The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  Blas’s self-satisfied grin faded. “What Thomas says,” he admitted, “is that any daring fool can scout for the army, but only a black-haired, black-hearted, Spanish-speaking devil can hold his own with the guerrilleros. So I’m off to Spain again within the week, probably before Wellesley returns from chasing Soult.

  “Do not look so!” he added sharply to Cat. “Life in the mountains is much safer than life with Old Douro. And I’ll get back now and then. After all, there are some things I cannot put into writing. I will have to speak directly with Thomas on occasion.”

  It was deliberate provocation. Marcio backed rapidly toward the door. At times like this he was very much aware of why he stayed single.

  “So now it is said!” Cat spit out as Marcio left, carefully closing the door behind him. “You will come back to see Thomas, but not to see me.”

  “You may recall we’re at war,” said Blas stiffly. “Personal considerations are not allowed.”

  Arms akimbo, Cat marched up to him, tilting her face to look up into the amber eyes in which no warmth shone. “I expect you to do your duty,” she snapped. “I did not expect you to do it with such obvious relish!”

  Blas refused to look at her, staring straight ahead at the vase of flowers sitting on the long black expanse of the grand piano. “I have made provision for you,” he said as if reciting from a court document. “If you are in need, you have only to contact the firm of Bentham, Bentham and Wembley in London, and you will never want for anything. Is that clear? Bentham, Bentham and Wembley. Repeat it.”

  “I do not want your miserable money.”

  “But you’re going to have it.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!” It was much like their game. They stood, not quite touching, eyes locked, pulses racing, bodies quivering, forgetting to breathe. Tossing out the eternal challenge of male and female.

  With a sharp gasp for air, Blas threw up his hands in defeat, sweeping Cat into his arms. He cupped her head hard against his chest. “Cat, Cat, don’t you understand? It’s not just the war. I can’t be near you without wanting you, and you’re too damn young. I love you, you idiot. You’re my wife. No matter what happens to me, I have to know you’ll be protected. Stop being so damn stubborn and let me do what’s right.”

  “You love me?” Cat gasped, the words muffled in his ruffled shirt.

  “When did I ever not?”

  Cat peeped up at him, studying the hard jaw, sensuous mouth, the eyes which were no longer cold. She supposed she would have to believe him. The gulf which separated them was not quite so wide as she had feared.

  With only a small show of hesitation she tilted up her face, offering her lips to his. It was quite some time before the door of the music room opened and the revealingly tousled young couple came out.

  Thomas sent Blas off to Spain that very night.

  Chapter Eleven

  Catarina, flashing her most dazzling smile, gave the dice box a hard spin. Wearing the white dress which had served as her wedding gown five months earlier, she had never looked more lovely. A sea of Britain’s finest surrounded her, each more determined than the other to lose his money in honor of Dona Catarina’s sixteenth birthday. On a small table near the wall an array of gifts and glasses of champagne were accumulating so fast Marcio signaled a footman to bring a second table.

  “I cry foul, Dona Catarina,” said Lieutenant Reggie Wareham. “When I look at you, I am so dazzled I don’t know what my bet is or whether I’m winning or losing. ’Tis no wonder they call this Hazard.”

  “Shame, Wareham!” chided Captain Miles Ormonde. “One does not complain of being dazzled. It is always a privilege to lose to Dona Catarina Perez de Leon.” He swept her a bow which displayed more than a hint of Moorish salaam. Cat laughed and spun the dice box once again.

  Another young lieutenant eyed her worshipfully. “I shall never enjoy White’s after this. So damnably dull, don’t you know . . .”

  He was interrupted by Catarina’s sharp intake of breath. Her eyes fixed on the doorway, she clutched Marcio’s arm. “Is it? . . oh, quickly, tell me!”

