Читать книгу Wicked Loving Lies - Rosemary Rogers, Rosemary Rogers - Страница 9

The small Carmelite convent, white-washed walls almost hidden by the tall trees that surrounded it, stood like a miniature oasis on the dusty, arid road to Toledo. Like the royal estate at Aranjuez, which lay nearby, it was watered by a thin artery of a stream that branched off the Rio Tajo.

Sometimes, when one of the more adventurous young females left in the care of the good sisters was daring enough to climb atop the thick stone walls, she would see around her, shimmering endlessly under the sun, the arid brown and ochre plains of the Spanish province of Castile. How hot and desolate the countryside looked! And especially from the convent walls, where one had only to turn one’s head to see everything green—the shade trees, the fruit trees, and the carefully tended vegetable gardens. A peaceful place, cut off from the world where so many unpleasant things took place. And it was quiet here, too, except for the times the nuns would raise their voices in songs of praise during the mass, or when the muted bells tolled. At this time in the afternoon, it was quiet enough to hear the droning sound of the bees as they gathered honey from the profusion of flowers that grew almost wild here, in the reverend mother’s own private garden. Walls within walls….

The young woman who sat on a stone bench beneath the shadiest tree in the garden wore the sober garb of a postulant. Her head was bowed, and she seemed to study her clasped hands, lying in her lap. From a distance, she presented a perfect image of piety and humility, but the reverend mother herself, turning back from her window with a sigh, knew better. She had sent Marisa outdoors into her own private garden to meditate and pray for guidance, but she knew the child too well to be misled by the outward meekness of that bent head. No doubt the girl was dreaming of something else—new ways to show her rebellion, perhaps. Marisa had never learned true humility; and if she accepted discipline, it was only up to a certain point, and because she chose to for her own reasons. However, the letter that Mother Angelina had forced herself to read aloud that same morning must naturally have come as a shock. The child needed time to adjust herself to the thought that she was not to become a nun after all. Her father, it seemed, had other ideas.

“She’s so young yet,” mused Mother Angelina, “she will adjust. Perhaps it will be better for her this way. I was never really certain if she had a vocation or if she chose the cloister as a form of escape from all the ugly memories…. It is not right that a child, gently brought up and protected for all of her young life, should have been exposed to such horror….”

As the older woman’s thoughts turned back, so did those of the young girl in the garden. Far from being clasped together in meek submission, her fingers twisted against each other with a passion of rage she was unable to control; and her enormous, tawny-gold eyes were stormy.

She had tried to pray, as Mother Angelina had instructed her, she had tried to cleanse her mind of rebellious thoughts. But it was no use. Perhaps, after all, the discipline of the convent had never really left its mark on her recalcitrant nature. Humility, resignation, obedience, she could feel none of these.

Unwillingly, her thoughts flashed back to the morning, the usual routine being unexpectedly broken when she was summoned to the mother superior’s study.

She had hurried along the long, cold corridor in the wake of Sor Teresa, whose brown habit seemed to rustle with sour disapproval; Marisa cast back frantically in her mind for some small misdemeanor, some infraction of the strict rules.

But everything had faded away when she saw Mother Angelina’s kind, concerned face and the pinched lines around her lips.

“Sit down, my child.” Papers rustled on the small wooden desk. “I have just received a letter from your father. A special messenger brought it all the way from Madrid.”

“He—my uncle the monsignor has talked to him then? He’s consented?”

As usual, her eagerness had carried her too far forward, and she subsided into her chair, sitting very straight as she had been taught, trying to control her excitement under the shadow of the reverend mother’s frown.

The frown she was used to, but the sigh that suddenly escaped Mother Angelina’s lips made her wary.

“I’m afraid—you have to understand that God tests us in many ways. Your father—”

Marisa had not been able to prevent herself from interrupting.

