Joan Wolf (7 page)

He greeted Nicholas with gentle courtesy. When they were seated in the shabby but comfortable study, the South American looked at Nicholas closely, his brown eyes searching. “So you are the husband of our little Margarita,” he said softly. His English was perfectly fluent, lightly accented. “I hope she is well?”

“She is well,” Nicholas answered. He stared back, unsmiling, at the Spanish American. “She asked me to call on you for the latest news from Venezuela.”

“Ah.” Andrés Bello shifted a little in his chair. “It is not good, Lord Winslow. The only positive thing you can tell Margarita is that Boves is dead. But so, alas, is Ribas. The only remaining Republican stronghold is Margarita Island. The Royalists hold the entire mainland.”

Nicholas frowned. “I know very little about the Venezuelan war, Senor Bello, and I don’t like to upset my wife by asking her. Who, for instance, is Boves?”

“Who is Tomas Boves?” Andrés Bello repeated, impassive. His voice had lost its gentle note. “You are right not to ask Margarita about Tomas Boves, my lord. Among other things, he killed her father.”

Nicholas made no answer, sitting quietly, waiting for the American to continue. After a moment
he did, looking tired and tense, and speaking with obvious restraint. “Tomas Boves was a smuggler who led the Royalist forces against the Republic. He was a man of unparalleled brutality. He loved cruelty. One of his favorite pastimes was to skin the feet of his captives and force them to walk on broken glass.”

“He was a smuggler?” Nicholas asked in a hard voice, after the other man had paused for a moment.

“Yes. He was jailed by the Republic for smuggling, and when he was released, he turned into its greatest enemy. It was he who raised the
llaneros.”

Nicholas’s brows snapped together. He recognized the word. “What are the
llaneros?”
he asked.

“Men who live on the
llanos.”
At Nicholas’s puzzled look he went on to explain further. “The
llanos
are the plains of the Orinoco valley. They are like the pampa of the La Plata: limitless grass steppes unbroken by trees. For thousands of square miles nothing grows except tough grass, as high as a man. It is one of the greatest pastures of the world and home to Venezuela’s great cattle ranches.

“The men who live in the
llanos
are tough, savage, warlike. It is a hard land to live in, baked by the sun for six months and flooded by hundreds of rain-gorged streams for the other six. Its inhabitants are jaguars, crocodiles, snakes, pumas, lethal insects -  and the
llaneros.

“Tomas Boves knew the
llanos
and knew that an army of
llaneros
was the kind of barbaric horde that would subdue Venezuela. The
llaneros
murder for pleasure and torture for pastime. Boves left a train of horror and blood wherever he went; women and children were the victims of his bloody diversions, as well as any captives he might take in battle.

“One of your wife’s brothers, Ramón, was killed at La Puerta last June. In that battle, Boves, with eight thousand men, caught Bolívar, who had only twenty-three hundred. Half of the Republicans were left dead on the field, including Ramón, who was acting as Bolívar’s secretary.

“In July, Valencia surrendered to Boves after a siege that lasted a month. They had no water and no food left. Boves promised mercy. He killed the siege’s leader, who happened to be Don Antonio Carreño, Margarita’s father. He then proceeded to annihilate the town.

“Boves then headed for Caracas, but all he found there were the old and the sick. Everyone else had left, fleeing with Bolívar to the coast rather than staying to face Boves’s tender mercies. Margarita and her brother Fernando were among the Caraqueños who went with Bolívar. In August, Fernando, the last living member of your wife’s family, was killed at the Battle of Aragua de Barcelona.

“Margarita was one of the few to make it to Cumana, where, thank God, your uncle’s English captain found her and took her off. On October 16, Boves occupied Cumana and cut the throats of everyone in the town, women and children included.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Nicholas. In the harsh light from the window, his face was as hard as stone. “I had no idea of any of this.”

“Venezuela is a small country, many thousands of miles away,” Andrés Bello said wearily. “You English have just concluded a war of your own. It is understandable that you do not know about what happened to us.”

“So it is over?” Nicholas asked carefully.

