Her friend shot her a strange look. “I do keep forgetting that your husband is on the other side. And here you are, with Miguel of all people. Are you sure you two are not in contact with each other?”
Ginny stared at the other woman disbelievingly. “Are you accusing me of being a spy? Oh, really, Agnes, this is too much, even from you! If I knew where Steve was I’d be with him—I don’t care on what side!”
“Ginny, I’m sorry! I truly am—of course I didn’t mean anything—it’s just that this damned war has got on all our nerves! You’ll forgive me?”
Agnes threw her arms round Ginny and pressed her face against hers for a moment. “Darling,” she went on, “I understand how you must feel. And believe me, I do wish you luck—you deserve some good fortune.”
Ginny thought bitterly that fortune seemed to have deserted her entirely. Miguel was too busy with the war to pay her more than token attention—she attended theater parties and went to balls with escorts who couldn’t seem to wait to put their hands on her and whisper propositions in her ear.
Quite often, these escorts were American. Mexico City seemed to be thronged with them now. Businessmen, newspaper reporters, hard-faced mercenaries. The diplomats had all moved to Vera Cruz, for even Orizaba, as close as it was to Puebla, was now menaced by the steadily-growing, slowly advancing army of Porfirio Diaz.
The Juarista Generals Escobedo and Corona, winning victory after victory as whole provinces fell into their hands, continued to advance from the north and west. Acapulco fell—Taxco—even Cuernevaca, where the Emperor had his summer palace. More and more rich hacendados who had supported the Imperialist cause left Vera Cruz, the only port now belonging to the empire. Refugees choked all the roads leading to Vera Cruz, travelling in convoys and in fear of their lives, because now the guerrilleros were everywhere—their daring raids coming closer to the border of the City itself.
Where is Steve? The question plagued Ginny constantly. Is he with Diaz? Is he one of those guerrilleros everyone is so frightened of? What is going to happen?
Michel Remy, still bitter and unforgiving, had already left Mexico City and was on his way to France when, late in January the French made their last preparations to quit the city for good. They began to make their final march through Mexican territory, to the port of Vera Cruz, where their troopships already awaited them. And the emperor announced, smiling, that he was at last free. With his loyal generals, he would defend Mexico himself.
“The poor, deluded man!” Ginny exclaimed when she heard. “Loyal generals indeed—they’re all cutthroats, it’s only because they know what kind of reprisals they’re in for if the Juarists win that they remain so loyal!”
“So now you’re a little politician as well, eh?” Miguel teased.
He seemed in an exceptionally good mood that evening, in spite of all the bad news they had been receiving of late.
They were dressing for a tertulia at the house of some American friends, and he came up behind her to help fasten her dress. Ginny frowned slightly as she watched his face in the mirror.
“You’re up to something, Miguel! I can always tell, when you have that particularly innocent smile on your face. Are you going to let me into the secret now, or will I have to wait?”
“Ah, but you know me too well, I can’t keep anything from you!” He gave her a pat on the bottom as he finished fastening her gown, and continued a trifle obliquely, “So—the vultures continue to gather for the kill. Have you noticed how many new faces we see recently as the old ones fade away? Mexico City is no longer such a gay place to be, I’m afraid. Yes, in fact it’s a place we’re all better out of. I’ve even heard rumors that Max plans to go to Queretaro soon, to organize its defense.” His sarcastic smile flashed. “No doubt we’ll all go trailing after him there—his loyal friends—his last loyal friends! Except those of us who have more sense and leave for Vera Cruz instead, even if it does mean braving those overcrowded roads and the guerrilleros!”
Something in the tone of his voice made her swing around to face him, her silk skirts swishing. Her eyes had gone very wide, almost pleading.
“Miguel! For God’s sake—tell me! You’ve heard something.”
