Safely out of hailing or firing distance of the town, the boatmen shipped their oars and began to raise the sail of thin, flapping canvas. Their progress was faster after that as they ran before a nice breeze. The lights of Granada, ringing the shore like a semicircle of fallen stars, receded. There was nothing but the sound of the soft voices of the men, the creaming of the water against the hull, and the creaking of rigging.
Abruptly one of the men gave an exclamation, pointing toward the town. Looking back, Eleanora saw a ball of fire soar toward the heavens, showering downward again in orange sparks. Another followed, and another, in bright burning blue and red and green, fountains of fire splashing golden embers, lighting the night, for an instant, with magic.
It was the pyrotechnics Niña Maria had ordered for the ceremony installing President William Walker of Nicaragua. Was that woman there, or had someone else found them and set them off? It didn’t matter. The deed was done, the inauguration over. The little general had triumphed. His coup de main was crowned with success. It was time to celebrate the victory, to retire to the Government House to eat and drink and dance, time for the Falangistas to laugh and slap each other on the back in congratulations and an excess of high spirits.
None of it meant anything to her. She was no longer a part of that madness. Resolutely, she turned her back, staring straight ahead. It was odd how black the night and the surface of the lake appeared, stretching endlessly before her, and how blurred was the outline of the looming peaks of the volcanic island of Ometepe.
New Orleans under the sun of late July was as hot and as pestilential as the country from which Eleanora had come. The air was more sluggish than at Granada, the glare on the rooftops was hurtful to the eyes, and black-banded placards on every post proclaimed the victims of yellow fever. Still, there were no red-shirted soldiers walking the streets, no sound of drilling or marching, no rumbling of ammunition carts. The language in the streets was not Spanish; and the people, the shopkeepers and street vendors and the servants with their masters and mistresses, all smiled.
Eleanora said good-bye to ex-Major Neville Crawford at the dock on the levee. If she were honest, she would have to admit he had made the voyage easier for her. During the boat trip across the lake to San Carlos, he had kept to himself, unwilling, as he put it, to intrude on her preoccupation and grief for her brother, to risk the vicious snub he knew he deserved. But at San Carlos they had landed on the bank of the lake. Seeing her hesitating as it came her turn to disembark, trying to decide if she could jump the stretch of lapping water and mud which lay between her and dry land, he had scooped her into his arms and carried her ashore. He had released her the instant her feet touched the ground, turning away after receiving her frigid expression of gratitude, but the ice had been broken.
On the journey by river steamer down the San Juan to the Atlantic, it was not surprising that they were thrown into each other’s company. Being together was a defense against the attempts of the other passengers to strike up a conversation. They were both traveling under false names, and had no wish to be put to the effort of elaborating on a background to go with them. The situation was much the same aboard the ocean steamer out of San Juan del Norte, complicated by the greater number of passengers and the necessity of taking meals at the long tables in the dining saloon. Much of the problem Eleanora solved by keeping to her private cabin, a luxury she paid for gladly from her pin money. On her first night at sea she sought her bunk in the middle of the afternoon and slept the clock around without moving. Caused, no doubt, by the release of the intolerable tension which she had been under for weeks, her drowsiness continued. She could not seem to wake before noon or hold her eyes open after the moon had risen.
Nevertheless, there were the afternoons, and it was not unpleasant to have a gallant and attentive escort to stroll with her around the decks, or to shield her at dinner by explaining to those who were too insistent on becoming acquainted that she was recently bereaved and not up to making polite conversation.
She was not so pleased with him when their fellow travelers began to address her as the Condesa. Challenged, Neville admitted to letting her cabin steward in on the secret of her incognito. There was no longer any danger from having it known, and he had thought it might prompt the man to better service. He was most contrite that the steward had seen fit to spread the tale and apologized handsomely. And yet, Eleanora had seen him in that mood so often during the voyage, as he tried to excuse his perfidy in Honduras, that she was unmoved. She could not, in fact, rid herself of the notion that his action was deliberate, though she could find no reason for it. Until that incident, she had been on the verge of warming to Neville, and disposed to believe that he had been little more than a pawn on Vanderbilt’s chess board, as he explained — caught up in forces stronger and more dangerous than he had expected, from which he was unable to escape. She found it reasonable enough that he was not sorry the plan to kill Walker had failed, though she was skeptical that he was actually glad to be exposed. Still, there were advantages in having someone who, even if they did not often speak of it, had common memories of Granada and of how things had been there. For this reason, she pretended to accept what Neville was at such pains to have her understand.
Other than a meticulous attention to her well-being, and constant companionship which she could take or leave, Neville did not put himself forward. He made no attempt to gain entry to her cabin or to capitalize on the balmy hours of the evening they spent on deck. Such consideration was unlooked for. He was aware of her position as Grant’s mistress and must have joined with the rest of Granada in speculating on her relationship with Luis while they were together. But he did not betray by word or deed any expectation that she might be free with her favors. Nor was it that he was immune to her attraction. There was a certain look in his eye, a way he had of touching her to guide her, a note in his voice, which told her this was not so. No, she suspected, without vanity, that he had determined on a course of making himself indispensable to her. He was playing a game of patience, waiting for her to ready herself to turn to him. If she was right, she could not but respect his intelligence. Nor could she help nourishing doubts about the strength of his emotions.
