by Betina Krahn
“Indeed… while you’re pinching every penny and scribbling reports to your master”—she opened her leather satchel and thrust a several-page document into his hands—“you may as well take charge of our equipment and supplies. It will be your job to see that everything arrives with us wherever we go.”
He looked at it in dismay.
“My assignment is—”
“To pull your weight as a member of this expedition.” She looked him up and down, not bothering to hide her doubts about his ability to do so. “I suggest, if you find that prospect too daunting, you march yourself back down the pier and tell your master to find me another watchdog.”
She picked up her other bag intending to join her aunt on the gangway, then turned back for one last salvo.
“Oh, and don’t forget to pay the ship’s bursar for our passage.”
Goodnight watched, steaming quietly, as she greeted the ships’ officers with a dazzling smile and the poor wretches beamed as if she were the Queen of Everything and had just knighted them.
Dear God. He had been a heartbeat away from handing over all the money to her and she wouldn’t be civil long enough to permit it. Much as he wanted to spite the old man, he had to admit that the old cod was probably right about who held the money. If he gave up that bit of power, even voluntarily, he would be nothing more than an overworked dogsbody for the rest of the expedition. If she didn’t just bolt off into the jungle and abandon him first.
Crates being carried aboard by longshoremen intervened in his sight and he refocused on them with annoyance, then anxiety. Crates?
Following a pitched internal battle, he bolted up the gangway after the dock workers to find out where they were stowing the expedition’s equipment.
January 21, Day 1
Passage for three to Havana: $75.00, U.S., he wrote in his ledger later, by the light of a deck lantern overlooking the cargo hold. Four large crates. Two small ones. Two steamer trunks. Per the handwritten inventory. Then he allowed himself something of an aside. Infernal female. Barks orders like a training sergeant. God knows what she has packed into those crates. Looks to be half of civilization. She’d better have budgeted money for pack animals——I am not carting a thimble collection and tea service for twelve through the bloody jungle on my back!!!
Goodnight didn’t join the other passengers in watching their departure from the top deck, nor did he appear the next morning for breakfast. Cordelia banged on his cabin door that afternoon, and it took some time for him to answer. When he did, he looked gray in some places and green in others, and the smell coming from his cabin left no doubt that he was battling seasickness. Her fears that he would have difficulty keeping up on the expedition became a dread certainty; the man simply was not constituted for adventure.
She offered some tips on combating the illness, which he took with the grace of a baited bear.
“Unless you have quantities of liquor or laudanum on you…no thanks.”
She left him to stew in his misery.
The minute the engines stopped at the Key West pier, his door flew open and he came roaring out in stocking feet, a rumpled vest, and trousers savagely crimped from being tucked into boots. Under their disbelieving stares, he dragged himself hand-over-hand down the gangway and onto the pier.
“What would make a man so determined to be so miserable?” Cordelia said, watching him charge toward the nearest tavern.
Hedda shook her head. “How much do you suppose old Hardacre is paying him, anyway?”
When they left Key West for Havana, he dragged himself up the gangway reeking of alcohol and barricaded himself once again in his cabin. He didn’t emerge until the next morning when they slowed to take aboard the pilot who would steer them into Havana Harbor. As the ship’s motion smoothed in the bay’s waters, he emerged barefoot, wearing the same crumpled shirt and tortured trousers, clasping his boots to his chest as if afraid they might escape.
“A pity Mr. Darwin isn’t around to see this,” she said to Hedda as he passed them on the passenger deck. “Evolution in reverse. Another week at sea and his knuckles would be dragging the ground.”
He looked over his shoulder with a bleary indignation that said he’d heard and stalked down the steps to the main deck to stare at the approaching dock.
A squad of armed Spanish soldiers waiting on the quay beside the Olivette’s berth caught her gaze. She joined the captain as he stood on the upper deck watching their progress toward the dock.
“Is something wrong?” She nodded to the welcome awaiting them.
“Nothing more than usual,” he said, indicating the log book and ship’s manifest he was holding. “The government’s touchy these days. They’ll be searching our cargo and passengers to make sure we’re not transporting guns or potential revolutionaries.”
“Guns?” She searched the grim expressions of the soldiers and officials lined up to meet their ship. Her gaze went uneasily to the cargo bay where their equipment was stowed. “I thought you said the city was calm.”
“As calm as government soldiers on every corner can make it,” he said with a rueful smile. “Now, if you will excuse me…” He headed for the stairs and began shouting orders to the dock workers waiting ashore to receive mooring lines and prepare the gangway.
Soldiers and customs officials swarmed up the gangway and boarded the ship. The head bureaucrat presented himself to the captain and demanded in a mixture of English and Spanish to see the ship’s manifest, to inspect all cargo being offloaded, and to personally interview all disembarking passengers. The captain nodded stoically and motioned to the steward to fetch the passengers.
The customs inspector spotted the expedition crates being hoisted out of the hold, and pointed at them, barking orders that they be stacked on the deck for inspection. Cordelia saw Goodnight, who had managed to don both boots, searching through his precious ledger and coming up with a handful of papers that looked alarmingly familiar. Her knees went weak as she watched him head for the inspector with the inventory of their equipment.
