(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale (8 page)

Opposite the entrance door was another, white-painted, and beside it a window barred by a grille covering a closed shutter.

"Wait here; be seated," said my guide. "The Reverend Mother will speak to you shortly," and she left me.

I was unable to sit down. I paced about on the slippery stone floor, trying not to trip on the rush mats. I felt sick with suspense.

About half an hour passed. Down below in the town I could hear church bells ringing for evening Mass; also factory whistles and the clang of iron foundries.

By and by the portress reappeared, escorting a lady, handsomely dressed, heavily veiled, who sat herself down on the settee, bowed her head, and began telling the beads of a superb gold-and-ebony rosary. She took no notice of me, so I thought it polite to avert my eyes from her. I could hear the regular click of her beads though, and a rustle of rich silk when she moved. In a brief scrutiny as she entered I had noticed how fine and stylish she was, in her velvets and laces; she made me feel shabby, though I had dressed myself as neatly as I knew how.

Every time the lady moved, a faint musky perfume drifted my way—very different from my great-aunt Josefinas lavender water!

After another interminable period of waiting, during which the lady devoutly told her beads and I perched myself uncomfortably on a bench, gazing at St. Martin, a small bell rang once, sharply, and, with a loud clack, the shutters were folded back behind the iron grille. On the far side appeared the figure of a nun, in a black habit with a white headcloth. Her face was elderly, sharp-eyed, much wrinkled, and reminded me not a little of my great-aunt Isadora; I supposed that she was the Mother Superior.

I rose silently, and bowed.

In a dry, severe voice, she demanded, "Are you Felix de Cabezada y Brooke?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

"You are taller than I had been led to believe," she said in a tone of suspicion.

Was I expected to apologize for my added inches? I did not know how to reply, therefore remained silent.

I had moved toward the grille when the shutters opened, and now could not see the woman with the rosary, who was behind me; I did not know what notice, if any, she was taking of this exchange.

The nun reflected. Next she seemed to beckon. Another white-robed form came into view, then quickly moved back out of sight.

The elderly nun said, not to me, "Is that person Felix Brooke?"

After an infinitesimal pause a quiet voice answered, "Yes, Reverend Mother."

Had that been the voice of Juana? It was so soft, barely above a whisper, that I could not be certain. Nobody else in this place had known me before, though. It
must
be Juana.

I clenched my hands together.

The nun went on interrogating me.

"You have been informed of the purpose for which you were summoned?"

She addresses me as if I were a servant, I thought, with some resentment. Come here; go there; do this; do that. I was not summoned, I was invited. And no word of thanks for my speedy response...

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

"You have seen the letter that was sent to the Conde de Cabezada and are acquainted with its contents? And his reply?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

"You are prepared to undertake the rescue of the three unfortunate children of Manuel de la Trava, and remove them from the custody of their evil and demented father?"

I felt like saying, Señora, for the chance to get another sight of Juana, I would be prepared to liberate Don Juan himself from the clutches of Mephistopheles, but contented myself with replying, for a third time, "Yes, Reverend Mother."

"It is well. By God's grace this mission will be achieved. Have you any scheme in mind for how it is to be undertaken?"

Rather taken aback, I answered, "No, señora. It would be idle to make any plans until I am furnished with information about where the man has taken refuge and how he is armed. And what state of mind he is in."

She nodded, slowly, twice, as if moderately satisfied with this reply.

"Have you a companion with you? Where are you staying?"

I told her that I had brought Pedro Gonsalez, assistant to my grandfather's steward, and named our posada.

"Humph ... You don't have expensive tastes, I see. Just as well. And what have you been doing with yourself, during the years since you were able to be of assistance to Señorita Esparza?"

A little surprised, I answered staidly that I had been studying law, history, and literature at the University of Salamanca.

"At Salamanca?" she said as if this were news to her. "Who were your tutors there?"

This is uncommonly like the Inquisition, I thought; and decided that if women were permitted to hold positions in the Holy Office, Mother Agnese would make an excellent member of its tribunal.

