Woman of Three Worlds (27 page)

“And as if constant wars weren't enough,” said de Haro, “a cholera epidemic in 1851 killed hundreds; no one knows how many, for the dead were collected in street-cleaning carts and dumped into huge common graves. Then there came a great flood eight years ago that destroyed half the city. But we rebuild, bury our dead, and Alamos goes on.” He mused for a moment before he flashed her a smile. “Is it not interesting to consider, señorita, that had you been born thirty years sooner, you would have been a Mexican?”

“Two of my great-uncles were killed at the Alamo.”

“Indeed? I had kinsmen on the other side. I hope you bear no grudges.”

She grimaced. “If I were bearing grudges, it'd be at the Yankees for killing my father and stealing Tristesse. But I'd rather use my energy in living, not hating.”

“A sensible attitude,” he applauded. “I admire those who make the best of what is instead of lamenting what might have been.”

She wondered why a seeming compliment should make her so uneasy.

Outside Alamos, near the cemetery, the small army dispersed, volunteers going to their homes, de Haro's men returning to his
hacienda
and mines. All turned their firearms over to one of de Haro's lieutenants, who loaded them into a wagon and followed de Haro into the city.

At a soft order from de Haro, Mateo rode swiftly ahead while Roque escorted Brittany along the cobbled street leading past white-washed houses, some with arched portals, all with grilles opening into inner courtyards.

“The church still bears the arms of Spain.” De Haro nodded at the carved emblem above the door. “Originally the cathedral was meant to have two towers, but when the see of the bishopric shifted to Culiacán, we were left with a single tower. However, we have three domes.”

“It's beautiful,” she said truthfully.

“You must see the inside.” He glanced at several of the houses surrounding the plaza. “Anselmo seems to be here. He's the brother who understands finances and manages our businesses. Nacho is doubtless at his
hacienda
. A real
charro
, that one. Tranquilino, the eldest, may still be in Mexico City. He thinks President Dfaz can't run the country without him. Perhaps he can't.”

Brittany's head spun from all the names. As if guessing that, Roque laughed. “Don't worry. They're all quite different and will fall quickly into place.”

They turned down a side street and rode into a courtyard full of bustle that belied the serene porticoed front of the mansion. Boys unloaded burros piled high with wood; servants cleared a heaped ox cart of butter, eggs, cheeses, chickens, small pigs, and slabs of cured meat. While two women scrubbed laundry, others rinsed, wrung, and hung to dry. In part of the long carriage house obviously used as a workshop, a man was repairing a wheel.

From the stables two swarthy young men hurried to take Roque's and Brittany's horses, and others helped unload the wagon of firearms. Roque sprang down, helped her to the cobblestones, and ushered her past storerooms, bakery, and kitchen into a tiled patio where fountains rippled among orange trees heavy with golden fruit and a profusion of brilliant flowers denied that it was winter.

Even in its glory days Tristesse could not have been this magnificent. Dazed by it all, Brittany had no words as de Haro opened a heavy door and smiled as she passed through.

“Welcome to my house. As we say here, it is yours.”

An immense white-clad Indian with a round, childlike face hurried into the large room hung with crystal chandeliers and furnished with elegant French-looking tables, cabinets, and upholstered settees and chairs. Like a genie, the big Indian listened to Roque's commands, bowed low, and vanished.

“Tomás is my majordomo,” Roque explained. “If you have a wish, you have only to tell him.”

I
wish Zach and I were back at the post
, she thought, but there was nothing to gain in being rude. Acutely conscious of her stained buckskins, she said, “If I could bathe—”

“Tomás already has maids filling your tub.” Gold eyes teased her. “If you can be parted from those Apache hides, something temporary can be found for you till seamstresses can devise suitable gowns.”

“Please!” protested Brittany, distressed. “Somehow, I'll repay you for my journey north, but I've no money for fine clothing. A change of simple garments is all I can afford.”

He frowned. “Señorita, it is an affront to my senses to see you in attire that doesn't frame your beauty. You will forgive me if I pleasure myself.”

“But—”

A mocking voice came from the hallway. “Well,
mi amor
, have you brought home an Apache wench to scrub the stables?”

