Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  After weeks of meetings with the family solicitor, banker, and then Carson, his father’s man of business, the mantle of a barony indeed sat upon Simon’s shoulders. Until now, he’d had no bloody clue of the responsibilities that came with a title, nor had he cared. But all that had changed.

  He’d never paid any heed to how his father had spent his days, but by the summation he’d just received, an occasional foray to the estates and less time at his gentlemen’s club would have better served Lord Singleton’s interests. According to Carson, the Irish Estate, closed up for nigh twenty years, had suffered particular neglect. There was much to be done to set things to rights. Although Simon had made a vow on his father’s deathbed to make him proud, he’d made an even bigger promise to himself. He would set his affairs in order and then wed Salime.

  He’d hoped that immersing himself in business affairs would serve as a distraction, but not a single hour had passed without thoughts of her. He didn’t know how he would survive the torturous wait. It had been almost three weeks since its departure, but DeVere’s yacht had still not returned. Simon was about to go out of his bloody mind. He could wait no longer. Having done his best to set the barony’s affairs back on track, it was past time to tend to affairs of his heart. Tomorrow, he vowed to return to Kent to see DeVere.

  He’d no sooner made this resolution when the footman came to his door to announce the devil himself. A grim-faced DeVere entered the library on the servant’s heels.

  “What is it?” Simon leapt up to greet his friend. “Have you any news?”

  “News you don’t wish to hear. You’d best pour us a drink, Sin.”

  “Out with it,” Simon demanded.

  “The Sylphe was found wrecked off the Cornish coast yesterday…there were no survivors.”

  Simon shut his eyes, clutching the corner of the desk, as if he’d received a physical blow. “No. It can’t be true. I would have known. I would have felt it if she was gone.”

  “Please, Sin, there is little hope. It’s been almost six weeks since they departed. If she lived, she would have sent word.”

  “Not if she’s injured,” Simon argued. “Or perhaps the yacht wrecked on its return?”

  “I suppose you have a point. One cannot know precisely when it occurred,” DeVere agreed. “There were several bad squalls in the channel during the past month.”

  “Then there is still hope,” Simon insisted. “But I still don’t know where she is. Bloody hell,” he cursed. “Almost two months wasted and I’m back at the beginning—with nothing!”

  “Come now, Sin,” DeVere cajoled. “We are thinking men. Surely there is something significant that we’ve simply overlooked.”

  “I can’t imagine what it could be,” Simon groaned. “I’ve relived every moment, every conversation, every word, but I have so little to go by. Her parents were both deceased—her mother died in childbed and her father at war. I can only presume that means he was a military man. She was kidnapped by Corsairs from a coastal town when very young and raised in an Ottoman harem. The only other thing of note is that her paternal great-grandfather was a Black-Irishman surnamed O’Brian.”

  “O’Brian?” DeVere laughed. “That might indeed prove useful. I can’t imagine there are many Spaniards bearing such a name. Perhaps our worthy Spanish ambassador can assist with some inquiries.”

  “Military records,” Simon exclaimed. “His place of origin and death would surely be recorded. You are a bloody genius, DeVere.”

  “It’s certainly a start. I’ll write the ambassador on your behalf.”

  “Did she give you no other clues when she came to you?” Simon asked.

  “I’m sorry, Sin. All she said was that she sought a peaceful retirement from her old life.” He opened his mouth as if to say more but then closed it again with a head shake.

  “What?” Simon asked. “Whatever it is, no matter how insignificant, you must tell me.”

  “It’s nothing, Sin. Just some queer remark she made when I inquired if she had any remaining family. She answered that her parents are dead, but her heart still resides there. I thought it a bit peculiar, but people of the East often speak metaphorically.

  It was certainly true of Salime. Almost everything she had ever revealed about herself had been veiled in allegory. The first story she’d ever told him suddenly spilled into Simon’s mind—the orphaned princess Sarita, the abduction by Barbary pirates, the convent school where she’d hidden her heart. Simon’s pulse sped with the realization that it was no fairy tale. It was all true, every last detail of it.

