Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  Doubtless she should be doing something, but what? She could look through the papers left in the bedchamber; there had been a stack of them in the wardrobe. Not that she supposed there was anything of value among them. If Neville was correct, there would have been little time for Grant, or anyone else, to put anything in writing.

  The bedchamber was stifling with afternoon heat. Eleanora pulled back the drapes to let in light enough to see, then as perspiration began to trickle along her hairline, she threw the window wide. The sun had moved to the other side of the house now. The street-side galería was in the shade; it had to be cooler. Even if it was not, anything was better than this close airlessness.

  Or was it? There was something disconcerting in rifling a man’s papers in an open room. Her heart beat higher and her fingers trembled as she turned over the guard book, the horse books, and the registration book with its hundreds of recruits listed in her own painstaking copperplate. The sheaf of papers underneath these journals seemed to be concerned with supplies and their storage and movement during the days of conflict just past. There was nothing else.

  She had looked. It was a relief to be done with that disagreeable task, to stack the books and papers neatly away and know that she need not touch them again.

  Intent on putting everything back exactly as she had found it, Eleanora failed to notice the opening and closing of the door below. Her first warning was the sound of masculine voices in the patio, followed by the tread of footsteps on the stairs.

  It could only be Grant. No one else would walk into the palacio without ringing the bell, or seeking out the señora to rouse her from her nap.

  With quiet haste, Eleanora replaced the last of the papers in the wardrobe, closed the door, and stepped out onto the galería. If she had the time she would whip out of sight; if not, she could pretend to be taking the air. It did not, in her guilt, occur to her to stay where she was and brazen it out with the natural excuse of the siesta hour.

  In any case, she was able to stroll along the galería to the end with reasonable dignity. Taking a seat on the railing beneath the waving, untrimmed branches of the bougainvillea, she waited to see if she would be discovered.

  She was not. Grant appeared to have forgotten her presence in the house. He ushered his guests into the bedchamber with apologies for its heat, and amid the disclaimers there came the scrape of chairs as the men were seated about the table.

  Eleanora recognized the voice of William Walker without difficulty. One of the other men was Colonel Thomas Henry, she thought, while the fourth man she could not quite place, though he sounded vaguely familiar.

  In the agitation of her discovery, it was a moment before she realized the implications of the meeting. What other than a need for secrecy would make these men choose a hot, cramped bedchamber for their conference instead of the large, open rooms of the Government House? And what other than the crisis at León could make such a conference necessary at this time?

  From her present vantage point she could hear the rumble of the men’s voices, but she could catch only a word now and then of what they were saying. Casually, for the sake of anyone who might be watching from the street, she moved back against the wall of the house. Avoiding the iron grilles between the windows of the other rooms along the wall, she picked her post and leaned with her shoulders to the warm, golden stone of the building. In her concentration, she shredded the petals of the bougainvillea she had plucked, dropping them to the floor without noticing as she listened.

  “Seems to me,” Colonel Henry was saying in his slow drawl, “that it was just a matter of time before Rivas started acting up. It couldn’t help but go against the grain, being a figurehead president, what with him being an aristocrat, and all that. This trick of his of starting false rumors seems about what we ought to have expected. Wouldn’t surprise me if you didn’t have some plan in mind already for dealing with him, General.”

  That Walker was pleased could be heard in his voice. “Maybe. I want to hear what the rest of you have to say first.”

  “I say get rid of him!” the stranger in the group said, his tone grim. “Arrest him and his colleagues, try them, and execute them as traitors just as the man has accused you of planning. You can’t afford internal disputes right now. Not only would it look bad to any of the more powerful countries who might be disposed to lend you their support, it would be an invitation for an attack from San Salvador or Guatemala. Costa Rica may be crippled, but the others aren’t. All of them, even the Hondurans with their pretense of neutrality, are just waiting for you to turn your back.”

  “That may be,” Grant said slowly. But it looks to me like moving against Rivas would be more likely to start a civil war instead of quelling the disturbance.”

  Colonel Henry slapped the table. “Grant’s right. On the other hand, we can’t let this Rivas keep stirring things up. We have to be practical. Nobody takes kindly to having strangers move into their country and set leaders up over them. What we ought to do is call an election in the good old American way. Ten to one, you’d beat Rivas to a standstill, the way most of these people feel about you right now, General.”

  “You have a point,” Walker admitted.

  “Think of how much more convenient it would be if you were president,” Colonel Henry went on, warming to his subject.

  “First we have to do something about the riot the current president has started,” Walker reminded him gently.

  “The easiest thing to do would be to assassinate him,” the stranger muttered, an observation no one appeared to take seriously.

  Grant spoke next, his voice slow, as if he were forming his thoughts aloud. “What would you think, General, of letting Rivas understand that we intend to do exactly as his rumors suggest, arrest him and his associates? His reaction, if I’m any judge, should be to get out of the country as fast as he can, taking the main opposition in León with him.”

  “That way, we are rid of him without touching a hair on his head,” Colonel Henry exclaimed.

