(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale (6 page)

My heart sank down again.

"Bilbao? I—I believe that I know nobody in Bilbao."

"I had better read you the letter," said my grandfather. "It is from the Reverend Mother at El Convento de la Encarnacion, Bilbao." He cleared his throat. "Ahem! 'Esteemed Señor: It is with the most humble apologies and the deepest diffidence that I take the liberty of approaching your gracious self, and I would hardly venture to do so if the matter were not one of life and death.'"

"Life and death!" I gasped.

"Humph." My grandfather again looked at me over his glasses, then resumed reading. "'One of the novices in our sister convent of Notre Dame de Douleur, in Bayonne—'"

"Ah!"

"'—in Bayonne, Sister Felicita, has been appealed to by a female relative of hers who is in extreme distress. The name of this female relative is Doña Conchita de la Trava y Escaroz. You may recall the name of her husband, Don Manuel de Morales de la Trava, who was consigned to prison in Barcelona last year for expressing revolutionary and antiroyalist opinions of the most disgraceful nature.'"

"
Did
he do so, Grandfather?" I asked, partly to quell the frantic beating of my heart.

"It depends upon your own views as to whether you consider his disgraceful," replied the Conde, pursing his upper lip. "I certainly knew of Manuel de la Trava, and that he had been imprisoned." He continued reading. '"Upon the imprisonment of Don Manuel, Doña Conchita, whose political opinions are of the most exemplary nature, was obliged to sever all connection with her husband. She retired to live with relatives here in Bilbao, accompanied by her three children, who are all under the age of nine. But last month, her renegade and ruffianly husband succeeded in escaping from Montjuich prison in Barcelona, where he had been incarcerated, and then managed to abduct the three little ones from their mother's care. He has absconded with them to some cave or ruin in the vicinity of Jaca, where his family formerly owned property. He has written a letter to his poor wife declaring that he will never give up the children, but will sooner put an end to his existence, and theirs too.'"

"Good heavens!"

"'Doña de la Trava, who has the deepest and most devoted attachment to her children, is, consequently, in terrible distress. She wrote appealing for help to her cousin, Sister Felicita (in the world formerly known as Señorita Juana Esparza).'"

"I wonder why she did that," I said thoughtfully.

It was true that Juana had been a most resourceful and redoubtable girl—none knew that better than I—but how, from her convent, could she possibly assist in the rescue of those unlucky children from some cave in Aragon?

Grandfather continued reading: "'It appears that, for a portion of her life, Sister Felicita had the care of these young ones, knew them well, and was sincerely attached to them. Mère Madeleine, the Superior of the Convent in Bayonne, therefore gave her permission for Sister Felicita to travel from Bayonne to our House in Bilbao, where she is at present, in order that she might discuss the situation with her cousin, Doña de la Trava, and give advice.'

"Conchita de la Trava," remarked my grandfather, pausing at this point and again looking at me over his glasses, "before her marriage was Conchita Escaroz, daughter of one of the richest mine owners in Bilbao."

Grandfather always knew about families, who had married whom.

"Oh, I see.
That
is why the Reverend Mother is being so obliging."

"One of the reasons, perhaps. 'Sister Felicita, horrified, as we all are, at the plight of these poor innocent little ones, snatched off into the wilderness by a madman, has offered all the help in her power, and has been granted permission to travel to Jaca with her cousin, in case her intercession may be of use. Another nun, Sister Belen, will accompany her, but a male escort will also be necessary. Doña de la Trava's father is too old and unwell for such a mission; Sister Felicita therefore suggested that we appeal to you for the good offices of your grandson, Señor Felix de Cabezada y Brooke, who, I am informed, displayed the greatest possible enterprise, courage, chivalry, and resource upon a former occasion when he escorted Señorita Esparza (as she then was) across the Pyrenees and into the safekeeping of her uncle Señor Leon d'Echepara.'

"
Ay, ay
," commented my grandfather, breaking off to wipe his glasses and take a sip of chocolate, "they can pile on the compliments fast enough when they want to wheedle a favor out of you. While, at other times, they take the greatest delight in slamming a hammer down on your fingers."

