Dr. Lomas came that same morning to see the child and pronounced his condition to be nothing more than a mild congestion that should clear by itself within a few days. He prescribed rest and a light diet, and by that same afternoon Ann was happily announcing her son to be much improved.
“It seems to have been a false alarm for the most part. I vow the little rogue is agitating his nanny to let him out of bed already,” Ann claimed gaily until she caught sight of her friend’s wan little smile. “Oh, I do so regret spoiling your plans, Marisa dear.” She walked to the window and looked out. “And the weather is so fine. Just perfect for traveling… I know! Why don’t you go on without me tomorrow morning! It’s only one day behind schedule, and there is no need for both of us to miss the fun.”
“But I couldn’t leave you with a sick child.”
“Oh pooh, you heard the doctor yourself. There is not the slightest need for worry—and if all goes well, I may follow you in a few days myself.”
“Oh Ann, do you think I dare? I know Justin would not approve.”
“Oh, bother Justin. He fusses over you like a hen with one chick these days. The trip will do you good. You take Lucy with you tomorrow and go.”
“And you will come yourself as soon as you are sure Eddie is recovered?”
“I do believe I will. I’d like to see that festa brava myself, you know.”
“Oh I can’t be so selfish and leave you. I’d better wait until you can come too.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Now go find Lucy and tell her what you’re planning. You did not post the letters yet, did you?”
“No… I’m ashamed to admit I was hoping for a change of some kind.” She flushed with embarrassment.
“Well, it’s a good thing you have not. Go find Lucy.”
“Perhaps I shall tell her to be ready just in case I should decide to go—but I’ll wait to see how Eddie is before I make it definite.”
“Very well, dear. But I’m sure Eddie is fine.”
The next morning the fine weather held and with a little prompting from Ann Harding, Marisa was packed and bundled off in the coach with Lucy seated at her side. She had expected to start earlier, but there was some trouble with a coach wheel, and by the time repairs were accomplished it was nearly noon. Momentarily Marisa hesitated, thinking to delay another day, but decided to be on her way before any more setbacks occurred. Two outriders accompanied the coach that Manuelo was guiding along the river road to the Almarez quinta. If all went well, they should reach their destination on the other side of Villa Franca by late afternoon.
Marisa felt guilty at leaving Ann behind, but she salved her conscience by telling herself that her friend was sure to follow within a few days. Little Eddie had been caught out of bed more than once before she departed that day, and Marisa knew the child was in no danger. The countess had a harder time quieting her conscience when she thought of his lordship’s reaction to her traveling without Ann, but again she silenced her fears by reminding herself that Justin would be so happy to see her that he would probably forgo showing his displeasure. He could not bear to see her unhappy.
Lady Straeford stared contentedly out of the window, enjoying the passing scenery on the outskirts of Lisbon. The neat white houses with pink tiled roofs and painted green doors were colorful and charming. Each little domicile seemed to have its own pink walled garden over which trailed roses, fuchsias and bougainvillea in riotous colors of red and pink. As they traveled farther away from the city there began to appear that most characteristic structure of the Portuguese countryside—the windmill—whitewashed towers with rotating sails. The windmills had small clay vases attached to the ropes between the sails through which the wind passed playing a haunting, eerie melody. Marisa had read of them and was enchanted. What a curious mixture of lively gusto and poetic melancholy was this peninsular land and its people.
The sky was an incredible crystalline blue as puffy white clouds in fantastic shapes scudded by. The hills in the distance were still green but later in the summer much of the countryside would turn sere and brown from the hot glare of the sun relentlessly baking the exposed earth below.
The coach passed groves of olive trees shimmering silver in the bright afternoon glare and orchards of figs and peaches grew alongside the road. Gradually the countryside leveled out. The dusty road stretched flat and endless to the horizon with little more to see than countless miles of waving grass, and Marisa dozed in the drowsy warmth of the afternoon.
