A Rebellious Lady Read online

  A REBELLIOUS LADY

  Gail Mallin

  Chapter One

  1809

  Midnight. A new year was born.

  Rafael de Velasco left his desk and moved to the window of his study. He opened it and a draught of cold air blew in, bringing with it the sound of Riofrio’s church bell.

  Rafael listened, his expression grim. What would 1809 bring for his troubled country?

  Just as the last chime was fading away, a discreet knock at the door roused him from his reverie.

  His steward entered a nervous expression on his lined face. ‘You have a visitor, Don Rafael’.

  Almost before Luis had finished speaking he was swept aside by a stout, middle-aged man wearing the black soutane of a priest.

  ‘Come in, cousin. Mi casa es su casa.’ Rafael’s deep voice was fringed with sarcasm.

  A frown marred Sancho Ortego y Castuero’s well-bred face for an instant at this mocking invitation to treat the house as his own and then his expression smoothed. ‘Let us not quarrel, Rafael. I did not come for that.’

  Rafael motioned him to be seated by the fire. ‘Then what did you come for?’

  ‘Still the same, amigo mio. You are always blunt.’ Sancho laughed but his mirth had a forced ring to it.

  Rafael shrugged.

  ‘Aren’t you at least going to offer me a glass of wine in honour of the season?’

  A short laugh escaped between Rafael’s well-cut lips. ‘Dare I trust you?’ he asked with deceptive serenity. ‘The last time you were here you refused to drink with me when I poured wine for you.’

  Sancho turned bright red. ‘I was angry,’ he muttered. ‘You know, I didn’t mean to call you a traitor.’

  Rafael’s black eyebrows lifted.

  ‘All right! My behaviour was abominable. I’ve regretted it ever since.’ Sancho dropped his gaze to the diligently polished floorboards. ‘I apologise’.

  Rafael was silent, remembering their furious meeting. He had known that Sancho had wanted to throw the glass of wine in his face, but at the last instant family feeling had restrained him.

  Those same shared bonds going back to their childhood—when Sancho had often visited his younger cousins, Rafael and his little sister, Elena—had also prevented Rafael from issuing the challenge that had risen instinctively to his own lips.

  Unnerved by Rafael’s silence, Sancho shifted his bulk unceasingly in his chair. ‘We both want what is best for Spain. Don’t let’s quarrel over the method of achieving it.’

  Rafael nodded abruptly.

  ‘You are right,’ he said slowly, some of the tension seeping from his broad shoulders. ‘Half of our country’s troubles stem from the fact that no one can agree on a policy.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘I too have regretted our quarrel,’ Rafael interrupted him. He smiled warmly. ‘Welcome back, cousin.’

  His broad face flushing with delight, Sancho leapt up and enthusiastically pumped the hand Rafael extended to him.

  He sat down again as Rafael moved to a small simple oak table which nestled against the whitewashed wall. The wood was age-blackened but so well polished it had a silken patina that gleamed in the candlelight. On its surface stood a silver tray bearing an open bottle of wine and two fine crystal glasses.

  ‘Were you expecting company?’ Sancho eyed the unused wine glasses, his brown eyes speculative.

  ‘I had hoped Elena would join me in toasting the New Year, but she was tired and went to bed early.’

  Rafael poured out the wine and handed a glass to Sancho, who admired its deep ruby colour.

  ‘This is from Casa del Aguila’s own vines or I am no judge,’ he exclaimed, taking an appreciative sniff of the wine’s aromatic bouquet.

  ‘I see you haven’t lost your interest in the good things of life, cousin.’ Rafael hid a smile. ‘I thought priests were supposed to abjure all the pleasures of the flesh.’

  ‘I fasted throughout Advent!’ Sancho started to protest and then, realising that he was being teased, laughed instead and patted his round stomach. ‘Not that you would know it!’

  Ignoring his usual chair behind the carved walnut desk, Rafael sat down opposite his cousin and, settling his tall frame, took a swallow of wine before setting it aside.

  ‘So, what else brings you here, Sancho?’

  ‘I came to ask you to change your mind.’ Sancho knew better than to try and pretend. Rafael was too shrewd!