"Professor Lopez de Haro—Professor Enrique Mores—Professor Redmond."

She pressed her lips and frowned as if she could not recall any positively harmful information about these men, and rather regretted that this was so.

"I see ... And what will you be doing with yourself when your studies are completed?"

What is that to your purpose, you old hag? I felt like asking. What has all this to do with the rescue of the de la Trava children? But, trained by years of politeness to my great-aunts, I answered, "I may very likely travel to England, señora. To visit once more the estates of my English grandfather, the Duke of Wells." And what possessed me to reply thus, I cannot imagine, for I had no such intention, not the least in the world. Perhaps I said it
because
it was the very last thing I planned to do—since I had taken a strong dislike to the Reverend Mother and felt, instinctively, that she was a meddler, an organizer, one from whom plans had best be kept hidden lest she remake them to suit her own ends.

At all events, the introduction of my English ducal grandfather into our conversation certainly gave her a surprise; I saw her eyes open wide, under the snowy headband.

"Indeed?" she said slowly. "That I did not know..." with a degree of displeasure, as if persons employed to furnish her with information about me had signally failed in their duty. Maintaining a very solemn and serious demeanor, I gazed back at her while she sharply scrutinized me.

"You have an English tide?"

"Yes, señora—in that land I am the Marquess of St. Winnow."

She tapped thoughtfully with her nail on the white-painted sill of the window. Then, apparently making up her mind, said, "Go away now, Señor Brooke, and return at this time tomorrow. I shall need to take advice.

Wonderful! I thought. Is there someone to whom even this dry old vulture turns for counsel?

Perhaps it might be God, of course.

Feeling horribly disappointed and thwarted, I would have liked to ask, Señora, may I not have a glimpse of Sister Felicita?

But instinct again warned me that would be a very, very unwise thing to do. So I merely bowed, and was retreating to the door, when the Reverend Mother added, "You may escort Señora de la Trava back to her residence."

These words nearly startled me out of my skin. I had assumed that the well-dressed lady telling her beads on the settee was some unrelated visitor on some other errand.

She had risen also, and said to me softly, "If you would be so good as to wait for me a short moment outside—" then turned for some low-voiced consultation with the nun. I walked into the passage wondering what I was supposed to do.

"Escort Señora de la Trava back to her residence," the Reverend Mother had said.

Looking out across the courtyard I could see the rain still pelting down. Was I expected to walk with the lady through the deluge, or must I run down into the town and somewhere find her a sedan chair? My education at the University of Salamanca had not taught me how to deal with problems of this kind.

In fact the solution proved simple. "When the lady joined me, it turned out that she had left a wet umbrella in the corridor. With this I was permitted to shelter her across the courtyard; and outside the gate a handsome carriage was waiting for her.

"I should be very glad, Señor Brooke, if you would give me the pleasure of your company to my parents' home," she said. "They wish so much to meet you. We have all heard about the gallant cavalier who rescued my cousin Juana."

A fat coachman had jumped off the box and opened the door. He took the umbrella from me and guided the lady across the cobbles as if she had been made of sugar icing. Then, when she was seated inside, he held the door for me.

Very reluctantly I climbed into the carriage, unable to think of any polite excuse for refusing. But I was hot with embarrassment. At eighteen one is not pleased to be complimented on actions undertaken when one was thirteen. And that journey had been a private transaction between myself and Juana; I did not like to think that it had been talked about by others. Of course I had told Grandfather about it, but that was different; he had received a letter of thanks from Juana's uncle, so all I did was confirm the letter.

"When did you last see your cousin, Doña de la Trava?" I inquired, in order to say something, as the horses moved forward.

"Oh, it was at least three years ago. When she was staying at her house in France, settling the affairs of her brother who died. Poor little Juana! She was so young to inherit all those cares."

She would have had even more cares if her brother had not died, I thought; since he had paid some brigands to abduct and murder her. Apparently Doña Conchita did not know that.

