Rondo Allegro (23 page)

“Look at the sun,” Parrette said suddenly, indicating the
fiery ball sinking beyond the Point. “And the docks are filling with soldiers.
We had better get back.”

It was true. Patrols marching purposefully this way and that
tramped along the docks and the wharf. The two women pulled their mantillas
tightly about their faces and toiled hurriedly back up the hill to their
lodgings.

It was a relief to shut the door; a tension she had hitherto
been unaware of loosened the back of Anna’s neck. She began humming her scales
to warm up her voice as Parrette rearranged her hair and pulled out her
costume.

The theater was small and beautifully appointed, built for a
select audience. M. Dupree called, “Places!” for a quick run-through, no more
than measuring the stage and warming their voices.

Anna turned toward her mark, startled as Therese stepped
forward confidently at the same time.

M. Dupree looked at her under his brows. “Mademoiselle Bernardo
will sing Argia this evening,” he said. “We will put forth our very best for
our countrymen.”

Therese bit her lip and flushed, for she had counted upon
something very different. Then she smiled her false smile. “Here am I, always
ready to do what I am asked!”

A short time after, Anna peered out from behind the theater’s
curtain at the rows of officers in their splendid coats, gold braid, and
glittering orders. The audience seemed to flicker like the river waters. It was
the constant, gentle movement of the ladies’ fans.

“Which is Villeneuve?” someone whispered.

“There.”

Anna directed her gaze back to the row of men in dark blue
coats. She was not certain which was Admiral Villeneuve, Commander of the
Combined Fleets, but she thought he might be the one in the center. He looked
odd, as if someone had pushed in his eyes, or maybe that was the bruised color
of exhaustion. His mouth seemed pinched.

Above and around him, the Spanish ship captains, dons all,
wore coats of satin and silk in a dark blue nearly black, very different from
the faded blue of the French, made even more glorious with sashes and orders
proclaiming their ancient lineage. She became aware of two distinct currents in
the quiet hubbub of conversation, Spanish and French. The lighter coats and the
dark sat in knots, with little or no interweaving.

Then the orchestra struck up the overture, and everyone
tiptoed hastily to their stage marks.

Among the French, Villeneuve, exhausted in mind and spirit,
closed his eyes, his pleasure derived mostly from the French-accented Italian.
It awakened his longing for home, though a home that was forever gone. Reality
pressed in, memory of Bonaparte’s latest dispatch, superseding all his previous
orders. He had begun to dread each new arrival carrying the imperial seal:
Bonaparte, though a genius upon land, knew nothing of the sea, and every new
set of orders demanded yet a new impossibility.

The opera came to its end. As the applause died away, M.
Dupree was called out. He accepted the thanks of the dons in his broken
Spanish, and the audience got up to leave.

Villeneuve also rose, but gave in to impulse. He waved an
aide to bring Dupree to him, and asked, “You are French?”

“But yes!” M. Dupree spread his hands, as if anyone could
doubt.

“Will you come to our lodgings in the castle, and give us
something French?” When he saw the doubt in M. Dupree’s face he said quickly,
“I care nothing for your stage settings. I long for the refreshment of my
native tongue.”

“We could give you
La
Caverne
,” M. Dupree said.

“La Caverne
.
”
Villeneuve shut his eyes. “Ah, one of
my favorites. Yes. Please.”

M. Dupree bowed as the admiral departed, then turned to
Pierre and began issuing rapid orders. So absorbed was he that he was unaware
of the surly expressions of the Spanish honor guard detailed to conduct the
French naval officers back to their temporary lodgings.

However, several of the others noticed, and looked about,
their reactions characteristic: Therese still irritated that she had not made
her promotion to Argia permanent; Paul Bisset skeptical, Madame and Lorette
uneasy, Ninon shrugging, and Jean-Baptiste with his expression shuttered. He
listened to the rapid conversations as he walked away, his childhood grounding
in Latin having aided him in grasping the Spanish language almost before anyone
else, though as yet he had seen no reason to admit it.

He could see that all was not well between the supposed
allies.

o0o

The next day, in a hall that had been cleared to
accommodate the French commander, the company performed
La Caverne
to the gathered French officers and a few favored guests.
Afterward, the entire company was invited to a repast.