She was rudely jolted awake by the sudden lurch of the coach as it dropped down to the right side of the road. Lady Straeford found herself helplessly entangled with Lucy as they slid to the floor. For one breathless moment it seemed the coach must roll over, but it rocked precariously and then held still.
“My lady, oh my lady, what has happened? Oh my arm… I think it is broken… oh, oh…”
“Hush, you foolish creature!” Marisa commanded as she struggled vainly to regain the seat and heave herself to the door.
Manuelo and the outriders struggled from the outside and within minutes the door was yanked open, allowing the countess and her maid to scramble unceremoniously to the roadside where they stared in bewilderment at their damaged conveyance.
“What happened, Manuelo? Did we break an axle?”
“Não, não, senhora. It is the pin, see, the wheel, it has come off and rolls into the field. Josefe, he will get it for us, and we will soon fix it. Do not distress yourself, my lady. We shall repair it soon and be on our way once more.”
“I pray you are right, my friend. I do not relish standing here in the blazing sun for any length of time.”
“Desculpe me. I am a worthless ox. I did not think. Hola, Donato, pull down that box and place it beneath that tree por la senhora, rapidamente”
Marisa was too stunned by the confusion to notice the sly looks exchanged between Manuelo and Donato as they dragged a box from the roof of the coach to provide a seat for her to watch the act about to be staged for her.
The sun, which had seemed the harbinger of good tidings earlier in the day, now took on the aspect of a baleful eye glaring fiercely on the ill-assorted creatures struggling below. Lady Straeford removed her bonnet and fanned herself absentmindedly while striving to keep her thoughts from racing in helpless panic. What would Lord Straeford say if he could see her predicament at this moment? What a storm of wrath he would raise.
“I knew we were risking danger when we set off this morning, my lady,” Lucy claimed with the wisdom of hindsight. “There was an omen—I were warned and I paid no heed, and now see what catastrophe has struck us…”
“What are you babbling about, Lucy? Who warned you?”
“It were Old Teresa. She read my cards…”
“Cards!” Lady Straeford expostulated scornfully. “You have been listening to that addle-witted creature when I have repeatedly forbidden it.? Marisa’s anger was disproportionate to the cause. “Haven’t I told you that it is all the veriest nonsense?”
“It weren’t nonsense, my lady. Just see the fine pickle we’re in—out in the middle of nowhere in a foreign land—God knows what evil awaits us—the gypsy saw a dark man on a black horse riding hell for leather…”
“Hold your tongue, you fool!” Marisa hissed. She felt as if a cold hand were laid upon her shoulder and shuddered involuntarily. For one brief moment nausea welled up into her throat and she feared she would be sick, but she swallowed hard and fought back the sudden attack of weakness. “If you can’t say something sensible, don’t speak at all.”
“Forgive me, senhora,” Manuelo interrupted Marisa’s tirade of indignation. “But the wheel, it is worse that we thought. I have send Donato to Albuera…”
“What… where…?”
“Donato, he goes to Albuera, the next village, to get us help. Perhaps he finds someone to repair the damage… or perhaps he hires us another coche to take us to Villa Franca.”
“You mean you cannot repair the wheel yourself
?” Marisa asked foolishly. “It does not look so badly damaged to me, Manuelo.”
“Sim, senhora. You are right. But the pin is lost, and the wheel will not stay on without it. You understand?”
“Yes…No… Oh, I don’t know. It is so hot out here. How long do you think Donato will be gone?” Manuelo shrugged his shoulders expressively and assumed a look of dumb uncertainty. “Quién sabel Perhaps the condesa would be more comfortable waiting inside the coach once more? We will push the boxes under the wheel—so—and it will be safe for you to sit inside… I think. Do you wish to try this, my lady?”
“I might as well, Manuelo. I am afraid this box seat is growing very hard.” Marisa attempted a smile, but was not very successful. Her thoughts were an incoherent fluster of worry over the child she carried, fear of remaining helpless on the open road, and perplexity about what course to pursue. Her body felt heavy with heat and discomfort, and she believed it probably would be better to wait in the dubious comfort of the coach rather than to continue on her unyielding roadside seat.
