The morning of the fourth of January dawned cloudy and mercifully cool. Grant rose early, removing the warm weight of his arm from across her waist, leaving the bed with an abrupt roll. He slipped into his breeches and went to stand, staring out over the rooftops. His fingertips where they gripped the facing were colorless, but there was a determined set to his shoulders.
Eleanora stirred and sat up. Sensitive to the sound, Grant spoke over his shoulder. “Your brother will be released this morning. He will have to return to his barracks, but he will be free this evening, if you want to see him.”
“Yes. Certainly,” she answered.
It was a moment before he spoke again, then his voice was hard. “What will you do now?”
Was this her dismissal then? Her mind was curiously blank. A frown of pain flickered between her brows to be replaced by a saving anger as he swung to face her.
“I asked what you are going to do, where you intend to go?”
“I’m not sure. Mazie mentioned California. Maybe I’ll go with her.”
“The ticket to New Orleans is still available.”
“That’s very kind of you,” she said steadily, “but I feel a craving for independence now.”
“Independence isn’t an easy thing for a woman without money.”
“I will manage, no doubt. You needn’t let me weigh on your conscience.”
“Don’t think you will,” he said too definitely. “You brought what happened on yourself.”
“Did I indeed?” She sat up straighter, unaware of the soft, alluring gleam of her unclothed body in the dim room.
“Your clothes, your company, led me to believe you were not inexperienced.”
“I could not help that — not that it matters. You don’t have to make excuses to me!”
“I’m not making excuses,” he said, lowering his voice as she raised hers.
“No, of course not, and you’re not blaming me for the pass your arrogance and conceit have brought us to either, I suppose?”
He stared at her a long moment before looking away. “All right,” he agreed wearily. “The fault is mine. What more do you want? Apologies?”
“No — no,” she said, unable to take her gaze from the gray shadow that lay beneath the bronze surface of his skin. “We can agree, if you will, that we were both at fault.”
“Eleanora—” He stepped to the end of the bed, bracing his arms on the footboard.
She waited, her nerves coiled as tightly as a carriage spring. The timbre of his voice sounded low and strained to her ears. He seemed, for the first time in her knowledge of him, vulnerable.
The impression was a fleeting one. As a knock sounded on the door, he straightened, the mask of hardness descending over his face.
“Yes?” he snapped.
“Pardon, Señor Colonel.” The quavering tones belonged to Señora Paredes. “I thought I — that is — I heard voices. As long as you are awake, I thought you might be ready for breakfast.”
Had the woman been listening? She could not have chosen a more inopportune moment to interrupt. Grant appeared to find nothing unusual in it. Without looking at Eleanora he replied, “Breakfast for the señorita only. Just coffee for me — on the patio.”
“Si, Señor Colonel,” the woman said, and her footsteps faded along the inside galería.
His movements swift and economical, Grant dressed without bothering to shave. Strapping on his revolver, he took up his campaign hat and stood turning it in his hand an instant before placing it on his head. He crossed to the door and pulled it open. Face shaded by his hat brim, he looked back. His eyes rested on the softness of her mouth, then fell to the smooth curve of her neck and the gentle fullness of her breasts veiled by the gossamer curtains of her hair, moving slightly with her breathing. A muscle in his jaw corded, then with a decisive step he passed through the door and shut it firmly behind him.
Eleanora strained, listening for the sound of the key in the lock. It did not come.
Standing before the house pointed out to her as belonging to the English actor John Barclay, Eleanora frowned. It was an odd structure, wide, high, and almost featureless. It was not at all impossible that it had served as a barn at one time, for the front boasted a pass door set into a heavy panel large enough to admit a carriage. Plastered clay color, it did not, despite the information she had been given at the Hotel Alhambra, bear any resemblance to an abode which she thought Mazie Brentwood might consider occupying. Nevertheless, she shifted the bundle she carried onto her hip and raised her hand to the wrought-iron knocker.
“Eleanora!” Mazie cried, swinging the pass door wide. “What a surprise. Come in this minute. I have been so worried, you can’t imagine.”
“How are you, Mazie?” Eleanora asked, smiling.
“Never better, but we can’t talk out here. Come in, do.”
“I don’t want to impose,” Eleanora said.
“Nonsense,” Mazie declared, nearly dragging her over the threshold, her eyes, sharp for all their guileless hazel color, taking in the bundle which represented Eleanora’s total possessions. “One more won’t matter a whit. John will be glad to have you. Tell me, how do you like our place?”
There was no entrance hall, nor orderly placement of rooms, only a vast, open area supported by square, wooden columns with a set of utilitarian stairs leading up on one side to an unpartitioned loft. A floor of polished wood had been laid over the beaten earth, and the loft had been curtained off into cubicles, but there the improvements to what had most certainly once been a stable, if not a barn, ended.
“It’s — nice,” Eleanora said, the back of her nose stinging from the fresh lime smell of the whitewash used on the walls.
