Renaldo (20 page)

him, preferably Glenlivet!” He certainly did have the latter in him that night,

perhaps two full bottles worth by Lonfranco’s best guess.

The South American had warmed to the British hybrid from the outset.

Their initial meeting took place in the Peter’s barn at ‘Lowliam,’ his sprawling

farm northwest of London. The nearest town of any notability went by the name

of High Wycombe. It was said that Liam’s Irish grandfather and namesake

renamed the dairy establishment and the surrounding lands that he purchased

after himself as a way of mocking his snobbish English neighbors.

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Liam Peters the Third was now the owner and overseer of one of Britain’s

most modern and successful livestock operations. He had been introduced

to his newest friend and business associate from Argentina by Percy Pellet,

a professional livestock broker from London. Pellet’s services were retained

specifically to search for premium breeding stock, in both beef cattle and

thoroughbred horses.

The prospective purchaser found, within seconds of their meeting,

that there was absolutely no pretension about Liam the Third. When Pellet

introduced the two, the Brit was in a stall, mucking out one of his ‘beauties.’

The hand that he extended for Lonfranco to shake was covered by the most

unsightly effluent. The visitor didn’t flinch. He grasped the hand with a strong,

full grip, and continued to hold on and shake it vigorously as Pellet made the

usual salutations with a shocked, disgusted look on his face.

Liam smiled broadly as he invited his guests to join him for a close-up

look at his champion stud. It was only Lonfranco who accepted the offer. The

two men inspected the bull from every possible angle, standing knee high in

excrement and shavings.

When all was said and done, both men knew that the other had a profound

knowledge of the ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ of the bovine world. No one would be

taken advantage of here. A price was stated, Pellet was consulted briefly, and a

deal made in a matter of minutes.

Lonfranco had noted that the stout, blond-haired breeder seemed to have a

number of personalities and dialects that he used as suited his purpose. He was

perfectly capable of intoning the King’s English in a thoroughly convincing

nasal whine when addressing the haughty Mr. Pellet of London. Yet he seemed

to prefer the blarney of an Irish leprechaun or the biting sarcasm of a Scottish

warlord when scrutinizing the private parts of his four-legged loved ones. He

had the South American doubled over in laughter on more than one occasion.

There was no way of refusing to join him for a cleansing ale once the deal was

struck and Pellet sent on his way to draw up the formal papers.

After a short stop at the chemist, it was on to Hillingdon Inn for Lydia

and Lonfranco. Despite his condition, he was disappointed when the carriage

ride was over. He would have gladly stayed by her side the rest of that fine

afternoon, just to listen to her hypnotic voice.

Lydia made certain that her charge took the prescribed medicine she

had purchased for him. She ordered some strong coffee and fruit juice to his

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room, soaked a cloth in cool water for his forehead, then made ready for her

departure.

“Would you like me to send a carriage for you tomorrow evening, Señor

De Seta?”

“Only if you will be in it, Miss Peters,” he responded.

“Well, Señor, as much as I might like to be, my place at that time tomorrow

will be with my mother and sisters, preparing the evening meal. Father doesn’t

believe in servants! Besides, with ten siblings and my parents around, there is

hardly room for another soul. I would imagine that one of my brothers could

fetch you around five o’clock. Does that sound suitable?”

He didn’t want to have to wait that long to see her again, but tried his best

to hide his impatience.

“That would be fine, Señorita, and thank you for your kindness today.

You have made me a new man, or, at least, I hope to be a new man when this

medicine takes effect.”

“It is the least I could do, Señor De Seta. Someone must make penance

for the evil that my father hath wrought upon you. Demon rum, the scourge of

the weak and godless!”

Her soft smile told him that she meant her last comment as a jest. After

the barbarism that she must have witnessed in France, it was a wonder that she

still believed that there was a God at all.

Lydia closed the door gently behind her as she left, and her new admirer

listened to the footsteps receding down the hall. Lonfranco reclined on the

bed, closed his eyes, and tried to conjure up her enchanting image in his

mind. Nothing did her justice. He awaited the following evening with great

anticipation as he fell into a deep sleep.

Liam Peters loved to preside over a boisterous and bountiful table. The fare

this evening was traditional English roast of beef, Yorkshire puddings, fresh

vegetables galore, and a well lubricated trifle for dessert. A new wine preceded

every course, and there was ample ale, stout, and bitters, not to mention the

host’s favorite, Glenlivet, to quench everyone’s thirst. It was evident, just by

looking around the table, that Liam Peters was as productive a sire as any of

his prized stock. He had fathered eight sons and four daughters, much to the

delight of the Catholic priest in the village. The old stallion had put all of his

children to work at Lowliam when it did not conflict with their schooling, and

each child now took a keen interest in the operation and preservation of their

thriving enterprise.