Andrés Bello’s face looked very stern. “It is not over. Nearly one third of our citizens may be dead, but one man is still alive. Tell Margarita that Boves is dead and Bolívar lives. He is in Cartagena and be will come again.”

“ Bolívar,” said Nicholas slowly. “Margarita said the same thing, that while Bolívar lives the Venezuelan Revolution is not dead.”

Andrés Bello’s face relaxed into a smile. “She is, after all, the daughter of Don Antonio Carreño. The revolution was plotted in the rooms of her house by her father and her brothers, among others. And Margarita herself was instrumental in the expulsion of the captain-general in April 1810.”

Nicholas’s eyes were narrowed. “In 1810,” he said, “my wife was twelve years old.”

“I know.” Andrés Bello’s smile softened even further. “The loveliest child in all South America, she was, the little Margarita. Half the young men in Caracas were simply waiting for her to grow up.”

“What happened in 1810?” Nicholas asked patiently.

Andrés Bello leaned a little forward. “There were a group of us gathered in the Carreño house in Caracas; many of the members of the Caracas Cabildo—the town council, you would say—were there. The royal family had been deposed in Spain, you understand, and we were deciding what we should do: denounce Napoleon and declare our allegiance to the Spanish monarchy, or declare our independence.

“In the middle of the discussion the door opened and Margarita came in, carrying a pitcher of cold juice. I remember how Don Antonio put his arm about her waist and said, half-jokingly, “And you, little one, do you feel allegiance to the King of Spain?’

“She looked back at him very gravely. ‘Why should I feel allegiance to the King of Spain, Papa?’ she answered. ‘I am not Spanish. I am American.”

Andrés Bello leaned back and half closed his eyes. “I remember how we all sat there, silent, looking at that beautiful child. That afternoon—it was Holy Thursday—the Cabildo met with the captain-general. The result of that meeting was that he was escorted down to La Guaira and put aboard a Spanish man-of-war.” He opened his eyes and looked directly at Nicholas. “And that is how, Lord Winslow, the first independent government in South America, came into being.”

Nicholas smiled a little. “ ‘And a little child shall lead them,’“ he quoted.

Andrés Bello looked pleased. “Precisely, my lord.”

“I am glad you told me all this,” Nicholas said. “It helps to explain a great deal about Margarita.”

“She has had a very terrible time of it, the little one,” Andrés Bello said. “And she had been so sheltered. Her father and her brothers would not allow the wind to blow too harshly on Margarita. You must try to be kind to her.”

“Yes,” Nicholas said briefly and got to his feet. “Oh, there is one more thing, Senor Bello. I promised her I would bring her back a guitar. Perhaps you might help me in this matter?”

“Certainly, Lord Winslow. I should be most happy to purchase one for you and have it sent to your house.”

They stood together in the doorway for a moment, Nicholas towering over the slender Spanish American. “If you should care to visit us at Winslow sometime,” he said, “we should be happy to see you.”

“Thank you, Lord Winslow,” Andrés Bello responded gently. “You are very kind.”

CHAPTER NINE

For I that danced her on my knee,

That watch’d her on her nurse’s arm,

That shielded all her life from harm,

At last must part with her to thee.

Tennyson

It was a thoughtful Nicholas who drove home to Winslow a few days later. An image of his wife’s young and guarded face was before his eyes, and the words of Andrés Bello were in his ears. “She has had a very terrible time of it, the little one,” he had said. “You must try to be kind to her.” Nicholas, rather surprisingly, had every intention of trying to be.

It was late afternoon by the time he reached Winslow. He found his wife in her sitting room. She rose when he came in and said softly, “Welcome home, my lord.”

He stood in the shadow of the doorway looking at her. “Did you get my letter saying when to expect me?”

“Yes. Thank you for writing.”

Her face looked very pale in the firelight, and there were shadows under her eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked abruptly.

“I am fine.” He came across to stand next to her and tipped her face up. She stood quite unresisting, looking up at him, waiting for what he would do next.

“You look tired,” he said.

“Perhaps I am, a little.”

He let go of her chin. “Come into your bedroom and see what I’ve brought you.”

Her dark eyes sparkled a little. “A guitar?”

“Come and see,” he repeated and stood aside for her to precede him.