I reflected that, in his views on the clergy, Grandfather was not so far distant from the farmer this morning, coolly unleashing an avalanche upon the two travelers who might or might not be friars.

"Do you think that I ought to go, Grandfather?"

But of course, of course I would! My heart was bursting with joy and excitement.
I shall see her. I shall see her again!
sang its senseless refrain inside my head.

"How could you possibly resist such an appeal?" said the Conde, raising his brows. He removed his spectacles, eyed me sharply, and inquired, "
Why
did the young lady become a nun in the first place? Was she so very religious?"

"No ... I do not think it was that. But she had had all those terrible experiences—abducted by the Mala Gente—nearly hanged—her own brother hiring assassins to kill her and being murdered himself; and there had been an aunt of hers, Laura, who had also died violently. I think Juana felt that her taking the veil might in some way atone for all these crimes..."

"I see." He resumed his glasses and glanced at the finish of the letter. "There is little more—except a great many professions of gratitude and so forth, which we may take for granted."

He handed me the paper, which was headed by a great conventual seal, and I read the lines again for myself.

Then I said, "Would you wish me to go upon this errand, Grandfather?"

"My boy, I leave that decision entirely to you."

Yet he had brought me home at racing speed.

I asked, "Do you know anything about these people, sir? Manuel de la Trava, and his wife?"

The Conde pursed his lip again.

"He is of good family—noble blood of Aragon. He wrote some intelligent pamphlets on the backwardness of our educational and medical services. I daresay those were enough to get him jailed. He is, I believe, a friend of that Jose de Larra who writes in Madrid under the name of Figaro."

"Of course I have heard of him."

"Somebody told me that Manuel de la Trava had gone mad in prison. A not infrequent occurrence at Montjuich," added my grandfather gloomily. "They say it is a hell on earth. As to his wife, I know nothing, except that she was very rich and reputed to be a great beauty. Her family were not so wellborn as her husband's.
New
money, from coal mines."

I smiled a little, inside myself. Grandfather, despite his views on progress and reform, would always look more kindly on somebody who came from an ancient line. His attitude toward me had changed decidedly for the better when he found that I was not born out of wedlock, son of a penniless English army captain, but was, on the contrary, the legitimate grandson of an English duke. I could not hold this against him. For one thing, he loved and respected the peasants just as much as he did people of aristocratic descent.

"The peasants, you see, are well descended too," he had told me seriously. "Their forefathers have always been here, in Villaverde, since long before the Romans. Since Adam. They and I understand one another very well. It is only those jumped-up nobodies in the middle—people whose ancestors come from God knows where, foundry owners and shopkeepers, people who don't know their place—that I cannot abide."

All these things were passing through my head as I said, "Well—I should like to go on this errand, if you approve, Grandfather. I do not at all see how I can be helpful in getting these poor children away from their crazy father, but there is no sense in trying to make plans until I have seen what the circumstances are. And I must confess I shall be glad—very glad—of the chance to see Señorita Esparza once more."

"You must be prepared, don't forget, to find great changes in her. Young ladies at that time of life grow up much faster than their male counterparts." His wise, ironic eye dwelled on me, I thought, with sympathy.

"Yes, I suppose so ... And she is a nun, after all."

My heart sank again at the thought. To distract myself, I asked, "When did you receive this letter, Grandfather?"

He counted on his fingers. "Seven days ago now; I delayed answering until I had discovered your feelings on the matter. Now, since you wish to go, I will dictate a letter which you may write for me if you will—my fingers are so wretchedly stiff these days that they can hardly grasp a quill; then you may carry it with you to Bilbao, to this Reverend Mother at the Convento de la Encarnacion."

"How long will it take us to get to Bilbao?"

I had never been to Bilbao, which is a seaport on the Biscay coast, not far from the border of Spain and France.

"It is farther than Salamanca—I suppose five or six days' traveling. You could go part of the way by sea—take ship from Aviles or Gijon."

A week from now, I was thinking, perhaps a week from this very day I may see her.

I still kept a remembrance she had left with me: a little snuffbox containing four tiny stones, ruby, ivory, agate, topaz, and a dried ilex leaf. I carried it with me always.

