CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You what?” Gideon demanded, thunderstruck.
Favian replied quietly, his voice matter-of-fact; but he wondered if his face betrayed the harrowed desperation he felt within. “I respectfully request the hand of your ward, Campaspe Rodriguez y Sandoval, in marriage. As soon as possible. Before we leave for Cat Island, if it can be arranged.”
Gideon could do nothing but stare; Maria-Anna, her hand frozen on her morning dish of coffee, looked in astonishment from Favian to Gideon and back again. Even the unflappable Grimes seemed startled.
“Does Campaspe know about this?” Maria-Anna asked.
“Yes. She agrees we want it to be as soon as possible.”
“Campaspe,” said Gideon, “is a foolish girl. I would have expected more sense from you.” He looked at Favian, unblinking. “Who knoweth whether he shall be a wise man or a fool?”
Maria-Anna looked down at her hand, then raised the coffee to her lips; she appeared not to taste it. The coffee returned to the table. “I think,” she said, “that Gideon and I should talk. You will excuse us, Favian.”
“Certainly.” Favian stood, wincing at the appalling pain the movement brought to his skull. He heard the murmur of voices in the corridor; there was the phrase “conspiracy under my roof!” from Gideon. Favian sat down again. Grimes looked at him with a forced, if kindly, smile.
“Would you like, sir,” he asked, “for me to bring you a little brandy for your coffee?”
“Yes. Please.” Grimes silently left the room, and Favian pressed his fingers to his temples. His brain was awash with pain and guilt; there was a sick feeling in his stomach as he remembered the previous night. Ravishment. My God. What kind of madman had he become? Killer, man of honor, despoiler of virgins. The iron, uncompromising tones of the Articles of War echoed in his mind, repeated every Sunday to every man aboard the United States vessels of war: The commanders of all ships and vessels of war belonging to the Navy are strictly enjoined and required to show in themselves a good example of virtue, honor, patriotism, and subordination; and be vigilant in inspecting the conduct of all such as are placed under their command . . . Any officer or other person guilty of oppression, cruelty, fraud, profane swearing, drunkenness, or any other scandalous conduct tending to the destruction of good morals, shall, if an officer, be cashiered...
He was, he had thought, a man of honor; he had upheld the code strictly, living by it even when it had cost him dearly— perhaps Emma Greenhow had refused him because she could not live with a man whose life was wrapped so completely by strictures of the Navy. He had lived the rules laid down for him, he had dueled and killed, he had kept his honor. Until last night. And then, in the reeling, sickening confusion, as he had lit the candle and seen Campaspe looking up at him with flushed cheeks, her eyes astonished and strange, he had blurted out the words that might retrieve for him his lost and fleeting honor; he had proposed marriage; he would wed the girl he had ruined. She had dissolved at his proposal, throwing her arms around his neck and weeping— there would be love on one side, at least. He would have to be very careful to prevent her from knowing that his own was feigned.
He heard a door open behind him and turned his head— even that movement brought a knifelike pain rocketing through his skull— he saw Eugénie Desplein, grim-mouthed, entering the room. He rose, overhasty, feeling awkward as a boy.
“Is it true what I hear? What Campaspe tells me?” He had seen that ferocity once before, that first day they had lain on his hotel bed while he spoke of proposition d’une affaire; there was a little V between her brows and her dark eyes flashed dragon-fire.
“Yes. Whatever it is, it’s true.” Hopelessly.
“You simpleton. Desplein was worth ten of you.”.
Her scorn was withering. Favian sank back into his chair. What was the point of explanation? He had not meant to betray her with Campaspe, but he had. Nothing he said could alter that.
“So cautious. So superior,” she hissed. “You’ll have your hands full now!”
“Be thankful,” he said, fixing her with his own glare, “that you’re rid of me.” She paused for a second, chewing that over; Grimes entered with a bottle of brandy he’d bought downstairs, and the appalling moment was over. Favian blankly held out his coffee cup and Grimes, his eyes avoiding them both, poured. There were voices coming from the next room.
“She can’t marry Favian! It’s madness!” That was Gideon.
Maria-Anna’s voice was tolerant, perhaps even a little amused. “I think it’s obvious by now she had damn well better marry somebody.” Gideon snorted. Maria-Anna’s voice went on. “Send for Campaspe,” she said. “We should ask her what the devil has been happening behind our backs.”