  Together they stared at the newcomer, who was nearly the only Englishman besides Thomas Audley not wearing a uniform. The man’s long handsome face was marked by a nose of distinction. Blue eyes glowed with an intense brilliance which contrasted with the simplicity of his black tailcoat and breeches. Cat had heard he actually wore a plain blue jacket of superfine into battle. A murmur rose throughout the room. All eyes turned toward the doorway. Catarina’s hand dropped from the dice box. She moved forward, making a deep curtsey to the forty-year-old general whose esteem in Portugal was only slightly below the holy Savior and well above that of the distant Portuguese royal family.

  Somehow Catarina got through a speech of welcome, quickly seconded by Thomas Audley who had come up behind her. Sir Arthur kissed the hand of his hostess, his piercing gaze regarding her with great appreciation. Never could it be said that Arthur Wellesley did not have an eye for the ladies. There were times in the years to follow, that for all the bloody horror of the British battles, his troops were accused of dancing their way into Spain.

  “Dona Catarina,” the general said with a twinkle in his eye, “My felicitations on your birthday. Since I have suffered the mass desertion of my staff to the Casa Audley, I decided to investigate its considerable attractions myself.”

  Sir Arthur gave not the slightest indication he had spent a goodly portion of the afternoon conferring with Thomas Audley. The general favored Catarina with the smile that inevitably sent people scurrying to do his bidding, leaving no doubt which of the Casa Audley’s attractions met with his greatest approval. “I am delighted to confirm that my officers have excellent taste.” A very deliberate wink dimmed one bright blue eye. “And will I have the pleasure of meeting your husband this evening?”

  Since the general had asked Thomas some very penetrating questions about the scout sent to him at Coimbra, he was now aware of the young Englishman’s double identity in Portugal. Sir Arthur wondered, with wry amusement, if Blas the Bastard’s parents had any idea their eldest son and heir was married to a child bride from a Portuguese gaming house. Since Wellesley was well aware Don Alexis Perez de Leon was somewhere in the mountains of northern Spain, Catarina’s apologies for her husband’s absence were quickly made and accepted.

  After a glance to Fitzroy Somerset who hovered at his side, Sir Arthur produced a small black velvet box which he handed to Catarina with a gracious bow and admiring eye.

  General Wellesley was giving her a gift! Sophisticated as she was, Cat’s hands shook as she opened the box to reveal a gold necklace of delicate filigree work with a bracelet to match. Her exclamation of delight was cut off when the general leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “Your father described your ring and has approved your acceptance of this gift. It is a very small thing in return for your service to your country.”

  Abruptly, Sir Arthur turned away to greet the many officers who were eager for his attention. Thomas returned to his faro bank. The commanding general of the allied forces did them the honor of staying for over an hour and partaking of a bite of supper. Before taking his leave, Sir Arthur once again raised Catarina’s hand to his lips. He had the knack, she thought, of making her feel she was the only woman in the room. Her birthday celebration was complete. The only thing which would have made her happier was to see Blas striding across the room toward her.

  “Did you ever see the like!” exclaimed a well-known voice as the general’s entourage disappeared out the door. Gordon Somersby had joined the young men regrouping around the hazard table. When the Somersby family returned to Portugal after the French occupation, he had been philosophical about finding his childhood sweetheart married. He had, after all, recognized the totality of his loss the moment Blas walked through the door of the Embassy kitchen that night so long ago. The night they had defined the situation in Europe with loaves of bread strewn across the tabletop. Gordon Somersby wa
s one of very few persons who knew Catarina was not married to a Spanish dandy but to one of Britain’s most able spies.

  “Next month I’ll be eighteen,” Gordon told Cat. “Father has promised to buy me my colors. What shall it be? Scarlet, blue or green?”

  Catarina’s hand froze on the dice box. “Must you, Gordy? Do you not wish to be a diplomat like your father?”

  “Well, of course, silly. But right now there’s a war to be fought. Come, Cat, is it to be the cavalry, the infantry, or the rifles?”

  “Don’t you care?”

  Gordon favored her with a broad grin. “I’m inclined to think green makes the poorest target.”

