Margarita and the Earl

by Joan Wolf

  There was a stunned silence, and then Nicholas said quietly, “Don’t you ever look in your mirror?”

  She was afraid to look at him. Gently, his arm came up around her, and she rested her head against the lapel she had been regarding so intently. Under her cheek, his heart was hammering. Those hammer beats gave her the courage to lift her head. “Don’t go,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” His voice sounded oddly breathless and she nodded gravely. He cupped her face in one of his hands, bent his head, and slowly began to kiss her. She stood very quietly, and his hand slid from her cheek up into her hair. He had himself under rigid control, conscious of the stillness of her lips under his. Then, very slowly, her mouth opened for him, and with a tentative sweetness that took his breath away, she began to kiss him back.

  Without releasing her lips, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. He lay her back against the pillows and with clumsy masculine fingers, began to undo the buttons of her nightgown. She let him do them all and, when he had finished, raised her arms like a good child so he could pull it over her head.

  Her body was as beautiful as he remembered. The only change was in her breasts, which were no longer small and pointed. He ran an exploratory finger down the curve of one of them. “Did you really think I found you not to my taste?” he asked incredulously.

  “I did not know what else to think.” His finger had left a trail of white fire behind it and she gazed at him, a mixture of apprehension and dawning passion in her dark eyes.

  He took off his dressing gown and got into bed beside her. His mouth twisted a little as his eyes ran over the bared perfection of her body. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen or am likely ever to see,” he said huskily, and then his mouth claimed hers once again. His hands moved gently on her, so delicate, so sure. He was being very careful. He could not bear it if she stiffened against him.

  But she didn’t. At first she was very still, neither giving nor withholding, but as the passion rose in him, an answer awoke within her and she melted for him, flowered and opened, soft and silken and infinitely beautiful under his love.

  Afterward, she looked at him in wonder, her face a little flushed. “That was wonderful. I loved it. Why didn’t I like it before?”

  He shifted a little above her, afraid his weight was too much for her. His breathing was finally slowing. “You weren’t ready, little one,” he said. “You were grieved and afraid and hurt. I should never have touched you.”

  Her brown head nestled against his shoulder and he drew her close against him. “Nicholas mio,” she whispered. “Mi vida, mi amor.”

  He stiffened slightly, hearing those words. He had never felt so close, so one with a woman, but old fears flickered nevertheless. She said nothing more, and precisely because she had not asked, he felt he had to be honest. “Margarita,” he said a little harshly, “don’t ask me for love. If I care for anyone in this world, it is you, but love….”

  She didn’t answer for a moment, but he felt the sweep of her lashes against his bare flesh. When she finally spoke, her voice was warm and soft, gentle and reassuring, the voice she often used to Nicky. “It is all right, Nicholas mío. I have enough love for both of us.” She said no more, and after a few minutes he could tell by the deep evenness of her breathing that she had gone to sleep. It did not take him very long to follow suit.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “There is none like her, none.”

  Tennyson

  She awoke with the dawn. The room was frosty, but under the covers, lying close to Nicholas, she was warm and comfortable. She closed her eyes and savored the closeness of him, the weight of his hand on her. He woke soon after she did. She felt his arms slip around her waist, pulling her closer. He put his mouth on the nape of her neck. Everything inside her quivered and melted at his touch, and she turned to him with welcoming, yielding passion. When she shifted a little beneath him so he could come deeper, he said in a voice she could hardly recognize, “Almighty God.”

  Two hours later she heard the sound of someone making up the fire. After the maid had left, she sat up. He reached a lazy arm and pulled her down again, but she strained against it. “Mrs. Wade will be bringing Nicky to me to nurse any minute now. She’ll wonder whatever happened to me.”

  “Stay where you are,” he said. “I’ll fetch Nicky.” He rose, stretched before the fire like a giant cat, and put on his dressing gown.

  “You might hand me my nightgown first,” she murmured.

  He picked it up. “Do you need it to nurse the baby?”