Oh no, Favian thought. If she told them . . .
He should have eloped with her, he thought fiercely, taken her from her narrow little bed and gone to the nearest preacher.
Eugénie was sent to bring Campaspe up to her mistress’s rooms. Campaspe came through the parlor with Eugénie a fierce little shadow behind; she was a little pale, a little frightened, and Favian took out his handkerchief, one of the monogrammed ones she had made him, and touched it to the corner of his mouth; she saw it and gave him a brave, slight smile. Perhaps it would work out all right.
Favian could hear the tone, if not the words, of the united attack Gideon and Maria-Anna launched, but he also heard Campaspe’s short answers— it was clear she was digging in her heels. Brave girl, he thought, admiring her bravery even though he knew it doomed him. When they came out of the parlor, Campaspe’s eyes were shining triumph.
He stood, a condemned man facing the stern visage of the law. “We’ll arrange it,” Maria-Anna said. “You can be married tomorrow. That will give you headstrong fools twenty-four hours to change your minds.”
Gideon’s cheek bulged with a chaw of tobacco. “The great God that formed all things rewardeth the fool, and rewardeth transgressors,” he said. Proverbs, Favian thought. Or maybe Ecclesiastes..
Typical Gideon, anyway. His blessing.
Campaspe moved over near him and took his hand, holding it through the doeskin glove. He squeezed her hand encouragingly; she gave him a ghostly smile. Eugénie stood by the door, her anger smouldering.
“Thank you,” Favian said. “Maria-Anna. Gideon. I know we’ll be very happy.” And he turned to kiss her, tilting her chin up to face him; Campaspe regarded him gravely with her dark eyes, then stood up on tiptoe to press her lips chastely to his..
He could, he decided, carry this off fairly well; the Navy had taught him civility and polite subterfuge, and this wouldn’t be much different. He heard Gideon clear his throat, and ended the kiss. There was probably not, he thought later, a snort of contempt from Eugénie; but somehow he fancied at the time that he heard one.
The next twenty-four hours passed swiftly. Favian later remembered Patterson’s stiff face turn startled, then his hearty congratulations followed by those of his staff; he also remembered the knowing leer from Finch Martin, Gideon’s first officer, who nudged Favian’s side with an elbow and muttered, “Like ’em young, eh? I’ve had my eye on that Campaspe myself!” Favian had muttered something darkly, and Martin had taken a step back, looking puzzled.
He remembered also the moment when he and Maria-Anna had found themselves alone in her poque parlor, and the sudden ferocity in her tone as she looked at Favian and said, “I don’t know what’s been going on here, Favian— but if you hurt that girl I’ll cut your ears off.” There was no question, Favian knew, that she was capable of just that; and for a long moment of regret he wished he’d had the luck to meet Maria-Anna long ago, before she had tied herself to Gideon. But there was no point in foolish, wistful thinking; he put it out of his mind and gave her a reassuring speech.
Even more memorable was a talk with Campaspe, late that evening when some unusually tactful maneuvering on the part of Gideon had resulted in their being left alone for a few moments in the drawing room. Favian reached out over the red baize table, and she gave him her hand. She looked at him solemnly— odd, he thought, that she had been so thoughtful, so subdued since she had been given permission to marry.
“You don’t have to; you know,” she said. She dropped her eyes, looking at the clasped hands on the table. “Not if you don’t want. I won’t insist.”
Favian looked at her with growing astonishment. “Of course I want to marry you!” he said. “Whatever makes you think I don’t?”
“You seem so— I don’t know,” she said. She shook her head. “It’s not what I thought.”
“Things scarcely ever are,” Favian said. She shot a look at him, and he was sorry he had chosen to be glib. “Campaspe,” he said, “I wish things weren’t in such a rush. I wish we had been given more time with each other. I wish last night hadn’t been so, so sudden.” There were tears falling down her face. “Things will be better,” he said. “We’ll have more time later.”
Her shoulders were trembling. There was only one thing to do, so he did it; he folded her in his long arms and stroked her until the tempest ended. Afterward she kissed him and smiled up at him bravely— it wasn’t the flashing, encompassing smile he remembered, but that the smile existed at all was encouraging..
He would have to be very careful, he thought. Very careful indeed.