Once inside with Lucy, she fell into a fretful doze, unable to think her way through to a plan of action. Perhaps the Almarezes would send out a search party for her when she did not arrive this evening. They must wonder at her constant changing of plans… and would likely conclude that she had changed them once more… she was so weary…
The shocking noise of gunshots startled Lady Straeford from her reverie. Lucy screamed and threw herself into her mistress’s arms.
“Lord save us! It’s bandits!”
Outside there could be heard shouts and curses accompanied by the thunder of horses’ hooves. It must be an ambush, Marisa thought. The door was suddenly wrenched open, not by the masked bandidos she had expected, but by a man in uniform, a uniform that turned her blood to ice! There was no denying the military blue of the French army. An officer of the Grande Armée was, incredibly, addressing her with the suave self-assurance unique to the French military.
“Mes regrets, madame, but allow me to inform you that you are now a prisoner of the Emperor of France, Napoleon Bonaparte.”
It was beyond all belief! Enemy soldiers at her coach door claiming her as a prisoner of France! She must still be sleeping and this all must be a dreadful nightmare. Marisa struggled valiantly with her dismay and confusion", trying to collect her wits and behave with a semblance of British dignity.
“I do not understand, monsieur. We are not soldiers on a battlefield. What mean you by attacking stranded female travelers thus? What valor is to be found in the capture of mere women?”
“Forgive me, madame, but you are not, as you say, ‘mere women’. You, dear lady, are the wife of one very important général Anglais—Lord Straeford, n’est-ce pas?”
“But… but how do you know that?”
“Ah, all in good time, dear lady. All in good time. You will understand everything when you are delivered into the hands of my commandant, Colonel Dubois.” He bowed, then changed his manner abruptly. “Here you, get out of the coach at once!” He spoke sharply to Lucy.
“Oh no, no. My lady, save me. Please don’t let them take me!” Lucy wailed in terror.
“What do you want with this girl, monsieur? I insist you leave my maid here with me.”
“That cannot be. She must be returned to the Villa Trudenjos in Lisbon with your coachman. No harm will come to her.”
“But I don’t understand…”
“She and your driver are to be sent back that the alarm may be given.”
“The alarm given?” Were they mad? The more he said, the less she understood.
“Yes, she is to bear the message explaining your whereabouts. She will be believed.”
“Message of my whereabouts?”
“I do not have time for more talk now. You will be given the full explanation by Colonel Dubois dernièrement. Do you hear that, ma’mselle?” He turned to Lucy. “Colonel Dubois. Tell them at the Villa Trudenjos that Madame Straeford is now the prisoner of Colonel Dubois.”
Lucy only stared, her eyes wide with terror.
“Comprenez-vous? Do you understand?” he snapped at her.
The maid jerked her head in a convulsive nod of assent.
“Now get out and mount behind the coachman. Vite, vite! Enough of this delay.” He grabbed the girl’s arm and jerked her rudely from the coach.
Lucy was by now sobbing and wailing loudly as she was torn from Lady Straeford’s horrified embrace. Marisa rose as if to follow Lucy, feeling it incumbent on her to make some move in the girl’s defense.
“Non, non, Madame Straeford. You will stay with us. Do not fear, That so gallant husband of yours will, no doubt, come to your rescue, eh?”
“So that is it!” Marisa claimed aghast. “I am to be bait in a trap set for my husband!”
“And so, now you begin to understand. Très intelligent, n’est-ce pas?”
“My husband will kill you for this—you and all your sneaking compatriots. It is your own destruction you engineer with the fiendish plot!” Marisa declaimed with a bravado she was far from feeling.
“Bravo, madame! You are a captive worthy of the pains we have taken to ensnare you.” He bowed mockingly and the door slammed closed, leaving Marisa alone to battle her terror in private.
Dusk was falling and soon it would be nighttime. What was going to happen to her?
She had little time to wonder. Within minutes the coach began to move. Marisa could not at first comprehend how this came to be. The wheel was broken, was it not?
