Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’ll wake you when it’s time to leave,” he said, nodding to another acquaintance who was en route to a box farther on along the corridor.

  “You would, wouldn’t you?” She stepped into the small chamber and found an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it waiting for them; two flutes stood on the minuscule table, a plate of canapés precariously balanced on the edge of it. “I’d almost forgot about this.”

  Saint-Germain pulled the door closed and tugged one of the curtains half-way across the front of the box. “Sit down, Doña Isabel. Let me pour you a glass of champagne.”

  “You won’t have any, will you? You never do.” She expected no answer and got none as she chose the seat on his left, and sank into its brocaded embrace with real appreciation. “This is very comfortable.”

  “Then make the most of it,” he recommended as he loosened the guard on the champagne cork, took it off, and gave the cork a single, expert twist. He eased it out of the bottle and poured out the pale, foaming liquid into one of the flutes. “Here you are,” he said as the houselights began to dim.

  She took the flute and sipped at it once, watching Saint-Germain as he put the bottle back in the ice, then sat down as the theater hushed. The champagne was very good; it lightened her heart just enough to make it possible for her to enjoy the performance. On impulse she took one of the canapés as the curtain rose on the court of Charles V. By the end of the act, she had eaten all but two of the delectable tidbits and was on her third glass of champagne, though she hardly felt its effects at all. Over the welling applause, she said, “It’s engrossing, isn’t it? And well-written.”

  “It has a certain appeal,” Saint-Germain answered, and poured more champagne for her. “This will have to be the last: we will be leaving in half-an-hour.”

  “The intermission is twenty minutes,” she said, a bit disappointed, for they were often longer.

  “And ten minutes after the second act begins, we will leave,” he reminded her.

  Doña Isabel’s face changed, taking on sad purpose. “Yes. Of course. As you say, once the play resumes, attention will be directed elsewhere.” She brushed imaginary crumbs off her skirt and adjusted her fox wrap. “I’ll be ready.” She struggled to keep her smile bright, then gave it up and drank half the champagne in her flute. “I’ll be ready,” she repeated as if to convince herself.

  “Do you want to stroll in the gallery? Or visit the rest room?” He had risen and was looking out into the theater, where a rush of conversation had begun.

  “I suppose I should, but I don’t think I can. I might start weeping, or who knows what,” she said, and finished the champagne. “I probably shouldn’t have any more of this.” Her stare revealed her unslaked thirst.

  “If you would like some, you have only to tell me. There is a third of it left,” he said, and took the bottle from the ice.

  She shook her head. “No. We’re going to be on the road soon and I don’t want to be too much the worse for drink.”

  “It is going to be a long night, and you’re nervous,” he warned her. “You may want to nap along the way.”

  She considered this, and held out her flute. “Just a little more, then,” she said, watching him pour.

  “Enjoy it,” he recommended as he put the bottle into the ice bucket again. “Once we leave, we will not stop until we reach our destination, unless the army decides otherwise.”

  “Where are we going?” She had not dared to ask this until now, and it took all her courage to speak. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “We are going to meet an airplane. It may be just as well if I don’t mention the place, in case we are stopped.” He looked directly at her, his compelling gaze holding her entire attention. “I will tell them we are bound for Sevilla.”

  “Sevilla,” she repeated. “I’ll remember.”

  “When I return, I will leave the Hotel della Luna Nueva and move into a house on Avenida de las Lagrimas. I will supply you with the address when you arrive at Copsehowe. I have received permission for the move already, so there should be no difficulty.” He gently brushed her cheek with his fingertips.

  “So many changes,” she murmured. “And we’re going to Sevilla.”

  “Um.” He sat down again. “Have you ever been in an airplane before?”

  “No, I haven’t,” she admitted. “I’ve always wanted to, but that’s not the same as doing it. Do you think I’ll enjoy it?”

  “You may. You may not,” said Saint-Germain, who disliked flying only slightly less than he disliked traveling by boat. “It is fast. Much faster than dirigible.”

  “It’s exciting, I should think, being up in the air, with the clouds all around you.” She put her flute down and sat a bit straighter. “I’ll be ready,” she assured him a third time, then lapsed, into uneasy silence that lasted until the chimes rang for the second act.

