The Spanish Marriage (17 page)

“I wish you’d at least tell him you don’t
want his attentions, Lady Matlin. Perhaps then....”

“He never gives me an opportunity to say boo to him. I
suppose I should be grateful for that.”

“I suppose I should too.” Bess tossed her soft
dark ringlets unhappily. “This is my second Season, Lady Matlin....”

“Thea.”

“Thea, then. I haven’t met a man before that I
liked as well as I like your Mr. Joaquín. I wish someone would tell him so.”
She looked pointedly at Thea. “Are you scandalized? You’re married,
ma’am. Have a little pity on those of us who are threatened by
spinsterhood.”

“Don’t be silly, Bess. You’ll never be an
old maid. As for Mr. Joaquín, I don’t know what I can do, but I promise,
if there is ever a chance and I can help you, I will.”

Bess clasped her hands. “You’re the best of
friends. I only wish Tony had met you before Sir Douglas did, and we could have
been sisters.”

Thea thought of Matlin and Tony Chase, but did not laugh, no
matter how absurd the comparison. When Joaquín appeared again she quite
deliberately summoned him over and instructed him to dance with a very
gratified Bess. Someone’s romance, at least, should prosper.

The next morning Thea woke early and full of restless
energy. When Ellen appeared she instructed to have her horse and a groom ready
in half an hour and prepared herself for a brisk ride at the unfashionable hour
of eight. Ellen looked sceptical, and the groom who waited for her and held her
brown mare and his own horse was yawning. The air was cool and refreshing, and
the streets were full of milk-sellers and strawberry girls, crossing-sweeps and
dray-carts, the sort of population she rarely encountered in laterday forays into
the London streets. She stared around her as she rode to Hyde Park, fascinated.
When she reached the familiar precincts of the Park, however, she ceased
staring and eased her mare into a canter along the Row, leaving her groom to
follow on his slow cob. After half-an-hour of riding a brisk circuit, Thea
slowed her horse; she was feeling better, rather pleased with herself.

“Lady Matlin?”

She had not expected to meet anyone, let alone Joaquín, who
came up beside her on horseback. He was dressed for riding in buckskins,
topboots, and a coat of claret-colored broadcloth, but the costume looked wrong
on him, too informal. He was a man, Thea thought, more used to court manners
and evening dress.

“Good morning, sir.” She was determined to let
him pass on, but it seemed he had other ideas.

“Can you dismiss your groom?”

Thea looked at him with mild surprise. “You know I cannot.
I know my husband would dislike it, and....”

“If I told you it was a family matter, cousin?”

Thea pulled sharply on her reins and stared at the man. “What
did you call me?”

“Cousin? I wanted to introduce myself to you properly.
I am Joaquín Ibañez-Blanca; I bring you greetings from our grandfather, the
Barón Ib—” Thea did not let him finish.

“He dared to send me a message? That wretched, cold-hearted,
miserable....” She ran out of words. It was obviously not the reaction
the man had expected.

“Lady Matlin, cousin! Please! The old man, whatever
his sins against you might be, is ill, he is dying. Can you not forgive....”

“No, I can’t. Believe me, cousin Joaquín, if all
you have to say is that my grandfather sent me his regards, you had as well
save your breath. That old man treated me and my cousin, Doña Clara de Silva,
like dirt. Don’t, pray, expect me to have filial feelings for him
now.” She found that her hands were clenched into shaking fists, as if
they were a part of her she did not recognize. “I really think we have
nothing more to say to one another.”

“Lady Matlin, I beg you, for the sake of Doña de Silva
and the nuns with whom you stayed, hear me out.”

“You seem to know a great deal about what happened to
us after the Barón washed his hands of us in Burgos. Can you tell me anything
about Silvy—my cousin? She was not well when I left.”

His face fell. “I grieve to tell you this, cousin. The
lady died a fortnight after you left the Sisters’ protection with that man.”

“My husband,” Thea corrected hollowly. She felt
numb. A fortnight after they had left the convent, before she and Matlin had
even reached England....” I knew it, I knew that night in the hills, I
knew how ill she’d been. Oh God, Silvy, why did you let me leave you?”
She did not, could not cry. Her eyes stayed dry, but it took her several
minutes to recall Joaquín sitting beside her on his own horse. He was speaking
to her, had been talking for some time. “What did you say?” she
asked.

