Chapter Four

In which our heroes meet a number of people, and a number of horses, and Rebecca dresses up for the night



The next morning found them already over Spain, after a remarkably quiet crossing of the Pirineos, the mountain range that acted as a natural border between Spain and France. Some quick reckoning showed them that if everything went fine they would arrive at the cortijo by midafternoon. Early in the afternoon, preparations began; everybody started gathering their belongings, or, rather, Passepartout started gathering everybody's belongings while Fogg sipped claret, Rebecca considered two different bonnets, and Verne dozed happily in a blessed silence, completely free of birds.

"I do hope we'll have some degree of independence there," Rebecca murmured. "I'd hate to spend all the time making excuses not to go to parties and dances."

"I wouldn't worry. We are there on business and maybe to see the sights, therefore we will be expected to go out quite a lot. Besides, Don Fernando is the soul of discretion. If he finds our behaviour strange, he'll just blame it on English eccentricity."

"Well, that's a good one," Jules said, opening an eye. "The English, eccentric? The very idea!"

"Spoke the man who spends his free time drawing things he sees in visions," laughed Rebecca, tossing aside both bonnets carelessly. "You'll have to be careful there, Jules."

"Speaking of visions, Verne, could you make yourself useful and try to envision a way to make one of Passepartout's devices, if not useful, at least harmless?" Fogg said, reminding everybody of the morning's culinary catastrophe.

"It was a very stolid idea, master," Passepartout said, hurt.

"Passepartout, when one builds a steam-powered toaster, one does try to keep the toast /away/ from the steam, I would think."

"I thought that the English cuisine held no more terrors for me, and there I was this morning, breakfasting on boiled toast," Jules said, chuckling. "Well, cheer up, Passepartout, it wasn't your fault. It looked simple enough on the paper."

"Yes," Rebecca said, once again perusing her briefings. "Everything looks simple enough on paper."





When they got out of the 'Aurora', some distance away from the cortijo, Verne was surprised. He had expected Spain to be quite desert-like, a hot and dusty country. At least that had been his impression while they were flying over it. Instead, he found himself in the middle of the fertile Valley of the Guadalquivir. A short ride from there, there were sun-roasted bushes, dry rocks and yellow earth, but here there were trees and luscious greenery everywhere. It was, however, very hot, and he rushed back to the 'Aurora' to leave his jacket there. Fogg had dressed himself in something blindingly white made of linen, and Rebecca was in a light summer dress of the color of new leaves. The strong sunlight, falling on the ground like molten gold, set her hair aflame.

A short distance from the 'Aurora' was a path of packed dust, and two horses were coming down it towards them. Fogg narrowed his eyes against the light, and then smiled.

"It's all right," he said, "it's Don Fernando."

Rebecca relaxed, unfurled her parasol, and took Fogg's arm, the very image of the proper English lady. Verne watched the men.

The older of the two was riding an extremely handsome palomino horse, tall and strong-built. The rider looked about sixty years old, and was quite short and thin. He was dressed in black (which seemed to Verne an extremely foolish idea in this heat), in an old-fashioned suit of good quality but rather worn. His scarce hair was almost white, and he wore a short iron-grey beard. He had a strong, long nose, and sunburnt skin. When he recognized Fogg, his severe expression broke into a kind smile of uneven teeth.

The other man rode a dark long-legged chestnut. The horse appeared skittish, and it was not clear whether this was because of the animal's temperament or the rider's clumsiness. He was a tall man, with a round body and long, thin legs. His thick, curly hair and his very large eyes gave him a sort of boyish charm belied by the ugly, thin-lipped mouth, and the thick five o'clock shadow on his cheeks and chin. He too smiled when he saw Fogg and his small entourage. Two gold teeth flashed in the sun.

"That's Estepa!" Rebecca exclaimed, not too agreeably surprised, and immediately set her face in a bland welcoming smile.

"If that slimy idiot utters but a word about the mission here," she muttered through stiff lips, "I'll kill him right on the spot."

"Easy, my dear," Phileas said, amused. "That's hardly the proper thing to do in front of our host."

"I don't care. How does he-," she began, and then had to stop when the two horses reached them. Don Fernando dismounted gracefully and went to Fogg, his hand extended. The Englishman shook it with good cheer.

"It's good to see you again, Don Fernando," he said. "You look not a day older."

"You always were a charming liar, Phileas," the Spaniard said, in correct, if heavily accented, English. "I am a dry twig and you, you look like a strong oak yourself. By the Virgin, you look well! It was about time for you to pay us a visit."

"I was looking forward to seeing you again, Don Fernando. I'd like to introduce my wife Rebecca, my good friend, Monsieur Jules Verne, and my valet, Passepartout."

