Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “We do what we must,” the widow agreed, her tone acid. “There was, you see, an unexpected encumbrance upon the estate, the matter of my husband's mulatto mistress and her two daughters, quadroons, of course.”

  Pilar felt the rise of a flush. A part of it was embarrassment, but a part was also annoyance, for she knew very well that the widow meant her to be nonplussed. “How unfortunate,” was all she could find to say.

  “Isn't it? The daughters are twelve and fourteen. One feels sorry for them, of course, but they can't be allowed to interfere with what should be mine.”

  “I see. The arrangement seems to have predated your marriage. Did you not know of it?” Since Doña Luisa had introduced the subject, there could be nothing wrong in pursuing it.

  “Of course I knew. It would be folly to contract an alliance without inquiring into the circumstances of the prospective groom.”

  The words were blandly condescending, while the look in the woman's hazel eyes mocked Pilar's delicate attempt to discomfort her. Pilar pretended not to notice. The hostility she felt toward the woman had good cause, she thought. Doña Luisa seemed to be enjoying her position of power among them. She had taken to ordering Isabel about when the girl was present, and had appropriated Enrique and Charro for her amusement, keeping them in attendance upon her with demands that they play at cards with her, or regale her with tales of El Leon couched as fables.

  “You married the man, regardless,” Pilar pointed out.

  “I did not require to be loved, at least by a husband, but only to be kept in reasonable wealth. It seemed a fair bargain.”

  “And was it?”

  Doña Luisa stared at Pilar a long moment, unsmiling. Finally she said, “You know that Refugio and I were once betrothed?”

  Pilar had not known. Her gaze deliberately clear and undisturbed, she said, “Were you?”

  “It was arranged between our fathers, though we two were not opposed. Oh, no, far from opposed. He used to come and sing beneath my window in a voice to rend the heart. He would have climbed up to me, I know, with the least encouragement. His passions were so violent in those days, yet so tender. Now that's all done. It ended when he had to flee after the death of Don Esteban's son in the duel between them.”

  “He didn't try to see you again?”

  “If you think he would, you don't know him. Pride kept him away.”

  “And responsibility. And, perhaps, caring?”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Pilar said. “You didn't contact him?”

  “I couldn't, any more than I could invite him to climb to my bedchamber, though sometimes I have wished that I — But never mind. I had not seen him since then, not until he came on board this ship. Still, I knew him at once. How could I not?”

  The woman's voice was too loud for such confidences. Pilar lowered her own in an attempt at compensation. “You are keeping your own counsel now out of — affection, then?”

  The woman smiled. “That, and the prospect of, shall we say, diversion? It's a long and tedious way to Louisiana.”

  “You aren't afraid that the diversion might prove hazardous?”

  The other woman drew back. “My dear girl, are you daring to threaten me?”

  “Not at all,” Pilar said with acerbity. “I was thinking of what might happen if someone else learned what you know.”

  “I shall denounce Refugio at once, and vow that I was deceived.”

  An odd distress rose inside Pilar. “Would you really do that? Perhaps he should be warned.”

  “What a child you are, my dear; Refugio knows this very well. He would expect nothing else.”

  “And is that a good bargain?”

  Doña Luisa gave her a placid smile. “So long as I am pleased.”

  The cloying smell of the woman's perfume was in Pilar's nostrils, threatening to choke her. She rose to her feet. “There is a man you may have seen at court, Don Esteban Iturbide. Do you know him?”

  “Indeed, yes,” the widow said, a spark of interest in her eyes, as if she saw further opportunities for diversion.

  “I thought you might.”

  Pilar turned and would have walked from the salon, but her way was blocked. Isabel stood just inside the room. Hovering behind her in the doorway with a troubled look on his craggy features was Baltasar.

  “Did I hear right?” the girl said to Pilar, her face pale. “Does this woman know — does she know that—”

  Isabel had trouble with the new cognomen that Refugio had taken. She could seldom remember what it was, and found it difficult to address him by it. “It's all right,” Pilar said quickly. “Everything is all right.”

