Cassandra studied the elegant woman before her. She did not look destroyed. “This Spaniard you have married ...” she began.
“Carlos saved me from the law when I was about to be arrested for dancing on the street for coins. I had been badly treated in Lisbon and I fell ill—I was ill for a long time. Carlos nursed me back to health and we had a brief affair. Then ...” Her voice drifted off.
She could hear Carlos speaking to her again, not facing her, that day in the Algarve, after the doctor had left him. He had been leaning hunched over the railing of their balcony in the gathering darkness, looking out upon the almond trees, their blossoms like a drift of snow beneath a slender white moon.
He had looked young and defenseless standing there, this man who had brought her back to life with his kindness.
Stirred by sudden unease, she had asked him what was wrong.
He had straightened up suddenly, as if caught at something. He had told her that nothing was wrong, not to concern herself. But there was that in his voice that told her he was lying. She waited, and when he spoke again, his voice was wistful. His words rang in her memory, telling her that he was for Spain tomorrow, and that he wanted her to come with him—as his wife.
Charlotte had caught her breath. It was the first time Carlos had mentioned marriage. Before she could frame an answer, before she could tell him that she had responsibilities back in England, he spoke again, on a note of bitterness—telling her that it would not be for long, the doctor had promised him that.
That had shocked her. She had demanded to know what the doctor had told him. And listened in silence as Carlos coolly explained that the doctor had confirmed what Carlos himself had suspected—that the same malady that had killed his father was now visited upon him. Almost as if he were speaking of some other person, he told her that he would have a while yet. And then there would be a wasting away. And then he would become weaker and weaker, and then—he had grimaced at this point—he would die in great pain.
She had asked him unsteadily how long the doctor had given him.
Carlos had shaken his head and said the doctor could not be sure. But this doctor had attended his father at one time and he had confirmed that Carlos’ condition duplicated his father's. That cool voice was grave as he asked her to think, to consider, for as his widow Charlotte would have the law’s protection, but as his mistress, once he was dead, she would have none. If she would but marry him, he would know as he lay dying that she would be provided for, not hounded from town to town by his greedy nephews, who would seek to recapture after his death anything that he might give her.
Not long . . . she saw that he had not long. Oh, life was so unfair! Don Carlos was the kindest person she had ever met. And now he was going to die. In great pain, the doctor had said.
She was deeply moved. She told him that he honored her too much and that there was something that she must tell him. What she wanted to tell him was that back in England she had a living husband and two small daughters for whom her heart longed.
But Carlos had refused to listen. He had hushed her, touching her lips with gentle fingers. There had been a dignity in him as he had bidden her to allow him his dreams, to let whatever was in the past stay in the past. Searingly she remembered his words: We met by chance and we became lovers. God was merciful to a fool, and I could ask no more. It hurt her heart to remember them.
Still she had felt she must tell him, and he had silenced her again, insisting that before she spoke she must first hear his own story. He had been married in his teens to a girl he scarcely knew. A girl who sat with him in brooding silence with her duêna beside her beneath the cork oaks in the sunny courtyard of her family estate, shredding the petals of the blood-red roses he brought her as proof of his love. Although she had seemed to scorn him, her father had assured Carlos that it was just his daughter s wild, high-spirited way, and Carlos had believed it. Her father had assured Carlos that after they were married Jimena would learn to love him. Carlos had believed that too. Oh, he had known that Jimena had had other suitors who serenaded the night away beneath her iron-grilled balcony, but he had never dreamt that Jimena was being forced to marry him.
At the words “forced into marriage," Charlotte's heart had given a lurch. Too well she remembered what it was like, being forced into marriage.
Jimena had been silent and pale throughout the ceremony, and when word came that her older brother had killed one of her former suitors in a duel, she had fainted. By then Carlos was half-drunk—with wine, with life, with the joy of having just been wed to the most beautiful girl in all Castile. His voice in the telling was now so grim that Charlotte leaned forward, hanging on his words. They had told him that Jimena was waiting for him in their bedchamber, and he had stumbled up the stairs joyfully to claim her. How eagerly he had parted the hangings of the canopied four-poster to view by moonlight his wondrous new-won bride!
