Authors: Alicia Meadowes
Justin rose above her and stared into her glowing eyes. “You are with child,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Yes, my darling. I feel quite certain that I will present you with a son before next Christmas.”
“Dear God, how perfect you are! To think this incredibly lovely body bears the fruit of my love.” He showered her body with
adoring kisses that suddenly awakened a raging passion within her. Marisa pulled him eagerly against her, demanding a violent
union that left them both breathless and wondering.
The next morning all shadows were forever dissolved between them. The dark shadow of Lady Marian which had clung so tenaciously
to Justin’s mind and heart for so many years was at last cast out. Marisa’s triumphant love had exorcised the incubus of hatred
from her beloved’s unconscious world where the hidden springs of despair had quietly seeped their bitter poison into his soul.
Marisa’s husband was cleansed and reborn, and the Straefords could not get enough of telling each other the wonders of their
love. They had breakfast in their bed chamber, and the entire household was agog with the news that the earl had ordered champagne
for breakfast.
“To the future Earl of Straeford,” Justin toasted Marisa.
A slight shadow crossed the countess’s face at her husband’s salute.
“Do not frown, dear wife. Our son will be the legitimate heir, never fear.”
“But last night you said…”
“I know, but I never did finish my tale. You see, when I returned from India and found myself to be the new earl, I told my
grandmother that I would renounce the title. It was then that she laid to rest the lie I had been living with for six years.
For my mother had deliberately lied to me. It was my grandmother who told me of my parents’ early years, and how my mother
was forced to bear me. My real father was the earl after all, and I his legitimate son. You see, I bear the family birthmark
in the palm of my hand. Look—this small crescent on the heel of my left hand. All true St. Clare males have borne this very
mark for generations.”
“Why Justin,” Marisa claimed in awe, “it is the same symbol that appears in the emerald. How is it possible you did not know
this as a boy?”
“Another of my mother’s tricks. Did you ever view the portraits of past earls in the long gallery at Straeford Park?”
“Why yes, one day with Lady Maxwell.”
“Well, of the ten earls thus far, three have not borne this mark. Strangely, all three did not live very long. The third one
was my brother Robert. The truth was withheld from Robert and me to protect him. I was left in the dark until Lady Maxwell
enlightened me. Actually, it is such a small marking that I never noticed it.” He smiled dazzlingly on Marisa. “Madam, I give
you the next Earl of Straeford.
The first week in May the Hardings and Straefords took another nighttime excursion into Lisbon for the festival of São Matteu
which was held outside the Castle of St. George. As they pressed their way through the teeming narrow streets leading to the
hilltop where sat the castle overlooking the whole of Lisbon and the Atlantic Ocean below, they were jostled by throngs of
noisy Portuguese whose irrepressible gaiety was infectious. The small group stopped to watch street dancers in peasant costumes
performing to the music. The crowds clapped their hands and sang with loud gusto, encouraging the dancers to a frenzy of whirling
and stomping that climaxed when
they leaped over bonfires to the frantic
olas
of the eager onlookers.
“Gracious!” Ann exclaimed excitedly, “it amazes me they do not land in the fires!”
“Especially the women. I do not see how they keep their skirts from catching in the flames,” Marisa added.
“I’m sure they are well rehearsed,” the earl claimed dryly. “They know what they are doing—it’s not as spontaneous as it appears.”
“It’s a display for the goggle-eyed, just such as you two are,” Edward Harding laughed.
“Oh pooh to your good sense,” Ann replied. “Let Marisa and me enjoy the spectacle without your unfeeling lectures, gentlemen.”
“I think we have just been set in our place,” Lord Straeford told his friend with a laugh. “Come an, let’s stop in one of
these cafes and order some refreshments. I’m sure Marisa needs to rest.”
“I need nothing of the kind,” Marisa answered her oversolicitous spouse firmly, “but I would enjoy seeing more of the local
color. By all means let us stop for refreshments.”