She flew down the steps and across the deck to intercept him, but he had already entered the inspector’s sights.
The inspector gasped when she planted herself before him with her most winning smile. Blinking, he straightened to his full height.
“Senora. I did not realize there were ladies among the passengers.”
“Senorita,” she said with a tilt of her head. “My aunt and I boarded at Tampa. Those are ours.” She swept a hand toward the stack of crates.
“I have this quite under control,” Goodnight declared, attempting to offer the papers for inspection, only to have Cordelia step into his path and seize them.
“This won’t be necessary,” she declared with forced pleasantry.
“I insist.” He refused to relinquish the papers. “This is my assigned duty, and I intend to ‘pull my weight’ on the expedition.”
“This isn’t the time.” Her tone flattened as she pulled harder. “We don’t want to burden the inspector with unnecessary paperwork.”
“I’m certain the inspector”—he clipped every word— “is quite accustomed to the monotony of paperwork.”
“In which case, he’d probably rather open the crates and have a look.” She gave a final, fierce yank and claimed the papers, which she tucked behind her as she turned to the inspector and batted her eyes. “After all, anything can be written on paper. It’s what’s in the crates that counts, is it not?”
She reached for a pry bar one of the soldiers held and smiled. Dazzlingly.
The inspector accepted the tool from her and smiled back. Dazzled.
The official handed off the manifest to his assistant, ordering him to see to the rest of the cargo and passengers.
She waved aside his apologies and insisted he open one of the large crates to verify that they were filled with expedition equipment, and to retrieve a small package, which she presented to him with a smile potent enough to melt the buckles on his suspen
ders.
With relief, later, she watched him recall the soldiers and his assistant from the cargo hold and order them back down the gangway. He handed the captain back the ship’s now-approved manifest, then kissed the women’s hands and strode down the dock with a box under his arm and a self-important swagger.
“What in infernal blazes was that all about?” Goodnight confronted her the minute the inspector was out of sight. “You assign me to see to the baggage, and when I try to do so you swoop down and rip the inventory out of my hands!”
She motioned for him to keep his voice down.
“The captain said they were looking for guns and ammunition.”
“So?”
She paged through the inventory and held it up, pointing to the guns listed at the bottom of one sheet. It was gratifying to see the color drain from his face.
“You bloody well might have told me,” he snapped. “What would you have done if he hadn’t taken your little bribe?”
“It wasn’t a bribe, it was—”
“Never had such an easy inspection before, miss!” The captain’s voice intruded as he strode past. When she looked up, he tipped his hat to her. “We should have you aboard every trip.”
After the captain passed, she tried to stuff the crumpled inventory into Goodnight’s hands again. “Here.”
“You took it back—you can keep it.” He leaned closer, his eyes suddenly hot and turbulent. “And do the explaining if we get stopped and searched again. You’re better at fluttering your eyelashes than I am.”
She found herself poised at the edge of a massive whirlpool of tensions and emotions, startled by the strength of her desire to step deeper into it and let it sweep her along. His gray gaze…now almost silver… molten… swirling…
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, in a rumble that vibrated her fingertips. “You think if you make it difficult enough, I’ll fold and slink away. Well, you’re wrong, O’Keefe. I’m here to stay.”
After a few steps away he halted and looked back, his anger replaced by his customary sardonic air.
“So, what was in the package you gave him? In case you come down with a touch of malaria and I need to bribe a custom’s official…”
January 23, Day 3
Arrived Havana Harbor, nine o’clock, a.m. Greeted by customs official——who should be sacked for abandonment of duty. One blasted smile from HER and the poor devil lost higher brain function. Practically drooled down his vest.
Confronted her afterward, demanding to know what sort of “bribe” she’d given him. It wasn’t a bribe, she said; it was a teacup. Gold rimmed. A gift for his wife. Dammit——I knew she was packing china!!!
The transfer to the hotel went smoothly, owing largely to the fact that Hedda and Cordelia had long since worked out a system for handling such operations. That, and the fact that she assigned the aromatic Goodnight to ride on the baggage wagon and make certain all of their things arrived.
On the way they passed through a warren of warehouses and into the city proper, where soldiers patrolled the street corners and people moved along the narrow thoroughfares at an unhurried pace. As they entered the center of the old city, the streets broadened and they encountered sun-drenched plazas clogged with carts and people and alive with the sounds of trade being conducted.
Havana was unlike any place Cordelia had seen before. The stuccoed brick of the houses and shops was painted a lush pallet of tropical colors, and every building, however modest, possessed an upstairs balcony bounded by handsome ironwork. The long plantation shutters that bracketed every door and window, thrown open to admit the morning sun, released a tantalizing melange of spicy smells on the morning air. Bougainville and jasmine ran rampant over doorways and up trellises. Vibrant hibiscus in a rainbow of hues flanked the aged fountains that occupied places of honor in the busy plazas.
