by Eliza Lloyd
Shelene’s jaw clenched, and she glanced out the open doors. Weight bore her down. It wasn’t just her husband. It was her father, and her brother-in-law. And young, inexperienced Joaquin. And Mama. She’d had to bear up under the strain for months.
Marriage had long represented companionship, a girlish dream, perhaps. The sharing of life’s burdens. She had a taste of that promise and now, ashes.
“Come, dearest. Let us walk up to the hill and pay respects to your mother,” her aunt said, hooking her arm with Shelene’s.
Dewey followed along at a respectful distance, carrying a hoe, allowing Shelene to ask private questions about the family and finally, a few subtle questions about her uncle—the other unspoken weight. At least Roman was right to tell her the news of the family’s Barabbas. The Belgrano name had a long, impeccable history. Her uncle might tarnish the name, but he wouldn’t destroy it.
Mama had left Papa to his ships and his fate, knowing that if he died, he would die happy. She had grown apathetic to his absences, devoting herself to religion and needlework. And always to Las Colinas. Shelene wasn’t sure how Papa had convinced her to leave Spain for England. Mama’s world was small: the hacienda, her daughter and her daughter’s future. But her love was large.
Francisco Belgrano, on the other hand, was bitter about Las Colinas’ maternal passing. Shelene often wondered if that was what drove him to such evils. He also hated Roman, just as he hated England. Roman did not hide his involvement in Uncle Francisco’s capture and the family had never hidden their relationship with Roman. Some might suspect Roman had romanced her to get to her uncle, but the family had known him for years prior. Uncle Francisco must blame someone for his choices and misfortune.
Uncle would not be happy that Shelene had married one of his mortal enemies. Maybe he would never find out, if he was on the run from authorities and trying to save his deceitful, murderous skin. It was for the best that he was on another continent.
Shelene entwined her arm with her aunt’s. “I’m so happy to be home.”
“Good, then we must plan a magnificent party and our joy will be complete.”
No, her joy would never be complete. Her grief was complete. Losing Father and Mother. Losing Roman. Horses, stained glass and scented gardens weren’t going to relieve her pain, but she could pretend that life was grand, profess her happiness and proclaim to all that she was delighted with her state of aloneness.
* * * * *
Brahim al Meda, the estate manager, and Sakina, his wife, spent the next morning with Shelene walking through the gardens, orchards and vineyards. Shelene was pleased with the extraordinary care the family took in maintaining the property. They walked down the long lane bordered with orange trees toward the work buildings: the lower paddocks, the forge and smithy, the grain storage, the winery buildings.
The Berber couple, along with their seven grown children and their families, had faithfully supplied the estate and other paid laborers working the land with an abundance of fresh vegetables and fruits, breads, cheeses and meats, and were integral to the production of fine wines and sherry sold all over Spain.
Most of the original Berbers and Moors had long ago been forced to leave Spain. Some remained, many converting religions or appealing to local families for protection. For the al Meda family, Brahim’s grandfather had resettled in Spain nearly seventy years ago and the family had been working in the valley since.
Martina’s sons worked the fields. They, too, were marrying and bringing their wives to the estates.
Cortes had taken care of the horses and the breeding line for thirty years—before Shelene was even born. Brahim’s youngest son, Udad, was being trained to take over. She’d see them both tomorrow, and she’d be well-rested, ready to ride one of the friskier stallions across the hills.
When she’d left Spain two years ago, there were nearly two hundred working the estate.
“Two-hundred and thirty, sayidati.”
“Oh, so many more! How many of them are your grandchildren, Brahim?” Shelene asked.
“Only forty-three, but we are expecting more in the coming year,” he said. “We have a treat for you. A new variety of grapes from the United States we planted four years ago has produced excellent casks this year.”
“Have you named it yet?”
“Oh, no, sayidati. We are not ready to bottle yet. Maybe one of us will have an inspiration, but you must taste it first.”
