Midnight Harvest (13 page)

“Yes, it is, but it can be to your advantage: Peter Whittenfield, Charles’ grandson, suggested the terms himself, to encourage a long tenancy; my solicitor handled all the arrangements, and will carry out any dealings you need to undertake about the property,” Saint-Germain answered, hoping to reassure her. “You also have the option of buying the property once you have lived there a decade, or any year thereafter until the twenty years are up. You may decide you want to remain there, and if you do, it would be prudent to buy the place.” He smiled at her, hoping to lessen her apprehension. “You won’t have to live in isolation; you can motor to London in little more than two hours, and there are four trains daily to Victoria Stati—”

“I only wish this weren’t necessary,” she exclaimed. “If you hadn’t been shot, I would never have considered leaving. But that bullet―” She stopped, staring at his right shoulder as if she could make out the fading pucker of his injury beneath his elegant dinner jacket and pin-tucked silk shirt. “I hate it that you were hurt.”

“I know,” he said.

“That scar is a constant rebuke to me,” she said in a muffled voice.

“It needn’t be,” he said gently. “You did nothing to cause it.”

“You can’t be sure of that.” She shook her head slowly.

“In another three months it will be gone,” he assured her.

She shook her head. “Not a wound like that.”

He touched her cheek, and held her eyes with his. “It will be gone,” he repeated; every injury he had received since he first came to his present life had left no marks on his body.

“I don’t like leaving you here; Ponce will be furious when he learns I have gone, and he will blame you if he learns anything about what you’ve done,” she admitted. “I feel ashamed of myself for abandoning you when you are risking more than I am.”

“Don’t fret on my account, Isis. I am making arrangements of my own. I’ll let you know as soon as they’re completed what I have done.” He took her hands and drew her close to him. “I will miss you, querida.”

“And I you, Comte; but I think it would be best for you to leave España, just as I am doing. We are at war, no matter how unofficially, and it is only going to get worse; it is becoming more evident with each passing day. Say what they will about seeking peace, the generals want war and they intend to have it. Isn’t there another house in Hampshire where you could go? It would be wonderful to have you as a neighbor.” She pressed her head against his shoulder. “How could they have allowed things to get so out of hand?”

“Because they—both sides—believe it will secure them an advantage, or assuage their fears,” said Saint-Germain with sudden weariness. He had heard such promises more times than he could easily recollect, and he had seen the same results in every case: ruin, misery, famine, destruction, displacement, and devastating loss. He would have stroked her hair, but it was sleekly and carefully coifed, held in place by two elaborate combs, and he did not want to disarrange it, so he caressed the nape of her neck instead.

“I can’t see how. Shooting people in the street. Blowing up buildings. Bombing villages. What are they thinking?” She had summoned up her indignation to bolster her flagging spirits and was now sufficiently outraged and frightened that she became embarrassed.

“You are sensible to go now, before there is more escalation of trouble.” He felt her shudder against him. “It isn’t easy to leave your native earth: no one knows this better than I. You have courage, Doña Isabel.”

Her laugh was shakily close to tears. “How can you say so? I feel as if I were made of aspic.” She moved back from him. “I shouldn’t be so restive, should I? I’m going to be safe soon, thanks to you: at least you have been willing to help me. Ponce has done nothing, just nothing. So far as he is concerned, I might remain here until the country is in flames. In fact, he may hope I will burn with it.”

“Perhaps he’s afraid,” Saint-Germain suggested.

“Everyone’s afraid,” she said, dismissing this.

“And I cannot dispute that,” he said, then offered her his left arm for support, adding in his most urbane manner, “Shall we go?”

“We will arrive early,” she said.

“So much the better. People will see us and remember that we were at the theater, which is what we want them to do.” It was awkward to open the door for her, but he managed; he escorted her across the lanai that served as the house’s inner courtyard, then out to the street where the Minerva waited. He settled her into the passenger seat, then went around to the driver’s side and slid in.

“I can’t believe I’m leaving for good,” she said, tittering nervously. “Nothing so much as a toothbrush with me.”

