Lisbon

by Valerie Sherwood

  The house was very dark. The outside torch had not been lit; she would have to speak to Vasco about that. Wend must have gone to bed early or surely she would have noticed it. She cast her gaze upward toward the second-floor windows. Her own room was dark, and so, thankfully, was Rowan’s. So he had not returned, as Tom feared. Wend and the children occupied rooms in the back of the house, so she would not in any case be able to see their lights from here.

  Tom was frowning. "It is too dark." He said it flatly. "I will go in with you. "

  "No-no, you must not." Her light hand on his arm stayed him. "I do not want Wend to see you, and she might. Nor the other servants, who could describe you later." She felt ashamed to be talking like this, but it was the truth. If she was going to stay here, she could not afford to let stories find their way back to Rowan.

  "Then I will wait here until I feel you are safe," he said gruffly.

  Charlotte grasped the heavy iron knocker—and felt the door give as she did so. It was not locked! Wend must have left the job to Vasco. She began to feel uneasy. She swung the door wide, saw only the empty staircase sweeping upward into the dimness, lit only by a shaft of moonlight that sifted down, from a high window.

  "There is no one here," she said, feeling a sharp sense of relief.

  "When you have lit a candle upstairs, come to the window and wave," said Tom tersely. "Then I will know you are all right."

  "Yes." She had almost started in when suddenly it was borne in upon her that this might be the last, the very last time that she would ever hear his voice or see his face. Almost had she stepped inside when she whirled about and ran back in panic to fling her arms about him. "Oh, Tom, I cannot let you go," she said brokenly.

  He held her tightly for a moment, and when she looked up, she saw that his face in the moonlight was very white and set.

  "Go now, Charlotte," he said huskily, and put her away from him.

  Walking backward now, seeing him through a veil of tears, she again reached the door and went inside. She did not lock it, she did not have the key, but there was a finality in its closing that made her stop for a moment and lean against it. A chapter of her life was closing with that door. . . .

  There was not much furniture in the great hallway, and Charlotte moved forward surefooted to find the stairs, pooled in moonlight from a high window. She forced herself to hurry up them, afraid her resolve would break and she would turn once again and run back to Tom. Now she had reached the top—and she came to an abrupt halt.

  A door had swung open, and silhouetted against the candlelight stood Rowan, tall and menacing.

  For a moment Charlotte hesitated, her light apricot silk skirts swirling with indecision, poised like a butterfly on the top step. Rowan . . . was back. And advancing upon her.

  She summoned her courage. “I have been out all day,” she said, trying to sound casual. “When did you get back?”

  “I never left,” he said in a colorless voice.

  She realized her error then and turned in panic to run. Rowan’s long arm snaked out and seized the pannier of her skirt. The thin fabric held sufficiently long for him to swing her around to face him before it split with a rip.

  “I have ransacked the city looking for you,” he grated. “Where have you been?”

  Desperate, she tried to brazen it out. “With the Milroyds. I left word with Wend, did she not tell you?”

  “Liar!” His hand clamped down on her arm. “I was gone but a matter of hours and then returned here. There are no Milroyds! You have been with Westing. Admit it! My God, how long had you been planning it?”

  Charlotte’s eyes were great dark pools.

  Rowan had set a trap for her.

  And she had walked into it.

  “I am not the only liar,” she said from between white lips. “You told me Tom was dead. You left him there to die!”

  He brushed that aside with a shrug of his shoulder. “That does not signify. You are my wife. I told you long ago that I would not look back to what you did before you wed me, but that I would not forgive a further slip.” He towered over her.

  Charlotte held her breath. Oh, Tom, Tom, leave !she said in silent prayer. Go now while you still can! There will be other days for you, but this man is going to kill me!

  Suddenly Rowan barked a command, and four men came through a doorway below and stood on either side of the closed front door.

  Charlotte felt her breath leave her body as she saw them, for their presence there could surely mean only one thing.

