Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “Thank you,” Eleanora murmured. Smoothing her hair, she put her hand on the handle of the tall, carved door leading from the hall with a distinct feeling of trepidation.

  The man who rose to his feet at her entry was tall and thin with white hair and a silver beard trimmed to a small point. His bow was an exquisite model of grace, though he did not offer to take her hand. Straightening to his full height, he stared down at her with cool and distant courtesy. No expression crossed his aquiline face, but Eleanora knew he was both surprised and displeased at her appearance.

  “You are Señora de Laredo, the wife of Luis Andres Charles Emmanuel de Laredo y Pacquero?”

  “His widow, yes.”

  “Of course, my apologies,” he said, lowering his eyelids in a gesture which did not quite conceal the lashlike flick of his eyes over her skirt and blouse.

  Eleanora might have been excused for resenting his attitude. She did not. In a quiet voice she said, “There is no need for apologies. If you know I was wed to Luis, you must know the marriage was of only a few hours’ duration. You cannot know, however, that I was sincerely attached to him and would be wearing black if such a thing were economically possible.”

  He stared at her while she returned his gaze with calm green eyes. After a moment, he inclined his head once more in an obeisance that was far deeper. “I must beg your pardon, señora, for underestimating the depth of your sensitivity. Permit me to present myself. I am Esteban de Laredo, the uncle of the man you married.”

  Acknowledging the introduction, Eleanora indicated that they should be seated. “When I saw your carriage outside I suspected you might be related to Luis,” she said with simplicity. And removing the signet, she held it out to him.

  He took it with fingers that trembled slightly, holding it to the light which filtered through the curtains and the grille over the windows. He wiped at his eyes as if a film had covered them, and Eleanora looked away, aware suddenly that the Spaniard was an old man, and grieved.

  It was stuffy in the room but not uncomfortably warm. White walls stretching to the dark beams of the high ceiling gave an impression of coolness. This was aided by the stone floor which was polished to a sheen and laid with a single rug of oriental design positioned before the plain-fronted fireplace. On each side of the rug was a settee of carved walnut fitted with velvet cushions, and walnut framed the paintings, crude copies of Spanish and Flemish masters, which hung on every wall.

  “There can be no doubt that you had this of my nephew,” the Spaniard said, returning the ring to Eleanora at last. “I was present when my brother, his father, gave it to him on his twenty-first birthday. He was very proud of it. I cannot imagine him parting with it unless he cared for you very much.”

  Closing her hand tightly over the ring, Eleanora returned no answer. She sat on the edge of her seat, unable to relax, conscious of the dirt on the hem of her skirts from walking through the filthy streets, and her generally grubby appearance from handling and hugging the children at the orphanage. Looking up, she said, “Was there something you wanted of me, some way I could help you?”

  “I hope, señora, that I will be able to help you. It seems to the highest degree likely. I have the honor, you see, to serve in the capacity of abogado — you would say in English the attorney — of the Conde de Laredo and the estates belonging to him and his family. Six months ago my brother, Don Carlos, was killed in a fall from his horse. It was clearly necessary for Luis to return home for the purpose of assuming the title and his duties as the Conde. I made the proper arrangements, including an application to the court of Isabella to intervene in a private matter, a dispute between Luis and a family of our acquaintance, should the occasion arise. This done, I had only to find Luis. Our last communication with him came from California in the United States of America. Receiving no answer to my letters sent to the last address given, I set out to find him. Unfamiliar with the state of the roads in this new world, I brought, among other things, the family carriage you saw in the expectation that having it would expedite the search. A mistake, not the first on this endless quest which, for the most part, has been by water. Arriving in California, I discovered that Luis had involved himself with this William Walker. I will not bore you with a recital of my wanderings since that day. Suffice it to say that when I came to San Juan del Norte on the Atlantic coast, it was to be met with the intelligence that my nephew was a fugitive. I am not without influence, even in this country forsaken of God. I learned finally that he was imprisoned in Honduras. But when I landed at that place it was to receive the terrible message that Luis, my nephew, the heir to the title, was dead. The Conde de Laredo had been shot before a firing squad like a common felon.”

