Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “Don’t say that,” she begged him, shaken by his despair, but unable to find the words to combat it.

  “Why not? It’s true. The thought of your dishonor for my sake weighs more heavily on my conscience than my own.”

  “Nonsense. This is not our war,” she tried to tell him.

  “We made it ours,” he replied with uncompromising exactitude, and Eleanora did not argue. She could not, for she knew he was right. Kissing him gently, she had left him standing, staring out the grille-barred window of his pleasant prison.

  Colonel Thomas Henry drew closer. She could see the seams of old scars on his face and his narrowed, intent stare, caused only partially by the sun. He was a man who seemed particularly prone to collecting injuries; the first time she had seen him his arm was in a sling. Because of his many hurts, including everyday accidents, he had been a frequent visitor to the hospital. Based, perhaps, on their earlier meeting, an unlikely friendship had grown between them, and the beginning of a smile began to show white now in his weather-beaten face. Nearer and nearer the detail came. Behind them, the long boat which had transported them to shore was drawn up upon the sand, and the sailors who had manned it took a seat on its gunwale, watching.

  When the Falangistas were no more than ten feet away, Major Henry raised his hand and removed his hat in a salute that was copied by the men he led. Stumping to a halt, he held his hat over his heart and leaned forward in a deep bow, supporting himself on his malacca cane.

  “Eleanora — beg pardon — Señora de Laredo, I can’t begin to tell you how thankful I am to see you. Bear with us and we will soon have you safely home.”

  “Thank you,” Eleanora replied, but there was a wan quality in her smile. For her there was no such place.

  Still, Major Henry was as good as his word. Within minutes the formalities were over and the long boat was skimming the waves toward the sloop. The run down the coast to San Juan del Norte was accomplished in a matter of hours — a cool, clean passage compared to the trip by river steamer over the winding San Juan with its muddy banks baking in the sun of early summer. The burned-out transit offices and wharf at Virgin Bay, only recently completed at a cost to the company of over a hundred thousand dollars, were a grim reminder of war. It had been a casualty of the Costa Rican offensive. The office had been ransacked and the workmen killed, many of them slaughtered in cold blood as they lay wounded on the ground.

  Eleanora had been entertained with all the ceremony due a heroine during the trip, fêted at the captain’s table, given the best in the way of accommodations, escorted everywhere by either Colonel Henry, Major Crawford, or one or more of the men who had comprised the exchange party. She was grateful, since their constant presence kept her from thinking, but she assigned such singular attention to their sympathetic appreciation for her experience, not to policy. She certainly did not expect it to continue once they had reached Granada. Her surprise was genuine then, when, as the lake steamer pulled into Granada, she beheld a large delegation on the wharf fenced around by Falangistas with rifles casually held at the ready.

  Her searching gaze picked out the figure of William Walker with his dark frockcoat trimly tailored to his slight frame and his fine blond hair shining like cornsilk in the sun. Then, striding through the crowd that had collected, she saw another man in a red tunic. She could not see his face for his hat was worn low on his brow, but still she knew. She could not mistake that hard-muscled frame and lithe, Indian stride. It was Grant. He joined General Walker and they spoke quietly for a moment, then together they raised their heads to scan the people lining the rail of the steamer.

  Instantly Eleanora started back. Beside her, Major Crawford touched her arm. “Don’t run away,” he said softly. “Think of this as an opportunity, one that can mean a great deal — to Jean-Paul. Smile. Wave. That’s it, gently. We must remember too that you are the bereaved widow.”

  There was little chance of her forgetting, still Eleanora said nothing. It was necessary to concentrate to keep her smile from turning into a grimace and her hand from clutching the railing under the onslaught of panic. Schooling herself to a calm she was far from feeling, she looked away out over the noisy, boisterous crowd.

