by Joan Aiken
My heart fell, horribly.
My dear Don Felix,
I think you should try to conclude your present business and return home without delay. [These words had been underlined a great many times.] Your grandfather His Excellency the Conde had a letter from the Land Commissioners in Madrid that distressed him so deeply that he suffered from a spasm, and lay for a day, unable to speak. Now he is just a little better, but asking for you. Please come as soon as may be.
Rodrigo Pujal
Oh, God. Please, dear God, don't let Grandfather die.
Juana was coming to say something to me. She looked distracted. I muttered, "I have had bad news concerning Grandfather. They—he asks me to return at once. He is ill—" and Juana's eyes went wide with concern and pity.
"Felix, I am so very sorry—shall I give your respects to the Reverend Mother?"
"Yes—if you please—and tell her—tell her—"
"I will tell her all that is proper," said Juana with a faint smile.
"Please, Juana—let us not lose touch—I will return as soon as I can—"
It felt as if we were being carried away, in different directions, by different currents. Half a dozen of the sisters were clustered around Juana, looking with some surprise at her sturdy, mud-splashed blue garments and sun-tanned, windswept appearance.
Doing my best to ignore them, I gently raised her hand, then kissed it.
"Hasta luego," I said huskily, and she, "Vaya con Dios."
Then I left the convent, and had to restrain from driving down the hill at a breakneck speed to the nearest posada where I could arrange to leave the chariot and hire myself a horse.
12. At Villaverde; the old ladies and their bird; good-bye to Grandfather
The journey back to Villaverde was speedy but sorrowful. I rode with a terribly heavy heart. Pedro's ghost seemed to travel by my side. As I drew closer to home, each turn of the road brought back memories of our outward, hopeful journey: Pedro asking me questions about Bilbao and the Basque ladies; and my own anxious, fervent, shimmering expectations of what might be waiting at our journeys end. How different reality had proved! And yet Juana herself was no different; the memory of her, herself, was like a glowing golden core, a certainty and warmth at the center of my being.
Whatever decision she came to, about her life and the future of the children, would be the right decision, I knew.
I had pressed on, traveling both day and night, making the journey in four days which previously had taken seven, and came to Villaverde late one evening. White moonlight bathed the uplands so that, although the month was June, a spectral winter seemed to lie over die rugged countryside. Villaverde's great pale wall rose up like the barriers set to keep sinners from the Holy City.
Please, please, dear God, let Grandfather be alive, I prayed unceasingly as I rode up the long, gradual ascent; and help me, in whatever troubles may be coming to me now, to behave like a man.
I was praying in Spanish—as I generally do; the word hombre—hombre—hombre echoed hollowly in time with the beat of my horses hooves; but God said nothing.
As soon as I reached the house, though, all was light and turmoil. Rodrigo wrung my hands, Prudencia wept, the old ladies fluttered about like disturbed bats, crossing themselves, lamenting, hobbling in and out of the oratory with their veils, beads, and crucifixes.
"Grandfather—?" I said to Rodrigo.
"Still with us—praise to the Holy Mother—hoping for you every minute—"
"I will go to him directly."
So Rodrigo led me away, cleaving a path through the choppy mass of the old ladies, who parted, like a bow wave, on either side of us.
My grandfather, for years past, had slept in a chamber on the ground floor, because of his infirmity and the wheelchair to which he was confined. But I had never been to his room, not once. When I was a child, we had not been fond of one another; I kept strictly to my own quarters in a distant wing. And by the time I was grown, his habits of dignity and privacy were so fixed that no one save Paco, his personal servant, would have dreamed of intruding on him. Now, it was with a sense of shock and awe that I saw for the first time the bleak spareness of his own space: a tiny slip of a room, a low, narrow pallet, one hard chair, a prie-dieu, and a small window looking out over the sierra. It was like a monastic cell.
Pillows had been piled on the bed, though. Grandfather lay against a mound of them, propped upright. He was wholly inert—a log, washed up on the shore. Only his eyes turned as I entered the room. For a moment I was in terror that he was deprived of speech, but his lips moved, and he said, "Hah! Felix, my dear boy! Rodrigo, you may leave us. But send Paco with some refreshment for the young señor."
I stooped and kissed his brow. His face, I saw, was somewhat swollen and flushed; instead of resembling a mountain eagle he now, perhaps, looked more like an owl. And his eyes had lost their flash; indeed, at the moment, they were filled with unshed tears.
As were my own.
He is old, I thought. He is an old weak man, near his end.
Kneeling by the bed, I took his hands, which felt thin and bony, and very cold.
"Dear Grandfather. I am sorry that you are ill."
"Better for seeing you, my dear boy."
His voice was not strong. It had sunk to a deeper, hoarser note than I remembered. But he had not lost his acuteness and acerbity.
"Well?" he demanded. "What befell you? Did you find the children? What happened to Manuel de la Trava?"
"One of the children died—poisoned by her own mother—who is also dead. The other two children are with Juana in the convent at Bilbao—one, the boy, very sick, also poisoned. Manuel de la Trava escaped—I devoutly hope—and will go overseas to the Americas."
