Kitabı oku: «Wicked Loving Lies», sayfa 2
The duke’s voice remained unaccented by any overt feeling, but his fingers had clenched themselves over the head of the slim sword cane he habitually carried. “How many persons, outside of yourself and the Prince of Wales, and this major fellow in Ireland, of course—how many others know?”
Lord Anthony, feeling himself reprimanded as if he had been a schoolboy, sounded a trifle sullen. “I told you—no one. Not even the warden of the prison himself. They are being kept incommunicado; that’s not unusual, you know, for those accused of treasonable acts! But the question is, dammit, for how long can the secret be kept? There will have to be a trial, and then—can’t you see what the results would be? I’m known to be one of Prinny’s closest intimates and you—I’ve heard rumors you’re likely to follow Chatham as prime minister if he ever decides to step down. I tell you, Leo, you cannot—”
“And I will not, my brother. But this, you must admit, is too public a place to discuss such matters. I will order my carriage, and we will go together to the earl of Chatham’s house. I think he will still be up. And then, on our—unnoticed, I hope—way to Newgate Prison we will talk further.”
“You are going to tell Chatham then? But—”
Lord Anthony was forced to cut short his expostulation as his brother, summoning a servant, gave the man instructions to have his carriage brought around to the door.
“With a personally signed order from the prime minister himself, I think we will be allowed access to these treasonable Irishmen. And then—we will see.”
The duke smoothed one long finger against the line of his jaw, and his voice grew thoughtful. “It will be interesting to see if the young savage I remember has changed very much since he’s grown into a man.”
In the beginning the duke, his fastidious senses already offended by the prison stench and the tiny, windowless cell to which he had been escorted, found it hard to recognize any resemblance to a man at all in the emaciated, heavily chained wretch who was half-pushed, half-carried through the iron-studded door.
The light shed by a single, flickering lantern was dim, and it took His Grace some moments to realize that the scarecrowlike, raggedly clad creature who fell back against the door as soon as it had closed was not only manacled hand and foot so that he could hardly stand, let alone move, but gagged as well. So the warden was following his strict instructions to the letter, it seemed! A conscientious man.
The duke had preferred to stand rather than take the single rush-bottomed chair that had been hastily brought in for his comfort. And now, moving leisurely, he permitted himself to take a small pinch of snuff before he reached with his other hand, still gloved, for the lantern.
Still moving slowly and deliberately, he crossed the small space between them, his polished boots rustling the dirty straw. There was no sign of movement, not even a flinching away, from the chained man, even when the duke suddenly held the lantern high, barely inches away from the bearded, bruised face. Or what he could see of a face behind leather straps that held the gag in place.
Was it possible that they had made a mistake, after all? That this was some other rascally rebel who hoped to save his own skin by pretending to be an English viscount?
The duke’s thin nostrils wrinkled with distaste. They should have thrown a few buckets of cold water over him before bringing him in here! His eyes, moving over the ragged figure, noticed without surprise the collection of cuts and weals that decorated both his torso and arms.
He said aloud, letting a sneer creep into his voice, “I see that our soldiers are as efficient as usual when it comes to putting down rebellions against the crown! I take it you were persuaded to confess to your part in it?”
There was no answer, nor had he expected any, but the man’s head went up at last, and slitted eyes that reflected the lantern light like silver looked into the duke’s appraising ones.
“So it is you, after all. You should have stayed in France, after all—or did you go there to drum up help for your ridiculous cause?”
The eyes were the same, although the boy of sixteen he remembered had grown taller. They glared defiance and hate at him, precisely as they had done so many years ago when Dominic had said, his voice flat and hard, “And someday I will come back here and kill you, for what you have done to my mother and to me.”
But as long as his mother lived, and the threat remained that the duke her husband might send her to Bedlam, Dominic had not dared to return to England.
The duke saw the corded muscles stand out in the young man’s throat as if he ached to speak—to cry his defiance aloud, perhaps? Or to beg for mercy? But there would be time enough to remove the gag if he wished it; and for the moment there were things he wished to say first.
“Your mother died last night—a pity there was no time to send for you or that I had no idea you were already on your way here. You’ll agree with me that it was a merciful release?”
This time there was a sound from behind the gag that sounded like an animal growl, and the duke smiled.