  “Let him go,” she whispered. “Let him go, Rowan, and I promise you—”

  “Be damned to your promises,” he cut in bitterly. “You are a lying, faithless wench and I was mad to take you to wife. Call Westing in,” he added brutally. “Open your mouth and call his name.”

  “Tom!” she screamed. But before she could utter her next words, which would have been, “Run, it s a trap!”, Rowan s big hand had closed over her mouth, stifling the words.

  On the street below, Tom heard her call his name. He came through the door in a rush—and was attacked from both sides. His attackers used no weapons but their fists and boots, but the blows they struck were quick and hard. Overwhelmed by numbers, Tom never had a chance. He went down groaning to the floor and was kicked into unconsciousness.

  “Oh, stop them, stop them,” Charlotte moaned, writhing in Rowan s iron grasp. “Can t you see they’re killing him?” And then, to bring Rowan to his senses, “You’ll be accounted a murderer—I myself will accuse you!”

  At her words an expression so ugly crossed his face that at any other time she would have blanched before it. “I have no intention of killing your lover, Charlotte,” he drawled, and called down sharply to the men below to desist.

  “Then what do you intend?” she cried, terrified.

  “I intend to have him thrown upon a ship in irons and transported far away,” he said coolly, and she realized with prickling skin that he had given this considered thought, that while she had been lying in Tom’s arms in the velvet darkness, Rowan must have been pacing the night, making his plans.

  She closed her eyes, trying not to see the future—and opened them again at the scrape of boots and saw them dragging Tom’s inert body to the door.

  Rowan’s voice held devilish amusement. “He will wake up on the high seas, penniless, chained, and with his body a torment to him.’’ He seemed to relish the shudder that went through her. “He will wonder what has happened to you.’’ That stabbed at her too, for she was suddenly caught by the certainty that she would never see Tom again.

  Love had left her life. It would not be back.

  “I will not kill your lover, Charlotte—others will do that. ” His voice was like a whip flicking an open wound, and Charlotte stared at him in horror.

  “What . . . what do you mean?” she faltered.

  Rowan was pleased to explain. “The captain’s instructions are to take Westing five days out to sea and there drop him overboard sewn in a sack. He is one of those Madagascar blackguards, and I have paid him well—never doubt that he will do it.”

  Charlotte recoiled from him. “You are lying,” she said at last, but she said it without conviction. “Tell me that you are lying, Rowan!’’

  His short laugh was answer enough. “The ship sails within the hour. You do not believe me? Come, I will escort you to the waterfront, that you may view her departure.”

  Charlotte was dragged down the stairs screaming. At the front door Rowan thrust his handkerchief into her mouth, wrapped a scarf around her wrists, tied cruelly tight. He himself carried her into a waiting coach that seemed to have appeared from nowhere, dumped her contemptuously upon the cushions, and sat staring at her the whole way to the waterfront.

  There he pulled aside the coach’s curtain so that she could see in the dawn’s pale light a tall ship just now making her stately way down the Tagus toward the sea. It was too far to read her name, but her white sails billowed in the freshening breeze.


  Not till then did Rowan free her hands and jerk the gag from her mouth.

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself, Charlotte?” he demanded harshly. “Do you not care to weep, to supplicate?” Desperate, Charlotte leaned forward. She was trembling, and there were tears in her voice. “Find a fast skiff, overtake the vessel, bring Tom back! Give him back his life, Rowan, and I will do anything, anything, I promise you!”

  The sneer that passed over his dark features was not pretty to see. “It is too late to ask me to save Westing,” he told her brutally. “I thought you might wish to plead for mercy for yourself.”

  Too late . . . too late. . . . The words rang like a funeral dirge in her ears.

  “Murderer!” she screamed at him. “Murderer!” Panting, she flung herself upon Rowan, scratching his face, beating her fists against his chest. When he seized her wrists, she sank her teeth deep into his hand. With a howl of pain he flung her from him, flung her with such force that her head struck the side of the coach and she slumped unconscious down into the cushioned seat.

