The Spanish Marriage (9 page)

Another part of his mind willingly acknowledged that in the
skirt and fitted jacket of a peasant woman the girl looked older, old enough to
be a wife in earnest, if one knew no better. He thought of Thea as she had
hurled herself into the hut that evening and of the very different image of the
pretty child in those ridiculous nun’s robes, the child playing with kittens
outside his window. It was difficult to believe they could be the same woman.
Girl, he corrected himself. Child, but a brave, game child nonetheless. There
was no doubt he had been right to help her away from the convent; she deserved
her chance to play the young lady, to fall in love with some bright, unspoilt
boy who would make a faithful husband to her in good earnest. It was curiously
disturbing, that vision.

Shaking himself from these thoughts, Matlin rose and checked
the mules’ tethers. Then, bowing to a foolish whim, he went to where Thea
slept curled tightly up, shivering in her sleep. I might have built her a fire,
he thought regretfully. No, not tonight, too risky. She understood that, he
hoped. God knew she had had enough to understand on this journey. Thoughtfully
he watched her for a moment and then removed his coat, draped it over her, and
went to sit against another tree and to try for sleep himself.

“How far have we come?” she asked the next
morning. Talking idly in Spanish, in the full glare of the day, both felt easier.

“If that town was Peñausende last night, then we’ve
a journey of about a day and a half to reach the border.”

“Portugal. If we can cross the border in peace,”
Thea added. Matlin looked at her sharply; he had been thinking much the same
thing himself but had decided not to alarm her. His child bride was growing up
fast indeed. “Do you think we’ll meet with trouble?” she
asked now.

“I don’t think it’s safe to assume
anything until we reach England, but there’s hope I’ll be proven
wrong. God knows that has happened enough. If we can maintain your story of Doña
Manuela and her idiot spouse—did I recall to thank you for your quick
thinking? You saved my life, child.”

“And my own.” Thea faced him squarely. “If
you’re grateful you can prove it by calling me by my name, or anything
but
child.
I am
not
a child.”

His mouth curled wryly. “My apologies.” He bowed
with just the same manner she had seen in her cousin William when he soothed
his children. That was worse than being called a child to her face. Obstinately
Thea closed her mouth and refused to say anything until it was nearly sundown.
The day was uneventful, a blessing for them. Now, when they stopped, Matlin
made a good effort at his imbecile role; he scratched his head and took so much
time between words that anyone he spoke with—soldier or passerby stopping
to exchange the news—soon gave up, frustrated. Through each exchange Thea
sat, convincingly silent and meek, but when they were alone she glared at
Matlin in a decidedly unsubservient manner.

Toward dusk Matlin told her, “I was hoping to reach
Villarino de los Aires tonight, but it seems as though we won’t.”

“Am I slowing you down?” Thea asked. It was the
first full sentence she had said in hours; her tone was hardly conciliatory.
Matlin was at a loss to understand her or how to treat her. Should he tease her
from her sullenness? Should he reassure her?

“Slowing me down?” he repeated finally. “If
it weren’t for you I would assuredly be in that damnable shack still and playing
the simpleton. You’ve been the useful one, ch—Thea. I merely tend
the mules.” He finished with a touch of spurious humility that made Thea
giggle shyly.

At last it was too dark to go on further. They had been
travelling along the bank of a river for some time. “We’ll have to
cross it sometime, but I doubt if any ferryman will want to carry us tonight.
There are entirely too many of Boney’s fellows abroad on these roads for
my taste. What do you think, heroine? Shall we find a place to camp?”

“Away from the road,” Thea suggested. This near
the border they saw more and more evidence of the occupation and more than once
Thea had slipped into the role of a distressed wife, whining softly of her
trials, poor simple husband, the wedding she had missed, the favor that had
gone to her cousin Estella. Probably the French paid them no notice anyway, but
the imposture made Thea feel better, as if she were doing something indeed. “Lord,
I’m coming to hate ‘Manuela,’” she muttered in English.
“What a dreadful shrew she is!”

“But a lifesaver, nonetheless. What do you expect, with
a husband like Miguel? We’re not cutting very heroic figures, are we, my
dear?”

It was lucky then that the light was fading; Matlin did not
see the color which came to Thea’s cheeks at his offhand endearment.

