Long Knife (33 page)

“Ah, I am so sorry!” explained de Leyba. The ladies were looking all around Bowman but not at him, hiding their smiles behind palpitating fans. “It’s a piece of scattershot,” the governor explained. “My hunters bagged these fowl in the marsh just yesterday. Expressly for you. One must bite gingerly,
capitán
. Forgive us.”

“Scattershot?” exclaimed Bowman, laying the pellet on the linen beside his plate. “Why, that ain’t hardly sportin’. Now, our boys’d bring ’em down with a rifleball, if it was us.”

“On the wing?” said de Leyba, a mocking but good-natured smile tilting across his face.

“Heck, yeah,” said Bowman, putting another piece of the bird in his mouth and masticating it very carefully. “On th’ wing, sure. I always say, it ain’t sportin’ to kill a sittin’ duck. ’Less he’s bigger ’n you.”

George grinned, shaking his head. “Joseph, I question the propriety of boasting when you’re a guest.”

“Sorry, George, but you know it’s true. You’ve seen ’em shoot often enough.” Bowman washed the duck down with another long draught of wine, which he had been pouring down like water.

“Well, then, if you say it,
capitán
, I take it to be so,” said de Leyba. “But how remarkable! And so, here’s to American marksmanship.” He raised his glass and all drank. George, his
own head swirling a little, remembered with a rush of nostalgia the turkey that his brother Edmund had decapitated with a rifle ball for the Clark family table the winter before, and opened his mouth to speak of it. Then he remembered his own admonition about boastfulness a moment ago, and held his tongue. It might be a bit gruesome for the ladies to hear anyway, he thought; and at the notion of protecting the ears of the exquisite Teresa from his own words, his heart skipped again. It had been behaving that way the entire evening. He was astounded by his feelings. One instant he felt like a hero, the next like a bumpkin.

He had been trying not to look too long or too often at her. He had the strange notion that he needed to protect her from the hunger of his own eyes. And each time his gaze would stray to her, she would be flushing, all along that sublime long neck and to her flaming ears, stirring the air with that dainty fan, which she seemed to hold more this evening than she did her fork and spoon. And each time he glanced at her, he had an instinctive certainty that she had just dropped her eyes from his own face. She seemed to be as agitated as he was.

There were musicians now moving into the next room. It meant that he soon would be, no doubt, swooping around the room with this fragile, timorous creature inside the curve of his arm.

His hand shook as he lifted his wineglass again.

Dear God, he thought. To touch her!

T
ENENTE DE
C
ARTABONA, SEATED DIRECTLY ACROSS THE TABLE
from Teresa, had not failed to notice the glances that passed between her and the Virginian. The lieutenant had not eaten anything either. He could not swallow. He was so heartsick he had not heard a half of the dinner conversation. He had prayed that the American colonel would make one of the awful gaffes that some of his oafish aides, like that Bowman, had made, so that Teresa with her perfect sensibilities would at last detect some flaw in him. But it seemed to be no use hoping that way. The damnable fellow seemed somehow, even in the primitive and churlish society of the American Colonies, to have acquired all the courtly graces.

De Cartabona’s only immediate hope lay in the sight of the musicians’ arrival. The fellow’s as big as an ox, he thought. Surely he’ll clump about and make a hopeless ass of himself.

The lieutenant’s hopes lasted no longer than the first
cuadrilla
. The American moved with as much grace and ease as anybody
de Cartabona had ever seen. The Spaniard’s heart clenched each time Teresa’s tiny white hand was lifted by the colonel’s huge tan one, every time their wondering eyes met, every time that telling blush he had so long studied arose in her neck, every time she lowered her lashes before the colonel’s adoring gaze, every time, especially, she swirled close to de Cartabona and was unable to meet his anguished eyes.

T
ERESA FELT AS IF SHE WERE A BUTTERFLY BEING BLOWN ABOUT IN
the room by a warm zephyr. It was a thrilling sensation, but one not altogether good; it was frightening to have so little control over herself. The Virginian’s hands and arms were as hard as steel, but warm and gentle enough, it seemed, that he might handle a butterfly without dusting its wings. Indeed, she felt a more palpable force from his eyes than from his hands. He seemed to be guiding her more with his intense, desperate will than with his physical body. He spoke no words, perhaps because he was, as was she, afraid any words would sound absurd.