“But I do not understand! Surely my father can have no objection to my becoming a nun? Why should he? If my uncle has talked to him—”

Oh, but it had been such a shocking, unpleasant interview! Mother Angelina, as upset in her own way as Marisa was, had taken refuge in unusual sternness, reminding her of the vows of obedience she had been willing to take.

Nothing could mitigate the shock of the contents of her father’s letter. For some time, Marisa could not bring herself to believe that she had heard correctly.

“Married? He—he has arranged a marriage for me with some man I have not even seen? Oh no. It cannot be true! I don’t wish to be married. I will not be married! I only want to become a nun, just like you. I don’t—”

Her defiant outburst had only brought what she thought of as “the sad look” to the reverend mother’s face; and after several stern admonishments Marisa had been sent out here, to her favorite place, to consider her “duty.”

Duty! It was too much to ask of her. To be married. Why couldn’t she have been allowed to find peace in a convent?

The thought of marriage and everything it entailed brought all the nightmares back. That night in Paris, during the height of the “Terror” as people were beginning to call it. Fleeing through the darkness, being only half-awake and trying to make believe that it was all an unpleasant dream—and then, suddenly, the flaring torchlights and the shouts and ribald laughter.

“Well, well! And what’s all this? Some more Aristos trying to escape Madame Guillotine? Who are you, eh?”

One man, saner than the rest, or perhaps, only a little less drunk, had laughed contemptuously.

“Have done, citizens! Can’t you see they’re only a scared band of gypsies? Hey, you—why don’t you show us some of your juggling tricks? Perhaps you’ll tell our fortunes—”

“Fortunes, pah! There’s a likely-looking wench there, with golden skin. Perhaps we should tell her fortune. What do you say, citizens?”

And she remembered Delphine, the woman who had taken care of her since she was a baby, thrusting herself forward, pushing Marisa away from her as she did. “You want your fortune told, handsome gentlemen? My mother is too old and sick in her head, you understand? And you have frightened my little brother with your shouting. But me, I’ll tell all your fortunes for a few sous. We are poor, hungry people. No one has any money these days, and that is why we’re on our way back to Spain….”

After that—no, she did not want to think of what had happened after that! At the time she had not understood. She knew only that the laughter and ribald talk of the men had turned into something else, and suddenly Delphine was screaming, screaming for them to go, to run away, even while they were ripping at her clothes, pushing her down onto the dirty cobblestones. Screaming—and suddenly, there was blood everywhere, and the men, caught up by their own animal instincts, were all clustered around the prostrate form of the woman they were using so callously, like the beasts they were. And Sor Angelina, as she had been then, dressed like a gypsy herself, had forcibly pulled Marisa away, making her run, run very fast, not stopping even when she stumbled and almost fell.

“Delphine sacrificed herself for you, child. For all of us. Would you have wanted her sacrifice to be for nothing?”

Told that over and over, she had tried to accept it. Dressed as a boy for her own safety during the long months that followed, she had tried to feel herself as nothing more than a ragged gypsy urchin. No, she did not want to be a woman—never, never to be used and torn to pieces that way. Perhaps maman was better off going to the guillotine with her other gay, brave friends, dying quickly and cleanly under the knife. Poor, weak maman, who loved the gaiety of Paris and had so many gallant admirers she had almost forgotten her daughter, tucked safely away in a convent, with only Delphine remembering to visit every week.

The first upheaval in Marisa’s life had been her removal from Martinique, where she had lived with maman’s family while her father was in Cuba. He had sent for them to join him, and Marisa could still remember how her mother had cried, complaining petulantly, “It was bad enough when he dragged me away to Louisiana—I lost two children there, you remember? The heat, the swamps and the loneliness, and the fever! And now it is Cuba. Cuba! No—I won’t go! He promised me Spain, and Paris—why shouldn’t I visit our relatives there? Everyone is there—even Marie-Josephe de Pagerie, who swore she would never leave Martinique. I must see Paris just once, at least, or I will stifle and die!”

