She remembered little. The Spanish had gone for a few minutes. It had been time enough for Sebastian and David to swim to shore, supporting her between them. On the river bank, where they had laid her for a minute, Sebastian had said, "She'll not die."
"It might be just as well," David said. Then they had carried her to the trees and watched while the Spaniards came back and towed the bark away.
That night David had stolen an Indian canoe, and they had started their voyage up the Verde River, to Vera Cruz. Now the Spaniards thought David was dead. They thought she was dead, and Sebastian too. Now David was pleased with the whole adventure, and he was waiting for Catherine to come to Vera Cruz.
But the dream persisted. Lola stirred in her sleep; she wakened, gratefully. David's arm lay across her breast; it was heavy, and she moved it. He was back, then. He must have come while she lay sound asleep. He slept himself, soundly, and she was conscious of nothing but joy that he had returned again.
He was restless here, on this tiny island. Two days ago he had left her here, with Sebastian, and he had gone to Vera Cruz to learn what news there was. But now he slept alongside her, and she put her hand in the tousled hair. Had he been with another woman in Vera Cruz? His lashes were thick and short; they lay against his cheek; he smelled of wine. Suddenly his eyes opened.
Lola lay still.
"What are you thinking?" he said.
The sound of his voice made her sigh. He would know she had been regarding him while he slept.
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"I was only thinking I love you," she said. "You drink, David? In Vera Cruz?"
He chuckled lazily. "Not much, wench." He drew her into his arms. "I have good news. Catherine has come to Vera Cruz!"
Lola lay on her back and looked up at his face. She said slowly, "Do you love her, David?"
He plainly showed his amazement. "Love her?" he repeated.
"Si," whispered Lola.
"No!" said David.
"Oh," said Lola. "You see Catherine tonight?"
He nodded. "I must be careful; she thinks me dead. And I am far from dead. Not so, wench?" He paused, regarding her. "You thought I was in love with Catherine?"
Lola said timidly, "You see, señor, I thought perhaps you thought you were."
"Nonsense," he said. "Catherine is Tom's wife. What other nonsense have you been thinking in your little head?"
Lola said, "No nonsense. Were you with a woman in Vera Cruz?"
He grinned. "Very many," he said. "But I still want a kiss."
"I am tanned like an Indian," Lola said. "I have brown hands." She held them up. "How can I suit you?"
He laughed. "Show me where you are still white."
"David," she said.
"Soon I will take you to England," he said. "Soon we shall be able to sail, now that Catherine is here." His hands were on her, unfastening her blouse. Her red mouth was ready for his kisses. Her dark eyes were open; he knew that soon she would close them in surrender to his passion. He slipped off her blouse, and it was true, what she had said. She was tanned, an even golden brown; only her breasts were white and the flat stomach and rounded hips. He whispered, "Lola, Lola, you know it's you I love."
At sundown, David had his usual swim. Afterward he put on the loose canvas trousers he had bought in Vera Cruz. He pulled on his boots, and walked back from the sea through the brush to the little camp.
The fire was going. Fish stew simmered atop the flames; there were meal cakes to eat with it. David took his clean shirt off a branch where Lola had hung it to dry. Lola stirred the stew with a large wooden spoon. Sebastian waited for his dinner. David sat down.
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"The Señora Catherine is here, Sebastian," David said.
Sebastian nodded. "I know, señor.'"
"Sebastian, it is known that she is Madam Cavendish. She is being sent to Spain."
Sebastian wriggled his bare feet. He wanted to say something comforting, but the Señor David was thinking, and he was afraid for the Señora Catherine, and Sebastian prayed that the Señor David would be able to think of a way to help the señora since he wished it so much.
"I am sorry," Sebastian said, finally.
David picked up a handful of sand and watched it trickle through his fingers to the ground. "Thank you, Sebastian," he said.
The sun was going down. Lola ladled out the stew; the men ate it, picking the pieces of fish out with their fingers, drinking the liquid from the tin basins. When he had finished, David washed his hands. Lola gathered up the basins and started down the beach to scrub them with sand and wash them in the sea. She came back and dropped down beside the two men. It was cooler now.
Sebastian scattered the pieces of wood that were still smouldering. The three of them sat in silence, and just at sundown David stood up.
"I'll go now," he said.
Sebastian rose. "I go, also?"
"No. You guard my señorita."
He went down to the beach again. He put his boots in the canoe, and carried it into the water. In five minutes he had beached it on the mainland, and hidden it in the brush. He began to walk toward the town.
It took thirty minutes of fast walking. By the time he reached the outskirts, the night was dark and only the stars illumined the night. He passed an ale-house. He came to the house of the Alcalde of Vera Cruz.
Two lights burned inside. David was glad to see the house was low and square. At one of the windows should be the woman he wanted to see. He might have to wait, but eventually she would come to one of these rooms, and he had only to step into the window.
But he waited only another thirty minutes before a lamp shone out of a corner room. He heard Catherine's voice, and he crept along the wall until he looked into the slatted window. He knew he should wait longer, but he could not help himself.
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"Catherine," he said, insistently, softly.
He saw her turn toward the window. For a moment she stood motionless. Then she ran toward it; she spoke to him through the slatted blinds. "Who is it?" she said. "Wait!"
He watched her go to the lamp and set it on the floor, and only a faint glow came from it. Then she came back and raised the blinds; he threw his foot over the sill; the blind dropped again.
"David!" she said. She was trembling with excitement; her eyes filled with tears. "You are alive! I thought—I thought—they told me you were dead!"
He had taken her hands, holding them tight, while she looked up at his face, seeing the quick smile and the eager exuberance. Catherine said, "You are more alive than ever!"
He smiled. "And you are here!"
She could not believe he stood before her, tall and strong.
She said, "While I was in Acapulco, the Eugenia returned, with the little bark."
"I could not let you know the truth," he said. "But it is best now, Catherine, for I can move about freely enough. I will be able to sign on as a seaman aboard the Concepcion."
"The Concepcion?" There was so much to tell him. "I shall be allowed to stay here, until my child is born."
His eyes took in her figure. "You are bearing Tom's child?"
She said, "Whose else?"
He laughed. "I'm not doubting your virtue." Then he added quickly, "Why are you allowed to stay here?"
"Señora Araceno. She will help. She has helped."
He did not have much time. It was imperative that his presence should not be discovered; it was imperative that he stay safely dead.
"Do not trust this woman until you are sure, until time has passed," he said, frowning. "But I am here now. I shall come again. I will not leave you again, Catherine." He was thinking that later in the summer, Catherine could use Lola. They could all sail after the baby was born; Lola and Catherine and Tina, together. He told her that, quickly, summing up the plans. Then he said: "I cannot stay longer; I must go."