Now and then, looking up from his broad chest to his chiseled face, she would recall the dread he had caused in her that first night, and she would be frightened again. Even the adoration in his eyes could not dispel that odd premonitory dread. In some strange way, it precipitated even worse fears, deep in the unfamiliar recesses of her inner self.

The night deepened. They drifted onward in the stream of music.

Governor de Leyba and his wife swept past the young couple and turned their heads to watch them go by.

“Maria,” he hissed excitedly in her ear. “Look at them! Who could have foreseen this?”

She searched his face with her wise, cloudy, pain-darkened eyes, and he loved her keenly.

“Anyone,” she said.

S
EñOR
F
RANCISCO
V
IGO SWUNG BY, GRINNING, EXUBERANTLY
steering a dark lady who stood a head taller than he. The lady glanced enviously at Teresa.

Vigo winked at Teresa.

And Teresa flushed again at the sight of that sly, devilish wink, and felt perspiration trickle down the bare skin under her arm inside her gown.

He’ll smell me! she thought, almost in a panic. I must go up and wash!

George stood near a table, waiting, drinking sherry. The musicians had stopped to rest. Teresa had curtseyed, ducked away from him with widened eyes, and disappeared up the stairs, followed soon by her sister-in-law. George was anxious, unable to imagine how he might have offended her.

Fernando de Leyba approached, filled a glass with the sherry, and touched it to George’s glass. “Why, you seem upset, my dear colonel. What is it?”

“I—I don’t know,” George replied, glancing toward the stairs. “Is she all right, d’you suppose?”

“Who?” the governor asked, his lips pursed in a smile around his own joke.

It struck George then, and he coughed up an unexpected laugh, almost a hiccough. He raised his hand toward the staircase, then dropped it; his mouth opened and then closed and he said nothing.

“She’ll be down in a moment,” de Leyba laughed, giving George a reassuring squeeze on the elbow. “Womanly things, you understand.” He shook his head. “Nay, on the other hand, don’t try.” He, too, seemed a little drunk. “Listen,” he went on then, conspiratorially, “I told Maria to ask her to play the
guitarra
for us after the dancing. Just a little recitation. Would you like that? She’s quite accomplished.”

George was enchanted at the thought that one so beautiful to see might actually be capable of bringing beauty in other ways. “I’d love it,” he breathed. He was unbelievably stirred inside.

“Of course she’ll be reluctant,” said de Leyba. “But she will do whatever I suggest.” Suddenly his eyes brimmed. “My dear Don Jorge!” he exclaimed, his voice suddenly thick. “Somehow—somehow—I do believe this is one of the finest moments I’ve ever enjoyed. In a lifetime of fine moments!” He swallowed. “I’m so glad you—you and your Americans—are here! I’m so pleased that Teresa likes you …” He paused, as if he should not have said such a thing.

“She does, you think?”

De Leyba laughed. “She does, I think!”

“Then, Governor, I do believe this is one of the finest moments in
my
life!”

I
T WAS SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT.
T
ERESA SAT ON A LOW CHAIR,
her head tilted in concentration over the instrument. She had
played a gavotta, several minuets, a slow fandango, and now was performing a passacaglia. She had named each piece in a small voice before bending again over the
guitarra
. George understood none of the words, and vaguely wished he did. The violinist stood behind her, playing accompaniment on some of the pieces. Her nails plucked clear, sharp notes out of the higher strings, melodies of marvelous complexity, and her thumb stroked deep, soft-edged counterpoints from the lower strings. It seemed impossible that so much music could come from one small instrument and only two hands. The guests stood or sat in a semicircle about her, rapt. Candles on the walls bathed the room in a soft light, reflecting sometimes off the polished soundboard of the instrument. George had never in his life, even in the most enthralling moments of forest silence, felt so transported. The music, the light, the presence of these people, the vision of this girl playing—nay, caressing—the instrument, flooded over all his senses, and her agile, graceful fingers seemed to be lifting the melodies directly from his heart.

She finished the passacaglia; palms patterned approval; voices cooed and uttered constrained
bravas
.

“In a moment, a prelude of de Murcia,” she murmured, looking once at George and then bending to tune the strings. George sensed someone beside him, then felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Bowman, who had just come forward and knelt beside him.

George reached up and patted the hand. Bowman squeezed his shoulder.

“By Heaven,” Bowman said in a hushed voice. “I never thought I’d see it, but I do believe the Long Knife is reduced to helplessness.”

