“That smells good,” he said, walking up beside her. “What is it?”
“Cassava bread,” she said, turning to him and raising an eyebrow. “And platanos and ropa vieja. That means ‘old clothes,’ and while the name is quite descriptive, it’s actually very good. Are you hungry? Why do I bother asking?” she added before he could answer. “Naturally you are.”
“Naturally,” he said, and was, the last vestiges of seasickness vanishing in the scents of garlic and spice. “I didn’t know you could speak Spanish, Mother.”
“Well, I don’t know about speaking, so much,” she said, thumbing a straggle of graying blond hair out of her left eye, “but I gesture fluently. What are you doing here, John?”
He glanced round the courtyard; everyone was still at their work, but every eye was fixed on him, interested.
“Do any of your…um…associates here speak English? In a non-gestural sort of way?”
“A few of them speak a little, yes, and Jacinto, the butler, is pretty fluent. They won’t understand you if you talk fast, though.”
“I can do that,” he said, lowering his voice a little. “In short, your husband sent me, and…but before I acquaint you with the situation—I brought several people with me, servants, and—”
“Oh, did you bring Tom Byrd?” Her face blossomed into what could only be called a grin.
“Certainly. He, along with two…er…Well, I left them on the portico; I couldn’t make anyone hear me at the door.”
His mother said something in Spanish that he thought must be an indelicate expletive, as it made the black woman blink and then grin herself.
“We have a porter, but he’s rather given to drink,” his mother said apologetically, and beckoned to one of the older girls hanging laundry. “Juanita! Aquí, if you please.”
Juanita instantly abandoned her wet laundry and hastened over, dropping a perfunctory curtsy and staring at Grey in fascination.
“Señora.”
“Es mi hijo,” his mother said, pointing at him. “Amigos de el…” She twirled a forefinger, indicating circumnavigation, and pointed toward the front of the house, then jerked a thumb at a brazier over which an earthenware pot was bubbling. “Agua. Comida. Por favor?”
“I’m deeply impressed,” John said, as Juanita nodded, said something fast and indecipherable, and vanished, presumably to rescue Tom and the Sanchezes. “Is comida food, by any chance?”
“Very perceptive of you, my dear.” His mother gestured to the black lady, pointed in turn to John and herself, stabbed a finger at various pots and skewers, then nodded at a door on the far side of the courtyard and took John by the arm. “Gracias, Maricela.”
She led him into a small, rather dark salon that smelled of citronella, candle wax, and the distinctively sewer-like aroma of small children.
“I don’t suppose this is a diplomatic ambassage, is it?” she said, crossing the room to throw open a window. “I would have heard about that.”
“I am for the moment incognito,” he assured her. “And with any luck, we’ll be out of here before anyone recognizes me. How fast can you organize Olivia and the children for travel?”
She halted abruptly, hand on the windowsill, and stared at him.
“Oh,” she said. Her expression had gone in an instant from surprise to calculation. “So it’s come to that already, has it? Where’s George?”
* * *
—
“What do you mean, has it come to that already?” Grey said, startled. He stared hard at his mother. “Do you know about the”—he glanced round and lowered his voice, though no one was in sight and the laughter and chittering from the patio continued unabated—“the invasion?”
Her eyes flew open wide.
“The what?” she said loudly, then glanced hastily over her shoulder toward the open door. “When?” she said, turning back and lowering her own voice.
“Well, now, more or less,” Grey said. He got up and quietly closed the door. The racket from the patio diminished appreciably.
“General Stanley turned up on my doorstep in Jamaica a week ago, with the news that the British Navy was on its way to take Martinique and then—if all goes as planned—Cuba. He rather thought it would be a good idea for you and Olivia to leave before they get here.”
“I quite agree with him.” His mother closed her eyes and rubbed her hands hard over her face, then shook her head violently, as though dislodging bats, and opened her eyes again. “Where is he?” she asked, with some semblance of calm.
“Jamaica. He’d, um, managed to borrow a naval cutter while the navy was preparing to take Martinique and came ahead as fast as he could, in hopes of warning you in time.”
“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently, “very good of him. But why is he in Jamaica and not here?”
“Gout.” And quite possibly a few other infirmities, but no point in worrying her. She looked sharply at him but didn’t ask further.
“Poor George,” she said, and bit her lip. “Well, then. Olivia and the children are in the country, staying with a Señora Valdez.”
“How far in the country?” Grey was making hasty calculations. Three women, two children, three men…four, with Malcolm. Ah, Malcolm…“Is Malcolm with them?”
“Oh, no. I’m not sure where he is,” she added dubiously. “He travels a good deal, and with Olivia gone, he often stays in Havana;—he has an office in La Punta—that’s the fortress on the west side of the harbor. But he does sleep here now and then.”
“Oh, does he?” Grey tried to keep the edge out of his voice, but his mother glanced at him sharply. He looked away. If she didn’t know about Malcolm’s proclivities, he wasn’t going to tell her.
“I need to talk to him as quickly as possible,” he said. “Meanwhile, we must fetch Olivia and the children back here, but without giving the impression that there’s any sort of emergency. If you’ll write a note that will accomplish that, I’ll have Rodrigo and Azeel carry it—they can help Olivia to pack up and help mind the children on the way.”
“Yes, of course.”
There was a small secretaire, rustic in design, crouched in the shadows. He hadn’t noticed it until his mother opened it and swiftly produced paper, quill, and inkwell. She uncorked the latter, found it dry, said something under her breath in Greek that sounded like a curse but probably wasn’t, and, crossing the room quickly, removed a bunch of yellow flowers from a pottery vase and poured some of the water from it into the empty well.