“There is always California,” Mazie reminded her. “I’d be glad to pay your way for the sake of the company.”
“And then?” Eleanora asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Mazie admitted. “I just don’t know.”
Mazie insisted on sending Jean-Paul next door to the cantina for a crude meal of chili con carne and meat-filled maize cakes washed down with sour red wine. Afterward, they sat talking well into the night. With Jean-Paul to act as escort, Eleanora attended the midnight mass in celebration of Christmas in the cathedral. Mazie accompanied her out of curiosity. When they returned Jean-Paul insisted on carrying the celebration further by ordering two more bottles of wine, the majority of which he drank himself. By the time Mazie was ready to leave, he was pleasantly relaxed, but by no means as drunk as he was capable of becoming.
Eleanora saw them to the door. Mazie turned back, letting Jean-Paul go ahead. After a long searching look, she reached out to tap Eleanora on the cheek. “You are too pale, and your eyes have such lavender shadows under them — you look positively dissipated. You can’t go on like this. Something must be done, even if Jean-Paul has to go to the colonel and explain.”
“I want no favors from that man. If it weren’t for him we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Mazie’s face took on a grim cast. “That’s easy to say.”
“It’s true!”
“Even so. There is such a thing, honey, as too much pride.”
Because of her late night, and the long hours before dawn lying wide-eyed wondering what she was to do, Eleanora overslept. When she awoke the heat was already overpowering in the small, windowless room. She dressed hurriedly in the lightweight gown of white with pink roses. She was not particularly hungry at the moment, but her water olla of red clay was empty and she had contributed the slim supply of food that was to have been her midday meal to the feast the night before.
In the market she bought tortillas wrapped in corn husks and a bunch of finger bananas. Coming back through the square with her purchases in a string bag, she spared no more than a glance for the serenity of the cathedral or the Government House with Walker’s flag, a vibrant red star of five points on a white ground, hanging limp above it. In an effort to save time she dove down a side street, a wide, quiet thoroughfare which had impressed her before as having a private air. Many of the more impressive homes of the Granadan aristocrats fronted upon it.
She was passing a palacio of small size but beautiful proportions, with Roman columns of stone and a soft gold coloring applied to its plaster over adobe bricks, when a movement caught her eye. A man walked out onto the upper galería and stood at the railing with a cup of coffee in his hand, staring out over the rooftops in the direction of the lake and the distant volcanic peaks. It took her a moment to recognize him without his uniform coat, but the bleak eyes, the uncompromising chin were the same. It was Colonel Farrell.
The sound of her footsteps alerted him to her presence. The brightness of derision untempered by amusement leaped into his face. It was as if he suspected her of just wending her way homeward after a night of debauchery.
Eleanora knew a perverse impulse to put a provocative swing into her walk, to make the bell of her skirts sway to a seductive tempo. It was what he expected of her, wasn’t it? But why should he always get what he expected? With the cool lift of a dark eyebrow, she moved on, treating him as the insensitive boor he undoubtedly was. It was obvious, from the things he had said to Mazie, that the colonel had an exaggerated sense of importance. How nice it would be if someone deflated it!
Depositing her purchases in her room, Eleanora took up her olla and walked to the well at the end of the street. The water was clear and fresh, fed by an underground spring. As was the custom, she drew, hand over hand, a full bucket for herself and one for the stone animal troughs that abutted the well curb. When she had filled her olla, she carried it back balanced on her hip, her thumb in one of its earlike handles.
In front of the cantina a trio of men lounged against the wall. She saw them from a distance but kept her eyes downcast, pretending to be watching her step in the dried, rutted mud and animal dung of the street.
As she drew nearer she heard a softly murmured phrase. “Muy bruja rojo.”
The red witch. The bewitching redhead? Either way, she did not see it as a great compliment. Feigning deafness, she started past them.
Her way was blocked by a young Nicaraguan with the self-assurance of a conquistador and the soulful eyes of a poet. He was, she thought, the young man who had been sent away from outside her door earlier in the week.
