“And for me you have no admiration or respect?”
“Hell and the devil, Cat! You’re doing it again! Blas’s shout echoed out over the empty tiers of seats. “It’s not at all the same.”
“Yes, it is.”
He had no answer. “You promised to love and obey,” he ground out, appalled at the surly defensiveness of his tone.
Cat’s stubbornness did not waver. “The vow should be changed. It is not fair.”
“No, I suppose not,” he admitted. As usual, his Cat deserved better from him than he had given. “Let me explain, as I should have done before.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and wished he hadn’t. He wanted to take her from this place, go to bed with her, and not get up for days.
Instead, he drew a long, shuddering breath and said, “Look around you, Cat. We are small specks in the immensity of this place. Think of us—just the two of us—as Lisbon. All else—everything in the enormity of this arena—is Napoleon’s empire. We are an outpost, a tiny fly speck marring Bonaparte’s domination of Europe. And we won’t go ignored. By the end of the summer Napoleon will have four hundred thousand men in Spain and northern Portugal. We can’t win against such odds, Cat. The war is going to last for years. There is no hope until something, God alone knows what, changes in our favor.
“Surely the lines at Torres Vedras will hold.” It was more a question, a prayer, than the confident statement Cat had thrown at Major Martineau.
“I think so, but what if they do not? Could you endure another Occupation? You have seen what can happen. Now that Martineau has found his way to your bed, do you think he will not find his way back? Or someone far worse? War can turn even the best of men into beasts. There is no place to hide. You have seen even the winery was not far enough away to escape them. I will not have a child born into this uncertainty, Catarina. If Lisbon is taken, the thought of you here, with a babe as hostage drives me mad. I could not bear it. I could not do my work.”
Still without looking at her, Blas reached for her hand, clasped it hard, his knuckles whitening around hers. “The work—my work, Thomas’s work—must be done, Cat, or there will never be a future. We’re young yet. My birthday is in March, by the way. I was twenty-four.” This concession he could give her. “My father was not even married until he was well past thirty. We’ll have plenty of time to make children, Cat. As many as you wish. But not now. Please. Not now.”
Quietly, gently, Cat placed her free hand over the one he was squeezing so tightly. She rested her head on his hunched shoulder. The waning sun sank behind the red tile rooftops in the distance, the onset of dusk heralded by the stirring of a breeze. “Do you remember the taberna you took me to once?” she asked. “When I was fourteen and had never seen such a place? I think I should like to eat garlic sausage, drink sour red wine and hear the fado once more.”
Blas closed his eyes, offered a heartfelt thanks to his maker. Pulling his wife to her feet, he carefully guided her down the steep tiers of steps, her long skirt gathering dust behind her.
By the time they entered the taberna, the long June day had ended and cooling shadows were being welcomed to the streets of Lisbon. The tavern had not changed. The patrão was delighted to see such a well-known face from the past. The fadista, the guitarists, covered head to toe in black, were exactly the same. They sang of loss. And heartbreak. Of the sorrow of living. And loving.
Sing fado. Sing fado. Sing fado for us.
Chapter Fourteen
As it turned out, Catarina had little need of the potions provided by the velha. In the next three years Don Alexis Perez de Leon came home just seven times. Four times as Blas, a lover so ardent Cat felt it was more a quirk of fate than the old woman’s instruction which kept her from increasing. On three occasions the man who returned from Spain was the world-weary young man who wore Don Alejo’s face, but wiggled into the slithery persona of a superficial Spanish don only during the hours he spent in the gaming rooms. The remainder of the time, when he shared the family portion of the Casa Audley with Cat, he was the steady, usually gentle big brother whose inner anguish had revealed itself only once—the night he pounded his dresser top, swearing, “Damn him, damn him, damn him!”
Each time he came home, it took only one swift glance for Cat to know which personality had returned to her. Would it always be like this? she wondered. Was she destined to live with these inexplicable contrasting moods for the rest of her life?
