Lisbon (49 page)

After a while her patience was rewarded. A man—or perhaps a youth—came out of the low front door. Came out stooping, for, though slight, the figure was willowy and tall. Whoever he was, he wore the long black stocking cap traditional to Portuguese fishermen, a shapeless shirt, and baggy trousers over bare sun-browned feet. There was something vaguely familiar about the figure that puzzled Charlotte. Did she know any fishermen?

No matter—she must try!

“Wait!” she called in Portuguese.

Below her the figure looked up. Stocking cap tossed back, the face that peered upward toward the balcony was well known to her.

It was Annette.
Annette’s mocking face meeting her eyes with a mixture of hatred and glee.

The Arranger had not done it alone. He had commissioned his faithful Annette to select the Bilbao family and pay them their monthly stipend. Annette was the Messenger.

Charlotte knew that she was lost. Between the two of them she would never get away.

Yet that was the very day on which Tom had passed by and paused to look up.

By so short a time had she missed him. . . .

But somehow the sight of Annette had lent steel to Charlotte’s resolve. She
would
escape, she would find her way back to the real world, not this half-life of balconies and locked rooms; she would see her children again! Her chance would come, and when it came
she would be ready for it!

Determined to gain strength and keep her figure, after that she exercised—every day, pacing around and around 
the big square room. She would wear a path in the floor, she told herself grimly, before she would let herself give up! And she worked desperately to perfect her Portuguese with Alta Bilbao so that when her chance came she could melt into the crowds of Lisbon and disappear. Alta Bilbao was so flattered by Charlotte’s sudden interest in her and her language that she was moved to lend Charlotte a wooden comb.

And so the indomitable spirit of the woman lost on Nowhere Street prevailed.

Charlotte waited, waited for The Day.

Annette’s was not the last familiar face that Charlotte was to see. For in the fifth year of her imprisonment, Rowan came to Lisbon.

What a battle he had waged with himself in London! On winter nights he would see Charlotte’s face in the fire. On summer days the scent of flowers would waft her presence back to him. Whenever he saw that certain shade of blonde hair, his heart leapt. Yet he would not admit to himself that he cared.

Trying to rid himself of Charlotte’s witchery, he had plunged into work with a vengeance—and in the increasing furor that swirled about powerful Walpole he at first found ample scope for his talents. Against Walpole’s wishes, England had gone to war with Spain—and at first that war had gone well, despite Walpole’s cynical comment when the church bells had pealed that declaration of war: “They may ring the bells now—before long they will be wringing their hands.”

Nobody listened. After all, had not Admiral Anson sailed round the world, sacked a Spanish port in Peru, and captured the Manila galleon which carried on trade with Acapulco? And on the other side of the Isthmus of Panama, had not Admiral Vernon taken—as the buccaneer Henry Morgan had done long before him—the Spanish fortress town of Porto Bello? And when Admiral Vernon tailed in his efforts to storm Cartagena and Santiago, Walpole was blamed, not the admiral. After all, who had let 
the English navy go to pot during these peacetime years? Walpole!

Amid the furor, in 1742 Walpole was forced to resign. He was given the title of Earl of Orford, which put him into the House of Lords and removed him forever from the great power he had wielded in the Commons. Walpole’s power had been divided between two Secretaries of State, and although many—Rowan among them—might deride the incompetent Duke of Newcastle, of whom it was said that every morning he lost half an hour and spent the rest of the day running after it, none could question the competency of that other Secretary of State, Lord Carteret, who was bursting with energy and quickly gained the king’s favor.

Walpole’s star, which had shone so brightly for so many years, had faded—and with it, Rowan’s. From the House of Lords, Walpole still gave the man they called the Arranger an occasional commission, but they were matters of less moment—and far less lucrative.

Still Rowan Keynes was a wealthy man—he could afford this enforced retirement, although it was a bitter pill to see his world breaking up and realize that the world that replaced it would have no place for him. For if he went over to the enemy camp, how could he expect aught but treachery? There were those among them who had said that they would see him hanged. He resolved to give them no opportunity.

For a time he gave himself over to pleasure. Determined to push Charlotte from his mind, he spent his time in gaming hells, and his bed was occupied by a succession of actresses and loose women. Rut when his long body relaxed and he dreamed, his dreams were of Charlotte, and he woke ashamed and furious that the memory of her bewitching body and clear, unafraid eyes could still torment his dreams.

He knew that Annette would see to it that Charlotte did not escape. Her letters, written in bad French, reassured him on that score. But he was driven by an overpowering urge to see her again, and at last he managed to convince himself that Charlotte had not been punished enough. He 
would visit Lisbon and—his dark eyes gleamed—he would play a sadistic game with her.

And so in the fifth year of Charlotte’s imprisonment in the Alfama, Rowan sailed for Portugal and conferred with Annette, who promptly made her way to the low front door of the house on Nowhere Street, there to give the Bilbaos explicit instructions.

The next day dawned hot, with unrelenting sunshine. And in the hottest part of that hot day, when people stayed indoors to avoid the enervating heat, and even the dogs and cats sought the shade of alleyways and slept, Alta Bilbao carelessly left the door of Charlotte’s room ajar.

From her balcony Charlotte had already seen both the Bilbao men, father and son, depart, strolling down the narrow cobbled way toward a tavern they visited almost every afternoon—she knew that because Alta grumbled about it. But when she did not hear the hallway door close or Alta’s key turn in the lock, she sprang up from her languid position reclining on the balcony and went inside.

The door to her prison stood invitingly open.

