Authors: Shirl Henke
“If only I could seek solace from the Church, confess...” But she knew that was impossible. No priest, least of all Father Salvador, would believe her. They would think her mad. Or worse yet, what if they did believe her? She was guilty of lascivious adultery. Her penance would be contingent upon banishing her lover from her bed forever.
She buried her face in her hands and gave in to the stinging tears that had burned behind her eyelids on the ride back to
Hacienda
Vargas.
I'm lost, an irredeemable harlot, for even if I could betray his identity, I would not.
The thought of giving him up, of never feeling his touch or hearing his voice again, was more than she could bear. Mercedes longed with every fiber of her being to spend the rest of her life with the man.
And she did not even know his name.
When he returned to the room an hour later, Nicholas found her lying on the bed, still dressed in her riding habit. Princess Agnes had been downstairs smiling slyly at him, as if they shared a private joke. When she congratulated him on his victory, she had even used a few German phrases. He cursed himself as seven kinds of a fool for revealing his command of the language during the fight.
Now, seeing Mercedes’ tear-streaked face, a tight knot of dread lodged in his throat. He moved silently to the bed and sat down on the soft mattress beside her. As she rolled up with a surprised look on her face, the Sharps slid from her pocket and lay gleaming between them.
He picked it up, recognizing it as the gun he had selected for her to carry as protection whenever she was away from the
hacienda
grounds. His eyes moved from the weapon to her face with a question unspoken.
“Yes, I was there...and yes, I would’ve killed him if I had to,” she whispered brokenly.
The torment in her eyes felt worse than taking a saber thrust from von Scheeling. “I'm glad you didn't have to,” he replied carefully, then held his breath as he waited for her to respond, perhaps to accuse.
Instead she flung herself into his arms and held onto him in desperation. “I love you so much, I'd do anything for you...anything at all.”
Nicholas stroked her hair, burying his face in the soft fragrant curls. “Hush, don't cry, beloved, please,” he crooned.
Mercedes forced herself to calm down, then scrubbed at her eyes. “I must look a fright,” she said over brightly. “It's only the baby that causes these mood swings, or so the other ladies have assured me. It will soon pass, just as the morning indisposition will.”
“You're utterly beautiful to me and always will be. I love you more than life,” he said quietly, willing her to believe him. And to forgive him.
But he could never ask it, nor would he ever speak a word of what had silently passed between them.
* * * *
After dinner that evening, when the ladies had excused themselves, Don Encarnación led the gentlemen into his study for fine aged port and Cuban cigars. All the men avoided mentioning the bloody and highly irregular duel they had witnessed that morning. Most were incensed with von Scheeling's slurs against their honor as
criollos
, but that one of their own should respond so viciously and kill him with such chilling dispatch made them distinctly uneasy. Conversation as always turned to politics.
“I've heard the republican rabble plan to attack Hermosillo,” Patrico said, nervously puffing on his cigar.
“What is Bazaine going to do about it?” Doroteo interjected, directing his question to the prince.
Felix du Salm took his time swallowing Vargas’ excellent port while framing his reply. His expression was bland, impossible to read. “It is difficult to say, gentlemen. As I'm sure you know, the general has not been given the additional reinforcements from Napoleon which he requested.”
“Hah,” Hernan Ruiz snorted in disgust. “The French perimeter contracts even as we speak. Soon they will be walled up inside Mexico City. All the outlying areas will be on their own.”
“It was always Emperor Maximilian's plan that his imperial forces would take over when the French withdrew. One reason I am touring in the north is to gain firsthand information for the emperor as to how best to facilitate the military transition from French to Mexican hands.”
“Then it is true that Napoleon the Third has ordered Bazaine home?” Encarnación asked shrewdly, reading between the lines of the prince's comments.
“It has been expected, although not for some months, perhaps another year or more,” Salm-Salm said carefully. “French presence in Mexico was merely to facilitate setting up Mexican imperial authority.”
“It seems to me the question is are you ready to assume that authority?” Nicholas asked, placing his comrade at arms in a difficult position. He needed to gauge the reaction of the
hacendados
to the prince's reply.
Salm-Salm's expression was grave now. “I will not deceive you with glowing reports of thousands of crack troops ready to patrol the length and breadth of a land that stretches thousands of miles north to south. We do have the core of a fine army composed of loyal Mexicans combined with Austrian and Belgian volunteers sent by their majesties' families. But we need the support of men such as you—landholders with noble lineage willing to offer their swords and their wealth to sustain the monarchy.”
“Many of us have already sacrificed greatly on both counts to benefit the emperor,” Ruiz replied stiffly. His crippled arm hung limply at his side in silent testimony to his words.
As the exchange between the prince and several of the older
hacendados
continued, Nicholas observed in silence. Hernan Ruiz and old Encarnación most forcefully condemned the French for leaving the Mexican imperialists in the lurch.
Mariano remained, as did Nicholas, a silent observer, with a contemptuously amused expression on his face.
What game does he play?
Fortune hoped he would soon find out. If Ursula Vargas had not been spinning fanciful tales, her husband would hold his secret rendezvous later that night.
