The Spanish Marriage (2 page)

Her first thought, after her astonishment, was that he was the
most handsome man she had ever seen, a hero from the pages of the novels of
which Silvy so deeply disapproved. Not a bright, fair-haired hero; this man was
dark, brooding, with black hair tumbled over his high, dirty forehead; he had a
long nose and a shapely mouth, a narrow, determined chin. Certainly, she
thought, if he opened his eyes, they would be black and filled with secret
sorrows.

“Owwrch.” The man was shivering convulsively.
That was what made the brush rustle so.

Heedless of the danger in attending a lone man here, out of
sight of the convent, and quite careless of the damage to her habit, Thea
clambered into the ditch and knelt beside the man. He did not have the look of
a peasant, nor even that of a Spaniard. His clothes were rough, dirty, and
torn; about him, there was an almost unbearable smell of sweat, sickness, and a
trace of stale drink. Her first thought was that he was drunk, but she
remembered too well from her father how a man deep in his cups smelled, how he
acted; there was something much worse than drink to blame for the stranger’s
stupor. Tentatively, she reached to touch his forehead.

“Angel.” She drew her hand back, startled. “Can’
be angel. Not f’ me. Wunnever bleeve it.” His eyes had opened quite
suddenly. They were blue, not black, and hazy with fever. “Are you an
angel or not?” he demanded quite clearly—and in English. Then he
gave a convulsive shudder and fell back again.

“Sir?” She shook him gently, but there was no
response. “Sir?
Diós,”
she muttered to herself. He was
English; her heart had lifted momentarily at the sound of those few crisp, deep-voiced
words. Here was a gentleman, whatever his dress. Thea was appalled by the
stench when she leaned close; his forehead was burning hot, and, when she
brushed the hair back, she was sickened by the sight of a deep gash smeared
with blood and obviously infected. “My God.”

What to do? Tell Mother Beatriz? Or simply fetch Manuel Ortiz,
the man who was porter for the nuns, and have him bring the man up to the
convent? He was as English as she herself was; she could hardly permit him to
stay in the village where he might be discovered by the authorities. However,
Mother Beatriz would fret, worry about the danger to the House, and by the time
she made a decision, the stranger could well be dead.

“Sir?” she tried again.

Her voice or touch roused him a little. He opened his eyes and
really seemed to see her this time. “Adele?” He was squinting; Thea
realized that she must be framed against the sunlight, her face indiscernible. “Not
Adele,” he added with a feverish chuckle. “Nor an angel either, but
closer.
Lo siento, hermana. Estoy enfermo.”
His accent was
dreadful.

“Can you walk? Please, sir, I can take you to the
convent, if you can walk.”

“English? Must be an angel after all.” He peered
up at her face, grimacing as he shifted positions to see her better. “Go
away, little Sister. Dangerous companions....” He closed his eyes and
seemed to be drifting toward unconsciousness again.

“Sir?” There was desperation in Thea’s
voice. “Please, sir, can you stand up?”

The stranger’s eyes opened again, unseeing. “Adele?”
he asked again. “Bitch,” he said, and he fainted dead away.

Nothing Thea could do would rouse him this time. He lay there,
pale under the grime and sunburn, shivering in the noonday sun. There was no
way to bring him to the convent alone. As she sat back on her heel and tried to
think, he groaned again. Rising clumsily to her feet, Thea looked around her,
then hitched up her skirts and ran for the convent.

o0o

Sister Maria Trinidad would not dispatch Manuel to the man
without Mother Superior’s approval. “And she is in the chapel with
the Sacristan and must not be disturbed,” she added. “These are dangerous
times, child. Harboring an Englishman, if that is what....”

“Is it any worse than harboring an Englishwoman?”
Thea asked impatiently. “Sister, if something is not done for that poor
man soon, he’ll die. I vow I will put on my English clothes and ride into
the village on a donkey and announce....”

“Hush, child, don’t speak foolishness. As if the
villagers did not understand who you and Doña de Silva were. You keep up this
masquerade against strangers—French soldiers. A stranger and a man? Where
would we put him?”

“In the guest house,” Thea suggested logically.

“Inside the House?” Sister Maria Trinidad was
shocked. “And who would nurse him, if he is sick as you say? Manuel is
not a nurse, and
two
men inside the enclosure....”