Or was it?
In a lightning shaft of revelation, Marisa realized that she had been the victim of a carefully laid plot to kidnap her. Manuelo had known all along that the French were waiting for her. He had the pin to the coach wheel the whole time. It was not lost. It was all a delaying tactic until the French should arrive.
And she had started out so trustingly. Oh the treachery!
And Justin! They were after Justin. Lucy had been given a message for him. They wanted him to know their plans.
The coach was jolting badly. They must have left the main road for a secondary one through the countryside. Dear God! Where were they taking her?
18
Her destination, had she known it, would have caused Marisa a rueful smile of irony. The Convent São Margite, one of the 12th century strongholds of the Knights Templar, was just such an historic landmark as the countess had yearned to explore. The Templars, who once immured themselves behind the convent’s massive walls, had fought ferociously against the Moors at Santarem and were instrumental in ousting the infidels from Portugal. The convent contained some of the finest Manueline architecture of Portugal, including the lacy stonework of ornamental vines, leaves, rosettes and scrolls.
The Knights had transformed the convent, which once housed cloistered Cistercian monks, into a powerful fortress of thick stone walls and imposing battlements that jutted into the skyline above a prominent mountain ridge of the lower Serra da Estrêla.
On her arrival in the early hours of dusk on the following night, however, Marisa could barely discern the awesome outlines of her intended prison. The countess was ill and suffering from exposure. She had endured a journey that had transported her by carriage and then by flatboat up a stream winding precariously through steep mountain ravines.
The last stage of her journey had been accomplished via donkey through a precipitous passageway in the mountains—the only access to that elevated eyrie.
The countess was brought before her captor, Colonel Dubois, in a state of near collapse. The room in which she was deposited seemed to be a former audience chamber at whose far end a monstrous fire blazed in a story-high fireplace. The hall was lighted by flaming sconces that reflected deep, restless shadows up into the vaulted ceiling. It was an intimidating scene, but Marisa was beyond fear, so fatigued was she by her arduous journey.
“So, at last, I am presented the very charming lady, the Countess of Straeford,” a silky voice murmured from the
far end of the room where sat the man Lady Straeford’s husband had so grievously wounded at Vimeiro. He studied his captive from a single dark eye, unconsciously fingering the black patch which concealed the scar that was, in reality, the underlying cause for the outrage Lady Straeford now suffered. Beside him stood a dusky gypsy whose flashing eyes surveyed the pale countess with withering scorn.
Marisa swayed and the room shifted out of focus momentarily.
“Here, you,” the colonel motioned to a sergeant standing beside the heavily carved oak table where Dubois sat, “a chair for Madame Straeford. Please be seated, dear lady. I am sorry to see you have suffered from this… adventure… but you shall soon be made comfortable. We mean you no harm.”
Marisa, who had sunk gratefully into the chair, did not reply at once, but took time to summon her remaining strength.
“Monsieur, you must tell me… please… exactly what you do mean by bringing me here thus.”
There was a low murmur of laughter from Dubois’s companion, Isabella Costanza, who tossed her dark hair haughtily and opened her mouth to speak, but the colonel intervened.
“Ah, that is a longue histoire that I must relate to you at another time. For now you shall rest and perhaps partake of some refreshment, eh?” From the soft tones of his voice and the mildness of his manner, Marisa was having difficulty envisioning him as a villain.
“I cannot bear this uncertainty any longer. You must tell me now why I am here. You must!” Marisa claimed passionately, unmindful of the pleading that rang through her words and the continued scorn of the other woman.
“Please do not fret yourself so,” Dubois advised. “The matter rests between your husband and myself—not you.” For the present, Dubois was content to see himself as a kind of benign minister of justice. “It is a matter that has long required restitution. I repeat, no harm will befall you.”
“What!” Marisa claimed fiercely, rising from her chair. “You plot to destroy my husband and dare claim that you mean me no harm!” She was trembling from head to foot and was forced to take hold of the chair for support.
Tender Torment Page 29
