Although I’d hoped God had in some way intercepted, something told me Sunaria held the answer. I searched for her face in the crowd, but saw only tired workers, their worried expressions fading into exhaustion. Although everyone but Roelle had survived, their livelihood had gone up in smoke along with their master.
Rumors circulated that a candle had fallen onto the bed and caused the fire. The maid’s incomprehensible ramblings didn’t help, either. With Miguel’s testament that I’d slept in the stables and the girl as witness to my innocence, I avoided any blame. With no house to run, the staff disbursed, though the horses still needed tending.
Miguel persuaded me to assist. “At least until the animals are sold,” he said.
The stables had been left intact. After cleaning the ashes that had blown into their stalls, it was safe for the horses to return. They grazed on the estate’s grassy fields so we could ration the leftover hay.
Taking my time grooming one of the more startled horses, trying to calm him, I knew that I delayed the inevitable. Nothing stopped me from going home now. Yet, as the days rolled by, one after another, I tried to push from mind the reality that since my arrival here, I’d never set foot off the ranch.
Miguel lay on the grassy bank, his hat covering his face, taking his usual afternoon siesta. Making sure I was out of his line of sight, I dug up the coins I’d previously buried.
I then saddled the fastest horse, which seemed to take longer than usual. The stallion sensed something was wrong and acted skittishly.
Only one way to do it, gallop out of the ranch so fast that turning back would risk me falling off.
* * * *
Where there had once been vast areas of land, cottages were now lined here and there along the route, the church tower off in the distance the only landmark. A busy marketplace had sprung up in the old town.
No one recognized me and I recognized no one.
Upon arrival at the place I’d once called home, I dismounted. There, up high to the left of the house, was an open bedroom window that had been mine. The property had been maintained well, so much so that time seemed to have stood still. I wondered how much the house had changed inside. I’d run out of this front door more times than I could count, taken for granted the warm meals and my mother’s hugs that I’d squirmed my way out of, the bedroom where my brother Ricardo had sat beside me, recounting tales of his adventures, inspiring the most daring of dreams, that one day I too might hear the cheer of the crowds, as I entered the bullring as a matador.
Full of excitement, I’d climbed down those vines that still straddled the house.
I wanted to tell that small, naïve boy that was me to go back. I pushed such thoughts away and knocked on the front door. A young girl answered, her weary-looking mother soon came up behind her. Agitated, my mind tried to keep up with the words the woman spoke, that the Veldes had all passed away, other than their daughter Alicia, who’d moved, her forwarding address unknown.
My past had been stolen from me.
The happiest memories were bullied out by the worst ones. Freedom had arrived too late. I mounted my horse and galloped off, tears streaming. Facing my fears, with jaw clenched and motivated by hunger, I headed back into town.
Chapter 8
TURN BACK BEFORE it’s too late.
Head high, I entered the law office. The front reception seemed surprisingly disorganized, papers scattered here and there, and piles of documents stacked high. On one of the heaps of files lay a curled up tabby cat. Upon the mantle, a candle dripped wax. It trickled to the edge and poured over, plopping onto the floor, its red splashes hardening into shiny circles. A seeming inability to keep up with the client’s affairs presented an advantage.
Señor Teofilo, Roelle’s solicitor, greeted me. As the minutes unfolded, so did his eagerness to rid himself of all dealings with the house of Bastillion. Teofilo had once had his share of disagreements with Roelle, it seemed.
We headed to his private office and settled at an old bay table. I studied his expression for any sign that would indicate his suspicion of a tampered will. He recited in monotone Roelle’s wishes. His methodical demeanor almost made up for the disarray.
During the reading, I feigned surprise that I’d inherited the estate. Although the property had been destroyed, his fortune, banked with the house of Refair, had been substantial. Certainly more than I’d anticipated. Roelle’s penchant for wearing tatty suits had fooled everyone.
I could only wonder how Felipe would react when he learned of the fortune being handed down to Ricardo’s youngest brother. Grenaldi had been bequeathed in the old will, but removed completely from the new. With a flicker of the fountain pen, I signed the official papers and the name Bastillion changed to Velde on the legal possessorship. Although no amount of money could ever make up for all that I’d lost, it did offer some comfort that I would never know hunger again.
The cat’s gaze stayed on me as I headed out.
With the large advance, petty cash from the estate, I purchased new clothes for both Miguel and myself. I also returned with fresh food purchased from the expensive stalls that I’d stuck my nose up against as a boy, peering eagerly at the delicious assortments, though denied a taste.
Riding home, I scoffed thick pieces of bread, closely followed by a large chunk of cheese, then chomped on the largest piece of ham I’d ever seen, followed by several sweet cakes, hardly tasting them. Relief came when my stomach ache wore off and I marveled at my ability not to throw up.
When I’d fully recovered from my gorge, I kicked my horse and galloped the rest of the way home.
I’d pulled it off. The real challenge would be when I told Miguel. I found him in the paddock, exercising a young mare.
“It’s time you took a day off,” I said.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“In town.”