“Señorita,” he said, taking her arm, moving in close against her. “I am crazy with love for you. You drive me wild. Say I may hope, say you will be mine.”
“Please let me pass,” Eleanora said, keeping her voice level with an effort. She, as a child of New Orleans, had some inkling of the mind of the Latin male. Observation in the last few days had taught her more. He was much concerned with his dignidad de la persona and his masculinity, the machismo. Both must be guarded and treated with due respect. A direct refusal from her would be seen as a challenge to his manhood, a curt dismissal as an affront to his dignity.
“No! No, cara. You may pass only into my heart’s keeping.”
There was about him the cloying smell of vanilla scent on a hot day. The three men had been joined by others attracted by the commotion, a number in uniform. They exchanged glances, laughing and talking under their breath. The drift of their remark was vulgar. With determination she closed her ears to them.
“I am sorry,” she said lifting her chin, slipping insensibly into his dramatic manner of speaking. “My heart is dead. Once a man betrayed me and I have sworn never to trust another.”
“Such a man should be shot before the wall, señorita. But you are wrong to withhold your trust. All men are not such as he. You only need to be brought back to life by the caress of one who loves you.”
“Forgive me, but I prefer my heart unawakened. It is less painful that way.”
“For you, but what of me?” he cried. His hand tightened, drawing her nearer. His arm swept around her waist, dislodging her water olla so that it crashed to the ground, breaking into a dozen pieces. The water wet her slippers and mired the hem of her skirt as she struggled to keep the Nicaraguan gallant from possessing her mouth. His breath on her cheek was hot, smelling faintly of garlic, and she dragged her head back frantically, pushing against his chest.
“Enough! Let her go!”
The command cut sharply across the confused babble of encouragement and advice from the onlookers. The arms about Eleanora fell away. Her assailant stepped back, making the smallest of bows to a higher authority. With a sense of shock, Eleanora was left to face Colonel Farrell under the barrage of stares from the growing crowd.
“So, it’s you,” the colonel grated. “I might have guessed. You can go. I will deal with you later.”
Eleanora stood her ground. “What — are you going to do?”
“That need not concern you.”
The heat, the worries, her precarious position, her moment of fright, combined with the threat the colonel had implied and the contempt in his voice, rushed to Eleanora’s head. She lashed out, “Of course it concerns me, much more than it does you!”
“Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe you weren’t objecting to the attention you were getting?”
“Naturally I was, but—”
“Then,” he interrupted, “it is my duty to come to your defense, no more than that.” He looked away, letting his hard sapphire eyes roam over the onlookers, resting finally on the young Nicaraguan. “It is also my duty to inform these men that the penalty for forcing a woman against her will is death from now on in Granada — for civilians as well as the military. Be warned. You must either pay or use cajolery to get what you want.”
The young man shifted uneasily. “This one, she has no dueña, no man to protect her. I offer myself. My family is a rich one, and
ancient. My word is my bond. I will keep her well.”
“And you turned down such a proposition?” the colonel asked, turning a sardonic gaze upon Eleanora.
“I have no need of a protector,” she said, temper scalding her cheeks, touching sparks from the gold flecks in her eyes. “I’m not a child or an imbecile that I need someone to lead me about.”
“Nor are you a man. You are likely to be found in an alley with your throat cut if you go on as you have been.”
“That need not trouble you.”
“Unfortunately, as provost marshal, I would be put to the inconvenience of finding your killer for the sake of order.”
“I will try to save you that chore.”
There was a ripple of amusement through the crowd, which the colonel ignored. “Thank you,” he said with cool sarcasm. “Now if you will allow me I will take this man to the Government House for questioning.”
“No! You can’t do that. He had no real intention of assaulting me, not in broad daylight.”
In the crowd a man spoke. “Thees colonel, if he can’t bring thees one small red-haired woman to order, how can we expect heem to keep order in the town, hein? Tell me that?” The ripple of laughter that followed was louder than before.