Lying on her bed was a guitar. Next to it was a wine-velvet cloak. “Oh,” said Margarita softly. “For me?” At his nod she went over to the bed and picked it up. It was floor-length and fully lined with sable.

“Nicholas,” she breathed.

“That should help to keep you warm in this cold English climate.”

She came to him then and touched him lightly on the arm. He thought that she could not have ventured to touch a complete stranger more tentatively. “Thank you,” she said, and her grave face flashed for a moment its rare smile.

“You are most welcome,” he replied. “After dinner I expect a sample of that guitar.”

He had to postpone his guitar concert. Margarita was paler than ever at dinner, and although she made a pretense of eating, in actuality she consumed almost nothing. It was not until dinner was almost over that he noticed these things, having been occupied in giving her a strictly edited version of his visit to London. When dinner was over, he sent her to bed.

“You look exhausted,” he said to her in the drawing room. “You can try the guitar tomorrow. Go to bed and get some sleep.” His voice had a note of protective authority she recognized, and automatically, she obeyed.

After breakfast the following morning, he came back upstairs and tapped at her door. He wanted to take her to the stables to see the filly he had bought for her to ride. There was no answer, and he was raising his arm to rap more sharply when there came to his ears the unmistakable sounds of someone being sick. He opened the door and walked in. Margarita was bent over the basin on her nightstand, retching uncontrollably. He strode across the room and put an arm around her, supporting her against him. When the attack was over, he wiped her face with his handkerchief and lifted her back into bed.

When she was reclining against the pillows, he searched her face. It was pinched and sallow looking. Her eyes told him nothing, wide and dark and fathomless. “How long have you been ill like this?” he asked sharply. “I am going to send for the doctor.”

“There is nothing wrong. He has already come. I am going to have a baby, that is all.”

His eyes flickered with surprise. “A baby?”

“Yes.”

His finely cut nostrils were a little dilated. “When?”

“In October, I believe.”

“I see.” He looked at her in some concern. “Are you sick like that all the time?”

“It is worst in the morning. The doctor says that after three months it usually passes.”

“Three months!” He sat down on the side of the bed and picked up her hand. He stared for a moment at her wrist, exposed by the sleeve of her night dress. It looked so frail, so delicately veined and fragile against his own big hand. “A baby,” he said slowly. “I can’t quite take it in.”

She gazed at him for a moment longer with that unreadable face, and then she suddenly smiled at him. It was a smile he had never seen before and in her eyes were acknowledgment and recognition. “I know,” she said softly.

His hair had fallen over his forehead, like a schoolboy’s, and the line of his mouth as he looked at her was unexpectedly tender. “You stay in bed,” he said, and he did not mean it as a suggestion. “I’ll get someone to clean this up.” He rose from the bed. “Did you have Dr. Macrae?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll speak to him.”

“Yes.”

“Try to get some sleep.”

“I will try,” she said obediently and dosed her eyes. He stood looking for a minute at the dark lashes as they lay on her pale cheek. Quietly, he left the room.

* * * *

She insisted on dressing and coming down to dinner. He had protested when she first appeared, but she would not allow herself to be sent back upstairs. “I wish to join you at dinner,” she said stubbornly and he had acquiesced. It was as though she had set herself a standard of behavior and clung to it fiercely.

He watched her all through dinner. Everything about her was so delicately made: the straight, slender brows, the fastidious nose, the curves of her month. Yet her back, straight as a lance, never once touched the back of her chair. There was steel in that back, and endurance and strength. This small, slender girl had already in her short life shown a power of resistance and of survival far beyond what he had ever had to demonstrate.

After dinner he told her what Andrés Bello had said. “I am glad Boves is dead,” she said after a minute. “I would very much have liked to kill him myself.” The lines of her mouth were severe. She meant it.

“I heard something further,” he went on slowly. “Not from Senor Bello, from someone in the government. Spain is sending a great expedition against South America. It is to be commanded by General Morillo: five warships, over forty transports, and ten thousand soldiers was my information. One of the most imposing expeditions ever to leave a Spanish port. It may have sailed already.”

“Madre de Dios,” said Margarita.