“Ah yes. I had forgotten how attached you used to be to the poor, unfortunate woman. But time, as you know, has a way of changing most things, and even the strongest bonds must break someday. You should be thankful for her sake that she died before she heard what you have been up to.” He shook his head, still with the thin smile curving his lips. “No, no, I would not attempt to spring at me if I were you! For chained as you are you would only suffer the further humiliation of falling flat on your face at my feet. As I recall I once had my grooms hold you while they administered the beating you richly deserved for attacking my nephew. I am afraid, Dominic, that your unstable temper comes to you from your mother—and with such a poor inheritance, who knows? For your own sake and the sake of others you might injure, it might be that I could have you committed to Bedlam—”
His eyes studied carefully the effect of his words, but apart from that first instinctive, abortive tensing of his muscles Dominic seemed not to hear him, his eyes now staring stonily over the duke’s shoulder.
Royse now lowered his voice slightly and his tone became almost insinuating.
“Come now, I have only tried to make it plain to you what I could and would do as a last resort! But if you are prepared to be reasonable and to curb your animal rages, why—we might talk.” He watched the silver-grey eyes that seemed to reflect back the flickering of the lantern without revealing anything that was in their depths, and he continued in the same studiedly reasonable tone. “You can nod, can’t you? Well then, if you wish me to remove your gag and promise that you will not subject me to any bursts of your usual insolence, I will do so. You see? I am prepared to be reasonable. You have only to move your head.”
There was a long moment when it seemed as if Dominic was determined to be stubborn, and the duke cast about in his mind for other methods. But his face showed nothing of his thoughts, and at last he caught the grudging, almost imperceptible movement he looked for and permitted himself to smile again.
“There, you see? That was not too difficult, was it? It has been a long time since we have had a conversation, you and I. And believe me, we would have done so much earlier if I’d had any notion that your Uncle Conal was letting you run wild and associate with the scum who call themselves the United Irishmen.”
Placing the lantern on the chair, the duke went behind Dominic and deftly began to unfasten the leather straps, noticing as he did so that the young man’s back was also a mass of cuts and festering wounds. They had really done a good job on him with the “cat”—a pity in so many ways that the meddling Lord Fitzgerald had seen fit to interfere before they finished him off.
There was a certain tenseness in the figure before him that prompted the duke, as the gag loosened and came off, to give him a quick shove with his gloved hand, sending him staggering forward onto his knees.
“There is no need for you to attempt to get up, for with the weight of those chains, you cannot. And I must admit I feel safer this way. Besides—” he walked a little distance away and picked up the lantern once more “—it will do you good to do some penance. I take it that you have gone back to being a papist as your mother was?”
The voice that finally answered him was a husky whisper as Dominic forced movement into his aching jaws and swollen tongue.
“Did you want to speak to me, Your Grace? Or merely to force me into just such ungovernable outbursts of rage as you accuse me of?”
The duke of Royse arched one slim blond brow. “It seems that you have actually managed to acquire some polish, after all! Did your uncle find you tutors in Ireland?”
Dominic’s voice was carefully controlled. “My uncle tried to teach me many things, as I think you would know. But in the end I found my own tutors. Is this what you have waited to ask me?”
The duke’s face had tightened and his eyes flickered, but he managed to control his rage within him. “My time is short, Captain Rebel. Tell me—why do you Irishmen who call yourself leaders always choose such overly dramatic names? Captain this and Captain that. But in the end you will all be brought to the same state—condemned felons, on their knees to English justice!”
“But an English rebel is entitled to stand before a judge, is he not, Your Grace? And before a jury of his peers. I had not thought I would sometime find a use for the grand title that my accident of birth bestowed upon me!”
“I had thought you had some such plan in mind! But be careful. I do not take my name or my titles lightly!”
“What will you do with me then? Have me killed before I can stand trial? Or committed to Bedlam as you threatened? Will you make arrangements to send me gagged into the court? I do not think your English justice, of which we’ve seen so little in Ireland, will tolerate it.”
“You’re still defiant, then. I take it you mean to make some brave, impassioned speech about justice and liberty and equality for all before they pass sentence on you? Oh—very gallant! I can tell you’ve been absorbing all the revolutionary ideas that have unfortunately spread from America to France! But do not think that I will let you drag my name in the dust.”
