The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  With him was Marcio Cardoso, who had obviously been imparting some last minute man-to-man instructions. Until Blas arrived at the Casa Audley, Cat considered Marcio her ideal of young manhood. Though only of medium height, his figure was lithe and graceful. A mass of dark curls topped a face handsome enough to turn female heads wherever he went. His deep brown eyes had soulful depths. Or so Cat thought. Now . . . now she tended to think rugged imperfection far more appealing. Obviously, she was growing up, Cat decided, with smug satisfaction as her feet touched the final stair.

  As she approached the two young men, Lucio Cardoso came out of the house. Solemnly, he handed her a wicker basket whose bulging contents were covered with a red and white checked cloth.

  The major domo of the House of Audley then directed his attention to Blas. “You will be careful,” Lucio Cardoso commanded the young man who was so obviously unaccustomed to taking orders. “Catarina has done this many times, so do not fail to do exactly as she says. No, you will not protest this! She is experienced, you are not. We are allowing you to take Marcio’s place because you have done well in the other tasks we have given you. So tonight you are to be entrusted with the most precious possession of Senhor Tomás—his Catarina and the contents of this basket. Now off with you. Do as she tells you. And nothing else!”

  Inside his study Thomas Audley let the drapery fall back in place. Sitting down heavily at his desk, he breathed a deep sigh,. With his country’s secrets he would trust the enigmatic young Englishman without a qualm. With Catarina he was not so sure.

  The gaming rooms of the Casa Audley were just beginning to fill with customers when Blas, dressed in the peasant’s clothes he had worn the day he arrived, and Catarina slipped out a small door set into the massive wooden gates at the rear of the house. The gates through which Blas, a month earlier, had driven his ox-cart with the eerily squeaking wheels. As they entered the dark narrow street, Catarina pulled the shawl up over her head, draping it into a cowl that hid her face from view.

  “Blast it, girl,” Blas protested, “this isn’t the harim. Or is this the approved ensemble for baby spies? If so, let me assure you it’s a tad obvious!”

  “You think you know everything!” Cat hissed, quivering with youthful indignation. “Portuguese women are almost as sheltered as the women of the harim. Inside the Casa I am allowed freedom because I am the daughter of a mad inglês and only to be pitied because I was not brought up in the proper manner. But in the streets I must be modest. I must also carry the basket, for it is not expected a man would so lower himself.”

  “Shouldn’t you walk three paces behind me?” Blas inquired sweetly. Catarina made a rude noise. “So tell me how long you’ve been making these trips,” he inquired. After all, it was his responsibility to maintain some sort of polite conversation with Thomas Audley’s only child, was it not? No matter what the provocation.

  Catarina slowed her pace, glanced around at the nearly deserted street. (For most Lisboans the evening was as yet too young for socializing.) “Since I was ten,” she replied, confident they would not be heard. “After my mother died, father arranged for me to meet other English children once or twice a week, usually at different homes, occasionally at the Embassy. It seemed perfectly natural for him to ask me to deliver letters when my governanta took me there.” Cat broke her train of thought to add: “Of course we did not tell Dona Felipa what I was doing.”

  With a shrug of her delicate shoulders, she continued walking, her musical voice echoing mysteriously out of the depths of her black shawl. “As the war came closer, Papa decided it would be better to vary the trips as much as possible. He arranged dancing classes, picnics, birthday parties, garden parties, any means we could think of. And he gave me more freedom. It was fun to be a peasant girl and make night deliveries of baked goods to the Embassy kitchens. In the past year—since the Somersbys were quartered at the Embassy—we have slipped into the habit of having Gordy—he is their son, you understand—come down to meet me, as if he were interested in me. De fato, I rather think he is,” Cat added lightly.

  Bloody Hell! Blas came to an abrupt halt, propelling Catarina into the shadow of a deep doorway. With heroic effort he confined himself to a hoarse whisper: “You’re telling me you’ve been a courier for your father’s work since you were ten years old!”

  “But of course. It has been neither arduous nor dangerous. In fact, it is very exciting. I enjoy it.”

  “Your father is indeed a mad inglês!”