Don Fernando turned to Rebecca and bowed with such courtly elegance that Rebecca's eyebrows went up in some amazement. He kissed her hand as if she were the Queen.

"Madam. It is a veritable pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine, Don Fernando."

To Passepartout, Don Fernando gave a short but warm handshake and a brief smile. The 'monsieur' got Verne a little bow apart from the handshake. Don Fernando addressed to each in perfect French, muttering polite welcomes.

Meanwhile, Rebecca scowled at Gonzalo Estepa, who had dismounted much less gracefully than his older companion and was walking towards them.

"I believe you know Don Gonzalo Estepa," Don Fernando said, turning to him. "He was kind enough to escort me to greet you, as soon as we saw your very remarkable ship approaching."

The grave reserve of the old gentleman could not hide the wonder in his voice when he looked at the 'Aurora', glinting in the sunlight. Estepa also gave the ship a look a bit less admiring and a lot more predatory, and then shook Fogg's hand.

"I was so looking forward to meeting with you again, Mister Fogg," he said in perfect English. "It's been a long time."

"A long time indeed," said Fogg blandly. "You remember Rebecca, of course."

"She is utterly unforgettable," Estepa said, and pressed his lips to Rebecca's hand. "Madam. Such a pleasure I did not expect."

"Don Gonzalo, you look well," Rebecca said, with the slightest inflection in her voice indicating that this could change in a moment's notice.

"I must apologize for riding here," Don Fernando said. "We saw your airship a bit late and did not want you to arrive and find no one, so we took the horses to arrive on time. If you don't mind, we'll walk home, it is not far."

"Actually, I think it is an excellent idea, given the purpose of our visit. Rebecca, my dear, do you mind if I walk with Don Fernando for a while? If that beautiful palomino is an example of what's in his stables, we have much to talk about."

"Go ahead, dearest," Rebecca said, with such domestic fondness in her voice that Jules blinked in surprise, almost missing the following, sharp-edged words, "I'd like to talk to Gonzalo myself."

Estepa offered her his arm. She took it and he winced: her grip was like a vise. Fogg and Villares went ahead; Rebecca let them put some space between her and Estepa and then almost dragged the man forward.

"What are you doing here? Do you want to blow my cover, you fool?" she hissed.

"Hardly," he said, trying futilely to free his arm from her grip. "I know Don Villares. I told him you were all acquaintances of mine. He won't suspect a thing, Miss Fogg."

"He'd better not," she said, forgetting, as usual, to correct the treatment. "I was counting on meeting you in Seville, secretly. Not here. You'd better have a good excuse for us spending a lot of time together."

"Well, you could be cheating on your husb- Ow!"

"If you even /think/ about that again, I'll break it."

"I'm not sure you didn't just now!"

"Don't whine, Gonzalo. It doesn't become a Spanish gentleman. Now: we must discuss matters as soon as possible. What do you suggest?" she eased the pressure and Estepa could relax, though he was still gulping nervously.

"The cortijo has an orange groove in a secluded spot. We can meet there tonight: there will be no one. I'll take my leave well before that, so no one would suspect that I'm still around."

"All right," Rebecca said after a brief hesitation. "Just tell me this: how serious do you think this matter is? Honestly, now."

Estepa seemed to ponder the question earnestly.

"Honestly... I'm not sure. I don't have enough evidence yet. But if my worst scenario is confirmed, we could be dealing with a major conspiracy against the Spanish crown. There is a group of republican partisans in Seville who would love to see Queen Isabel out of Spain, if not of this world. They are loud, but so far, quite harmless."

"I see."

"You can review my data tonight, but my theory is that they have contacted some foreign source with a lot of money and that they want to... escalate things. Get them to a new level, maybe even... a revolt."

Rebecca did not care for dramatic pauses.

"And who are 'they', exactly, Gonzalo?"

Estepa looked uncomfortable.

"Oh, well, there are several candidates. I'm still working on that..."

"You don't have a clue."

"If you want to put it that way."

The cortijo was on sight. Rebecca muttered a fierce "We'll talk about this tonight," and with a last squeeze that made Estepa flinch, they joined the group.





'Los Villares', as the cortijo was called, could be considered a small village rather than a house. There were little houses, cottages, stables and huts all around, and in the center, an extremely beautiful building, blindingly white in the sun, atop a small elevation covered in flowers and small trees. The façade had been highlighted with yellow paint around windows and doors, and red and pink geraniums were under every window and in big clay pots against every corner. The whole effect was so delightful as to be almost edible. Even Fogg could not but comment on how nice the house looked.

"Well, that's all because of my daughter-in-law Vicenta," Don Fernando said, pleased by the reaction of his visitors. "She came here with her family from Valencia, after my wife died, and has proven to be the most extraordinary housekeeper. A great cook, too, you'll see. Let us all go inside and have some refreshments."

