Rosemary Rogers - Wicked Loving Lies

“Well, well! And what’s all this? Some more Aristos trying to escape Madame Guillotine? Who are you, eh?”

One man, saner than the rest, or perhaps, only a little less drunk, had laughed contemptuously.

“Have done, citizens! Can’t you see they’re only a scared band of gypsies? Hey, you—why don’t you show us some of your juggling tricks? Perhaps you’ll tell our fortunes—”

“Fortunes, pah! There’s a likely-looking wench there, with golden skin. Perhaps we should tell her fortune. What do you say, citizens?”

And she remembered Delphine, the woman who had taken care of her since she was a baby, thrusting herself forward, pushing Marisa away from her as she did. “You want your fortune told, handsome gentlemen? My mother is too old and sick in her head, you understand? And you have frightened my little brother with your shouting. But me, I’ll tell all your fortunes for a few sous. We are poor, hungry people. No one has any money these days, and that is why we’re on our way back to Spain….”

After that—no, she did not want to think of what had happened after that! At the time she had not understood. She knew only that the laughter and ribald talk of the men had turned into something else, and suddenly Delphine was screaming, screaming for them to go, to run away, even while they were ripping at her clothes, pushing her down onto the dirty cobblestones. Screaming—and suddenly, there was blood everywhere, and the men, caught up by their own animal instincts, were all clustered around the prostrate form of the woman they were using so callously, like the beasts they were. And Sor Angelina, as she had been then, dressed like a gypsy herself, had forcibly pulled Marisa away, making her run, run very fast, not stopping even when she stumbled and almost fell.

“Delphine sacrificed herself for you, child. For all of us. Would you have wanted her sacrifice to be for nothing?”

Told that over and over, she had tried to accept it. Dressed as a boy for her own safety during the long months that followed, she had tried to feel herself as nothing more than a ragged gypsy urchin. No, she did not want to be a woman—never, never to be used and torn to pieces that way. Perhaps maman was better off going to the guillotine with her other gay, brave friends, dying quickly and cleanly under the knife. Poor, weak maman, who loved the gaiety of Paris and had so many gallant admirers she had almost forgotten her daughter, tucked safely away in a convent, with only Delphine remembering to visit every week.

The first upheaval in Marisa’s life had been her removal from Martinique, where she had lived with maman’s family while her father was in Cuba. He had sent for them to join him, and Marisa could still remember how her mother had cried, complaining petulantly, “It was bad enough when he dragged me away to Louisiana—I lost two children there, you remember? The heat, the swamps and the loneliness, and the fever! And now it is Cuba. Cuba! No—I won’t go! He promised me Spain, and Paris—why shouldn’t I visit our relatives there? Everyone is there—even Marie-Josephe de Pagerie, who swore she would never leave Martinique. I must see Paris just once, at least, or I will stifle and die!”

Paris had been bleak and cold and wet. And Marisa had cried for days on end, longing for her old home and her handsome golden-haired papa, who had always made such a pet of her when he was home. Paris was not home—she hated the convent to which she had been sent to learn to be a lady. And she hardly ever saw maman any longer—it would all have been too much to bear if it had not been for Delphine.

Why hadn’t papa come after them? Why had he waited so long to acknowledge her existence?

“Your father was naturally upset when your mother ran off with you that way. And then, for so many months, he believed you were dead—killed, like so many others during the Terror. Child! You must try to understand that your father is doing what he believes best for you. He loves you—”

“If he really loved me, he would have taken the trouble to try and find me before. He would let me become a nun, as I wish to be.” Recklessly, in spite of Mother Angelina’s reproachful look, she cried out, “He doesn’t wish to be bothered with me any longer. Perhaps everything maman used to say was true, after all. She said he didn’t want her after a while, because she didn’t give him a son. She used to cry all the time because of the other women he had, even slaves. She said he had an octoroon mistress he loved better than her—”

Her almost hysterical outburst checked, Marisa had been dismissed. But even now, in spite of all her efforts, she found that she could not check her own wild, resentful thoughts.

Why couldn’t she have been born a boy? Why a female—slave forever to a man’s whims? Ah, for the freedom of those runaway days with the gypsies when she had been dressed as a boy and felt as free as a boy. In retrospect, the vagrant, vagabond life didn’t seem too unpleasant at all. She had learned to ride astride and to run barefoot over the hardest ground, and even to pick pockets without being caught. A whole year of freedom—and then another convent. But after a while, the atmosphere of peace and tranquillity had dissolved some of the tension in her thin, highly-strung body, and the nightmares from which she would wake, screaming, had grown less and less frequent. Marisa, the little gypsy rebel had changed into Marisa the postulant, desiring nothing more than to spend her life behind these quiet, safe walls, which had become her refuge.

And now, without warning, the peaceful future she had hoped for was to be snatched away from her. Without being consulted or offered a choice, she was to be sold into slavery. Yes, that was what it amounted to, after all!

A soft hiss made Marisa raise her head abruptly to meet a pair of coal-dark eyes that sparkled with mischief. Blanca! Only the gypsy girl would be so bold as to wander in here, of all places.

“Hah—innocent one! Are you dreaming of your handsome caballero? So you’ve changed your mind about becoming a sister like that sour-faced Sor Teresa, eh? But I don’t blame you. Me, I would do the same thing if I was offered a novio who is both rich and handsome. Muy hombre, that one. You’re lucky!”

“I don’t know what you mean!” But Marisa’s sharp rejoinder was almost automatic. Somehow, Blanca always contrived to know everything. Taking advantage of her privileged position as a protégée of the mother superior, she alone was free to come and go from the convent as she pleased; her father, when they were not travelling, desired that his only daughter be given an education. And since his tribe had saved the nuns’ lives, guiding them safely from a turbulent France to the comparative peace of Spain, Blanca’s intermittent, giggling presence within the otherwise quiet walls was tolerated—although some of the older nuns sighed over her wild ways and prayed for her soul.

There was a time when she and Marisa had been closer than sisters, and now even while she tried to frown, Marisa could not help letting her curiosity get the better of her. She repeated, with a forced air of indifference, “I don’t know where you pick such wild stories up. And you know you should not be here. If the reverend mother sees us talking, she’ll find all kind of penances for me to perform.”

Not in the least put off, Blanca merely gave a snort, putting her hands on her hips. “Ah, bah! You speak like a child who tries too hard to be good. And as for Mother Angelina, she is far too busy entertaining two visitors to worry about us just yet! You see—you cannot hide anything from me.” Her voice dropped, and she thrust her face closer to Marisa’s, her black eyes narrowing slyly. “What do you want to wager that you’ll be sent for again? I’m sure your fine new novio will want to take a look at his little convent bride. Didn’t you hear the bell at the gate?”