What an immense and complicated tale it would be to tell. But at this moment Paco came in, beaming with welcome for the "young señorito" and a tray of bread and cold meat, which I was glad to devour, since I had hardly eaten for several days. Meanwhile my grandfather was supplied with restoratives and cordials which, under protest, he swallowed.
Between bites, I gave him most of the story, and he listened, nodding and frowning.
"So: as I thought. It was a trap."
With an ache at my heart I remember Pedro saying the same thing at Tiermas. "We are being led into a trap."
"Grandfather—Pedro is dead. They killed him. For no reason, except that he knew Don Amador was implicated in Conchitas murderous plans."
Death, I suppose, had no greater importance to Grandfather just now, he being so near his end. (That, with sorrow, I could tell from everything about him.) He said, "Pedro was a good lad. And I am grieved for your sake that he is gone, as I know how fond of him you were—and he was like a right hand to Rodrigo. But he died doing his duty—he saved Juana's life, you say?
"Yes, he did."
"No man can do better. God knows that. He will have his reward. And you killed his murderers?"
"Yes, I am almost sure."
"So that chain is wound up. And the children are safe, and Don Manuel—"
"We hope—"
"Indeed I hope, very greatly, that Manuel's son may live to grow up," said the Conde thoughtfully. "Our country is in such a sorry and desperate state. Too many factions are warring, one with another, for wrong reasons. Men of such stature as Manuel de la Trava £ire needed, and will be needed, for a hundred years to come. I can see no easy way out of the pass we are in."
I thought of Professor Redmond, how he had said the same thing. But then, harking back, I asked, "About the trap, Grandfather?"
"It was all a Carlist plot—to get hold of you, to put pressure on me—"
"But why? Why? Why should we be of any importance?"
Grandfather's lips twitched in a faint parody of a smile.
"They still think I have some faint influence, I suppose. And that you may have, by and by. When the letter came from Madrid—"
"The letter—"
"A communication from the Superint
endent General of Police, saying that I was suspected of complicity in a Liberal conspiracy and must stand trial; if I was found guilty my lands would be confiscated, unless I could pay a fine of a hundred thousand reales. Being old and stupid I let the letter frighten me—since I could not by any possibility pay such a fine—and I fell sick. But now that I have thought about it I am not afraid any longer."
"Grandfather, I believe it is because they all still think that the English army dollars are somewhere on our land."
"It would be ironic, would it not, if they were really there? When I think of your poor English father, living here, all unknown, as a stable hand, when you were a boy? It fills my heart with shame to think of him, Felix—"
"He chose it for himself, Grandfather," I said stoutly. "He loved horses—"
"But in any case, if the money were there—which I take leave to doubt—it must of course be returned to its rightful owners," my grandfather pronounced.
I grinned, thinking of the fearsome difficulties this would involve. A British Army pay load from eighteen years back ... To whom, in England, would we have to send off all those chests of gold and silver dollars? To the War Office?
"Well," I said, "let us hope it is not there. Where there may be. In any case, dear Grandfather, do not trouble any further about the fine. I think I may now be entitled to claim moneys from my English estates—" and I told him the news that Don Amador had given me, about the death of the Duke of "Wells. His face did clear at this information, and he nodded, slowly.
"God is wonderful. Only to think that you, a little impertinent yellow-haired boy, should rise to be an English duque! But Felix, never mind all that—though I fear that it will bind yet another heavy load upon your shoulders, which doubtless you will bear as best you can.
"It is an inexpressible joy to see you home again. But my dear boy, I had hoped that you would bring your Juana with you. I hoped that you would persuade her out of her convent, and marry her. Since I have seen, for years past, that your heart was set on her. And indeed she sounds a most redoubtable young lady."
He said all this in pauses, with breaths taken between.
"She is without peer, Grandfather."
"Did you tell her that you loved her?" he demanded crossly, sounding like Juana herself.
"Yes." I smiled a little, thinking of the circumstances in which that declaration had been made, in the tartana, with Conchitas cloaks and feathers piled on top of us. "And I am not entirely without hope. For one thing she is going to need help with those children. Nico, if he lives, may be frail—and Pilar is a little demon—"
And also, I think—I hope—that Juana loves me in return; her look as we parted, her laughter in the tartana, even her childish jealousy over Conchita ... But this I did not say. It would have seemed like tempting Providence.
"And you, my poor child, will need help with your great-aunts," said Grandfather. "Not to mention the administration of your English estates—and this one; if those vultures do not snatch it away from you." He thought for a moment, and said, "The Mother Superior of that convent—Mother Agnese—she is a real serpent, it seems. I had a letter from an old friend and correspondent in Madrid, Angel Saavedra, who informed me that Mother Agnese's brother is the Franciscan prior Father Torrijos, who, with several others, has been implicated in a Carlist conspiracy and imprisoned for his part in it. Doubtless his sister was his accomplice."
"Good heavens, Grandfather!"
I thought of Juana, back in the convent, subject, again, to this evil woman. Who was also a friend of the old Escaroz. Would they create trouble for us? Demand the children? Whisk away Juana to some distant house of the Order in Krakow or Normandy before I was able to see her again?
