The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(63)

“I like the dress,” he says by way of greeting, and I feel my flush deepening. “You look nice,” he adds.

“You flatter me,” I murmur, and he laughs at the hint of sarcasm in my voice.

But really, what woman wants to hear she looks “nice”? I doubt I could think of a more banal compliment, even if the dress hardly merits rhapsodies on how pleasing it is.

“How are you enjoying the opera?” I ask, trying not to glance over his shoulder, to get a better look at his companion.

He shrugs. “Well enough. I don’t have to ask you how you’re enjoying it, though. You wore your emotions on your face throughout the first act.”

I can’t think of a suitable response to that, so instead I say—

“I haven’t seen you in months. Have you been in the city?”

Now that some of the initial surprise in seeing him here has passed, I take the opportunity to study him, much as he did me. He looks well, and his skin is definitely tanner than the last time I saw him, giving the impression that he has spent some time in the sun, in a more tropical climate.

“I’ve been in the city only rarely. I’ve spent some time in other climes.”

So he continues running arms to Cuba.

“I stopped by the Journal offices between one of my trips,” he adds. “I thought I might see you, but I didn’t.”

“I must have been out on a story. No one told me—”

“No. I didn’t imagine they would.” He takes a step closer to me. “Speaking of stories—are you here undercover? Should I have addressed you by another name?”

“No, the secrets of the opera house are safe—for now. There’s little chance of me taking to the stage for some undercover assignment.”

He laughs. “I think I’d pay to see that. If anyone could get to the heart of the opera house’s secrets, it would be you.”

Pleasure fills me even as I protest the veracity of his words. “You give me too much credit.”

“Hardly. Is there such a thing as too much? I must admit, your exposés are the highlight of my day.” He leans closer, a hint of brandy on his breath, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Don’t tell Will, but I was a Times man until you started writing for the Journal.”

I gape at him.

“I—”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Aunt Emma interjects, walking up beside me.

I close my eyes for a moment, hoping she doesn’t embarrass me overly much. I love her dearly, and I know she means well, but she’s comfortable in her own skin in a manner I aspire to yet haven’t fully achieved, and I think it’s difficult for her to understand that when you’re still finding your place in the world, any attention drawn to you can often feel like too much.

“Rafael Harden, this is my aunt, Emma Van Housen.”

“A pleasure,” Rafael says smoothly, taking the outstretched hand she bestows to him like a queen before a courtier. Aunt Emma has an uncanny way of slipping on her position in society like an elegant cloak and then casting it off when she chooses to run with the artistic set.

Her eyes gleam. “So you’re the gentleman who has been escorting Grace home at all hours of the night in that enormous black carriage of yours.”

“Guilty as charged,” Rafael answers smoothly. “I enjoy your niece’s company very much.”

“And just what exactly are your intentions toward her?” she asks, a teasing note in her voice.

Horror fills me. “Aunt Emma. Please.”

Rafael’s smile widens. “I believe we’re embarrassing Grace.”

He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry about it, the bounder.

“We’re friends,” he adds, his tone mild.

Aunt Emma shoots me a sly look. “Hmph. That’s what she said, too. You’ll forgive me for not quite believing it. In my day, a man didn’t look at a woman like you were staring at her throughout the opera if he didn’t have a good reason.”

Now, it seems it’s Rafael’s turn to look embarrassed, and as mortified as I am by the entire encounter, I’m at least mollified by the fact that he can’t meet my gaze.

“Don’t hurt her,” she adds before swirling away in a cloud of her expensive perfume.

An uncomfortable silence surrounds us in her wake.

“My aunt has a vivid imagination,” I say, struggling to fill the void. The last thing I want is for him to get the wrong idea about all of this, to think that I have designs on him. “She can be eccentric, too. I think she gets bored sometimes, and she can’t resist stirring up a bit of trouble. She means well; she simply—”

“Grace. It’s fine.” Rafael leans down, taking my hand and pressing the faintest of kisses there. “It was nice to see you again.”

He walks away, heading back to the blonde, leaving me staring after him, unraveling the encounter in my mind, not sure what just happened.





Twenty-Five





Marina


The summer of 1897 turns into fall, Weyler recalled to Spain. There are no more sightings of Mateo, and I assume he is back with the other revolutionaries. Luz and Isabella are relieved to hear that he is well and alive, but as the months pass, our relief dulls as this war seems no closer to ending. Whatever triumph I might feel in my part in the successful rescue of Evangelina is dampened by the conditions in Cuba. The death toll in the reconcentration camps keeps rising, the food supplies nearly nonexistent, my hope dwindling with each day my despair increases. In Havana, there have been demonstrations and protests decrying the United States in the wake of Evangelina Cisneros’s escape from Recogidas. Some twenty thousand citizens have taken to the streets, professing their support for Spain.