Mazie gave her rich laugh. “Yes — well, it’s nice for a makeshift theater, I must say. John and I are living here now, along with the rest of the troupe, while we get it fixed up. But it won’t be permanent.”
“The troupe? A troupe of actors?”
“That’s right — come from England by way of Boston, St. Louis, and San Francisco to bring entertainment and culture to the masses of Nicaragua and the bored soldiery of William Walker. If you are wondering at the quiet, they are out now scouring the countryside for props for our opening production. They are a grand lot, you’ll enjoy meeting them.”
“I know I will,” Eleanora replied, “but tell me how you came to be mixed up with them?”
“I will,” Mazie promised, leading the way up the stairs and through a set of rust-red muslin curtains into a comfortable area furnished with a number of low, couchlike settees. The couches, covered with fringed India shawls, piled high with jewel-colored cushions in brocade and velvet hung with cords and tassels, were obviously used as beds. A low table held a steaming coffeepot and a tray of paper-thin china cups and saucers. Dropping down behind it, Mazie went on, “First I want to hear how the terrible colonel persuaded you to live with him. Come now. Don’t spare my blushes. Tell me everything.”
Mazie was nothing if not understanding. Still, it was not easy to tell her what had taken place. It was necessary to backtrack, to explain in detail, without becoming too personal, in order to be sure she grasped the exact nature of what had occurred and the reasons behind it. Why it should be so important that Mazie understand the reasons she did not consider, nor did she want to.
“I was right then, you were a prisoner. I think, under the circumstances, that you must be a most forgiving woman,” Mazie commented.
“No.” Eleanora’s response was immediate.
“No? You haven’t forgiven him then?”
“It isn’t a question of forgiveness.”
“What then? Revenge? I think that would be my reaction — to have his hide, no matter what the cost.”
Looking beyond her, Eleanora smiled. “You would have no use for coals of fire then?”
“A dangerous business,” the other woman answered. “You can get badly burned yourself.”
Eleanora’s smile faded. “You were g
oing to tell me about this acting business. Have you taken to the stage?”
“Not really. I was given my warning, if you will remember? I saw at the reception we both attended that Walker was one of those men who never retract an order. The country is small, the party in power has more control of the people, and little concept of laws as we know them. I was afraid I might find myself kicking my heels in the guardhouse too if I didn’t find a niche for myself fast. I’ve never fancied working the cribs — too far down the ladder for comfort — and I’m too lazy to start a cat house — brothel to you, honey — on my own. My only course was some form of respectable alliance. Setting up with an actor was as close as I cared to come to that. The rest of the troupe, this theater, came with John Barclay.”
“You don’t feel anything for him?”
“Did you feel anything for the colonel?” she returned, then as Eleanora lowered her lashes without replying, she said, “You see? There are some questions it is better not to ask. The answer is too distressing, either way.”
“If you think I’m in love with Grant Farrell—”
“Did I say that? To hate a man is more upsetting than loving him, if you must live with him regardless.” With perfect nonchalance she passed on to another subject. “I haven’t asked about Jean-Paul. How is he? I was never more shocked than when I heard he was in the guardhouse. He must have been arrested not long after he left me at the hotel.”
“He will be released today.”
“As you were. I wonder if such a coincidence will escape General Walker’s notice?”
“I hope so.”
Mazie looked at her oddly, but made no comment. “You left a message telling your brother where you would be, I suppose? No? Never mind. We’ll send one of the boys with a note to the barracks after a while. There are three boys in the troupe — young men, really. One of them is semi-betrothed to one of the three girls. We number eight in all, counting John and myself.”
She prattled on about their arrangement of duties, the play, The School for Scandal, they were to present in two weeks’ time, and the roles each would play. Eleanora, involved with her own thoughts, was glad to be spared the necessity of answering too often. As she considered Jean-Paul, his hot temper, and Mazie’s ability to piece together the facts of the case, fear like a numbing poison began a slow invasion of her mind. With plenty of time to think and, she was sure, plenty of people to keep him informed of what was happening to his sister, Jean-Paul might also exercise his mind by searching out the facts.
With chilled fingers she set her cup and saucer upon the table. The half inch of cold coffee sloshed dangerously and the cup rocked before settling.
“Are you all right?” Mazie asked. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Eleanora answered, producing a valiant smile. “It may be nothing.”
The day wore on with a sullen and murky light like the effect of smoke passing before the sun. The troupe returned, a boisterous crowd, affectionate among themselves, casual; they accepted Eleanora in her peasant blouse and skirt as easily as they expected her to accept them. Of the three men, one was elderly with a mane of white hair and a habit of sprinkling his conversation with Shakespearian allusions, one was a hulking giant with few mental powers but great good nature, and the last was a young Adonis only too obviously smitten by the youngest and freshest of the female members, a blonde and sweetly perfect ingénue. The other two women were attractive in a hard fashion, though their cynical smiles seemed to hint at more experience than they could have attained on the boards of a stage. Meeting them, Eleanora wondered for an instant if she, too, had that air of bitter assent. She thought not, on consideration. It was, more than anything else, an attitude of mind.
