Landfalls by Naomi J. Williams Page B

conjectures, he told himself. There was unhappiness under Eleonora’s studied composure, and he did not wish to discover it.
    Eleonora turned abruptly toward the corridor, and then Lap é rouse heard it too, a commotion at the back of the house. “Are they already back?” she cried. They followed the sound past the dining room and through a large kitchen, then out into a warm breeze, hanging linens, chickens underfoot, the smell of hay. A group of servants had stopped working to watch while Jos é and La Borde hauled an inert body down from a horse.
    â€œOh, God,” Lap é rouse cried, running toward them.
    La Borde turned: “It’s all right, Commander. We found him right nearby. He’s a mess, but he’s fine. We’ll clean him up—don’t come any closer, sir.”
    Lap é rouse did as he was bid. He had already caught a whiff of Fr é d é ric’s night on the town—a disgusting mix of cheap smoke, cheap drink, sex, piss, vomit. He took Eleonora’s elbow and pulled her back into the house.
    *   *   *
    â€œI suppose that’s the last time I’ll ever leave the Boussole ,” Fr é d é ric muttered from his side of the carriage.
    â€œMost likely,” Lap é rouse said.
    Fr é d é ric was still drunk, but on the downhill side of it, belligerence and self-pity vying with each other for preeminence. “That’s what I suspected from the start,” he said, “so I made the most of it, you see.”
    â€œDon’t be an ass, Fr é d é ric.”
    The taunt rallied him. “Guess who showed me the sights last night, Jean-Fran ç ois—guess.” When Lap é rouse said nothing, he sidled over and whispered, “A priest .”
    Lap é rouse looked away, repelled by the younger man’s fetid breath, but also remembering his last sight of Fr é d é ric the night before, talking to a priest at the ball, and how that sight had reassured him, allowing him to let Fr é d é ric lodge elsewhere.
    â€œBrother Marco, my guide,” Fr é d é ric declared. He tried to sit forward, but his inebriation was no match for the jostling of the carriage as it wound its way through the hills between Concepci ó n and the bay. “He has a properly monastic cell with the Dominicans, but on the edge of town he keeps house with a fiery little mestiza called Clara. Cla-ra,” he repeated, exaggerating the r . He laughed at Lap é rouse’s expression of disapproval. “They all do it, Jean-Fran ç ois.”
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œEven this man O’Higgins, the governor, he keeps a woman in Chill á n, he has a bastard son there.”
    â€œO’Higgins is not a man of the cloth.”
    â€œAnd Sabatero.”
    â€œWhat about Sabatero?”
    â€œHe has his own house in town with his Indian ‘housekeeper.’ She’s borne him four or five children. He’s installed the eldest in his home as steward.”
    â€œJos é ?”
    â€œI don’t know what he’s called, but he stands to inherit that big house and a great deal more if little Eleonora doesn’t produce an heir.”
    Lap é rouse called up Jos é ’s face, the resemblance to Sabatero, his odd manner toward Eleonora, hers toward him, her strange eagerness when she learned about É l é onore’s possible pregnancy, and he did not doubt the truth of Fr é d é ric’s information. He shook his head in dismay, wishing he had remained ignorant.
    The younger man laughed sloppily. “Poor girl. Probably still a virgin. Marco says old Sabatero isn’t up to the task anymore. Something about a well-aimed Indian arrow.” He used his left hand to mime an arrow hitting him between the legs, then doubled over in mock agony. He sidled over again. “I saw you dancing with her last night, brother. Maybe you can help her. I won’t tell É l