Behind those hangings he had found instead a woman with a dagger plunged hilt-deep into her chest, a dagger still grasped by her own white hand, a woman whose blood flowed red as the roses across the white lace of her bridal gown. He had learned later that her lover had threatened to disrupt the wedding and abduct her. At that point her brother had challenged him to a duel and killed him. After that Jimena no longer wanted to live. And for a long time Carlos had not wanted to live either.
Listening, Charlotte had drawn a long shuddering breath.
He had looked past her, out into the distance, as he told her that for a long time he had forsworn women, that he had vowed never to marry again. All he could see before him when marriage was mentioned was Jimena lying pale in death, her red blood staining the marriage bed. The years had fled by for him while he played at love and resisted anything deeper, any real involvement, for he had felt cursed by heaven.
And then she had come into his life—and wrought a miracle in it. His tone had grown richer, deeper, as he told her that for him she had erased the past. So she would tell him no stories, he would hear no confessions. He had not long to live, and the one thing he asked of life was that she would do him the honor to become his wife.
How could she refuse? A few months more—and her children were being well-cared-for, the painted miniatures had shown her that. Carlos had given her back her life! She would stay with him, she would make his last months happy. He need never know about her past. . . .
She had moistened her lips and told Carlos that she would be honored to marry him, told him with such shining sincerity that he had enfolded her in his arms with a groan and held her as if she were the most precious treasure in all God’s universe.
Above them a single star had shone down, joining that slim silver scimitar of a moon.
Deeply moved, Carlos had held her, whispering her name.
There. It was done. She had accepted Carlos’ offer of marriage, she who had no right to love again. And she had tried not to look back.
But that night, staring up at the cold stars, she had felt her heart weeping. Oh, Tom, forgive me, she had whispered to a memory.
Now she looked into the clear green eyes of Tom's daughter, trying to make her understand, hoping she would forgive.
“Carlos took me to Barcelona and there taught me Spanish. He even bought a name for me. A friend of his was in dire straits. For a price, this man was willing to swear a written oath that I was the child of his dead sister, born on shipboard on the way to Cartagena. "
“Wasn't that an offense?" wondered Cassandra.
“Beyond doubt. Carlos gave me a new past. He created me Carlotta del Valle—Charlotte of the Valley. I chose the name as nearest my own maiden name of Vayle. With his help I pretended to a religion not my own and he married me in a great vaulted cathedral and took me out into the sunshine. Even then I could see that in the distance, clouds were forming in my life. I was a bigamist and a betrayer and I had walked into a trap of my own making. Carlos had made me promise to tell him nothing—and I kept that promise. But for me there was no g
oing back. If I tried to contact my children—indeed if I so much as showed my face in England—Rowan could declare my present marriage invalid, and he could take me back. The courts would allow that. Worse, he might make good his threat to send my children out into the street to beg their bread. And always I cherished the hope that someday I would see you and Phoebe again."
Her voice was melancholy. “I suppose it is too late to ask you to forgive me for having abandoned you all these years?"
Cassandra had inherited a generous nature from both her parents.
“There is nothing to forgive," she said handsomely. And meant it.
“But what of Prince Damião? Are you in love with him?"
“No, there's someone else—someone back home.'' Cassandra thought of Drew and her young face saddened.
“Then why . . . ?" began Charlotte, perplexed.
“Oh, it isn't what you think, Mother." It was wonderful to be able to use that word again—it made her heart sing! “It is all a charade.” She told Charlotte about it.
Charlotte listened, frowning. “It is a dangerous game you play,” she warned when Cassandra had finished.
“I know, but it is only till All Hallows’ Day. Leeds says so. You saw him at the opera. He sat in our box. ”
“The tawny gentleman?”