It was months before she noticed one other odd quirk in her husband’s behavior. On his brief visits, never more than a week at a time, Alejo spent hours in the gaming rooms. Blas never went near them. Cat’s lips turned up in a secret smile. This, at least, was easily explained. She and Blas, by moon or by sun, spent a great amount of their time in bed.
Thomas Audley bided his time and said nothing.
Although few were astute enough to recognize the momentous moment, the seeds of Napoleon’s ultimate defeat had been sown in 1809 when Wellington returned to Portugal at the head of the army rescued by a British armada at La Coruña. But now, after wrestling Lisbon back from the French and holding them at bay with the fortifications of Torres Vedras , he was confronted by an army which had grown to ten times the size of his own. And yet Lisbon survived, an Achilles heel, a tiny spot of British might on the rump of Napoleon’s vast empire. There were a few good moments when Wellington made forays into enemy territory, but always, inevitably, he was forced back behind the thirty-mile line of Torres Vedras.
The waiting game dragged on.
In the stalemate winter of 1811, when the British army was tucked up behind its massive miles of fortifications, with the French stubbornly aligned on the other side, Blas returned to England for the first time in three and a half years. Ever mindful of the constant threat hanging over Lisbon, he had business which could be done by himself alone. A task he would not delegate.
He had thought never to see his father cry. The misted eyes, so out of place on that severe autocratic face, were decidedly unnerving. Blas wondered at it. Possibly, just possibly his father was not so disappointed in him as he had imagined. Melisande, his petite and elegant mother, cried unashamedly.
Since Blas was careful not to be seen in society, he had to hear from his father the details of the Prince of Wales’s ascension to the Regency of England. On February 6, 1811, poor mad George III, who had been an abstemious man in all but the number of his children, was succeeded by his eldest son. The not-so-young prince was already known as the most profligate and hedonistic son of royalty in a Europe sorely lacking monarchs of high character and good judgment.
Blas did not wonder at his father’s gloom. The Prince of Wales, with his Whiggish leanings and spendthrift ways could inspire nothing but fear and disgust in the heart of a staunch Tory aristocrat. Yet Blas found he was not as pessimistic as his father. The Prince was noted for being enamored with the military. If the new Regent could be persuaded to spend money on something other than elaborate new designs for uniforms, perhaps . . . just perhaps the much-needed arms and supplies for the guerrilleros would be more forthcoming.
The peace with his father could not last, of course. From the moment he arrived home Blas told his parents he must return to the Peninsula. His father, as always, would not accept his decision. Napoleon could be defeated without the services of his eldest son and heir. The resulting explosion was worse than the long-ago spring he had informed his father he was going to travel through a Europe caught in the midst of war. The end result was the same. Blas stormed out of his family’s country house, finished the business he had come to do, and talked his way on board the next naval vessel sailing for Lisbon.
At no time during his brief few weeks with his parents had he mentioned he was married.
That same winter Napoleon Bonaparte’s luck ran out. Whether prompted by an unbridled craving for power or simple greed, he made one of the most serious military blunders in history. After finally conceding he was not going to be able to mou
nt a successful invasion of England, he turned his eyes eastward. In June of 1811, as Catarina Audley was turning eighteen, he broke his alliance with Russia and moved toward distant Moscow with a force of six hundred thousand men. Many of them the veteran troops who had held Spain and Portugal at bay.
Wellington’s days of glory had begun at last. With an army composed of criminals, the homeless of city and countryside, the sons of tailors and the sons of earls, he sent the names of Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca and Vitoria resounding forever through British history.
“Boney’s gone mad,” cried Alejo, swinging Cat in an arc which brought her dangerously close to a drenching in the courtyard fountain. “Division after division. Whole armies. Marching off to conquer the largest country on earth. Windmills in his head, that’s what he has. Makes Don Quixote look quite sane.”