Brahim waved her toward the covered portico, a spacious area between the main house and the upper paddock. Sakina wrapped her arm in Shelene’s and they talked about all their children, the new babies and the growth of the estate.
The following week, on Monday morning, Shelene did the hardest thing. She traveled to Arco de la Frontera. Father Etienne welcomed her, having last seen her over two years ago. He clasped her hands in both of his. The war had been over for several years, but its remnants were evident: shot marks in the marble stone, burn marks and a general malaise about the town, as if the French and Napoleon had taken the soul out of the city. And there was the constant stirring of rebellion in the provinces.
The church in the village was surrounded by the small, neat, whitewashed homes so common to Andalucía. The church stood on the hill near the river’s edge with a view of the river below and a wide purple vista overlooking the valley.
“Oh my dearest, you have returned at the most opportune time. Just this month, the parishioners were lamenting the loss of our stained glass in the south transept. We have missed your skills.”
“I’m afraid I am out of practice. You must need it right away. Have you talked to Señor Arellano? His work is so beautifully detailed.”
“You must not have heard. He passed on six months ago. I have shocked you. I am sorry. I thought your aunt would have caught you up on all the local news. About the stained glass—do not devalue your own skills. I think given time, your talents will exceed any artisan in Andalucía, I am certain.”
“That is kind, Father.” She wanted to accept the project; she needed something to keep her mind and hands busy. “But I have come about a more private matter.”
“Certainly, child. Let us sit.” He drew her to one of the pews at the back of the church. There were three old women at front, praying piously, heads down, rosary beads in hand.
“I ask your forgiveness before I present my petition, Father. I know you will be shocked, maybe saddened by my request, but I insist.”
“Go on.”
“I married in haste and my husband has since abandoned me. I wish to purse an annulment.”
He leaned back, a mutter of disgust as he shook his head then clucked his disapproval. “I cannot not accept this is God’s will for you or for any woman in Spain, for that matter. There must be some other solution. Would I be able to speak with your husband? Perhaps someone in authority can convince him of his duty."
“He is gone, Father. It may be months before he returns, if at all. He is on a dangerous mission in his work for the English Crown. I am but a passing thought.” Was she exaggerating truth or just twisting it slightly for her benefit?
“I implore you to wait. Perhaps a year or more. Until you have thoroughly considered and prayed about such an action. The consequences would be dire.”
“No, Father. I need to know how to proceed. Do you petition the bishop? Or do you petition Rome?”
“Oh, no. This is not to be borne. The damage to your reputation would be incalculable. And what about the embarrassment to your family, so prominent in Andalucía? Please, señora, I beg you to reconsider. Can you not wait one month, at least? Time will temper your current anger and confusion.”
“I cannot be the only woman to want to dissolve an ill-suited marriage.” Well, if her uncle Francisco Belgrano had not ruined her family reputation, how did Father Etienne think she could?
“No, of course not, many women may wish it, but they weigh the short-term satisfaction of getting their way with the long-term benefits of re
maining in the marriage.”
“Father, I am not so petty as to demand my way just because I have my nose out of joint. I am being practical. I should have married both a Spaniard and a Catholic. I have neither. Surely that is sound enough reason for a priest to support his parishioner in this pursuit.”
“You are not a child, Señora Forrester. You are a grown woman who evaluated all the possibilities, and you chose Señor Forrester. At this time, I cannot support such a petition.”
She took a deep breath. She knew it wouldn’t be easy. “I will wait one month. If you will not make such a petition, I will travel to Seville to see the archbishop. If he will not make such a petition, I will travel to Rome.”
One month passed. Her anger and hurt had not.
One month and one day passed. Her anger disappeared amongst the wild emotions of discovering she was likely pregnant. She kept to her room for one day, laughing and crying in turn. Had she allowed anyone to be near her, they would have thought she’d gone insane. Maybe she had. She’d never wanted Roman more.