“But how would I manage to glean any real information about one of our enemies? Don’t you think they’d be afraid I might betray their whereabouts? We still have an army of sorts, you know.” His voice suddenly became abrupt. “Don’t stand there staring at me as if I’ve destroyed all your hopes, chica. Cheer up. Tonight I intend introducing you to an American gentleman who most certainly knows where your husband can be found. A Mr. Bishop, who carries a newspaperman’s credentials from the Washington Star. Of course, I happen to be one of the few persons who knows that Mr. Bishop is in reality an agent of the United States—another one of the vultures, I’m afraid. But your Esteban used to work for him, and I’ve reason to believe they still keep in touch. I’ll perform the introduction, but you must do the rest, querida. For obvious reasons, I can’t afford to be mixed up in such a matter. Be bold—blackmail him if you have to—use your charm!”
He took her arm, while she still stood rigid, staring at him.
“Don’t you think it’s time we left? We’ll miss a magnificent supper if we’re late, and there’s a pretty young American actress who will be waiting for my arrival with a beating heart. Come along, Ginette.”
If Jim Bishop was surprised when he recognized the beautiful “Madame du Plessis” as Steve Morgan’s wife, he hid it well under his stiffly formal manner. Ginny, on the other hand, could not prevent her little gasp of shock when she recognized the same man who had given her away at her long-ago wedding.
Since Miguel had left them together after he’d made the introductions, Mr. Bishop had no choice but to offer Madame du Plessis his arm, and escort her in to supper. When she insisted, in a low voice, that she must speak to him in private, on a very urgent matter, he did no more than nod his head politely as he acceded. However he did look slightly shocked later, when she invited him to visit her apartment.
She gave a slightly hysterical laugh. “Mr. Bishop! I swear I don’t mean to seduce you. But really, it’s the most private place I can think of. The servants have the night off, and as you can see, Miguel has found—a friend to occupy his time with. I don’t expect him to visit me tonight. Won’t you trust me?”
He gave her a bluntly direct answer that surprised her. “I really don’t know, madame. But—” he gave a small shrug and a thin smile touched his lips for a moment “—you hardly leave me with an alternative, do you? Very well. And as a matter of fact, I should warn you that I have a few words for you, as well.”
She was so excited, so deathly sick with anticipation, that she could not eat, and she hardly knew what she said to anyone else for the rest of the evening. Miguel had gallantly left her his carriage, and when at last she thankfully emerged into the cold night air, Mr. Bishop himself took the reins while she gave him directions.
Ginny came directly to the point when they were comfortably settled in the small sala of her apartment. She offered the gentleman some champagne which he refused with a slight lift of his eyebrow, and then she leaned forward, fixing her eyes on his.
“Mr. Bishop, I want you to send me to join my husband. No,” she hurried on, noticing the slight contraction of his brows, “please don’t say anything yet—until I have explained. You see, I didn’t know, all these months, that he was alive—that he had been sent to prison. I thought he had been executed! And I didn’t betray him, you must believe that. It was a trick that Colonel Devereaux played on us both—making Steve believe that I had been the one to plan it all—making me believe that he would spare his life if I—” She bit her lip and looked away for a moment. “I suppose he did keep his word to me, in a way! But, oh God, if I’d only known!”
Bishop cleared his throat in an embarrassed fashion. “Really madam, I see no point in your—er—upsetting yourself in this manner! But as for sending you to your husband—tha
t’s quite another matter! You must realize it is out of the question! In fact, I had intended to ask that you leave Mexico City immediately, for Vera Cruz. Although it’s very difficult, I think I can arrange a passage for you. Your father, the senator, is extremely concerned for your safety, as you can imagine. In fact, he has even talked to President Johnson about it. I have been instructed to see that you leave here as soon as possible, and I must remind you, madam, that it is now only a matter of months—perhaps even weeks, before President Juarez will be back in Mexico City to take up the reins of government. Your remaining here, with the risk of fighting imminent, is out of the question!”
“Mr. Bishop!” Ginny’s eyes flashed like green flame as she clenched her teeth together. “I will not be ordered to do thus or so, by anyone! Not my father, not even the President of the United States himself! I’ve become quite used to taking care of myself, and I’m capable of continuing to do so. I want to see my husband. I love him, can’t you understand that? I will not and cannot leave Mexico until I have at least spoken to him face to face, and settled matters between us. I can’t have him go on thinking that I was responsible for what they did to him! I must see him! And if you won’t help him then I’ll go looking for him myself—do you think I care so much what happens to me? It can’t be worse than what I’ve already had to endure.”