The air filled with French conversation. The emperor—the
beautiful empress—Paris—all passed under review, no detail too exhausting, as
often happens among people a long away from home.

Drink flowed freely, and presently, Villeneuve, still
oppressed by Napoleon’s latest impossible orders in spite of the glasses of
excellent
tempranillo
he consumed, was
approached by one of the opera singers, a man whose carriage and accents did
not quite hide his aristocratic origins. “I perform under the name
Jean-Baptiste Marsac,” he said, and Villeneuve knew he had surmised correctly.

Villeneuve was glad to be diverted from his worries. They spoke
of wine, each appreciating the other’s knowledge, but when Marsac was reaching
to refill their glasses, Villeneuve sighed. “I ought not. Tomorrow I must carry
out an inspection, and it will be even less agreeable with an aching head.”

“Your ships, they are in readiness?” Marsac asked.

“The Combined Fleet is neither combined nor ready,”
Villeneuve said bitterly, to the empty glass in his hands. “We cannot careen
the bottoms, which are still full of seaweed from the West Indies. Some have no
extra sailcloth. Others suffer rotting futtocks, and we cannot get replacement
timber. Even the dons have had trouble, although their king has just given them
a letter of credit. Will that do
us
any good? No.”

He looked up, trying to blink the glaring halo away from the
lanterns. He spoke bitterly, quickly, anything to get away from the danger of
mentioning Bonaparte’s name. “The worst of it is these dons have little
interest in this war. The wharves are alive with English spies, more numerous
than the rats, but the Spaniards don’t do anything about them. They are too
busy brigging my own seamen, who merely show their resentment of the murder of
their mates by these Spanish dogs.”

“English spies?” Jean-Baptiste repeated.

“Everywhere. The English have been blockading for years. I
am convinced they know every cove and inlet better than the dons, and they land
their devils by the hundreds. If I could but catch one, no doubt I would obtain
a better list of our weaknesses than I will ever get marching around on
inspection, where every captain strives to hide the worst.”

Marsac had entered the conversation in hopes of sounding the
French admiral about the possibility of a letter of introduction to Bonaparte,
but the mention of spies prompted a malicious impulse. “One of our company is secretly
married to one of your English captains,” he said with a confiding air.

Villeneuve sat upright. “What?”

It was only an idle impulse, but the commander’s reaction,
his searching gaze and angry tone, made Jean-Baptiste almost wish he had not
spoken. Almost. “One of the women. You heard her sing this very evening—she
calls herself Anna Bernardo, though I have no notion what might be her real
name. Married to an English sea-captain, though she keeps it to herself.”

“How does she communicate with him?” Villeneuve asked,
frowning so terribly that Marsac sat back.

“I don’t know.”

“A woman.” Villeneuve sighed the word. “No one would
suspect. A million devils! I will talk to this woman,” he promised, his fury
finding outlet at last.

Jean-Baptiste shrugged. He knew very well that Anna Bernardo
was no spy. But she was a smug little coquette with her preposterous
honor my vows
. Let her get a little
fright. It would do her good.

Ever since their arrival in Spain, after each performance Anna
had begun drinking a glass of wine mixed with water. Consequently she was just
finishing, as Parrette shook out a gown to air for the morrow, when they heard
the rhythmic clump and clatter of a patrol marching along the tiled hall beyond
their door.

Parrette started, her mind going back to those terrible days
in Lyons, then she snapped the gown out, mentally scolding herself as she
waited for the patrol to pass.

But the footsteps stopped directly outside their door. Anna
and Parrette stared at each other, each about to speak, when a gauntleted fist
rapped heavily.

Parrette whisked the gown into its trunk, then opened the
door.

“Where is Madame Bernardo?”

“Here.” Anna set aside her wine glass and rose to her feet.

A thin young officer in an ill-fitting uniform stood
stiffly, blocking the doorway. He said in wretched French, “You must with me come.”

