Viva Jacquelina! (24 page)

I stand and step out of the tub. Ramona hands me a towel and the door opens and Amadeo walks in.

“Amadeo!” I exclaim, clutching the towel to my chest.

“Good afternoon, my lovely one. We lack only a seashell on which to place your delicate little foot and the tableau will be complete. We don't really need the angels, do we?”

“Please leave, Amadeo. You are embarrassing Ramona and you are making me
very
uncomfortable.”

“But why,
mi querida?
” he asks, smiling as he comes over to me.

“Because I am naked, that's why,” I reply, stating the obvious. “You must go.”

“But, Jack-ie, I have seen you in that state almost every day for the past many weeks. Somewhat drier, I will admit, but still the same. Come, little one.” He puts his arms around me and pulls me to his chest. “I beg but a kiss.”

Heavy sigh...
You know it's your own fault that you get in situations like this, girl.
You should be much more restrained in your taking of pleasure.
I will try to remember that in the future...
But it was just a few caresses and gentle kisses on the balcony in the moonlight . 
.
 . that was all.

“That is different, Amadeo,” I say, rigid in his embrace. “That is work, what I do to earn my keep. This is... personal. It is real life. Please let me go.”

He stands back, perplexed.

“But you came to us as a tramp. You have free-and-easy ways. You pose before us in the nude. You must have had many men. Why not me?” His face assumes that hurt look that boys put on when they think someone else is getting something from a girl that they are not.

“I have not had
any
men. Not in the way you mean.”

“I do not believe it,” he replies, his face dark now.

“I do not care if you believe it or not. It is the truth. And I am not a tramp.”

“What are you, then?”

I puff up and my anger overcomes my good sense as I say, “My name is Jacky Faber, Lieutenant in His Britannic Majesty's Royal Navy. I have served at the Battles of Trafalgar, Jena-Auerstadt, and Vimeiro! I have been dispatched as an undercover field operative to Madrid to gather information that might be useful in the fight against Napoleon! That's who I am, Amadeo Romero.”

“Of course you are,” he says, laughing at what must be a joke, and his disbelieving laughter defuses the tension in the steamy room. “I am sorry to have disturbed you, Señorita. I did not understand. Adiós.”

He bows, turns on his heel, and walks out.

Hmmm . 
.
 . I could have handled that better, for sure . 
.
 .

 

I spend the rest of the afternoon at guitar practice in my room, needing a bit of privacy after what happened earlier. Everyone needs to cool off a bit, even me. Paloma is visiting her family, so I'm not disturbing her with my endless repetitions of musical phrases and figures.

I'm about to pack it in and head down to dinner when there is a light tapping on the door.

“Come in,” I say, wondering who it could be.

Amadeo pokes his head in and says, “Pardon, Señorita. Do not be alarmed. May I enter?”

“Yes, of course, Amadeo,” I say, rising from my bed, where I had been sitting. If I am to endure another wrestling match with an amorous male, I certainly don't want it to be on a bed.

“Again, I apologize for my behavior today. It was rude and not worthy of you.”

“Oh, don't say that, Amadeo. You must know I like you
very,
very much. It's just that... Oh, I can't explain,” I say, knuckled fist to mouth, big eyes tearing up.

“You do not have to explain,
mi querida.
However, by way of making it up to you, I wish to present you with this.” Saying that, he reaches out in the hallway, pulls in a stretched canvas, and hands it to me.

I gasp to see that it is his painting of me as The Naked Maja, glowing in the waning light of the day. It is plain that it has been freshly varnished to bring all the rich colors back to their original brilliance. The golden figure fairly bursts with vibrant life.

“Oh, Amadeo, it is magnificent! You cannot—”

“Yes, I can, Jacquelina. It will give me great pleasure to know that you shall have it in your possession.”

“Oh, thank you,
mi amigo.
I shall treasure it always! Here, let me hang it on my wall!”

