Page 43 of Homeless

Elizabeth’s eyes flew to his face. So did the officer’s.

“Your wife,” said the man, “can answer for herself. She comes.” At least, that was what Darcy thought he said.

“No. No la señora.” He stuttered for a few seconds while the word would not come. “Ella— she remains. Aquí. En el carro. You want—dinero? Money? Yo. A mí. You speak to me.” He had run out of Spanish and finished in plain, hard English. “Whatever it is, you take it up with me.”

The soldier’s face looked blank for a second, so he glanced at Elizabeth. She looked rather smug as she supplied a more comprehensive version of Darcy’s protest. The soldier’s moustache shifted unhappily, but he pointed at Darcy’s valise and said a word Darcy did not need to have translated. “Papeles.”

He produced the letters, the memorandum, the priest’s notation of marriage when proof was demanded that the señora was indeed the señora and not a French espionne, and finally a coin of sufficient brightness to improve his mood.

The officer examined everything, asked after their business, and clarified their destination. “Calahorra?” he said at last.

“Sí.”

He said something to Elizabeth, and she replied with numerous gestures. He heard the name Vega, then Llorente, and some reference to “prisioneros.” She turned to Darcy with the English.

“A revenue escort passed an hour ago. Two wagons, six mounted men with prisoners, one of them was a troublesome foreigner. He says, ‘If that is the man you seek, he has a temper’.”

Darcy made a grim sort of smile and pointed at Elizabeth. “Eh… tio… oncle, sí?… du… esposa.”

Esposa. He heard Elizabeth’s breath catch once, though she only nodded in agreement and clarified the assertion. “Sí, sí. É meu tío.”

The officer looked between them with renewed curiosity. He gestured to Elizabeth with the papers once more. “Tio?” And then he laughed and said something far too jesting to be encouragement.

Elizabeth retorted with something sharp-sounding, and the officer sobered and gave her a phrase that sounded more useful.

Elizabeth nodded, then turned to him. “My uncle will be entered in Calahorra before he is sent onward. He says if we have business there on his behalf, we should make it quickly. Men with papers and money to be got from them go north. Men without them disappear sideways.”

Darcy gave him another coin for that sentence, because it was worth one. The guard tipped his hat, raised the barrier, and made a motion to the carter.

They were halfway over the bridge before Elizabeth said, “You spoke very well for a man who yesterday required me to bully a clerk on his behalf.”

“I spoke three sentences and purchased the rest.”

“Yes, and badly enough that he pitied you. I almost did, too.”

“I am glad my deficiencies can still amuse you.”

“They do more than amuse me. They reconcile me to the bargain. A perfect husband would be intolerable.”

“I had known you to be severe on your own sex, but what do you hold against respectable masculinity?”

“Nothing, indeed. Only, I find that when I have to claim such a man as my own, I vastly prefer that he be flawed enough to be interesting. And what about you? You said ‘esposa’ as if the word was already frightfully comfortable to you.”

His mind, traitorous thing, supplied the image of her asleep on the cot last night, with the shawl under her chin.

“It was shorter,” he said, “than reciting the particulars of our arrangement.”

“Convenience again. I see.”

“Everything in this marriage appears to recommend itself on that ground.”

“Not everything,” she said. He had no idea what she meant by the objection, but she followed it with a quirk of her brow and a suspicious grin that he was certain was meant for nothing but his own discomfort.

Darcy looked away first. There was no use pursuing the thought unless he meant to drive the cart into the river.

XVI

Improvidently But Not Blindly