Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  It was a third man who answered the request hanging in the breathless silence. “I don’t like the question,” Colonel Thomas Henry said with grating deliberation, “and I’m of the mind that the lady don’t like it either. Furthermore, I’m plumb staggered that either one of you yahoos could stand up there and put it to an angel like our Miss Eleanora here. I’ve a good mind to take exception to you both, call you out, that’s the ticket! ‘Cept I’m sorta given to think maybe I have a few things to say that might shed a little lamplight on this subject. Yes, sir, I’m mighty glad I decided to come back here and find out whether Miss Eleanora wanted to see you two buzzards, instead of ambling down to Halfway House for a drink, cause I got me something I want the both of you to give a real good listen to.”

  Colonel Henry moved into the courtyard as he spoke, choosing the stone wall near the vine-shaded arbor in which the baby’s pallet had lain for his support. His left arm he held close to his body and he walked with a slightly bent-over posture, but he was beginning to regain a healthy color. With his great stamina he would be able to return to whatever duty called him within a fortnight at most.

  Settled, he began. “It’s like this. I been going down to Halfway House about this time every evening for the last week or so; sorta to give Miss Eleanora a spell of relief from my ugly face. I saw this fellow Crawford in the place several times. Couple of days ago I heard him mention Miss Eleanora’s name. We got to talking and drinking, and drinking and talking, and the more Crawford drank the bigger brag he made and the worse threats. He said he was either going to make a haul big enough to live high as a lord on, or else he was going to get even with Miss Eleanora for throwing him out of her house. Fuming mad he was because she wouldn’t have anything to do with ‘im anyway he asked, including a parson’s noose, and because he had wasted months on end hanging about her, waiting for her to come around. Said as how she was mighty fond of that brat of hers, beg pardon, ma’am, and she’d be sorry when she lost him to his rich relatives in Spain. He said a lot more, laid his tongue to more cuss words than an uneducated man like me ever heard, but I figured I could still teach him a lesson in manners. Did too, out back. Only thing, I’m ‘feared he was so drunk it might not have took. He was back again last night. I expect he’ll be back this evening, too — if a man was to want to find him.”

  As Colonel Henry finished his tale, he stared hard at Grant, an obvious message in his eyes.

  Grant turned to Eleanora, the lines about his mouth stern. “That’s the way it was?”

  The resonance of his voice vibrated through her body. She nodded, unable to speak, willing him to believe her.

  He said not a word. His gaze dropped to the child in her arms. Turning, he went from the courtyard with a long, determined stride. What remained with Eleanora was the look of furious concentration in his eyes. It should have; it was the same expression she had seen so often on her son’s face.

  Colonel Henry didn’t tarry. “Excuse me, ma’am” he said, hurrying after Grant.

  “Where are you going?” she cried in exasperation.

  “To the fight, of course. I wouldn’t miss it for a Morgan horse and a new pair of Navy Colts!”

  “Señora?” Don Esteban asked in bewilderment.

  “I’m afraid,” Eleanora replied, a wan smile on her lips, “that Colonel Farrell has gone to meet Mr. Crawford on that bloody battleground, littered with pride, they call the field of honor.”

  “Ah, a duel, I apprehend?” he inquired.

  “More on the order, I think, of a chastisement,” she replied, such a distant look in her eye that he bowed and said no more on the subject.

  Michael chose that moment to register a vehement protest to the tightness with which he was being clasped. Recalled to her duties, Eleanora looked about, and seeing her nursemaid hovering near the bedchamber door, motioned for her, and gave the baby into her keeping. Turning to Don Esteban, she invited him to join her for coffee. Not that she cared for anything in the way of refreshment. She had the idea, looking at the elderly man’s face, that he had something he wished to say to her. Listening to it over coffee or ratafia would pass the time until she might learn what had occurred between Grant and Neville.

  “I thank you, no,” Don Esteban surprised her by saying. “You are most kind to ask, after my conduct — or want of it. Your friend was quite right, I am in need of a lesson in manners. I feel justly rebuked for letting my sense of responsibility to the estate overcome my feeling for what is proper, especially when the person concerned is a lady.”