  “That’s it.” He sprang up. “I know where to look for her. She’s gone to a convent.”

  DeVere looked dubious. “You truly think so?”

  “I bloody well know so,” Simon insisted. “And I’m going to find her.”

  “How, Sin? Do you plan to search every convent in the entire Iberian Peninsula?”

  “Damn right,” Simon retorted with steely resolve, “every last one if that’s what it takes.”

  Wilt thou take me to thy soul,

  For the truth which thou shalt prove?

  Wilt thou clothe me with the riches of thy care

  Thou who dearer at to me than gold and jewels rare?

  For I love thee as no other man can love.

  -Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

  Chapter Fifteen

  Three months later

  Simon arrived in Gibraltar by packet boat from Falmouth with the intention of working his way up the eastern coast of Spain. After hiring an interpreter and a mule cart, he began his tedious trek. Stopping at every church, he combed futilely through the birth and death registries and knocked at the door of every abbey and convent to inquire after new postulants. After visiting dozens of churches, he’d yet to encounter a single entry for O’Brian.

  In almost three months he’d barely covered two hundred miles of coastline and his efforts had born no fruit. He’d sworn to find Salime no matter how long it took, but endless traveling on nearly impassable roads in unbearable summer heat and sleeping at flea-infested inns found him weary, disheartened, and almost ready to give up his quest.

  Arriving in the port city of Almeria, Simon hired another dingy room and then made his way to the Gothic cathedral where after another considerable “donation,” he was permitted to view the church records. Certain, he’d mastered sufficient Spanish to conduct his simple business, Simon left the task of examining records to his interpreter and junior priest, while he made the lone trek up to the Convento Santa Teresa.

  Breathless and perspiring heavily by the time he reached the top of the steep hill, Simon retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow. He then straightened his hat, coat, and cuffs before rapping on the convent door. Waiting impatiently for the answer, he stared down at the town below, wondering how he had ever come to such a pass. Perhaps he only deluded himself in believing she’d survived the ship wreck. Love always made such fools of otherwise worthy men.

  Simon resolved in that moment that this would be his last query. If he came up empty handed tomorrow he’d hire passage back to England. He had responsibilities and a promise to keep to his father. As the last of his family, his mother would soon be after him to take a wife. At one time, he never would have considered an arranged marriage. Indeed, the old Simon would have rejected the idea out of hand. But now? Perhaps the idea had some merit after all.

  Even his heart was weary now. Tired of beating for an unrequited love. Had she ever loved him? Maybe it was all a lie. Surely if she had, she’d suffered as much as he and would have sent word. Thoroughly discouraged, Simon realized it was past time to move on.

  Using his walking stick for greater effect, Simon rapped thrice more. He turned, about to give up and walk away when the aperture creaked open to reveal a tiny brown face with scrutinizing black eyes. “Que llama a la puerta? Cuál es su negocio?”

  “My named is Simon, Lord Singleton, and I seek a young woman. Busco una mujer joven,” he repeated
in halting Spanish.

  The nun’s eyes widened, then raked him top to bottom with repugnance. “Las putas están en las tabernas!” She slammed the window in his face.

  “Las putas? Whores? Bloody hell!” Sin cried, realizing his error. She’d thought he was inquiring after a brothel! He spent another hour pacing and knocking to no avail. The door remained closed.

  Tomorrow. He would return tomorrow with Pablo. Surely Pablo could explain the misunderstanding and smooth things over.

  Simon returned the next day, standing carefully out of view of the portal while Pablo inquired after Salime. After stating his own name for the tyrannical gatekeeper, Pablo, unlike Simon, was careful to specify the name of Salime O’Brian.

  “No hay nadie aquí se llama por ese nombre O’Brian.”

  There is no one here called by O’Brian.