John Barclay was a surprise. He had no single outstanding feature, an asset, he explained, in an actor. He was of average height, with nondescript-colored hair somewhere between sandy and brown, a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and a personality that came alive only when he assumed a part.
A meal was cooked and served finally, even though it was more toward the middle of the afternoon than at luncheon time. While the others cleared away the dishes, the two youngest troupe members, the betrothed pair, were sent with the message for Jean-Paul. Scripts were broken out along with half-made costumes and unfinished scenery. Soon the place was strewn with pins and snippets of material, and reeking with the fumes of linseed oil and turpentine.
Eleanora sat industriously basting a seam on a gown to be worn by Lady Teazle in the second act. While she worked, she watched with enjoyment while one of the actresses declaimed her lines wearing a sheet draped over a set of makeshift panniers. She had almost finished the costume before the young couple returned from the barracks.
“Ah, methinks you have been dawdling by the wayside, sighing and seeking the remedy,” the Shakespearian gibed.
Mazie was less subtle. “Where have you been?” she demanded.
“Trying to find out what all the excitement is about in the plaza. We were sure you’d want to know,” the young Adonis said, clearing off a couch by pushing the materials it held to the floor.
“Excitement? What excitement? We haven’t heard anything.”
“It all started at the Government House. Seems Jean-Paul Villars, this gent you sent us to find, marched into the office of Adjutant Colonel Farrell this morning and gave him the glove, so to speak.”
“He — challenged him?” Eleanora said faintly.
“That’s the story. They say at first the colonel refused, superior rank and all that, but this Louisiana Creole made him a long speech about some stain on the family honor. I guess he convinced Farrell he had reason, because he agreed to meet him.”
Mazie reached out and caught Eleanora’s arm as she started to her feet. “Wait a minute, honey.”
“I’ve got to see Jean-Paul. I’ve got to stop him. He’ll be murdered.”
The young man shook his head. “Too late. They met this afternoon at five o’clock in the garden behind the cathedral.”
“You mean — it’s over?”
“Yep.”
“Yes, that’s right,” the ingénue added softly.
“And Jean-Paul?” Eleanora breathed, going still. Mazie’s grip tightened, as if in anticipation of the worst.
“Fit as a fiddle. The colonel’s the one who caught it. Your brother shot him just below the collarbone, Miss Villars. It’s my opinion he intended a heart shot, but when Farrell deloped it shook him, spoiled his aim.”
“Deloped, did he?” the Shakespearian asked with an air of professional interest.
“Shot straight up at the sky. Gave the pigeons a fit, I can tell you.”
“Why? Why would he do that?” Mazie queried, voicing the bewilderment Eleanora felt.
“Two thoughts on that, as far as I could tell. First says he was following General Walker’s example. The general makes a habit of deloping since he’s against the practice of dueling but refuses to be called a coward.” The young man cocked a curious glance in Eleanora’s direction. “The other says it was the colonel’s way of admitting he was in the wrong.”
“Are you saying he stood there and let my brother shoot him?” Eleanora whispered.
“That’s about it.”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe it.”
“God’s truth,”
“But why?”
“Who knows what men take into their heads?” Mazie said, getting briskly to her feet. “It makes no difference. The colonel is no longer your problem.”
“No,” Eleanora agreed, “unless — there was nothing said about disciplinary action against Jean-Paul, was there?”
The young man looked at the girl beside him, who shook her head. “Nothing we heard,” he said.
“John?” Mazie said, applying to the actor.
“So far as I know there’s no law against dueling in Nicaragua, just a general feeling that Walker disapproves, mainly on practical grounds. He can’t be too specific. There was his famo
us duel in San Francisco with a man named Hicks, friend of a district judge Walker had raked over in the Herald. It puts me in mind of this one we’ve been talking about. Walker deloped as usual. The proper thing to have done was follow suit, delope also, but Hicks leveled his pistol and shot him in the arm, just missed the bone. That made Walker mad. He ignored his wound and called for a second shot with murder in his eyes, and he’d have killed him, too, if the seconds hadn’t intervened and stopped the fight.” Slanting a glance at Eleanora’s blank face, he shook his head. “But you’re not interested in that. Like I said, I don’t expect much in the way of repercussions. There may be an inquiry, seeing who was involved. Still, if they put everybody in jail who fought in a duel they’d have half the army in the guardhouse.”
Despite the actor’s attempt to reassure her, Eleanora could not be satisfied until she had seen her brother for herself. That indulgence was accorded to her that evening. It was late, near ten o’clock, when he presented himself. The inconvenience was slight. The troupe, after a couple of hours of rehearsal, were just beginning to think of their dinner.
Relief flooding over her, Eleanora embraced Jean-Paul where he stood upon the doorstep. He was thinner, and pale, except for spots of color high on his cheekbones. The red of his uniform did not become him. In some manner it emphasized his youth rather than his manliness. He returned her quick, affectionate hug without enthusiasm, averting his eyes from the sight of her uncorseted figure in her informal peasant’s costume.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 60
