Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “People can laugh if they like at our one-ship navy, but we’ll see who laughs last.”

  “I don’t like them laughing,” Niña Maria interrupted, her voice clear and cutting. “What was it that American newspaper called you, the Don Quixote of Central America? This I do not understand.”

  Walker’s mouth twisted in a smile. “Who can say what they mean? It may be they see me as an idealist tilting at the windmills of oppression. The only one who can truly free a people is the people themselves, or so the conservatives of the world insist. They don’t believe in the efficacy of the helping hand. But I have been counted among the liberals since I took my stand in the Crescent and later in the Daily Herald against slavery, and for free trade, women’s suffrage, and the right of divorce.”

  “Most young men are liberals,” Niña Maria said with a fond, if superior, smile. “When they grow older they learn the hard lessons of responsibility — and expediency.”

  Walker turned his gray gaze to his mistress. “Such a cold philosophy, as most are when they are formulated to serve a purpose.”

  “Really, William,” she began, uneasiness creeping over her face.

  “Yes?” His voice was gentle, though a clear fire seemed to flare in the depths of his eyes.

  As the woman let her eyelids fall, retreating into a sullen silence, he turned to Grant. “Niña Maria, you see, despite the fact that slavery was abolished in 1824 by the Confederated Congress of Central America, proposes to revive the institution.”

  Grant asked after a long moment, “You mean reinstate slavery in Nicaragua?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Niña Maria demanded, flinging her head up. “We are an agricultural country. To grow we must export foodstuffs, to export we must utilize the land, and that takes organization and cheap labor — or slaves.”

  “You would run the risk of alienating both the government of the United States and our other possible ally, Great Britain,” Grant told her.

  “What guarantee have you the American government will ever recognize us, much less help us? We fête Minister Wheeler and he does nothing. On the other hand, the Southern States will surely be in sympathy with us. If they secede over this question, as they have been threatening, we will most assuredly have their support as well.”

  “If—” Grant said succinctly.

  Niña Maria leaned back, the flush of anger staining her cheeks. “Very well. Counsel prudence then. But strength is what is needed, and quickly. We must consolidate our position before the Legitimistas have a chance to recover. If we do not, Nicaragua will have another change of government, the sixteenth in less than six years. Events will not move in our direction without encouragement. It is necessary to act.”

  “Not just for the sake of acting, not without careful consideration.”

  The woman made no answer. A small silence descended. Walker turned to Eleanora. “And you, mademoiselle, have you no opinion to offer on this weighty problem?”

  “I haven’t been here long enough to form one. In any case, I somehow doubt it would influence you.”

  From the sudden glint in his eyes she thought General Walker appreciated the diplomacy of her answer, though he made no direct reply. With a gesture of one slim, freckled hand, he said, “Grant is right. A move to revive slavery would be premature at this time, though I, personally, find the attitude of the United States government hypocritical, since slavery is at present still legal in the District of Columbia. There is, however, as Niña Maria has indicated, an urgent need to fill the treasury. I have been studying the records of the Transit Line. It appears that the company is in debt to the government of Nicaragua for a considerable sum due by contract for the charter which allows them to transport passengers across the country. The amount agreed upon was $10,000 per year plus ten per cent of the net profits for the operation. The $10,000 was paid for the years from 1849 to 1852, but despite annual reports published in New York of profits in excess of two million dollars over this period, Nicaragua has never received more than the base amount, and this has not been paid for the past three years.”

  “What of the $20,000 advanced by Garrison?” Grant asked. “I was under the impression that it was pledged against monies due the government.”

  Walker shook his head. “That was a personal loan made to me last fall in order to help me consolidate my position here. Garrison learned Vanderbilt and his relatives were buying up stock in the line once more. He was afraid that, should I be ousted, the Legitimista party would favor Vanderbilt in any future negotiations over the charter. It was, you might say, in the nature of insurance for Garrison and Morgan. In any case, the amount was only a fraction of what is owed.”

  “It was a bribe,” Niña Maria said scornfully. “If they are fools enough to offer their money, they deserve to have it, and everything else they own, taken from them.”