"I will return to Bilbao as soon as possible, Grandfather. As soon as you can spare me. But first I will write to that Superintendent in Madrid, saying that you took part in no plot, and are ill, and must not be bothered, and that all correspondence must be addressed to me at present, but that if there is a fine, it will be paid. That will show them they will gain nothing by threats."
"It will make them even more eager for your English gold," said Grandfather drily. But he did not forbid me, £ind I thought he looked relieved.
"Then I will go to Bilbao and say—and say that I have your permission to pay my addresses to Señorita Esparza. Have I your permission?" I asked, smiling.
"With all my heart, dear boy."
Now Dr. Valdes, my grandfather's physician, came bustling in, to say I had tired the Conde for quite long enough. "Though indeed I can see you have done him good," he said kindly. "His color is much better."
And I, stifling a great yawn, was glad enough to say good night, for every bone of me ached with fatigue.
"Good night, Felix," said my grandfather. "You have done well. As I expected."
That gave me a glow in the heart.
Outside his bedroom door I found several of the old ladies, anxious to waylay me: Josefina and Visitación, Natividad and Adoracion were all hanging about. "Come," whispered Visitación, "Josefina wishes to show you something. It will not take a moment."
Two of them led me, their little bird-claw fingers clutching my arms, to the oratory, with its red light, where Natividad snatched up something that lay on the stone step before the altar and displayed it to me.
"What in the world is it?"
"Josefina made it. Is she not clever?"
Josefina, who had not spoken for the past two years, nodded a great many times, her eyes bright with pride.
"But what is it?"
It looked like a wooden bird, about the size of a pigeon, very clumsily made. All over it, thin carpenters' shavings had been glued, to represent feathers.
"Now, we are going to show you!" whispered Adoración, and they led me, giggling, whispering, and mumbling as before, to the parlor where, during the day, the old ladies mostly sat doing their stitchery. Here a low fire smoldered, and Josefina, with many flourishes and much ceremony, took the crazy wooden bird and laid it on the embers.
In a moment the shavings caught fire and the whole object was quickly consumed by flames.
"Do you see?" whispered Natividad in triumph. "That is all your trouble burned away. And especially Agnese Cantarillos. Josefina was at school with her; she remembers her well and says that she is spiteful and not to be trusted. But now she can surely do you no more harm!"
They all smiled and looked at me expectantly, waiting for my praise and thanks.
Poor crazy old creatures! What could I do? I patted them, told them I was sure their specific would work wonders, and praised Josefinas industry. Then I reeled off toward my bedchamber, but turned aside for another visit to the chapel, to thank God for having permitted me to see Grandfather again, and to say a prayer for Pedro.
In the oratory I found Prudencia, kneeling humbly at the back of the room, her head buried in her arms, and her shoulders heaving with sobs.
Guilt smote me, for I had meant to take her the news of Pedro's death myself; plainly Paco had told her. News always traveled about the corridors at Villaverde with lightning speed.
Wordlessly, I hugged Prudencia and rubbed my cheek against her plump, downy one. She hugged me back strongly, and I thought: How in the world could a great, complicated establishment such as this household ever be wound up and shut down? If it had to be done? All the folk that it contains and supports—Rodrigo, Paco, Gaspar, Prudencia, the old ladies—God give me help to take up such a burden!
Then, feeling that was as much of a prayer as I could achieve just then, I limped to my room. And, just before I slept, had a sparkle of message from God: Remember, Felix, life is not only burdens. After all, your grandfather, in his youth, led his men to battle, rode wild horses, went hunting on the mountains....
That is true, I thought drowsily, and I imagined God and Grandfather chatting together somewhere, comfortably, leaning elbows on a wall and looking out over the snowy peaks of the Ancares.
Then I slept.
As I walked with him about the courts and storehouses and stables, all so brimming with memories, of Bob my father, of Pedro, of my old Gato, I thought, you do not have to be happy in a place to love it. For my childhood had not been a happy one. I had wished to run away from home and had done so. Yet suffering in it knits you to a place with tighter bonds.
When the most urgent affairs were dealt with, I went to say good-bye to Grandfather yet again. For I had his authority to travel back to Bilbao without delay, to hear Juana's decision, and to discover how Nico went on.
This second leave-taking was not an easy one. Grandfather was weaker today, I could see; our talk last night had tired him more than his body could afford. He lay, wax white, on his pile of pillows, and could hardly spare the strength to speak, or to lay his hands in mine.
But—"Embrace Doña Juana for me!" he said with the ghost of a smile.
"I will do so."
He beckoned my head lower, near his, and I saw that, as yesterday, his old eyes were full of tears. Body and spirit were very nearly parted now; his body was hardly more than a carcass, limp and feeble; yet still his spirit breathed strongly in the words he whispered, which I had never heard from him before: "My boy, I love you very dearly," uttered so faintly that even a mosquito on the wall would hardly have heard.
My throat was tight; I could do nothing but press his hands, then turn to go. "Hasta luego!" I croaked from the doorway.