The word 'refreshments' made Verne sigh with relief. The walk had not been long, but the sun was strong and the young writer was feeling hot and flushed. He watched Fogg with envy: the man was as neat and cat-like as ever, and Rebecca looked like a light breeze surrounded her everywhere. Therefore, Verne was very pleasantly surprised when they entered the house and found themselves in a handsome square patio surrounded with low arches. The ground had been liberally sprinkled with water, and a small fountain in the center splashed and murmured soothingly. Small trees had been planted all around the perimeter, and cool tiled walls decorated in the mozárabe style, with beautiful geometric motifs in blue, white and yellow, kept the air inside the patio some degrees cooler than outside.

Don Fernando's family was waiting for them around a wide wicker table loaded with drinks and small plates with some delicacies. They rose to greet them and smiled politely as they were being introduced.

Don Fernando's oldest son, Cosme, was a short man in his thirties, slim as his father but with light hair and a tendency to develop a paunch. His brown eyes were merry and warm, and he saluted them in faulty, if enthusiastic, English. He had married into a wealthy family from Valencia, but now he had brought his wife and two daughters to live with Don Fernando and take care of the cortijo.

His wife, Vicenta, was a short, plump woman with a high voice and a contagious smile. She spoke in awful French and said something in rapid Spanish that Don Fernando translated as a desire for them to have a very good time while here and an admiring comment about Rebecca's hair. Rebecca, not very confident about her Spanish, murmured a 'Gracias' that won her the open admiration of the whole reunion. An Englishwoman speaking Spanish! Imagine that! So clever! Their two daughters, Cosme said, were absent at the moment, but they would meet them sooner than later, no doubt.

Also absent was Don Fernando's second child, his daughter Rocío. She had married a businessman from Galicia, in the Northwest, and could not visit them until Christmas. So they turned to the youngest son, Manuel.

He was about Verne's age and height, but Manuel had black hair and dark brown eyes. Taller than his father and brother, and with a quite athletic figure and handsome, regular features, Rebecca figured the lad was breaking more than one young heart in the social circles of Seville. He spoke passable English and saluted them with great charm. Rebecca was delighted to see him blush slightly when she squeezed his hand. He looked, she thought, like a romantic poet that had been eating well and taking exercise for a couple of years instead of moping around damp cemeteries. Fogg looked at him with special attention, and smiled broadly, making a comment about how he had changed since he had last seen him. His handshake was firm, man to man, and Manuel seemed very pleased about it.

They all sat to drink cold lemonade and eat some pastries and sugared fruits, allowing the soothing atmosphere of the patio to refresh them after the walk. Fogg made pleasant small talk, sometimes in a Spanish that grew more confident by the second, and Rebecca won everybody to her side by praising the small pastries in Spanish. Of course, thought Verne, sipping lemonade, Rebecca would win everybody to her side just by breathing. Manuel was looking at her quite open-mouthed.

It was readily established that they would have an early dinner and then pay a preliminary visit to the stables before sundown, if their guests were not too tired. No, their guests were not too tired, to the contrary, and they would be delighted to see more of the cortijo.

"Let me show you your rooms," Vicenta said, rising. "We'll send some people to your flying ship for your things at once."

"Passepartout will take care of that, won't you, Passepartout?"

"Of course, master! I am going all rapidly," the valet said, surreptitiously snatching a couple of pastries for the road.

"I'm afraid I have to make my excuses now," Gonzalo Estepa said, rising.

"But Don Gonzalo, won't you stay for dinner?"

"Alas, no, madam. I have a previous appointment in Seville and I must not be late. Thank you for a charming afternoon."

"Do come again, Don Gonzalo. I'm sure your friends here will appreciate your company."

"That is most kind of you, Doña Vicenta. Goodbye, now," he bowed to everyone, shook Don Fernando's hand, and departed. Fogg and Rebecca exchanged a quick glance; she nodded imperceptibly.



Their rooms were in one of the corners of the main building.

"This is the oldest part of the house," Don Fernando explained. "The rooms here are not perhaps the most luxurious, but they are the coolest. I think you'll be comfortable in them."

"They are lovely, Don Fernando," Rebecca said, eyeing appreciatively the clean, airy rooms, simply but charmingly furnished.

"I had another reason to choose these, actually. If you would follow me," the gentleman said. He opened a narrow door at the end of the corridor and went down a short flight of stairs that ended in a small arch opening to a long, low building.

"The old stables. There are too few stalls here, so we don't really use them anymore, but I had them ready for you. You see, since you come here to buy horses, I thought I'd let you sample the goods, as it were, while you stay with us. A few of my darlings are here, and Miguel will take care of them for you."