  He reached out and laid his hand reassuringly on hers. “You have no reason to worry about me, Isis.”

  “At least you’ve stopped calling me Doña Isabel,” she said, trying to hold her emotions at bay, for she was afraid they would overcome her if she gave them opportunity.

  The curtain went up, sparing Saint-Germain the necessity of answering her; the two of them allowed themselves to be captivated by the action on the stage until, ten minutes later, Saint-Germain moved his chair back and rose. “Come; it’s time to go.”

  She looked up at him, a bit startled, and swallowed nervously. “Of course,” she said with a sangfroid she did not feel. “I’m ready,” she insisted, although now that the moment was upon her, she was not. Clutching her beaded purse as if it were a life-belt, she followed him out the door, hearing the soft snick of the latch as if it were a clap of thunder, utter and final.

  The waiters were not at their stations on the gallery, and there was only a single usher near the door as they descended the sweep of the staircase. Once outside the theater, Saint-Germain led her to the Minerva and helped her into it, taking a light-weight lap-rug from the backseat and spreading it over her knees. “It’s going to be chilly once we get on the road. You can wrap up in this.”

  She pulled the lap-rug about her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Saint-Germain got into the Minerva, pressed the ignition, and adjusted the choke, waiting as short a time as he could before putting the automobile in gear and heading out onto the street. “It is going to be a long night, Isis. Sleep if you can.”

  “All right,” she said; she huddled down in the seat trying to find a comfortable position; much to her surprise, in half-an-hour she was dozing.

  They left Cádiz without incident and swung onto the road to Sevilla; there were few autos on the highway, and only two lorries, their headlights standing out against the darkness in long cones. Dust sprayed up from their tires obscuring the road ahead much as a bank of fog would do. Saint-Germain kept at a steady, moderate speed, and in three hours was almost alone in the vast expanse of the night. Six kilometers from Sevilla, he turned southeast toward Utrera, onto a narrow, unpaved lane that wandered between fields. “We haven’t much farther to go.”

  “Good,” murmured Doña Isabel, and yawned.

  “Go back to sleep,” he recommended, skillfully avoiding a series of potholes the size of bathtubs.

  “Your Minerva will get damaged on such a road,” she murmured in a tone of real regret; she shifted in the seat but could not bring herself to sleep. She looked out at the shadowy landscape. “Is it far to go from here?”

  “It is roughly two kilometers,” he said.

  “Roughly. Yes, roughly,” she said, glad of a little amusement. She took a deep breath. “How long will it take me to reach London?”

  “Well,” Saint-Germain said, “you will fly from here to Burgos, where you will refuel at my airfield there; you will not leave the airplane at Burgos. If possible, no one should see you. As soon as the pilot is ready, you will fly on to Nantes, where refueling has already been arranged. You will change clothes a
nd have breakfast there, and then you’ll go on to London, and should be there shortly after noon, if all goes well.” He wanted to reassure her, but was aware that she would not be consoled by anything he said just now.

  “Noon. So quickly,” she said. “Less than twelve hours.”

  “If all goes well,” he reminded her; he was worried about Burgos, with its soldiers and spies, and the increasing tension of a region about to burst into war, but he decided to make no mention of it, for she would become more anxious than she was if she knew there could be trouble ahead. He had filed the appropriate forms for a test run of the new Spartan Type 30, and he hoped that would ensure a minimum of fuss with officials.

  “Yes. Of course,” she mumbled as she pulled the lap-rug higher up her chest. “It’s getting cold.”

  “And the airplane will be colder still,” he reminded her. “Take the lap-rug with you when you get aboard.” A dip in the road demanded his full attention on his driving, and so he did not quite hear her remark. “Pardon?” he said as the way smoothed out.

  “I think I should call someone, just to let them know I’m safe,” she said.

  “Do that when you reach London. Send telegrams to all your friends,” he suggested. “You will be safe then, and you’ll be able to be more candid than you can be here in España.”

  “But—” She stopped herself. “You’re right; you’re right. I’ll wait until I am out of the country. It seems craven, but I know it’s the sensible thing to do.”