Dominic’s voice sounded suddenly tired. “I intend to open the eyes of some of the people in England to the injustice and brutality their armies and corrupt officials practice in Ireland in the name of King George. And if that constitutes dragging your name in the mire, then I must tell you, Your Grace, that only the two alternatives I’ve mentioned before will stop me from doing so.”
“I think not!” was all the duke said between his clenched teeth before he strode to the door and called for the jailers.
He waited until they had come back and refastened the gag, and then, drawing off his glove, struck the man the world knew as his son across the face.
In French he said, “If we ever meet again, you are at liberty to call me out for this. But I do not think that we shall.”
Outside the night air was clean and cold as the duke of Royse climbed into his carriage where his brother sat anxiously awaiting him.
“Well, Leo? Dammit, man, you had me worried when you took so long! And it’s a deucedly cold night too—a good thing I thought to bring my flask of brandy with me. Well, what happened? You look like the devil himself.”
“And so I might be called, by some! But I have decided what must be done and left instructions with the warden.”
Lord Anthony cast his brother a doubtful, sidelong look.
“Pitt’s letter helped, eh? Thought it might. He’s the real ruler of England now the king’s health is failing. But you were saying—”
“You did not let me finish, Tony. But yes, the earl of Chatham was good enough to give me carte blanche in the handling of this unfortunate affair, along with the expression of his fullest trust.” He sat back, relaxing against comfortable velvet cushions as he pulled the fur lap robe up over his knees. “Tomorrow afternoon at precisely two o’clock our five rebels will be permitted to take one turn about the exercise yard, at a time when all the other prisoners are already locked back into their cells. And at about two minutes after the hour they will be taken and impressed into the Royal Navy—a not unusual happening in many of our prisons both here and in Ireland, as you know.”
“By George!” Lord Anthony breathed admiringly. “Damn me, Leo—I always knew you had a devilish, devious mind! So there’ll be no trial after all, eh? And no scandal, thank God!”
“And our young rebel,” the duke added silkily, “will serve His Majesty for a change.”
PART ONE
1
The small Carmelite convent, white-washed walls almost hidden by the tall trees that surrounded it, stood like a miniature oasis on the dusty, arid road to Toledo. Like the royal estate at Aranjuez, which lay nearby, it was watered by a thin artery of a stream that branched off the Rio Tajo.
Sometimes, when one of the more adventurous young females left in the care of the good sisters was daring enough to climb atop the thick stone walls, she would see around her, shimmering endlessly under the sun, the arid brown and ochre plains of the Spanish province of Castile. How hot and desolate the countryside looked! And especially from the convent walls, where one had only to turn one’s head to see everything green—the shade trees, the fruit trees, and the carefully tended vegetable gardens. A peaceful place, cut off from the world where so many unpleasant things took place. And it was quiet here, too, except for the times the nuns would raise their voices in songs of praise during the mass, or when the muted bells tolled. At this time in the afternoon, it was quiet enough to hear the droning sound of the bees as they gathered honey from the profusion of flowers that grew almost wild here, in the reverend mother’s own private garden. Walls within walls….
The young woman who sat on a stone bench beneath the shadiest tree in the garden wore the sober garb of a postulant. Her head was bowed, and she seemed to study her clasped hands, lying in her lap. From a distance, she presented a perfect image of piety and humility, but the reverend mother herself, turning back from her window with a sigh, knew better. She had sent Marisa outdoors into her own private garden to meditate and pray for guidance, but she knew the child too well to be misled by the outward meekness of that bent head. No doubt the girl was dreaming of something else—new ways to show her rebellion, perhaps. Marisa had never learned true humility; and if she accepted discipline, it was only up to a certain point, and because she chose to for her own reasons. However, the letter that Mother Angelina had forced herself to read aloud that same morning must naturally have come as a shock. The child needed time to adjust herself to the thought that she was not to become a nun after all. Her father, it seemed, had other ideas.
“She’s so young yet,” mused Mother Angelina, “she will adjust. Perhaps it will be better for her this way. I was never really certain if she had a vocation or if she chose the cloister as a form of escape from all the ugly memories…. It is not right that a child, gently brought up and protected for all of her young life, should have been exposed to such horror….”