On silent feet Charlotte approached that door. Downstairs in the back of the house she could hear Alta singing and clashing plates about. Charlotte did not know the layout of the downstairs rooms, but it seemed likely that from the back Alta could not view the front hall. Walking softly, almost holding her breath, Charlotte tiptoed downstairs. She winced whenever a step creaked, but always at those points Alta’s singing seemed louder than ever. Downstairs she peered toward the back, but Alta was nowhere in sight. The low front door lay just ahead.

Praying that it was not locked, Charlotte stole toward that door. Her heart skipped a beat before it swung open on well-oiled hinges. A moment later she had shut it soundlessly behind her.

For the first time in five years she stood upon the cobbles—free!

The street was empty, baking in the heat. Overhead some laundry flapped lazily. But at the far end of the uphill side was a sight that froze her. Jorge Bilbao lounged there, leaning against a building talking to a stranger. His 
back was toward her, he had not seen her, but his presence meant that way was barred to her—she would never get past Jorge!

She looked in the other direction. The entire curving narrow street was empty of people. Only a couple of dogs slept in the noonday sun.

Taking a deep breath, she hurried along. At this end Nowhere Street curved and there was a maze of alleys, one of them leading to the main square. She was debating which way to take when suddenly from a shadowed doorway a tall figure stepped forth.

A familiar figure.

“Rowan, ” she said, looking about her warily to see which way she might run.

His body was blocking her way, and she had the feeling that he would pounce upon her if she even moved. She had been about to take a step, and now she put her foot down gingerly. He was looking her up and down. To her eyes he looked not a day older—fashionably dressed and sporting a cane. But she could not fathom his expression as he stood there. There were shutters over those drooping eyelids.

She could not know how the very sight of her shook him. That was why he had stayed away all this time; some inner voice had warned him that if he saw her again he would forget his vow to punish her and take her in his arms. Fighting that desire made him adopt a harsh, contemptuous manner.

“Your condition seems to have deteriorated, Charlotte,” he said negligently, poking at her ragged skirts with his cane.

“I am what you have made me,” she said in a colorless voice.

“So you are,” He seemed amused. “Well, I am surprised that dress has lasted all this time. I had thought your flesh would have been bared before now.” Idly he poked his cane through a recent unmended tear in her worn skirt and brought the cane down neatly through the frayed material, leaving a long rip.

Charlotte fought back a gasp at this further indignity.

“Are you going to strip me here in the public street?” she gasped. “For if you do, I shall shout to all the world that I am your wife and they will look upon you with even more horror than I do now. ”

A mirthless smile flitted across Rowan s dark countenance. “If you so much as raise your voice to me, I will break your teeth with this.” He gave the cane a slight negligent wave.

“I nothing doubt it,” she said evenly, giving him a steady look. “Since I stand before you helpless.”

Her courage, that slight lift of the head, were both so characteristic of her unbroken spirit that he was taken aback. He had fully expected that after five years of imprisonment she would cower before him. Instead he found himself flinching inwardly before those clear violet eyes, that unrepentant mouth. The witch still had the power to move him, and he hated her the more that it should be so.

“Tell me, Rowan,” she said through dry lips, “how are my children? Are they well? Do they miss me?”

“They are well enough,” he said shortly. “Or were, when I left them back in England. ”

“Both of them?” she insisted.

He seemed to consider. Then he smiled. “Phoebe is the delight of everyone, ” he said.

“And Cassandra?” She was almost afraid to ask.
Suppose Rowan had come to realize that Cassandra was Tom’s daughter?
“Does she ask about me?”

“Never.”

“Why . . . why not?” She faltered, taken aback.

“She thinks you dead,” he told her brutally. “They both do. I arranged a funeral for you, remember? I even let them observe the procession.”

Up to now Charlotte had believed that the story about her “funeral” was a lie that Rowan had invented to torment her. Now the enormity of what he had done rocked her. “How could you be so cruel?” She felt herself trembling in revulsion. “They are so small, what have they ever done that you should make them suffer for my sins?”

“Oh, they don’t suffer,” he said easily.

“They do—they must grieve for their mother!”

“Indeed they are very merry.’’ He gave an indifferent shrug. “It is as if you had never been. ’’

She wanted to strike him, to beat on his chest, to kick those silk-stockinged shins and bring a howl of pain to that handsome cruel mouth. Somehow she managed to keep herself in check. She even kept her voice steady.

“Haven’t you done enough to me?” she demanded. “You’ve locked me up, kept me shut away, made me frantic with worry for my children.” Of a sudden all the tears she had shed in her long captivity welled up in her yearning voice. “Oh, Rowan,” she choked. “Can’t you at least find it in your heart to let me visit them? I would promise never to bother you again, if I could see them just once more. ...”

Her voice trailed off before the dark blaze of fury that leapt from his eyes. Fury that for a moment he had felt a real compassion for her, alone and friendless, far from home.

“All in England believe you dead, Charlotte. You will stay dead!”

She took a step backward before the fury in that voice. Panic rose in her. “But is there no way—?”

“None!” A door had been slammed in her face. Closed forever. “I told you when last we met that you would never see your children again. Now I tell you that as God is my witness, if ever you manage to get in touch with them or make yourself known to them
any way,
I will cast them both out into the street with naught but the clothes on their backs. I will cut them from my will. I will turn my back on them and they may live or die as fate pleases, for I will take no notice of what happens to them!” Charlotte shrank back, trembling. “Oh, God, you would not! Rowan, they are your children too!”

“And as long as they are
solely mine,
they will receive good treatment. But they must have no knowledge that their mother lives—now or ever.”

He would do it too. She remembered the great stallion he had loved—and shot dead. A vision of Midnight rose up before her. Midnight, so beautiful and sleek. Charlotte 
had always felt that in his strange way Rowan loved her.
But he had loved the horse too.