  Granada, miles from the fighting, had changed little. A dust pall hung over the streets due to the hot, dry weather. The smells of animal dung and street refuse were stronger. But the pigeons still wheeled above the tall palms and red-tiled roofs, the buildings stuccoed white and coral or built of golden stone still shielded blue shadows against the glare of the late afternoon sun. The people still laughed and talked as if they had never heard of war.

  So peaceful. It was an effort to drag her harried senses away as the gangplank was lowered at last and, on receiving a signal, Major Crawford indicated that it was time to disembark. At the head of the shaky collection of wooden planks she paused. Taking a deep breath, she put her foot forward, in the first of the half dozen or more steps that would take her back into the town of Granada, back to jurisdiction of William Walker and, she hoped, back to Grant.

  “On behalf of the Republic of Nicaragua, President Rivas, and myself, may I make you welcome once more in Granada, Señora de Laredo. Accept also my sincere condolences on your recent bereavement. The tragic loss of both Lieutenant Colonel Luis de Laredo and Private Jean-Paul Villars will be keenly felt. Accept also our most abject apologies for the misunderstanding which led to your unfortunate experiences, and my humble offer of renewed, and constant, friendship.”

  The general’s gray eyes were steady, the tone of his voice warmly sympathetic. Eleanora’s mouth curved in a hesitant smile, and then, forgetting her suspicions, she gave William Walker her hand.

  “We realize nothing could possibly compensate for the hardship you have endured or the horror you have had to face, but we would deem it an honor if you would allow us to present to you this medal of valor from the state of Nicaragua as a gesture of our remorse and good will.”

  A sick feeling moved through her as she thought of Luis, who had forfeited his life because of the power wielded by this man’s mistress; but at a touch of Major Crawford’s hand on her elbow, she inclined her head with a soft word of gratitude and stood still while the gold star on a ribbon of red and black was pinned in place. William Walker bowed over her hand, the uniformed men straightened in a salute, and the ceremonies were over. There was a greeting and handshake for Colonel Henry and the men of the exchange detail who had disembarked behind her, jamming the end of the gangplank. But the people waiting to land after them were growing impatient at the delay.

  “My carriage is waiting,” General Walker said to Eleanora. “I would be proud to take you wherever you wish to go. Also, I believe Colonel Farrell has offered to see you settled into suitable quarters.”

  Through the ritual of the reception Eleanora had not been able to bring herself to look at Grant, nor did she do so now. She turned to Major Crawford. “I must thank you for arranging my release,” she began, only to have him cut across the speech so carefully committed to memory on his instruction.

  “There is no need. I was only following orders.”

  “You have been more than kind. I wish there was some way I could repay you.”

  “If you will pledge not to deny yourself if I should chance to call on you, I will consider myself amply rewarded,” he replied with meaningful gallantry.

  “I — will always be happy to receive you,” she said, though her smile faded and she turned away as soon as possible. Passively, she allowed the general to direct her toward his carriage, the same dilapidated victoria she had ridden in before.

  As they settled into the seats, Walker said, “One thing more, señora. You need not feel under any obligation to stay in Nicaragua. We will all understand perfectly if you should decide that you would prefer to leave us, and will gladly defray your expenses to the destination of your choice. It is the least we can do.”

  Was that a hint that they — meaning he and Niña Maria — would pre
fer her to go? It would not be surprising. She could not help but be a reminder of an episode they would like to forget. No doubt Niña Maria would think differently, however, after she had spoken to Neville Crawford. She would not be astonished, Eleanora told herself with a shade of cynicism, if she became a close friend of the general’s mistress before all was said and done.

  The general was waiting for her answer. “I appreciate your concern, sir, and your kind offer, but I have yet to decide what I want to do. It may take a little time.”

  “I — quite understand,” he answered, slanting a glance at the set face of Colonel Farrell, seated across from them with his back to the horses. “There is no hurry. In fact, if you feel it is compatible with your mourning, I would like you to come to a small dinner party we are having in three days’ time, on Thursday next. We are — as always, anxious to have the beauteous element among us represented at Government House.”