George nodded, and blinked. The candlelight blurred and glinted through tears. His heart filled the room. He could say nothing.

Teresa again started to play.

T
ERESA QUIT PLAYING AFTER AN HOUR, THEN CURTSEYED, MURMURED
her thanks for the applause, and made another of her disappearances up the stairs, carrying the beautiful little
guitarra
by its neck. George was still entranced. He went to the table, decanted another bottle of sherry, looked toward the stairwell, and wished she would hurry back down. He had been trying to bring himself to the point of conversing with her, and now was at a loss for something to do with himself. He did not want to talk to anybody else; it was no time for words.

It was extremely hot in the room; he felt the humidity of his own body in his clothes, and so was drawn toward the wide doors which opened off the ballroom onto the terrace. Carrying his glass, he slipped swiftly toward that door and out into the cool, damp air, under the stars, in the cacophony of cricket song. For a moment he took deep breaths and let the fresh air carry off the fog of his muddled thoughts.

Suddenly, though he had not really heard a sound, he felt that he was not alone. He turned to his right. There, dimly visible in the light from the door, stood Tenente de Cartabona, wild-eyed, his face contorted in a pitiful mask of drunken rage. He said something harsh in Spanish, words which George did not understand but interpreted nonetheless as the invitation to a duel. He had been observing the lieutenant’s behavior out of the corner of his eye during the evening.

But even before George could react, there was a breath of movement in the darkness, and de Cartabona found himself standing between two tall, smelly men in buckskins, his arms pinioned behind him, a knife-point pricking his throat.

George shook his head and grinned. He stepped closer to de Cartabona then, and spoke softly. “Can you understand me, Lieutenant?” The Spaniard nodded. His eyes were bulging in terror. “Now, hear me,” George said, keeping his voice low so that the guests inside would not be attracted to this awkward scene. “I reckon I know what’s vexin’ you. But at this time we can’t permit ourselves the indulgence of personal conflicts. There are things going on that are beyond our individual feelings. Quite plainly, man, we can’t be spared. Neither of us. None of us. Are you hearing me?” The lieutenant nodded again. “If there comes a time,” George continued, “when the two of us are expendable, then I shall be honored to give you satisfaction, and by any means you may choose. Until then, I most strongly recommend that you keep the interests of your governor and your most Catholic Majesty at heart. That means, sir, staying out of my way.”

The lieutenant apparently was not stupid. He nodded again. George tilted his head and the guards released the Spaniard. They vanished, leaving only the sour smell of old sweat, and de Cartabona smoothed his clothes.

“Do I have it on your honor?” George asked, extending his hand. After a pause, the lieutenant took it. His chin was quivering, his eyes were wet with mortification and fury.

“Until we are no longer obligated, señor. As for Teresa …”

“Not a word on her, by God!” George withdrew his hand and raised it as a thick fist under the lieutenant’s nose, and de Cartabona felt the proximity of the bodyguards again. He bowed abruptly, and ambled with bruised dignity back toward the door, wiping his face with a handkerchief and composing his features as he went. His shoulder bumped the doorpost; he staggered, then recovered his balance and steered himself into the candleglow. George watched him go in, then waved his woodsmen back into the darkness. He took a deep breath, jaw muscles working, then discovered the sherry glass he still held in his left hand. He drained if off and eased himself into a chair, not seeing, in the window above him, the silhouette of Teresa.

She stood, drawn close to the edge of the casement, steadying herself with one hand braced on it, the other in a fist over her mouth, and looked down at the top of the Virginian’s head. Her brain was throbbing; her breast felt hollow; her mouth was dry. Prickling sensations raced all over the skin of her body.

She had been drawn to the window by the vicious rasp of Tenente de Cartabona’s challenge. She had stood there watching the deadly minute, the knife of one of the Americans appearing at Francisco’s throat. She had been certain that she would see his blood spilled. Then the instant of threat had simply ended, had dissipated into the night as if it had not really happened. Teresa felt her blood draining out of her head and shoulders now, and knelt by the windowsill to keep from swooning. She stayed there till the dizziness receded and was followed by a great weariness. She remembered the dancing, during which she had become so strongly and strangely aroused, aroused in the way she suspected a woman becomes aroused, not a girl; it was the first time she had felt anything quite like it. Not even during the summer’s various dances and outings with the suave de Cartabona had it been quite this thing.