  Eleanora made an involuntary movement with her hand, as if to stop him, but she could not speak. The Conde. The Falangistas had called Luis by that name in jest. How could they have known? The answer was, they could not. Such a story would have been given full circulation. Perhaps there was something to be said for breeding and bloodlines?

  That was certainly true of the elderly man before her. Conquering the feelings which threatened to overcome him, he lifted his head.

  “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “Being reminded of that time cannot but be painful for you. I was telling you why I am here, wasn’t I? You had been taken from Honduras by the time I arrived. Your existence was revealed to me by the priest who heard my nephew’s last confession, one Father Sebastian. I believe you, señora — or perhaps I should say Condesa — have cause to remember him? He told me of Luis’s last days and of his marriage. He showed me the official record of the bond, duly entered in the register of his church, and he gave me also a document which Luis had entrusted to him. It was a will, scrawled on the flyleaf of the priest’s Bible. Irregular, certainly, but entirely legal. Luis had instructed the priest to send it to me, as the abogado, and no doubt he would have done so when he could be assured it would arrive safely. He was quite relieved to hand it to me in person. This will named you, Eleanora Colette de Laredo nee Villars, as the beneficiary. The estates, the castle and land, the olive orchards, exporting firm, and a number of other enterprises, are all entailed. Luis was, however, the possessor of a handsome fortune in unentailed property, an inheritance from his maternal grandmother. This is yours.”

  Allow me — to offer you what protection there may be in my name — Eleanora shook her head dazedly, those words running like a soft refrain through her mind.

  “It is quite true,” the older man assured her in response to the negative. “The arrangements may take a little time, but these monies will be paid into the bank of your choice.” He hesitated, then went on, “Naturally, if there is any issue from the marriage the situation will change drastically. The son of Luis, born posthumously within nine months of his death, would become the new Conde, acceding to the honors of his father. He will, of course, be reared in Spain, and you, as the dowager Condesa and his mother, would have a place there.”

  Eleanora found she could not bear to quench the hopefulness in the Spaniard’s eyes entirely. In suffocating tones she replied, “There is little chance of that coming to pass, señor.”

  He nodded as if he had expected no less, saying only, “You will inform me in such an event,” before going on. “At the end of nine months the title will revert to the next male heir, in this case, though it is painful for me to say it, myself. You, of course, will be entitled to be known as the Condesa de Laredo until your death — or remarriage.”

  When he paused, obviously waiting for her comment, Eleanora said slowly, “What if I were to refuse this legacy?”

  “Refuse — You can’t be serious?”

  “But if I did?” she persisted.

  A frown knitting his silver brows, the Spaniard said, “It would not be at all the thing for a Laredo to leave a woman he cared for without funds, much less his wife. Even if Luis had not made provisions for you, I would have felt bound to make you an allowance from the estate at the very least. N
o, what my nephew intended for you to have shall be yours. What you do with it afterward is your affair, but I would hope you would use it for your future security, as Luis wanted. The world is not always kind to women alone.”

  It was plain that this aristocratic old gentleman knew more of her than he had said. The trace of censure hidden behind the understanding in his eyes brought her position home to her as few other things had done since she had come to Nicaragua. A bleak feeling settled in her chest and would not be dislodged. She was, despite the reasons for it, living with a man out of wedlock, a fallen woman, a Magdalene. Something in the austere face of the old man seemed to hint that the least penalty she could expect would be, eventually, to find herself alone.

  There was little more to be discussed. With grave gallantry, Don Esteban de Laredo gave her his direction and took his leave, pausing only to collect his hat and cane from Señora Paredes and cast her into a dither by complimenting her on the cakes she had given him. When the door had closed behind him, Eleanora stood almost as bemused at the señora. It would, however, have been cruel to leave the older woman’s palpitating curiosity entirely unsatisfied. “The gentleman,” Eleanora told her as the woman made to pass her to tidy the sala, “was a relative of Lieutenant Colonel de Laredo. He only wanted to speak to me of him.”

  The glibness of the half-truth troubled her for some time. Lying, treason, fornication — she seemed capable of anything with the proper justification.