  Rafael stretched out his long legs. ‘I already have,’ he said quietly, his gaze fixed on his high leather boots.

  ‘You are no longer one of the afrancesados?’ Delight filled Sancho’s voice.

  Rafael lifted his dark elegant head and nodded, but Sancho’s excitement faltered at his expression.

  ‘I welcomed the French as liberators who would rid us of Godoy and his corrupt regime.’ Rafael’s night-black eyes were bleak. ‘I was wrong.’

  Knowing his cousin as he did, Sancho could guess how much that simple admission must have cost his fierce pride.

  Under Godoy, lover of the queen and virtual dictator of Spain, the country had stagnated. Crippling taxes withered farmer and merchant alike. The navy had never recovered from its losses at Trafalgar and the army was in urgent need of reform, but King Carlos had done nothing to stop the rot.

  Then Napoleon Bonaparte, Spain’s ally, sought to secure a passage for his troops through Spain into Portugal so that his blockade against England could be enforced. Godoy, knowing that actions against Portugal were always popular, had agreed. But Napoleon could not resist the temptation to add Spain to his conquests.

  The King and his heir, Prince Ferdinand, were lured across the border to Bayonne and forced to resign their right to the throne. French popularity had instantly faded and a mob took to the streets of Madrid.

  News of the massacre of the French garrison and Marshal Murat’s bloody reprisals spread swiftly all over the country. Torn by conflicting emotions, Rafael had tried desperately to reconcile this betrayal with all the things he had long admired about Napoleon.

  Then, one hot summer afternoon, Sancho had arrived at Casa del Aguila to tell Rafael that he was going to become a military chaplain.

  ‘You are the best swordsman I know, Rafael. Join us. We shall push the hated invader back over the Pyrenees!’

  ‘Fine words, but eloquence will not win battles.’ Still suffering from the shock of disillusionment, Rafael had been curt. ‘We haven’t a single general worthy of the name.’

  Sancho gasped. ‘We have men of true courage.’

  ‘Where are their arms? Their supplies? A ragged mob of peasants masquerading as a regiment will not stop the finest military genius since Julius Caesar!’

  Their quarrel rapidly escalated and it had ended with Sancho storming out, vowing never to set foot on the finca again. A vow that he had kept until tonight.

  ‘Does your change of heart mean that you will now join me?’ Sancho asked eagerly.

  To his disappointment Rafael shook his head. ‘I do not think that I have the right temperament to be a regular soldier,’ he said, a crooked grin twisting his elegant features.

  Sancho gave a reluctant chuckle of understanding. ‘Too independent and stubborn you mean, amigo!’

  ‘Nor, in spite of what happened at Baylen, do I believe that we can win this war by trying to fight Napoleon on his own terms,’ Rafael continued, his expression sobering.

  About to argue, Sancho paused. They had won a great victory at Baylen and the French had been forced to evacuate Madrid, but their very success had drawn Napoleon himself into the fray. As the turbulent year had drawn towards its close, the Emperor had smashed his way through Spain with his usual dramatic speed and flair, reversing his army’s defeats and
forcing the British, Spain’s new ally, to withdraw.

  ‘We have to find another method. One that allows us to use the advantages we do have.’ Rafael’s dark eyes began to gleam.

  ‘You have a plan?’ Sancho caught his excitement.

  ‘A small band of men who know the terrain can move with speed and stealth. They can inflict demoralising losses and withdraw before the enemy has time to strike back.’

  ‘Guerrilleros!’ Sancho breathed the name. ‘You will use the war of the ambush and the knife against the French?’

  Rafael nodded, his finely moulded lips curing into a smile that send an involuntary chill down Sancho’s spine.

  ‘I shall make them afraid of their own shadows.’

  ‘A toast.’ Recovering his nerve, Sancho jubilantly raised his glass. ‘Let us drink to a successful new year for your venture and for Spain!’

  For an instant Rafael stared silently into the blood-red heart of his wineglass before raising it to his lips. ‘Death to the French!’

  Then, in one swift movement he hurled the empty glass into the stone fireplace. It shattered noisily and the dregs of wine hissed into oblivion in the hot flames.