“
I
will nurse him then. I helped to nurse
Silvy, Doña de Silva. Even Sister Juan Evangelista would tell you....”
Seeing a trace of softening in Sister Maria’s eyes, Thea dropped to her
knees and took the nun’s hands in her own. “Dear,
kind
Sister,
let me do this. I’m half mad for occupation since Silvy is well again.
Truly, the man will die if we don’t help him.”

Sister Maria Trinidad regarded Thea with troubled eyes. “I
will talk with Mother, child. Wait here.”

So Dorothea waited. It seemed to her, as the minutes
stretched on and on and her concern for the handsome stranger in the orchard
grew, that Mother and Sister Maria must be talking over a great deal more than
whether or not to aid a stricken traveller. Half an hour passed before Sister
Maria Trinidad reappeared, puffing slightly after the rapid descent from the
upper hall.

“I have sent for Manuel,” she began. “You
must meet him by the gate and show him where the stranger is. And yes, you will
have to help in nursing him. He will stay in the cottage past the gates. Sister
Juan has gone to make all ready. Please, Señorita Dorotea.” She stumbled
over the name as all the nuns did. “Be careful what you say to him and
what you say to Manuel and to anyone else about him. These are perilous times.”

Restraining the urge to say that she
knew,
that she
was not a child, Thea thanked the nun, curtsied, and was halfway down the hall
before Sister Maria Trinidad could reply, her skirts looped up scandalously so
that her ankles showed as she ran down the stairs toward the garden door.

Manuel was waiting for her by the orchard gate. He was a short,
smiling, brown man with bad teeth, who felt himself honored by God to be porter
to the Sisters. He was a little baffled by the little one who was not a Sister
but who wore the habit, who gave orders like an Hidalga but barely came up to
his shoulder. “The Sister said there was a
man,
Señorita?”

“Just past the stand of trees, Manuel. And you must swear,
on the lives of your children, on the Virgin, that you will never tell anyone
about him. We have to hurry.”

Manuel had stopped, hand over his heart. “I would
never do anything to hurt my Sisters,” he began, his tone heavy with
wounded dignity. “You think I cannot be trusted!” He turned and
made as if to return to the village. Frantic, Thea grabbed his arm and turned
him around again.

“How could I doubt you, Manuel? I apologize, but I am so
frightened for this poor man. I know you are as trustworthy as an angel of the
Lord, Manuel. I do! Please, we must hurry!”

Mollified, Manuel set off again, looking at Dorthea slyly from
the corner of his eye. “A man, Señorita?” he asked. “A lover?
If the Sisters found that out....” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
Thea controlled the urge to scream at him.

“It’s a stranger, Manuel. I never saw him
before. He is dreadfully sick. Sister Maria Trinidad said it would be ungodly
to deny him help.” She used the Cellarer’s name for effect. Manuel
had a healthy respect for Sister Maria Trinidad’s authority.
“Please, he’s just a poor, sick man who needs our help. Me, what
would I do with a lover here?” She gestured at the convent walls.
“A fine time we’d have of it; can you imagine?” Evidently he
could; after a moment Manuel gave a slow snicker and grinned at her. Thea
pushed him onward. “Just a stranger,” she repeated again.
Just
the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life,
she added to herself,
though
what that’s to the purpose I don’t know. Probably a villain, too...
and then:
I wonder who Adele is?

o0o

It took all of Manuel’s strength and Thea’s
considerable ingenuity to get the man back to the cottage by the gate. Sister
Juan Evangelista and two novices had cleared one of the two tiny rooms out and
settled a fresh straw pallet on the bed. The room smelled dusty and damp; the
earthen floor had been freshly swept: there were bundled rushes by the door,
ready to spread under foot.

Heedless of Thea’s protests, the women left the cabin
while Manuel stripped the man and put him to bed.

“I’m not saying that I should be the one to
help,” she fretted impatiently, “but Manuel is not strong enough to
move the man safely by himself.”

“It is not to be thought of, Señorita,” Sister
Juan admonished. “A young unwedded woman...it is not possible. Trust the
Lord. Manuel will do well enough.”

“Mother is asking for you, Señorita,” Sister Maria
Trinidad added quietly. The Cellarer had come up behind them silently, and her
voice made Dorothea jump.

“But the man....”

“Will be attended to. Señorita de Silva wishes to
speak with you.”