“Then don’t think about it,” Saint-Germain recommended as he pressed the starter and engaged the choke. “I have a Gladstone bag in the boot that will carry you through the next day or so. It has a heavy woolen coat as well as your puce suit and your ivory organza blouse, along with shoes, underwear, silk stockings, and toiletries you may need. I also took the liberty of purchasing mascara and lipstick for you, and a small flagon of scent; I thought you would like to have them.”

She gazed at his profile. “How providential you are,” she said at last, and sat back against the padded leather.

In a short while the engine was humming, and he turned on the headlights, put the handsome automobile in gear, and started down the street toward the center of the city and the cluster of buildings devoted to public use. Cardinal among them, El Teatro de las Artes Clasicas was a splendid structure, about seventy years old, and beautifully maintained from its nineteenth-century baroque columns to the bas-relief of dancing Muses over the main entrance. It boasted seating for 984 persons and three tiers of boxes all of which faced a cavernous stage that was the largest in the city. Tonight the resident company was performing
Juana la Loca,
a new play about the unfortunate sixteenth-century mother of Charles V and grandmother of Felipe II; it dealt with her obsessive passion for her dead husband, casting him as a malevolent character bent on her destruction. The work had already generated a great deal of controversy, which had resulted in an extension of its run.

“I love this place,” Doña Isabel said wistfully as they drew into the car park behind the theater. “I’m going to miss it.”

“No doubt; it is your home,” said Saint-Germain as he turned off the engine and set the hand-brake. “But there are theaters in London, and the ballet, and the opera. You will not have to languish.”

“So you say,” she rebuked him lightly. “My English isn’t very good. I may not be able to follow the performances.”

“I imagine you will discover new friends to explain them to you,” said Saint-Germain as he got out of the auto and went around to help her from her seat “You are an attractive woman of intelligence and charm with much to recommend you to anyone. You’ll have willing escorts in no time.”

She smiled up at him winningly. “You are so reassuring, Comte.”

“Thank you,” he replied, and bowed over her hand before securing the door behind her and offering his arm to her for the walk along the side of the theater to the broad steps in the front, where the first of the evening’s crowd was beginning to gather under the festive lights that adorned the elaborate facade. He took the tickets from his inner breast-pocket and presented them at the door.

“The second floor, the third box on your left,” said the bored usher, and gave his attention to the next patrons coming into the building.

“Conspicuous seats,” Doña Isabel whispered as they headed for the grand expanse of the stairway.

“So I hope. It is to our advantage to be seen. Let us stop in the gallery above; I will order champagne to be delivered to our box.” He smiled slightly. “That will also make it seem we will be here all evening.”

She lifted her hand to her lips as if to remind him of their precarious situation. “Don’t”

“No one is listening,” said Saint-Germain as they began to climb the broad curve of the stairs. “If we converse as the rest do, we’ll be safe for now.”

“But—” She did her best to look amused but there was a shine of fear in her eyes. “There are … you know …
listeners
everywhere.”

“So there are, but not in this theater, not yet. The audience is too sparse—spies stand out in thin crowds. In fifteen minutes, yes, we will have many persons mingling with the audience who are not here to see the play; just now, we are safe enough. You may speak freely, but softly.” He nodded to a stocky man in a well-tailored dinner jacket who was leaning on the gallery rail above them. “Buen’ anochecer, Señor Gusanavispa.”

“Buen’ anochecer, Conde,” the man replied. “A pleasure to see you.”

“And you.” The two men exchanged half-bows and Saint-Germain continued on toward the bar, murmuring to Doña Isabel, “He will tell everyone that he saw us tonight. Be cordial to him.”

Doña Isabel inclined her head to Señor Gusanavispa, saying quietly to Saint-Germain, “He’s a friend of Ponce’s.”

“I know,” Saint-Germain responded, and put his attention on the bar at the far end of the gallery. “Do you want something to eat?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I could keep it down,” she confessed. “Champagne will be sufficient.”

He squeezed her fingers with his free hand. “As you wish: champagne it will be.”

“How can you be so … so nonchalant?” she asked him, astonished at his composure. “Surely you must know that what we’re going to do is perilous.”