Paris had been bleak and cold and wet. And Marisa had cried for days on end, longing for her old home and her handsome golden-haired papa, who had always made such a pet of her when he was home. Paris was not home—she hated the convent to which she had been sent to learn to be a lady. And she hardly ever saw maman any longer—it would all have been too much to bear if it had not been for Delphine.

Why hadn’t papa come after them? Why had he waited so long to acknowledge her existence?

“Your father was naturally upset when your mother ran off with you that way. And then, for so many months, he believed you were dead—killed, like so many others during the Terror. Child! You must try to understand that your father is doing what he believes best for you. He loves you—”

“If he really loved me, he would have taken the trouble to try and find me before. He would let me become a nun, as I wish to be.” Recklessly, in spite of Mother Angelina’s reproachful look, she cried out, “He doesn’t wish to be bothered with me any longer. Perhaps everything maman used to say was true, after all. She said he didn’t want her after a while, because she didn’t give him a son. She used to cry all the time because of the other women he had, even slaves. She said he had an octoroon mistress he loved better than her—”

Her almost hysterical outburst checked, Marisa had been dismissed. But even now, in spite of all her efforts, she found that she could not check her own wild, resentful thoughts.

Why couldn’t she have been born a boy? Why a female—slave forever to a man’s whims? Ah, for the freedom of those runaway days with the gypsies when she had been dressed as a boy and felt as free as a boy. In retrospect, the vagrant, vagabond life didn’t seem too unpleasant at all. She had learned to ride astride and to run barefoot over the hardest ground, and even to pick pockets without being caught. A whole year of freedom—and then another convent. But after a while, the atmosphere of peace and tranquillity had dissolved some of the tension in her thin, highly-strung body, and the nightmares from which she would wake, screaming, had grown less and less frequent. Marisa, the little gypsy rebel had changed into Marisa the postulant, desiring nothing more than to spend her life behind these quiet, safe walls, which had become her refuge.

And now, without warning, the peaceful future she had hoped for was to be snatched away from her. Without being consulted or offered a choice, she was to be sold into slavery. Yes, that was what it amounted to, after all!

A soft hiss made Marisa raise her head abruptly to meet a pair of coal-dark eyes that sparkled with mischief. Blanca! Only the gypsy girl would be so bold as to wander in here, of all places.

“Hah—innocent one! Are you dreaming of your handsome caballero? So you’ve changed your mind about becoming a sister like that sour-faced Sor Teresa, eh? But I don’t blame you. Me, I would do the same thing if I was offered a novio who is both rich and handsome. Muy hombre, that one. You’re lucky!”

“I don’t know what you mean!” But Marisa’s sharp rejoinder was almost automatic. Somehow, Blanca always contrived to know everything. Taking advantage of her privileged position as a protégée of the mother superior, she alone was free to come and go from the convent as she pleased; her father, when they were not travelling, desired that his only daughter be given an education. And since his tribe had saved the nuns’ lives, guiding them safely from a turbulent France to the comparative peace of Spain, Blanca’s intermittent, giggling presence within the otherwise quiet walls was tolerated—although some of the older nuns sighed over her wild ways and prayed for her soul.

There was a time when she and Marisa had been closer than sisters, and now even while she tried to frown, Marisa could not help letting her curiosity get the better of her. She repeated, with a forced air of indifference, “I don’t know where you pick such wild stories up. And you know you should not be here. If the reverend mother sees us talking, she’ll find all kind of penances for me to perform.”

Not in the least put off, Blanca merely gave a snort, putting her hands on her hips. “Ah, bah! You speak like a child who tries too hard to be good. And as for Mother Angelina, she is far too busy entertaining two visitors to worry about us just yet! You see—you cannot hide anything from me.” Her voice dropped, and she thrust her face closer to Marisa’s, her black eyes narrowing slyly. “What do you want to wager that you’ll be sent for again? I’m sure your fine new novio will want to take a look at his little convent bride. Didn’t you hear the bell at the gate?”

“What?” Marisa’s eyes had widened, and her voice sounded faint.