  * * * *

  ‘Ma foi, mam’selle! What a disaster!’

  Desiree Fontaine, ruefully surveying the broken axle of the chaise she had hired at such expense only three days ago in Bayonne, gave a short laugh.

  ‘I agree, Monsieur Beauchet,’ she said crisply to the plump little man who had undertaken the task of acting as her escort and guide on this journey across Spain. ‘None the less, I am determined to continue.’

  ‘But how, mam’selle?’ Pierre, the coachman who made up the final number of their small party since Desiree’s maid had succumbed to home-sickness and refused to cross the border, spoke up. ‘That axle is a mess.’

  ‘If it cannot be easily repaired, we shall have to find another carriage.’ Ignoring her courier’s muttered grumbling, Desiree calmly proceeded to dust off her skirts.

  A flicker of annoyance passed over her heart-shaped face as she noticed a tear in the hem of her fine cambric gown. She must have snagged it on one of the splintered panels when she climbed out of the drunkenly tilted chaise.

  ‘Monsieur Lamont isn’t going to like this!’ The young coachman was pale with anxiety beneath his outdoor tan.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Desiree said kindly. ‘I shall write a letter of explanation for your master.’

  Desiree felt sorry for him, but, as Pierre continued to lament, irritation finally overwhelmed her sympathy. Didn’t he realise that he was only making matters worse, standing there wringing his hands like a ninny!

  ‘Please see to the horses, Pierre. They must be unhitched in case they take fright and injure themselves.’

  ‘Oui, mam’selle.’ Blushing at his own folly, Pierre hurried to obey.

  Desiree took a deep calming breath.

  Her hope of gaining a short respite in which to collect her thoughts was crushed when Beauchet, who had been sitting slumped at the roadside refreshing himself from the silver hip-flask full of cognac which was always stored to hand, roused himself from his gloomy reverie.

  ‘We must return to France,’ he announced loudly.

  ‘What?’ Desiree was shocked. ‘But that is ridiculous!’

  ‘I insist on it, cherie.’ He struggled clumsily to his feet.

  Worried that he might have been injured, she stifled her dislike of his familiar manner and moved swiftly to help him.

  ‘Are you hurt, monsieur?’

  ‘I ache all over.’

  He had made the same complaint every few hours since they had left the château behind them, so Desiree felt quite justified in releasing her steadying hand.

  ‘A hot bath will help soothe any bruises,’ she said cheerfully.

  He shot her a look of active dislike.

  Desiree ignored it and continued in the same optimistic tone. ‘The inn in Vitoria which was recommended to me is said to keep a good table.’

  ‘I very much doubt it!’ he snapped back. ‘If fact, I have yet to eat a decent meal in this wretched country! Or obtain a proper night’s sleep! The bedbugs are intolerable!’

  Desiree resisted the impulse to scream and silently counted to ten.

  Oh, why on earth had she listened when Madame de Tolly had recommended him as just the man to see her safely to Burgos!

  Her good neighbour had been persuasive.

  ‘I can understand your reasons for wishing to visit Etienne, ma petite. You are bored living here with only the Hortense for company. It is a great pity there are no suitable young people in the district for you to mix with. A girl of your age ought to be out enjoying parties.’

  ‘It is rather lonely at times,’ Desiree had admitted. ‘Particularly since Maman died.’

  ‘And you have always wanted to travel.’ Madame had nodded sagely. ‘But you cannot venture so far afield with only your maid for company. It is not comme il faut!’

  Desiree had willingly agreed with this pronouncement, but when she suggested that Hortense, the elderly cousin who lived with her, could accompany her to Spain, Madame de Tolly had laughed merrily.

  ‘I know Hortense was your mother’s devoted companion and she has willingly acted as a kind of surrogate guardian to you since Corinne’s death, but she is much too old to undertake such a trip!’ Madame chuckled. ‘I suspect the very idea would horrify her!’

  Desiree had been forced to concur.

  ‘No, Hortense will not do, ma petite. It is male protection that you require.’

  A frown creased Madame’s brow. Desiree was an orphan. Etienne and Hortense were her only family, apart from the unspeakable English relatives from whom she was estranged.

