Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
It was all so confusing. Even the problem of their marriage had yet to be resolved. She couldn’t go on playing the part of Catalina forever. She wanted to go back to being herself, but before that could happen, they had to decide what story to tell his family and the world to explain Catalina’s disappearance. These problems hadn’t stopped Marcus from exercising his conjugal rights every chance he got. She seemed to spend her nights in a sensual haze, and her days waiting for night to fall.
“Why are you frowning?” asked Marcus.
She erased the frown. “What do you wish to know?”
He stared at her for a moment, then said slowly, “Are you all right, Catherine?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” When he gave her one of his narrow-eyed stares, she said impatiently, “I’m fine, Marcus, really. Now, what is it you wish to know?”
“Tell me about
El Grande’s
early life.”
She had it down by rote. “He was the youngest son of el Marqués de Vera el Grande, and being the youngest son, he was destined for the church. It’s not uncommon even in English families. The eldest son inherits the title and estates, the next in line goes into the army, and the younger sons either go into the church or scramble for a living as best they can.”
Marcus cut into a piece of ham. “That doesn’t describe my family.”
“No, I’m well aware of it.”
His eyebrows rose in a questioning arc, “Meaning?”
“Meaning your family is …” She stopped when she remembered their quarrel, when he’d found her writing notes for an article on what he’d thought was Penn’s drinking habits. “It doesn’t matter,” she finished lamely.
“Go on, Catherine, I really want to know.”
“I was only going to say that Wrotham is all they know. It wouldn’t hurt them to expand their horizons.”
He looked at her for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “All right. Out with it. What do you think I should do?”
“Well,” she said cautiously, “if I were you, I’d bring them to London; introduce them to society. Especially Helen and Samantha. Samantha needs to have a London season like other girls her age. And now that the war is over, Tristram should go on a grand tour after he graduates from university.”
“You’ve left out Penn.”
“I really don’t know what the answer is for Penn. Perhaps he could go with David to Ireland and help him develop his property.”
She glanced up at him. “That’s something else I don’t understand. It seems so sad that David is your only cousin, yet he’s merely an acquaintance. You’ve never mentioned his father, who must have been your uncle.”
“I believe he was,” returned Marcus with a smile. “Well, as I’ve said before, we are not a close family. I know my father went to see his brother every few years, and sometimes my uncle came to England with David, but I remember only vaguely.” He was eyeing her curiously. “What makes you so passionate about families, Cat? What about your own family? What happened there?”
Her eyes suddenly felt very hot and she looked down at the toast on her plate. “I’ll tell you what happened. I thought I was walking on solid ground, and it turned out I was walking on thin ice.”
She didn’t know where the tears were coming from except that she’d become very teary in the last little while. It didn’t take much to set her off.
“Go on.”
She swallowed before continuing. “I was twelve years old when my mother came down with a fever. I never thought about it. It never occurred to me that she wouldn’t get better. After all, it was only a fever, and my father was a doctor. I went to bed one night without a care in the world. When I awakened the next morning, my life would never be the same again.”
He said quietly, “Your mother died during the night.”
She nodded. “I don’t really understand what happened
to us after that except that we seemed to stop being a family. My father started drinking. My aunt came to live with us. Ours was not a happy household.”
“Your father drank to excess?”
“He was a drunkard,” she said bluntly.
“But he overcame his addiction?”
She nodded. “A patient died, and he blamed himself. He never touched another drop after that.”
“I see.” After a long silence, he said, “You had an older sister, I believe.”
Her head snapped up. “Who told you that?”
“Your friend, Mrs. Lowrie.”
She didn’t want to tell him about Amy yet. It was just one more problem, one more lie, that lay between them, and she was too fragile to deal with it right now. There was one thing, however, she no longer doubted. Amy had lied to her. Marcus was incapable of raping a woman.
“Yes, I had a sister once. She eloped, and after that my father would never allow her name to be mentioned in his hearing.” She saw that she was mangling her table napkin and took a moment to smooth it out. “When he wasn’t there, my aunt had plenty to say. I used to lie in my bed at night, worrying that my father would turn against me, too. I was determined never to put a foot wrong, which is a terrible burden for a child to bear.