Blanca giggled, pleased at the effect of her words. “You look as if you are ready to faint with fear! What’s the matter, little one—have you forgotten what a man looks like? But I do not think you will be too displeased with this one. Your padre made a good choice; you’re luckier than most, you know!”

Her self-control seemed to fall away as Marisa jumped to her feet, golden eyes narrow, hands clenched into fists at her sides.

With a pleased grin, as if her baiting had been meant to provoke just such a reaction, Blanca danced back on her bare feet, her voice still taunting. “What’s the matter? Have I made you angry at last? I thought you’d be grateful to be warned beforehand that he’s here—your new novio and a friend. He must have been impatient to catch his first glimpse of you, don’t you think?”

“No!” And then, more strongly, “No, I tell you! I won’t be married off like—like some chattel! I don’t care how rich he is, or how handsome—I detest him already. I won’t see him! I’d rather kill myself than—”

“And here I was wondering if they’d got to you, after all. The good sisters, with all their preaching of humility and obedience and—” Blanca made a grimace “—discipline. Look at you! Why, you had begun to look like one of them already, wearing those clothes, your hair hidden as if you’d already lopped it off. When I told Mario, you should have seen his face! ‘What a waste!’ he kept saying. And he was so furious that my father should have brought you here and let you leave us. ‘She was born to be a gypsy,’ he kept saying. But me—” Blanca gave her companion a considering look, her head on a side, and giggled again. “Me—I think you are stupid! I saw him, this novio of yours, and he’s handsome. Tall, and well-dressed, for all that he has a friend who’s a popinjay. Perhaps he’ll wake you up, eh? I think this is what you need, to be made aware that you are a woman, and not a—a soul!”

“Oh! My soul is lost already. I’ve tried so hard to be good and to curb my temper and my wilfulness—but what good has it done me? No wonder Mother Angelina kept asking me so solemnly if I was sure I had a true vocation! Blanca, I won’t be married off, do you hear me? Go back and tell them you couldn’t find me anywhere—that I’m sick—or—or run off somewhere. I won’t see him! I’ll not be put on exhibition like a mare up for sale at a horse fair!”

Blanca’s dark eyes were crinkled to avoid the sun so that it was hard to read any expression in them.

“We are leaving tomorrow, all of us, for the big feria in Seville. You know my father is the best horse-trader in the country—everyone says so! And after that, we might travel back to France. Things are different now, so I hear. They have become gay again. That’s what I really came to tell you. Perhaps, when you’re married, your husband will take you there.”

Gold eyes stared into black ones—the two girls were almost the same height, but Blanca’s figure was more voluptuous, her simple skirt and blouse exposing bare ankles and tanned arms—the swelling curve of her well-developed breasts rising from the low-cut bodice she wore. Marisa, covered from waist to ankle, was slim enough to pass for a boy, her only redeeming feature being the dark-lashed yellow-gold eyes that looked enormous in her pinched, taut face. Beside Blanca, whose cloud of black hair fell down past her shoulders, Marisa would always look pale and insignificant, until, as she did now, she pulled the severe white head scarf off, and her hair, the color of antique gold, reflected the sunlight.

“You’re going to France? Oh, to be so free again! Whenever I see you, I start to realize that I’m like a bird in a cage.”

“Poor little bird!” Blanca repeated mockingly, softly. “But I hadn’t noticed that you were beating your wings against the bars of late. You seemed a happy prisoner!”

“It’s different—to choose your own kind of prison. I could have given myself to the church; it’s safe and comforting not to think for oneself. But I won’t give myself to a man!”

“You’re stupid! And besides, your father has already done so. If you won’t give yourself, he’ll take you, I’m sure. He looked like the kind of man who would not let anything stand in his way. Perhaps once you’ve seen him you’ll change your mind!”

It was all the reverend mother could do to hide her anxiety and her vexation behind the smooth, disciplined mask of her face when Sor Teresa had returned from her errand and whispered in Mother Angelina’s ear. So Teresa rustled out again, careful to avert her eyes from the two gentlemen who lounged at one end of the small room. Mother Angelina had to draw in a deep breath before she spoke.