Parrette backed away, aghast. This was like the revolution
all over again: one day life is as normal, the next day the unthinkable occurs.
That mighty hilltop castle that they had seen all the way from the causeway had
looked from afar like a Spanish Bastille.

“Why?” she asked, standing in front of Anna.

“Espionage,” said the young officer.

Anna gazed witlessly. “Impossible!” Parrette tried to block
the pike-bearing men who tramped inside the little room. “You cannot! You must
speak to M. Dupree—he will tell you that is absurd.”

“I am a performer,” Anna said. “For whom would I spy?”

The men ignored Parrette, one handing her off impatiently.
The other took hold of Anna’s arm.

“I will go with you,” Parrette said fiercely.

“The immediate orders only concern la Senora,” the officer
said stiffly. He had no relish for arresting a terrified young lady, or her
protective maid. “Wait here.”

The patrol closed around Anna, who nipped up her mantilla
from its hook by the door, and swung it around her head so that at least it
obscured her face. It was bad enough to be arrested, but to be stared at compounded
the horror.

And she was. Through the filtering of the lace, she saw
faces peering between cracked doors, and through shutters as they wound down
the beautifully patterned tile steps, across the private plaza, and then
through the gates into the city.

She was not marched up to that forbidding fortress of Santa
Catalina, but down a narrow road to the building where earlier she had sung so
light-heartedly. They rounded the great hall, going up a narrow stairway to a
series of offices under the guns of fortress.

Here, Anna was locked into a room bare of anything but a
bench. One of the patrol left a lantern sitting on the deep inset window sill
before he went out, and she heard the clink of a padlock.

She sat down to wait, her heart beating rapidly. Her
tiredness had vanished. Endlessly her mind insisted on repeating questions she
could not possibly answer, and what she ought to say, around and around and
around. Her head panged; finally she leaned it back against the stone wall and
shut her eyes.

She began to doze fitfully, waking with a start when a key
rattled in the lock.

The lantern had burned out. The door swung open, candlelight
flaring, the shadows dancing crazily over the wall in elongated distortions as
a group of men entered. Her eyes widened when she recognized the one in the
center: none other than Commander Villeneuve, still in his blue uniform coat
with the gold-embroidered sleeves, though he had removed the sash and the
medals.

An aide set a chair facing Anna’s bench, and he sat down,
hands on his knees, and stared at Anna from under furrowed brows. His eyes were
narrow, with dark circles under them. Guards took up stances on either side of
him, and farther away, an ensign sat with a lap desk, another aide holding a
lantern over his head. The ensign began writing, his pen scratching. Then he
looked up enquiringly.

Admiral Villeneuve nodded shortly. “Madame, please state
your name.”

“Anna Maria Ludovisi,” Anna said. Then she remembered the
‘Duncannon,’ but gave her head a tiny shake. It had no meaning.

Villeneuve leaned forward, his elbows jutting out. “You say
‘Maria’ the English way. Murr—
eye
—ah.”
He growled the ‘r’ sound deep in his throat in his exaggerated pronunciation.
But it was recognizably the English pronunciation.

“My mother was English,” Anna said. “She said that was her
own mother’s name. My papa’s mother was Anna Elisabetta, which accounts for my
first name . . .” She was aware she was talking too much and
stopped abruptly.

“They said you claimed Bernardo as your name.”

“It was my performance name. Italian singers are popular,
these days. In the way of La Catalani.”

“Who is Italian,” Villeneuve observed, and then, with an
edge of sarcasm, “Mrs. Billington did not see fit to alter her name. And yet
she has managed to be successful.”

Anna was frightened again, but she was also aware of
impatience. The situation was entirely mad. “My patroness, Madame de Pipelet—a
Frenchwoman—thought it best. ‘Bernardo’ being from Ponte San Bernardo, my
father’s birthplace. His cousin is the duke.”

Villeneuve lifted the back of his hand to Ponte San Bernardo
and its duke, a quick, violent gesture that made her jump. “I have spent most
of this night questioning this company of yours. It seems you have forgotten to
mention your marriage
to an English sea
captain
.”

Anna sat upright. “How did you—” She let out her breath in a
sharp sigh. “It is true. But I never think of him. I have not seen him for more
than five years.”