  25

  The Prisoner of the Alfama, Summer 1739

  Charlotte was kept aboard a vessel in the harbor for several days, bound and gagged, lying in darkness, listening to the rats creep about. She almost went mad during those days, but was sustained by the thought that if she were indeed on a vessel—and the rasping of the hawsers and the sounds that drifted down to her assured her that she was—then she must be going somewhere and there would surely be an end to the voyage.

  And when the voyage ended, she told herself with clenched teeth, trying to hold on to her sanity while a curious rat nibbled at the toe of her shoe, she would burst forth somehow and find her children and sweep them away. She would hie herself to the English consul and tell him how she had been treated—she would win his sympathy and institute divorce proceedings against Rowan. Surely, even though the world would judge her an adulteress, people would realize as well that she had been tricked and duped and treated with inhuman cruelty—the rats were proof of that!

  But the captain of the small vessel found time to look in on her with a lantern, saw the rat, and forthwith dispatched his cabin boy to sit by her and scare the rats away. When the boy removed her gag to give her water—nobody offered her any food—she tried through dry lips to question him, to ask where the vessel was bound. But he spoke a language strange to her and she could not get through to him.

  At last, when she felt she must surely starve, a coarse blanket that smelled of ship’s biscuit and moldy cheese was thrown over her and she was carried away under cover of darkness. She was lifted up—she thought into a coach, for there was a cushion beneath her, the vehicle lurched over the cobbles, and she could hear the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. She knew that they were passing through city streets but she did not know what town it might be—perhaps some fishing village along the coast, where she could make her escape.

  At last the conveyance stopped and she was carried into a building, for she heard doors open and close, and up a flight of stairs. Her skin prickled with fright. Could it be that she was being locked up in a tower somewhere? Then she was abruptly plumped down.

  It was a terrible shock to have the blanket removed and to find herself sitting in a chair in her own bedroom in the house in the Portas del Sol and to see by the light of a single candle, Rowan standing there with his legs spread apart and an evil expression on his dark face, looking down at her.

  “Well, I see you are none the worse for your nights aboard ship,” he remarked conversationally, reaching out to remove her gag.

  None the worse? Filthy and rumpled and starving, with her hair matted and uncombed? Charlotte stared at him in wonder. Did he intend to act as if nothing had happened?

  “I am famished, ” she said shortly. “And eager to see the children. ” It came to her suddenly that the house was very quiet. Too quiet. “Where are the children?” she asked in sudden alarm.

  Rowan shrugged and she saw that he was dressed for traveling. Indeed she now realized that the doors of the great armoire stood open and that it was empty—her clothes had been removed from it! And there was a heavy chest with a curved top lying near the door, as if waiting for removal.

  “Where is Wend?” she demanded.

  “Wend and the children are already aboard ship.”

  “We are going back to England then?” she inquired as calmly as she could.

  “I am going back to England. You will stay here. A mad wife will be of no use to me there.”

  Numbed though she was, new prickles of alarm went through her. “I am not mad!” she protested.

  “No, you are dead,” he said softly. “Your funeral was held the day before yesterday, and now the house is being closed up. It was a problem what to do with you, for the quarters you will henceforth occupy are not yet ready. But have no fear, they are promised by tomorrow. You will be taken there tomorrow night, and afterward my key will be turned back to the owner of this house. For myself, I sail in an hour. Meantime, I will leave you here in the care of these good people.” He nodded toward the closed door. “Their name is Bilbao.”

  Charlotte’s wits began to work. “People will say that you have murdered me!” she warned.