“Where shall we stop?” she asked.

“Can you bear to go a little farther, beyond that
stand of trees? It looks as though they will afford us a little cover.”

Obediently Thea nudged her mule forward. The obliging
animal, surely as tired now as she was herself, stumbled after Matlin’s
mule, and their patience was rewarded. The stand of trees hid a tiny shack,
barely six feet to a side. “A roof,” Matlin exulted.
“Tonight, my child, you shall have a fire. By God, I’m damned if I
don’t find us something better to eat than the heel of that bread.”

While Matlin went in search of food or information or whatever
else was to be had—Thea placed little reliance upon food and, knowing his
Spanish, not much more upon information—she worked on the hut. After she
cleared it, sweeping the floor with a bunch of twigs until it was not clean but
relatively smooth and inviting, she arranged their bundles against one wall.
Then she set about making a fire, gathering leaves and sticks, and poking the
cobwebs out of the smoke-hole in the hut’s roof. They might have a smoky
night of it but at least they would be warm. She agonised for some minutes over
the striking of a spark: Matlin had taken the tinderbox away in his pocket. At
last, triumphantly, Thea beheld a small flame in the heart of her tinder.
Having done her best to make a home for the night, she sat back against the
wall to wait for her husband.

He returned after what seemed like hours to Thea. “There’s
a farm over the rise. I bought some food there and told our story. Miguel and
Manuela’s, in any case, and I don’t doubt they believe me an
imbecile as you could wish. Damning to my ego, but better my self-esteem than
my neck.... Or yours.”

“Thanks,” Thea said.

“I have news. I’ll tell you while we eat.”
He set his sack down by the fire and looked about him. “You’ve been
busy: started a fire, cleaned the place. What a housewife you are.” He
smiled at her. “Clever child.”

Matlin missed the face Thea made at him. Child again! Already
he had forgotten his promise.

He turned again and reached for his sack. “Not
haute
cuisine
, I regret, but it will do for an evening. What a world of dinners
we shall have to make up for when we reach London, eh? Here’s bread.”
He produced a small round loaf. “Some cheese and sausage, of course....”
Two almost identical lumps, smelling strongly of garlic. “And wine! Come,
my dear, smile. We dine like kings tonight, with a roof over our heads and a
table....” He mimed a long formal dining table laden with the best silver
and china, and a sideboard piled with delicious things to eat.

Giddily, Thea responded in kind. “Would you like a
slice of roast duckling? Or pigeon in tarragon?” She shifted closer to
the fire and began to slice the round loaf with Matlin’s knife.

“I thought a bite of terrapin to start, or a bit of
pig’s cheek. I’m partial to that.” Thea recorded this
information as she handed him a thick slice of bread. “And of course, a
glass of burgundy? An excellent vintage, my love. May I pour you a
glass?” Triumphantly he produced a tiny, misshapen tin cup from one
pocket and poured a splash of dark, vinegary red wine into it. “Milady?”

Thea giggled and inclined her head. “My lord.”

“To your continued good health and beauty.” He
took a healthy swig from the wine bottle. “And now, perhaps you will pass
me a morsel of....” He gestured questioningly at the cheese.

“Venison?” Thea suggested dubiously. Matlin
nodded agreeably, smeared his bread with cheese and the sausage, and swallowed
it quickly. He took another long draught of wine, making a face. “Some
pretenses are easier to carry out than others,” he admitted ruefully and
wiped his chin with a dusty sleeve.

They kept up the charade for the rest of the meal, getting sillier
as they went, dining on quail eggs and breast of lion. In between toasts and
grand courtesies Matlin told her what he had learned: the new king, Fernando,
had gone to Bayonne, in France, to meet with Bonaparte.

“It’s madness; apparently Fernando has some idea
that Bonaparte will marry him to a French princess and take him under the
protection of the Empire. So he has delivered himself into the hands of the
French, and it seems that the old king and his wife are going to Bayonne as
well. I wonder how long it will take for Bonaparte to announce that he has taken
Spain for its own good.”

“Doesn’t anyone care? The people, I mean?”

