Midnight Harvest Read online

  “The servants know you’re going out tonight, don’t they? And they know it’s likely that you will sleep well into the morning.” Saint-Germain wished he had thought of some other way to get her safely out of the country, but the ships were very closely watched and the trains could be stopped anywhere between Cádiz and the French border. “It is unfortunate that we must employ such a ruse, but better a little deception and you safe than prolonging your danger.”

  “I feel foolish, resorting to this ruse to leave the country. It’s like a bad motion picture.” She managed a frangible smile for a long moment, then looked away, fright catching up with her again.

  Saint-Germain reached out his hand to her. “I am sorry.” The action made his half-healed wound ache but that hardly mattered to him now.

  “Oh, don’t be. I am grateful that you are willing to do so much for me. So you have nothing to be sorry about: there is no reason to be. You aren’t to blame for the hostilities, are you? You didn’t begin them, and you cannot stop them. You needn’t apologize for helping me.” She did her best to look brave and very nearly succeeded. “I didn’t have to leave—I might have decided to remain here, mightn’t I?”

  “Yes, you might have done that,” Saint-Germain said, a tinge of dubiety in his voice.

  She pursed her lips. “You are the most infuriating man, Comte,” she said in mock frustration. “Of course I cannot remain here, not with everything I do subject to scrutiny.”

  He made a gesture of apology. “I am sorry it came to that.”

  “Oh, don’t be. Without your warning, who knows what foolishness I might have committed? Most of my friends think I am indulging in histrionics when I tell them all that has happened in the last month.” She pressed her perfectly made-up lips together. “You said I would have to be careful because my mail might be being read, and it was. You said my telephone calls were being overheard, and they were. You said they would question my servants, and they did. They questioned Solita twice. How dare they? As if I could do anything disloyal to España, or if I were, that I would tell my maid about it. They have subjected me to indignities that I wouldn’t demand of a felon. Having my letters read! Yet I feel as if I am a criminal, and I’m not. I’m not!” She turned her back on him and strove to gain control over her emotions. “They did the same to you, too, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.” Saint-Germain took a turn around the sitting room. Old-fashioned gaslights provided the illumination, golden and glowing; the very modern furniture with the Egyptified decor seemed shockingly futuristic in this gracious traditional chamber. “If it helps you, I don’t think you’re being foolish, or overly dramatic: you are in danger—there are those who would stop you if they suspected you wanted to leave.”

  “Is that why you’re driving me to that secret airport of yours? So no one will know I’ve left?” She wanted to be playful but ended up feeling forlorn; her mouth trembled and she pressed her hand to her lips to stop it.

  “That is part of my plan, and it is known that we’re going to the theater tonight. Who would guess that you are going to be on your way to an airplane journey while the audience is sitting through the last two acts,” said Saint-Germain. “A diversionary tactic, attending the theater, to throw our followers off the scent, and that should buy us an hour or so. We’ll watch the first act and then we’ll depart, after the second act has begun. This will probably mean speculation about us, but that is preferable to being dogged by spies. I’ve already told Rogerio to let it be known that I’ll be away for a few days, and that, too, will buy you some time.”

  Her laughter was more brittle than amused. “You must have anticipated everything.”

  “I have some experience in these matters,” he said, and thought of Franksland and Fiorenza, of Russia and Saxony, of India and China, of Baghdad and Shiraz, of the Viceroyalty of Peru and Spain, of places forgotten or never recognized that he had flown, as he would shortly fly España again. How many times he had been forced to escape in his forty centuries! The memories might have overwhelmed him if he had not been giving his attention to Doña Isabel. “At least you have a little time. You will not be entirely without resources. The transfer from your bank went through without difficulty; fortunately your husband transfers monies all the time, so yours attracted no particular attention. Your goods will arrive in England in a week or two. The ship left yesterday afternoon, the crates addressed to the house. I think you’ll like it; Copsehowe is a lovely old manor, and Briarcopse is a beautiful little village, Tudor and Georgian for the most part. The villagers are a bit insular, as are most English villagers, but they will find a Spanish woman, especially one so young and beautiful as you, a prize. You will not be ignored or neglected, nor will you be imposed upon: the Earl of Copsehowe keeps a house in London where his grandson lives; his two sons died in the Great War. The Earl himself is in a nursing home, for he is quite old. His grandson, Peter—who acts for him in all his business now—has no interest in Copsehowe, preferring to raise his family at their London house, and so Charles and his grandson are both glad to find a tenant for it.”

  “You say the lease is for twenty years,” Doña Isabel said, although she knew the answer; she was comforted by reviewing the arrangement, as if that made her future more definite. “Isn’t that a long time?”