  “Exactly,” Grant agreed. “With him gone, you, General Walker, could appoint a provisional president, someone with few political ambitions, and, after a suitable period, this man could call a new election.”

  “Ferrer,” Walker said thoughtfully.

  “What was that?” the strange man queried.

  “Fermin Ferrer, a good man and a fine Democrático. He should be an excellent choice as provisional president.”

  “And the election?” Colonel Henry asked.

  “By all means, though I believe it should be called as soon as possible.”

  “The rioting in León will need time to quiet down,” Grant objected.

  “León is a stronghold of the aristocráticos and the Legitimista party,” Walker told him quietly. “They are used to electing one of their own to power. If they are in an uproar it may be difficult for them to organize the voting in that district — which would be most unfortunate, wouldn’t it?”

  She had heard enough. The longer she stood there, the more dangerous her position became. Waiting until one of the men was speaking once more, she moved to the French window of the next bedroom, eased it open, and stepped inside. She crossed the room with exquisite care to its inner door which stood open upon the galería. Moving a little farther along it, she turned and started back with normal footsteps, letting her hand slide along the railing. It would be unnatural for her not to put in an appearance while there were guests in the house. She might plead that she had stayed hidden from embarrassment, of course, but it was a little late for her to even pretend to blush for her reputation.

  Arranging a smile of artless welcome on her face, she pushed open the bedchamber door, coming to a stop holding to the knob. “Grant,” she began, “I thought I heard your voice — I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude. But, as long as I’m here, could I get something for you gentlemen? Coffee? Or I believe there is lemonade?”

  An instant later her gaze was drawn irresistibly to the man who
sat on Walker’s right, the man whose voice she had not been able to identify. It was the American minister to Nicaragua, John Wheeler.

  20

  “How is Jean-Paul? Is he all right?”

  “He’s doing fine.” Neville Crawford answered Eleanora’s anxious questions with something near irritation, returning at once to his foremost interest “Are you sure that’s all they said?”

  “I’m sure,” Eleanora replied. That made the fourth time Neville had repeated his same query, and she was not immune to annoyance herself. It was bad enough to have to connive with Mazie to meet him without having him act as if he suspected her of withholding information from him. Which, in point of fact, she was. She had kept to herself the knowledge that the planned arrest of Rivas was no more than a ruse. It was unlikely that Neville would find out otherwise, and without that small piece of information the rest became no more than what Grant and the general wanted the Legitimista faction to know anyway. She had also told Neville of the decision to appoint a provisional president, but she had been deliberately vague about his name, distorting it in several ways. It was the best compromise she could make with her conscience.

  Now she said in her most subdued manner, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

  “I’m sorry too, for Jean-Paul’s sake,” Neville said.

  Alarm coursed through her veins, though her expression did not change. “What do you mean? You said he was all right.”

  “So he is, for now. But we are dealing with impatient men. They want solid, accurate information; times, dates, the number of men expected to be in the arresting party, this sort of thing.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Ask General Walker to satisfy my curiosity? I did the best I could.”

  “Believe me, I sympathize, Eleanora, but I have to answer to these men too.”

  She wanted to throw his falseness back into his broad, handsome face. She held her tongue instead. It would not be very intelligent to antagonize this man. Moreover, there might be a grain of truth in what he said. In any case, she was grateful to Mazie for choosing that moment to come into the room.

  “This is the most unloverlike clandestine meeting I have ever witnessed!” the actress teased. “A person would think the two of you were married, to hear you bickering with each other. Give it up and come give me your advice, both of you, on the new set I’m designing. I might even be able to find a drink for you, Neville, to calm your liver. You are looking decidedly bilious to me.”

  “I’m not one of your orphans,” Neville growled, “so don’t try mothering me.” Still, his words lacked the force of real anger and he put his arm around Mazie’s ample waist as she half-led, half-cajoled him from the theater loft where he and Eleanora had been talking.

  “You, too, come along,” Mazie said, looking back over Neville’s shoulder at Eleanora, and, seeing the gratitude shining in her green eyes, the actress winked reassuringly.

  The news of President Rivas’s hurried departure from León with his cabinet was soon being discussed on every street corner. Ferrer took office within hours of official confirmation of the vacating of the capital. One of his first acts as president was to order a new election. The plan discussed in Eleanora’s bedchamber had, so far, succeeded admirably.

  At that moment in time there were three men in Central America calling themselves the president of Nicaragua. There was the original leader of the country, a man named Estrada, who had fled Granada on the day Walker captured the town nine months before. There was Rivas, the moderate legitimist who had been appointed as provisional president to take Estrada’s place in a joint action by the defeated Legitimista army and Walker’s Falangistas, and there was the new appointee, Ferrer. The reign of the latter was short. Within days, Nicaragua had its fourth president in less than a year, the man accredited with the majority of the votes cast in the duly held election. His name was William Walker.

