Baroness Page 9

  “Uncle Oliver!”

  Rosie heard Finn’s greeting down the hallway.

  “Finley! You’ve grown a mile since I saw you last.”

  Rosie closed her eyes. Drew in a breath. She hadn’t expected him until tomorrow, or later.

  He always scared her a little, his history as a stringer for the paper, living on the streets in his eyes. He knew how to make his own way and bore it in his demeanor. “Hello, Rosie,”he said as he walked down the hall, holding Finn’s hand. “Amelia said you were in the park. Is Lilly up in her room?”

  Rosie saw Jinx’s mouth tighten around the edges. She got up just as Finn looked at Uncle Oliver and said, “No, Lilly left with that man. At the park.” He looked at Rosie. “’Member?”

  Oh, yes, she remembered. And as long as she lived, she knew she’d never forget the darkness that washed over Oliver’s face, nor the way he turned to Rosie and said, “Tell me where she is, Rosie. Right. Now.”

  * * * * *

  Lilly had never seen such courage—or foolishness—as the fatal ballet between the midnight-black bull and the young matador. The matador moved with grace through the sand of the amphitheater, as if the entire event might be choreographed, his crimson robe a partner as he danced around the bull.

  “He’s going to get killed.”

  “I know. After three or four of the bulls are down, you can smell the blood,” Rennie said.

  She’d been near blood during the cattle drives of her youth, during the castrating of the cattle, the birthing of calves.

  But this taunting of danger wheedled inside her, churned up something ugly, even repulsive, as the bulls became angrier, the matadors more daring.

  They’d started the corrida with six bulls and three toreros—older men who paraded into the ring all in bright pink or white. And then came the young one—possibly still a teen, dressed in a shiny gold vest and dark pants, a bright yellow shirt that would surely emphasize his blood. He stared into the audience with the rest of the toreros and, for a second, met her eyes, almost with a dare. Then he moved on to the other side of the stadium, whipping the crowd’s adoration to life.

  Behind them came the cuadrilla, the team of bullfighters mounted on horseback, and the flagmen, to keep them safe.

  When the bulls trotted out, their white horns sharpened into a fine point and pawed the ground, Lilly gripped her seat, leaning forward and holding her breath.

  “Look away,” Rennie said as the picadors stabbed each bull, letting the first blood run.

  Lilly had the strangest urge to cry.

  “It makes them lower their head, a more daring charge for the matadors.”

  “It’s cruel.”

  Presley, beside him, laughed.

  “Just wait,” Rennie said, and echoed Presley’s laughter. He had beer on his breath from the hours before in the café, and in the hot sun it probably only soaked into him.

  The young matador flicked his cape as the bull swung around him then let it charge so close she thought the horns had grazed him. But he held his ground, and the banderillas closed in with more barbs.

  “I can’t bear it. They look like buffalo.” She held her hand to her mouth, turning her head away as the matador waved his cape on the long dowel, moving it from one side to the next as the animal charged him.

  The crowd roared as the bull chased him, but he turned at the last moment then let it pass.

  “He’s magnificent,” Hem said.

  Presley clapped.

  “You’d better turn away again, they’re about to stab the bull through the shoulder blades and pierce his heart.”

  She stared at Rennie. He didn’t seem to be kidding. She got up. “I—I don’t feel well.” She moved to leave, and fast.

  Rennie got up to follow her, but Presley put a hand on his arm. “I’ll go with her.” She rose. “Trust me, after a few days of gore, you’ll get used to it. That, or enough beer to not care anymore.” She winked.

  “No—I’m fine.” Lilly managed a smile. “I’ll find my way back to the hotel.”

  She stepped past Rennie before he could stop her and climbed down out of the stands. Already, her head felt less hot, her stomach settling, away from the blood and violence.

  She wanted to cry at her stupidity, at the fear and revulsion that had risen inside her. What would Rennie think? But the entire event conjured up the brutality of the buffalo massacres she’d read about in the West. She hated it.