  “Yes, it is, but it can be to your advantage: Peter Whittenfield, Charles’ grandson, suggested the terms himself, to encourage a long tenancy; my solicitor handled all the arrangements, and will carry out any dealings you need to undertake about the property,” Saint-Germain answered, hoping to reassure her. “You also have the option of buying the property once you have lived there a decade, or any year thereafter until the twenty years are up. You may decide you want to remain there, and if you do, it would be prudent to buy the place.” He smiled at her, hoping to lessen her apprehension. “You won’t have to live in isolation; you can motor to London in little more than two hours, and there are four trains daily to Victoria Stati—”

  “I only wish this weren’t necessary,” she exclaimed. “If you hadn’t been shot, I would never have considered leaving. But that bullet―” She stopped, staring at his right shoulder as if she could make out the fading pucker of his injury beneath his elegant dinner jacket and pin-tucked silk shirt. “I hate it that you were hurt.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “That scar is a constant rebuke to me,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “It needn’t be,” he said gently. “You did nothing to cause it.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.” She shook her head slowly.

  “In another three months it will be gone,” he assured her.

  She shook her head. “Not a wound like that.”

  He touched her cheek, and held her eyes with his. “It will be gone,” he repeated; every injury he had received since he first came to his present life had left no marks on his body.

  “I don’t like leaving you here; Ponce will be furious when he learns I have gone, and he will blame you if he learns anything about what you’ve done,” she admitted. “I feel ashamed of myself for abandoning you when you are risking more than I am.”

  “Don’t fret on my account, Isis. I am making arrangements of my own. I’ll let you know as soon as they’re completed what I have done.” He took her hands and drew her close to him. “I will miss you, querida.”

  “And I you, Comte; but I think it would be best for you to leave España, just as I am doing. We are at war, no matter how unofficially, and it is only going to get worse; it is becoming more evident with each passing day. Say what they will about seeking peace, the generals want war and they intend to have it. Isn’t there another house in Hampshire where you could go? It would be wonderful to have you as a neighbor.” She pressed her head against his shoulder. “How could they have allowed things to get so out of hand?”

  “Because they—both sides—believe it will secure them an advantage, or assuage their fears,” said Saint-Germain with sudden wearine
ss. He had heard such promises more times than he could easily recollect, and he had seen the same results in every case: ruin, misery, famine, destruction, displacement, and devastating loss. He would have stroked her hair, but it was sleekly and carefully coifed, held in place by two elaborate combs, and he did not want to disarrange it, so he caressed the nape of her neck instead.

  “I can’t see how. Shooting people in the street. Blowing up buildings. Bombing villages. What are they thinking?” She had summoned up her indignation to bolster her flagging spirits and was now sufficiently outraged and frightened that she became embarrassed.

  “You are sensible to go now, before there is more escalation of trouble.” He felt her shudder against him. “It isn’t easy to leave your native earth: no one knows this better than I. You have courage, Doña Isabel.”

  Her laugh was shakily close to tears. “How can you say so? I feel as if I were made of aspic.” She moved back from him. “I shouldn’t be so restive, should I? I’m going to be safe soon, thanks to you: at least you have been willing to help me. Ponce has done nothing, just nothing. So far as he is concerned, I might remain here until the country is in flames. In fact, he may hope I will burn with it.”

  “Perhaps he’s afraid,” Saint-Germain suggested.

  “Everyone’s afraid,” she said, dismissing this.

  “And I cannot dispute that,” he said, then offered her his left arm for support, adding in his most urbane manner, “Shall we go?”

  “We will arrive early,” she said.

  “So much the better. People will see us and remember that we were at the theater, which is what we want them to do.” It was awkward to open the door for her, but he managed; he escorted her across the lanai that served as the house’s inner courtyard, then out to the street where the Minerva waited. He settled her into the passenger seat, then went around to the driver’s side and slid in.

  “I can’t believe I’m leaving for good,” she said, tittering nervously. “Nothing so much as a toothbrush with me.”

  “Then don’t think about it,” Saint-Germain recommended as he pressed the starter and engaged the choke. “I have a Gladstone bag in the boot that will carry you through the next day or so. It has a heavy woolen coat as well as your puce suit and your ivory organza blouse, along with shoes, underwear, silk stockings, and toiletries you may need. I also took the liberty of purchasing mascara and lipstick for you, and a small flagon of scent; I thought you would like to have them.”

  She gazed at his profile. “How providential you are,” she said at last, and sat back against the padded leather.

  In a short while the engine was humming, and he turned on the headlights, put the handsome automobile in gear, and started down the street toward the center of the city and the cluster of buildings devoted to public use. Cardinal among them, El Teatro de las Artes Clasicas was a splendid structure, about seventy years old, and beautifully maintained from its nineteenth-century baroque columns to the bas-relief of dancing Muses over the main entrance. It boasted seating for 984 persons and three tiers of boxes all of which faced a cavernous stage that was the largest in the city. Tonight the resident company was performing Juana la Loca, a new play about the unfortunate sixteenth-century mother of Charles V and grandmother of Felipe II; it dealt with her obsessive passion for her dead husband, casting him as a malevolent character bent on her destruction. The work had already generated a great deal of controversy, which had resulted in an extension of its run.

  “I love this place,” Doña Isabel said wistfully as they drew into the car park behind the theater. “I’m going to miss it.”

  “No doubt; it is your home,” said Saint-Germain as he turned off the engine and set the hand-brake. “But there are theaters in London, and the ballet, and the opera. You will not have to languish.”