  “Meaning?” Grant asked, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Walker rather than the woman.

  The corner of Walker’s mouth twitched in a movement that was not quite a smile. “I think you are beginning to see. It is more than likely that Vanderbilt will be able to have Morgan removed as president of the board of the Transit Company and himself reinstated as manager. Vanderbilt, maybe because he is reluctant to see a leader of strength who cannot be ignored or manipulated emerge in Central America, is against me. It is much easier to take advantage of a country or a nation that is in a state of constant chaos. He would see me shot if he could. For this reason I cannot allow the Transit Line to become his tool again.”

  “What do you propose to do about it?”

  “Annul the present charter,” Walker said quietly.

  Grant leaned back. “The government hasn’t the means to run the line alone.”

  “But Garrison and Morgan, rich men in their own right, do. If they are pushed out of the present company I believe they will jump at the chance to form a new line. Their feud with Vanderbilt goes too deep to pass up the opportunity, in addition to the profit motive.”

  “You propose to use the nonpayment of past revenues as a reason to annul the present charter and award a new one to Garrison and Morgan?”

  “The reason is entirely valid, but yes, that is the gist of it. We will, of course, charge the new line a premium. We mustn’t forget the empty coffers.”

  “You realize it will make Vanderbilt your bitter enemy?” Grant warned.

  “He is that already. His gray eyes hooded, Walker picked up his water glass. It was a clear indication that the debate was ended.

  Since Walker neither smoked nor drank the men did not linger behind the women at the table but moved with them to the sala for coffee in the Continental fashion. The effect was not markedly different even so, for in that room, heavy with paneling and red damask, they withdrew into a corner, leaving the two women to make conversation between themselves. It was not easy. When compliments had been exchanged over the dinner, the decor of the apartments, and their respective toilettes, and the weather and the climate thoroughly examined, Eleanora searched her brain for some further meeting ground. In the ensuing quiet she caught a snatch of the men’s topic of discussion and immediately made use of it.

  “It must have been frightening, having your rooms invaded by the Legitimista. I expect you were happy to see the man brought to justice?”

  Niña Maria looked at Eleanora, her gaze sharp and yet unfocused, as if she were looking through her. “Yes, naturally,” she said. In sudden annoyance she turned on her fan bearer. Snatching the fan from the little girl, she sent her to the kitchen. When she had closed the door behind her, the woman sat fanning herself with the quick movements of either irritation or agitation. Then without a word she snapped the fan shut and tossed it from her onto the spindle-legged table that sat beside the damask-covered settee. She stared for several seconds at Walker, but when he did not glance in her direction the Spanish woman sprang up and walked to a Pleyel piano with its yellowed ivory keys. Seat
ing herself, she began to play a Strauss waltz. Though technically correct, her touch was heavy, lacking in delicacy of feeling. She was, in fact, cow-handed with nerves. Mulling over this fact, Eleanora did not see Grant approaching until he was at her side.

  “I believe this waltz is mine,” he said, bowing as gracefully as a revolver worn at his belt would allow.

  With Walker watching as fatuously as a father from the window embrasure, she could not refuse. She gave Grant her hand, letting him draw her to her feet. The action reminded her of the afternoon and of the feel of his hand upon hers, and she went into his arms with an awkward stiffness, determined to limit her response to his touch.

  Gently they whirled. At some time Grant had had expert tutoring in the art of the waltz. His steps were sure, the hand at her waist correctly placed, the distance between them well judged and circumspect enough for the most straitlaced gathering of sour-faced chaperones. Without being aware of it, Eleanora relaxed, following his lead, growing unmindful of anything except the music and the firm strength of his arms. She felt his gaze upon her cheeks and slowly raised her dark lashes to meet it. The expression she saw hidden in the blue depths of his eyes brought the blood to her head, where it pulsed with a feathery flutter against her eardrums. She was certain the music had come to an end only when the general began to walk toward them, applauding softly.

