The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,98

deliver it to them.”

* * *

—

I hurry through the streets of Havana, the copied letter Carlos gave to me wrapped in the laundry I carry in my arms. It’s late in the day, the sun setting over the city, people milling about, and Spanish soldiers all over the place. Of all the things I’ve done, all the messages I’ve ferried between loyal patriots, this is without question the most dangerous.

Even as fear fills me, adrenaline rushes through me.

After all we’ve fought for and lost, for as much as I’ve railed against my ability to act, this is the moment when it feels like I can truly serve my country in my own way. War isn’t just waged on the battlefield, and if this letter has the power to end the bloodshed, then I hope it will do so swiftly.

I slow as I near Consul General Fitzhugh Lee’s residence. Carlos told me to leave the linens and note with his staff, that they would pass them on to the consul.

A group of Spanish soldiers stands near the neighboring street, their hands on their weapons, their gazes surveying the crowd.

My heart pounds.

I slip down one of the side streets and flatten myself against the wall. A woman hurries past me, but she doesn’t spare me a glance.

I wait a beat, and then two, but no one else comes down the street.

Quickly, I go through the linens, safeguarding the letter, my palms damp as a line of sweat forms on my brow.

If I am caught . . .

I peek around the corner of the street, hoping the soldiers have moved on.

They’re still there.

The longer I stand here, the more I risk drawing someone’s notice when they pass by. And if something happens to Escoto on his way to New York City with the original letter, then this is our best chance at undermining the Spanish.

I walk out into the street.

This time, I don’t duck my head, and when the soldiers’ gazes settle on me, I meet their eyes. Better to look as though I have nothing to hide. The fear I can’t quite strike from my expression hopefully adds to the impression that I am just a woman, struggling, intimidated by the soldiers and their weapons.

I walk past them, my shoulders squared, a chill sliding down my spine.

Please don’t stop me. Please don’t stop me.

“What do you have there?” one of the soldiers calls out to me.

My heart sinks.

I turn slowly and face him.

I’ve no doubt the blood has rushed from my face.

“Linens, sir. I do some extra washing for those who need it.” I bite down on my lip. “I’m in the camp, you see, and the good citizens of Havana have given us jobs to earn a bit of extra money.”

He doubtless knows all of this, but the reminder of our plight, of the toll the war has taken on women seems to shame him slightly, and he nods and gestures for me to pass him by.

I take another step, when—

“Let us have a look at those linens,” one of the other soldiers calls out.

He strides toward me, none of the sympathy I saw in the first soldier’s expression on him.

I hand him the linens wordlessly, tears welling in my eyes.

I offer a prayer to God that he will see me through this.

The soldier searches through the linens I meticulously folded, sullying them with his dirty hands.

Dread fills me.

He thrusts the linens back at me.

“You can go now.”

I nod meekly and move away from him, struggling to keep my pace steady, to refrain from breaking into a run as my body desperately wishes.

When I reach the consul’s residence, I quickly reach into my dress and pull out the folded letter, nestled between my breasts.

I shove it back between the linens.

The housekeeper opens the door, and I hand the laundry to her.

“See that it goes to Consul General Lee.”

* * *

—

In the days that follow, the de Lôme letter makes the international stir Carlos craved. In the end, the message I delivered to the American consulate in Havana wasn’t needed, as Gustavo Escoto made it to New York safely and delivered the original letter to the Junta there, who immediately did what they do best and passed it on to the New York newspapers for publication.

Despite the outrage, there still hasn’t been an official declaration of war from the Americans.

I walk back from Carlos’s residence once more after delivering another message to him. In the aftermath of the publication of the de