  “So you say,” she rebuked him lightly. “My English isn’t very good. I may not be able to follow the performances.”

  “I imagine you will discover new friends to explain them to you,” said Saint-Germain as he got out of the auto and went around to help her from her seat “You are an attractive woman of intelligence and charm with much to recommend you to anyone. You’ll have willing escorts in no time.”

  She smiled up at him winningly. “You are so reassuring, Comte.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, and bowed over her hand before securing the door behind her and offering his arm to her for the walk along the side of the theater to the broad steps in the front, where the first of the evening’s crowd was beginning to gather under the festive lights that adorned the elaborate facade. He took the tickets from his inner breast-pocket and presented them at the door.

  “The second floor, the third box on your left,” said the bored usher, and gave his attention to the next patrons coming into the building.

  “Conspicuous seats,” Doña Isabel whispered as they headed for the grand expanse of the stairway.

  “So I hope. It is to our advantage to be seen. Let us stop in the gallery above; I will order champagne to be delivered to our box.” He smiled slightly. “That will also make it seem we will be here all evening.”

  She lifted her hand to her lips as if to remind him of their precarious situation. “Don’t”

  “No one is listening,” said Saint-Germain as they began to climb the broad curve of the stairs. “If we converse as the rest do, we’ll be safe for now.”

  “But—” She did her best to look amused but there was a shine of fear in her eyes. “There are … you know … listeners everywhere.”

  “So there are, but not in this theater, not yet. The audience is too sparse—spies stand out in thin crowds. In fifteen minutes, yes, we will have many persons mingling with the audience who are not here to see the play; just now, we are safe enough. You may speak freely, but softly.” He nodded to a stocky man in a well-tailored dinner jacket who was leaning on the gallery rail above them. “Buen’ anochecer, Señor Gusanavispa.”

  “Buen’ anochecer, Conde,” the man replied. “A pleasure to see you.”

  “And you.” The two men exchanged half-bows and Saint-Germain continued on toward the bar, murmuring to Doña Isabel, “He will tell everyone that he saw us tonight. Be cordial to him.”

  Doña Isabel inclined her head to Señor Gusanavispa, saying quietly to Saint-Germain, “He’s a friend of Ponce’s.”

  “I know,” Saint-Germain responded, and put his attention on the bar at the far end of the gallery. “Do you want something to eat?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I could keep it down,” she confessed. “Champagne will be sufficient.”

  He squeezed her fingers with his free hand. “As you wish: champagne it will be.”

  “How can you be so … so nonchalant?” she asked him, astonished at his composure. “Surely you must know that what we’re going to do is perilous.”

  “It is a sensible thing to be; most of the audience is nonchalant, and we wish to be part of them,” he said, and raised his voice a bit “Champagne for Doña Isabel,” he ordered, and saw one of the waiters at the bar jump to obey.

  “French?” the man asked.

  “Of course. The best you have. Set it up in the box before the play begins.” He took a roll of banknotes from his pocket and peeled off three of them. “This should cover the cost and leave something for you, as well.”

  “Comte,” whispered Doña Isabel, flattered and embarrassed by this display.

  It was a handsome sum; the waiter grinned and pocketed the money. “Where are you sitting, sir?”

  “Third box on the left,” Saint-Germain told him, and held out his ticket-stub. “Two glasses and a plate of canapés.”

  Doña Isabel plucked at his sleeve. “Comte…”

  “You may find you want a bite to eat, later on,” said Saint-Germain, and bowed slightly to an elderly couple in elaborate formal dress a decade out of style.

  There were more than twenty men and women in the gallery, most of them eager to see one anothe
r and to exchange the latest rumors of the day; the buzz of their conversation echoed through the ornate corridors and over the expanse of the lobby. Doña Isabel looked about, half-curious, half-apprehensive. “Do you think there are going to be military men here for the play?”

  “Certainly; very high-ranking ones,” said Saint-Germain without any loss of equanimity. “It is a grand occasion.”

  “Doesn’t that trouble you?” she whispered.

  “No, it reassures me,” he said. “Don’t fret, querida. It is to our advantage to be seen and watched just now.”

  “Do you think they won’t notice when we leave?” Her question was urgent.

  “No; I am going to half-draw the curtains on the box, and it will be assumed we are having an assignation, and when we leave—if anyone should notice—everyone will believe that we are going to indulge our passion. I am sorry to have to impugn your reputation, but I suppose it is better to have gossip circulating than to be arrested.” He lifted her hand to his lips and added gallantly, “I am the envy of half the men here tonight, I think.”

  She accepted the compliment with a practiced smile. “You needn’t offer such fulsome praise, Comte. I may be nervous, but I know how to hide it.”

  “That was never my concern,” said Saint-Germain, and turned to greet the formidable Señora Acerespada and her two handsome daughters.

  Doña Isabel did her best to enter into the spirit of the evening, but it was an effort and by the time the chimes rang to summon the audience to their seats, she was feeling exhausted. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me: I hope I can stay awake,” she whispered to Saint-Germain as he guided her to their box.