  “But she said he sang to her.”

  “So he did,” the widow said with a lifted brow.

  “He sang to me,” Isabel declared, “when I was a lace maker in Cordoba. He used to watch me with the bobbins, and play tunes that would make the rhythm of weaving them in and out and over each other easier.”

  Pilar, touched by the softness in Isabel's face, spoke almost at random. “I thought you were a dancer?”

  “What? Yes. Yes, he sang then, too. That was before he saved me from being sold to a Moor and taken to Algiers.”

  Puzzlement surfaced in Pilar's eyes, but before she could express it, Doña Luisa said, “You seem to have had an interesting life, for a maidservant.”

  “And you, too.” Isabel scowled at the widow. “Unless you're lying. Are you sure your husband is dead? Are you sure you ever had a husband?”

  “Good heavens!” Doña Luisa exclaimed, before turning to Pilar. “The creature is touched in the head, I do believe. She's your maid; have you no control over her?”

  Baltasar, fidgeting in the doorway, made a lunge inside, catching Isabel's elbow. “Come sweeting, I told you there are things to be done. Come and help me.”

  Isabel gave him a distracted look. “What is it?”

  “I'll show you,” the older man said, his voice soothing. He tugged gently at her arm. Isabel went with him obediently enough. Throwing Pilar a look of apology, Baltasar led Isabel away.

  “Well!” the widow said in dudgeon.

  Pilar returned no answer to the comment, only staring after the departing couple with a frown between her eyes. She had not heard Isabel speak quite so vaguely before. She was, apparently, distraught with fear for Refugio. With a murmured request to be excused, she moved from the salon, following after the other two members of Refugio's band. Baltasar was walking too quickly for Pilar to catch up with him and Isabel, especially since she didn't want it to appear that she was chasing them. He led Isabel to the cubicle they shared. By the time Pilar reached it, he had dropped the curtain that closed it off, and from behind it came the deep rumble of his voice in censure and Isabel's tearful protests. Pilar could not intrude, even if she was concerned for the other girl; it would be too much like interfering in a squabble between husband and wife. Turning aside, Pilar made her way back up toward the deck again.

  The open air was cold and damp and left the taste of brine on the lips, but it was fresh. Pilar stood holding the rail, facing into it, until the disturbance of her mind had blown away and she was calm again. She could not quite understand why she had permitted herself to be so upset. It was not as if Doña Luisa and Isabel, or their relationships with Refugio, had anything to do with her.

  She was growing used to the rise and fall of the ship, to the constant noises of creaking timbers and snapping sails and the bass song of the winds in the sheets. There was something hypnotic about the lift and surge of the ship as it pointed its bow toward the horizon and strained to reach it. It was fascinating to know that somewhere ahead lay the Canary Islands off the African coast, that they would land there for fresh water and fruit and vegetables before heading out across the sea to the new world.

  Pilar had been afraid she would not like sea travel, afraid she would be homesick for Spain, that she would be ill, or that the vast reaches of water would make her feel puny
and afloat in nothingness. She had been wrong. The far-stretching emptiness and the open sky suited her. Somehow, this discovery about herself was satisfying. It was just as well, since little else pleased her in her present situation.

  Borne on the wind came the faint sound of music. She looked around, expecting to see a sailor with a squeeze box, or perhaps a mouth organ. She caught a glimpse of a flapping cloak half hidden behind the forward mast. It had a familiar look. Clasping her arms around her against the damp chill, she moved in that direction.

  Refugio stood with his back to the mast, leaning against it as he cradled a guitar in his arms. He looked up as Pilar appeared beside him, but did not stop playing. The melody he plucked from the strings was slow and sweet. She had heard it before, though she could not quite remember where.

  “I understand,” she said in clipped tones, “that you are known for your serenades.”

  He looked at her, squinting a little against the wind that ruffled his hair and flapped the ends of his cravat. “Who says so?”

