The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,26

her voice to a comical whisper. “Because we are women, and surely, can’t have any insight into politics. No matter that so many of our countrywomen are involved in the conflict in Cuba at this very moment.”

“Are there women fighting?” I ask. Hearst’s correspondents carry tales of beautiful, long-haired women waving machetes, but one never knows quite what to believe, especially given the correspondents’ limited access to the conflict. The line between fact and fiction can be razor-thin.

“Of course, there are women fighting in Cuba. There are women treating the wounded troops and providing medical assistance, women working as couriers and passing information back and forth. In some ways, the couriers are under even greater danger than those on the front lines. The punishment for spies if they are caught—particularly spies with access to important information—is severe.”

“And what would you like the Journal’s readers to know about the conflict? About your efforts there?”

“That the situation is very desperate,” another woman chimes in. “The Spanish are a formidable foe that we’ve been battling for a very long time. The revolutionaries need money, arms, and assistance. Cuba cannot remain a colony any longer. We’ve suffered for centuries under Spanish rule. We want the ability to unite under one flag, to be able to govern ourselves. We hope the Americans will support our cause in every way they can.”

At the moment, I cannot think of a place I’d rather be than sitting among a group of women plotting revolution.

* * *

—

“How was the meeting?” Rafael asks when we are once again ensconced in his lavish carriage, driving away from his sister’s apartment.

A hint of cigar smoke lingers on his clothes.

“Informative. Very informative. I liked your sister a great deal,” I add.

“I had a feeling you might. Elena isn’t content to let things stand as they are. When we were young, she was always rescuing something—small animals, other children, sometimes me. I figured someone who barged into Hearst’s office asking for a job would be a kindred soul. Next you’ll be asking me for introductions to the Junta.”

The Junta, the revolutionary organization run by exiled Cubans in New York that was once helmed by José Martí, was a popular topic of conversation in the meeting today. Comprised of Cubans and those sympathetic to the revolutionary cause, the Junta’s primary goal is to raise money and garner support for independence.

“Are you friends with those men?” I ask.

There are already reporters who regularly attend Junta meetings and work closely with them, but it wouldn’t hurt for me to have a connection there, too.

“In my line of work, you learn to be friends with everyone,” Rafael replies. “You don’t know when someone will be useful.”

“And you never thought to join your sister in her efforts?”

“I’m not one for meetings,” he drawls, infuriatingly deflecting my questions once more.

You’re not getting away so easily, Mr. Harden.

“Which one of you is the elder?” I ask, changing tack.

“I am. By three minutes, at least.”

“I didn’t realize you’re twins, although now that you say it, I suppose the resemblance is clear.”

“Hmm. So they tell me. Where should I have my driver drop you?” he asks, ignoring my conversational rejoinder.

I give him my aunt’s address, and his brow rises.

“I would have thought you would live with your mother and stepfather over in Gramercy Park.”

And now it’s my turn to be surprised. He’s clearly done some research into my family and their background, although I can’t imagine when—or why—he would have accomplished it.

“I live with my aunt Emma. My mother’s sister. I am my own woman,” I feel compelled to add. “My life is separate from that of my family.”

“I thought you debutantes were kept under tight wraps away from men with questionable reputations and the like.”

“If I weren’t allowed in the company of men with questionable reputations, I could hardly expect to find myself in this carriage with you.”

He grins, faint crinkles showing around his eyes.

“Besides, I’m hardly a debutante anymore,” I reply.

My debut was far from a splash, more like a slow drizzle, and now at twenty-five, unmarried and living with my mother’s eccentric sister, I am hardly marriage material. Not that I have any complaints. A husband in my social circle would hardly indulge a woman working, particularly in a field as salacious as journalism. Certainly not with the hours we keep and the stories I cover.

I’ve seen enough of my mother’s marriage to my stepfather, how she tiptoes around him and the money he controls, to value independence over all