  It seemed politic to accept both the compliment and the invitation, regardless of any other arrangements she might make. It was a formality, however, for the general seemed to expect nothing less than compliance.

  “Someday, Eleanora — if I may revert to a more familiar title in private — I would like to hear your story of what happened to you in the past three months. We had the bones, of course, from the message sent by the Hondurans, still I am sure there is more, much more, which we can’t begin to guess. I don’t mean to press you, or to suggest anything in the nature of an interrogation, but I would like to hear what you feel you can tell me, later, when time has had a chance to dull the edges a bit.”

  Eleanora gripped her fingers in her lap, an agonizing ache beginning in her throat at the mere thought. She swallowed hard, her gaze moving to a point just above the general’s head. “With all due respect, General,” she said in a voice that trembled, “I’m not certain that I will ever be able to speak of it.”

  Street noises, the calls of vendors, the continuous murmur of soft voices, the squeal of a family of pigs disturbed in the mud of the gutter, invaded the carriage as silence descended. Eleanora flicked a glance at Grant to find his hard blue stare resting on the signet ring that gleamed on her finger, held in place by a thick wrapping of cloth through its circle. Slowly he lifted his eyes to her gold-flecked green gaze.

  She could not tell what he was thinking or feeling. His emotions were under such tight rein that the bronzed lanes of his face were rigid.

  The humid heat was intense. Perspiration trickled down her spine where it rested against the velvet squabs. The general had turned his attention to a sheaf of papers with the look of a report which Colonel Thomas Henry had thrust into his hand at the moment of meeting. Frowning, he looked up from them to stare fixedly into the middle distance.

  Eleanora would have preferred to remain silent. It would not do, however, to appear sullen and ungracious, or to advertise her disinclination for making polite conversation with Colonel Grant Farrell. Clearing her throat, she said, “I must congratulate you, General, on your victory at Rivas.”

  “The plaudits belong to my great ally, the cholera, my dear,” he replied, turning a wintry smile upon her, “but I accept the sentiment.”

  “Still, I understand your men fought bravely for you, and you have secured your position here.”

  His chest expanded and fell beneath the black broadcloth of his coat in what would have been a sigh in any other man. “For the time being,” he agreed, then his light brows drew together as he went on. “I meant what I said earlier about your brother. He had the makings of a good soldier and a fine, upstanding man. I don’t mean to distress you by reminding you of your loss and the manner of it, but I want you to know that the phalanx is neither so big or so impersonal that it can’t regret the passing of a promising young member. You must not think we value him the less — but no, I won’t say anymore on that head. We will speak of it another time, when you are rested.”

  A conventional answer rose to Eleanora’s lips as she realized with bitterness that nothing she had said earlier had really penetrated William Walker’s basic self-absorption. He wanted to be informed and he expected her to overcome her scruples, however painful. Recognizing that did not help her to understand why he had singled out Jean-Paul for special praise, and not Luis, surely the more valuable, militarily speaking, of the two. She had no intention of questioning him. She accepted that he had a reason, just as she had learned to accept so much else in these last few months.

  The carriage braked to a halt before the Government House. The instant the general stepped out, he was surrounded by his guards, who had been following on horseback.

  “Until Thursday,” he said with his slow smile, and turned away.

  As the carriage jerked into movement once more, Grant’s voice, coldly polite, grated in the quiet. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I — don’t know,” she said, distractedly aware of the necessity of returning to this man’s protection, and yet unable to make herself say the words which might bring it about. “Perhaps a hotel?”

  “You stayed at the Alhambra once before, I think?”

  At her nod he put his head out the window to give the necessary order. She watched closely as he settled back, but he seemed to have no new battle scars, no visible wounds. To her eyes inside the dimness of the carriage, he appeared as fit and as strong as when they had first met. Following the trend of her own thoughts, she said on impulse, “Your shoulder healed? It doesn’t pain you anymore?”