Eleanora went from the dock to the Hotel St. Louis, where, under the supercilious and somewhat doubtful stare of the clerk, she signed the register with her full name and title. The results were all she could have hoped for in the way of deference and instant service. Neville had been correct in that, at least. From that base, she sallied forth the next day to the dressmaker and milliner. She ordered gowns in black and gray and lavender, as was right and fitting and in harmony with her mood. To go with them, she bought bonnets and scarves and shawls and gloves and lace mittens and a dozen other items, though she turned down without hesitation a mantilla touted to her as the latest rage in fashion. She purchased a new crinoline and a single set of lace-adorned petticoats, camisole, and pantaloons to be worn for the present. The rest of her undergarments and nightwear she ordered from the convent — lingerie of silk and lawn exquisitely embroidered by the nuns, such as her mother and her grandmother had worn next to their skin, including a set in black embroidered with gray satin stitch.
The first of her new finery to be delivered was a day gown of gray lawn, embellished with yard upon yard of white lace, with a matching coal-scuttle bonnet and lace-edged parasol. Attired in this ravishing outfit and carrying a new reticule of silver mesh in which reposed her purse, fan, and calling card case, she set out in a hired hack to visit her Uncle Narciso and his son, Cousin Bernard, at her old home on Royal Street.
The butler who opened the door to her ring asked her to wait in the library and took away on a silver salver her card, engraved with her name and the arms of the Conde de Laredo. Her uncle himself came to greet her with hands outstretched, drawing her into the salon. Bernard rose to make her his bow, a rather strained smile on his face as if the effort of being cordial was too much for him, but he did second his w
ife’s invitation to have a glass of ratafia with them. His wife’s parents, a rather stout and benign couple, were ensconced upon the settee, and by their presence kept the interrogation to which she was subjected from becoming too severe or acrimonious. Eleanora bore it with fortitude, telling them what she pleased and smilingly turning away those questions she did not wish to answer, wondering all the while why she had ever allowed herself to be made to feel inferior to these singularly dull people so full of their own consequence they could not tell when they were being gently ridiculed or maneuvered. At the end of the visit she was pressed to come to a supper party, a small gathering which could not be thought too gay for one in mourning. She accepted with every expression of gratification and went away grimly pleased that the first shot in the battle to regain her grandmother’s house had been fired.
Though New Orleans appeared quiet and peaceful on the surface, the enthusiasm for the war efforts of William Walker was higher than ever. It was inevitable, then, that once Eleanora’s identity became known the news sheets would make much of her. The tale of a New Orleans beauty of prominent family who had traveled very nearly to the front of battle, become known as the Angel of Mercy to the wounded Americans in Nicaragua, and then returned to the city the wife of a Spanish nobleman, had too much the scent of romance about it to be ignored. That she had been widowed by the war in that foreign country added pathos to the story, just as the hint of wealth gave it a certain indescribable, and irresistible, luster.
Eleanora’s room at the St. Louis was besieged by merchants bent on capturing her interest in everything from health tonics to perfume, jewelry to carriage horses. She was pointed out each time she left the hotel, and followed along the street at a distance by a crowd of young boys squabbling among themselves for the honor of carrying her purchases.
After the first incident of this nature, Eleanora decided that, despite her married state, it was unwise for her to go about unattended. She sent, therefore, a message to her uncle begging for the services of her old nursemaid. Her uncle released the elderly woman without argument, doubtless anxious to be free of the expense of feeding her, Eleanora told herself cynically. Eleanora was tearfully glad to see her nurse’s gnarled brown face, however, and took delight in dressing her in black silk with ivory lace, and a turban of ivory satin trimmed with jet beads. With her features set in a mask of ancient dignity and her silk skirts and petticoats rustling along beside Eleanora, she was enough to daunt the most intrepid busybody.
Eleanora strolled about the city, visiting old scenes such as the convent and Cabildo, and new ones like the statue of Andrew Jackson set up that spring in the recently landscaped old Place d’Armes which had then been renamed Jackson Square. She visited also the newly completed apartments built by the Baroness Pontalba, the first of their kind, with the idea of moving into a suite of the elegant rooms if she did not achieve her ambition concerning her grand-mère’s house.
Some who stared and nudged each other as she passed were more than curious. It was not reasonable to expect that none of the men who had known her as the colonel’s woman in Granada would have returned to New Orleans, or, that recognizing her, they would be able to refrain from circulating such a juicy tidbit of gossip. When she began to see the sly leers in the eyes of the men who leaned against the walls of the coffee houses and cafés and the shop clerks who bowed her out the door of their premises, when the courtesies extended to her grew fewer and the charges higher, she was forewarned.