  It was a handsome apology. Eleanora could be no less generous. “I am certain that if my son had indeed been the heir, I would be most appreciative of your zeal and the selfless spirit which led you to seek him out. There are not many men who would not have kept the crest for themselves, regardless of the cost. It is good to know Luis has such a worthy successor.”

  “You flatter me, señora. My one hope is that I may have repaid some of the harm I have done by bringing Colonel Farrell with me today. You see, I am staying at the St. Charles, where former President Walker and the colonel checked in only a few hours ago. Naturally, I made inquiries of Señor Walker, since this Crawford had been one of his men and I wished to know the scoundrel with whom I was dealing. In the ensuing conversation, the nature of my business was made plain, and the colonel became greatly interested.” Don Esteban glanced at her diffidently. “I seem to recall that in Granada I found you in the palacio belonging to this man, Farrell. Now he goes angrily away to punish this Crawford for his perfidy.” He touched a hand to his small, pointed beard “The thing explains itself.”

  A few more compliments, a final apology and expression of regret, a wish for good fortune, a last bow, and the man who was the rightful and only true Conde de Laredo was gone.

  Eleanora could not help thinking that she might have been more gracious, more attentive to his farewells. He had traveled a long and weary way for nothing. She knew he was already staying at the St. Charles from what he said, but she still might have offered him the hospitality of the house, for Luis’s sake, if for no other reason.

  It was no use repining. The opportunity was past, and in any case, she knew that such considerations were no more than a defense against thinking, against picturing Grant dead on the sawdust floor of a barroom. She had few illusions about Neville. Survival was his specialty. He would not be a bad shot with a pistol, given a fair chance, and if there was a way to take an unfair advantage, he would not hesitate.

  Waiting, waiting, pacing in thought-racked fear, sweeping the dust from the gray ballast-stone flooring of the court, seemed her fate. It had been the only recourse of women for countless generations, stretching back to the beginning of wars, and of hate and revenge.

  Or was it? She had defied convention in all else, why should this be an exception?

  In sudden determination she swung about, calling across to the servant quarters, which opened onto the courtyard, to have her carriage made ready. Hurrying upstairs, she cut short her nurse’s exclamations and instinctive protests, merely telling her where she was going. Gloves, bonnet, lightweight cloak to cover her gown, and she was ready. Her coachman was unconscionably slow, but at last the victoria was brought out. She climbed in without waiting for assistance, and they were off, swinging into the quiet and sunlit streets.

  Halfway House was so named because it lay at the end of Canal Street, halfway between the Mississippi River and Lake Pontchartrain. A popular saloon and hostelry with the rougher American element in New Orleans, it boasted a stretch of field in the back bounded only by woods on either side that was perfect for engagements of a sanguinary nature. It was here that Colonel Henry and Major Howell had met. Eleanora had heard of the place in detail during the convalescence of Colonel Henry.

  She arrived before the unprepossessing building of a uniform gray hue in time to see men streaming toward the rear of the saloon. They were laughing and shouting at each other with all the gleeful anticipation of childr
en at a circus. She did not need to hear their cries of “Fight!” and “Shootout!” to guess their destination. Alighting from her carriage, she followed them, aware only vaguely of her coachman wrapping the reins around the brake and climbing down to trail protectively behind her.

  She saw them the instant she rounded the corner, two tall men, Grant in his uniform, the buttons like flashing targets, Neville in white shirt, white breeches, and a black alpaca coat. They stood facing each other at ten paces, their revolvers held loosely at their sides. To one side, distinct from the crowd of nearly a hundred spectators, stood Colonel Henry and another man she did not know, obviously acting as seconds, and a young gentleman with a drink in his hand and a doctor’s kit at his feet, the surgeon in attendance. As she approached, Colonel Henry was saying, “Your guns are fully loaded. You may fire at will when the signal is given, understood?”