As the older woman’s thoughts turned back, so did those of the young girl in the garden. Far from being clasped together in meek submission, her fingers twisted against each other with a passion of rage she was unable to control; and her enormous, tawny-gold eyes were stormy.
She had tried to pray, as Mother Angelina had instructed her, she had tried to cleanse her mind of rebellious thoughts. But it was no use. Perhaps, after all, the discipline of the convent had never really left its mark on her recalcitrant nature. Humility, resignation, obedience, she could feel none of these.
Unwillingly, her thoughts flashed back to the morning, the usual routine being unexpectedly broken when she was summoned to the mother superior’s study.
She had hurried along the long, cold corridor in the wake of Sor Teresa, whose brown habit seemed to rustle with sour disapproval; Marisa cast back frantically in her mind for some small misdemeanor, some infraction of the strict rules.
But everything had faded away when she saw Mother Angelina’s kind, concerned face and the pinched lines around her lips.
“Sit down, my child.” Papers rustled on the small wooden desk. “I have just received a letter from your father. A special messenger brought it all the way from Madrid.”
“He—my uncle the monsignor has talked to him then? He’s consented?”
As usual, her eagerness had carried her too far forward, and she subsided into her chair, sitting very straight as she had been taught, trying to control her excitement under the shadow of the reverend mother’s frown.
The frown she was used to, but the sigh that suddenly escaped Mother Angelina’s lips made her wary.
“I’m afraid—you have to understand that God tests us in many ways. Your father—”
Marisa had not been able to prevent herself from interrupting.
“But I do not understand! Surely my father can have no objection to my becoming a nun? Why should he? If my uncle has talked to him—”
Oh, but it had been such a shocking, unpleasant interview! Mother Angelina, as upset in her own way as Marisa was, had taken refuge in unusual sternness, reminding her of the vows of obedience she had been willing to take.
Nothing could mitigate the shock of the contents of her father’s letter. For some time, Marisa could not bring herself to believe that she had heard correctly.
“Married? He—he has arranged a marriage for me with some man I have not even seen? Oh no. It cannot be true! I don’t wish to be married. I will not be married! I only want to become a nun, just like you. I don’t—”
Her defiant outburst had only brought what she thought of as “the sad look” to the reverend mother’s face; and after several stern admonishments Marisa had been sent out here, to her favorite place, to consider her “duty.”
Duty! It was too much to ask of her. To be married. Why couldn’t she have been allowed to find peace in a convent?
The thought of marriage and everything it entailed brought all the nightmares back. That night in Paris, during the height of the “Terror” as people were beginning to call it. Fleeing through the darkness, being only half-awake and trying to make believe that it was all an unpleasant dream—and then, suddenly, the flaring torchlights and the shouts and ribald laughter.
“Well, well! And what’s all this? Some more Aristos trying to escape Madame Guillotine? Who are you, eh?”
One man, saner than the rest, or perhaps, only a little less drunk, had laughed contemptuously.
“Have done, citizens! Can’t you see they’re only a scared band of gypsies? Hey, you—why don’t you show us some of your juggling tricks? Perhaps you’ll tell our fortunes—”
“Fortunes, pah! There’s a likely-looking wench there, with golden skin. Perhaps we should tell her fortune. What do you say, citizens?”
And she remembered Delphine, the woman who had taken care of her since she was a baby, thrusting herself forward, pushing Marisa away from her as she did. “You want your fortune told, handsome gentlemen? My mother is too old and sick in her head, you understand? And you have frightened my little brother with your shouting. But me, I’ll tell all your fortunes for a few sous. We are poor, hungry people. No one has any money these days, and that is why we’re on our way back to Spain….”
After that—no, she did not want to think of what had happened after that! At the time she had not understood. She knew only that the laughter and ribald talk of the men had turned into something else, and suddenly Delphine was screaming, screaming for them to go, to run away, even while they were ripping at her clothes, pushing her down onto the dirty cobblestones. Screaming—and suddenly, there was blood everywhere, and the men, caught up by their own animal instincts, were all clustered around the prostrate form of the woman they were using so callously, like the beasts they were. And Sor Angelina, as she had been then, dressed like a gypsy herself, had forcibly pulled Marisa away, making her run, run very fast, not stopping even when she stumbled and almost fell.