"I went to stay with Juana in France when my children Nico and Luisa were six and five. Ah, they loved her so dearly! The youngest was not yet born."

"Tell me about your children, señora," I said. "Why has their father abducted them?"

"The wretch! It is because he pretends to love them."

"Does he not do so really?"

"How can he? He is mad! A madman! He has threatened to do terrible things—he said he would kill us with an axe! I am so afraid of what he will do to my poor babies—"

I asked how long Don Manual had been like this, but she became vague. For a number of years, I gathered, he had steadily been growing more difficult, passionate, and ungovernable.

"And his opinions! So wild! And his behavior harsh to me—uncivil—savage to my friends!"

"Where were you living at this time?"

"In Madrid."

I asked if her husband had a profession, and she replied rather coldly that he had no need to work for his living, being a nobleman, Grandes de España.

"And then," she said, "after—after he had become too wild and unreliable to be endured any longer, he—he was arrested and flung into jail for his seditious political opinions. So I returned here, with the children, to my parents' house. But Manuel—but he managed somehow to escape from the prison; and he followed us secretly—and one day, when I was out and my parents were not at home—he—he took them—" Her voice trembled, and she touched a handkerchief to her eyes, under the veil.

"How long ago was this, señora?" I asked quietly, when I judged she had had time to recover herself.

"Two months ago."

"Two months—
ay, Dios!
" It had taken about four weeks, I supposed, for Juana to be transferred from Bayonne to Bilbao, and for me to be summoned from Salamanca. What had happened during the first month?

"Have you any idea where he has taken the children?"

"Somewhere in Aragon, I am sure. He went first to Berdun, where his brother lives, Don Ignacio de la Trava. But his brother would not permit him to stay in his house, and he wrote to me, telling that Manuel had been there. And then—then I had a letter from—from one of my children—"

The little sob she gave was very pitiful.

"Manuel kept them locked up. Would you believe? But a servant girl at an inn was sorry for them and permitted Luisa to write a note, and arranged for it to be sent."

Locked up, I thought. Heavens, what a situation.

"The girl is the oldest?"

"No, her brother is. But she writes better. Nico is slow—but a sweet, good boy," she added hastily.

"And the little one—the youngest?"

"Why, here we are!" she exclaimed. "How quickly Tomas has driven us."

It had been hard, in the dusk and the rain, to see which way we went. We had circled round the outskirts of the town, avoiding the center. Conchita's parents must reside somewhere out in the suburbs; I caught dim glimpses of what seemed a large new villa, set among flowering trees and shrubs. I was led through a lobby and a courtyard into a large salon filled with very handsome furniture. Compared with this place, I thought idly, my grandfather's rooms at Villaverde would seem sadly shabby. Everything here was new, glossy, heavy, and shining with gilt, varnish, or beadwork. At the end of the large chamber sat two old crumpled creatures like fat toads. Like toads' eyes, theirs did not blink as Conchita led me to them.

"Mama, Papa, here is Señor Brooke, who was so good to Juana—or, as he is called in England, Lord St. Winnow."

I bowed, they inclined their heads without speaking.

Doña de la Trava, meanwhile, laid aside her veil. Turning toward her, as she gestured me to a seat, I had a view of her face for the first time and was hard put to it not to gape like a clown. For she was the most beautiful person I had ever encountered, with perfect features, large dazzling black eyes, her face a faultless oval, and, above all, a skin of such pink-and-white velvety fineness and delicacy that one could only compare it, tritely, to the petals of flowers, white jasmine or geraniums.

"Do, please, be seated, Señor Brooke," she was repeating graciously.

Feeling curiously ill at ease, between her startling beauty on the one hand and the two old toads on the other—how could she possibly be their daughter?—I perched myself nervously on a gilt-and-satin chair. Servants offered coffee, small dishes of cakes and confectionary, and flasks of hollands, sirops, and cordials. I took a cup of coffee. I noticed that the old parents were helped to liberal drams of schnapps.

"Well, Conchita—can the young señor get your children back from that devil in human form?" croaked Señor Escaroz.