  Both men nodded. Quiet descended.

  “Ready!”

  “Fire!”

  With an indrawn breath, Eleanora closed her eyes as the guns exploded simultaneously. When she opened them Grant stood unscathed. Neville was holding his left forearm.

  “That,” Grant said quietly, “is for Luis, for letting him go to the firing squad when you had been sent to save him.”

  Neville, his face contorted, lifted his gun. Shots rang out again. A rapidly widening red spot appeared on the white of Neville’s breeches.

  “That was for Jean-Paul, the boy you left to kill himself,” Grant explained, his voice implacable. Blood was trickling from his ear lobe, but he seemed not to feel it.

  An extraordinary hush held the crowd now as they realized they were watching no common meeting. Neville, giving a little to his hurts, stared at Grant. At the back of his eyes lurked a primitive fear, a fear that made him lift his gun again, saying through gritted teeth, “Be damned to you, Farrell!”

  His shot kicked up dirt at Grant’s feet. Grant’s bullet took him in the fleshy part of the other thigh, sending him staggering back several steps.

  His voice expressionless, Grant said, “For Walker, and your coward’s attempt on his life.”

  “Bastard!” Neville screamed, wavering. Whether from a reflex action or another try at killing his opponent, his fingers squeezed off a shot.

  “And this one,” Grant said, raising his gun, “is for trying to sell my son’s birthright”

  Neville dropped his gun, as the last bullet passed through his right arm, falling forward to measure his length on the green, clover-strewn grass. Grant stared down at him, his face grim, then slowly he turned his back and started to walk away.

  The man on the ground was alive, thrashing, it appeared, in pain. The doctor, his face white, made a move to go to him, waving forward one or two others with a suggestion that they carry Neville into the house.

  And then a man hollered, “Look out! He’s going to shoot!”

  Neville, writhing on the ground, had retrieved his gun. Holding it with both shaking hands, he had it pointed at Grant’s broad back.

  Colonel Henry, who had fallen into step with Grant, gave him a push, tearing the revolver from his hand. Thumbing back the hammer, the veteran soldier fired.

  Men scattered in all directions, uncertain in the confusion of who was firing and where. When Eleanora could see again, Neville lay still upon the ground. The gun had fallen from his lax fingers, his eyes were open, staring. He would have no need for the services of the doctor.

  Eleanora sat in her darkened bedchamber. The last rays of the setting sun poured orange light into the courtyard but it did not penetrate this shuttered room. That was the way she wanted it. When she had returned the baby was crying for her. Now he slept, replete, against her breast as she rocked in a high-back chair ordered especially for that purpose from Boston. She should lay Michael in his cradle and think of dressing for dinner, but she could not bring herself to do it. There was such sweet consolation in sitting with her cheek resting on Michael’s head, not thinking. No, not thinking.

  She had no wish to remember Grant standing, oblivious to Neville’s firing, placing his shots with a marksman’s care, no wish to recall the words with which he had claimed his son, or to bring to mind that harrowing moment when she thought he would be killed. How she had arrived home she did not know, except she had an uncertain memory of being led back to the victoria, probably by her coachman. She was not sorry she had gone. It would have been unendurable to be still waiting here, unknowing, after all this time. But if she had never known how close Grant had come to death, she would not have this trembling deep inside, or the press against her eyes of incipient tears.

  A commotion in the courtyard below drew her attention. It sounded like a domestic upheaval of some kind, one of the stable cats caught sneaking into the kitchen no doubt, or something similar. At the sound of footsteps, more than one set, on the stairs, she looked toward the door, annoyed that anyone should come for her to settle a crisis at this time, or that they would be so noisy about it. Then, making out the voice of her nurse from the babble, she began to be alarmed.

  “Here, you can’t go in there, m’sieur,” the old woman said. Hard on her words the bedchamber door swung open and Grant walked in.

  Behind him was ranged the butler, caught in his shirt sleeves, the coachman, the scullery maid, and the nurse.