Four months passed. Her elation turned to bitterness when her uncle arrived at Las Colinas with the news that Roman was dead. Or course, Uncle could not have known such news was also the confirmation that both Papa and her brother-in-law Oliver Forrester were also gone. Truly gone.
“How do you know, Uncle?” she asked.
“I was in Argentina. I heard the news there.”
The news had numbed her. She’d asked a hundred questions and her uncle patiently answered them all. What could she do now but accept her uncle’s return especially when he presented a pardon from King Ferdinand?
Father Etienne pretended they hadn’t had a conversation about an annulment, instead presenting her with a stained-glass commission to repair the fabulous nativity scene that had been damaged with the last war skirmish through Arco de la Frontera. She accepted with gratitude. She’d worry about the complexity of the problem once she began repairs.
On her one-year anniversary of her marriage to Roman, she walked through the garden and to the hill where her mother was buried. She carried a small trowel and dug a spot near Mother’s headstone.
She buried her wedding ring, now tied with a lock of Antonio’s hair. That night she accepted an invitation from Señor Navarro to join him for a meal in Arco de la Frontera, accompanied by Uncle Francisco.
Chapter Eight
Roman stood at the ship’s rail, the sail no longer flapping as the frigate anchored in the Cadiz harbor. He’d been worried about getting out of Argentina. When he saw the small British frigate bobbing in the harbor, Roman thought his luck had turned for the good.
He rubbed a hand over his growth of beard and then checked his watch, a wretched timepiece that he’d acquired after selling nearly everything he had to keep their group together and moving toward Spain.
“I never thought I’d see Cadiz again,” Commodore Hightower said as he approached to Roman’s right.
“And I was beginning to worry we would never see a continent without Napoleon at the helm of a French army. Spain will be the better for it.”
“I’m afraid you don’t know Spaniards as well as you think you do,” Hightower said.
After finding Oliver and Hightower, they’d returned to Buenos Aires to find that news of Napoleon’s death had even reached South America’s far shores. Roman could imagine how Bathurst and the Home Office were scurrying to mitigate all the consequences.
Hightower leaned against a supporting crutch, as he was near recovered from all the maladies he’d suffered since his crew had mutinied in South America. Strange how something so fraught with betrayal could, in the end, have saved their lives. But as Hightower and Oliver had both observed over the past several months, trusting the wrong persons on a ship that required absolute cohesion could be fatal. When the crew had mutinied, Oliver had refused to abandon his commander. The crew who had remained somewhat loyal had rejected a firing squad for their commander and had set the two afloat on a dingy. They’d been unaware the Victorious had gone down until Roman broke the news.
“There must be a lot of things you thought you’d never see again,” Roman said dryly.
“My boy, you do not know the half of it.”
“I suppose there is no need to send a note ahead. Our arrival will herald our return in a way no hand-delivered note could.”
“It is your decision. Shelene likely believes you are as lost as I was. And Oliver,” Hightower said.
Roman had sent two letters. One when he’d arrived in Buenos Aires fourteen months ago and one when he’d left the city a month later, heading toward the Pampas region and its coastline. There had been one other opportunity when he was in a small town at the southern tip of the country, but he was doubtful about whether it would ever get delivered, and Roman had needed every piece of gold and silver he’d brought with him.
“Mi’lord,” Joaquin said. “I’ve the trunks packed for when it is time to depart.” The trunks were small wooden boxes which held the meanest of clothes, including blankets, coats and boots they’d needed in the very cold region of Patagonia.
“A few more hours, I’d think. I don’t have the funds to bribe the captain into seeing we are the first off the ship.”
“I’m about to crawl from my skin. I will kiss the soil as soon as I set a foot to it,” Joaquin said. “And I will never make such a voyage as this as long as I live. Give me a cow and a few chickens and I will be content forever.”
Roman laughed. Something he had not done much of in the last year and a half. “I will help make that happen, Joaquin. As soon as we get home.”