The stables smelled of dry clean straw and damp earth. Soft snorting sounds could be heard from some of the stalls. Don Fernando stopped in front of one that held a chestnut of rich red-brown color, with black mane and tail.

"Do you remember the horse that you used to ride when you came here, Phileas?"

"Of course. Dear Ligero. It was a pleasure riding him."

"This is his daughter, Preciosa. I believe you will like her. For the lady," he said, with a bow to Rebecca, "there is Festivo, over there, the other chestnut with the star in the forehead. He has a delicate mouth, but he's very intelligent, and quite fast, too. Now, I don't know if you gentlemen ride..."

Passepartout nodded with a wide smile, his eyes studying the horses, and Verne appeared uncomfortable.

"Passepartout can ride anything under the sun, I believe," Fogg said, "if you don't mind the beast in question going mad afterwards. He has a quite unique style. And Verne is, ah... more of an urban gentleman."

"What Fogg is too kind to say, Don Fernando, is that I'm a very bad rider," Verne said, blushing. The man studied him for a moment.

"We shall see about that, monsieur Verne, we shall see about that," he turned to Miguel, a young man with bad teeth that was watching the scene with his mouth open. "¡Miguel! ¡Vete a las cuadras grandes y tráete la yegua paso fino!"

"¿La Pícara?"

"No, trae a Nube. Y la silla buena. Anda, corre," Miguel disappeared and Don Fernando turned to Verne, smiling.

"I think you'll find this mount agreeable to you, sir. Now, let's go back upstairs. I'll give you the key that opens both this little door and the stable door. Miguel is entirely at your service. Please, feel free to use these horses as if they were yours, anytime."

"This is exceedingly kind of you, Don Fernando," Phileas said, giving Preciosa a last admiring stare as they all went up the narrow stairs.

"Not at all, not at all. I do believe that guests should feel quite at home while they stay at my house, and besides, you know how to treat my beauties. I'll show you the big stables after dinner, if you like. And now I'll leave you, so that you can freshen up and rest. Good evening, my friends."



"I'll make some excuse after dinner, Phileas," Rebecca said as they changed clothes in their room. She bent over to lace up the boots of her leather outfit. "I'm meeting with Estepa tonight."

"Do you really need to wear that?" Phileas asked, slipping into a dark grey dinner jacket. His cravat hung loose, awaiting the deft hands of Passepartout. "You are going to melt inside that thing here, Rebecca."

"One never knows," she said, as she adjusted a dark green dress that lit up her hair beautifully. The bodice hid three throwing knives and a lasso, but no one really needed to know that. Phileas acknowledged this truism with a grunt.

"What did Estepa say?" he asked after a while.

"Nothing, actually. He repeated what was already in his briefings, which is not very encouraging. I intend to press him a little tonight. I may need to follow him, afterwards, so, don't worry if I'm not back immediately."

Phileas nodded, watching her intently.

"You don't trust him?"

"It's too soon to tell. My assignment includes evaluating Estepa's work here, and so far my evaluation is 'fishy'. I think I'd better be thorough about the whole matter. After all, we spies have to be rather fishy if we are to survive in this business." She winked, and Phileas smiled briefly. "Where did you put the map of the area, Phileas?"

"Over there."

"Thank you," she slipped the map into a pocket. "We'll see what this is all about soon. Maybe it's nothing major after all and we can enjoy our stay here."

"Rebecca, nothing would bring you more joy than to discover that this is something major after all," Phileas said, trying to appear nonchalant and almost succeeding.

"Hardly that, Phileas. But I do admit I've been wishing for a mission like this."

"Be careful what you wish for..." Phileas murmured under his breath, turning to check himself in the mirror. His reflection showed him someone quite different from the twenty-something-year-old man that had spent a wonderful autumn in this very house. That young man had also wished for a big mission, an adventure, a chance to shape the world, to make a difference.

And he got his wish, oh, yes.

Rebecca hadn't heard him. She put her earrings on (one hid a lockpick and the other a diamond tip able to cut glass) and went to stand beside him.

"Estepa cheats at cards," he said casually, offering his arm. She took it. "He's actually quite skilled, you can hardly see him coming. He is very good at misleading people. Even if he's on your side, you'd be wise to keep an eye on him."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Phileas swallowed a thousand other remarks, advices, comments. If he started he wouldn't stop, and Rebecca hardly needed that. He smiled at her, she smiled back. There was a fierce joy under her smile. What was under his, no one could tell.

Passepartout appeared to put the finishing touches in his master's attire, followed by Verne, correctly dressed in his only formal suit.

"Look at us!" Passepartout said, "All dressed in the high style! I'm believing that we are going to get much diversions here!"

"Indeed, we may," Rebecca said, and smiled charmingly. "Shall we go down?"


End of Chapter Four