When the Heavens Fall (27 page)

“Oh, yes, if you have money enough, anything is forgiven.” She looked at Dolores, then shrugged. “I know you're not happy about this man, but I felt the same about your father. We women do what we have to do.”

The ballroom was crowded, and Dolores was bored. She had danced with many of the young men and some of the older ones, but she had danced the most with Don Pedro Varga. Her father said he was only in his fifties, but he appeared much older. He was a thin man with care written on his face, and even a dance fatigued him. He finally departed, kissing Dolores's hand and murmuring something about what a pleasure it had been

Dolores was bored to tears. She had done all this before, but this time she knew her father was in earnest. Suddenly disgust filled her, and she went out into the garden outside the ballroom, coming to stand beside a large fountain. She stood looking into it. Her thoughts were unhappy and even angry.
I can't stand that old man! Maybe Father will change his mind.
But she knew he would not, and a black melancholy filled her at the thought of what it would be like to marry a man she cared nothing for

“I take it you are bored, señorita.”

Dolores turned quickly, taken off guard. She answered sharply, for she hated to be surprised. “You are intruding, sir!”

“Forgive me. May I introduce myself? I'm a visitor to your country, as you might guess. My name is Brandon Winslow.”

Dolores hesitated. She studied the man carefully, impressed by his good looks. He was easily identifiable as English. He was perfectly dressed. He had a wedge-shaped face with a wide mouth and a pair of the lightest blue eyes she had ever seen. His hair was auburn with a tint of gold in it. There was an assurance in him that challenged her. “Do you often force yourself on young ladies, sir?”

“How might I apologize enough? I still say you look bored.”

“What is that to you?”

“You are quite right. It is none of my business, we being strangers and all.” He looked up at the sky. She admired, despite
herself, the lean, muscular length of his body. The suit fit him to perfection. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and there was an air of strength about him. “I came out to look at the stars.” He looked back at her. “They are beautiful, aren't they?” But as he said these last words, he was staring into her eyes

“I—I suppose so.”

“They always remind me of love.”

“The stars? Why would they remind you of love?”

“Because lovers are like the stars. They burn brilliantly for a time, but then they fade.”

“I don't believe all stars fade. Some burn brightly for hundreds of years.” Dolores was intrigued. The man had a brashness that challenged her. “I suppose you have written many poems to your lovers back in England.”

“No, I'm not a poet. I do have one that I like, though. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, I would.”

“It is a very old poem about a man and a woman in love. It goes like this

Dolores stared at the man. He had a musical voice. She said, “I don't understand it. What does it mean?”

“Why, lady, it means that men and women are to love while they are young, for that is the time of love.”

“It must have been written by an Englishman. We Spanish are more moral than the English.”

“Ah, but that's what the poet warns against. He says you must smell the rose while it is young, for soon it will be dry and withered. And women and men must use their youth for love, for the time will come when love will not be possible.” Moving closer, Brandon whispered, “Don't let the time for love pass you by. Do not hide behind morality. That's what the poem means.”

“I'm not interested in your talk about love! You Englishmen are too forward. You have no manners. We have not even been properly introduced.”

“May I know your name, señorita?”

“I am Dolores Mendoza. My father is Jaspar Mendoza.”

“And I am Brandon Winslow. I am happy to meet you.”

Dolores asked, “What are you doing in Spain?”

“I came to buy horses to take back to England.”

“My father's horses are the best.”

“So I understand. I'd like to see them.”

“Well, they are for sale.” She paused and then said, “Are you married, Señor Winslow?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“God has not given me a helpmate as he did for Adam. But he will give me a wife some day.”

Dolores was intrigued. “How will you know her? Will she be beautiful?”

“Inwardly yes, for inner beauty is what a man should seek.”

“I've never heard a man say that before.”

“Well, consider it, señorita. A woman can lose her outer beauty through the pox, or an accident can scar her face. Even if that doesn't happen, she will age and lose the beauty of her youth.”

“I suppose that is true.”

“If a pleasing form or a beautiful face is what a man falls in love with, love will leave. But suppose a man sees something inside the woman, something that age will not change? This inward grace draws a man, and he will love her when she loses her beauty. When she grows old and has white hair and wrinkles, he will still love her.”

Dolores found herself wondering about this tall Englishman. “You have strong ideas about love.”

“I suppose I do, but every man has the dream of his perfect mate, and sometimes he is fortunate enough to find her.” She turned suddenly to see her father, who had appeared and come out to stand beside her

“What is this? Who are you, sir? Why are you out here with my daughter?”

“I am Brandon Winslow, sir. I stepped out into the garden and found your daughter here. We were discussing poetry.”