Roque swung about, startled anger hardening his squarish face. Brittany's relief at hearing an American voice was tainted by the sting of the insulting words. She stared at the approaching woman, whose amused silver-gray eyes weren't missing a detail of Brittany's scruffy appearance, from grease spots on her tunic to battered moccasins.

“Didn't Mateo find you?” demanded Roque.

The woman turned up perfectly manicured hands. Her hair had the sheen of frosted silver, dressed back in a heavy mass of curls caught with a bow of gray velvet that matched the trim of the quietly rich silk dress molding a proud, high bosom and slim waist to fall into yards of rustling skirts.

“When Mateo is excited, he mangles his Spanish till I can't understand him. I took his babblings to mean that you had brought me an Apache squaw.” She tapped back a yawn, slanting a derisive look at Brittany. “Take my advice, love, she's not worth the trouble. Send her to Nacho. In that household, one slattern more or less hardly matters.”

Roque's eyes blazed. In a voice trembling with fury, he said to Brittany, “Señorita, my most agonized apologies!” Turning to the other woman, he almost spat his words. “This
lady
, Señorita Lisette, is a countrywoman of yours! She has been captive among Apaches and it is my privilege to offer her hospitality—as I once did you, to your good fortune.”

She smiled sweetly. “Ever gallant, my heart.” She extended her hand to Brittany. “Pray forgive my ridiculous mistake. Of course, I see now that you're not Indian. They never freckle. I'm Lisette McDonald.”

Brittany took the proffered white hand and gave her name, though a contemptuous curl to the older woman's red lips gave the lie to her tardy politeness even as she added, “You must tell me all the news from the States after you've rested, but I declare, my dear, if you feel the way you look, you're a veritable wreck! Come along and let me make sure those lazy girls have made you comfortable.”

“Anita!” called Roque to a young woman hovering in the door. He gave her directions in Spanish, then said to Brittany, “Anita will show you to your room and be your maid while you're here. Language is a problem, but you should be able to communicate by signing.”

“Wouldn't it be wise to let me translate?” Lisette inquired.

“It would neither be wise nor very practical,” Roque said dryly. “For someone who's lived in Mexico twelve years, your Spanish is atrocious.”

“You once thought it charming,” she said with a tinkling laugh, though for a second she had flinched as if slapped. “Bad as my usage may be, though, I can still be useful to Miss Laird.”

“I commend your thoughtfulness,” he said ironically. “However, we have urgent matters to discuss.”

“Surely, they can wait till I've seen to your guest's comfort.”

His teeth showed. “Indeed, Señorita Lisette, I cannot wait to learn how much truth there is in the rumor that you've decided to return to the United States. This would sadden me, but if that is your intent, I will do all I can to assist.”

The silvery woman's face looked even more bloodless. “It seems we had better talk.” She gave Brittany a stiff smile. “If you can't make the servants understand any other way, a box on the ears does wonders.”

Brittany was glad to escape the tense atmosphere by following the slender, barefooted Anita down the colonnaded hall.

She was in doubt as to Lisette McDonald's position but in none at all as to the hostility that sent chills prickling up her spine. However, since Brittany wanted to be gone as ardently as Lisette wished her to be, they should have no trouble. Entering the heavy carved door Anita held for her, Brittany gasped in delight and put Lisette out of her mind.

XX

It was a magic room, from the chandelier of many-colored birds and flowers affixed to golden vines to the huge bed, coverleted with gold velvet to match the tracery of foliage and graceful birds depicted on the Chinese-red triangular headboard designed with deeply curved indentations that ascended to a peak. The rounded fireplace had a hearth of rich red tile, and a red lacquer chair with gold cushions was pulled up beside it. Armoire, dresser, and chest of drawers were the same brilliant red flourished with gilt birds and leaves.

A tray holding a platter of melon and fruit wedges and a goblet and pitcher of orange juice sat on a bedside table. All the pieces were mellow silver, so pure that they were dented from use.

The orange juice was deliciously chilled, and Brittany savored two goblets of it before sampling the lucious fruit. Tart citrus gave zest to melon. She especially relished a deep pink fruit that Anita dribbled with juice from limes.