  “Very nice,” he said. “A fine show, one I find most satisfactory, Mademoiselle Eleanora. I had a visit this afternoon from a Miss Mazie Brentwood. She insisted that you were being held prisoner by Grant in his quarters. From what I have just seen, I am more inclined to believe he is all too willing to be yours.”

  There was an instant of time when she might have blurted out her predicament, might have enlisted the general’s aid. It was gone before she could bring herself to grasp it. She had smiled and turned away as at some light compliment, but she was left feeling confused and foolish, haunted by the thought that she had failed Jean-Paul. It did not clarify her thinking to have Grant follow her into the room they shared at the palacio, throw his hat down on the table, and with his hands on his hips demand, “Why?”

  “Why what?” she fenced. She was tired. It did not take much to turn her pretense of a sleepy yawn into a real one.

  “Why didn’t you explain to Uncle Billy?”

  “It — it would have been useless.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. You couldn’t know unless you tried.”

  Eleanora stared at him. “Did you want me to tell him?”

  “Uncle Billy is not unreasonable; I would have had the chance to present my side. That isn’t the point.”

  “You mean — you wouldn’t have had to face disciplinary action?”

  “I doubt it. It would be much too disruptive at this time, even if I deserved it. Are you trying to say the thought weighed with you enough to hold you silent?”

  “I have no wish to have a man’s death or dishonor on my hands.”

  His eyes narrowed. He drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I thought I understood you, but I don’t.”

  “That isn’t surprising,” she replied, her voice muffled as she bent her head to disentangle the flowers and ribbon at her waist. “Anyway, I don’t see that it’s necessary for your purpose.”

  “And just what is that?”

  At the anger in his tone she looked up. His brows were drawn together in a frown that was not entirely directed at her. His question vibrated in the air, but the answer was so obvious Eleanora saw no need to put it into comfortless words, even if she could have found them.

  The bougainvillea under her fingers shattered, cascading to the floor. Turning away, she plucked at the knot once more, and as it yielded, jerked the ribbon free and tossed it to the washstand. It hung on the edge, then slithered to the floor like a green snake.

  “Is it because of your brother? Uncle Billy could have ordered him freed if he thought it the best course.”

  “I — suspected he might,” Eleanora said. “Still, I never supposed that you put Jean-Paul in the guardhouse simply to suit your convenience.”

  “No?” he asked in disbelief.

  “No. You said he had been drinking, and I believed you. As much as I would like to see him released, it is right that he should pay the price for breaking the rules.”

  “Generous of you.”

  “Only just,” she said.

  “But unexpected, all the same.”

  “Fair play is not restricted to men.”

  “Apparently not,” he answered in such a thoughtful tone she glanced at him in the mirror before her. “Tell me,” he continued, “do you plan to even your own scores, or do you prefer coals of fire?”

  Eleanora drew in her breath. “Must it be one or the other?”

  “In my experience, yes. You see,” he said with a grim smile, “I have reason to absolve you of enjoying my company.”

  She would liked to have thrown his conclusion back in his teeth, but she was by no means certain he was mistaken. “It would be wrong,” she replied, “to warn you, either way.”

  It was galling, after that trading of hostilities, to have to stand and let Grant help her out of her gown and petticoats. She might have managed the row of minute buttons down her back, but Señora Paredes had tied the laces of her stays into hard knots that defeated her most determined efforts. Grant, for once, did not take advantage of the situation. He left her alone to finish undressing while he disrobed in a brooding silence.

  Removing her last petticoat, Eleanora slid quickly beneath the covers. Grant blew out the candle and lay down beside her, leaving a careful distance between them.

  For a long time Eleanora lay rigid, staring wide-eyed into the darkness. The tension that stretched taut over them convinced Eleanora that Grant was not asleep. Still, he made no move toward her. She was glad, of course, but she did not pretend to understand it. She could not imagine that his strange reaction to her reluctance to expose their relationship to the general would prevent him from taking her if he so desired. No, certainly not. He must not want her then — not that it mattered. It was not very flattering, that his interest had waned in so short a time, but she would not let it affect her. With this vow, she turned on her side with her back to him. He appeared not to notice the movement. Indifference was a game two could play. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply, then settled into an even, regular rhythm. In time the feigned sleep slid unrecognized into reality. Grant did not move, nor did he give any sign he knew she was there.

