by Eliza Lloyd
“So, how was it you met someone so qualified to care for you during the voyage?”
“The consulate in Buenos Aires told us that an impoverished English woman needed to return home,” Oliver said.
“My husband had been quite sick before he died, so I offered my services to assist Mr. Forrester in order to pay for my journey.” She was demure and shy but very lovely beneath her lowered lashes and prim dress. Oliver must have noticed even in his incapacitated state.
“Surely you must want to return home as soon as possible?”
“I promised Mr. Forrester I would see him to London. I’ve waited this long.”
“Well, there are worse places to spend a summer. Now Oliver, is there anything I can do for you? Do you need anything?”
Oliver laughed. “Just a new wardrobe, which Roman has promised soon.”
“I did bring you a basket. I hope you don’t mind that I was presumptuous about what you might need. Please take care of him, Mrs. Spencer. He saved my father and for that he deserves every kindness.”
“We saved each other. I think if just one of us had been put off the Victorious, both would have died. You needn’t have worried. The commodore is a tough old bird.”
Shelene had not heard the entire story yet. She presumed the men wanted to protect her from the worst of the story, as if she couldn’t imagine the frightful possibilities on her own.
“And you are better now? I must say you look most ill, I’m sorry to say.”
“Malaria. The symptoms come and go. Long-term, I should recover, but it is a blighter to have along with all my other temporary ailments. You asked what I need—perhaps some quinine.”
Shelene thought he was at least in good spirits. “The Jesuits brought cinchona bark here almost two hundred years ago. I will find some even if I have to send a courier to every corner of Spain.” She clutched his hand. “We’ll talk again soon.”
Oliver didn’t let go. “Be kind to him, Shelene. He loves you so.”
Such things disturbed Shelene. She wasn’t unkind—not to her family, not to the diligent workers at Las Colinas, not to the poor in Arco de la Frontera. She tried to smile, but there was no one who could understand the heartbreak Roman had caused her over the years.
She did not hate him; she could never hate him.
Shelene sat beside Father Etienne. “Are you enjoying yourself, Father?”
“Oh, quite. Your wine is some of the best.”
“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked.
“The stained glass window. Do you know when it will be complete? I want to have a celebratory thanksgiving mass once it’s reinstalled. The miracle of having a father and husband returned should humble us all. There is much to be thankful for, Señora Forrester.”
“That is kind of you, Father. Let us also pray this talk of civil war does not reach us here in our peaceful valley.”
He leaned toward her and whispered, “I’ve heard rumors. Perhaps I should share this information with your husband, as I have shared with your uncle? He would know if something should be done.”
“Please don’t, Father Etienne. He’s only just returned and isn’t familiar with the current politics of Spain. And my father isn’t strong enough to stand up to the pathetic men who call themselves rebels. Everything will sort itself out. The people are tired of fighting.”
“Everyone,” Roman called. “The food is ready.”
Those who weren’t already at a table gathered. The household servants had laid out a feast, including the platters of roasted chicken, already sliced into servings. There were two cast iron pots full of paella with chorizo and seafood. The mussels, clams and shrimp were mixed in with flavorful rice and peas, onions and peppers. The smell was mouth-watering. There were several types of empanadas and bowls of tomato-based sauces. The padron peppers were charred and blistered and topped with a sprinkling of sea salt and goat cheese. And the fresh bread was piled on platters and surrounded by churned butter along with several hard cheeses.
Shelene was impressed not because she wasn’t used to a generous Spanish food spread, but that it rivaled anything she’d put on her table since she’d been home. But it was more than that. With Uncle Francisco at her table, there was an air of tense expectation, not this easy, relaxed atmosphere where friends could laugh and gossip and talk of good times and great exploits.
She sat beside her father, and Roman took a seat next to her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She couldn’t believe he’d only been home for one day. His presence was always larger than life and he took up much of the space in his own home. He listened and laughed at every story her father told; was solicitous with his brother; and everyone loved him.
And Shelene refused to hate herself for sticking to her word.
She glanced around the table. Roman knew them all and they all trusted him with their lives and their dreams and their safety.
The well of self-pity was an easy one to fall into, but she wasn’t going to have it. She was happy. She was home. She had her beautiful son. And she would act like it, in spite of Roman’s return. In spite of his betrayal. She took a deep breath, thanking God and fate.
“A toast everyone,” she said, lifting her glass. Everyone stopped talking, reached for their glasses and waited for her to speak. She gave her best, most sincere smile. “Today is an amazing day. I was saved from becoming a bigamist.” There was a burst of laughter. “My father has returned to me. Oliver is alive. My son has his father. How thankful I am and how overflowing the joy in my heart. To Roman and his helper, Joaquin. You have our gratitude and love.”
Several shouted in agreement and the conversation started up again, louder than before.
She leaned toward her father. “Are you well, Papa? Can I get you anything?”
“What more could I ask for?” he asked, then kissed her cheek. His face was ruddy as always; his smile bright. Oh, yes, he was indeed happy.
And for the first time, she thought he might be content as a landlubber, living his remaining years strolling the hills and valleys, seeing to the horses and wines and cheeses. Drinking wine with the community elders and local dons and passing on his wisdom to his grandson.