  “I need it if I am going to sit up in this drafty room. It buttons down the front.”

  He quirked an ironic eyebrow at her but forbore comment about what he felt was her hypersensitivity to cold. He handed her the nightgown and went out into the hallway. They had moved the baby into the third-floor nursery ten days ago, and he went down the hall to the back staircase that led directly to Nicky’s rooms.

  He was back in his own room in ten minutes, a yelling baby in his arms.

  “Here’s your son,” he said to Margarita, unceremoniously handing over the indignant Nicky.

  “He’s hungry, that is all,” said Margarita with amusement. Once Nicky discovered that his needs were about to be answered, he broke off abruptly and addressed himself with gusto to the matter at hand. After a moment, Nicholas came back to the bed, his eyes on the steadily sucking baby at Margarita’s breast. He bent toward them a little, and looking up, Margarita’s head touched his. She smiled at him, radiantly beautiful, fulfilled and content. Looking at her, he felt curiously humble; he did not deserve to be looked at like that.

  *

  The days went by, and the only shadow on Margarita’s happiness was the recurring nightmares that stemmed from her experience in Venezuela, and even they were growing fewer and less intense. Nicholas was afraid to say that he loved her, but Margarita had no doubt that he did. He said it in his lovemaking, he said it in the way he watched her face when they were together, he said it in his smile. Margarita had been surrounded by love all her life. She thought she knew what it looked like.

  She thought she knew also the reason for Nicholas’s reticence. The only real quarrel she had ever had with him had been over her determination to write to his mother.

  “I do not want you corresponding with her, Margarita, and that is final,” he had said in a tight, controlled voice.

  “No, it is not final, my lord,” she replied calmly. “When a woman becomes a grandmother, she has a right to know. I do not ask that you write. You are angry with her and I accept that, although I do not approve of it. I will write. It will be nothing to do with you.”

  She remembered vividly the look that came over his face—black, bitter pride shutting down over anger and hurt. “She is nothing to do with me. Or with you either. Do you understand me?”

  She drew herself up to her full height, her chin in the air, the breeding and arrogance of Spain momentarily stamped on her lovely face. “Yes, I understand you, my lord. I understand that you are an unforgiving, cold, heartless man. And what is more, I think you are afraid.” She stared at him steadily as he towered over her. “Now are you going to give me her address or do I have to get it from your man of business?”

  He gave her the address and she had written. She received a reply to her letter but kept it to herself. Neither she nor Nicholas ever referred to the subject again.

  *

  In March, she gave a party. Andrés Bello had come to Winslow for a visit, bringing with him another South American, Juan Vicente Montilla. Montilla was in Cartagena throughout Morillo’s long siege and was fortunate enough to escape after the city fell in December. He joined Bolivar, who was now in Haiti. “The Haitian president, Alexander Pétion, has promised to assist Bolivar in a new expedition,” Montilla told them that first evening, as they sat over coffee in the drawing room. “Many of the men who succeeded in escaping from Cartagena have found their way to Haiti—Mariño and
Brion are there as well. President Pétion has agreed to provide ammunition to the expedition.”

  “How many men does Bolivar have?” Nicholas asked.

  The Colombian looked a little rueful. “That is what your government officials keep asking me, my lord. He has over two hundred men, but there will be ammunition for thousands. South Americans will rise for him, you will see.”

  “Two hundred men against one of the greatest expeditions ever sent out by Spain?” Nicholas looked incredulous.

  “It will not be two hundred men,” Margarita put in passionately. “Don Juan is correct when he says South Americans will rise for Bolivar. They will rise for freedom.”

  Both American men nodded gravely. Nicholas found the faith they all displayed in this Simón Bolivar rather frightening and at the same time very moving. “He must be quite an extraordinary man, Simón Bolivar,” he said slowly, and the other three looked a little surprised.

  “But of course,” said Margarita. “He is El Libertador.”