  Lilly walked through the grounds toward the gate and noticed the traveling cages that had transported the bulls from their ranches outside the city. Some of them were empty, but others hosted bulls still waiting to be let out into their corral. Did they know that they would be released only to their deaths?

  One of the bulls nudged up against the bars. She saw the hairy, black head, and one dark eye, wild with fright.

  She’d known better than to get near the buffalo on her ranch back home, but sympathy welled up inside her, and for a second she reached up—

  “Alto!”

  She jerked as a wrinkled man wearing a basque beret strode up and slapped her hand away.

  She curled into herself and hurried out the gate, onto the street.

  Her hotel was located on the plateau behind the city, and she ordered a carriage from the man at the gate and gave the name. The carriage drove her through the city, a plume of white dust rising to obscure her view of the bullrings. Everywhere she looked, bougainvillea twined up whitewashed buildings, chickens ran through the streets chased by little girls in bandannas. Clouds hung in the distance over the far green mountains, and the farther she went from the bloodletting, the stronger she became.

  She thought of the young matador, the way he played with the bull, his face tight, his eyes growing. The bull had charged, and he’d barely moved, unshaken. If she didn’t let the blood and gore turn her away, she might see the courage.

  She longed for that kind of courage. Thought she’d had her hands around it once again over the skies of Paris, and in the last week.

  Clearly, she wasn’t the daredevil she hoped to be.

  Yet.

  The carriage bumped along the dirt road, up the hill toward the hotel. She’d paid for her own room—insisted upon it, after hearing about Hem’s lack of fortune. She feared Rennie might be in similar dire straits, although they’d all had a rich lunch of poached fish and hard bread and cold cucumber soup. She’d stuck to lemonade again, while Presley led the men in consuming frothy cold beer that teared down the sides of the glass. Presley offered Lilly a sip, and her mouth puckered at the bitterness.

  Maybe she’d never be Presley, brash and smart, looking beautiful in men’s clothes and a jaunty beret. But perhaps she didn’t have to. She had Rennie, after all, and he’d made this clear when he’d taken her hand in his while they walked through the streets.

  Back at the hotel, she found her room freshly cleaned, the linen curtains blowing in the smell of rain from the darkening clouds. Hopefully Rennie would return before it began to deluge the bullfights. She looked forward to sitting with him under the stars, maybe talking about where they’d go next. Perhaps Madrid.

  She ordered gazpacho and ate it on the Juliet balcony outside her window and wished for writing paper to recount the day’s events for Rosie.

  If only Rosie had come with her. Lilly feared for her, at home with Jinx and the news of Lilly’s escape, but Rosie had assured her that she could manage without betraying her.

  Rosie had been so distraught over slapping her that Lilly believed her. And, perhaps, after this week, Aunt Jinx would realize that Lilly was her own person, that she didn’t need the supervision of her elders. Perhaps they would allow her to stay behind in Paris after the summer season.

  Maybe she would marry Rennie. Yes, of course she would marry Rennie.

  A knock came at her door just as the sun dripped into the black mountains. Rennie stood at the door, a sunburn on his nose, a smile curling up one side of his mouth. One whiff of him sugge
sted he’d stopped at a cantina on the way back to the hotel to finish off a carafe or two of beer. “Hello, peach.”

  “Rennie. Are you okay?”

  He came into the room, took off his derby, and flung it onto the bed. “Never better.” Then he sat down on the edge. “Have you put yourself back together?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Perhaps tomorrow I will be a better sport. It’s just so…maudlin.”

  “It is,” he said softly. “C’mere.”

  She slid into the comfort of his embrace, expecting words of sympathy, even understanding. He said nothing, however, and pulled her down to him. He tasted of beer and garlic, and she didn’t relish it. But this was Rennie, and she could forgive him of his vices. Especially in Pamplona.

  Besides, hadn’t he come up to inquire after her?

  He curled one hand around her back, the other behind her neck, and in a moment had pulled her down beside him on the creamy eyelet bedspread.

  “Ren—”

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said, lifting his head, his eyes dragging over her. “Young and beautiful.”

