from the wealth of gems that tumbled there, he judged that nothing had been burgled. The fire had almost died away, but candles still burned brightly. The faint scent of jasmine perfume hung in the air.
It was so very quiet.
Then he heard a small sound, a rustling, coming from behind the half-closed door of the adjoining dressing room, which he knew had been made into a bedroom for Carmen’s maid. Peter caught up the only weapon at hand, the fireplace poker, and went inside.
At first glance he thought the room as empty as the bedroom. Then he saw a flash of lilac satin against the floor, heard a low moan from behind the dressing table.
“Carmen!” he shouted, dropping down onto the carpet beside her prone body. Her black curls were sticky with blood, and she was alarmingly pale. For one sickening moment, he feared she was gone from him again.
But she moaned again, a bit louder, and her hand moved on the carpet.
He took that cold hand and pressed it against his chest. “Carmen?” he said urgently. “Can you hear me, love?”
“Peter?” She tried to turn her head and cried out.
“Do not move,” he said. “Just try to lie still.”
“Cold,” she murmured.
Peter stripped off his coat and tucked it around her. “I shall have Lizzie fetch a doctor.”
“Not yet! Not until ...”
“What happened here? Can you tell me?”
Her eyes opened, unfocused and dilated until they were completely black. They darted frantically about the room. “It was Esperanza. All the time.”
Peter was shocked. That frail old lady he had glimpsed earlier that day had bashed Carmen, who was a tall, athletic woman, over the head? He wondered fleetingly if Carmen was having delusions brought on by her head wound. “Your maid did this?”
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