“Madam, I must insist.” Mr. Bishop’s voice, usually so colorless had sharpened with impatience, but Ginny, who didn’t really know him, ignored this symptom of his perturbation.
“It is I who must insist, Mr. Bishop! Steve Morgan is my husband, and I have a right to know where he is!”
“Very well, madam.” Pale gray eyes looked into hers as the quiet voice continued. “Mr. Morgan is a captain in General Porfirio Díaz’s army. But he also plays another role, with the full knowledge and cooperation of General Díaz himself. He has been on temporary assignment, at various times, with certain guerilla bands.” Bishop permitted himself a thin smile. “I’m sure Colonel Lopez was able to tell you that much, at least. In addition, since he is still, technically at least, an undercover agent of the United States, he also manages to keep in contact with me—or certain of our other representatives here. He is usually somewhere in the vicinity of Oaxaca province—sometimes even closer to the east—but I’m afraid that it is, well, almost impossible to keep track of his exact movements.”
“But you said he keeps in contact with you—how could you know where to reach him, then?”
“I said, madam, that he keeps in contact with me.” Bishop’s voice was dry. “It is he who makes all contacts. I merely arrange to have messages waiting, if I happen to have something important to communicate to him. And I should not even be telling you as much as I have. You are really a very disrupting influence, young woman!”
He watched, with disapproval, as she tilted her glass of champagne, draining it to give her courage.
“Mr. Bishop,” she said at last, “I do not intend to give up! Do I make myself clear? I will not go anywhere unless I go to my husband. And you can send me to him. I warn you—I can be thoroughly unscrupulous when I have to be. And I will see Steve again!”
“Am I to understand that you are threatening me, madam?”
Bishop’s impeccable poise slipped for an instant, and the shocked surprise was obvious in his tone.
“If you want to call it that—yes!” Ginny gave a careless shrug and looked directly into his eyes. “You see, Mr. Bishop—you will not be rid of me unless I can meet my husband, and talk to him. Just once is all I ask. And after that—if he does not want me—I’ll go to Vera Cruz or anywhere else you say, without making a fuss.”
46
They were jogging down the great highway that led out of Mexico City and all the way east to the ocean, and already, though the sun had just risen, the beaten-down, rutted roadway was crowded with other refugees.
Ginny sat hunched on the uncomfortable wooden seat of the little creaking oxcart, her rebozo wrapped tightly around her head and shoulders to keep her warm in the chilliness of dawn. Beside her, her companion, the man who was supposed to pass as her husband, sat in sullen silence except for the occasional grunting noises he made to the two emaciated oxen. It was clear, in spite of the wide sombrero that partially covered his face, that Paco Davis was not at all happy.
“What a coincidence!” he had said ironically when he first saw her, dressed in the shabby garments of a Mexican peasant woman, her face smudged with dirt. “One is always meeting old friends, in my job—and especially here. Tell me, how did you manage it?”
Ginny had frowned at him crossly. “What do you mean? I’m sure your Mr. Bishop told you the whole story.”
“He told me some of it,” Paco had continued in the same ironical tone. “But then, I was rather drunk at the time—I’m not used to the fleshpots of Mexico City, you know! I did gather, though, that I’m supposed to take you to the place where I usually go to drop off messages. And that you were my responsibility.” He had given her a wry look, and noticed her frown deepen.
“I’m sorry if I’ve put you out. But, as I managed to convince Mr. Bishop in the end, I’m perfectly able to take care of myself. Surely you can’t throw any more objections in my way than he did!”
“I won’t even try! You’re here, aren’t you? But I ought to warn you that this whole idea is crazy! It’s the damndest thing I ever heard of—taking you to meet your husband in the middle of a war—just as if this was some kind of pleasure jaunt! I think Bishop’s crazy too, for letting you talk him into it!”
“I’m afraid poor Mr. Bishop didn’t have much choice,” she’d said sweetly.