  She didn’t know what to think when he leaned over her, kissed her again. This kiss she didn’t recognize. It lacked the gentle ardor of before, it was reckless, and sloppy, his breath hot and dark against her mouth, then her neck. But perhaps this was what happened to a man when he drank.

  Then his hand traveled down, and she stiffened. “Rennie, please. Stop.” She caught his grope, but he pulled out of her grip.

  His eyes had a storm in them as they raked down her, back to her face, and she froze, a spark of warning now touching her core. “I thought you wanted an adventure.” Before she could respond, he leaned down, close to her ear, pleading. “Please, Lilly. I’m in love with you.”

  She swallowed, her throat burning. When he leaned over and kissed her again, his touch had gentled, but panic had already reached up to suffocate her.

  “No…I…Please, Rennie—I can’t.” She pushed on his chest, but he again covered her mouth, as if desperate.

  She twisted beneath him, fear spearing through her limbs. She didn’t even think as she reached back and, with everything inside her, slammed the palm of her hand against his face.

  He reeled back and stared at her, his hand to his cheek. She pulled together her mussed clothes and scooted back from him, breathing hard.

  He moved away from her and she expected an apology—something—but he just shook his head and got up, off the bed.

  “Rennie, please, understand. I…I’m not ready. Shouldn’t we be married first?”

  He held up his hand, as if to silence her, then he opened the door. He stood in the frame, the hallway dark beyond her room, his back to her, his shoulders rising and falling.

  “I should have listened to Presley. She told me you weren’t ready for Spain. This was all a terrible mistake,” he said finally, and shut the door.

  The sound of it shook her through.

  Rennie. She drew up her legs on the bed, feeling sick, and touched her fingers to her stinging lips.

  This was all a terrible mistake.

  His words turned to acid inside her. You weren’t ready for Spain. What had Presley told him?

  She had the sick feeling that Presley had once been in Rennie’s arms, maybe even here. In fact, maybe that’s where Presley—not Lilly—still belonged.

  Maybe Rennie knew it. Maybe he was still in love with Presley. Then why had he invited her? Why had he made her feel as if she belonged here, with him?

  Maybe she did. He’d made her feel bold and alive, and with him she became someone who traveled to Spain, who watched the bullfights, and who went flying.

  Lilly stood up, stared at herself in the mirror. She’d braided her hair today, but it was mussed and tangled, and she looked like a schoolgirl in her plain shirtwaist and skirt. She worked her braids free then retrieved a brush and ran it over her hair, turning it shiny and full.

  She already felt older. More daring. Men are children. A woman has to know how to handle them.

  She opened the valise of Presley’s clothes and found a black-fringed dress, sleeveless and low. She slid into it, and although it bagged on her, it showed more of her than she ever had before.

  Spain can turn a girl into a woman, if she has the courage.

  She went without stockings, slid into a pair of heels, and stared at herself in the mirror. Rosie would most likely approve of this outfit, would probably suggest adding a string of pearls to her neck. Oliver had presented her with pearls on her eighteenth birthday. They still sat in the velvet box in her trunks back in Paris.

  She put her hand to her bare neck. If she had them, she’d wear them now, swing them in her hand for courage as she sauntered downstairs to where the men played bridge at one of the white wicker tables on the stone terrace.

  The sun had set, and electric lights and torches trickled dark shadows upon Hem and Rennie’s faces as they held up their cards.

  Presley sat on one of the chairs also, hunkered in tight between Hem and Rennie, reading both their hands. She glanced at Lilly as she got closer, a frown darting across her face—quickly replaced by an expression of sadness. She nudged Rennie. “Look who showed up.”

  Rennie set down his cards. She expected a smile, something of apology, even appreciation, but she couldn’t read his expression as he scanned her, head to toe, then back to her eyes. “Looky here. Who is this?”

  “Rennie…” Lilly said softly.

  His mouth tightened into a knot, his eyes hard.

  She advanced another step. “I’m sorry, Rennie.”

  He laid his cards down, glanced at Presley, who raised a thin eyebrow. Then back to Lilly.