Without delay, she increased her attentions to her relatives. She entertained them at quiet dinners and even a theater party behind the loge grille, putting on such an air of gracefully borne heartache that they could not but feel for her loss and wish to do what was in their power to make her burden easier to bear. The instant she was notified of the draft received from a Spanish firm in her name, she went to Uncle Narciso with an offer for the house on Royal at what she knew to be a considerable profit over what he and Cousin Bernard had paid Jean-Paul less than seven months before. As she had hoped, Uncle Narciso could not refuse an appeal to sentiment, nor Cousin Bernard an addition to his purse. Within hours the key was in her hand. A few days later she was able to take possession, to walk through the empty rooms and the vine-hung back courtyard, and feel, at last, that she had come home.
23
“I demand an explanation!”
Eleanora looked at Bernard, her green eyes cold. Her hands were clasped at her waist as she stood before him in her widow’s weeds, but it was more in anger than in fear. “By what right?” she asked.
“The right of kinship! Your actions reflect all those known to be of your family. I demand to know the truth of this scandal I hear concerning your conduct while in Nicaragua.”
“Why?” she asked bluntly.
Bernard drew his head back to stare at her, his thin, aristocratic face frozen in disbelief. “Why?” he echoed.
“Exactly. A lady does not rush to defend her good name. Her friends will not believe what they hear of her, and her enemies will believe the worst whatever she may say. What will it profit you to know whether I am falsely accused? Did you have in mind taking the matter to the field of honor? I beg you will not. It will only prolong the chatter.”
“You refuse, in short, to tell me.”
“The long and short of it,” she told him, meeting his gaze without a tremor, “is that I refuse you the right to meddle in my affairs.”
“I should have known this would be your attitude,” he threw at her.
“Most certainly you should, if you had ever taken the time to study my character.”
“A profitless enterprise, cousin. You have changed since you left New Orleans.”
“I should hope so.”
“You have let your new position and affluence go to your head,” he said with a hint of querulousness. “What you need is a man to curb your excesses. It is a great pity Jean-Paul isn’t here to perform that duty.”
Eleanora felt herself go cold with rage. “I couldn’t agree with you more,” she said with deliberation. “That he is not I place directly at your door. You encouraged an impetuous boy to throw away his inheritance and his future to go to his death. If you had not been so ready to take this house off his hands — at a lesser price, of course — he might have listened to reason and stayed away from William Walker!”
“Jean-Paul had already signed up when I bought this house.”
“Yes, he had. But you needn’t think you can convince me you hadn’t discussed the transaction with my brother beforehand.”
“That may be, though I contend he would have joined regardless. He was wild, and I’ve always said that was your doing, letting him come and go as he pleased, with whomever he pleased, instead of living up to his responsibilities.”
“I see. Now it is I who should have curbed his excesses,” she said.
“That wasn’t my meaning at all. I realize that was an impossibility for a fond member of the weaker sex, but I was there for you to lean on. I could have handled Jean-Paul.”
“By putting him in a counting house?” she asked scornfully.
“At least he would have been alive,” Bernard flashed.
“In a living death, like yours!” she answered.
The sound of clapping broke the strain between them. Neville stepped from the house out into the courtyard, applauding as he came. “Bravo,” he said, a laugh in his eyes as he came toward Eleanora. “Forgive the informality. Your butler let me in. I heard voices out here and I was afraid you might be in need of a champion. I should have known better.”
Eleanora’s smile was stiff and very nearly as ungracious as the introduction she performed.
“Shall I go away again?” Neville asked after the briefest of nods in Bernard’s direction. “I can always return later. We have some catching up to do since we last saw each other.”
“By no means,” Eleanora said. “Cousin Bernard was just leaving.”
“Yes indeed. I will leave you with you
r — friend. Concerning your obstinate attitude, however, I must tell you that I regret ever welcoming you back into the family or allowing you to regain possession of what I consider to be the family home. I Cannot speak for my father, but as for me, you will not be surprised if I inform you that I hereby sever the connection.”
“Thank you,” Eleanora said in accents of heartfelt gratitude. “I’m sure that if you are unable to find your way out someone will show you the way.”
When they were alone Neville lifted a blond eyebrow. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing,” Eleanora said, leading the way to a vine-covered arbor against a brick wall at one end of the courtyard. A small fountain in the shape of an iron lion’s head set into the brick at the back made a cool trickling sound. In the dampness moss had grown over everything, its soft green adding to the impression of a gladelike retreat. Eleanora sat down on a wooden bench and swept her skirts aside to make room for Neville. Summoning a smile, she asked, to change the subject, “Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been in the East, Washington and New York,” he said, crossing his knees, watching the sheen on his boots.
“Oh.” Eleanora made no effort to say more.
“I felt I owed Vanderbilt a personal report,” he said defensively. When Eleanora said nothing, sitting with lashes lowered, straightening the frill of her gown, Neville said, “A man has to get by the best way he can. I was raised to expect a carefree life on inherited money. I can’t help it if I still have a tendency to look for the easy way.”
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