“Well, anyhow—remember to keep your hair covered, for God’s sake—and lower your eyes—in spite of those clothes and the mud on your face I’m afraid you don’t look at all like the wife of a poor peasant like me!”
“You can always say I’m some puta you picked up in one of those—those fleshpots you were talking of!” she retorted, beginning to get angry. “Shall I convince you that I can pass as one of those quite easily?” In the same sweet voice she released a string of expletives that made even Paco flush—both with surprise and embarrassment.
My God, he thought, what’s happened to her? He remembered her as a headstrong, willful girl, with the potential of great beauty some day. He had seen her dirty, dusty and dishevelled; and dressed like a debutante. But she had still been just a girl, all the same, and now here she was, dropped on him from out of the blue—very obviously a woman now, in spite of her ridiculous attire; and a woman with quite a past, to judge from her language!
As they rode on in silence Paco found himself thinking, I wish Bishop had told me more about her—why does he have to be so closemouthed? She disappeared, we all knew that, and then she suddenly turns up in Mexico City—a high priced cortesana, if what they say is true. But what is she doing here? Why is she suddenly so insistent on seeing Steve? He almost shuddered at the thought of that meeting. Steve had always been closemouthed, and since he had escaped from that hellhole they’d put him in, he’d appeared even more reserved; and bitter, into the bargain. Not that he blamed him—he’d seen the scars on Steve’s back, and could imagine what it must have been like. But Steve seemed to have withdrawn himself into a hard, coldly implacable shell of late. He had always been coolheaded and almost nerveless when it came to fighting—now he was quite ferocious, and merciless. A killer. Paco had seen some of the damage the guerrilleros had done—and some of the victims they left behind. Steve never talked about his wife, but he hated to think what he might do to her, especially if she turned up like this—quite suddenly, without any warning. If he still thought that she had been the cause of his betrayal…in spite of his annoyance at having Ginny foisted upon him, Paco had to admire her courage. Yes, she had changed all right. She had grown tougher, more resilient. And used to getting her own way.
A baby stared to squall in the back of the wagon, and Ginny leaned back to pick up the blanket wrapped bun
dle.
“It’s really heartless of you to bring this poor little mite along, just as a cover! A baby! How could you do such a thing? How do you expect to feed it?”
Paco jerked his head backward with a grin, at the sad looking goat that trailed behind the cart. “You’d better know how to milk her! That’s a woman’s work. And besides,” he added in an exaggeratedly patient voice, “I already told you that this poor infant was abandoned. What did you expect me to do, leave it screaming its head off in the middle of the street until someone ran over it? No—I used my head instead. Now we look like a real family, unless someone gets close enough to see your eyes.”
“Well, I’m sorry I can’t cover them up too!” she snapped at him. She started to rock the baby, crooning to it in the Mestizo dialect they had agreed to use when they spoke to each other. A short while later she handed the infant to him without a word and jumped off the cart, carrying a little tin cup. He shook his head in grudging admiration when she came back with milk.
By the time she had cooked a meal when they stopped for the night, most of his anger had evaporated. Having her along hadn’t been at all bad after all. Unlike most women, she was silent most of the time, and she did what had to be done without any complaints; without even having to be told. She fed and cared for that little brat as if she’d had one of her own—when they started to get up into the mountains she had helped to push the wagon—she had walked beside it, barefoot, for several miles; and all without a grumble. And she could cook!
They had stopped in a little clearing with a lot of other wagons and carts—all huddled together for safety from bandidos. Just as a Mexican wife would have done, Ginny had cooked their meal, served him his portion first, and then retired to spread her blankets under the cart, hugging the baby to her breast. He had grumbled to Bishop, imagining that she’d be a millstone around his neck, with all the dainty airs and graces of a society woman. Now he understood that thin, secret smile that Bishop had given him. “I think you’ll be surprised,” was all Bishop had said at the time. Well, he certainly was—and pleasantly too. He found himself thinking, as he sat around a small fire chatting desultorily with some of the other men, that she might after all be able to hold her own with Steve. He even hoped so.
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