“I am afraid the child is—a trifle upset. As I’ve told you, she was hoping to join our order. You must understand—first the shock of her father’s letter, and then your arrival here on its heels. If you’ll give her a few days in which to compose herself?”

The men exchanged glances. One of them raised a quizzical eyebrow, and the other shrugged impatiently, brushing at an imaginary speck on the sleeve of his blue velvet jacket.

“Heavens! I’d no intention of frightening my future bride into the vapors! In fact I must admit I’m almost nervous myself. By all means let her have time. My friend and I are on our way to Seville; we dropped in because it’s on the way, you know. Didn’t mean to cause any confusion. There’s plenty of time. I’ll be back in a month or so and that’ll give her time, won’t it? Clothes—and all the rest of it. I understand there are some aunts in Madrid who have promised to do the right thing by her—”

In the face of Mother Angelina’s disapproving look the other gentleman, who had remained silent so far, broke in suavely.

“I am sure, Reverend Mother, that what my friend means to say is that he had no desire to rush things. And I am sure that you will do whatever is necessary to prepare the young lady for the—er—change in her life. Your pardon for the unheralded intrusion—we should have known better, of course.”

Don Pedro Arteaga cast his friend a look of gratitude and quickly followed his example in rising to his feet and bowing formally to the reverend mother, who announced in stilted tones that the sisters were always pleased to offer the hospitality of the convent to travelers.

Outside the grey walls, shaded by trees, the manner of both men became almost lighthearted, as if with relief to be let off so easily. They quickly mounted their horses.

“Thank God you decided to travel along with me!” Don Pedro said feelingly. He shuddered. “I cannot imagine why I let my sister talk me into such a peculiar situation! A postulant-bride—I wonder what she looks like? If she was scared to death about meeting a man, I’m certainly glad we were able to put off meeting her! I quite dread coming back here, I tell you.”

His companion laughed harshly.

“Cheer up, amigo. Think of the pleasures that lie ahead of you. The duchess of Alba seemed fascinated by your tales of New Spain last night, and since she just happens to be visiting Seville herself—”

Don Pedro gave a self-satisfied laugh. “Did you notice that she almost ignored that painter fellow who’s always hanging around her? But you, my friend, had better exercise some caution where Her Majesty the Queen is concerned! I understand she goes after whatever or whoever she wants—and Godoy can be a dangerous enemy.”

“Ah, well!” The other gave a careless shrug. “Manuel Godoy can hardly look on me as a rival since I’ll be leaving within the next three weeks. And Maria Luisa will find another cavalier to flirt with in order to keep her lover on his toes!”

“It must be your confounded air of indifference, I swear, that attracts the ladies to you! While the rest of us play at being gallant, there you stand, your arms folded and that damned cynical smile on your face—I can’t understand it! Even my practical, icy-hearted cousin Inez, whom we had nicknamed ‘the cold unassailable’ almost threw everything away she had so carefully planned—and I, who know her better than most, could swear you hardly paid her any attention.” Don Pedro laughed, glancing sideways at his taller companion, who merely raised an eyebrow and made no comment. He rode his restive stallion as easily as if it had been a tame gelding, guiding it with one hand on the reins and the pressure of his knees. Like a vaquero, as Don Pedro had commented before.

Now, slightly annoyed by the lack of response in his friend, Don Pedro added slyly, “I wonder how my cousin took your sudden departure! After you’d fought a duel over her, and with her husband lying wounded in bed, I’m sure she must have expected you’d stay to console her. Don Andres—”

“Don Andres is to be your father-in-law, is he not? Perhaps you’d best not let your little bride-to-be find out you came to inspect her with the man who came close to killing her father. She might wonder!”

