“You were not present surely?” Lord Macklin looked deeply shocked at the idea.
“No, we heard the story from his servant, who fled.”
“I am so very sorry…”
Teresa held up a hand to stop him. Compassion now would undo her. “Once they had done this, the men went wild. Some dark impulse was set loose perhaps. Or they thought they must cover up the crime, or send a warning to other landowners who might object to their thievery. I do not know why they chose to ride after my father’s man and attack our house.”
“My God!”
Teresa appreciated his anger even after all these years. “War is not just ranks of soldiers facing each other. As I soon discovered.”
“You… Did they—” His hand rose as if to take hers, then drew back.
“My brothers rallied every available man, and some of the women, to meet the attack, but there were far more of the Frenchmen. Diego and Roland—all the men of our household, I think—were killed giving me and a few others time to run away. Not my mother. She was already dead by then, gracias a Dios. The canallas set fire to our house when they were done. We could see the smoke as we ran.”
He seemed about to speak, but then said nothing.
“We went to our nearest neighbors first, but they were afraid to take us in. They thought they might be targeted next if they helped. So we walked on. I had never been so tired in my life, up to then.” Since, well, there had been other trials. The hardest part was coming up. Teresa didn’t know if she had the courage to continue. She didn’t want to see the earl’s face change, his inevitable judgment descend. “Some of my companions found refuge in cottages or gave up. They were not…of my rank. The country people were more reluctant to hide me. I could see that. So I pushed on to the house of a good friend of my father, though it was far.” Teresa had to swallow before she could go on.
“They had known each other all their lives, and…this man had always seemed fond of me. And indeed he welcomed me with cries of horror and ordered up food and fresh clothes and a chamber for me. He was my savior.”
Lord Macklin watched her with grave, sympathetic eyes. She looked away before adding, “After three days he came to offer me even more. His protection, as his mistress. He explained that my reputation was ruined because I had been staying with him. He had let word of this spread to people who knew me. And…encouraged them to draw certain conclusions, even though he had not touched me. But he assured me that he would be kind to me and give me every luxury.”
The earl cursed softly.
“I refused him, of course,” said Teresa. “I could not believe the insult. I called him the worst names I knew and flounced out as if I had somewhere to go.”
Teresa paused to breathe.
“But I found I did not,” she continued after a moment. “When I appealed to another friend of my family, I found that this man had made a great point of saying that nothing improper had happened between us. As your Shakespeare says, protesting too much. And so they all thought that I had given myself to him in exchange for my refuge. The women looked at me with contempt. The men with…a new interest.”
Lord Macklin swore again.
“They did have their own problems,” Teresa conceded. “The countryside had become perilous. Death stalked what had been a peaceful land. No one knew what would happen next. My fate was small in comparison.”
“It should not have been!”
She was too intent on finishing this to react. The memories were rising up and threatening to overwhelm her. “You will say I should have found a way to escape.”
“I say he should have been shot for what he did to you!”
“But I was…not quite myself.”
“You had seen your family killed and your home destroyed!”
“Yes.” She’d been exhausted and terrified and ignorant, all too conscious of having nothing when she was accustomed to plenty. She’d gone to some of her family’s old servants, but they were poor and even more frightened of the future, and of the man who was holding out all the comforts she’d grown up with. He was a power in the area. “I gave in,” she said. She felt the shame of it even now.
“I returned to him and hid behind his power. He knew how to deal with the troops. He placated whichever bands of soldiers swept through the region, French or Spanish or later the English.” Watching that, she’d realized how much he enjoyed manipulation. More than any physical intimacies that occurred between them, in the end.
“Where is he?” said Lord Macklin. The growl in his tone made her shiver.
“He died. Just before your Waterloo. He always thought Napoleon would be coming back.” He’d relished the prospect, having found many benefits in turmoil. “He had no children. There was much confusion when he was gone. And in those years with him, I had learned how to plan and persuade.” As well as the hiding places of the grandee’s ill-gotten valuables through the war. She’d taken her chance, purchased aid, and set off on a long, hard trek to safety. Which she had achieved, Teresa reminded herself. “There. That is all. Now you know. And you see, I am not what you thought I was.”
She waited a moment, but he didn’t reply. Certainly he was shocked, appalled. How could he not be? He was a most respectable man, and respectable people despised her. But there was one more thing. “The ‘Conde de la Cerda’ could tell much of this story,” Teresa added. The man knew the general outline, if not all the details. “He will probably spread it about, since I’ve refused to help him worm his way into society. As if I could.” And now Lord Macklin would think she had only told her story because she was about to be exposed. Perhaps that was true. Would she have made these painful admissions otherwise? It hardly mattered. Either way, his opinion of her was destroyed. And she cared nothing about the rest of society.
Still, he said nothing. The silence was unbearable.
The carriage stopped to wait for another to cross ahead. Teresa pushed open the door and jumped out, rushing across the park to a gate nearby where she could flag down a hack. The earl would not come after her. Why should he? His pride must be bruised. He was probably angry. He would never want to see her again. Teresa saw a cab and raised her hand to signal.
Arthur moved just a moment too late. His carriage pulled forward, and by the time he’d halted it again, Señora Alvarez was gone. She was not Señora Alvarez, he thought. But he had no other name to call her.
He should have spoken. He should have comforted her. He’d wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her close, shelter her from all harm. But that would have been utterly inappropriate after the story she’d told, what had been done to her. And sympathetic phrases couldn’t make up for the insults she’d suffered.