Colonel Farrell’s face hardened. “Mademoiselle, you will stand aside or accept the consequences.”
She did not move. What could he do to her? She was the injured party, he could not arrest her without making himself ridiculous. She did not think, given the mood of those gathered around, that she need fear physical violence. It was good to feel for a change that she held the advantage over this man who was the cause of her present situation. It would not hurt him to suffer a little.
His next move was so unexpected she had no time to avoid it. He reached out, catching her forearm in a bruising grip, and dragged her against him. His mouth, cruel and grim, descended upon hers. Lips parted in surprise, she could not withstand his sudden invasion, could not move in the steel bands of his embrace. A torrent of anger, buoyed by an odd exhilaration, rushed along her nerves, and for an instant she was aware of a red haze of disbelief behind her eyelids.
A roar of approval went up from the onlookers. This they understood. It made some sense of the quarrel over the unchaperoned red-haired woman who lived with the widow. Now all would be well, the unpleasantness done with. In the future Carlos must be more careful of whose woman he honored with his attention.
As she was released Eleanora stumbled back. Before she could catch her breath she was lifted, swept high against a muscular chest in a froth of skirts and lace-edged petticoats.
“No!” she cried, but struggling only caused her hoop to billow, exposing her knee-length pantaloons to the lascivious gaze of the men who crowded close. It did not affect her captor. His grip tightened until she could hardly move or breathe.
When she subsided the colonel swung to the young man they had called Carlos. “The lady has spoken on your behalf. A swift end will be made of this if you will give your word to present yourself for a report at the Government House this afternoon.”
“Very well, you have it,” the young man agreed, bowing.
A curt nod and Colonel Farrell strode away back in the direction he had come.
When they were out of sight Eleanora swallowed the tears of helpless frustration that rose in her throat. “You can put me down now.”
He did not answer, nor did he slow his firm, even pace. Slanting a quick glance at his face, so near, Eleanora saw that his jaw was rigid with anger. A frown of fierce concentration chiseled twin lines between his dark brows, and behind the thick screen of his lashes, his eyes glittered deep indigo.
The beginnings of a nebulous fear stirred inside her. Perhaps he had something more in mind than merely demonstrating his authority? What? Where was he taking her? Was there some unknown law she had trespassed by disobeying his requests? Unconsciously she had considered Walker and his takeover of Nicaragua as an opéra bouffe lacking in force. At the moment, as she realized the ability of the colonel to dispose of her as he pleased, the force was all too apparent.
The Calle Santa Celia, the street which led to the central plaza, and on which the palacio of the colonel stood, stretched quiet and empty before them. The sound of his boots was loud on the stone banquette fronting the houses. A few trees, oaks and mahoganies, shaded this avenue and as they passed under the cool dimness, Eleanora grew aware of the perspiration that sheened the colonel’s face and the dampness of her clothing where their bodies touched.
And then it was no longer necessary to wonder where he was taking her. The heavy, nail-studded wooden door of the palacio loomed before them. It swung open at their approach, and a tall, thin woman dressed in rusty, unrelieved black held it while the colonel shouldered through with his burden.
He did not stop, but continued along an entrance hall floored with cool, dark-green tiles which terminated in a large interior patio. An upper gallery, its railing painted dark green, a foil to walls of soft ocher, ran around the patio like the boxes at a theater. From the exposed crossbeams of the lower gallery hung ollas of water in rope slings cooling by condensation. Terra-cotta pots stood everywhere, filled with vines and spiny cactus and bright flowering plants. In the still air the smell of orange blossoms, from the trees which shaded one end, was overpowering.
Eleanora was allowed no more than a glance. With the black-clad woman trailing blankly behind, Colonel Farrell turned toward a raised staircase that rose to the right. Mounting it, he strode along the upper gallery to the door which stood open halfway down the wall.