Miguel pulled on the horse’s reins. “You can’t handle them on your own, and besides I don’t consider this work.”
“We can hire staff.”
He let the mare loose, allowing her to have the run of the paddock and she flicked her long, grey-white mane, cantering free. He climbed over the gate.
“Hungry?” I said.
His hand disappeared into the linen bag that I’d tied to the saddle. “Where did you get the money?”
“It was left to me by Roelle.”
“That’s where you’ve been?”
“Yes.”
“With Roelle’s lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was last minute.”
Miguel pulled out a piece of ham and bit into it. “How much?”
“More than enough food to last a week.”
“I meant how much money?”
“Quite a sum.”
His bushy eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Life is fluid, it frequently changes,” I quoted him.
“What happened?”
“Just chatted with Roelle’s lawyer.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I stared off.
“What happened that night?” Miguel asked. “How did the fire start?”
The breakfast delivered but uneaten, the maid tending to her duties. Roelle thrashing.
“Before he died, I’d considered running away,” I said.
“No one blames you for his death,” Miguel said. “We just want to know how it happened.”
A lump caught in my throat. What happened that night would remain a mystery, like Aaron’s disappearance.
Miguel patted my back. “His reasons for leaving you something are taken with him to the grave.”
“You disapprove of his decision?”
“He cared about you, but considering you enough in this manner, it does surprise me, yes.”
“I was a loyal servant.”
His eyes glistened. “Roelle has influential friends.”
“Had.”
“What if
they come looking for you wanting answers?”
“Are you telling me not to accept the money?”
“Just give it some thought, that’s all.”
“We’re on the verge of starvation.”
Miguel peeked back into the linen bag and reached in. “Perhaps I should stop asking questions?”
“Perhaps.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m taking back my life. And in the process, I plan on clearing my name.”
“Daumia, no one remembers that now—”
“I remember.”
“Then you’re destined to be like Roelle.”
“I want people to know that I’m innocent.”
“Your inability to forgive—”
“This is forgiveness.” I pointed to where the house had stood. “This is retribution. The house of Velde will pale the house of Bastillion.”
“Exactly how much did you inherit?”
“Why?”
He stared off at the mounds of ash. “It just goes to prove that people often do things out of character.”
“Do you mean him or me?”
Miguel raised his arms up in exasperation.
I leaned against the gate. “We start rebuilding tomorrow.”
“Much responsibly comes with such a position.”
“So does power.”
He shook his head. “What kind of bread did you get?”
“I don’t know . . . bread.”
He pulled out a loaf, broke some off, and handed me a piece. “We break bread together for the last time.”
“It will never be that way between us?”
“Perhaps I may suggest a new barn. The horses deserve better.”
“Once the house is built, you’ll sleep inside?”
Miguel jumped over the gate. “Look up.”
I followed his gaze skyward at the stars.
“That’s my view,” he said. “Now why would I want to stare up at a ceiling?”
Chapter 9
THE HOUSE OF VELDE rose up out of the ashes.
Taking the advice of Señor Teofilo, I hired British architect Harold Ferring to design the new house. Ferring’s reputation preceded him, and the fact that his services were affordable convinced me I’d made the best choice. Local men worked tirelessly to rebuild under Ferring’s watchful eye.
Teofilo inferred that Ferring’s reason for leaving England was unfortunate, but assured me that he would complete the work in a timely manner. He had, after all, designed the grandest of country homes for Richard III, the king’s newly built Wensleydale estate in Yorkshire.
Ferring liked to drink and, not wanting to imbibe alone, he persuaded me to partake with him. During those long evenings, when I encouraged him to talk and I stayed quiet, he regaled me with the most fascinating of tales. I discovered that Ferring had completed his royal appointment, fulfilling his duty by designing the finest home in the North. When he failed to receive payment, he mentioned the matter to the king’s executive secretary, and it didn’t go down well. His continued request for payment resulted in their threats.
Miguel kept his distance from the man he called ‘the wayward Englishman.’
I insisted on no part of the original manor being replicated. My vision for the house went askew as the structure manifested. The façade had appeared relatively simple on paper, though when it materialized, the house possessed an aura of supremacy. We easily went over the budget I’d initially set. The work continued inside the towering walls. The downstairs rooms were deliberately spacious with high ceilings and low hung chandeliers, wondrously invoking a gracious atmosphere that ventured to be stately, yet at the same time, homey. The bedrooms counted twenty in number.
Ferring stocked the wine cellar and at times would disappear for hours, sampling the vintages. He outlined what would become two secret rooms, one behind the bookshelf in my office and the other actually constructed beneath the four poster bed in the front master bedroom. I tried to reason with him that I’d never need them, but to allay his high-pitched insistence, I relented.
For the library, I purchased a considerable collection of books, many of them scribed in several languages. I took pleasure in placing them in order along the tall shelves. The task took me longer than expected as I’d open a book and become lost in it.