She glanced toward Oliver again to see that he was in pain. His brow was drawn and his smile tight. He’d aged during the ordeal more than her father had. How long must he suffer for saving her father? She was certain that it was Oliver who had given his all to save Papa.
Joaquin stood, hitching his drawers and intending to relieve himself, Shelene thought, but she delayed him, catching his arm as he walked by. “Joaquin, could you see that my carriage is prepared? I need to return home to Antonio.”
“Sí, Señora Forrester.”
Roman was sipping at his wine, listening. “I can take you. You don’t need to return alone.”
“You have guests, and I am only a visitor.”
“It doesn’t need to be that way.”
“But it is. And it was your choice.”
Shelene returned to her plate and enjoyed more of the paella, licking her fingers and astounded all over again at the luscious fare. When Joaquin returned, she stood and imparted her farewells. “I’ll see you at home, Papa. And Oliver, I will find that bark for you. Thank you, Roman. Everything was delicious.”
She couldn’t refuse his escort without seeming like a shrew. She saw him wave to Joaquin to follow. Outside, Roman said, “Joaquin, why don’t you drive Shelene home?”
“Nonsense. I am quite capable of returning home on my own, and Joaquin shouldn’t have to walk back afterward. Stay, and enjoy what is left on the table.”
Once Joaquin walked away, she said, “I thought you were leaving for a few days.”
“I had planned to see Mr. Fisk in Cadiz, but since he is here, we’ve already conducted some of our business. Perhaps later in the week. I will let you know.”
She laughed. “There is no need. I no longer need to know your comings and goings and I
don’t plan to share mine with you.”
“But what if I feel the need to share your bed now and again? That might require some notice.”
“None is required. If you knock on my door, I shall vacate my bed and sleep in one of the other sixty beds at Las Colinas. But that seems such an inconvenience for everyone, so it would be best if you continued to sleep here. In your home. I will sleep at mine.”
She clucked her tongue and the horse jumped, pulling her away from a startled Roman. She didn’t look back.
Once she returned to Las Colinas, she met with Brahim about her wishes for the next five days. She was going to Seville to shop. “Whatever Papa needs, please help him and if he needs to know how the estate is running, please show him everything and answer all his questions.”
“And Señor Forrester?”
“He will not be here. I will take two men with me to chaperon along with Durra to help care for Tono.”
“Sí, Señora. I’ll arrange for everything.”
“And I need to find some cinchona bark rather urgently, for Mr. Oliver Forrester.”
“It will be found.”
It wasn’t a frivolous trip. She had accounts to settle in Seville from expenses incurred for the wedding. Señor Navarro would perhaps pay them if he weren’t so humiliated in all this. She would take care of it without bothering him.
Wine purchases could be made. Cloth and materials for drapes, towels and bedding could be ordered. New rugs from Morocco could be purchased, as well. She’d meet with Sakina after dinner to make a list to ensure she forgot nothing. And that she kept herself busy.
Was her life to be spent languishing because of Roman Forrester? No, it was not!
* * * * *
Waiting was one of Roman’s specialties. Patience could win skirmishes, battles and wars, allowing one to plan well and overcome the most cunning of adversaries.
Shelene’s decisions were quick and based on emotion, for the most part, though they had a certain thrust that delivered a ruthless blow, without killing.
Taking Tono with her had a certain guile. And foolishness.
But more importantly, her decision was also fraught with danger. She knew that the farther north one traveled, the more danger there was from miscreants, banditos and brigands from years of war. Aside from the coachman, she had taken two other men to guard them while they traveled. Well, at least Belgrano was away which gave Roman time to ask pertinent questions in Andalucía.
He, Dewey and Rousseau took the road toward Malaga, each taking a turn down the side roads toward the small towns that could easily harbor Belgrano’s associates. Along the way, Roman grilled them for information on all the happenings in Spain that would give him a better understanding of the political and economic situation that would impact life over the years to come. He slipped in a few questions about Navarro, his courtship of Shelene and his friendship with Belgrano. If this was to be his home, he would be prepared. And he would know who his enemies were.
It was a simple matter to stop at the local taberna and have a pint of brew while asking a few questions. They covered a lot of ground and by dark, they were nearing Villamartin, where they stayed a night, spreading out in the city to speak to the loose-tongued at inn tables across the city. The next day they made it to several more towns, stopping in Zahara.
The third day they headed for home and took a road to the south that would take them through different towns. That night Roman said, as he dismounted from his horse, “I think I’ve been lied to. Belgrano didn’t go east after all. Surely we would have talked to one person who might know something.”
“All the better to hide his intentions,” Rosseau said.
“Who knows if he left Las Colinas at all,” Roman said.
“Oh? Why do you say that?”
“La Rata. You haven’t heard that particular epithet?” Roman said.
“There are so many, but the Rat does seem appropriate,” Rosseau stated.
“Because they are dirty, dangerous and everyone wants them gone?” Dewey asked, laughing.
“But why? Why say he’s traveling to Malaga and then not leave at all?” Roman asked.