“Yes—the attractive one.”
“He has led you into mortal danger,” observed Charlotte.
“But it is only until day after tomorrow. And besides, I have done my share of leading men into mortal danger, ” sighed Cassandra. “And getting them killed into the bargain.” Suddenly she was telling Charlotte about Ned, about the terrible duel in London, about Robbie—and about Drew. “So you see, I should wear a warning emblazoned across my bodice,” she finished bitterly. “Stay away, for it is dangerous to love me!”
“Nonsense,” said Charlotte briskly. “Men have always fought—and gotten hurt riding, and caught colds and fevers that killed them. You cannot take responsibility for the whole world, Cassandra!” It occurred to her that this daughter of hers needed guidance—and that she might attempt it, even at this late date! But how?
They rode back together, slowly. Cassandra did not want this afternoon to end; she was greedy for more time with her newfound mother. “Drive around the shops,” she called to the driver.
And when they reached Madame de Marceau’s exclusive millinery establishment, she called to him to halt and beckoned her mother to alight. “There is someone here who says she knows you,” she said as they reached the door of the shop.
Charlotte might have drawn back, but it was too late. Her impetuous daughter had already flung open the shop door and the clapper over the entrance had noisily announced their arrival. From the back room Madame de Marceau suddenly appeared, tall and forbidding in her black garb.
The two women stared at each other in instant recognition. A ghost of a bitter smile crossed Charlotte’s lips. “How are you, Annette?’’ she said.
Charlotte might not seem much moved by the encounter, but the effect on Annette was instantaneous and violent. “So you have come back?” she snarled.
“Obviously. ” Charlotte studied her. “It would seem you are in mourning,” she remarked. And then blandly, “Has someone died?”
“Oh, that you could say it!” Annette’s face had gone splotchy red and she was panting with rage. “I mourn for Rowan—which it is clear you do not!”
“No, I do not,” said Charlotte coldly. “But then, you were always his creature—it is just that you should mourn him.” She turned on her heel. “Come, Cassandra.”
With a last bewildered look at Annette, Cassandra followed Charlotte to the carriage and they drove on.
“What was my father’s—Rowan’s—connection with Madame de Marceau?” she wondered. “And why does she hate you so?”
“She may call herself Madame de Marceau or any other name, but she is Annette Flambord, whom Rowan fished out of the slums of Marseilles and made his accomplice. It was she who kept me imprisoned in the Alfama all those years.”
“How horriblel” Cassandra swung round in indignation to look back at the shop. “How could anyone do such a thing?”
“Oh, it was quite easy for Annette, I assure you.” Cassandra gave her a puzzled look. “Why?”
“Love, I suppose—at least so she claimed.”
“She must have loved fath—Rowan very much.” Cassandra was awed.
“Enough to kill for him—and more than once I don’t doubt she did.”
Cassandra shivered. “I didn’t like the way she looked at you. Mother. Perhaps we should ask the authorities to—” “Annette will find it hard to get at me—I am well guarded, ” Charlotte cut in with a shrug. It occurred to her suddenly that such was not the case with Cassandra. “Forget this charade with the prince,” she urged. “Come back to my inn with me. I will explain to Carlos that you are the daughter of my oldest friend—or perhaps my cousin, and that you are in some danger. He will welcome you, Cassandra. I ask only that you remember that he is dying, ” she added anxiously. “Were it not for that, I would tell him who you are—joyously.”
“No, Mother, I cannot do that.” Cassandra sighed. “I must play this game out—I gave my word to Leeds. And after all, it is only until day after tomorrow. Then Prince Damião and Ines will have fled the country and it will all be over.”
Charlotte wished she thought so, but there had been a malevolence in Annette’s gaze that had chilled her. Annette would have no way of prying into her past, she would not know that Charlotte Keynes had been suddenly transformed into Carlotta del Valle, and indeed had papers to prove her new identity! No, she could stand Annette off if need be, but Cassandra was a different matter.
