Free Viva Jacquelina! by L. A. Meyer Page A

understand?”
    Yes,
I’m thinking,
I understand that all my dreams have turned to dust, and now I must do as you say.
    I hit a brace, nod, and bow, for I know there is nothing else.
“Oui, mon générale,”
I say, without thinking.
    Uh-oh . 
.
 .
    But he lets it pass, managing a slight smile and saying only, “Who knows where your loyalties lie, Miss Faber.”
    â€œThey lie with my country and my friends, Sir. Of that you may be assured.”
    â€œWell, good. Be off with you, then. Montoya will want to leave shortly.” He turns from me to continue his enraged rant—
Goddamn stupid, ass-kissing, suck-up bureaucrats. God damn them all to hell and back!—
and I nod to Higgins and point outside and leave the room, much less hopeful than when I entered it.
    Â 
    Higgins has a small pack open, and into it he is stuffing clothing and some other things—perfume, caps, underwear, spare dresses, both fine and lowly. No telling what I will need when I get to Madrid.
    Montoya leans against the wall, arms crossed, grinning at me as I make my preparations for departure. He could have waited outside, but he did not. The ill-bred brute has not removed his sombrero, either.
    â€œIt is best you travel in simple clothing,
muchacha,
so you do not stand out on the way,” observes Montoya. “Plenty of time for finery in Madrid. You will see much of that there. The
Majas
and all.”
    We agree, although I don’t pursue the
Maja
thing just yet. There is a dressing screen in the room and I duck behind it to change. I shed my uniform and climb into my good old Lawson Peabody serving-girl rig—black shoes, hose, and skirt; white drawers and blousy shirt; and brown weskit cinched tight around my ribs. I leave my shiv in its sheath on my left forearm and I cover my short blond locks with my dark brunette wig so as to blend in better with the local populace. My pennywhistle is tucked in my vest, and all else I currently own goes into my seabag for Higgins to take back to England with him.
    That done, I step out and fluff up my now-black hair. Higgins places my black mantilla on my head and I wrap it around my shoulders and look to Montoya.
    He smiles in appreciation.
    â€œMuch better, Señorita. You are now the
muchacha campesina
perfecta.”
    Higgins straightens up and prepares to take his leave, saying, “I do not wish to offend you, Senhor, but I must point out to you that even though she is entrusted to your care, she remains Crown Property and, as such, must be returned to us in the same condition as when she left.”
    He is not offended. He sweeps off his hat and bows low. “She shall be treated as the Sanctified and Holy Sister of My Soul in Our Common Struggle Against Tyranny.”
    Higgins and I exchange glances—as if we believe
that
for even a moment.
    â€œYou will like Madrid, Miss. It is quite a lovely place, in spite of its being overrun with those French pigs. I was born and raised there.”
    â€œSo you are actually Spanish, then?”
    â€œI am many things,
mi querida,
and being actually Spanish is one of them.”
    â€œSo we can drop the Portuguese, then, Señor, and stick to the Spanish?”
    â€œSí,
Señorita.”
    â€œ
Bueno.
I am easier in that language.”
    â€œIt is, indeed, a loving tongue, full of the promise of romance.”
    Hmmm . 
.
 . Just who is this man?
    â€œWell, Señor Montoya, neither love nor romance is in the picture. It is duty that calls and we must go. Are you ready?”
    â€œSí, Señorita,”
he says, bowing and gesturing to the door.
    I turn to John Higgins and place my hands upon his chest.
    â€œDon’t worry about me, John. I have handled randy males before. I have money, clothes, and my shiv. This should be a rather easy assignment. Please give my compliments to Dr. Sebastian and Mr. Peel, and to my grandfather and any of my other friends you might