The Hotel San Miguel, recommended by the captain, turned out to be a small but charming inn with a stunning view of the old fort and lighthouse at the entrance of Havana Harbor. Cordelia negotiated the cost of their rooms and breakfasts in phrase-book Spanish, then turned to her bursar with a prim smile.
“Pay the gentleman, Goodskin.”
He handed the hotel manager a twenty-dollar gold piece and a handful of American silver, then seeing her pointed stare, followed it to the porters. Reluctantly, he fished a few dimes out of his pocket for them.
“Are we quite finished playing Lady Spendthrift?” he demanded archly.
“For now.” She turned her attention to the placid, sunlit street outside. “Thank Heaven we made it through the swarms of bloodthirsty revolutionaries in the streets.” She leaned in his direction with a glint in her eye. “Be sure to bring your sidearm with you when we head to the university, Goodruff. Hordes of free-thinking students can be so unpredictable.”
He watched her swaying up the stairs with an infuriating little smile and reached for his journal.
The narrow streets of Havana were coming to life again in the late afternoon as they left the hotel on foot, bound for the university. The smell of coffee wafted from the open-air cafés they passed and pushcarts laden with saffron-scented rice, spicy pork, and sweets redolent of hot sugar and cinnamon spread a feast for the senses. The pling of guitars and thump of handmade drums on street corners provided lively accompaniment for people emerging into a post-siesta round of work, late-day commerce, and socializing.
But as Cordelia and Hedda, trailed by Goodnight, made their way past bookshops and cantinas of the sort found near universities everywhere, they noted there were more soldiers in this part of the city and that the patrols seemed more vigilant and heavily armed. Here, people lowered their heads or averted their eyes as they passed the soldiers, as if afraid a direct glance might be taken as a challenge.
Cordelia pulled the mantilla she had adopted closer about her face and glanced at Hedda, who read her look and copied her precaution. Then she looked back at Goodnight and her stomach clenched. He was striding along in boots, a khaki shirt, and breeches, over which he had donned that absurd tailcoat again, looking disastrously tall and foreign and oblivious to the potential threat only yards away. She slowed to allow him to catch up.
“Try slouching a bit, will you?” she hissed. “You’re drawing attention.”
“Well, excuse me”—he stretched a defiant bit taller— “but my height is not exactly within my control.”
“You stick out like a sore thumb. If the soldiers stop you and find you’re carrying a pistol, they’ll arrest you.”
“A pistol?” He gave a “tsk.” “It so happens, I’m not carrying a gun.”
The news, delivered in his customary tight-jawed tones, rasped her last intact nerve. It was all she could do to keep from punching him.
“Then it’s a good thing I am.”
Eight
Hart stood immobilized, watching her head for the stone arch visible at the end of the street, grappling with the twin realizations that she had been serious in her suggestion that he carry a loaded firearm in the streets and that she was actually carrying one herself, somewhere on her person. He had difficulty swallowing. As if she weren’t already dangerous enough.
His mind went inescapably to the question of where she was carrying it. Her purse? Her pocket? Under her petticoats? Strapped to her…
God Almighty.
That was quite enough of that.
Straightening his shoulders despite her warnings, he headed after the women and caught up as they passed through a pair of great stone pillars hung with iron gates. The inscription carved into the stone arch spanning the opening read Universidad De La Habana. The square beyond the pillars was bounded by architecturally distinctive buildings that seemed to bear out the arch’s claim.
He watched Cordelia pause to survey the plaza, then head for a group of students gathered in front of a busy cantina. With her Spanish phrase book, effortless American beauty, and devastating Irish smile, she was soon surrounded by
eager young males from several countries vying to provide her with directions to the Departamento de la Antiquedades…as well as libation, private tutoring, and a range of other “educational” experiences.
She didn’t need a pistol, he thought irritably, he needed a brickbat.
His overpowering impulse to reach through the crowd and snatch her out by the hair of the head appalled him. He told himself it grew out of his conviction of the superiority of his male judgment and an outraged sense of propriety. At least, he hoped it did. Any other explanation would mean he was responding to her as a man to a woman, and he did not intend to give Blackburn’s unpredictable progeny that sort of edge with him.
When she declined all offers that didn’t involve directions and struck off to continue the search, he released the breath he’d been holding.
As a part of the renowned School of the Humanities, Antiquedades was housed in one of the more prominent buildings on the plaza. Once they were inside, it was only a matter of inquiring in the department offices to learn that Arturo Valiente had been assigned offices and a work space on the lower level.
They found him pouring over documents at a long, brightly lit worktable in a cavernous shelf-lined room. He looked up with surprise as they entered, and his magnifying glass and his jaw both lowered. His expression warmed and he said something in Spanish that set Cordelia scrambling for her phrase book. Seeing her searching for a proper response, he rose and shifted immediately to English.
“May I assist?” His voice was a deep baritone and his English, though deeply accented, was perfectly understandable. “You are lost?”
“Professor Arturo Valiente, of the University of Mexico?” she asked, and the man nodded.
“What do you know—he does exist,” Hart muttered.
“I am Cordelia O’Keefe.” She stepped forward to extend a hand to the professor across the table. “You were kind enough to agree to look at some rubbings of Mayan stones for me.”