Something in the nun’s flat tone disturbed Thea.
“Silvy is all right, isn’t she? Nothing is wrong with Silvy?”

“Wrong? No, child, but go to her. The man will be
attended to: you have my word. There are some things of which we know more than
you. One,” she added dryly, “is obedience, I think. When you have
spoken with Mother and with Señorita de Silva, and have taken time to eat and
to wash and, I think perhaps, have stopped in the chapel for a few minutes to
re-collect yourself, then you may sit with him.”

Thea knew better than to resist. “Yes, Sister. I’ll
be back then.”

Sister Juan smiled. “I don’t doubt it.”

It had been midday when she found the stranger; now, walking
the path through the convent gate and crossing into the courtyard, Thea
realized that hours had passed. It was late afternoon. She entered the guesthouse
attached to the cloister and went down the corridor to the rooms she and Silvy
had occupied since their arrival. In her own cell she hurriedly scrubbed her
feet and hands, relishing the cool water against her dusty skin. It was useless
to worry about her hair, crushed under the wimple and veil, but she tried to shake
out most of the dirt from the hem of her skirts. Then she went next door to
speak with Silvy.

The older woman’s cell was as plain as Thea’s—a
cool, whitewashed room furnished with cot, cupboard and
prie-dieu.
Where
Thea had cheered her small space with objects of her own, Silvy’s room
remained bare, austere. Silvy was seated in the changing light of the afternoon
sun, her long, mournful face oddly gray and pulled. The skin around her lips was
white and ridged, her brows drawn down in a frown of pain kept carefully
controlled. Thea saw it all as if for the first time and swept across the room
to kneel at Silvy’s feet.

“What happened? Silvy? You look terrible. Are you ill again?
Mother....” She turned to the door as the Mother Superior entered the
room. “Tell me what is wrong with her.”

A cold hand took one of Thea’s own in its grasp.

Silvy said, “Nothing is wrong, Dorothea, only I am
tired, a little. Now. Tell me about your stranger.”

Undistracted, Thea turned again to the doorway. “Mother,
will you tell me?
She
won’t.” Silvy’s fingers pressed hers,
and Thea squeezed back, angry and frightened, seeing the look exchanged by her
duenna and the nun. “All right, then, don’t tell me. You’ve
been fretting yourself over me, and I won’t have it, Silvy. I’ll
find out what this is....”

“In the meantime,
hija,
the stranger? Mother
and I are waiting to hear about the man you found.”

Mother Beatriz teased gently, “You must admit it is
not every day that a man appears swooning in our orchard, Dorothea. Unmonastic,
you would say.”

Reluctantly Thea returned Mother Beatriz’s smile and
began her story anew. She kept Silvy’s hand in her own as she spoke. “He’s
a gentleman, Silvy, an Englishman. I would vouch for it on my honor. He was
hurt. He has the most horrid gash across his forehead, and his feet were
bleeding as if he’d walked for miles. He thought I was an angel.”

“When he knows you better he will certainly revise his
opinion,” Silvy murmured. A little of the bluish tint had left her lips,
and her smile was gentle and amused. “Do you wish to play nurse again,
Dorothea? You must recall that you are a
lady,
that you are Ibañez-de
Silva—”

“And Cannowen!” Thea added.

“Yes, and that too, I suppose.” The duenna sighed.
“Now you wish to go back to your patient. I wish we knew more of this
man, but I suppose that, if he lives, he will tell us. Ask permission of Mother
then, child, and eat something, for heaven’s sake.”

“Sister Maria Trinidad left word in the kitchen that
you would come down to fetch bread and milk for your supper, child. Take your
time. Certainly your stranger is not going anywhere for a time. Run along.
Slowly.”
This was said as Thea rose precipitously in her heavy robes.

This time she did not stop to hear what the Superior and
Doña de Silva were saying of her; in a moment she was down the hall, and she
turned the corner so quickly she almost overturned one of the Sisters carrying
a bucket of water. She made a hasty apology and dashed down the stairs toward
the kitchen.

In Doña de Silva’s chamber the Mother Superior and
Silvy were talking about Dorothea, and about the stranger. They reached no
conclusions. “If he is, in truth, English, it may be an omen of sorts,”
Silvy said reluctantly. “Perhaps I should send Dorotea home to England.
If her grandmother saw the child was without
me....”