“To keep an eye on you. You know he’s a threat to you, don’t you?” Dewey asked.
“He plays childish games. If his pardon means anything, he’ll meet the terms of it, whatever those are. Kings don’t just give forgiveness without the expectation of long-term devotion. Belgrano must have promised something in return,” Rousseau added.
“No. He groveled and begged, just as you’d expect a coward to do,” Roman said.
The next morning, the horses moved with a brisk gait along a well-worn road, paralleled by trim wooden fencing. Roman reined his horse to a stop to admire the horses in the field. Dewey and Rousseau pulled their stallions to a halt. Roman whistled. “That’s some beautiful horse stock.”
“Arabians?” Rousseau questioned. “Rare beauties.”
“Yes. Do you suppose he would sell a few?” Roman asked.
“Well, if’n we aren’t going to be chasing Belgrano, we might as well be looking at a few fine horses,” Dewey said.
They turned the horses and sauntered up the lane toward a fairly large house with numerous outbuildings. A stable hand, a jornalero, ran to them to help with the horses while they dismounted.
“Water them, if you would,” Roman said in Spanish, pulling off the leather panniers that contained his vitals, including gold and silver coin used for bribes, information and incidentals. “I’d like to speak to someone about your horses.”
“Sí. Señor Madrigalas or one of his sons. They are at home today.”
“Gracias.”
Roman removed his battered black bolero hat and swatted it against his dusty pant legs and shirtsleeves. Earlier, he’d tossed his jacket over the back of his saddle, but he grabbed that and shook it out as well.
“You want us to wait here or ride on ahead?” Rousseau leaned against his saddle horn.
Roman looked up at the sky to see it wasn’t quite mid-day. “Why don’t you inquire at a few more towns along the road to Ubrique and we’ll meet there tonight?
Roman watched them ride away before he propped the hat back on his head and walked toward the house. An older man opened the door and strolled outside. The sun glinted off a full head of gray hair before he put his hat on, completing his vaquero ensemble. A true horseman, then.
“Señor Madrigalas,” Roman said, and introduced himself.
“English?”
“Sí. I’m looking at your fine horses and wonder if some of your Arabians are for sale?”
“All my horses are for sale at the right price. Where are you from?” Madrigalas asked, switching to English.
“England. North of London. But I live in Spain now, near Arco de la Frontera. My wife is Shelene Hightower of Las Colinas.”
“The name is familiar. Las Colinas is the Belgrano estate, is it not?”
“Yes, at one time. My wife’s mother was a Belgrano.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Is Belgrano widely known in this area?”
“Only as a traitor.”
“The king pardoned him, if it is Francisco you are talking about.”
“If it is Belgrano money buying my horses, I am not so sure I am selling. He is no son of Spain.”
“The money is mine, and I happen to agree with you. The horses will be a present to my wife. I have been away for some months and want to make a suitable gift. We have good horses and good stock, but we can always breed a better quality. I am very interested in the bays with the white socks. They look nearly identical.”
“Same father. A strong sire with good lines.”
“Darley Arabians?”
“No. Godolphin’s Arabian. The Godolphin, before he was known as Godolphin, stood stud for the Bey of Tunis, where I purchased these beauties from.” They walked toward the fenced-in pasture. Arabians were generally genial horses with powerful, lean muscles. Madrigalas grabbed a handfu
l of oats from a bucket hanging on a fence post and opened his hand. The first horse nuzzled gently and devoured the small gift, but immediately began asking for more. “Would you like to ride?”
“No, not really. I’ve been in the saddle for three-and-a-half days. I’m perfectly fine watching them. Can one of your men put the horses through their paces?”
“Diego! Pablo!” Madrigalas called. Two young boys came out of the house, looking much like their father, in features and dress.
“Sí, Papa?”
“Saddle up the Arabians and show Señor Forrester what quality they are.”
One braced a hand on the fence and jumped over; the other went through the gate. The horses were led with little resistance, and within five minutes they were both bridled and saddled and back in the pen. The brothers worked well together. The horses even better. They were beautiful paired. An even gait. The same head movements. The brothers rode them around the pen at a fast gallop then trotted in front of Roman.
“Magnífico!” Roman said. He couldn’t take his gaze from them. Their coats shined a brilliant red beneath the sun. The manes, so beautifully manicured, bounced and rippled as they cut and turned. “How much for the pair?”
Roman was prepared for an astronomical cost and was pleased that it was only exorbitant.
“I have another ten Arabians arriving from Morocco next month. They will arrive in Cadiz by ship. Perhaps you should bring your wife to the docks, where she could choose horses of her own liking.”
Señor Madrigalas waved at his sons, and they returned the horses to the barns. Madrigalas propped a foot on the lower fence. “Belgrano and one of his men came here about five months ago. They were very interested in starting a militia. How did he put it?” He glanced up, in a neat eye-roll. “It is important that we protect our king and our Spanish brothers through this difficult time.”
“You didn’t believe him?”
“We may not see actual fighting, but if there is a civil war, no matter where there is fighting, we’ll be affected. And with a civil war, someone will be against the king. Bah, I have had enough of the political conspiracies and want to be left alone with my horses.”