  “How dare you criticize him? You who must live by your wits as he does. You of all people should understand!”

  The fight went out of him. When Catarina Audley was ten years old, he had been playing cricket and tormenting his tutors at Eton. He had been pampered, privileged, arrogantly indifferent to the world around him.

  Slowly, Blas uncurled the hands clenched at his sides. The chit was right. This was a world not his own; he, the stranger who must adapt. He was Blas, a Spanish peasant, escorting a young Portuguese servant to the British Embassy. Time to play his role in this masquerade. “What are we carrying tonight?”

  Catarina’s breath whooshed out on a sigh of relief. An angry Blas was not part of her vision for their walk through the dark streets of Lisbon. “I have no idea,” she admitted. “There is a specially marked loaf, with a swirl of dough on top. I give it to Gordon Somersby, and he takes it to his father. The other loaves are left in the kitchen for general use. So, you see, there is no danger. But if you do not wish to be part of it, I assure you Marcio will be happy to return to the role of escort.”

  “Vamanos,” Blas growled, disconcerted by a sudden rush of anger at the thought of Marcio Cardoso and Catarina Audley walking these dark streets together. A tight-lipped silence stretched between them until they were admitted to the warmth of the brick-floored kitchens of the British Embassy.

  “You’re late, Cat,” cried a pleasant-faced young man of some sixteen years. His open cheerfulness dissolved into grim suspicion as he caught sight of the black-haired peasant coming out of the shadows behind Catarina.

  “He is called Blas,” Cat replied to the unspoken question, “but you might as well know he is English as it will be stupidly uncomfortable if we must pretend with each other.”

  Gordon Somersby examined Blas with the rudely critical gaze of the young. “You don’t look English,” he said.

  “Spanish grandmother and maybe a Moor or two on the family tree.” How dare this young whelp challenge him?

  Cat regarded the two young men with dismay. They looked like fighting cocks just entering the ring. The contest, however, was remarkably short-lived. The only casualty was to a young man’s pride. Gordon Somersby, for all his years in diplomatic circles, was still a boy. Blas could give him five years and infinitely more experience.

  Young Somersby, conceding defeat in the silent duel, squared his shoulders and recalled his manners. “Come sit with us then. Cat and I usually talk for a while.”

  As Catarina seated herself at the large kitchen table, she threw off her shawl. Tantalizing strands of burnished copper hair, dangling over an expanse of creamy skin, highlighted her décolletage. A slow flush spread up Gordon Somersby’s face. Blas merely leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Catarina’s bosom. A wry smile of appreciation tinged his lips.

  Gordon sent Blas a ferocious scowl, swallowing hard before he was able to speak. “Cat, my mother said to tell you she has made all the arrangements for you to return to England with us. Father thinks the French could be here within the month.”

  “Never! I will not go.”

  “Cat, you have to!” Gordon’s boyish features mirrored his earnest concern. “Dom João has been resisting Boney’s ultimatum about not trading with us, but father says . . . well, you know how wishy-washy the prince is. And the Portuguese army is leaderless, next to useless. Father says that if Marshal Junot comes with an army, as everyone says he will, the royal family will go into exile in Brazil, and Portugal will give up
without a fight.”

  “At the very first echo of the pas de charge,” Blas agreed drily. “And down will go any Englishman foolish enough to still be in Lisbon. Confiscation of property will be just a starting point.”

  “Been doing your homework, I see,” said Gordon, not quite covering his resentment of the intruder.

  “Which is why, Cat,” said Blas—if the puppy could use this short form of her name, so could he!—”Somersby is absolutely right. You must return to England.”

  “It is out of the question,” Catarina stated flatly. “But you must give my thanks to your good mama, Gordon, and tell her that my father has made other arrangements. I am sure he has discussed it with Lord Strangford,” she added airily, not hesitating to cast the name of the British Ambassador before the two young men frowning at her so fiercely.