“It is a sensible thing to be; most of the audience is nonchalant, and we wish to be part of them,” he said, and raised his voice a bit “Champagne for Doña Isabel,” he ordered, and saw one of the waiters at the bar jump to obey.

“French?” the man asked.

“Of course. The best you have. Set it up in the box before the play begins.” He took a roll of banknotes from his pocket and peeled off three of them. “This should cover the cost and leave something for you, as well.”

“Comte,” whispered Doña Isabel, flattered and embarrassed by this display.

It was a handsome sum; the waiter grinned and pocketed the money. “Where are you sitting, sir?”

“Third box on the left,” Saint-Germain told him, and held out his ticket-stub. “Two glasses and a plate of canapés.”

Doña Isabel plucked at his sleeve. “Comte…”

“You may find you want a bite to eat, later on,” said Saint-Germain, and bowed slightly to an elderly couple in elaborate formal dress a decade out of style.

There were more than twenty men and women in the gallery, most of them eager to see one another and to exchange the latest rumors of the day; the buzz of their conversation echoed through the ornate corridors and over the expanse of the lobby. Doña Isabel looked about, half-curious, half-apprehensive. “Do you think there are going to be military men here for the play?”

“Certainly; very high-ranking ones,” said Saint-Germain without any loss of equanimity. “It is a grand occasion.”

“Doesn’t that trouble you?” she whispered.

“No, it reassures me,” he said. “Don’t fret, querida. It is to our advantage to be seen and watched just now.”

“Do you think they won’t notice when we leave?” Her question was urgent.

“No; I am going to half-draw the curtains on the box, and it will be assumed we are having an assignation, and when we leave—if anyone should notice—everyone will believe that we are going to indulge our passion. I am sorry to have to impugn your reputation, but I suppose it is better to have gossip circulating than to be arrested.” He lifted her hand to his lips and added gallantly, “I am the envy of half the men here tonight, I think.”

She accepted the compliment with a practiced smile. “You needn’t offer such fulsome praise, Comte. I may be nervous, but I know how to hide it.”

“That was never my concern,” said Saint-Germain, and turned to greet the formidable Señora Acerespada and her two handsome daughters.

Doña Isabel did her best to enter into the spirit of the evening, but it was an effort and by the time the chimes rang to summon the audience to their seats, she was feeling exhausted. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me: I hope I can stay awake,” she whispered to Saint-Germain as he guided her to their box.

“I’ll wake you when it’s time to leave,” he said, nodding to another acquaintance who was en route to a box farther on along the corridor.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” She stepped into the small chamber and found an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it waiting for them; two flutes stood on the minuscule table, a plate of canapés precariously balanced on the edge of it. “I’d almost forgot about this.”

Saint-Germain pulled the door closed and tugged one of the curtains half-way across the front of the box. “Sit down, Doña Isabel. Let me pour you a glass of champagne.”

“You won’t have any, will you? You never do.” She expected no answer and got none as she chose the seat on his left, and sank into its brocaded embrace with real appreciation. “This is very comfortable.”

“Then make the most of it,” he recommended as he loosened the guard on the champagne cork, took it off, and gave the cork a single, expert twist. He eased it out of the bottle and poured out the pale, foaming liquid into one of the flutes. “Here you are,” he said as the houselights began to dim.

She took the flute and sipped at it once, watching Saint-Germain as he put the bottle back in the ice, then sat down as the theater hushed. The champagne was very good; it lightened her heart just enough to make it possible for her to enjoy the performance. On impulse she took one of the canapés as the curtain rose on the court of Charles V. By the end of the act, she had eaten all but two of the delectable tidbits and was on her third glass of champagne, though she hardly felt its effects at all. Over the welling applause, she said, “It’s engrossing, isn’t it? And well-written.”

“It has a certain appeal,” Saint-Germain answered, and poured more champagne for her. “This will have to be the last: we will be leaving in half-an-hour.”

“The intermission is twenty minutes,” she said, a bit disappointed, for they were often longer.

“And ten minutes after the second act begins, we will leave,” he reminded her.