Lisbon (68 page)

“That was why I felt so close to you,” she gasped. “Ever since I came downstairs and saw you. But I never guessed, I only thought you reminded me of . . .
Oh, Mother, I have found you at last!”

And she went blindly into a pair of outstretched arms. After a long time during which they hugged each other and wept a little, Cassandra stood back and considered her mother critically.

“You look so young—I think that may be partly why I didn’t guess you were my mother,’’ she admitted. “But why didn’t you tell me at once? I had given up my foolish hope that you might still be alive.”

“I was debating whether I should tell you at all,” was Charlotte’s candid reply. “Life has taught me patience, Cassandra. Now, tell me, what of Phoebe?”

Cassandra thought it best not to tell the whole truth about Phoebe—at least not yet. “Phoebe married Lord Houghton, son of the dowager Marchioness of Greensea —oh, it must be six years now. She and Clive are residing in England.”
Unless they have fled to the colonies or somewhere else.
She did not say that, of course. “But what of you. Mother? Where have you been all these years?” What could Charlotte say to her, this daughter of dreams who had been wrenched from her so long ago? What could she say of those years in Spain?

Now, in this sunlit Lisbon cemetery, she looked into her daughter’s green eyes, Tom’s eyes looking out at her from Cassandra’s beautiful young face, and gave it a desperate try.

“Rowan tricked me into marriage. In his way, he loved me, and I think I loved him too—once. But Tom came back and I could not resist spending several days with him. Rowan’s jealous nature could not forgive that. He kept me imprisoned for years in that house on Nowhere Street. When I finally escaped him, I found another life entirely. There was no looking back.”

She
had
looked back, but pride would not let her say so.

“My father ...” Cassandra stopped in confusion. “I mean Rowan Keynes—he is dead, Mother.”

“Is he?” Charlotte no longer had any emotions left where Rowan was concerned. “How did he die?”

Cassandra shivered. “He and Yates were found outside his London lodgings one rainy night—victims of footpads, people said.”

Victims of their way of life,
Charlotte thought bitterly.
Those who live by the sword . ..

Cassandra moistened her lips. “Didn’t you care what 
happened to us. Mother? To Phoebe and me?” Her voice was wistful—not accusing, wistful.

Charlotte had been able to hear of Rowan’s death with equanimity, but that wistful note in her daughter’s voice tore at her heart.

“Of course I cared!” she said huskily. “But Rowan warned me that if I ever tried to get in touch with either of you
in any way,
he would turn you out on the street as beggars! I could not risk it.”

“It would have been worth it,” said Cassandra impulsively, “if it brought us a mother!”

But would you have thought that when you were hungry and cold, without a roof over your
 
head?
 

Charlotte’s 
eyes filled with tears. “I could not let him destroy you, Cassandra,” she choked, “as he destroyed me.”

Cassandra studied the elegant woman before her. She did not
look
destroyed. “This Spaniard you have married ...” she began.

“Carlos saved me from the law when I was about to be arrested for dancing on the street for coins. I had been badly treated in Lisbon and I fell ill—I was ill for a long time. Carlos nursed me back to health and we had a brief affair. Then ...” Her voice drifted off.

She could hear Carlos speaking to her again, not facing her, that day in the Algarve, after the doctor had left him. He had been leaning hunched over the railing of their balcony in the gathering darkness, looking out upon the almond trees, their blossoms like a drift of snow beneath a slender white moon.

He had looked young and defenseless standing there, this man who had brought her back to life with his kindness.

Stirred by sudden unease, she had asked him what was wrong.

He had straightened up suddenly, as if caught at something. He had told her that nothing was wrong, not to concern herself. But there was that in his voice that told her he was lying. She waited, and when he spoke again, his voice was wistful. His words rang in her memory, telling her that he was for Spain tomorrow, and that he wanted her to come with him—as his wife.

Charlotte had caught her breath. It was the first time Carlos had mentioned marriage. Before she could frame an answer, before she could tell him that she had responsibilities back in England, he spoke again, on a note of bitterness—telling her that it would not be for long, the doctor had promised him that.

That had shocked her. She had demanded to know what the doctor had told him. And listened in silence as Carlos coolly explained that the doctor had confirmed what Carlos himself had suspected—that the same malady that had killed his father was now visited upon him. Almost as if he were speaking of some other person, he told her that he would have a while yet. And then there would be a wasting away. And then he would become weaker and weaker, and then—he had grimaced at this point—he would die in great pain.

She had asked him unsteadily how long the doctor had given him.

Carlos had shaken his head and said the doctor could not be sure. But this doctor had attended his father at one time and he had confirmed that Carlos’ condition duplicated his father's. That cool voice was grave as he asked her to think, to consider, for as his widow Charlotte would have the law’s protection, but as his mistress, once he was dead, she would have none. If she would but marry him, he would know as he lay dying that she would be provided for, not hounded from town to town by his greedy nephews, who would seek to recapture after his death anything that he might give her.

Not long
. . . she saw that he had not long. Oh, life was so unfair! Don Carlos was the kindest person she had ever met. And now he was going to die. In great pain, the doctor had said.

She was deeply moved. She told him that he honored her too much and that there was something that she must tell him. What she wanted to tell him was that back in England she had a living husband and two small daughters for whom her heart longed.

But Carlos had refused to listen. He had hushed her, touching her lips with gentle fingers. There had been a 
dignity in him as he had bidden her to allow him his dreams, to let whatever was in the past stay in the past. Searingly she remembered his words:
We met by chance and we became lovers
.
God was merciful to a fool, and I could ask no more.
It hurt her heart to remember them.