“
Sabrosa
,” Brittany praised, wiping her fingers on the damp napkin folded beside the pitcher.

Anita smiled at Brittany's pleasure, opened a latticed cane door and said, “
Baño
.”

The bath was as large as most bedrooms. A claw-legged white tub sat on a dais of sparkling white tile intermixed with some glazed flying birds. A cane rack held half a dozen towels and a tiled bench beside the tub held an enticing array of soaps, lotions, sponges, and powders. There was also a washstand with silver basin and ewer. A silver-framed mirror hung above it.

For the first time in months Brittany saw her own face. She stared hard, scarcely recognizing herself. Lisette could be excused for thinking she was Indian, for she had tanned till the contrast of her gray eyes was shocking. Her black hair was silkier than most Apaches', but back in scalp-bounty days, it would have brought fifty dollars from the government of this state.

Anita tested the filled tub with her elbow, looked questioningly at Brittany. Brittany did the same and smiled, nodding as she tested another of her Spanish words. “
Bueno
.”

When Anita tried to help her undress, though, Brittany said firmly, “
No, gracias
,” and indicated that the girl should leave. Anita withdrew, giving Brittany ample time to soak luxuriously and wash her hair, but returned with silver pails of water with which she thoroughly sloshed Brittany.

Stepping from the tub to a thick mat, Brittany dried her hair and then her body, feeling profligate as she used two towels. After her stint in the camp washhouse, she would never use such things without being aware of the work she was causing someone. Still, this house had many servants, and from the happy bustle of the courtyard she judged their life was not a hard one.

Anita proffered a cotton lace robe. When they passed into the bedroom, she drew a chair out from the mirrored dresser and gestured for Brittany to sit. While Anita's deft hands worked the tangles from her hair, Brittany drowsed, enjoying the sensuous pampering.

When the girl took off the coverlet and turned back the sheets, Brittany couldn't resist, though it was only midafternoon. Collecting her buckskins, she tucked them in a drawer before getting into bed.

As she floated into sleep as softly easeful as the pillows, she had to acknowledge that though Roque de Haro was a formidable soldier, he had exquisite taste in furnishings—and women, and, obviously, the wealth to indulge it.

When she woke, the armoire doors stood open, revealing several gowns. Brittany padded across polished red-brown tiles to investigate. Mauve taffeta, blue silk with a ruffled neckline that made her shake her head, bottle green velvet with huge upper sleeves, and a simple dress of garnet satin.

Brittany chose the last. After slipping into embroidered silk camisole and petticoat, she put on the shimmering gown and was struggling with the back buttons when Anita hurried in and performed that task.

“
Muy bonita
,” she murmured, dark eyes shining as she stood back to admire.

Motioning Brittany to the chair again, she brushed her hair till it clung like a living black cloud to the girl's shapely brown arm. Sweeping it back in a loose knot, Anita secured it with long pins of silver filigree. Then, reaching into the top drawer of the dresser, she, with reverence, got out a filigree necklace set with tiny garnets that winked wine-red in the evening light filtering through two grilled windows.

Brittany protested as Anita started to fasten the lovely thing about her throat but the girl firmly did so. “Don Roque—” she began and followed his name with a flow of musical Spanish of which Brittany understood not one word, though apparently her master had given Anita orders.

When Anita discovered that Brittany's ears weren't pierced, she sighed and put back matching earrings but insisted on hunting through a velvet tray of rings till she found one of silver and garnet. It was too small for any finger except the little one, so Anita triumphantly placed it there.

After white silk stockings were gartered, Anita knelt to lace the ribbon ties of garnet satin slippers finished with velvet bows. Whose things were these?

The gown was a bit tight through the shoulders and waist but otherwise was a remarkable fit, and the shoes fitted exactly. Brittany's attempts to question Anita were useless, but she knew that at least she wasn't wearing Lisette's finery, for Lisette was a good four inches taller and much fuller in the bosom.

Anita nodded approvingly as she held open the door. Brittany's stomach twisted with apprehension. This peaceful interlude had refreshed her, but she was far from ready to spar with Lisette. She heartily wished that a merchant train would be leaving next day for Arizona. Still, for now, there was nothing to do but join her host.