  “Good.” He gave her a quick smile.

  She huddled into the lap-rug. “I hope so.”

  He reached over to touch her shoulder. “I know this is hard, querida. Being forced out of one’s home is never pleasant.”

  She was very still. “No,” she said at last. “It’s not.”

  He reduced his speed, knowing his turn was not far ahead. “We’re almost there.”

  “Oh.” She had to quell a frisson of apprehension. “So soon.”

  “It’s almost one in the morning,” he said, turning off onto a single-lane track that led off to the east between two fenced fields, one of which lay fallow, the other bristled with corn. “Hold on,” he warned her as he turned into the fallow field at the open gate in the fence. “Look. There. Up ahead. You can see it, under the lights.” A single airplane stood at the far end of the field near a small shed where two large bulbs blazed.

  “Oh. Dear,” said Doña Isabel, one hand to her cheek.

  “That’s our new Type 30 Spartan,” said Saint-Germain. “Two engines, seats six,” he went on: “This model has improved speed, or so we hope. Your flight will demonstrate whether or not the engines are indeed faster than the Type 29.” He pointed to the man emerging from the shed. “The pilot, Raul Telas. He’ll be taking you to London.”

  She stared through the windscreen with new intensity. “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-six,” said Saint-Germain, and braked to a halt.

  “Isn’t that young?” Doña Isabel asked, though she was only six years older than he. “He has so much responsibility.”

  “He’s very experienced. Flying is a young man’s work, Isis.” Saint-Germain turned off the engine.

  “When do we leave?” asked Doña Isabel.

  “As soon as we get you and your things aboard.” He opened the door, stepped out, and went around to the boot, removing the Gladstone bag before he went to help Doña Isabel out of the automobile. “Take my arm.”

  Raul Telas was coming toward them. “Comte. You’re here promptly.” He slapped the front of his leather aviator’s jacket. “I’m finishing my supper. Would you like some broiled pork?”

  “No, thank you,” said Saint-Germain. “Here is your passenger.” He brought Doña Isabel up to the wide runway that ran the length of the field.

  “A pleasure,” said Telas, staring appreciatively at Doña Isabel. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes. I’ll let down the stairs.”

  “Thank you,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Yes,” Doña Isabel echoed. “Thank you.”

  Telas trooped over to the airplane and pushed the release, then stood aside as the stairs dropped down with a section of the side of the airplane. “There. Go aboard. Take any seat you like. They’re none of them fancy, and there’s not much to choose among them. There’s a small chemical toilet, if you need to use it.” He laughed at Doña Isabel’s look of dismay. “It is a real improvement. In the old days, we had to carry cans.”

  Saint-Germain helped Doña Isabel into the airplane, ducking over in the small cabin. “You’ll be comfortable enough sitting down,” he said as he put the Gladstone bag on the nearest seat. “If you want the coat, you should take it out now; Telas will stow the bag in the compartment between the cockpit and the cabin.”

  “Yes. The coat,” she said distantly. “I’d like that.” She still held the lap-rug, and she looked about for somewhere to put it. “Should I keep this with me?”

  “Certainly,” said Saint-Germain. “Anything that will make you comfortable.” He guided her to the seat across from the one where he had put the Gladstone bag. “Tell me, do you want something to drink on the flight? Telas will have a jug of tea. It won’t be very hot, but it will be yours to drink.”

  She closed her eyes for a long moment. “So tell me, Comte, will you come to see me in England?”

  “I may,” said Saint-Germain. “We shall see.” He helped her fasten her seat-belt, then kissed her forehead. “I have put my solicitor’s card into the pocket of your coat; he’s expecting to hear from you as soon as you arrive in London. If you need to reach me, he will always know where I am,” he said as he opened the Gladstone bag and pulled out the heavy iris-blue coat of fashionable cut; he handed it to her. “Use it as a blanket if the lap-rug isn’t enough.”

  “You’ve anticipated all my concerns,” said Doña Isabel.

  “To the best of my ability,” said Saint-Germain, and stepped back to the door. “Bon voyage, Isis. Have a pleasant flight.” Saint-Germain climbed down from the airplane and turned toward the shed, where he saw Raul Telas hurrying out, a small valise in his hand, a peaked cap on his head at a rakish angle. “Send a telegram from Burgos and one from Nantes,” he told the young pilot.