They entered the Taverna da Noite and sat at a table before an open kitchen with a huge crackling fireplace and blackened
walls hung with copper kettles. Sausages and onions dangled from heavy hewn beams above, and the tempting smell of spices
mingled with those of wine to tantalize the strangers. They dared to test the house speciality of bananas flambé, a dish that
proved more of a feast for the eyes than the palate. But it was all part of the night of Portuguese revelry, and the ladies
enjoyed the display inordinately. Ann and Marisa were permitted a small glass of wine each, and before long the happy party
was as noisily laughing and celebrating as the native Portuguese.
They were gathering their belongings in preparation for returning to the streets when an old gypsy with a black shawl over
her head stopped at their table and asked to read the ladies’ palms.
Both Edward and Justin were about to send the woman on her way, but Ann intervened, begging to be allowed to have her fortune
told. The men shrugged their
shoulders complaisantly, and once more they were seated while the gypsy studied Ann’s outstretched hand.
“You are a married lady,
sim?”
the gypsy stated in a gruff, husky voice, her dark eyes shrewdly observing the open, eager face of Ann Harding.
“Indeed, I am.”
“Brilliant deduction,” Justin whispered to Marisa who cast a quelling glance toward him.
“You have a little boy—a son called Edouardo…”
“Oh yes,” Ann breathed wonderingly.
The gypsy went on to tell her that she came from a distant land and would soon return there again. She predicted many more
children and a happy life. Ann’s eyes glowed with happiness, and she urged Marisa to have her palm read also.
The countess, who was of a less credulous nature than her friend, hesitated and looked to Justin for his opinion.
“Please suit yourself, Marisa,” he told her. “I have no objection, as long as you take it for the nonsense it is.”
“Very well. What harm can come of it?” Marisa held out her hand to the old crone who took it in her own gnarled palm and studied
it for several seconds before making any comment.
“Well,” Ann prodded her. “What do you see?”
The gypsy looked up at the group watching her and then back to Marisa’s hand.
“I see—a long journey.”
“Very original,” Justin whispered to Ed.
“But not to the land from which you came. The journey will be to France.”
“How lovely,” Marisa responded, tossing her head at Justin. “I have always wanted to see France—but it must be some day far
off, is it not?”
“No,” the fortune teller replied. “Very soon.”
“Oh.” Marisa replied lamely, deciding the woman was a fraud after all.
“The line for the journey is broken—see. You will not go all the way. There will be much…” here the seer faltered… “woe.
You should not go.” She dropped the countess’s hand abruptly. “That is all I can tell you.”
Justin tossed the woman a gold coin, and dismissed her with a wave of his hand. She took herself off to ply her trade at a
nearby table.
“Well, shall we be off?” Justin questioned his companions who seemed a little subdued after the encounter with the fortune
teller. “Here now, what a sober crew you’ve become. Where are all those high spirits I was struggling to keep in check but
a short time ago?”
The others picked themselves up and hastened to follow Justin from the cafe, but they were unable to strike the same note
of abandon they had earlier enjoyed. They returned home sooner than they planned, not certain why the night begun so propitiously
should have ended so disappointingly.
The weather in southern Portugal was already hot by mid-May, although the green countryside had not yet turned to the scorched
earth of later months. Marisa enthusiastically contemplated her visit to the Almarez
quinta
the following week. Since Lord Straeford had been called away to headquarters farther north in the region of the Mondego
River, he had agreed after much coaxing on Lady Straeford’s part to meet her at the Almarez estate, instead of traveling there
with her as originally planned.
The earl was concerned for his wife’s health. Ever since he received the news of the coming child, he treated Marisa as if
she were made of spun glass, and while his loving attention touched her deeply—never had she dreamed of being so cherished—she
could not help chafing at the restrictions such constant watchfulness created. She must not tire herself by the exertions
of walking overlong; she must retire early and sleep late; she must eat all that is healthy and nourishing, and above all,
she must not worry about anything; she was to be happy and carefree-—no discussion of the war conditions was allowed within
hearing distance of the countess.