“Oddly enough, the only time I came close to feeling I was part of a family again was when I was with the partisans.”
Marcus gazed at her reflectively, trying to fit the pieces together. The aunt, he knew from Emily Lowrie, had been a puritanical ogre of a woman. The older sister had rebelled. Catherine had conformed, and now he understood why. Now he understood a lot of things he hadn’t understood before.
For the first time, he began to see her as she really was. He’d always admired her, but he was seeing a different side to her, one that stirred him profoundly. It was like looking through a glass darkly and seeing himself. They’d both been lonely as children.
“I suppose,” said Marcus, “you looked upon
El Grande
as a brother?”
“Hardly.
El Grande
was our leader.” Her expression was almost challenging. “He made decisions that weren’t always popular. Sometimes, he executed those who collaborated with the enemy, Spaniards, like the partisans. Some of them might well have been their own sons or brothers.”
“I remember his reputation. ‘Barbaric’ some called him.”
She visibly bristled. “It was a barbaric war, and
El Grande
was fighting to win. What would you have had him do when you know yourself that the French behaved like wild animals? I’ll tell you this: there wasn’t a man or woman among us who wouldn’t have laid down his life for
El Grande.
That’s the kind of loyalty he inspired.”
“I’m not finding fault with the man. I’m simply trying to understand him.” He spoke the truth, and yet it didn’t sit well with him that she so obviously hero-worshiped
El Grande.
“What is he doing here in England?” he asked. “Now that the war is over, why doesn’t he go back to Spain and take up his life there?”
She patiently repeated what she’d told him before. “Spain holds too many painful memories for him. The French murdered his whole family. He likes England, likes the English.” She shrugged. “I don’t understand all the subtleties myself, Marcus.
El Grande
says he’s making his soul. He’ll go back to Spain when he’s ready. Or he may never go back.”
“Making his soul? Are we talking about penance?”
“I think so. Marcus, try to understand, before the war, he was in a seminary, studying to be a priest. He was, is, a man of God. The things he did to help win the war have weighed heavily on his conscience. Why do you continue to suspect him?”
He evaded the question by looking at his watch. “We’d best be on our way,” he said.
Catherine nodded and tried not to look nervous. She hadn’t had a chance to get word to either
El Grande
or
Major Carruthers that Marcus had found her out. Marcus never let her out of his sight. She knew he wanted to take
El Grande
unawares, and that was the last thing
she
wanted.
“What is it, Catherine? Why do you look like that?”
She looked up to see Marcus staring at her with that hard, watchful expression she’d come to hate. The truth of the matter was that neither of them could completely trust the other.
“I was thinking of
El Grande”
she said, and was glad when he let it go at that,
Marston Abbey was only a half hour from London on the main road to Sevenoaks. They were met at the gate by a monk in a white habit, a great bull of an Irishman who reminded Marcus of a prizefighter he’d once bet heavily on, and who had won him a tidy sum of money.
The monk took their names and left them at the gate. It was a good ten minutes before he returned to say that Brother Robert was free to meet with them.
Since Marcus knew next to nothing about the monastic life, he kept up a stream of questions as Brother Fineas escorted them to the main building. They learned that the abbey was originally a manor house and had been purchased by the order and converted for use as a monastery.
“We are Benedictines,” said Brother Fineas. “The monks wear white habits, and the lay brothers wear brown. We divide our time into prayer, study, and labor.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Marcus, “but I understood that Henry the Eighth sold off all the monasteries when he quarreled with the Pope.”
“That,” said the monk, flicking Marcus a dry look, “was almost three hundred years ago. Times change.”
The path led downhill through an avenue of old yews to a cobbled yard. There were many brothers in brown or white habits crossing the yard to the various stone buildings.
“A working farm,” observed Marcus as they passed
a flock of sheep that some monks were herding into a pen.