  “I will. I have your instructions with me,” he said, hefting the valise as if offering proof. “I’ll make a full report when I return.” He laughed. “I’ve never been to London before. Would you dislike it very much if I spent the night there? I’d like to have a look at the place while I’m there.”

  “If you like,” said Saint-Germain as Telas reached the airplane and got aboard, closing the drop-down door behind him. In a matter of minutes the two engines had sputtered to life and the Spartan Type 30 began to taxi to the farthest end of the runway before sprinting down the hard-packed earth and rising into the night, eclipsing the brilliant display of stars. The Spartan wheeled to the north, gaining speed and altitude. When he had lost sight of the airplane, Saint-Germain went into the shed and turned off the lights.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM MILES SUNBURY OF SUNBURY DRAUGHTON HOLLIS & CARNFORD IN LONDON TO FERENC RAGOCZY, LE COMTE DE SAINT-GERMAIN, IN CÁDIZ; WRITTEN IN ENGLISH.

  SUNBURY DRAUGHTON HOLLIS & CARNFORD

  SOLICITORS AND BARRISTERS

  NEW COURT

  CITY OF LONDON, ENGLAND

  29 June, 1936

  Ferenc Ragoczy, Comte de Saint-Germain

  Avenida de las Lagrimas

  Cádiz, Spain

  My dear Comte,

  I am pleased to inform you that Doña Isabel Inez Vedancho y Nuñez has taken up residence at Copsehowe, in accord with the terms agreed upon with Peter Whittenfield, and that she has declared the arrangement to be to her satisfaction, although she has arranged to have three of the rooms repainted, a request well within the contract with Whittenfield. In accordance with your instructions, I have arranged for Doña Isabel to have protection around the clock, although I still believe you are being overly protective of the lady; she m
ay have been in danger in Spain, but I would be astonished to learn that she faced any threats here in England. Hampshire is not Catalonia. Still, your instructions were specific and I have put them into action just as you specified: two men who are ostensibly gardeners and occupy the gatehouse of Copsehowe are retired army officers with experience in intelligence work. They keep watch over Doña Isabel and make notes on all comings and goings from Copsehowe. I must tell you that they, too, believe such precautions are excessive, but they will keep at the work as long as you are willing to pay for it. I have paid them out of your miscellaneous account, in accord with your orders, and will continue to do so as long as you would like, and are satisfied with the terms of their employment.

  Your own house in London is still kept ready for your occupancy; I have, in the last year, retained three new servants to occupy the house and maintain it for you. Your previous servants had reached the age of retirement, and have accepted your very generous pension. Your new housekeeper is Ernestine Bell, your steward is Desmond Reeves, and your cook is Hilary Shoemaker; Mrs. Shoemaker does not live in, Mrs. Bell and Mr. Reeves do; Mr. Reeves’ wife is also in service, and spends the night with him at your house, an arrangement that has proven satisfactory. Mrs. Bell is a widow with a ten-year-old daughter who lives with her aunt and uncle in Gloucestershire. I am enclosing copies of all their recommendations and references for your files, and copies of the terms of the pensions you have provided for your former staff.

  I am also enclosing four brochures, as you asked, on airlines flying across the Atlantic, along with their schedules. If you decide to undertake such a journey, I would be pleased to purchase tickets for you from here, in order to avoid questions in Spain, as I take it you wish to do. Tell me your preference and I will comply.

  I have arranged the transfers of funds you have requested, one to the Credit Lyonaise office in Avignon, one to the Bank of America in San Francisco, California. I have included the certificates of transfer as per your instructions. I hope I will have the pleasure of seeing you in London, although I suspect that you are once again going to Montalia in Provence. Your dealings with the vintner in California continue unabated, and are finally beginning to show the promise of profit My father thought it Quixotic of you to support such a venture during the time alcohol was illegal in the States, but now that they have rescinded that absurd law, you stand to do very well by your investment; you chose well when you took on that enterprise, there can be no doubt about that now.