Still she had felt she must tell him, and he had silenced her again, insisting that before she spoke she must first hear his own story. He had been married in his teens to a girl he scarcely knew. A girl who sat with him in brooding silence with her
duêna
beside her beneath the cork oaks in the sunny courtyard of her family estate, shredding the petals of the blood-red roses he brought her as proof of his love. Although she had seemed to scorn him, her father had assured Carlos that it was just his daughter s wild, high-spirited way, and Carlos had believed it. Her father had assured Carlos that after they were married Jimena would learn to love him. Carlos had believed that too. Oh, he had known that Jimena had had other suitors who serenaded the night away beneath her iron-grilled balcony, but he had never dreamt that Jimena was being forced to marry him.

At the words “forced into marriage," Charlotte's heart had given a lurch. Too well she remembered what it was like, being forced into marriage.

Jimena had been silent and pale throughout the ceremony, and when word came that her older brother had killed one of her former suitors in a duel, she had fainted. By then Carlos was half-drunk—with wine, with life, with the joy of having just been wed to the most beautiful girl in all Castile. His voice in the telling was now so grim that Charlotte leaned forward, hanging on his words. They had told him that Jimena was waiting for him in their bedchamber, and he had stumbled up the stairs joyfully to claim her. How eagerly he had parted the hangings of the canopied four-poster to view by moonlight his wondrous new-won bride!

Behind those hangings he had found instead a woman with a dagger plunged hilt-deep into her chest, a dagger still grasped by her own white hand, a woman whose blood flowed red as the roses across the white lace of her bridal 
gown. He had learned later that her lover had threatened to disrupt the wedding and abduct her. At that point her brother had challenged him to a duel and killed him. After that Jimena no longer wanted to live. And for a long time Carlos had not wanted to live either.

Listening, Charlotte had drawn a long shuddering breath.

He had looked past her, out into the distance, as he told her that for a long time he had forsworn women, that he had vowed never to marry again. All he could see before him when marriage was mentioned was Jimena lying pale in death, her red blood staining the marriage bed. The years had fled by for him while he played at love and resisted anything deeper, any real involvement, for he had felt cursed by heaven.

And then
she
had come into his life—and wrought a miracle in it. His tone had grown richer, deeper, as he told her that for him she had erased the past. So she would tell him no stories, he would hear no confessions. He had not long to live, and the one thing he asked of life was that she would do him the honor to become his wife.

How could she refuse? A few months more—and her children were being well-cared-for, the painted miniatures had shown her that. Carlos had given her back her life! She would stay with him, she would make his last months happy. He need never know about her past. . . .

She had moistened her lips and told Carlos that she would be
honored
to marry him, told him with such shining sincerity that he had enfolded her in his arms with a groan and held her as if she were the most precious treasure in all God’s universe.

Above them a single star had shone down, joining that slim silver scimitar of a moon.

Deeply moved, Carlos had held her, whispering her name.

There. It was done. She had accepted Carlos’ offer of marriage, she who had no right to love again. And she had tried not to look back.

But that night, staring up at the cold stars, she had felt her heart weeping.
Oh, Tom, forgive me,
she had whispered to a memory.

Now she looked into the clear green eyes of Tom's daughter, trying to make her understand, hoping she would forgive.

“Carlos took me to Barcelona and there taught me Spanish. He even bought a name for me. A friend of his was in dire straits. For a price, this man was willing to swear a written oath that I was the child of his dead sister, born on shipboard on the way to Cartagena. "

“Wasn't that an offense?" wondered Cassandra.

“Beyond doubt. Carlos gave me a new past. He created me Carlotta del Valle—Charlotte of the Valley. I chose the name as nearest my own maiden name of Vayle. With his help I pretended to a religion not my own and he married me in a great vaulted cathedral and took me out into the sunshine. Even then I could see that in the distance, clouds were forming in my life. I was a bigamist and a betrayer and I had walked into a trap of my own making. Carlos had made me promise to tell him nothing—and I kept that promise. But for me there was no going back. If I tried to contact my children—indeed if I so much as showed my face in England—Rowan could declare my present marriage invalid, and he could take me back. The courts would allow that. Worse, he might make good his threat to send my children out into the street to beg their bread. And always I cherished the hope that someday I would see you and Phoebe again."

Her voice was melancholy. “I suppose it is too late to ask you to forgive me for having abandoned you all these years?"

Cassandra had inherited a generous nature from both her parents.

“There is nothing to forgive," she said handsomely. And meant it.

“But what of Prince Damião? Are you in love with him?"

“No, there's someone else—someone back home.'' Cassandra thought of Drew and her young face saddened.

“Then why . . . ?" began Charlotte, perplexed.

“Oh, it isn't what you think, Mother." It was wonderful 
to be able to use that word again—it made her heart sing! “It is all a charade.” She told Charlotte about it.

Charlotte listened, frowning. “It is a dangerous game you play,” she warned when Cassandra had finished.

“I know, but it is only till All Hallows’ Day. Leeds says so. You saw him at the opera. He sat in our box. ”

“The tawny gentleman?”

“Yes—the attractive one.”

“He has led you into mortal danger,” observed Charlotte.

“But it is only until day after tomorrow. And besides, I have done my share of leading men into mortal danger, ” sighed Cassandra.
“And
getting them killed into the bargain.” Suddenly she was telling Charlotte about Ned, about the terrible duel in London, about Robbie—and about Drew. “So you see, I should wear a warning emblazoned across my bodice,” she finished bitterly.
“Stay away, for it is dangerous to love me!
”