“So the miracle has come.” Panting, Cat pulled Alejo down onto the marbled rim of the fountain, gazing at him with intense satisfaction. He was a far cry from the bone-weary, scowling Blas who had come to Lisbon for Christmas of 1811. Nor was he the elusive chimera of the Spanish hidalgo called Don Alexis Perez de Leon. This was the stranger who had, in a moment of rage and frustration, popped out from behind the mask of Don Alejo and, as far as Catarina was concerned, discarded the supercilious Spaniard forever. This was her friend, Alejo. Kind, caring, an easy companion. He was the man who kissed her on the cheek and never accompanied her farther than her bedroom door. He was more likable than Blas, less hard about the edges. More eager to please. If the two personalities could be coaxed into merging, she might find herself liking her husband as much as she loved him.
“If we end up with odds of only four to one,” said Alejo, “Wellington will be off and running all the way to France.”
“After so long,” Cat breathed. “Nearly five years.”
He gave her a sharp glance, reached down to trail his fingers through the water. The fountain gurgled and hissed, an oasis of constancy in a world which was not as well ordered as it should be. He flicked his fingers, scattering Cat with a glistening shower of drops. When her laughing shriek died away, Alejo’s grin faded. His amber eyes were still warm but now contained the air of mystery which was so much a part of him. “We’ve known each other a long time, have we not?” he inquired.
Sensing there was more than nostalgia behind his words, Cat simply nodded, waiting to hear what would follow.
“Would you say we were friends?” he asked.
“A great deal more than friends, surely?”
Abruptly, Alejo looked away. He examined the bougainvillea, the hibiscus, the coral vine, the hanging baskets of geraniums. His gaze followed a chameleon skittering over the azulejos at his feet until it disappeared under a bush. Still avoiding Cat, he stared fixedly at the lavender mass of a young jacaranda tree on the far side of the courtyard. “Cat, there is going to come a time when you will be very, very angry with me. I hope . . . when that time comes . . . you will remember this conversation. You may find you need a friend. And I’ll always be there for you. Even if you hate me.”
She took him by both shoulders and turned him to face her. “How could I possibly hate you?”
“I think you will. I am very much afraid you will.” With a start of guilt, Alejo realized that by indulging his own personal agony he was frightening her, ruining her birthday. He should not feel such dread. The future was a blank book, with all the pages yet to be written. “Come,” he said, covering his gaffe with determinedly ebullient high spirits. “I have something to show you.” In truth, he was not so confident about the gift he had prepared for her, but wallowing in fear was not part of any of his many personas.
From a hidden corner behind the grand piano in the music room, he retrieved a large box wrapped in silver paper and decorated with delicate roses of pink silk and silver lace. As Cat eased the flowers from the box and slid her fingers under the edges of the silver paper, Alejo felt more like the frightened eight-year-old he had been on his first day at Eton than an experienced man of the world. “If you cannot like it,” he murmured, “I will have it made in another fabric.”
Cat’s fingers trembled as she gripped the edge of the open box. Her hands froze, unable to touch the creation inside. She had known what her gift was the instant she lifted the lid. The exquisite silver-shot white silk misted and blurred before her eyes.
“I noticed you always wear that gown for your birthday and for holidays. And it’s . . . ah–um, it doesn’t fit you as well as it once did. You were only fifteen the winter it was new. You’ve–um–grown.” Alejo gulped. “And besides, after three years a lady is certainly entitled to something new,” he added, striving to bring a smile back to her lips. “Perhaps I should have had it copied in the same fabric, but I thought the touch of silver might . . . might suit you.” Hell and the devil confound it, he was stammering like a boy who had never been near a woman before.
Cat swallowed, brushed a hand across her eyes to chase away any stray tears which might fall upon the precious gown. “I cannot imagine anything I would rather have,” she told him. “Though I wish I could understand how your mind works. You designed this gown for me, chose it for my wedding, have watched me wear it for each of my birthdays and for Christmas. Yet never, never before have you said you liked it. Sometimes you glare at it, as if you did not like how it had turned out.”