  His dangerous smile deepened. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “The funeral was swift because the doctor certified that you had gone mad and that some dangerous malady might have caused your illness—it seemed best to inter you quickly. So I have buried an empty coffin and even raised a stone to you. That should quiet any well-wishers you may have who come poking around. Ned came by to offer condolences—and left in a hurry when I told him there was fear of contagion.” Rowan’s tone was sardonic. “I told him I was taking my broken heart back to England to mend. And he’ll bear witness that he found me in deep mourning for my beloved wife—as indeed you see me now!” He spread out his arms and Charlotte realized that he was wearing funereal black; even his cocked hat was as black as his boots.

  “You make sport of me,” she said bitterly. “Loose me at once.”

  His brows shot up at this show of spirit.

  “I had thought you might ask me why I did not fill that empty coffin with your strumpet’s body.”

  “Very well,” she snapped. “I do ask you.”

  "Because, my dear”—he was always at his worst when he called her “my dear”—“I have no thought to be accused of your murder. You will take care of that for me yourself when you assess your situation and decide to take your own life. I leave the method to you—you are very inventive, so I am sure you will find a way to end it successfully.”

  “I will never take my own life!” she flared. “Release me at once or I will scream the house down!”

  His gaze upon her was almost fond. “I am sure you would delight in doing that,” he said. “For tis clear your spirit is not yet broken. But it will be, I assure you, although regrettably I will not be here to see it. If you scream, you will be promptly gagged again. I am sure you have had enough experience of that to make you prudent. ” Panic welled up in her. “Rowan, this is monstrous! Surely even you—”

  He cut through her protests silkily. “In the unfortunate event that you are discovered here in Lisbon after I have gone, my only crime will be that I have set up a sham funeral and left my mad wife in the custody of kind servants to avoid the humiliation of parading her back to England to be held up for ridicule. I have sworn statements from the doctor and two other witnesses that you were raving mad before you ‘died.’ ” He paused in the doorway, those dark gleaming eyes devouring the stunned expression on her white face. She saw in them the same look—was it triumph?—that he had worn when Katherine Talybont had whirled upon him that night in the inn, accusing him of murdering her husband. And, sure enough, he spoke of her. “I thought Katherine was bad, Charlotte, but you are worse. Katherine broke only her promise to wed. You broke your marriage vows.”

  “I came back to you,” she pointed out dully.

&nbs
p; “Back to me?” He brushed that aside with scorn. “But only until Westing whistled you away again!”

  It was true, it was true. If Tom had been able to take her away with him, she would have gone—and gladly. She was silent before the truth of it.

  “I searched for you throughout the city. God, I was gone only a matter of hours. You must have arranged ahead with him, you must have been waiting for the moment when I would leave. ”

  “No, it was a chance meeting.” But knew he would never believe her.

  He seemed not to have heard. “And then it came to me that I had no need to storm out into the countryside to find you. You would come back for the children. I had only to wait.”

  She gazed at him hopelessly. “I had told Tom good-bye. I never expected to see him again. ”

  “Oh, spare me further lies, Charlotte!” he said impatiently. He turned to go.

  Charlotte made one more desperate try. “Katherine Talybont will put it about that you have done away with me,” she warned. “If only to reinforce her claim that you instigated Talybont’s murder. ” Her eyes narrowed. “Which now I know you did.”

  That seemed to reach him. He did not even bother to deny it. He strode back and stood towering over her. “How many lies I have had to weave to make you feel comfortable in this marriage!” he marveled. “You, the adulteress! You, whom I set upon a pedestal and worshipped at your feet!” His teeth ground. “You are another Sophia Dorothea and you deserve the same fate! And shall have it!”

  Charlotte leaned forward. “You are a devil,” she said through clenched teeth. “Straight from hell.”

  For a moment their blazing eyes locked and held like the blades of duelists, locked hilt to basket hilt. Then he flung away from her and his contemptuous laughter floated over his shoulder as he left the room. Not until she heard his boots clatter down the stairway, heard the front door shut behind him, did a sob well up in her throat.

  As if on signal, when the front door closed, a heavyset woman came in carrying a bowl of broth. “I am Alta Bilbao,” she stated.