Spanish Serenade (22 page)

The invitation was not for Refugio, alone, but also included as many of his entourage as he might care to bring. It was assumed this extended to Pilar, since it was well known that Count Gonzalvo attended no function from which his Venus was excluded. It was, in part, this attitude that had made him so reclusive. The invitation could also be accounted for by the fact that it was a masquerade ball for carnival; conventions were never as strict on such occasions. As for the danger of going among so many who might have known either Refugio de Carranza or the count, it was slight, for they would all wear costumes and masks for the greatest part of the evening. Some excuse for leaving could always be found before the unmasking.

Doña Luisa was delighted at the prospect of society, no matter how provincial; she had received a separate invitation through the offices of a friend of her late husband's, a gentleman once a member of the municipal council of New Orleans and who now served in some similar post in Havana. Señor Manuel Guevara, most unexpectedly, had met the ship and extended a request for her presence under his roof until the cramped coastal vessel to which they would all be transferring was ready to sail, a matter of a few days. He would be delighted to extend the invitation to Refugio and the others. She had told the thoughtful soul they would all accept.

“You manage things so beautifully, Doña Luisa,” Refugio said, inclining his head in ironic compliance. “Such efficiency must give you immense satisfaction.”

If the woman felt the sting of the irony, she gave no sign. With a smile tilting her hazel eyes, she answered, “It does, on occasion.”

“What do you think will happen if this gentlemen is acquainted with the count? Or if he may have seen Refugio de Carranza, or Enrique, or Charro, in passing?”

“Or if he was once the lover of your Venus? One seems as unlikely as the other; he has been out of Spain for years.”

His face bland, Refugio, gave a shrug. “Ah, well, no need to trouble ourselves. If he should dredge up recollections uncomfortable to any of us, we can always dispatch him and his household down to the last crawling babe and scullery girl.”

“What a cruel desperado you are,” the widow cried with a trill of laughter.

“And wicked, too. What a spectacle I should make as the hangman fits me with my hood. Or perhaps you prefer an auto-da-fé; the Holy Inquisition has no monopoly on consigning men to the flames. Anything, my lady, so long as you are entertained.”

“Fires are exciting, don't you think?” the widow said, her eyes shining.

Pilar, watching them, following their brittle banter, shivered with the sudden awareness of a chill around her heart.

10

THE HOUSE OF Señor Guevara was built of blocks of white coral limestone, a solid and foursquare structure designed to withstand the tropical storms that roared in during the fall season of gales. Its many floor-length windows on all sides were protected by galleries which shaded them from the hot sun as well as allowing them to be thrown wide for air during lighter rains and to catch the full benefit of the constant trade winds. Standing isolated on a headland, it enjoyed magnificent views of the turquoise sea rolling toward it, and was surrounded by fruit trees with exotic names which shaded garden paths laid out in geometric patterns and edged with bright, bold flowers. Some few hundred yards distance behind it was a waving green sea of sugarcane, for Señor Guevara was also a planter.

The hospitality of the official could not be faulted; Pilar and Refugio had been given the best of the guest rooms, with the others nearby, and had been plied with food and wine and regaled with songs by the daughters of the house. The need of the señor and his large family for news of Spain, any news, was so great that it seemed they would have entertained a blind beggar to get it. The questions they asked were endless, particularly those of the planter's older son Philip, who fancied himself something of a rake with a need for larger fields of conquest. The ladies wanted to know about fashions and colors and which of the women at court was setting the styles. Señor Guevara was curious about various scandals among the court ministers. Everyone wanted to know about the latest dances and music.

Count Gonzalvo's supposed reclusive habits proved their value since any lack of knowledge could be blamed upon them. Refugio made up for this deficiency, however, by sitting down at the jangling harpsichord one night and playing a medley of the newest airs with such verve and grace that there were cries for more. He obliged with a series of old ballads and nursery songs of such nostalgic sweetness that the entire company dissolved in tears of homesickness.

It fell primarily to Doña Luisa to satisfy the thirst for the latest tidbits and gossip, though she had a surprising amount of support from Enrique in his role as a grandee. It had been his part to gather intelligence for Refugio, it seemed. In the process of moving around Spain on this assignment, he had learned much else. The two of them, the widow and the Gypsy acrobat, were wicked, and often hilarious, in their assassinations of character and descriptions of sartorial folly.

Costume balls were a favored pastime on the island, and clothing for them was plentiful in the Guevara household. The party from the
Celestina
had only to make their choices from among the plenitude, if they so desired. They did.

For Refugio it was easy; the robes of a Moorish prince suited him perfectly. However, Pilar refused to go as a Moorish princess, wrapped to the eyes in stifling draperies, or as a dancing girl in considerably less veiling. The habit of a nun did not please her at all. She consented at last to the enormously wide panniers covered by midnight-blue silk, whaleboned stomacher trimmed with rows of pale blue bows, and the stiff-neck ruff of a court lady of the previous century.

Refugio put on his snow-white robes and headdress with gold cord, then left Pilar and Isabel in possession of the bedchamber. His purpose was to give them room for the difficult business of getting Pilar into the basketlike panniers, a courteous gesture that was not uncommon for him. Pilar watched him go in the looking glass over the dressing table while Isabel dressed her hair in a high pile of pomaded curls ready for the powder. He looked restless and on edge, she thought, and also incredibly foreign. In his flowing costume he appeared some desert chieftain ready for revelry if it presented itself, but just as ready for destruction if it became necessary.