Cat searched his rugged features as if to find an answer to the enigma which was always there, just below the surface. She sighed. “There are times, Blas, when I think I know you, that I understand you. And then there are times, such as now, when I think I never will.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Alejo declared. Quite distinctly.
Cat’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Bonaparte is not the only one who is mad.” she declared.
“It is nothing,” said Alejo grandly. “Pay me no mind.”
“You know perfectly well you are making no sense,” she said primly, even as her mind raced. So many unexplained oddities, the surety of a tantalizing mystery hovering just out of reach.
Alejo offered a rueful smile. “Go and try on the gown. Let me see if I still have an eye for female clothing. “Off with you,” he urged, holding the box until he had helped her to her feet. “I did not mean to frighten you with my melancholy. Wear the dress so I may see you have forgiven me.”
It was a lovely birthday. Eighteen was a very fine age, Cat decided. She was truly a woman grown. Thomas, Blanca, Marcio, Lucio, the servants, the men who worked the gaming rooms, the Casa’s many customers complimented her beauty, her charm, the magnificence of the new gown. All agreed the beautiful green-eyed young bride had been transformed into a dazzling woman of the world.
But that night Cat hung the gown over her wardrobe door and stared at its pristine beauty, the tiny streaks of silver shimmering in the candlelight. Then she cried herself to sleep. Alone.
Neither Blas nor Alejo were present for Cat’s nineteenth birthday. The Allies were on the march, taking full advantage of Napoleon’s blunder in Russia. Of the six hundred thousand men who set out for Moscow, only slightly more than one hundred thousand returned. Prussia, finding its courage at last, broke with Napoleon and joined the Russians to harry the Little Emperor from the east. To the west, Wellington swung the other side of the pincer which would squeeze Napoleon Bonaparte back behind the borders of France.
Nor did any of the multiple personalities of Don Alexis Perez de Leon attend Catarina’s twentieth birthday. Joseph Bonaparte, erstwhile king of Spain, was fleeing northward on the long road back to France. Wellington intended to make sure he never got there. Fully occupied with the guerrilleros who were finally taking back their country, piece by bloody piece, Blas had missed the string of allied victories. For this decisive battle, however, he delegated himself as one of Wellington’s scouts. No way in hell was he going to be left out of this one!
News of the great battle at Vitoria reached the Casa Audley several days before Blas himself, as for some unknow
n reason he was not traveling at his usual swift rate of speed. A great victory, everyone agreed, even if King Joseph, Bonaparte’s brother, had escaped. The French were in head-long retreat to Pamplona, their remaining days in Spain now numbered by months instead of years. The tide had not only turned but was sweeping Napoleon’s empire back over the Pyrenees into France.
Nearly two weeks after the battle, Blas finally came home. He made no attempt to climb the balcony, but let himself in through the Judas gate in the wee hours of the night. He brought with him a birthday gift far more stunning than a re-creation of his wife’s wedding gown. He moved through the familiar courtyard by starlight, greedily breathing in the scent of flowers and warm earth, of lingering odors from the kitchen. He even enjoyed the sharp smell of the stable. Home at last. It had been a very long time.
He had no idea it would be years before he passed this way again.
Blas carried his burden up the stairs, shifted the weight to free his right hand and turned the knob to his wife’s room. Long ago he had told her to keep it locked, but she never did. Nor did she ever move her furniture. The room was always as he remembered it, ready for him whatever time of the day or night he chose to return. With great care he laid his burden down on the soft thick rug. For a moment his hands stayed in place as he was struck by yet another qualm of doubt. Had he made the right choice, done the right thing? Who was he to play God? In the darkness he smiled. His father had indeed brought him up to play God. Lord of all he surveyed. I wish it, therefore it is.
And if Cat did not care for her present? Or, worse yet, if she cared too much?
The Sometime Bride Page 19