“Have you heard nothing I said, cousin? I am sorry to
be the one to bring you sad news, but you must listen to the rest of what I
have to say. It is bigger than one old woman, bigger than any person; it is all
of Spain that hangs in the balance now. When I arrived in London and learned
how fortunately situated you were, I knew that you must be a part of saving
your fatherland. It was meant, married to a man with Whitehall connections; if
the Barón had arranged it, it could not have been better....”

“Don’t speak of him,” Thea warned
dangerously. “Especially not now, not if you want help from me, or my husband.
He liked Silvy, and the Sisters, they saved his life.”

“Then he will be disposed to help me,” Joaquín
concluded impatiently.
“Will
you listen?”

“
If
you will tell me what you want without
scolding me. You are not in Spain now, cousin.”

He shrugged his shoulders irritably, but he managed to speak
without the patronizing tone which had colored his last words. “I came
ahead, an advance guard. Things are happening so fast in Spain now, and it was
decided that we needed to know who in your government would be sympathetic if
Spain asked for help in routing the French....”

“Routing them? France is Spain’s ally, I
thought.”

“Was. An alliance made by the old regime, cousin, the old
King and that Austrian bitch, and the Privado, the prime minister you would
say. Godoy. Cousin, it is bad in Spain.” His voice lowered with
importance. “Since Carlos abdicated in favor of the prince things have
gone from bad to worse. We hoped the prince would be strong, would face
Bonaparte on his own terms, restore Spain to its old glory.” Joaquín’s
face was that of a man whose dream has gone sour. “He—we were
wrong. He ceded the crown to Bonaparte; he has
given
Spain to the
French. Good God, cousin, can you not have heard of
el Dos de Mayo?”

“The second of May? No. What happened?”

“I had not thought that anyone, anywhere could be unaware
of what happened.” He frowned heavily at her. “The people of Madrid
revolted, cousin; dozens were slain, others executed later as a punishment. The
heroes, Daoz, Velarde, Ruiz, others, all dead. For a short time the city was in
their hands, but they—so few and brave against so many—could not
hold out. Then Murat, that pig of a Frenchman, pronounced orders upon the
entirety of Spain, punishment, license to kill—it is only for a Spaniard
to be found with a pair of scissors and he is tried, summoned, and sent before
the firing squad.
What happened?
It’s the beginning, cousin. We
must have help.”

Thea watched her cousin, astonished. “From me?”

“I wait only word from my friends in Spain. We must
have a body of people for your government to treat with. When some sort of
government is in place, wherever, then, with your connections, I can surely get
a sympathetic hearing from your Foreign Minister.”

“My connections?”

“Your husband is an intimate of the Foreign Secretary,
is he not? He....”

“My husband, cousin Joaquín, was held prisoner by the Spanish
government for over a year for the crime of being English. He was near death
when I found him in the convent’s field. He might give you a sympathetic
hearing, and he might not. If I introduce you to him, he’s likely to
throw you out on your ear. You’d have done better to have sent a
delegation of the peasantry. He liked the farmers we met.”

It was plain from the expression on Joaquín’s face
that Matlin’s feelings were of minor import.
“Diós,
surely
he can rise above such things. The fate of a nation, his wife’s people....”

“I am an Englishwoman, cousin. My Spanish family gave
me precious little reason to consider myself anything else, and, but for Silvy
and the Sisters, I have no reason to feel sentimental over ‘my people.’
Matlin has even less.”

“Is that your final word? You would deny me, deny Spain
the aid of Britain because of the pride of a stiff-necked old man? Show a
little great-heartedness, cousin. Don’t be such a
woman.
All I ask
is that you persuade your husband to see me. I will do the rest. Who knows when
it will become necessary for me to speak with Canning or Castlereagh—for
the love of God, Dorotea, help us.”

It was the use of her full name that moved Thea. No one had
called her Dorotea with that familiar accent since Silvy had bid her good-bye.

“I’ll speak to Matlin, cousin.” She said
at last. “But he and I, well.” She faltered. “He may not wish
to listen to me.”

Joaquín waved that off. “What husband listens to a
wife when she meddles in man’s business? Cry for him, cousin, use your
wiles, whatever it takes, but persuade him to speak with me.”