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The Great War did not leave Liam’s brood unscathed, however. Liam the

Fourth, once a muscular, towheaded youth, had returned from the front in

1916 severely gassed. The former Coldstream Guardsman was now just a mere

shadow of his former self, confined to a wheelchair and unable to function

without round-the-clock assistance. The family rallied to his side, and Mrs.

Peters would often say that “It was their duty to care for him, just as it had

been his duty to go to France to protect them.”

Then there was young Will, sweet Will. He had been under the minimum

military age, unable to cross the Channel in uniform. But he had inherited his

father’s ingenuity and began saving his money to purchase false documents

that could be obtained on the black market. The lad had left a note, asking

forgiveness from his parents and assuring them that he would be ‘just fine.’

From the day he left until the day the telegram was delivered, his mother knew

that she would never lay eyes on him again.

‘Missing in action,’ was the way the Home Office described it. Did those

words mean that there was a chance that he could be ‘found’ again? It all

seemed so uncertain at the time.

Lydia and two of her sisters joined the British Expeditionary Force nursing

corps, eventually heading to the continent with high hopes of finding their

brother. It never happened. Sweet Will was lost to them forever.

There was also Betsy, Lydia’s youngest sister. Bright, inquisitive, a virtuoso

on the piano, little Betsy had succumbed to dysentery while serving near the

front lines in Belgium at the end of the conflict.

Two dead, one gassed and disabled. It was a tragic toll for any family to

suffer, but Lonfranco was impressed with how well everyone had picked up the

pieces. Each member seemed ready to face the future, with Liam’s contagious

optimism. He had toasted his departed children in a heartfelt and emotional

blessing as the family gathered around the table. That said and done, his ruddy

face lit up like a lantern, and the stories and refreshments continued into the

wee hours of the morning.

The guest of honor took every opportunity to engage Lydia in conversation.

When that was impossible, he would steal a glance in her direction. Occasionally,

Liam would catch him and let loose the canons.

“Be there something wrong with your neck, Señor De Seta? I see that

you seem to be facing in the opposite direction whilst I be recounting this

extremely informative discussion on cattle suppositories. Perhaps an injury

from yesterday’s match? I should send for the doctor if the condition persists.

On second thought, I know the precise cure. Lydia, come sit beside your loving

father. That way our guest will not do himself further damage as he tries to

sneak a peek in your direction.”

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JAMES McCREATH

Lonfranco had been found out and could feel the flush of his face. He tried

in vain to change the topic of conversation back to cattle suppositories.

Lydia, for her part, played the evening very coyly. She was always polite,

but never gave any indication of a spark in her heart, while an inferno raged

in Lonfranco’s. At thirty-seven years of age, he felt ridiculously child-like. This

behavior was certainly not becoming to a man of his age and stature. Try as he

may, however, he was unable to get control of his feelings. The slightly tipsy

visitor ended up staying the night in a guest room at Lowliam and was in no

hurry, whatsoever, to depart the following morning.

Lydia and her sisters had been brought up to love music by their mother,

who had trained at the Royal Conservatory in Dublin. Good fortune would

have it that Lonfranco was greeted the following morning by the sound of

sisters engaged in recital. This particular piece was a sonata for flute, piano,

and violin. The melody sent his spirits soaring as he listened discreetly, hidden

from sight.

When Mrs. Peters found the shy foreigner listening tentatively in the

hallway, she invited him to take a seat in the parlor and listen in comfort. All

the men of Lowliam had long since departed to their daily toils, and Lonfranco

was ‘forced’ to spend the morning in the company of the ladies.

When the recital concluded, it was Lonfranco’s turn to entertain the

Peters women. Toby, the fifth eldest brother, had in his possession an old, badly

tuned guitar that the guest had spotted the night before during a tour of

the household. After delicately retuning the instrument, the man from South

America launched into an emotional love song from his adopted country. The

voice was strangely melodic for one with no formal training, and the effect on

the women was dramatic. Tears welled in Lydia’s eyes. Lonfranco stopped at

once upon seeing this.

“Ladies, my humble apologies if I have upset you. I will cease this at

once.”

He began to put the guitar down when Lydia reached out and touched

his arm.

“Please, Señor, do not take offense. Your music reminds me so much of

the young men I once knew, over there. We used music to give them hope and

peace after everything else had failed. Please, Señor, please continue. It was

wonderful. It . . . it touched me deeply.”

There is a spark there after all
, Lonfranco thought. Music could be his

bellows to fan the flames of passion.

A stroll in the garden gave them a chance to be alone, before the men