  “The widow, for one. Isabel, for another.”

  “It's a fine thing to have fame, no matter how undeserved.”

  “Are you denying it?” To press the matter was a mistake, nearly as much of one as opening the question in the first place. She knew it, but knew also that it was too late to draw back. More than that, there was an ache inside her that needed the assuagement of an answer.

  The tune he was playing was a counterpoint to his words. “I sang Isabel to sleep once.”

  “I'm sure.” Her lips tugged at the corners in a wry smile. “After which rescue?”

  He kept his gaze on his intricate fingering. “Do you suspect me of concocting her daydreams? Or only of taking advantage of them?”

  “Are you saying that the stories she tells aren't true, that you never kept her from being sold on a street corner, or being taken to Algiers by a Moor?”

  The first mate, somewhere behind them, bawled an order. Seamen scampered past, leaping into the shrouds like monkeys, swaying as they swarmed upward to bend on sail. Refugio turned his attention to the climbing men, assessing their progress as he answered.

  “I found her shivering and bruised in an alley one rainy night. How she came to be there, she never said. I'm not sure she knows.”

  “But why—”

  He stopped playing with a twanging discord. “Why not? Why shouldn't she change her past to suit herself? Are your memories all so fair you would not make a substitute or two? If so, then be glad.”

  Pilar ignored the question, since she knew that he was aware of the answer. “The changes Isabel has made involve you. Doesn't that trouble you?”

  “My past is not so spotless that another stain or two can matter.”

  “You might have tried to convince her that you were not her heroic savior, her El Cid who vanquishes all her demons.”

  “Oh, but I tried. I supplanted her with another rescued maiden.”

  Her eyes widened as she accepted his meaning. At the same time, she remembered Isabel's distress on the night she had arrived at the hut in the mountains. Reasons, there were always reasons for what he did.

  She stared up at him, at the dark hair that was ruffled by the wind, the chiseled planes of his face, the width of his shoulders under his flapping cloak. His scent came to her, one made up of clean linen and masculinity and the fresh tang of salt air. The force of his presence brought the blood beating up in her throat and caused a flood of warmth in her lower body that she was helpless to prevent. And yet, there was more to him than handsome features and wide shoulders and mere animal attraction. There was the swift, sharp shifting of his mind to be reckoned with, and the febrile intensity of his will. Armored in intelligence, in fierce competence and superior intentions, he was formidable. Therefore, the question presented itself. If he had reasons for what he did, why had he let her know his purpose in taking her to his mountain retreat? The probable answer made asking too daunting a prospect to contemplate.

  Her voice compressed, Pilar said, “I see.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, his eyes somber, “I thought you might. Tell me, was it cruel, or kind?”

  “To whom?”

  “To Isabel, of course. It seems unlikely that I figure as your savior, heroic or otherwise.”

  “No,” she answered, glancing away out over the heaving sea. Finally, she answered, “I suppose it was meant as a kindness.” After a moment she swallowed, then looked back at him. “But what of the widow? She seems to think that you are the lover of her youth returned.”

  “You suspect her of daydreaming, too? Never mind, I will attend to Doña Luisa. Her dreams have nothing to do with you.”

  His eyes as she met them were opaque, no more to be read than if he were made of stone.

  Pilar decided, with painful acknowledgment of the risk, to persevere. “You should be aware that she knows Don Esteban.”

  “Many do.”

  “Don't you think it's strange?”

  “No,” he said, a note of irritation rising in his voice. “I think it's unfortunate and wearisome and damnably inopportune. But Luisa is a creature of the court at Madrid, as was your stepfather, so no, I don't think it's strange. Why? Do you dislike her?”

  She had known she was making a mistake. There were ways, however, to deflect questions. She gave him a wry smile, meeting his gaze with every assumption of frankness. “Oh, the lady is amiable and worldly-wise, and as free with her gossip as she is with her bonbons. More than that, she knew you when you were tender. How can I dislike her?”