  Simon stepped impatiently forward.

  “Usted otra vez!” Recognizing Simon, she made to slam the portal window. She slammed it on Simon’s hand instead. He screamed in pain, biting back a litany of curses.

  “Please,” he hissed, “just answer one more question.”

  “Una pregunta más, por favor,” Pablo translated.

  “Ask her about new postulants,” he commanded his interpreter.

  “Tiene alguna nuevos postulantes?”

  Eyeing both men with open suspicion, the nun vigorously shook her head. Murmuring something that Simon loosely interpreted as consigning them both to the devil, she slammed the window. Simon’s shoulders slumped.

  That was it. His last effort. It was over.

  With heavy feet, Simon returned to his lodgings over the tavern only to discover a message from the keeper of the church registries. With pulse racing, Simon rushed back to the cathedral, where the young priest met him in the library, black eyes gleaming.

  “Señor! I think perhaps you have been making the wrong inquiries.”

  “Wrong inquiries? What do you mean?”

  “There is a marriage and an infant baptism you must see.” The priest indicated an almost-illegible name scrawled in the yellowed registry book. “Mira aquí. Look here. It is recorded in the year of our lord 1719. The name of the groom is Seamus O’Brian.”

  “Seamus O’Brian?” Simon couldn’t believe his eyes. “What else is recorded? Are there any infant baptisms?”

  “Sí, señor. There were three daughters and one surviving son whose baptismal name is recorded as Jaime Obregón.”

  “Obregón?” Simon shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Obregón is the Spanish version of the father’s surname.”

  “Obregón is O’Brian?”

  The young priest smiled. “Sí, señor. I have already made an inquiry of the senior priests. I am told there was once a prominent family by this name, the head of which was General Hernando Obregón. The family was believed dead, but there was a daughter who is miraculously returned. The entire town speaks of it.”

  “Where is she?” Simon demanded.

  “At the Convento Santa Teresa.”

  “But I have just come from there. They wouldn’t let me in.”

  “No señor. Ningún hombre puede entrar. No man may enter the gates.”

  “Surely you can intervene, Father,” Simon insisted.

  The young priest scratched his chin. “Sometimes silver speaks more eloquently than words.”

  Simon knew the priest sought a donation to the convent, but after greasing the palms of every parish priest from Gibraltar to Almeria, he was strapped for coin. The only thing he carried of value was his father’s silver watch.

  Simon retrieved the timepiece from his pocket, caressing his thumb over the crystal face with a brief pang of regret, but if the watch would grant him entrance to the convent, there was nothing more to consider. Surely in the city there was a place to sell it.

  With a groan, Salime filled the cart with the last basket of grapes. Her fingers were blistered from picking, and her back ached from bending, but the vines were plentiful and the harvest would be good. Upon her father’s death, both Sarita and the family estate had come under the care of the sisters. Now her hope was to one day manage the vineyards for the convent.

  Since her arrival, her days had been filled with meaningful activities. Every morning until noon was spent tending the vineyards that had once belonged to her family. The afternoons were passed with quiet study, and her evenings in prayer and reflection. It was a good life. A quiet and peaceful life, full of routines and rituals that occupied her hands as well as her mind.

  Although her heart would always yearn for the man she could never have, after months of quiet misery and countless privately shed tears, Salime had come to a state of acceptance. She’d come to the convent with a sufficient dowry to pledge herself as a postulant, and now her initial trial was over. Tomorrow she would graduate to Novice.

  She still wondered if he was well…if he was happy. Surely he’d forgotten her already in the arms of a new lover. The vision of him with another made her chest ache. Salime scrubbed her face in an attempt to banish her thoughts as well as the burning threat of tears.

  “What troubles you, mi querida niña?” asked Sor Francisca Juanita.

  “It is nothing,” Salime sniffed.

  “Nothing does not inspire tears, querida.”

  “Sometimes… thoughts of the old life….”