  The preparations for the inauguration continued apace, despite the fact that, contrary to Eleanora’s expectations, no notice of the date had been posted. From the plaza came the constant ring of hammers as the grandstand was nailed together. Here and there bunting was being draped across the windows of houses, in defiance of the lightning which still flickered nightly above the lake. There were reports of rain from the south, but not a drop fell on Granada.

  She had not told Grant of the visit of Don Esteban or of the legacy. He might not go so far as to forbid her to accept it, but he would not like her to use it while she was with him. On the other hand, he had offered her no lasting security, and there might come a time when she — and Jean-Paul — would be glad of the stability and freedom from care embodied in Luis’s name. The Condesa. Did Grant know she had the right to that title? Could he begin to guess what a hollow sound the syllables had in her ears?

  It was not a time, in any case, for confidences of a personal nature. Grant grew more withdrawn with each passing day, and his manner more irritable. Eleanora ascribed it to the heat and long hours he was on duty with the general. She had little right to complain. Her own temper was none too stable. Prey to a terrible uncertainty, her moods varied from snappish, to pensive, to a forced cheerfulness. During the nights she lay for long hours beside Grant, watching with wide, sleepless eyes the intermittent glow of lightning as it lit the dark walls of the room.

  The morning of the tenth dawned sulfurous and breathlessly warm. Only the need of a stimulant to put life into her leaden limbs made it possible for Eleanora to endure the heat of her coffee. She could not bear the thought of eating anything. She sat at the table, watching Grant, trying not to think of what it would be like on the grandstand in the full glare of the sun with everyone dressed in full regalia.

  “What time does the inauguration begin?” she asked presently.

  Grant slid his plate to one side, leaving half the food upon it untouched. He wore only his breeches, and as he stretched the muscles rippled under the skin. Pushing back his chair, he moved to the washstand and picked up the pitcher, bringing it back to fill his empty coffee cup with water. Watching him, Eleanora felt her stomach muscles tighten. It was a moment before she realized he was taking his time about answering her, but before she could decide whether it was deliberate or just slowness caused by the hour and the temperature, he spoke.

  “It will be after the siesta hour, when it’s cooler and the grandstand is in the shade of the buildings. The church bells are supposed to ring to announce it. Don’t worry about it. I’ll come for you when it’s time.”

  She nodded, mentally chiding herself for her suspicions. He had only been thinking of how to make it easier for her to be with him.

  In contrition, her kiss, as later he made ready to leave her, might have been more lingering than usual. He raised his head, his arm tightening around her so that the tail of the shirt she wore rode up high on her hips. Her breasts and the lower part of her body were pressed against him. Twin flames of desire burned in the depths of his eyes as he stared down at her, but they were nearly obscured by an odd and inscrutable severity. A pulse throbbed in his throat and his jaws were rigid. Abruptly he kissed her hard and put her from him. Settling his hat on his head, he stepped through the door. He did not slam it, but Eleanora thought he only just prevented himself from doing so.

  Alone, Eleanora dressed, cleared the breakfast dishes, and made the bed. With that much concession to order out of the way, she spent quite some time before her mirror dressing her hair for the inauguration. Doing it now would pass the morning as well as saving precious time later when Grant might be waiting for her to make herself ready. She was patting a last pin into place when the bell jangled through the palacio. She stood listening, but had almost decided it was nothing to do with her when the señora, out of breath from struggling up the stairs, tapped on the door.

  It was inquisitiveness, Eleanora thought, which brought her. The dress box she carried was heavy and bulky, and she could just as easily have either sent it up with whoever had brought it or called to Eleanora to come and get it. Instead, she stood panting in the doorway. “This came for you,” she said, her lashless eyes hopeful, yet shadowed with doubt.

  In the days since her return, Eleanora, dismissing her suspicions, had come to an unspoken understanding with the old woman. They were both lonely at times, both felt some dependency on Grant and, therefore, were concerned with his comfort and well-being. These were powerful forces, within the enclosing walls of the palacio, to bring them together. They had fallen into the habit of discussing the menus for the day each morning, a ritual which had come to include the drinking of coffee or lemonade in the patio. Their discussions had gradually gone beyond food to a range of uneasy communication which could be classified as passing the time of day. By no means a friend, the señora was still a woman with a woman’s craving for something new and different to enliven the dullness of her days.