  He watched her for long moments with speculation and reluctant amusement rising in his eyes. Finally, he said, “She smells good, too.”

  “Doesn't she?” Pilar's answer was given with unimpaired composure.

  He made a sound that might have been a smothered laugh, then bent his head, beginning to strum the strings of his guitar again.

  Pilar, finding it possible to retreat without feeling that she had been rebuffed, turned and walked away. As she went, the melody that followed her was the same that he had been playing minutes before. It was a haunting tune, mellow and yearning. It raised an image in her mind of a garden and darkness, and the close presence of a man.

  She stopped, standing still with her skirts blowing around her. That was it. The song was the serenade she had heard on the night Refugio had come to her, one sung in the street outside while she waited. How like him it was, she knew now, to deliberately draw attention to himself in that way. At the same time, remembering that rich, warm voice filling the night with yearning and pathos, she was oddly disconcerted by the message it seemed to hold now.

  She walked on again more slowly.

  There were a great many things that she had heard and seen in the past few days without comprehending. She had been so immersed in her own problems and worries that there had been little time to consider what might be taking place with the rest of the band. In addition, she had assumed that the time she would spend with them was limited, that they would soon part company and never see each other again. Under such circumstances, people seldom become personally involved.

  Matters had changed. Long weeks of close association stretched before them all. They were, in their present quest, dependent on each other for support and companionship and, most of all, for safety. A slip of the tongue made by any one of them could mean death for some, imprisonment for the rest. In this Pilar had no illusion; she would, after this escapade into false identities, be considered one of the band and treated accordingly.

  She realized that she was traveling with a group of people of whom she knew next to nothing. More than that, what little she did know had been told to her by a woman who appeared to be at best unreliable, and at worst unbalanced. Or was she? Either way, it made her own position extremely precarious. There must be something that could be done about it, some way to learn more. The knowledge of who and what each one of them were had suddenly become vital.

  Of them all, Baltasar seem
ed closest to Refugio. He was not a man given to talking, however, and it was probable that his tight-lipped manner and close-held loyalties would make it difficult to learn much of value from him. He was also shut away with Isabel for the time being, or had been the last time she saw him. That left Enrique and Charro. Neither of them was likely to tell her anything of real import; still, they were far easier to approach than Refugio. From him she could expect nothing except what he wanted her to know.

  She found the two men playing at cards, a respectable game of Reversi with the Havana merchant and one of the ship's officers in a corner of the salon. Doña Luisa was still there also, and was holding the merchant's childish wife and his mother-in-law enthralled with the gossip concerning the dissolute behavior of Maria Luisa, the Neapolitan princess who was married to the heir to the throne. With the ladies was the young priest who sipped a glass of wine with an impervious air while he listened.

  Pilar did not want to attract too much attention, nor give her questions too great an emphasis by dragging either of the men she sought from their game. She found a book lying on a table, a copy of Manrique's poems, including his Coplas on the Death of his Father. She settled down with it in a chair that was made from half a wine barrel.

  She sat patiently reading for some time, all the while listening to Enrique and Charro exchange comic quips, slurs on each other's playing, and other assorted insults. Her reward came perhaps an hour and a half later, when another officer took Enrique's place. The acrobat, his face a study in disgust, came and flung himself down at her feet. Drawing up his knees, he clasped his arms around them.

  “The luck of some people is enough to make the Pope himself suspicious,” he growled with a backward glance at Charro and the first officer.

  Pilar, who had gained a strong suspicion in the time she had been watching that Enrique and Charro were busily fleecing the others, gave him a smile without replying.

  Enrique reached and took her book from her hand. Scanning the contents, he flipped it aside. His beatific smile was emphasized by the narrow line of his mustache. “Mediocre where it isn't morbid,” was his comment on her choice of literature, “though I grant you the man writes a good poem on death. But the poet is dead also, and I am alive. Talk to me.”