Back in the millinery shop, Annette was thinking much the same thing. The elegant Spanish lady who had been more or less dragged into her shop would not be easy to attack—and indeed might be quickly gone from Lisbon. Annette, from sheer curiosity, had visited Charlotte’s “grave” and seen that handsome footstone, which had told her more forcefully than any words that Charlotte had had a lover. And today, looking into fair-skinned Cassandra’s green eyes and seeing again that pale moonbeam hair of hers, she had come to the realization that—although Rowan had never told her—Cassandra was not Rowan’s daughter. She was Charlotte’s daughter—anyone with half an eye could see that—but there was no hint of Rowan’s swarthy features there.
Charlotte had borne Cassandra, but her father was someone other than Rowan. Annette was sure of it.
Now she clenched her trembling hands together. How much he had borne in silence all those years, her poor Rowan! she was thinking. And he had never told her, never shared his sorrow with her! Well, she would avenge him now! The mother might be an impossible target, but the daughter was not.
With Annette the thought was mother to the deed. No sooner had she decided to do away with Cassandra than she sent a boy to the waterfront to find a certain unsavory character she made use of from time to time. They held a hurried conversation there in the back of the millinery shop, money changed hands, and Annette sped him on his way with, “And it must be done tonight!”
Charlotte and Cassandra were happily unaware of this devil’s pact made between Annette and her minion. Charlotte was thinking only of a way to keep Cassandra safe under her wing.
“Cassandra,” she said suddenly, “tonight my husband and I are attending a reception in honor of Lord Derwent, who, I understand, is journeying down from Oporto for the occasion. Will I see you there?”
“Hardly!” Cassandra laughed. “Nobody invites a prince’s mistress to important functions!”
“Well, this is one reception you will attend,” said Charlotte crisply. “As the daughter of my dearest friend, Charlotte Keynes”—her voice grew wry—“I cannot fail to bring you along. ”
Cassandra’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, Mother.”
“You will call me ‘Doña Carlotta’ and you will be very proper, Cassandra.”
&
nbsp; “Yes, Mother.” Cassandra was even more delighted.
“I will call for you in our coach, Cassandra. Be ready. ” “Oh, I will be ready, Mother,” Cassandra assured her. “But first you must come in, for there is someone you will want to see. I think she is back now—”
Her words were interrupted by a whoop from the house, and Wend, who had been looking out the window, erupted from the door and ran toward the carriage with her arms outspread. Charlotte sprang down from the carriage and the two embraced with all the fervor of old friends.
“Going about in a black wig, are you?” scolded Wend. “And what does Master Tom say about that?”
“Wend—oh, Wend, it is a long story. I can’t tell you now. Come back with me to the inn—we will talk while I dress for the reception and you can sleep on a cot in my room. Will that be all right, Cassandra?”
Cassandra nodded. Her eyes were moist at the sight of the two being reunited. She watched the carriage until it turned the corner and was out of sight, and then she went in to get a bite and to dress for the ball herself, and to contemplate how today’s events had changed her life. Today she had gained a mother! And tomorrow, when Prince Damião would be out of her life, she could sort everything out.
Cassandra was ready well ahead of time. She was sumptuously gowned in creamy Italian silk aglitter with gold embroidery, a dress that flowed over her round breasts down to her tiny waist and flared out into a wondrously wide skirt—and all of it overlain with ivory tissue alight with brilliants. She wore brilliants in her pale gleaming hair as well—and of course the diamond necklace. She looked stunning.
“I see you are going out,” observed Leeds Birmingham, who came into the hall just as Cassandra was descending the stairs.
“Yes. To the reception for the Englishman, Lord Derwent.”
Leeds stood stock-still. “The prince is taking you there?”
“No.” Charlotte hesitated. “A Spanish lady, Doña Carlotta. ”
Leeds opened his mouth—and then closed it again. When he spoke, it was on a note of amusement. “You are aware of course that the prince will be there?”
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