Pilar emerged from the bedchamber onto the gallery a short while later, moving through the door with an awkward sidle. Turning in a sweep of wide-held skirts, she sailed, billowing, toward where Refugio stood at the far end of the covered promenade.

As she neared, there rose sudden loud wails of grief. The noise came from the opposite direction, around the far corner of the house. Refugio turned in that direction, then moved away out of sight. As Pilar came to the corner, she saw him going to his knees in front of a child, a small boy no more than three years old whose face was screwed up in an expression of woe. It was the official's youngest son, the last of his large family. The boy wore a tiny pair of knee breeches and a shirt that was coming out at the waist. There were buckles on his small shoes, and his fine silky hair was pulled back in a minute club. He was holding out his finger on which was a tiny bead of blood. Behind the boy, following him in stolid, pigeon-toed determination, was a yellow-headed green parrot.

“He bited me!” the boy sobbed. “He bited me!”

“Who did?” Refugio asked as he took the small pink finger between his own rough, brown ones and wiped the blood away with the corner of his robe.

The boy swung to point with his other hand at the parrot. “That mean bird. He bited me finger!”

“Yes, I see,” Refugio said in grave tones. “And what did you do to him?”

“I only play with he.”

“Maybe he doesn't want to play.”

The boy said nothing, only giving a mighty sniff and scrubbing at the tears on his cheeks. The parrot, reaching the boy and the man, began to circle around them.

“Is he your parrot?” Refugio asked.

The boy shook his head. “Madre's.”

“Shall we tell her about this and let her punish him?”

“Won't.”

“I see,” Refugio said. “This has happened before, then.”

The boy looked at the floor without answering. The parrot, tilting his head to one side, said with cheery hoarseness, “Hola, Mateo.”

“Is that you? Mateo?”

The boy nodded and ducked his head again.

“Well, what does this mean bird deserve for biting you? Shall we cut off his head and put him in a stew pot?”

Alarm appeared on the boy's face. “No!”

“No? Maybe we should tie up his beak?”

The boy shook his head, cutting his eyes to where the parrot had found a convenient fold of Refugio's robe and was climbing up it toward his shoulder.

“Would you like to bite his finger, then?”

“Doesn't have a finger.”

“He has a claw. Two of them.”

A smile dimpled the boy's cheek. He gave a little crow of laughter. “No! Too dirty.”

Refugio heaved a sigh. “Then I don't know what to do.”

   “I do!” the boy shouted. Reaching out, he held his arm in front of the parrot. The bird hopped on with practiced ease and walked up to the boy's shoulder. Mateo whirled around and ran away with the parrot wildly flapping as if in flight.

Refugio got to his feet. His face as he stared after the boy was softer, less harried than it had been in a long time. Watching him, Pilar was aware of an ache somewhere deep inside, and also an odd emptiness.

Refugio turned. He surveyed her, his gaze moving leisurely from the powdered crown of her hair, down over the square bodice which exposed the rounded tops of her breasts and the corseted narrowness of her waist, to the panniers which jutted out to the ridiculous width of a full yard on either side. He smiled, with slow enjoyment rising in his eyes. “You look majestic,” he said at last. “And beautiful, of course. I thought I preferred the nun's habit for you, but I believe this one is better after all.”

The compliment was unexpected and intriguing. Keeping her voice light with an effort, she said, “Why is that?”

He extended his hand and she reached out the full length of her arm in order to take it. Turning, he promenaded with her back down the gallery, still with their arms at full length out over the width of her skirts. “Because,” he said, “with what you have on, no man can get close enough to you to matter.”

“Unless I help him.” She gave him a quick glance from under her lashes.

“There is that chance, but I don't think, given your soft heart, that you will extend unwise encouragement.”

“What has my heart to do with it?”

“You would not like to be the cause of a death.”

She held his intent gaze a long moment before she looked away. “What would be one more?”

“What?” His voice was sharp.

“After my aunt's, I meant.”

“That's another matter entirely. You aren't to blame for a madman's decisions.”

“No? Nor are you, then,” she replied in quiet tones.

He stared at her as she moved beside him with the gold of the sunset in her hair and calm in her eyes, but he did not answer.

Dinner was served in state. It was apparent that the official's wife, having acquired the presence of what she thought was a member of the Spanish nobility, intended to impress her neighbors. A large number of them had been invited to fill the table, along with the older members of her family. Every piece of silver in the house had been polished to a glassy sheen and set out in the dining room. The Venetian crystal glittered, the English china gleamed, and there were so many candles down the long board that their heat had made the short-lived tropical flowers wilt in their Sévres vases. There was such an excess of people, utensils, and candelabra, in fact, that the table was far too crowded for the elegance the lady had obviously hoped to achieve.

Refugio was seated to the right of the hostess, and Doña Luisa to the right of the host. Pilar was down the table from Refugio, between an elderly man in rusty black on one side and the elder son of the house on the other. The older man applied himself to his food with noisy appreciation and little inclination to talk. Philip Guevara was not at all interested in food.

“Señorita,” he said in tones low enough to be covered by the hum of conversation and rattle and clink of dishes around them, “I feel such a fool. I pray you will forgive my ignorance, but I had not realized who you are. To think that the famous Venus de la Torre has been under the same roof for two days, and I not aware.”