  *

  It was in order to entertain her guests that Margarita organized a dinner party. Invited were Sir Henry and Lady Hopkins, Mr. Knight and Lady Anne, Dr. and Mrs. Macrae, and Catherine Alnwick.

  For one reason or another, Margarita had not done very much entertaining, and she was anxious that everything should go smoothly. She was anxious, too, at the thought of meeting Catherine Alnwick. She had never so much as hinted to Nicholas that she knew anything of his affair. She did not want to hear about it, to hear him explain it. It happened before he had come to her, and now it was over. That was all she cared to know. She never for a moment doubted that it was over.

  The evening went very well. The American men made a favorable impression on everyone, and Catherine Alnwick made a distinctly strong impression on Juan Montilla. He shared his countrymen’s appreciation for blonde hair, which was seen but rarely in his native land, and Catherine’s type of fair, English beauty attracted him strongly. In a perfectly polite fashion, he devoted himself to her, thus according great, if unspoken, relief to most of the remaining company. Nicholas, who had not been to see her in weeks, was feeling slightly guilty and uncomfortable. The Hopkinses and the Knights, who knew through the servants’ grapevine about his defection, were afraid the evening might prove to be rather strained and were happy to see her safely occupied. Margarita was as gracious and charming and shyly friendly as ever; no one could detect any difference in her manner to the beautiful Mrs. Alnwick.

  The gentlemen did not linger over their wine, and when they joined the ladies, Catherine was at the piano. She played very well: she did most things very well, and Margarita was listening with genuine pleasure when the door opened and the men came in. Nicholas’s eyes sought his wife immediately, a fact noted with satisfaction by the vigilant Lady Hopkins.

  Catherine Alnwick was coaxed to play again, and then Lady Anne sang an Italian song in a well-trained soprano. “Do you play, Lady Winslow?” Catherine asked sweetly, and Margarita shook her head.

  “My father went to great lengths to get a piano for my mother. She was a very fine musician, but I fear her talent was not passed along to me. I play very badly.”

  “You have another instrument,” Nicholas said quietly, and Andrés Bello leaned forward in his chair.

  “I took great pains to find you a good guitar, niña, and I expect to hear it.” When she flushed and hesitated, he said softly, “Please. It is so long for me.”

  She capitulated instantly. “Of course I will play for you, Andrés.”

  Nicholas spoke to one of the servants and the guitar was brought. Everyone sat quietly, curious and interested. Margarita looked at Andrés Bello. “I set a poem of Quevedo’s to music. I did it in our home in Caracas, just before the evacuation.” Her eyes moved to her husband’s attentive face. “It is a sad song,” she said. “A lament, you would call it. The singer says that the walls of his country are in ruin. The countryside is dark. His house is falling down. Everything about him reminds him of death.” She bent her head a little and began to play:

  Miré los muros de la patria mia,

  Si an tiempo fuertes, ya desmoronados,

  De la carrera de la edad cansados,

  Por quien caduca ya su valentía.

  Salíme al campo, vi que el Sol bebía

  Los arroyoys del yelo desatados,

  Y del monte quejosos los ganados

  Que con sombras hurtó su lux al día.

  Vencida de la edad sentí mi espada,

  Y no hallé cosa en que poner los ojos

  Que no fuese recuerdo de la muerte.

  There was a haunted, brooding note in her low voice that conveyed the meaning of the song even to those who knew no Spanish. The last word died away, and Margarita sat still, her downcast eyes on the strings of her guitar. Then she looked up, looked at Andrés Bello, and Nicholas, silently and to himself, cursed. He recognized all too well the expression on her face.

  Andrés Bello answered her look. “I know, niña” he said very softly. “But you must have the courage to build again, the courage for the long climb back to happiness. We all must have that, or what is to become of us and of our country?”

  Juan Vicente Montilla, who had completely forgotten Catherine Alnwick, now said with rigid lips, “We will do it or we will die trying.”