  Outmaneuvered, Gordon Somersby changed the subject. “I can’t understand why the Spanish don’t see what’s coming. Father says he’d wager a pony Boney will turn on Spain within the year.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” Blas agreed with the touch of dry superiority to be expected from a young man addressing his juniors, conveniently forgetting both were products of households where politics, diplomacy, and intrigue were daily topics of discussion. “I fear all our monarchs leave a good deal to be desired. Too much intermarriage, one presumes.”

  “Incest,” Cat nodded, startling both young men. “Papa says the Braganzas are nearly as bad as the ancient Egyptians.”

  “You shouldn’t know about such things,” Gordon declared hotly. “I do wish your father would learn . . .”

  “Enough!” said Blas. “You won’t win Catarina’s regard by criticizing her father. Shall we simply say a number of European monarchies suffer from too little strong red blood? Since we are all at the mercy of our monarchs, let’s be realistic, Cat. Take a look at what we face.”

  Blas swept the red and white checked cloth from atop the wicker basket and poked among its contents until he found a fat round loaf. He plunked it down on the far end of the rectangular wooden table. “Here,” he announced, “is Britain. Snug behind its oversized moat, quite content to let the rest of Europe fight its battles. No, little Cat, sheathe your claws. That’s the God’s truth. Hear me out.”

  Blas tapped the top of the fat loaf of bread. “We have a mad king who is not quite mad enough for anyone to declare a Regency. Our new Secretary for War is willing to send men to fight in Denmark and Egypt and against the Spaniards in South America. But no one in merrie olde England, my lovely Cat, is willing to challenge Boney directly. So there will be no help from home.”

  Gordon Somersby nodded sage agreement. His father’s opinion was exactly the same. After all, Thomas Audley was his expert consultant.

  Blas grabbed up a modest-sized oval loaf and placed it in the center of the kitchen table. “And here,” he declared, “is Portugal, which is blessed with a mad queen whose son Dom Jãoa has been Regent for eight years and is cursed with a sour and ugly wife who begs her father, the King of Spain, to invade her husband’s country.

  “And in Spain”—Blas slapped down a considerably larger loaf next to “Portugal”—”King Charles and his son Ferdinand squabble for power like princes of a petty principality instead of the third most powerful country in Europe.”

  Blas picked up the wicker basket full of the remaining loaves and placed it with dramatic flair at the opposite end of the table from the round loaf of Britain. “And here, beyond the Pyrenees,” he pronounced, “is France with the best-trained army and the most brilliant commander since Julius Caesar. Believe me, Boney will not tolerate Spain’s idiocy. So in the end, Somersby is right. Boney will have no choice but to gobble up Spain, leaving Charles and Ferdinand without a kingdom to govern.”

  Gordon turned to Catarina, solemn earnestness suffusing his young countenance. “He is absolutely right, Cat. You have to understand. There’s no chance of rescue. Castlereagh won’t send troops to Portugal, not even to protect the supply line to Gibraltar. There’s no lack of ships—the French haven’t had a navy since Nelson licked ’em at Trafalgar. But father says that even if our troops were ready, the government wouldn’t send ‘em. Boney’s just too strong for us, and that’s a fact.”

  Catarina’s shoulders drooped, but a sharp eye could detect a stubborn set to her chin. “I think we’d best be going,” she murmured. Cat picked up “Spain”—distinguished by a decorated swirl of raised dough—and handed it to Gordon before putting the remaining loaves on the pantry shelf.

  “You have ruined it, Blas,” said Cat with soft sadness as she returned to the table, the empty basket drooping at her side. “This has been our game, you see, a lark that added a bit of sparkle, a satisfaction to our lives. But you are too grown up. You make us see what we do not wish to see.”

  Blas’s amber eyes regarded her with unexpected sympathy . . . and a dash of guilt. “I set out to cross a hostile continent in the midst of a war. An enemy in a strange land. That was far more foolish than anything you two have done. It’s just that reality has caught up with us all. We are about to be invaded, and there’s not a damn thing any of us can do about it.” He held out a placating hand. “Come, Cat. It would appear we need to have a talk with your father.”

  The brace of candles in the Embassy kitchen was extinguished, leaving Gordon to find his way to his family’s quarters with a candle in one hand and the loaf of bread in the other. Blas and Cat exited into the blackness of the stable area, their journey home illuminated only by the light of a harvest moon.