“I’ll try.”

As abruptly as he had arrived, Joaquín seemed ready to take
his leave. “I will call upon you tomorrow to find out Sir Douglas’s
answer. Good morning.”

Thea would have urged him to give her more time, but he had
saluted her with a brief nod and ridden off before she could say anything. She
was overwhelmed, so much information, so many surprises. Silvy; Silvy was dead.
Blindly, she flipped the reins on her horse’s neck and took off in a
canter down the Row once more, trying to clear her head. Silvy was dead; Spain,
the sunny countryside she remembered from her journeys, in revolt; that cool,
frightening man, her cousin; Silvy, dead.

When she stopped her horse she realized that her poor groom
had dutifully been trying to follow her. She turned and smiled at him
automatically. “I think we should go back to Hill Street,” she
said.

Not until she had reached Hill Street and left the groom to
return the horses to the stable did a new thought come to her. If Matlin’s
influence was as important as Joaquín seemed to think it, she could not risk
something’s disturbing the precarious balance between them. That meant
that, at least until Joaquín had met with Matlin and explained his mission, she
could not tell him the truth about her pregnancy.

“Dearest lamb, are you certain you wish to go out
tonight?” Lady Ocott, fantastically attired in pink gauze and swansdown,
fluttered nervously, patting at Thea’s hair and smoothing the fabric of
her sleeve. “You look a little tired. No, not tired, but....”

“I’m perfectly well, Aunt Sue,” Thea said
patiently. “Yes, I want to go to this party.” She made a last
survey of her image in the mirror and noted with satisfaction that she looked
pretty tonight. She wore a new dress of white crepe which fell in graceful
folds to an embroidered hem; the neckline was low, trimmed with a line of very
fine lace. If she was to speak with Matlin tonight about Joaquín’s
introduction to the Foreign Office, she was determined to look her best.... The
party, or the time afterward, was her first chance. Matlin had not returned to
Hill Street at all the night before, while Thea lay in her room thinking of
Silvy and Spain. Today he had sent a message home that he would be there to
give his escort to this party, but he had not returned to the house in person.
“I
have
to go to this party,” Thea murmured.

“Well, of course, lamb, if you wish to. I was only
asking, after all. You seemed so strange yesterday.”

Thea said nothing.

“Well, we all feel out of sorts from time to time; don’t
we? You look an absolute angel, dear. Let us go downstairs; I ordered turtle
soup from Cook for dinner, and the bell should be ringing at any moment.”

There was indeed turtle soup and a profusion of meats and
fowl and removes. Thea drank her wine, picked at her food, watched Matlin
covertly from across the table, and thought of how handsome he was in evening
dress. Would she ever be able to tell him that? There were other things to be
said, first: Joaquín’s message and the truth about her false pregnancy.
Then, perhaps, if they weathered all that, they could make a new start
together. The thought was comforting as the thought of home; all she really
wanted to do was to rest in his arms and cry out her sorrow and grief for Silvy,
her sorrow at how wrong things had become between them; to rest in his arms and
to be held and to hold him back.

“Thea, are you done with your meringue?” Lady
Ocott asked.

“Oh, yes, Aunt Susan. I’m sorry, I was
woolgathering.”

They drank tea in the parlor, gathered up their wraps, and were
handed into Lady Ocott’s chariot by Matlin, who seated himself across
from the two women. As they rode Matlin and Lady Ocott kept up a stream of
inconsequential chatter, and Thea thought of the ride home, of returning to the
Ocotts’ house, and of asking Matlin for a few minutes to talk. Before
then, she must concentrate on greeting people and smiling and dancing and
laughing at bad jokes. It would be hard work, she mused as the carriage slowed
to a halt.

o0o

Matlin brought his aunt and his wife to the door of the
reception room, was greeted with them by their hostess, and then, before he
could do more, saw them both taken away by a press of people. Lady Ocott was
borne off by two of her cronies to gossip, and Thea was encircled by a crowd of
young people, mostly men. He saw young Chase there, of course, and his pretty
sister, and there were others he recognized, including that damned foreigner.
Looking about him Matlin espied Lady Sarah Jersey drifting by in diamonds and
diaphanous silk.