  Sir Henry cleared his throat a little, uncomfortable amid the sudden outburst of Latin emotions in the room. Margarita looked at him and realized what had happened. He was a nice man, she thought to herself a little blankly. They were all nice people. But they were all a little unreal, a little childish, unaware of the terrible shadow of chaos that constantly threatened the frontiers of life in this world. But they were her guests. She must not discompose them. She forced a smile.

  “I will play one more song for you, a song that was my father’s favorite. It is about a man who goes out to catch a fish for his dinner and what befell him.” Her fingers moved over the strings. The tune was catchy and sprightly, and after the first two verses, Andrés Bello joined in with her. By the time the song was over they were both laughing a little, and the tense, embarrassed feeling had vanished from the room.

  As she was taking her departure, Catherine Alnwick announced to her host and hostess that she was leaving for London in a few days.

  “Will you be staying long?” Margarita asked.

  “For the Season, I expect. I go every year.” This was true, but Catherine did not usually go in March. Nicholas, however, forbore to comment on the change in her routine.

  “We shall miss you,” Margarita said serenely. “My lord speaks of our going to London as well. Perhaps we shall see you there.”

  Catherine smiled brilliantly. “Perhaps. Goodbye, Lady Winslow, Lord Winslow. It was a delightful evening.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Alnwick,” Nicholas said gravely. “I wish you a good journey.”

  His feeling of guilt over Catherine had only increased by seeing her this evening. He knew very well that he could not break off their relationship without some kind of an explanation. One did not summarily dismiss a mistress, who had given satisfaction for five years, without so much as a word. At least, Nicholas could not.

  He forgot about Catherine, however, as soon as he got upstairs. Margarita was standing by the window, her back rigid, and he knew, without seeing her face, that she was crying.

  “Andrés Bello was right, little one,” he said to that straight back. “You do have the courage to fight back to happiness.”

  “Yes,” she replied, and her voice sounded muffled. “Sometimes I do. But sometimes I feel as if I haven’t changed at all, that time is frozen inside of me and it is all happening over and over again, and I shall never forget it and never get over it.” She turned then to face him, and he could see the tears pouring ceaselessly down her face.

  He came across to her and picked her up. At that moment, her dresser came to the door and he frowned ominously, causing the woman to back away in fright, almost slamming the d
oor behind her. He sat Margarita down on the bed and undressed her with gentle hands. “I can’t stop crying,” she sobbed, and he pulled off his coat and shoes and swung into bed beside her.

  “I know,” he said, “but try. You’ll make yourself ill if you keep on like this.”

  His shoulder was so familiar, so safe and secure. She pressed her face against it and he held her against him. Slowly her sobbing slowed and ceased, and she slept.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “How the light, light love, he has wings to fly

  At suspicion of a bond.”

  Tennyson

  By mid-March, Margarita was deeply involved in plans for redecorating Winslow. The project involved a great deal of self-education on her part, for English architecture and furniture design were completely unfamiliar to her.

  “The furniture in my father’s houses was all modeled on the designs of the Spanish Renaissance,” she told Nicholas at the start of her project. “The lines of that style are all rectangular and straightforward. There is nothing even remotely resembling that.” She gestured with incredulity toward a chair that was one of Chippendale’s more exotic Chinese efforts.

  Nicholas had grinned. “I see what you mean.”

  “We have beautiful wrought-iron work in our houses, for another thing. You have nothing like it at all here. It is a completely different kind of architecture and decoration from what I am accustomed to. I shall have to learn about English styles.”

  “Would you like to re-do the house in the Spanish style?” Nicholas asked curiously.

  She did not hesitate. “No. It would not look right in this house. Spanish furniture is for a southern climate. Although”—and nostalgia glimmered in her eyes—“I would not be at all unhappy to find a few pieces of authentic sixteenth or seventeenth century Spanish furniture. My father had the most beautiful vargueño…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What is a vargueño?” Nicholas asked after a half-minute of silence.

  She smiled. “It is a kind of a desk. My father had one that his grandfather brought from Spain. It had the most beautiful ivory inlay you have ever seen.”