The heated political argument among the
hacendados
grew more awkward as young Silvio Zavala, well into his cups, proposed a toast. “To crushing the ignorant peons and their Indian leader. We don't need French guns—or any other European help—to restore Mexico to her former grandeur!” The pale-complected young
criollo
searched the room, his glazed blue eyes skimming contemptuously from the prince to several of his aides, all Austrians, Prussians or other Europeans.
Several of the other young hotheads chorused agreement.
“Long live Mexico!”
“We'll stand Juarez and all his rabble before a firing squad!”
“The idea such trash should presume to a position of authority over their betters!”
Fortune listened to the bravado, studying the blustering arrogant young
criollos
. He was reminded ironically of the fiery words and contemptuous dismissals of the American Confederates who had visited Gran Sangre. Soon these untried, spoiled rich boys would face a brutal reckoning even more terrible than that which those seasoned veterans had experienced. For the first time Nicholas began to feel his spying mission against Vargas and his friends was not such a distasteful task after all.
Seething inwardly, Fortune turned to watch his comrade Prince Salm-Salm. The Prussian had no reason to conceal his anger. His eyes narrowed and he stiffened at the implicit slurs against the professional soldiers who had been unable to defeat the republican guerrillas. However, as emissary from the imperial court sent on a goodwill and fact-gathering mission, he made no reply, only stood in stoic, yet lethal, silence.
Don Encarnación quickly intervened with a stern rebuke. His patrician features were cold but his pale eyes flashed with searing anger. “I am certain we all wish the Juarista rabble vanquished and the emperor ruling over a prosperous Mexico. However, our cause is ill served when young men who have not seen the hardship of battle speak so uncivilly of those who have. You are fortunate his highness does not choose to call any of you out. I am certain he could make short work of the lot of you young pups!”
After that scathing set-down, several of the older men clustered around the prince and his aides, making apologies for their sons and younger brothers.
Gliding to the corner where Fortune stood, Mariano said, “You seem to have become the Prussian's friend. Why didn't you leap to his defense?”
“A man like the prince is well used to defending himself, as your father pointed out,” Nicholas replied dryly. “Anyway, I doubt Felix du Salm feels more than the usual irritation of a professional dealing with amateurs.”
Before Mariano could reply, the prince approached Nicholas, extending his hand. “I must bid you farewell, my friend, for our party is scheduled to depart for Durango at first light.”
Taking the Prussian's hand, Nicholas shook it warmly. “It has been a pleasure, your highness. I thank you for acting as my second this morning.”
“Ach, it was my pleasure. It is really I who should thank you. Von Scheeling was becoming an increasingly dangerous liability. I am happy you disposed of him.” He paused for a moment, his shrewd dark eyes studying Fortune. “If you should ever again want to resume the profession of arms, please come to me.”
Their eyes met in understanding as they said their goodbyes. Mariano observed their exchange, saying nothing.
After his foreign guest of honor and his aides retired, Don Encarnación quietly spoke with half a dozen
hacendados
. Nicholas was not included in their coterie, but he overheard the covert invitations and decided to eavesdrop on the gathering.
While Encarnación closed the massive mahogany doors to his study, Mariano closed those facing out to the courtyard porch. They were sealed in for a serious discussion, Fortune decided, grateful that he could hear through the thin glass door panes. He leaned closer in the darkness. The shadows cast by thick poinsettias concealed him from the men in the brightly lit room.
The old don quickly got down to the matter at hand. “Well, you have heard it all but publicly confirmed tonight. From what the prince has said to me in private, I am certain Maximilian's government is on its last legs.”
“Bazaine's troops hold a small enclosure around the capital. When they pull out, there will be no effective force to take their place,” Mariano added.
“Then do we act as the prince requests and give Maximilian our gold?” Patrico interjected.
“Bah, you speak like those young idiots,” Encarnación said, fixing his wintry gaze on Patrico.
“Obviously, Don Patrico was speaking in jest,” Hernan responded cynically. “Our charity begins closer to home, no matter if we like Salm-Salm. Anyway, he'll be moving on soon after the French.”
“If he had any sense, so would that foolish young Hapsburg,” Doroteo said in disgust.
“Whether he stays or goes is not important,” Encarnación replied, cutting to the heart of the issue. Every eye in the room fixed on him then. “We can deal with any conservative government in the capital—even with a series of squabbling republican generals, as long as they keep their power struggles confined to the Valley of Mexico.”
“What we cannot have is a strong central government united under that damned Indian. Juarez must be eliminated,” Mariano pronounced succinctly.
“We've tried before and failed,” Hernan said impatiently.
“We cannot afford another failure! Our families have ruled this land for generations. We are about to lose everything.” Mariano Vargas was no longer the bored, half-drunken debaucher. His usually jowly and bland expression now blazed with passion. “Diaz's armies are sweeping out of the south and Escobedo moves from the Gulf coast menacing Monterrey and Saltillo. Juarez is the focal point, the unifying force holding the rebels together, bending them into a cohesive unit. Kill him and the rest will break up into squabbling factions, leaving the northern tier of the country to us.” Greed and lust for power glowed in his eyes.
“Do you think killing Juarez will save the emperor?” Patrico asked skeptically.
Mariano shrugged. “Probably not, but whether or not Maximilian maintains a toehold in central Mexico isn't important.”