  The streets were no longer deserted. Past ten in the evening, Lisbon was coming to life. Restaurants now cast their glow onto the cobbled streets. Music drifted through open doors, the keening sadness of the fado sounding over throbbing guitars. The lament of a baritone echoed from a taberna to meet and mix with a rich contralto from its counterpart across the street. Delicious shivers rose up Catarina’s spine. Enthralled by the contrasting laments echoing between the two tabernas, she nearly missed one of the Casa Audley’s frequent gamesters who was gazing idly out the window of a restaurant. With a sharp gasp Cat turned away, hastily drawing her embroidered shawl farther over her face.

  Blas suddenly gave a hard yank on her empty basket. He strode across the narrow street, dragging Cat behind him. Giving her no opportunity to protest, he plunged into a dark tavern and maneuvered his way to a small secluded table at the back. Cat was struck by the smell of cigar smoke, garlic sausage, sour wine, and rank humanity. She plunked the basket onto the floor under the table, then clutched her shawl up under her chin. “You’re mad! Father will kill you,” she hissed.

  Blas dismissed Thomas Audley with a negligent wave of his hand. “Anybody who looked the way you did when you heard the music deserves to see as well as hear. Look there, the fadista is almost as hidden in her shawl as you are. Come, Cat, take a peek! Now that you’re here, it would be quite stupid to see nothing but the tablecloth.”

  Slowly, warily, Cat adjusted her shawl, raising her gaze from the checked cloth in front of her. The room was dark, lit by flickering candle stubs. The singer—dressed entirely in black, her head covered by a black shawl—stood flanked by two guitarists, also dressed in black. The obligatory costume for songs of lost love, unrequited love, of lovers separated by family, war, desertion, or death.

  Cat felt her whole life beginning to expand. She was sitting in a long-forbidden taberna, listening to songs of love with Blas at her side. Idly, she sipped the dark frothy wine which appeared by her hand and thought it the best she had ever tasted. The French were forgotten. Life was good.

  It was only when the musicians retired for a well-deserved rest that Catarina returned to some semblance of reality and realized Blas was not unknown in this place. He had been greeted with warmth by the patrão. He nodded to a remarkable variety of customers at other tables, received openly flirtatious smiles from at least three young women. Cat sniffed. Ladies they were not.

  At the moment Blas was engaged in
conversation with a man of middle years who looked more like a felon than a customer. Cautiously, Cat surveyed the room, peeping around the edges of her shawl. Aiyee! There were few women at all. And of a certainty she was the only respectable female present. With frantic urgency she tugged on Blas’s arm. “We must go!” she hissed. “Instantamente!”

  Blas gave the flowered shawl a measured look, then wound up his conversation with a laughing comment, a jovial backslap. Carelessly throwing some coins on the table, he made an elaborate show of pulling out Catarina’s chair and helping her to her feet. With a firm hand, he steered her through the crowd and out into the welcome coolness of the October night. Cat was surprised when he conceded, “You’re right. Thomas will kill us both.”

  “I think we must have had a very long conversation with Gordon. All this talk of a French invasion . . .”

  Blas laughed. “Are you truly fourteen, Cat? You’re a far cry from any fourteen-year-old I’ve ever known.”

  “You probably haven’t known many,” Cat replied demurely. “Young men don’t. Papa does not believe girls should be kept separated from boys until they are sprung upon them full blown at age eighteen. It is one of the reasons he does not wish me to go to England. He says I would be quite miserable. And, besides, I would have to go to his cousin Ailesbury who is head of the family, and Papa says he would not have me raised by my Aunt Malvinia if she were the last female on earth. Also, I would drive her to distraction. So, you see, we must contrive something else. Papa needs me.”

  “He needs you alive!”

  “Then you must find a solution. For you must understand, inglês. When the royal family abandons us for Brazil, when the British ships take away the English colony, when the Portuguese army fades before Marshal Junot’s troops, Papa and I will still be here, doing what he has been doing since before I was born. I will not go, Blas. Absolutamente, I will not go!”