“Poetry?” Mendoza was stern. “Our women here are not lax like the English. They will not see a man without a duenna present.”

“I apologize, Señor Mendoza. I was unaware of the custom.”

“Father, he's come from England to buy horses.”

Mendoza instantly settled down and grew more friendly. “Now, that is interesting. I have some fine horses.”

“So your daughter was telling me. Might I come and see them, sir?”

“Certainly. Come on the morrow. I will gladly show you the finest horses in Spain.”

“I will certainly do that. I apologize again, señorita,” he said, with a small bow. He turned and gave another to her father. “Señor Mendoza.” He left them, and when he was gone from sight, Dolores felt sorry indeed

Philemon bent over the iron skillet and inhaled deeply. He smiled with pleasure, and pulling the knife from his belt, he tentatively probed the beefsteak. “Tender as a baby's bottom,” he breathed. He impaled the steak on the point of a knife, transferred it to a wooden trencher, and placed it on a tray. He looked at the steaming potatoes and the tender carrots, then put a small vase containing a bell-shaped flower of a violet hue on the tray. He added a flagon of ale, then quickly put a snow-white cloth over the lunch. He lifted it up, put it flat on his palm, and held it just over his head in an accomplished fashion. He moved away from the table, and as he passed a sturdily-built woman with coarse, coal-black hair, he pinched her bottom

“You must not do that!” the woman said, but she was smiling, and there was a light in her brown eyes. “I'm a respectable woman.”

“You certainly are, Rosa, and a beautiful one, too.”

Rosa pouted and shook her head. “You are bad, Señor Smith! You are a danger to the women of this place.”

“Oh, I'm as innocent as a child, Rosa. After you get off tonight, suppose we take a little walk down by the river. I've found a beautiful place where we could sit and talk.”

“I know what your talk means. You probably have a wife back in your own country. You should be faithful to her.”

Philemon Smith shrugged and shook his head. A look of sadness crossed his features. “I've had two wives, but both of them went to heaven before me.”

“They're probably looking down right now, seeing how you treat a poor Spanish woman.”

“Oh, they were very understanding.” He squeezed her arm gently. “We'll leave about the time the moon gives way to the sun.”

“You are bad! I will have nothing to do with you.” She hesitated, then said, “What about your master? What's he doing?”

“Oh, he came to buy horses, but I think he's more interested in a woman.”

“You mean Señorita Dolores Mendoza? Well, he can forget her.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Because her father is an old pirate, a greedy one. He raised her up for one purpose, to marry her off to a rich man. Now he's found one.”

“Who is that?”

“His name is Don Pedro Varga. He's old, but he's rich.”

“Well, my master's rich, and he's not old, and he's fine-looking.”

“He may be all of that, but he's a foreigner. He can do nothing to lift Jaspar Mendoza up to the nobility.”

“I suppose the girl is obedient and will do as her father says.”

“She has little choice, has she? This world is run by men.”

“Well, I'm a romantic fellow. I think my master will steal her heart away.”

“Go on away with you. I have work to do.”

He lifted her face. “As soon as it gets dark, we'll go down and watch the moon come up over the river. I will be gentle, and I will say a poem to you.”

Rosa giggled and shook her head. “If my father found us, he would cut both our throats.”

“We must not let him find us, then. As soon as it's dark, I'll see you.” He winked and, still balancing the tray, took the stairway up to the second floor

“Time for your breakfast, sir. I've obtained for you one of the most tender steaks in all of Spain and some good fresh vegetables.”

Brandon had been lying in bed, his hands locked behind his head. He wore only a pair of the smallclothes he used for sleeping, and as he came to a sitting position, the muscles in his stomach tightened and his eyes lit up at the sight of food. “I'm starved to death. That smells wonderful.”

“Here. You start on this, sir.”

Philemon began to select the clothes that Brandon would wear that day. “Are you going out to the Mendozas' villa today?”

“Yes, I am. This is great steak. You'd make some man a good cook.”

“I did, once. One of the maids downstairs says that Mendoza is determined to marry his daughter off to a rich old man.”

“That's so. These carrots are tender. How do you make them that way?”

“Skill, sir. Nothing but skill. What about your progress with Mendoza?”

“Well, I keep looking at horses, but we haven't made any deal yet.”

Philemon picked out a pair of doeskin hose and put them on the bed. They were tight-fitting in the Spanish style with silver discs down the side. “I think this will suit.” He put them down and said, “You know, sir, I have a feeling that you're not as interested in horses as much as you are in Mendoza's daughter.”

“How can you think that?”

“You talk in your sleep, sir. You cry out for Dolores.”

“Well, there are many women named Dolores here in Madrid.”