With the work almost complete, and having received payment, Ferring disappeared. Relief that I could take over and make the finishing touches on my own without Ferring’s eccentric influence flooded me. My taste inclined toward a more simple style, and with him gone, I could decorate modestly.
* * * *
Later, I discovered through Teofilo that a royal warrant had been issued for Ferring’s arrest. I hoped that Ferring had escaped the British authorities. As I strolled along the sweeping corridors of my new home, I often thought of him. He’d also been wronged by those wielding power. That much, we had in common.
Spending many an evening reading in my favorite room, the library, my confidence flourished, the promise of happiness ever present.
I often considered the woman who’d made it all possible. Although I had no real proof that Sunaria had taken Roelle’s life, I had a nagging feeling she had. She’d appeared like an exquisite phantom, only to disappear once again into the night. Thoughts of her faded as the day to day challenges of running the estate drew my attention.
I hired new staff, ensuring fresh faces around the manor. I strived to reinvent myself, take on the convincing role of master, a man to be respected, revered even.
The cook provided meals with good portions for the staff, helping to maintain morale. A delicious fare is a boon to a hard worker. Pascal, my discreet butler, oversaw the employees, including several maids, a gardener, an ageing handyman I’d taken pity on, and several young horse hands to assist Miguel. I still couldn’t persuade him to take a room inside the house. He said he’d be miserable indoors. Even during the long winters, he prevailed.
However, when designing the stables, I’d taken into consideration his penchant for fresh air and constructed a thick walled building to keep him warm in winter and cool in summer, a comfortable apartment where all his needs were met, as well as his desire to be close to the horses. A safe dwelling where he could rest up after a hard day’s work, knowing that he was deeply valued. And from where he lay, he’d still see the stars.
Housing the employees in cottages on the estate ensured that they had their privacy and I had mine. At night, with everyone banished, I paced the many rooms, marveling at what I’d accomplished and not taking any of it for granted. I learned more of the horse breeding business from Miguel, studying under the master. I had every intention of establishing a business that would enable the house to turn a profit and ensure my future.
Miguel and I often dined alfresco. We enjoyed watching the horses running free in the enclosure. Despite Miguel’s initial hesitation, he soon relented to my insistence that we eat off the finest plates and drink from silver goblets. The cook prepared flavorsome dishes and delighted us with his exotic recipes, a luxury we both appreciated. During one of those long, warm evenings, after several bottles of wine, Miguel revealed his dream of working with Andalusians.
He leaned forward with fire in his eyes. “Andalusians have an exceptional temperament,” he said, “and a tranquil presence. Perfect mount for a picador.”
I found his description appealing, and his portrait of the horse, with its generous frame, arched neck, and sculptured beauty, convinced me he might just be onto something.
Chapter 10
THE OLD BUTLER told me to wait.
It had seemed more like an order. The central iron chandelier hung low in the unfamiliar grand foyer.
Considering whether accepting Señor Moran’s invitation had been a mistake, I knew my chance to go home had been lost.
Aged twenty-four years, I’d reinvented myself, reflecting nothing of the boy. Even my walk appeared different. I took longer strides with my head
held high. My gait reflected pride and my manner confidence.
Miguel’s vision had became my own. We’d established ourselves as Spain’s most successful Andalusian horse breeders. Spellbound, Miguel and I would linger at the paddock gate, admiring the ethereal vision of our cantering Andalusians, enchanted by their extraordinary sense of balance, natural grace, and astonishing ability to learn quickly, proving them invaluable in the bullring.
Our success had aggrandized the house of Velde, the very reason why an invitation to tonight’s soirée from such a renowned family brought no surprise.
The estate had been built on royal land, and the home’s varied history was reflected in its structure. Although in need of repair, its character remained and white washed walls loomed. Here in the entrance, glorious broad pillars rose up, providing a Romanesque air.
Music carried.
Señor Moran greeted me and with pride he relayed that his youngest son, Salvador, had just returned from a military excursion to the Canary Islands, on a mission to vanquish the native Guanche uprising.
With a convincing nod, I appeared interested when he conveyed that the Vespers were renowned for their thuggish tactics. Apparently, the fight had been bloody.
My intrigue into his son’s achievements earned me approval. We strolled down the longest corridor I’d ever seen. How easily brick and mortar can intimidate.
Having access to skillful tailors ensured I blended in. Fine clothes have always made the man and I was grateful for this. Although eager to impress upon my host the advantage of replacing his entire stock with Spain’s finest horses, I’d have to parley into the subject naturally. Mention it too soon and I’d appear desperate, bring it up too late and the moment could be lost.
The grand ballroom opened up before us. Two hundred or so guests mingled. An extensive gathering of family and friends shared in the festivities. The décor reflected a homey philosophy, simple but comfortable.
My unease relented when Señor Moran’s wife, Renee, hugged me warmly. She introduced me to Cornelius, her eldest son, and then her youngest, the man of the moment, Salvador. Wearing his captain’s uniform, Salvador cut a striking figure. Both brothers had inherited their mother’s appealing features, not their father’s. Something they both must have been grateful for.
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