And yet, the war with France could not be obliterated from anyone’s mind. The Straefords, along with thousands of their English
countrymen, would not be in Portugal were it not for the French menace threatening to overrun the whole peninsula. It was
because of the projected battle coming closer as months passed that
Lord Straeford was called away to one or another of the three outposts where British troops were encamped along the Mondego
River in the upper Beira region. The three main regiments of the British army were separated by long marches between them,
and Wellington himself frequently changed headquarters, occupying at different times Viseu, Celorico and Coimbra.
Communication was difficult, and Straeford’s special mission was to hasten the network of communication between British military
outposts.
If Lord Straeford had had his way, the trip to the Almarez
quinta
would have been cancelled entirely—but he could deny Marisa nothing these days and the doctor had assured him that the short
trip by coach would not overtax his wife. Her pregnancy was sufficiently advanced and secure that she might safely undergo
the journey. Besides, the doctor added, the country air in itself was guaranteed to be a welcome tonic for her ladyship.
Marisa would travel accompanied by Ann Harding and two maids, and every attention to her comfort and well-being was thought
out well in advance. It never occurred to anyone that there might be danger in the form of enemy soldiers in a territory so
near to Lisbon itself. But then, no one knew of Colonel Dubois’s rabid interest in matters involving the Straeford household.
The French were far to the north or safely in Spain for all practical purposes, and their existence was never considered as
a deterent to the trip—not by anyone assisting in preparations for the holiday.
“Villa Franca,” Maria Almarez told Marisa at a recent dinner party in their home in Lisbon, “is the scene of the
festa brava
twice a year.”
“The
festa brava?
I don’t believe I have ever heard of it,” Marisa replied.
“Festa brava
is the running of the bulls. The countryside around Villa Franca is Portugal’s breeding ground for bulls. When the festivals
are held each year, a herd of black bulls is let loose to run through the main streets of the town. The people go crazy with
excitment.”
“How do they keep the bulls from running wild?” Marisa asked.
“Oh, the pathway, or
corrida,
is mapped out—all the
sidestreets are barricaded—but sometimes a bull escapes or breaks rank, arid then the uproar begins. Some aspiring young matador
invariably seizes the opportunity to display his skill with a cape.”
“You mean there are people in the streets with the bulls?”
“But of course. Hundreds of men run in front of the bulls—it is a test of their bravery. They wish to display their courage
to the crowds.”
“Good gracious! Are there ever any accidents?”
“For certain. Sometimes very serious. Many a daring conquistador has been saved by friends yanking him to a balcony above
in the nick of time,” Senhora Almarez explained with a touch of pride in the manhood of her countrymen.
“Will there be such a festival while we are visiting in the area, Senhora Almarez?”
“It is possible. The festival dates vary from year to year. Would you like to attend one?”
“I don’t know. It sounds terribly dangerous… and I shrink at the thought of anyone being injured. I’m afraid I always considered
bullfighting to be a cruel custom.”
“Ah but no, Lady Straeford. Not here in Portugal. In Spain,
sim,
they kill the bull, but in our country it is a sport of true nobility—a display of matchless equestrian skill. A
cavaleiro
fights the bull on horseback, and the animal is hot killed.”
“I didn’t know that. I thought the animals were always killed.”
“The Marquis de Pombal forbade it in the last century following the death of the Duke of Arcos in the bullring.”
“I see. I’m so glad that the bull is not killed. I think maybe I would like to see the running of the bulls, after all.”
The festival of the bulls was only one of the anticipated spectacles awaiting Marisa. She yearned to travel through the Portuguese
countryside and see firsthand some of the sights that she had so far only read about in books. Her readings had taught her
that Portugal was a fascinating land of such diversity that it defied a well
organized plan of exploration. Some of its best treasures were tucked away in remote locations—a 14th century monastery or
an abandoned Moorish castle—so that it would be necessary to set off in many directions to take in all the unique sights to
be discovered in that enchanting land.
On the morning of their departure for the Almarez
quinta
Marisa was met with unhappy news. Little Eddie Harding had awakened with a fever and rasping cough. His mother would not
leave him in that condition.