  “I’m sorry, madame,” the old woman said, speaking for all of them. “This one, he came through the servants’ door in the back of the court. We could not stop him. Shall I send for the gendarmes?”

  “No, no, thank you,” Eleanora said, finding her tongue. “It will be all right. You can go, all of you.”

  They did not like it. The nurse, with the liberty of an old family servant, lingered after the others had moved off. “He’s a heathen, mam’zelle. I will stay, me, until I can see him out of the house.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Eleanora said gently. “You see, this man is Michael’s father.”

  It was not possible for the old woman to have cared for Eleanora through childbirth, and the long months that preceded and followed it, without learning what had happened to her. She understood at once. With a softly murmured, “Pardon, mam’zelle,” she reached out to catch the door, closing it carefully before she shuffled away.

  There were some grounds for her nurse thinking Grant a heathen, Eleanora admitted as she regarded him. His uniform was gone. In its place he wore buckskin breeches, a leather shirt with fringed seams, and about the crown of his campaign hat, instead of the regulation band, the skin of a rattlesnake. His Navy revolver was in a holster at his waist and he carried a rifle in his hand.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, standing stiffly erect by the door. “I thought I would slip in while you were at dinner. I see I should have come to the front door. You’re well protected.”

  “Yes. Would you — mind lighting a lamp?” she asked, irritated with herself for the nervous tremor in her voice.

  The outline of a lamp was visible on the dressing table. He crossed to it, propping his rifle against the bed, snatching his hat off as an afterthought, to hang on the barrel. As he replaced the globe over the flame, he surveyed the room quietly with his eyes, noting the four-poster with its canopy and hangings in sea-green brocade looped with pale-green mosquito netting, the rosewood washstand and dressing table with silver-back mirrors, the soft oriental rug underfoot.

  “Not much like Nicaragua,” he commented, a wry smile moving over his face.

  “No,” she answered bluntly, adding, “If you didn’t want to see me, why did you come?”

  “Not for the reason you think,” he answered, his ironic gaze on her arms, which had unconsciously tightened around the sleeping baby. “I came to say good-bye to my son.”

  “Good-bye? Where are you going?”

  “To Texas. There’s a place out there with my name on it in the Rio Grande Valley. It was bought with my mother’s money with the understanding that it would revert to her children, that is to me, when th
e man she married died. I found news of his death waiting for me when I reached New Orleans this morning. There’s nothing to keep me from going back now.”

  “Not even William Walker?” she asked quietly.

  Grant shook his head. “Uncle Billy lost his hold on me over a year ago. I think you know the circumstances. I served this past year of hell as the price of loyalty, served until the dream was over. Nicaragua is lost now, over and done with. It’s time to start over somewhere else, only Walker won’t admit it. He’ll never admit it until he kneels before a firing squad. That’s how strong his vision is within him.”

  “I’m sorry I could not be there for the end of it,” Eleanora said, dropping her gaze to the tops of Grant’s boots.

  “I’m not,” he told her, his voice harsh. “I didn’t know where you were, but that was better, a thousand times better, than worrying about you getting hit by a shell at Granada or working with the sick and wounded during the siege. You heard about Mazie—”

  Eleanora nodded her head quickly. After a moment, she asked, smoothing her cheek over the fine hair on the top of Michael’s head, “Would it have mattered so much, if it had been me, instead of Mazie?”

  “Mattered?” he said in a strange voice, his dark eyes resting on the rose flush of her cheeks. “No more than losing my heart and soul. You are the beat of my blood and the air I breathe. You are my greatest strength and most feared weakness; the only joy I have found, and the only pain. I love you, Eleanora.”

  She had left Grant so many months before out of pride and fear and shame. She had no need for pride as long as he loved her. Her fear had been that he would grow to hate her for forcing him to choose between her and his loyalty to William Walker and the phalanx. That specter need trouble her no longer. The shame of her betrayal she had paid for with the anguish of leaving the man she loved, of bearing his child in solitude, expecting daily to hear that he had been killed in the hot and brutal country she had left. Wasn’t that enough?