  Turning to stare at her through thick, dark lashes, he answered brusquely. “It healed.”

  “Were you with Walker on the second march to Rivas?”

  “I was.”

  She managed a light laugh. “I can’t believe you were injured there. You certainly look healthy enough.”

  “What the hell is this?” he demanded, his voice vibrating with something between scorn and passion. “Coming from someone who spent weeks in the jungle with another man, and came back wearing his name and his ring, I find this pretended concern hard to stomach!”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Eleanora said unsteadily, the suddenness of his attack throwing her into confusion.

  “I think you do,” he countered, and waited, watching her with an intentness that was unnerving.

  Without compunction, Eleanora abandoned her feeble attempt to return their relationship to a more familiar footing. Her concern had not been spurious. It would not do, however, for her to tell him so, and so she fell silent, studying with an interest completely assumed the scene unrolling past the carriage windows.

  Grant subsided also for the remainder of the short journey, though Eleanora thought he glanced at her once or twice with a puzzled frown between his brows.

  The Alhambra was much as she remembered it from the time when, with Mazie, she had enjoyed its hospitality. It might have been a little quieter, with fewer comings and goings, but the atmosphere of unostentatious comfort was the same. There was no difficulty in securing a room, especially when it was made known that she would be the guest of General William Walker.

  Following on the heels of the scurrying manager, Grant saw her to her room, though he came no further than the door. The manager hurried here and there, throwing windows wide and pulling back the drapes. He checked the water in the pitcher and carafe, and saw that the washstand was supplied with towels and a small cake of soap before coming to stand, awaiting anxiously the approval of the man in the uniform of the American Phalanx. Grant gave him a nod that was both the approval he sought and a dismissal, then stood with his hat in his hand until the man’s footsteps had ceased to scuff upon the worn runner in the long outside hallway.

  “Thank you—”Eleanora began.

  “You have everything you need?” Grant started to say.

  They both stopped. Eleanora glanced up in time to catch an odd softness allied to a quirk of humor in Grant’s face as he watched her. It vanished so quickly that she was not certain she had not imagined it. An instant later he was
saying, “I will see to your baggage when it comes off the steamer.”

  “There isn’t much, only a small valise.”

  “I will see to it,” he repeated.

  “I — may need some of the things I left at the palacio.”

  He nodded. “They are still there. Nothing has been moved. I’ll have Señora Paredes pack them and send them to you.”

  The harsh tone was back in his voice. Eleanora gave him a small, self-possessed smile, and inclining her head in a regal gesture she had learned from her grandmother, who claimed to be descended from French aristocracy, she closed the door upon him.

  She was kept busy in the days that followed. The editor of El Nicaraguense, a young man with ink-stained fingers, a harassed expression, and boundless enthusiasm, came. His interest in her ordeal was so artlessly genuine that she found herself telling him far more than she had intended.

  She received also a visitor from the military surgeon, Dr. Jones. Citing orders from someone high in the command of the phalanx, he waved aside her objections and examined her thoroughly. He gave her a salve to soften the calluses on her hands, recommended lemon juice and buttermilk for what he persisted in calling the discoloration of her skin due to the sun, and pronounced her fit, though too slim for his taste. To remedy this he prescribed a diet rich in red meat and fresh vegetables, and gave her leave to eat all the rich desserts he denied himself. Their conversation naturally turned to the hospital and the wounded from the recent conflict, scarce though they were due to the tactics of the enemy. Before he finally took his leave, Eleanora found herself promising to look in again upon the infirmary for the purpose of viewing one or two improvements he was anxious to have her opinion upon. An afternoon was devoted to fulfilling this promise. The situation there was vastly improved, allowing her to refrain from committing herself to returning to her former position with a free heart, though she was not sure how long she could withstand the sincere entreaties of the surgeon and the orderlies who remembered her.