  The Granadans celebrated the election victory of their deliverer with fervor and fiesta. They ate, they drank, they danced in the streets. Lanterns were lit early and hung from brackets outside the houses, or from rope slung over patio walls, and from the limbs of trees. Particular attention was given the plaza before the Government House. It was decked with dozens of lamps and torches illuminating the red-and-white bunting which decorated the government building, Walker’s red-starred flag, and the group of musicians which would later move inside for the official fête.

  The music and laughter came faintly to Eleanora as she stood at the window of the bedchamber. The warm evening breeze brought also the smells of dust and smoke and lantern fuel, of spicy food and the sweet, milky fragrance of the candy which was being consumed in rich, thick chunks, a part of every celebration. From the cathedral came the melancholy toll of the angelus. As always it stirred the pigeons, throwing them into flight. They swept across the sky in formation, a wheel of dark grace.

  There was a chance the festivities would be spoiled. Out over the lake, beyond the cones of Ometepe, lightning flickered sullenly. It might be no more than heat lightning, but it gave the wine-dark sky a portentous look as it arched over the glowing town.

  She should be getting dressed, donning the things laid out on the bed behind her, her party finery. Somehow, she could not summon the energy. Depression weighted her limbs, making it seem too much of an effort to put up her hair and struggle into the heavy petticoat, crinoline, and gown for celebration she had no desire to attend. She thought of making an excuse, but staying at the palacio alone while everyone else made merry had even less appeal than going to the Government House.

  She had been alone so much in the last few days. In ways, the time reminded Eleanora of her first week with Grant. When he was with her he was passionately possessive, but he was so seldom with her. Walker, as always, commanded his first loyalty.

  It had been a busy time, a time of decision for Uncle Billy, true enough. There had been days of traveling during the campaign for election. Also, from a few things she had heard at various times, she thought the plans for the transfer of the transit line were still going forward. Regardless, she found herself resenting Grant’s duties more and more. She would have liked to have been completely alone with him somewhere, free of duty, free of entanglement or outside interference; a simple place where they need heed no desire other than their own.

  Sometimes, catching an odd look in his deep-sea eyes as they rested on her, she was moved to wonder if Grant regretted taking her back. At others, she questioned if she meant anything more than a convenience to him — a woman always near to mend his clothes, see to his laundry and his meals, to slake his lust and send him comfortable into dreamless slumber. Was she foolish to expect more than this superficial intimacy? Was there anything more?

  At a sound behind her, she half-turned to see Grant enter the doorway of the dusk-filled room. Finding her in the dark, he paused, then sauntered toward her. Coming near, he reached above her head to close the window and pull the drapes together. After dropping a light kiss on her mouth, he moved to the washstand where the lamp blossomed into light under his hard, brown fingers.

  “Why aren’t you getting dressed?” he asked with his back to her. “Don’t you feel well?”

  Here was her opportunity. She let it pass with no more than a flash of recognition. “I’m fine. I was just waiting for you.”

  “Good. You can do something with this pelt of mine. I look as shaggy as a bear.”

  Swinging to the wardrobe, he took out the case of medical supplies, picked the scissors from among the clutter, and threw them on the bed.

  “Cut your hair?” Eleanora, watching him, asked doubtfully.

  “Before I take my bath,” he answered, stripping his shirt from his breeches.

  The fault was her own. She had made the mistake of telling him that she had cut Luis’s hair, and Slim’s and Jean-Paul’s, during their days together. That had been different. In their situation, they had expected no more of her and the rusty knife she was forced to u
se than that she get the hair out of their eyes so they could see, and off their necks for coolness.

  “I couldn’t,” she told Grant plainly.

  “You have to. There’s no one else.”

  “You would be better off wearing your hair long than going bald-headed.”

  Dropping onto the bed, lying back on his elbows, and lifting a booted foot for assistance, he said, “I don’t plan on doing either one.”

  Automatically, she went to his aid, dropping the boots one after the other onto the floor. “You will if I get hold of you. I mean it. I can’t. I’ve never done anything more than trim around the edges.”

  “That’s all I want,” he said, putting the scissors into her hand and sliding from the bed to take a seat in one of the straight-back chairs at the table.

  His calm air of waiting for her to do as he asked set her teeth on edge, coming, as it did, so soon after her doubts. “Very well,” she said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  His thick black hair looked nearly straight, hard to cut without leaving it gapped or jagged. When she began to clip it, however, she found that it curved down the back of his head with a crisp vitality of its own. No matter how she cut the strands she picked up in her fingers, they sprang back to blend without difficulty with the rest of his hair. Grant did not fidget, offer her advice, or try to watch what she was doing as Jean-Paul, and even Luis, had done. He sat perfectly still, totally relaxed. After a few minutes, it reached her that his attitude was one of trust, not arrogance. Her hands steadied and she was able to do a creditable job, so creditable that it was impossible to resist taking his brushes and smoothing it into place, when she was done.

  “Satisfied?” he asked, his hands closing about her waist as she stood between his legs, slipping under the worn army-issue shirt which she wore as a dressing gown.

  “Yes,” she answered without looking at him, giving his thick sideburns a last touch, and brushing at the dark mantle of clipped hair that lay across his naked shoulders.