  Such an unnatural estrangement could not endure between a man and a woman living in close quarters. On the morning of the fourth day Grant sat over his breakfast coffee, watching without seeming to as she stood in the early-morning sunlight pouring through the grille, trying to bring some kind of order to her wayward hair without resorting to the despised braids. The sleeves of the dressing gown fell away, revealing the soft roundness of her arms, their transparent ivory skin tinted pink with the warmth of her coursing blood. Her neck curved as she worked with the heavy hair, and her movements caused the too-large neckline to gape with an innocent, unknowing enticement. As if impelled, he set down his cup and got to his feet.

  Eleanora looked around in startled inquiry as he neared her. She flinched slightly as he reached out and picked up a strand of her hair, letting it drift slowly from his fingers, watching the iridescent slide of sunlight along the individual hairs like ultra-fine copper wires. Her eyes darkened to emerald as his fingers touched the silken softness of her cheek, then slid, lingering, to the tender curve of her mouth. There was about him the fresh smell of shaving soap and the aroma of warm linen and cotton cloth. The rich taste of coffee was on his lips, and then as she was drawn close against him, awareness grew dim, washed away by the swift race of the blood through her veins.

  They were still in bed when an orderly was sent to inquire after him hours later.

  Laughter bubbling in her throat, Eleanora watched Grant’s hurried efforts to find enough of his uni
form to make himself presentable while receiving the man. When he had gone the smile hovered for the length of time it took for her to stretch, smothering a yawn. Slowly, it disappeared. The room grew quiet and hollow with emptiness. With an abrupt movement, Eleanora flung her forearm up over her eyes. Tearless she lay, feeling the monotonous rise and fall of her breathing, refusing to remember, refusing to hope, hiding from herself. It was a futile exercise, as futile as denying her unaccountable attraction for Colonel Grant Farrell.

  9

  The new year came and went. The days ran, molten with heat, into each other. There was a passive sameness about them, a deadly dullness, that made an event, by comparison, of Grant’s twice-daily return. At least, that was the way Eleanora tried to explain her anticipation of his homecoming to herself.

  It was unbelievable to her how quickly they settled into a routine. They might have been the most stolid of wedded couples, eating together, bathing, sleeping, poring over his paperwork together. He found for her a sewing kit, and she spent a number of hours during the day tightening the buttons on his shirts, mending a few tears and parted seams. Once, in an idle hour, she carefully sewed the front of the dressing gown she wore together, using blind stitching, with herself inside it. She had no real thought of thwarting Grant; she only wanted to see the expression on his face when he found himself balked, and see what he would do. It was comical. She lay biting her lower lip, her eyes shining with barely suppressed merriment — until he drew out a pocket knife and flicked it open. The rush of panic was momentary, though it did make it harder to restrain the somewhat hazardous laughter that shook her as with owl-solemn concentration he leaned over her, cutting each tiny stitch from bottom to top.

  The only other relief from monotony was Luis’s visits. They continued as before, though at irregular intervals. He was prone to making her small gifts, flowers, delicacies of fruit and candy from the market, soap scented with attar of roses, a small basket of nuts gleaned from heaven knows where, a French novel falling apart with damp and mildew and old age, but still readable. His most impressive gifts, however, were a blouse of unbleached cotton with a drawstring neck and wide, puffed sleeves, and a skirt of several widths of gathers in Democrático red. It was the costume of the peasant women, cool, practical, and more welcome than the finest silk gown, primarily because Grant made no objection to her wearing it. Why, she could not quite decide, unless he felt it was unlikely she would wish to appear in public in such an ensemble. If so, he misjudged her. After the costume she had been wearing, she felt marvelously well dressed in the skirt and blouse; she would have thought little of moving about the streets in them. In any event, she did not get the chance. Grant, despite her gradual acceptance of her confinement, always locked the door behind him.