  “But you must put it all behind you. In time, your pain will fade. The convento is a place of healing.” The nun squeezed her hand with a soft smile. “Is the cart ready?”

  “Si, Sor Francisca Juanita.”

  “Then let us take these fruits of the harvest to the marketplace.”

  After sending Pablo to seek out the best possible price for his watch, Simon wandered the stalls of the Almeria marketplace. The air was pungent with exotic fruits and spices as he idly fingered samples of silk. He was examining the intricately carved ebony and ivory pieces of a chess set when Pablo cried to him from across the square.

  “Señor! Señor! Las monjas!” The Spaniard pointed frantically to two female figures walking beside a donkey cart. One wore the traditional Cistercian habit, the other a plain black gown and mantilla.

  Even with her face concealed by a lace veil, there was no doubt in Simon’s mind. It was Salime! He’d found her at last. Chess pieces still clutched in his hand, he broke into a dead run across the square, deaf to the cries of the vendor. “Salime! Wait!”

  The nun said something to her. The cart came to a standstill.

  Simon cried out again, halting three feet away from her, but she still didn’t acknowledge him. “Please Salime,” he pleaded, “I’ve searched so long….I know it’s you!”

  Slowly, she turned and whispered, “Simon?”

  He took another step toward her. “Remove the veil, Salime. I must see your face when I speak to you.”

  “No,” protested the nun. “No es apropiado. It is not proper for you to speak thusly. She is about to be pledged as a Novicia.”

  “She hasn’t joined the order yet, has she?” Simon retorted. “If she is to be pledged to anyone, it will be to me.”

  The nun flushed.

  “Please, Sor Francisca Juanita,” Salime interjected, “I must speak with him. Darnos un momento por favor.”

  The nun stepped back a few feet, standing guard with a censorious stare.

  “I do not understand,” Salime said. “Why have you come here?”

  “I have come for you, my love, to take you back as my wife.”

  “Your wife? That’s impossible.”

  “Please hear me out, Salime,” Simon argued. “I’ve had considerable time to think about this…to work it all out. It can be done. I can promise you a good life. You will be the keeper of my home, the mother of my children. My friend. My lover. My everything. I am offering you all I am and all I have.”

  “B-but your family—”

  “My mother need not know anything of your past. She will either accept you as a daughter or lo
se her only son.”

  “But how could you bear the shame? The scandal?”

  “There will be none… Sarita Obregón.”

  She gasped. “How do you know my name?”

  He gave a dry laugh. “You did not make it easy, my dear, but in the end, love will always find a way. If you fear scandal, I assure you the only talk will be how the mad Baron Singleton absconded with a postulant from a Spanish convent.”

  “But I will surely be recognized by someone,” she argued.

  “No, my love. Not where we shall go.”

  “Then you plan to hide me away?” She jutted her chin. “If I am to be cloistered, I would stay behind Santa Teresa’s walls.”

  “No.” Simon cupped her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I will not hide you in shame. I told you, I didn’t come here for a mistress. I came here for a wife.”

  “Do you truly mean this,” she asked.

  “I’ve never meant anything more. I want to love and cherish you to my very last breath. You said once that you loved me too, Salime. Was it a lie?” He waited feeling as if his very life hung on her answer. If she denied him now, he would curse himself as the biggest fool alive.

  “No, Simon.” She choked. “It was no lie. My heart has never belonged to anyone but you.”

  “And you’ve already enslaved mine. You must now accept the rest of me … or set me free. What will it be, my love?”

  She reached for him, touching his face with trembling fingers. “I’ve dreamt of you every night, Simon. I have longed for such a day as this, even when I never believed it could come to pass. I’ve yearned in my heart of hearts to be your wife, the mother of your children. Your friend. Your lover. You offer me all I could wish in the world.”

  “Then only one thing remains.” He tilted her face upward and slowly lowered his own.

  “What is that?” she asked, growing more breathless.