  Her discreetly painted face cleared as inspiration struck her. ‘Voilá. I believe that I know the right person!’

  It was settled that Madame would write to Monsieur Beauchet, but when he had arrived a few weeks later at the small château near Orléans which was Desiree’s home, Desiree had been surprised.

  Sixteen years had passed since Claude Beauchet had helped Madame de Tolly to escape from the Reign of Terror then afflicting Paris, and the intervening years had not treated him kindly. Almost sixty, his tongue remained plausible, but a fondness for cognac had clearly weakened his once-sharp wits as well as adding considerably to his girth.

  Anxious to be on her way and thinking that he was at least honest and would not cheat her, Desiree had hired his services. Prior to the trip, she found him helpful enough but once the journey was actually underway she had discovered he disliked exerting himself and was inclined to fuss and fret, making a mountain out of every minor molehill.

  Time, it seemed, had blunted his appetite for adventure!

  ‘I’m sorry you are not enjoying this journey, monsieur,’ Desiree said, abandoning her futile attempt to raise his spirits. ‘However, since none of us was injured, I see no reason to cancel my plans.’

  ‘You are being wilfully blind, mam’selle!’

  Realising that he was about to resume his protests, Desiree shook her head at him quickly and turned away.

  She could hear him muttering indignantly as she walked towards the coach, but she was tired of trying to remain courteous in the face of his constant complaints.

  Forcing herself to dismiss the courier from her thoughts, she examined the chaise and quickly came to the conclusion that they would have to abandon it.

  ‘The horses are none the worse for what happened, mam’selle.’ Pierre came up to give her his report.

  ‘Good. Could you fashion some kind of reins?’

  He shrugged doubtfully. ‘They ain’t riding animals. You’d not stay on, mam’selle.’

  It was on the tip of Desiree’s tongue to refute his statement. Her strict English grandfather had seen to it that she was a very competent horsewoman, but then she realised that Pierre’s expression was utterly miserable.

  ‘I promise I won’t let Monsieur Lamont blame you,
’ she reassured him.

  ‘It ain’t just the accident what’s bothering me, Mam’selle Fontaine. It’s them rumours. About them guerrillas, I mean.’

  Desiree’s big blue eyes widened. ‘Surely you don’t believe in that nonsense, do you?’

  ‘It ain’t nonsense, mam’selle. Don’t forget, I come from Bayonne. We’re much closer to Spain than you northerners. If I had a sou for every story I’ve heard about them devils, I’d be a rich man. Everyone knows they torture any poor Frenchman they get their evil hands on.’

  Desiree didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘My brother is close to King Joseph and in a position to know the truth,’ she said firmly. ‘He would never have mentioned the idea of my joining him in Madrid if he thought it was unsafe.’

  Pierre nodded acknowledgement, but the nervous way in which he twisted his hands together warned Desiree he persisted in believing the ridiculous notion that their journey was dangerous.

  Controlling her impatience, Desiree gave him her most charming smile. ‘The Emperor himself has said that the problems we experienced here last year are finished. The Spanish armies have been routed.’

  ‘Aye, but do the Spanish people know they are beaten, mam’selle?’ Pierre’s face wore a gloomy frown. ‘The Emperor might have made his brother king, but what’s the good of that if most Spaniards hate us? There’s bound to be trouble.’

  Desiree fell silent for a moment. Pierre was young and nervous, but he wasn’t stupid. Was it possible that her own keen desire to join Etienne was preventing her from recognising the truth?

  Until they reached the border area, she had never heard a word about these partisans. Everyone at home had assumed the Spanish were beaten. Certainly, Napoleon, who ought to know more than a mere coachman, had proclaimed that the French were the masters of Spain. Indeed, he frequently claimed that a large proportion of the Spanish population actively supported his rule.

  It was a complicated situation, Desiree knew. Old King Carlos had been deeply unpopular with most of his subjects. He was little better than an imbecile and his queen, Maria-Luisa, was a shameless trollop! Unfortunately, Napoleon’s swift installation of his elder brother, Joseph Bonaparte, on the Spanish throne had outraged national pride.