  A general guffaw greeted this sally, recalling Catarina to her duties. As she smiled and smiled and indulged in the light flirtation which was expected of her, she found time to be glad her old friend was not quite as blinded by the so-called glory of war as she had feared.

  Thomas Audley, bent nearly double over the papers he was struggling to read, glanced up in surprise as his daughter uttered a sharp exclamation. “I thought this report was from Blas,” Cat explained. “That it did not look quite the same as usual because he was writing under difficult conditions. But here, at the end, I find there is a T instead of a B.”

  “I am surprised he did not tell you,” said Thomas, genuinely puzzled, but the bloody boy was born secretive. Took to being a spy like a duck to water. “Blas has found a young hidalgo among the guerrilleros,” Thomas explained. “Tonio. Some sort of distant cousin, I believe. Blas has begun to train him to work in the parts of Spain he cannot cover himself. The guerrilleros are keeping at least six French divisions occupied full time. But unless we can organize them into some sort of coordinated movement, we stand little chance of doing more than stinging Boney’s tail. Tonio is going to work with the groups from Madrid to the south while Blas handles the mountains of the north.”

  Cat re-examined the closely written sheet of paper and the drawings which accompanied it. “So this is Tonio’s work. It is very good for a beginner. I truly thought Blas had done it. Even the sketch of the new street barricades in Madrid has his style.”

  “There are times,” sighed Thomas, “when I find it difficult to accept the wall Blas has built around himself. For all I know, he and Tonio may be old friends, schoolmates who shared the same masters. I swore to accept the boy on his own terms, but he leaves me with far too many questions.” Thomas rubbed a hand over eyes which were bothering him more and more of late. “Then I remember it must be even more difficult for you. Or is he more forthcoming in private?” he added blandly. Struck by a rare stab of guilt, Thomas realized he was probing his own daughter’s knowledge of her husband.

  Catarina sat very still, her hand resting on Tonio’s report. “No, Papa,” she said very quietly, “he is not.” Picking up her pen, she returned to her work.

  “Listen to this, Cat! George swears he has written it about you.” Don Alexis Perez de Leon, who had surprised them all by a mid-summer visit, lounged against the fireplace mantel in the family’s private salon. Lifting an elegant piece of heavy parchment to eye level, he struck a pose and declaimed:

  Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem’d.

  Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

  to paint those charms which varied as they beam’d:

  to such as see thee not my words were weak;

  to those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?

  “He cannot be talking of Cat,” declared Marcio Cardoso who was looking over Don Alejo’s shoulder. “See . . . down here . . . it says ‘guileless beyond Hope’s imagining!’“

  Catarina gave both young men a withering glance before turning to smile at the startlingly handsome gentleman seated next to her on the sofa. “You know quite well you had some charming English—or is it Scottish?—lady in mind when you wrote those lines, my lord. But I am flattered by your attempt to hoodwink me.”

  The classically perfect features of George, Lord Byron, might have been the model for the gods of ancient Greece. The young man raised Catarina’s hand and brushed it with his lips. He favored her with the appreciative smile of a connoisseur of beauty in all its forms. “But it was you, Dona Catarina, who suggested I visit the Serra de Sintra whose magnificent panorama has inspired me to begin my new epic.”

  Catarina was so accustomed to the adulation of young gentlemen that she had no difficulty taking the words of this particular British lord with a grain of salt. “Have you named your poem, my lord?” she inquired politely.

  “I have determined to name it after its adventurous young hero,” said Byron. “Childe Harold.”

  “Sinful young hero would be more like,” interjected John Hobhouse, Byron’s traveling companion. “By the time we have completed our journey, Dona Catarina, I expect George will have enough first-hand experience for several cantos.”

  His noble companion ignored this gentle irony. “Lisbon and its inhabitants will always be close to my heart,” vowed his lordship, “for here we have begun our journey into history.”

  Marcio and Don Alejo exchanged glances, struggled to keep their faces straight. Catarina had more sympathy for these two very young gentlemen who had set out on a journey of exploration in the midst of a war. After all, their spirit seemed only slightly less daring than Blas had exhibited at the same age.