  “Thank you for bringing it up,” Eleanora said. “Let’s put it on the bed, and perhaps you will help me open it.”

  Removing layers of tissue paper from the top of the box revealed a day gown of pale yellow dimity sprigged with clusters of cool green leaves. To be worn with it was a bonnet of white chip-straw lined under the brim with yellow and decorated around the crown with a wreath of green leaves made of silk. Under still more layers of tissue was a ball gown constructed of layer upon layer of white tulle edged with rosepoint lace and featuring a bertha of lace held in place over the shoulders by a breast corsage of pink silk roses surrounded by green leaves. Included was a pair of combs for the hair supporting sprays of the same pink roses.

  The señora exclaimed, clasping her hands before her, as each new item was lifted from the box and spread out upon the bed, though toward the last she ceased to exclaim, only standing staring at the beautiful things with ravaged eyes.

  “Once I had such things,” she said unsteadily, when it was plain there was no more. “It was before Señor Paredes, my husband, died; when we were young together, and he hoped to find favor in my eyes. The colonel — if you will forgive my saying so — must love you exceedingly.”

  The gowns, even the thoughtfulness behind them, were not, to Eleanora’s thinking, proof of love. Still, remembering her ungraciousness and the accusations she had thrown at Grant concerning the other gown he had had made for her, she could not help but feel an echo of the señora’s wonder in her own heart. Recalling also his strictures on the greedy and grasping ways of women when the
y had first met, she was inclined to succumb to a hope that the older woman was right.

  They were interrupted by the clanging once more of the bell. Before the señora could get halfway down the stairs, they heard Mazie’s raised voice from the entrance hall. Stepping to the galería, Eleanora called down to her to come up, then stood smiling as she watched her climb the stairs, thinking that the heat had finally had its effect on her friend, for Mazie wore a man’s shirt open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled high above her plump elbows. She had left off her crinoline, and an apron made of sacking was draped over the fullness of her skirt of worn purple taffeta. Over her hair, she had tied a discarded scarf with fringed ends.

  Rallying words rose to Eleanora’s lips, but as she saw the face of the actress they died unspoken. She was grateful then to the señora, whose relenting did not include Mazie, for continuing on down the stairs after the nod of greeting, making her way back to the kitchen region.

  When the door had closed behind them, Mazie swung around. “There is something I have to tell you. What you do with it is up to you, but I couldn’t just do nothing, knowing you might be going into danger.”

  “What do you mean?” Eleanora asked, standing still with her hand on the handle of the door.

  “I mean there is a plot to assassinate William Walker, today, at the inauguration!”

  Eleanora let her breath out slowly. “I know there was a threat against him, but he is aware of it, and I’m sure he is taking preventive measures.”

  “This is no threat! This is solid, stone-hard fact.”

  “You had better tell me about it,” Eleanora said, moving into the room. There was a hard knot forming just under her ribs, but she disregarded it, her eyes never leaving Mazie’s face.

  Looking around her, Mazie found one of the straight-back chairs near the dining table and sat down upon it. Her elbow resting on the table, she put her hand to her head. “Two days ago Neville came to the theater. He talked to me awhile, then he asked to see John, alone. They went outside, and in a little bit, I thought I heard raised voices. Before I could look out to see, John came on back in. He was so quiet I thought I had been mistaken, that the noise had come from down the street. I should tell you, I guess, that before John turned actor back home in his native England, he was a miner. He worked with black powder in the coal mines, using it to blast the coal loose so it could be mined. He got the beginning of lung sickness and quit several years ago. Acting seemed a profession that would not require much in the way of hard labor, so he took it up. At some time I must have mentioned this to Neville and he remembered it. At any rate, John woke me early this morning to tell me that what Neville had wanted of him was to set a charge of black powder, get it all ready — or at the very least tell him how to get it ready — so that it would go off after a certain period of time, say as long as five minutes. Neville wanted an explosion guaranteed large enough to blow scaffolding to splinters, and he was willing to pay what amounted to a small fortune to get it.