He let his gaze search out the landmarks of the city along the isthmus. Catedral Nueva and the dome. San Sebastian fortress. What he wanted to see was well beyond Cadiz and he stared toward the horizon.
“Joaquin, can you find someone to help bring Oliver above deck? He would probably enjoy the sunlight without the severe rocking of the boat.” Once they passed Gibraltar, the water had tamed considerably.
“Sí, mi’lord.”
Oliver had had the worst of it, defending his commodore. It all started with malaria he’d contracted while in Brazil. Roman could tell Oliver blamed himself for the mutiny, not being strong enough to buttress the commodore, then getting beaten to a bloody pulp. A head wound that had caused memory loss and headaches. Influenza whilst they’d struggled through the winter once they got to safety.
They were both lucky to be alive.
And the commodore, true leader of men, had been most concerned about his crew and ship. Roman delivered the bad news in typical fashion, with facts and without emotion. Of course, he only knew what he’d been told those months ago by a French sailor.
Hightower had taken it personally, removing the last remaining lace insignia on the shoulder sleeve of his battered uniform. Maybe it was a reminder to him, or to the Royal Navy, that he’d served his last mission. Only once had he lamented losing his dress sword, given to him by Nelson himself, but in those few words Roman heard the despair of failure.
Joaquin had hurried off to do Roman’s bidding as he had for these many months.
What would he have done without Joaquin’s help? He’d run errands, seen that Roman’s clothes were cleaned, fetched supplies, listened when Roman was frustrated, angry and ready to give up. Roman was going to see to it that Joaquin got more than a few head of livestock. He had an estate that needed a solid and reliable foreman, and Joaquin would be that man. Find him a wife and the boy would be devoted to Roman for life.
“It won’t seem like home without my dear Gabriela. I never regretted my life at sea knowing she was always waiting for me. Now that she is gone, I feel like there is no reason to ever set sail again,” Hightower said. Roman felt the same sort of regret, except he had a living wife who was going to despise him for giving his word and breaking it.
“You have a daughter and a magnificent estate that is waiting for your attention, Commodore. A life well-lived. Being spared a f
ate you didn’t deserve. You have much to be thankful for. Much to look forward to.”
“As do you, Roman. You will not miss your duty to England as much as you think you will.”
Of course, Hightower referred to Shelene. Roman had spent most nights thinking of her, and now that he was near home again, he didn’t not want to think about what might be waiting.
“I would feel better about abandoning my duties if I had been able to finish the assignment I started,” Roman said.
“Ah, Belgrano. He is nothing. He’s always been nothing.”
“The problem is nothing sometimes turns into something. I am more concerned than ever he was not where we thought he was. Probably had never gone to Argentina. That’s bad intelligence or a planned narrative.” And if Belgrano wasn’t in Argentina, that meant he was likely in Spain. What were his plans if that was the case? Was he planning something reprehensible with regard to the current Spanish crown? Or something closer to Roman’s heart? Was Shelene in some danger? Had she been in danger while he was gone? He was thankful Dewey and Rousseau had committed to watching over her while he was gone.
“You spent thirty days looking for him and over a year looking for me and Oliver. Maybe you didn’t ask enough questions.”
“Perhaps. But my best sources had no knowledge about him, and they were the most experienced informants in the region. He never left the continent. For some nefarious reason.”
“Unless he was trying to be someone other than the notorious Belgrano. Perhaps he hid his identity until his plans, whatever they were, came to fruition. Whatever he did, he was just trying to save his cowardly skin.”
“You know him as your brother-in-law. I know him as a seditious brigand.”
Oliver approached, braced by Joaquin on one side and another sailor on his left. Roman’s heart ached. His brother had aged twenty years, even acquiring some grey at the side of his temples. He looked older than Adam, their oldest brother. His broken bones had healed as well as they could have given the horrific circumstances and lack of medical attention. It was one attack after another. Roman’s normally logical, unemotional self teared up seeing his younger brother so shattered.