“When I escaped from Madrid after Fernando forced his father’s
abdication, the people all thought it was the dawn of a better day, that the
Prince would keep Bonaparte at bay, work wonders, bring Spain back as a power.
Now? I think they begin to see Fernando isn’t a savior, at least. God
knows when the worm will turn. I hope we’re well away when it does.
Dorothea? Do you wish you had stayed safe at the convent? This is hardly the
life for a delicately bred girl....”

“But there’d have been no quail eggs or breast
of lion, either.” Thea sipped her wine slowly, savoring the rough, sour
burr it left on her tongue. “I’d have been learning Latin and
hating it. I’d just as soon have the adventure, thank you.” She
licked her fingers for punctuation.

Matlin drank his own wine in grateful swallows and stared at
the orange glow of the fire. “It hasn’t been boring, certainly. But
a girl like you, travelling this way, facing these dangers...not that you haven’t
faced them well,” he added hurriedly. “I promised not to call you child,
didn’t I? I’ll try to remember that.” He looked angrily at
his hands and saw beyond them: “Your Silvy, Mother Beatriz, they must
have been out of their minds to let you come with me.”

The supper was a wreckage of oiled paper and crumbs on the
dirt floor. Thea began methodically to clear the mess away. “Mother
thought it was mad,” she said after a moment. “Silvy was the one
who told me to go, finally. My dear old silly Silvy, who was never so happy in
her life as at the convent when the nuns took us in, but that day, the day we
were married, she started saying things, that if I could not give myself to God
entirely—oh, fusty stuff. I think she meant I had to take my chances, and
I have.” Thea looked into the fire and saw Silvy’s long, sunken
face and feverish eyes, her slender bony hands which had clutched her own so tightly.
“My God, she was so ill; how could I not have seen?”

In the hot light of the embers, shaking with grief and lightheaded
from the unaccustomed wine, Thea began to weep for Silvy.

Matlin stared at her, dismayed. She had simply dropped her
head to her knees as she sat, clutching herself together tightly as if she was
afraid she might fall apart altogether, rocking silently, shaking, her hair
touched with gold by the dying fire. He reached an uncertain hand to her and
pulled it back; he watched her and was paralyzed by her tears.

“What did she say to you?” he asked at last.

Thea sniffed and raised her head. Her face was wet with tears,
her eyes red-rimmed. “It sounds stupid. Unless one wanted to be a Bride
of God, that sort of thing—I mean, unless one really had a vocation, it
would be better to take a chance. For children, I suppose she meant. Do you
know, I always supposed, the way a child might, that Silvy was happy to be just
as fusty and careful and spinsterish as she was, and all those years she wanted....”
Tears overwhelmed her. Thea dropped her head again.

This time Matlin did not stop to think. He put his arm about
Thea’s shoulders and held her as if she were a babe. She was not a child,
though. Through the heavy folds of dress and jacket he could feel decidedly
unchildlike contours, the softness of her breast and the swell of her hip under
his hand. Startled, he thought: but she’s so young. He looked down at the
shivering, mournful girl in his arms, his wife.

“Here,” he said unsteadily and twisted away from
her for a moment. “Drink this.” He filled the tin cup with wine and
held it to her lips. Sniffing, Thea obeyed, and Matlin swallowed what remained
in the bottle before he turned to her again.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last. The shawl
was bunched around her shoulders, a frame for her face and tousled,
dust-darkened hair. Her eyes were dark, the lashes still wet with tears. “I
didn’t mean to do that.” She looked up at him; her face was very
close to his, unguarded. Matlin stirred uncomfortably, very much aware of his
one hand still across her shoulder. “Matlin, don’t be angry.”

“I’m not,” he said thickly. Which of them
moved, he could not say, but when Dorothea’s face was inches from his he
stopped remembering her age, their situation, everything, and drew her abruptly
toward him.

She did not fight. Her arms came up around his neck
willingly and her mouth was as hungry as his. As they dropped down onto the
brushed dirt floor Thea was distantly aware of small things: the glow of embers
through her half-shut eyes; the call of a nightbird outside in the trees; the
coarse fabric against her skin as Matlin opened her blouse, and the touch of
his fingers. Just once, when he pulled away from her, she opened her eyes to
stare up into his. “
Mi esposo,”
she murmured, and it was
true.