  She had no difficulty understanding that Byron, surrounded by hale and hearty soldiers involved in a war as old as he was, suffered intensely from the deformity of his club foot. Pain of the soul, not of the body. Nor did she have trouble distinguishing Byron’s professed admiration for women from the real thing. He admired her as a work of art, not as a woman. He might profess to love women, but she suspected he did not like them. Cat was not quite sophisticated enough to recognize the young poet’s sexual ambivalence, but the vibrations of misfit were almost as strong as the vibrations of genius. Byron would have been shocked to know she pitied him.

  “I still say I have seen you somewhere before.” Lord Byron raised a quizzing glass and examined Catarina’s husband from black wavy hair and burgundy velvet jacket to tight black breeches and shining black books. Don Alejo straightened his shoulders and stood away from the mantel, allowing Byron to look his fill. He returned the young poet’s regard with an unblinking gaze from limpid amber eyes.

  “Surely in London . . .?” Lord Byron suggested.

  “I have never been in London,” said Don Alejo with supreme disregard for the truth. “I have heard,” he added thoughtfully, “that Spanish looks appear in Britain from time to time. The inevitable result of all those sailors who swam to shore after the unfortunate incident of the Armada. But, alas, I regret I have never had the opportunity to visit your illustrious country.”

  Cat came close to a giggle. Blas was overdoing it, playing with the earnest young poet.

  Lord Byron and John Hobhouse soon set out on the second leg of their journey, traveling south to Seville, then on to Cadiz, Malta and Greece. A not too different itinerary than Blas had once planned to take.

  Catarina wondered if anything would ever come of the young lord’s epic poem. Don Alejo, who had been considerably more worried than he had revealed, breathed a sigh of relief. He was soon off again on the dangerous journey back to Spain.

  In late July Sir Arthur Wellesley won the battle which set his feet firmly on the road to fame, defeating Marshal Victor at Talavera, Spain. The triumph lasted but a few days; the approach of his old foe Marshal Soult forced Sir Arthur to retreat back into Portugal. Britain’s days of glory were yet to come.

  For his victory at Talavera Arthur Wellesley was made Viscount Wellington. His struggle to coordinate his small British force with the armies of Spain and Portugal and a multitude of fiercely independent guerrilleros was seldom successful. With each passing day the French extended their hold on Spain.

  In the fall of 1809, in a back room of a tavern on the outskirts of Madrid, two young men came face to face for the first time
in many months. Sounds of music, raucous voices, the aroma of cigar smoke, sour wine and unwashed bodies drifted through the closed door. The war was not going well for the allies. Their personal part of the war was just as bad. Perhaps it was simply not possible to take a vast number of balky independent mules and harness them into a team which could face down the might of France.

  The two young men talked through the night, parting just before dawn to travel their separate ways. Guerrilla warfare in Spain had not been their only topic of conversation.

  After the horror of the winter of 1809, the armies of France, Britain, Spain, and Portugal planned their campaigns with better care. Throughout the long winter months and the mud of early spring of 1810 the armies hunted foxes instead of each other. They danced, gambled, and loved their nights away.

  Something Catarina Perez de Leon was not privileged to do. Though her wedding had occurred well over a year earlier, she had yet to see her husband in her bed. From time to time Blas’s body visited the Casa Audley, but only Don Alejo was inside it. Vanilla pudding when she wanted hot pepper! She was nearly seventeen. Unwanted. Unloved!

  Yet love had not totally missed the Casa Audley. Cat wished to rejoice in her father’s new-found happiness, but found it difficult. She was jealous. Why should Thomas be so happy when she was so miserable?

  Cat could not have said when she first realized her father no longer slept alone, that he and Blanca had found comfort in each other. Inevitable, it had simply happened. And, truly, Catarina was glad. In her heart she knew Thomas was not getting any better—would never get any better. God forgive her jealousy. Papa deserved all the happiness he could find.

  If only there were a bit left over for herself. Surely, the next time Blas came home . . .