I go to my wineskin, which hangs on a hook, and pull it off and fling it to the floor. I hang the painting in its place.

“There! Is it not wonderful? You are verily the Prince of Painters! A kiss for you on that, my prince!” I get up on tiptoes and plant one on his cheek. “Thank you for that, Amadeo... and thank you for... understanding.”

He nods and gives me back a kiss of his own, on my forehead. Then he turns to regard the painting.

“So. We have had
The Clothed Maja,
and then
The Naked Maja
...” he says, smiling on me. “And now we have
La Maja Virginal,
do we not not, my dear?”

Yes, we do, oh yes we do!

 

Later, as I lie abed, I gaze up at the painting, gently illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the window.

What would you think of that, Jaimy? I hope you will like it, but I suspect you might be scandalized. Why don't we make a copy of it for your mother, hmmm? Now, Lord Richard Allen, you, I know, will like it, you dog, and I hope you are recovered enough now to enjoy it.

Where shall I hang it? Perhaps in Amy's lovely little room at Dovecote? No, I am sure that Randall would steal it, his love of Polly Von notwithstanding. Hey, maybe I could get Polly to pose for me and we shall make a
La Maja Cockney
for the randy lad. I am sure she would do it.

On the wall of my cabin on the
Lorelei Lee?
No, I'm afraid it might destroy discipline. Hanging in the tea room of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls? Oh, sure . 
.
 . Mistress would faint and Clarissa would draw a mustache on it.

Ah-ha! I have it! Over the bar at the Pig and Whistle for all to enjoy. That's it! Perfect!

Let all lift their glasses and toast
The Virgin Maja!

Hear! Hear!

James Emerson Fletcher
House of Chen
Rangoon
Burma

Jacky Faber
Madrid, Spain

 

Dearest Jacky,

In the early evening, before going in to dinner, I usually bathe in the turquoise pool and Mai Ling and Mai Ji rub the soreness from my shoulders and back.

Yes, that is the usual routine... but not today.

Today Sidrah enters the bathhouse bearing a silver platter and on that plate is a letter.

“The ship from Britain has arrived, Jay-mee,” she softly says. “And this is a letter for you. I hope it brings you good news.”

I am out of the tub in an instant and, sitting on the edge of the pool, I rip open the letter and read...

John Higgins
Horse Guards Barracks
Lincoln Fields
London
September 1, 1808

 

Mr. James Emerson Fletcher
The House of Chen
Rangoon, Burma

 

My dear Mr. Fletcher,

It is my most sincere hope that this letter finds you in good health and restored spirits. I will now relate to you the happenings as regards our Miss Jacky Faber since your rather hurried departure from Britannia's shore.

After seeing you off safely in the care of Mr. Chen, both Miss Faber and I were assigned by Naval Intelligence to the staff of General Arthur Wellesley, recently embarked to Portugal to take command of British forces in the fight against Napoleon on the Iberian Peninsula.

We arrived, in the company of Cavalry Captain Lord Richard Allen, with whom you are acquainted, I believe, in time for the Battle of Vimeiro.

Miss Faber was employed as messenger and liaison between the high command and various partisan fighters. She emerged relatively unscathed from the fight, but I regret to report that Captain Allen was grievously wounded in the field and was sent back to England, under Miss Faber's orders, to be placed under the care of Dr. Stephen Sebastian.

After the battle, Sir Wellesley was relieved of command and replaced by several generals superior to him in rank but much inferior to him in experience and skill on the battlefield. Before going back to England to contest his demotion, he, having already discerned Miss Faber's considerable abilities, bade her go to Madrid, under the protection of one of the more prominent guerrilla leaders, a Pablo Montoya, to gather information about the French occupation of that city for when he would return to command and continue the war against Napoleon.