“Delphine sacrificed herself for you, child. For all of us. Would you have wanted her sacrifice to be for nothing?”
Told that over and over, she had tried to accept it. Dressed as a boy for her own safety during the long months that followed, she had tried to feel herself as nothing more than a ragged gypsy urchin. No, she did not want to be a woman—never, never to be used and torn to pieces that way. Perhaps maman was better off going to the guillotine with her other gay, brave friends, dying quickly and cleanly under the knife. Poor, weak maman, who loved the gaiety of Paris and had so many gallant admirers she had almost forgotten her daughter, tucked safely away in a convent, with only Delphine remembering to visit every week.
The first upheaval in Marisa’s life had been her removal from Martinique, where she had lived with maman’s family while her father was in Cuba. He had sent for them to join him, and Marisa could still remember how her mother had cried, complaining petulantly, “It was bad enough when he dragged me away to Louisiana—I lost two children there, you remember? The heat, the swamps and the loneliness, and the fever! And now it is Cuba. Cuba! No—I won’t go! He promised me Spain, and Paris—why shouldn’t I visit our relatives there? Everyone is there—even Marie-Josephe de Pagerie, who swore she would never leave Martinique. I must see Paris just once, at least, or I will stifle and die!”
Paris had been bleak and cold and wet. And Marisa had cried for days on end, longing for her old home and her handsome golden-haired papa, who had always made such a pet of her when he was home. Paris was not home—she hated the convent to which she had been sent to learn to be a lady. And she hardly ever saw maman any longer—it would all have been too much to bear if it had not been for Delphine.
Why hadn’t papa come after them? Why had he waited so long to acknowledge her existence?
“Your father was naturally upset when your mother ran off with you that way. And then, for so many months, he believed you were dead—killed, like so many others during the Terror. Child! You must try to understand that your father is doing what he believes best for you. He loves you—”
“If he really loved me, he would have taken the trouble to try and find me before. He would let me become a nun, as I wish to be.” Recklessly, in spite of Mother Angelina’s reproachful look, she cried out, “He doesn’t wish to be bothered with me any longer. Perhaps everything maman used to say was true, after all. She said he didn’t want her after a while, because she didn’t give him a son. She used to cry all the time because of the other women he had, even slaves. She said he had an octoroon mistress he loved better than her—”
Her almost hysterical outburst checked, Marisa had been dismissed. But even now, in spite of all her efforts, she found that she could not check her own wild, resentful thoughts.
Why couldn’t she have been born a boy? Why a female—slave forever to a man’s whims? Ah, for the freedom of those runaway days with the gypsies when she had been dressed as a boy and felt as free as a boy. In retrospect, the vagrant, vagabond life didn’t seem too unpleasant at all. She had learned to ride astride and to run barefoot over the hardest ground, and even to pick pockets without being caught. A whole year of freedom—and then another convent. But after a while, the atmosphere of peace and tranquillity had dissolved some of the tension in her thin, highly-strung body, and the nightmares from which she would wake, screaming, had grown less and less frequent. Marisa, the little gypsy rebel had changed into Marisa the postulant, desiring nothing more than to spend her life behind these quiet, safe walls, which had become her refuge.
And now, without warning, the peaceful future she had hoped for was to be snatched away from her. Without being consulted or offered a choice, she was to be sold into slavery. Yes, that was what it amounted to, after all!
A soft hiss made Marisa raise her head abruptly to meet a pair of coal-dark eyes that sparkled with mischief. Blanca! Only the gypsy girl would be so bold as to wander in here, of all places.
“Hah—innocent one! Are you dreaming of your handsome caballero? So you’ve changed your mind about becoming a sister like that sour-faced Sor Teresa, eh? But I don’t blame you. Me, I would do the same thing if I was offered a novio who is both rich and handsome. Muy hombre, that one. You’re lucky!”
“I don’t know what you mean!” But Marisa’s sharp rejoinder was almost automatic. Somehow, Blanca always contrived to know everything. Taking advantage of her privileged position as a protégée of the mother superior, she alone was free to come and go from the convent as she pleased; her father, when they were not travelling, desired that his only daughter be given an education. And since his tribe had saved the nuns’ lives, guiding them safely from a turbulent France to the comparative peace of Spain, Blanca’s intermittent, giggling presence within the otherwise quiet walls was tolerated—although some of the older nuns sighed over her wild ways and prayed for her soul.
