It was two o'clock before they entered the town. Even the arrival of the mule train failed to rouse it from its afternoon siesta. The sun beat down on the harbor, gleamed on the brilliant blue of the water. The harbor was narrow, bordered with long reefs, dotted
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with islands, and the surf near those barriers was so glitteringly white that it was hard to look at it.
The wind was offshore. The bay was quiet as a lake, except for its surf, and the adobe houses lay baking in heat that had already turned them the soft colors of palest pink and faded green.
The mule train came to a stop before a long low building. On its rude porch a number of seamen lounged, idly talking, looking now at the few Spanish women. Not far away, a few hundred feet from shore, rode a large ship, dwarfing the other smaller craft, and the native fishing boats.
The horseman rode up to Catherine, spurs jingling, swarthy face beaded with sweat.
"I shall take you directly to the Alcaide," he said, smiling. "I expect you'll be glad to get there."
Catherine said, "I shall, and, tell me, señor, is it always so hot here?"
He grinned. "Always, señora. But there's the Concepcion." He pointed to the ship. "She sails tomorrow with the tide."
He wheeled his horse again, and barked a few words to the native bearers, who increased their pace reluctantly. Catherine lay back again, for the litter was swinging back and forth.
They passed the long low building, and Catherine scanned the faces of the men there. None of them was David. None of them could be. He was dead.
"This is Vera Cruz at last, Tina."
They stopped again quickly, before a house, low and square, with the semblance of a garden; the grilled door opened, and the horsemen leaped down, just as the bearers set the litter down gratefully. The horseman helped Catherine step out, and lifted Kate down from the brown mule. The two Indians with the mules which bore Catherine's boxes, two strapped on each side, waited patiently in the sun.
Inside it was cooler. The lattices were shut, and no sun was allowed to show itself inside. The house was quiet, and Catherine heard the sound of water playing in the inner courtyard. It reminded her of Spain. Then a woman entered the room.
Catherine was surprised. She had expected to see the Alcalde himself. Instead she saw a rather voluptuous woman coming toward her, hands outstretched in greeting.
"My poor child," said the woman. "What a trip you have had!"
Catherine took her hands in her own sweaty ones, and returned
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the firm friendly grip. Then Catherine took off her hat, brushing the hair back from her forehead, and Tina removed Kate's hat.
"It was a bad trip, señora," Catherine said. "We are glad to be here." She was a little cautious.
The woman smiled, as if she understood Catherine's caution. "My husband—the Alcalde—is asleep," she said. "I wanted to welcome you myself."
She had dressed herself especially, in her finest black gown of satin and lace. It had been a pleasure to get dressed even though the Alcalde had snored heartily and had not been on hand to admire her. She studied Catherine while the booted Spaniard presented the two women.
"And my daughter, Señorita de Montoro," Catherine said.
"You pet," Señora Araceno said, "you little pet. Now, sir, if you'll have the señora's boxes brought in, I can show her to her chambers."
The Spaniard bowed and disappeared.
"I'm going to take you right back to your chamber," Señora Araceno continued. "It is a corner room, having a window on the courtyard, too."
"Gracias," Catherine said, with such undisguised pleasure in her voice that the word of thanks was sufficient against the other woman's volubility.
She hurried Catherine along. If she was going to do what she had planned, as soon as she had learned that Catherine was coming to her, she would have to do it quickly and act quickly.
"There is a small chamber next, for your woman and the little one."
"That is marvelously kind of you. Truly," Catherine said. "Even if we are here for such a short time. The Concepcion sails soon, I think."
Señora Araceno sat down on a stool. "Sit on the bed," she said.
Her eyes met Catherine's and she watched Catherine settle herself gratefully on the soft bed. "Pull the pillows in back of you," she continued, for Catherine's figure was already full. Catherine sighed a little, and leaned her head back, her long lashes fell against her cheeks, and Señora Araceno looked at her with a certain proprietary air, for she knew that Catherine was a woman defenseless now through her love for a man. She also knew instinctively that Catherine would not mind demands for money, and she would be prepared to meet them as frankly as she, Señora Araceno, intended to ask for them.
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She said, "I wanted to talk with you before my husband wakened."
Catherine's eyes flew open; a quick excitement and hope gleamed in them. "I have brought you a gift," she said. "A string of matched pearls. They were a happy choice for your coloring."
Señora Araceno smiled. 'Tour name is Catherine. I wish you would call me Antonia."
Catherine swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had kicked her shoes off. Her boxes had been brought in, and she opened the small one, and drew out what she wanted. She held up the pearls.
"For you, Antonia," she said. She got back onto the bed.
Antonia fingered the pearls with delight. "I was going to help you anyway," she said. "As soon as I heard of you, and that you were coming here."
Catherine said simply, "Why?"
Antonia said, "I've been in trouble, too. Perhaps that is why." She laughed; she was very handsome, and her zest showed readily when she laughed. "I have been thinking that if you stayed here with me until your child is born, then you could sail to Spain and you would be better able to—make your way. Captain Cavendish is your second husband?"
Catherine nodded, curling her legs up on the bed.
"I've had three," Antonia said companionably. "When do you expect your child?"
"In the first weeks of August," Catherine said.
"I shall tell the Alcalde, my husband, that you cannot be moved till then. He will listen."
Catherine said, "Señora—Antonia, I am not very well." She drew her brows together, and then, with no warning, as had happened so often lately, she felt the dizziness descending. Antonia leaped to her feet and called for Tina.
Vera Cruz slept. Out in the harbor the little islands lay blanketed in the sun. Under a rude shelter, on the farthest island from the town, a woman lay asleep. She was dreaming.
She dreamed that she could not breathe. Across her chest a band of steel prevented her from drawing breath. In the dream the water was not cold, as it had been that day some months ago. But everything else was the same.
Around her waist, David's arm was gripping hard. Her fingers
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clung to the side of the bark, but she was drowning, and David would not let her put her head out of the water for air. He had said he would drown her first—that was the last thing he had said.
She hadn't struggled against him. She could hear nothing. She had watched the Spanish longboat approach the bark, and when it drew near, David had drawn her over the side, and he and Sebastian had got a good grip on the hanging rope. Then they had waited.
When the Spanish officer stepped onto the deck, David had pulled her under. She held her breath until the agony forced her to suck in water. He did not let her go. She could not plead. He lifted her up. She drew in air. Then he pulled her down again, the cold water closing over her head; her hair floated around her face and the agony set in again, only this time it did not last long. It pounded through her chest, and then she lost consciousness.