My grandfather gave me another long, considering look, and said, "I should like you to take Pedro with you."

"
Pedro? Why?
"

I was not pleased. True, Pedro was a good fellow, we got on well, and I was fond of him; but for an errand of this sort, where great delicacy might be called for, and who knew what kind of complications might arise, I did not see the necessity for his company. Juana and I had been alone together on our previous adventure, and we had come through it very successfully. Pedro's presence had been all very well on the journey from Salamanca, but I could not help feeling that, on this new mission, he might be most wretchedly in the way.

But my grandfather said placidly, "Pedro has grown into a very dependable, sensible fellow."

"Yes, that is true. He showed plenty of sense, coming from Salamanca."

"And you are going to have a pair of religious sisters on your hands; besides, I presume, Señora de la Trava."

"True," I said gloomily. I supposed the children's mother might wish to come along and have some say in our rescue plans.

"I shall feel easier in my mind if you have Pedro with you," my grandfather concluded in a firm tone.

I suppose I must still have looked as if I disagreed, my longing to conduct this adventure on my own was so very strong. A glow of pride warmed me through and through at the notion that Juana, even though she might now be a nun, had thought of me, had needed my help, had singled me out and taken such pains to have me sent for.

"But, after all, it is only to entice some children away from a madman? There can be no great danger or difficulty about such a task?"

"How can we possibly tell?" said my grandfather. "I recall meeting Manuel de la Trava almost fifteen years ago at Santiago de Compostela—"

"I can remember that journey," I began impulsively, and then stopped. I had been nearly four at the time. The pilgrimage had been undertaken so that my grandparents might pray for the safety of my uncles Juan and Esteban, colonels in the Spanish army fighting in the War of Independence. But those prayers had gone unanswered; both of my two uncles, like their brothers Miguel and Jose before them, had been killed in battle. I was now my grandfathers sole descendant, for my cousin Manuel Isidro had died of the smallpox in Madrid last summer.

"De la Trava was a fine, handsome fellow, intelligent, honest, and brave," my grandfather said slowly.

"But he may be quite changed now if he has gone mad."

"His strength and courage may be unimpaired. You may find your task a difficult one. In all kinds of ways."

I sighed, feeling certain that I would be able to manage it somehow, if only I were left to arrange matters to my own liking.

Grandfather smiled then, the rare smile that lit his face like the gleam of the dying sun.

"Bear with me, Felix! I am an old man and must be humored. The years have been long while you were away at Salamanca. But at least, while you were there, I could feel that you were in no danger and were profiting from excellent teachers—I trust that was so?" he added, shooting a diamond-bright glance from under his bushy brows, which, unlike the rest of his hair, had remained jet black.

"Certainly it was," I replied stoutly. "I have been working hard, Grandfather. I have learned a great deal."

"But now you are my sole heir—I have lost so much—so much," he muttered.

"I know, sir. And I am very sorry. I won't thwart you."

Yet still, though ashamed of my childishness, I felt impatient at this weight of moral obligation, which seemed to hang on me like a heavy collar; I had not asked to be his heir, after all!

"You will have to look after your great-aunts when I am gone. And your grandmother too, very possibly. And there is much less money than there was."

Indeed I had noticed that many of the treasured objects of silver, china, and porcelain were gone from the places they had once occupied in the big, glass-fronted walnut cabinets. So had the ornaments of Toledo steel, and some of the big glossy paintings of fruit and fishes and dead hares that used to hang on the walls. Pedro had told me that many things had been sold. Now for the first time I realized that these had probably paid for my education at Salamanca. Well: those pictures of dead hares were no great loss, I told myself doggedly.

But perhaps Grandfather had hated parting with them.

I was glad that I really had worked hard.

"Are you sure, Grandfather, that you can manage without Pedro? After all, we do not know how long this business may take."

"Yes, yes, this is an easy time, before the harvest. And, between you, I daresay, you will find some way of bringing the affair to a speedy conclusion. Though its an unhappy matter." The Conde sighed. "But now, run along with you, my dearest boy, you look tired to death. You had best get some sleep before all the old ladies come swarming out, and before you need to start planning your new departure."