There was a time when she and Marisa had been closer than sisters, and now even while she tried to frown, Marisa could not help letting her curiosity get the better of her. She repeated, with a forced air of indifference, “I don’t know where you pick such wild stories up. And you know you should not be here. If the reverend mother sees us talking, she’ll find all kind of penances for me to perform.”
Not in the least put off, Blanca merely gave a snort, putting her hands on her hips. “Ah, bah! You speak like a child who tries too hard to be good. And as for Mother Angelina, she is far too busy entertaining two visitors to worry about us just yet! You see—you cannot hide anything from me.” Her voice dropped, and she thrust her face closer to Marisa’s, her black eyes narrowing slyly. “What do you want to wager that you’ll be sent for again? I’m sure your fine new novio will want to take a look at his little convent bride. Didn’t you hear the bell at the gate?”
“What?” Marisa’s eyes had widened, and her voice sounded faint.
Blanca giggled, pleased at the effect of her words. “You look as if you are ready to faint with fear! What’s the matter, little one—have you forgotten what a man looks like? But I do not think you will be too displeased with this one. Your padre made a good choice; you’re luckier than most, you know!”
Her self-control seemed to fall away as Marisa jumped to her feet, golden eyes narrow, hands clenched into fists at her sides.
With a pleased grin, as if her baiting had been meant to provoke just such a reaction, Blanca danced back on her bare feet, her voice still taunting. “What’s the matter? Have I made you angry at last? I thought you’d be grateful to be warned beforehand that he’s here—your new novio and a friend. He must have been impatient to catch his first glimpse of you, don’t you think?”
“No!” And then, more strongly, “No, I tell you! I won’t be married off like—like some chattel! I don’t care how rich he is, or how handsome—I detest him already. I won’t see him! I’d rather kill myself than—”
“And here I was wondering if they’d got to you, after all. The good sisters, with all their preaching of humility and obedience and—” Blanca made a grimace “—discipline. Look at you! Why, you had begun to look like one of them already, wearing those clothes, your hair hidden as if you’d already lopped it off. When I told Mario, you should have seen his face! ‘What a waste!’ he kept saying. And he was so furious that my father should have brought you here and let you leave us. ‘She was born to be a gypsy,’ he kept saying. But me—” Blanca gave her companion a considering look, her head on a side, and giggled again. “Me—I think you are stupid! I saw him, this novio of yours, and he’s handsome. Tall, and well-dressed, for all that he has a friend who’s a popinjay. Perhaps he’ll wake you up, eh? I think this is what you need, to be made aware that you are a woman, and not a—a soul!”
“Oh! My soul is lost already. I’ve tried so hard to be good and to curb my temper and my wilfulness—but what good has it done me? No wonder Mother Angelina kept asking me so solemnly if I was sure I had a true vocation! Blanca, I won’t be married off, do you hear me? Go back and tell them you couldn’t find me anywhere—that I’m sick—or—or run off somewhere. I won’t see him! I’ll not be put on exhibition like a mare up for sale at a horse fair!”
Blanca’s dark eyes were crinkled to avoid the sun so that it was hard to read any expression in them.
“We are leaving tomorrow, all of us, for the big feria in Seville. You know my father is the best horse-trader in the country—everyone says so! And after that, we might travel back to France. Things are different now, so I hear. They have become gay again. That’s what I really came to tell you. Perhaps, when you’re married, your husband will take you there.”
Gold eyes stared into black ones—the two girls were almost the same height, but Blanca’s figure was more voluptuous, her simple skirt and blouse exposing bare ankles and tanned arms—the swelling curve of her well-developed breasts rising from the low-cut bodice she wore. Marisa, covered from waist to ankle, was slim enough to pass for a boy, her only redeeming feature being the dark-lashed yellow-gold eyes that looked enormous in her pinched, taut face. Beside Blanca, whose cloud of black hair fell down past her shoulders, Marisa would always look pale and insignificant, until, as she did now, she pulled the severe white head scarf off, and her hair, the color of antique gold, reflected the sunlight.