  She smiled, but the edges of her lips quivered.

  Then, his eyes softened, a smile barely edging—

  “Lilly!”

  The sound of her name behind her shook her through. No.

  Her breath came fast and sharp. She turned, and a whimper escaped.

  Oliver.

  He looked wrung out, his dark brown eyes red-rimmed, his black hair mussed, wearing a suit he must have slept in, but the disarray only made him appear ferocious. He stared at her, the entirety of what she’d become, and she had the urge to cover herself.

  Then he advanced toward them, setting down a case on the terrace. “I’ve been to every hotel in Pamplona.”

  She swallowed.

  Behind her, she heard a chair rake against the stonework. Rennie. Oh, sweet Rennie. He’d stand up to her stepfather, would tell him that no, she wasn’t returning with him, that Rennie loved her. That she belonged with him now.

  “Who are you?” Rennie asked.

  Oliver cut him a look.

  She almost wept with relief at the way Rennie came to stand beside her. She wanted to take his hand, but she couldn’t move.

  “I’m her father,” Oliver said, and could melt a lesser man with the heat in his eyes. “Who are you?”

  She glanced at Rennie and offered a little smile, even a nod for encouragement.

  Rennie stared at him, and she wanted to answer for him. Heard the words in the beating of her heart, felt it in the heat of her held breath.

  “I’m no one.”

  His words fell upon her like a blade.

  Then, as if to remind her just how foolish she’d become, Rennie turned to her, his eyes hard and cold. “Go home, Lilly. Your adventure is over.” He returned to the table, sat, and picked up his cards.

  She stood there, and the tremble started deep inside, found its way out. She wanted to slap him, to—

  “Lilly.” The voice was too gentle for her against all the rage boiling inside.

  She turned to Oliver, and words churned a long moment before she could latch onto the right ones. But they were exactly right, and came from a place she hadn’t had the courage to speak from. Until now. “I hate you. You stole my life from me. Again.”

  She brushed past him and fled back to her room to weep.

  Chapt
er 6

  “Will you never forgive me?” Rosie tried to keep the anger from her voice.

  Lilly stood at the rail of the steamer, staring into the ocean breeze, the shadows of the night pocketed into the wells of her face, sallow from tears. Her long braids twisted in the wind as she knotted the front of her steamer blanket hanging over her shoulders with a fist. She didn’t acknowledge Rosie’s question.

  Behind them, in the grand ballroom, the orchestra played as first-class passengers danced and lounged. Bennett and Uncle Oliver had retired for an after-dinner cigar while her mother went to oversee Finley’s bedtime. Ten days on the ship had lost its allure to her, especially since most of the first-class passengers were businessmen traveling home from Europe. None of her set would come home until the end of August, when the season in Paris ended.

  Rosie pulled her own steamer blanket up over her shoulders, shivering as the ocean winds scuttled across her arms. She’d forgotten the chill of the open sea—that, and the briny feel of the salt layered upon her skin, woven into her hair. She felt grimy and old, weary and torn through with the chop of the sea, the brisk wind, and the unrelenting cold front from her cousin.

  “Oliver gave me no choice,” Rosie said, grasping the rail.

  Lilly’s face hardened.

  “You should have seen him, Lils. He looked undone and tired, as if he’d swum across the Atlantic to get to you. I tried to hold out, I even went to my room and locked the door, but he stood outside it and knocked and knocked—he kept pleading with me. He told me how much he loved you. It was horrible. I know I said I wouldn’t tell him, but…I didn’t realize how much he cared for you.”

  A muscle pulled in Lilly’s jaw, her dark eyes tracing something in the mysterious darkness beyond the bow where they stood. Early stars hung over the darkness, and a half moon had risen to cast an eerie glow upon the silver waves.

  “I finally opened the door. He’d pulled up a chair and sat there, holding his head in his hands. I thought he was crying, but then he just looked up at me, and I think, had I not been a woman, he might have taken me by the throat and throttled the information right out of me. But he just stared, something so desperate in his expression…I had to tell him, Lils.”