Inside was a small bedroom. The walls were whitewashed, the polished floor strewn with Indian rugs in vivid colors, red, blue, and yellow, and also more somber black, beige, terra cotta, and white. The furnishings were few, a four-poster bed of dark carved wood with plain white bedclothes and hangings, a tall armoire, a washstand with utilitarian pitcher and bowl, and in one corner the inevitable cuadro, the painting of a saint, in this case La Virgen del Perpetuo Socorro, with beneath it a narrow shelf holding slim yellow-white candles and a wilting bouquet of some strange lavender flowers.
Eleanora was set upon her feet. The colonel turned away as if some galling task had been satisfactorily completed. At the door he held the panel open while the thin woman passed back out, then he shut it with a decisive click. A moment later there came the sound of a key turning in the lock.
The bed was directly behind her. Eleanora sat down upon it suddenly, her breath leaving her lungs in a slow, shaky sound of mingled wrath and relief. Before she could called her wits a noise came from behind her. Through thin white curtains over a set of French doors she could see the colonel on the galeria that fronted the palacio. He was fitting a grille of wrought iron into place over the doors and locking it into place.
Locked in. As quiet descended the enormity of what had happened to her settled upon her like a crushing weight. She jumped up, shivering in spite of the heat, hands clasping her forearms. The hem of her skirts left muddy streaks on the polished floor as she paced. There was a weakness in her limbs that came from emptiness, though she could not have eaten a bite.
He could not do this. He could not. But wait. What, precisely, had he done? Kissed her, taken her against her will to his home, locked her in a bedroom. All that. Yet, his attitude held nothing carnal. It could be that he only intended a final end to the disagreement she had provoked plus, possibly, a mild punishment for defying him. This afternoon, when his temper had cooled, if she could bring herself to appear chastened, he might let her go.
And if he did not? There must be someone to whom she could appeal. It was not possible that he could keep her here, his personal prisoner.
As the hours went by heat began to build in the closed room. She could have opened the doors to the front gallery, letting in air through the grille, but anyone passing could look in upon her. It was too much like being caged.
For a similar reason she kept her gown on. Without it she
would have been too vulnerable. It would, in addition, have been too much like giving up, resigning herself to whatever came to her. This she refused to do.
She did wet a linen cloth in the water in the pitcher on the washstand and bathe her face and neck. When the hem of her skirts dried in the hot still air, she lay down upon the coverlet of the bed. The house was still. The air inside the room was faintly musty, as if, despite the flowers upon the small altar, it was not often used. Who had owned the house before Walker came and Colonel Farrell took it? Who was the woman in black? One of the former owners? A housekeeper? A relative of the colonel’s perhaps. No, not that. Colonel Farrell had a solitary look, as if he had never had relatives, never needed them. Never needed anyone.
She did not intend to sleep. It was bewildering then to come abruptly awake to a loud knocking in a darkened room that was unfamiliar. Her lips were dry. She moistened them with her tongue before she answered.
“Yes?”
The voice which replied was thin and reedy, a fair copy of the woman who owned it. “The colonel has returned. He asks that you make yourself ready to have dinner with him.”
Dinner? Was it so late? If the colonel had returned, where had he been? At the Government House dealing with the weighty problem of Carlos, no doubt.
Her first impulse was to refuse, to say she was not hungry. That would be foolish, however, as well as a lie. Her position was too precarious to risk antagonizing this man. It would also be too easy to starve her into submission, if he wished. No, far better to go with head high and some semblance of grace.
“Yes, thank you,” Eleanora replied. There was one other thing. If escape should prove necessary, she would have a much better chance of effecting it from another room.
Make herself ready? Charming. She had no hairbrush, no comb, no change of clothing. Her gown was soiled and crumpled, and it was, in any case, too dark in the room to see in the tiny mirror of distorted glass which hung above the washstand. She could wash her hands and smooth her hair by touch, no more. The colonel would have to be satisfied.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 51