She agreed to that and set off in the company of what I perceived to be some very rough fellows. I was forbidden to accompany her, and was sent back to England to continue on Wellesley's staff. Her entourage, however, was ambushed by the French, suffering heavy losses, and Miss Faber was separated from her escort, feared lost, and not heard of for some time.

However, I am pleased to report that some reports have been coming out of Madrid, and it appears that Miss Faber is the one sending them. One of the missives had a small anchor drawn over the letters JMF in the margin, so I knew that it was she. It is plain that she did manage, on her own, to get to that city and establish herself in the studio of a well-known artist. She has managed, against all odds, to actually get into the palace of the usurper, King Joseph, and supply critical intelligence to our operatives. She does have her ways, as I am sure you will agree.

Apparently, General Wellesley felt it best that she stay in place for the time being, but rest assured, Mr. Fletcher, that should the situation change, we will bend every effort to bring her out.

I am glad to report that Captain Richard Allen is recovering nicely under the care of Dr. Sebastian. He continues to improve and is hard to restrain.

Should you be recovered—that is, of course, our fondest hope—and should you wish to return to England, I counsel extreme caution. Miss Faber's fanciful plan to substitute Flashby for the Black Highwayman worked in the short run—and Mr. Flashby did spend some very unpleasant time in Newgate—but it will not work in the long. He is already out of prison and back with Naval Intelligence. There was no way to prevent it—Flashby does have his supporters.

Long story short, when you come back, I suggest deep disguise. Please, Sir, no barging in, swinging your sword, and calling for Flashby's blood, as is your usual wont. Caution, please, I implore you.

I hope I have brought you some comfort with this letter. I am, always . 
.
 .

 

Your Most Obedient Servant
John Higgins

 

“Is it good news about our Lotus Blossom?” asks Sidrah, as I fold the letter and put it back on the tray. “This one hopes so.”

“Yes, dear Sidrah,” I reply. “It is. She still lives and is abroad in the land of Spain. I must go to her.”

“I know, dear Jay-mee, but you must listen to Father first. Shall we go to dinner?”

Indeed we shall, Sidrah, but there are passages from the letter that make things boil inside me—“In the company of Lord Richard Allen” is one, and “Captain Allen is recovering nicely.”

Yes, Master Chang, I know, I know. The anger, the jealousy, the rage, must be put aside... but... but...

I must get back!

 

Yours, but with teeth clenched,
Jaimy

I'm at the kitchen table with a chopping board, bottle of brandy, a small goblet, and a saucepan. Studio time is over for the day and dinner has been served and cleared away, and I'm trying a bit of an experiment. Late evening sunbeams still stream through the kitchen windows as Ramona fusses with hanging up her precious copper pots, their bottoms once again all nice and shiny.

I take two of my dried-up mushrooms and chop them into tiny pieces. They are quite leathery, but they do mince up easily. I dump them into the low saucepan and add a bit of water from the pitcher that always stands on the sideboard. I stick the whole mess on the still-hot cook stove and wait for it to come to a boil. When it does, I give it a bit of a shake and see that the contents have turned a deep purple.
Hmmm . 
.
 .
I recall there was a lot of purple haze on that particular, and very peculiar, afternoon in the company of Brother Bullfrog and his brethern.

“Still hungry, Jack-ie?” asks Ramona. “There's some bread and cheese in the cupboard.”

“No, dear, and thanks,” I reply. “I'm just doing a color experiment. Maybe I'll come up with a new pigment for Maestro Goya. Who knows?”

She shrugs, and finished with the final cleaning of the day, she wipes her hands on a dishrag and goes off.

I take a sniff of my brew—but not too big a sniff, believe me—and it just smells, well, mushroomy.

I take my pan off the stove to cool and pull a tea strainer off the wall rack and place it over a clean wine glass. When the contents of the pan are tepid, I pour it all into the strainer—a pure, clear, purple liquid drips down and fills the bottom half of the goblet. I give the stuff up in the strainer a bit of a squeeze with my fingers and I get a few more droplets.