Brother Fineas veered neither to left nor right, but forged ahead on the flagstone path. The manor itself rose up suddenly in front of them. He led the way through an arched porch with a coat of arms above it, across an inner courtyard and through another door. Here, they came to a cavernous hall, two stories high, with a dozen trestle tables, each accommodating four or five monks who seemed to be absorbed in their books.
Brother Fineas had them wait in the vestibule. Women were not allowed in the monks’ inner precincts, and in the outer precincts they were allowed only if suitably dressed. That’s why Catherine was robed from head to toe in unrelenting black, with a black silk veil concealing her face.
Marcus watched Brother Fineas’s progress through the aisles of tables, anticipating the moment when the monk’s hand would fall on the shoulder of
El Grande.
“Señor, señora, this way, please.”
The softly spoken greeting came from behind him. Surprised, Marcus pivoted. A monk in a brown habit was leading Catherine toward a door at the side of the stone staircase. He went after them.
The room they entered was almost bare of furniture except for a plain trestle table and four armless chairs. There was a massive stone fireplace, but the fire wasn’t lit. Marcus registered these things only dimly. His eyes were fastened on the young monk who was now embracing Catherine. When they separated, and Catherine explained, rather disjointedly, why they were here, Marcus took a moment to study him. He’d caught only a glimpse of
El Grande
in London, and he was seeing things he hadn’t noticed then.
El Grande
didn’t look like the charismatic leader of his legend, the man he’d met in Spain. He looked exactly what he appeared to be.
But he wasn’t a simple monk. The little charade with Brother Fineas that had caught them off guard was an elementary exercise that all Intelligence officers were taught before they went into the field: distract the enemy and
come at him from the quarter he least expects. Already, Marcus was beginning to feel like a rank amateur in the presence of a master.
“I think,” said Marcus, “you have found the perfect hiding place.”
Catherine looked at him suspiciously.
El Grande
smiled, and Marcus held out his hand. “We were never formally introduced,” he said. “I’m Wrotham.”
Genuine amusement glowed in those dark eyes. “And I’m Robert,” said
El Grande.
His handclasp was firm but that wasn’t what impressed Marcus. He could feel the hard calluses on the palm and fingers. It was a laborer’s hand.
“Please,” said
El Grande
, “won’t you be seated?”
Marcus did not waste words. As soon as he was seated, he plunged right in. “I cannot reconcile in my mind,” he said, “what Catherine has told me about you. What kind of man deals in lies and deceit and at the same time devotes his life to God?”
Catherine had positioned herself at the window. She was still standing. In the act of throwing back her veil, she gasped, and rounded on Marcus. “You promised not to lose your temper!”
“I’m not angry. It’s a serious question and I want a serious answer.”
“But …”
El Grande
silenced her with a look. “It’s all right, Catherine. I owe him an explanation.” He looked toward Marcus. “The short answer to your question is—a man who has no real vocation. I’m not a priest, Lord Wrotham, and I know now I shall never be one. There is too much of the world in me.”
Marcus stared long and hard into
El Grande’s
unguarded eyes. Unsure of what he read there, he said, “What about Spain? You are the last of your line. Surely you will want to return and take up your life there?”
El Grande’s
smile was fleeting. “Anything is possible.”
Catherine said softly, “Robert is a stone mason, Marcus. They are building a church for their order. There
is a quarry nearby. You should look around while you have the chance.”
There was a silence, then
El Grande
spoke in a dull, flat voice. “Lord Wrotham has other things on his mind, Catherine. Now, sir, how may I help you?”
Marcus felt as though a shutter had descended, that he’d had his chance and he’d thrown it away. He looked at Catherine and she stared back at him with huge, appealing eyes.
He shifted uncomfortably, feeling out of his depth here. He was only a simple soldier. He hadn’t fought the kind of war the partisans had fought, where there had been hostage taking and massacres of the civilian population. He couldn’t begin to imagine what
El Grande
had been made to suffer. Catherine was right. He had no business judging other people when he’d no conception of the life they’d led.