“I doubt if the frightened little chit is capable of wondering about anything except what it might feel like to be mounted by a man!” Don Pedro said brutally, giving vent to a burst of coarse laughter. He felt angry and frustrated that his dutiful visit to the convent, which had delayed his journey to Seville by several hours, had proved so fruitless. Trust Inez and Don Andres to saddle him with a sacred nitwit who had been planning to become a nun! No doubt she was ugly. If she took after her mother’s side of the family she was probably sallow complexioned and spoke with a terrible accent as well. And that stern-faced prioress had acted as if the girl needed to be protected from him. Damn! If not for the size of the dowry involved and the connections he needed to establish himself in New Spain, he’d have told them all to find another candidate.

“Be gentle with my daughter,” Don Andres had said feebly from his bed. “She has been through a great deal in France during the terrible revolution. Her mother went to the guillotine, and if not for the fact that she was still no more than a child, my little Marisa, too, might easily have lost her life.” His face had hardened, words trailing off. Catching the look in Doña Inez’s eyes, Pedro had made haste to assure Don Andres that he need not worry about his daughter’s happiness and well-being. But now—damn it all! Since he had come to Spain, he had realized how much of life he had missed being stuck away in the wilds of Louisiana, managing a run-down plantation. Right now, he didn’t want to think about marriage. His mind was full of thoughts about the fascinatingly beautiful and sophisticated duchess of Alba, who, it was rumored, had allowed her latest lover to paint her in the nude. And he was to meet her again in Seville….

Both men had fallen silent, wrapped in their own thoughts, as they skirted the grove of trees that shielded the convent walls and emerged at last onto the dusty ribbon of highway, beaten down by the passage of many other travelers on their way to Toledo. Neither of them noticed the two pairs of eyes that had watched them ride away.

“I hate him already! Which one of them is Don Pedro?”

Marisa had scaled the convent walls before but always furtively—and only high enough to barely peek over. Now, full of her new mood of defiance, she sat barefoot astraddle the very top of the wide stone wall, shading her eyes with her hand as she squinted after the small cloud of dust the two riders left behind them.

“The taller one, in the dark clothes. At least I am almost certain, for I only heard their voices through the door, you know—and Sor Teresa almost caught me listening!” Blanca, perched comfortably beside Marisa, gave a soft giggle. “He did most of the talking. When I dared peek once, the other one merely sat there chewing his nails. He looked tremendously bored!”

“Bored! They were laughing about their latest conquests just now—didn’t you hear? What fine caballeros, so puffed up with conceit! The one in blue velvet mentioned the duchess of Alba, and—do you suppose they were really talking about the queen? Oh, I can’t bear it!”

Marisa’s small face, looking thinner than ever amid the mass of her heavy hair, was flushed with anger. “They were disgusting—both of them! How could my father?”

“High time you grew up, niña! Men will be men, you know! And if you really hate the thought of marriage that much, maybe you’ll be lucky, and he’ll spend more time with his current mistress than with you! Or—” and Blanca winked broadly and maliciously “—can it be that you are jealous already?”

“You’ll find out how jealous I am! Oh, yes, and he will too, I swear! I’ll never marry a man like that. If they won’t let me become a nun then I—I’ll choose my own husband, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll teach all of them a lesson.”

Blanca stared. “You’re talking crazy now, like the sun has gone to your head. What do you think you can do about it? Even the reverend mother can’t help you now, and in the end you’ll have to give in. Maybe they’ll beat you and lock you up and starve you until you’re ready to agree to anything! I’ve heard of things like that!”

Marisa tossed her head defiantly, impatiently pushing the hair back off her forehead.

“Now you’re the stupid one! Do you think I’m going to submit meekly?”

“No?”

“No, I tell you! I have relatives in France. My mother’s sister, who married an English lord. And my godmother, too. If my own papa is so anxious to be rid of me, they’ll take me in, I’m sure of it.” She leaned forward suddenly, grasping Blanca’s wrist, her voice dropping into a thoughtful whisper. “Didn’t you tell me a little while ago that you were headed for France?”