Woman of Three Worlds (28 page)

Brittany turned back for one last check in the mirror. The mirrored face stared back at her, slanting cheekbones emphasized by the sleek backward styling of her hair, dark eyebrows winging up to feather softly at the ends. Brown as an Indian, she was also beautiful.

Startled at the affirmation, she questioned it, but the image answered, strong and proud. Pretty, no, nor classically featured like Regina. But the angularities she had regretted now fitted together with striking impact.

The last childish softness had been honed away. She was a woman.

It was well she carried this assurance with her, for when she entered the salon it seemed to be full of men standing about with goblets in their hands, and women in a circle of chairs, several of such girth that they threatened to snap the delicately curved legs of their seats. She was shocked to see that they all were smoking small finger-length cigars.

Roque, fresh-shaven and dressed in black trousers and fitted short jacket with black braid that fell open to show his white silk shirt, strode forward as Brittany paused in the archway.

Eyes glowing, he took her hands, inclining his head. The light brush of his lips sent shock leaping through her. “Beyond words, you are lovely,” he whispered.

Taking her arm, he took her to the women, presenting her first to them, then introducing them to her, explaining the relationships in English. The stately woman with white-streaked black hair and beautiful eyes was Magdalena de Haro y Salazar, Tranquilino's wife. Rigidly erect, hands clasped tightly on her lap, was Luisa Concepción, her daughter-in-law. This frail, brown-haired young woman watched Roque with her heart in her eyes, and Brittany wondered if it was clear to everyone that Luisa loved her uncle-by-marriage.

Next to Luisa was Doña Mercedes de Aguilar y Montes, his maternal aunt, a mountain of black ruffled fat. Beatriz de Haro, Anselmo's wife, was probably not much older than Brittany and smiled at her warmly. She had red-gold hair, lively blue eyes, and was still beautiful, though weight was swelling her curves to bulges. The even more buxom woman beside her, Elena, Nacho's wife, had a plain, good-natured face.

She beamed at Brittany, caring not at all that she thus revealed several gaps in her teeth, and spoke slowly, as if that would enable Brittany to understand.

Roque made a laughing reply and said to Brittany as he escorted her toward the men, “Elena says it is good to see a lady in my house. She doesn't like Lisette.”

“Where is Mrs. McDonald?”

“
Miss
McDonald is pouting in her suite. In any case, she would not be present when I formally entertain my family.”

Before she could ask why, he was introducing her to his formidable assemblage. The men came forward, each bowing over her hand as presented.

Don Tranquilino, magnificently silver-haired, permitted his dark eyes to frankly admire her. “Welcome to Alamos,” he said in good English. “I trust, Señorita Laird, that you will enjoy your sojourn.”

She murmured her thanks and returned the greetings of the others in Spanish, a language she was coming to love for its flowing beauty. Anselmo was short, tending to pudginess, with a neat moustache and pomaded black hair.

Nacho, barrel-chested and slim-hipped, had sandybrown hair and curling sideburns, a booming laugh, and merry hazel eyes. He wore soft leather trousers, buttoned with silver down the sides, flaring below the knee, and a matching jacket.

He gave her hand a vigorous kiss and laughed at Roque as he gave place to gangling blond Vicente, Tranquilino's oldest son, who seemed to be trying without much success to grow a beard. Comparing him to Roque, Brittany thought it was no wonder Luisa preferred the uncle.

Brittany feared that she might be stranded with the women, unable to know what was being said, but Roque urged his brothers and nephew to take chairs, broadening the circle.

“You will pardon me if I tell them about my expedition,” Roque said to Brittany. She understood only a few words of the account, though she could follow its general trend through the questions and exclamations. When he had been congratulated by the men and adoringly lauded by the women, he shifted to English and got Tranquilino to expatiate on President Díaz.

“Given time, Don Porfirio will make Mexico great,” summed up Tranquilino. “His way with rebels is to shoot them on the spot. He will bring order to the frontier if anyone can.”

Roque looked skeptical. “If so, he will indeed be a man of iron.”

Nacho broke in with a question, the conversation changed to Spanish, and Brittany was glad when Tomaś stood in the doorway and bowed to Roque.

Don Tranquilino supported Doña Magdalena's halting steps as they led the way through another salon into a dining room. The long table could easily have accommodated ten more people. Silver plates, goblets, and utensils echoed the sheen of massive candelabra ranged down the center of the table, interspersed with large bowls of fruit and flowers.

Yielding Tranquilino and his wife the places at head and foot, Roque seated himself beside Brittany as servants held the women's chairs. A banquet followed, food of the sort Brittany had never encountered but imagined could be found in fine European hotels. Course followed course rich with sauces and dressings, till Brittany waved the servers by. Nacho and Elena kept to beans, tortillas, and beef, but they were the only ones eating that simple fare.

The goblets were refilled so promptly that Brittany, a trifle light-headed, decided she'd better leave hers full so no more could be poured in. During the hours-long meal, she learned that whereas Tranquilino and Roque were fluent in English, French, and German, Anselmo had only French in addition to Spanish, and Nacho had joyfully forgotten everything he'd learned at Heidelberg except use of the saber, mining techniques, and some drinking songs.

None of the wives had a foreign language, but during lulls in the men's discussions of state and national politics, how to quell the Yaquis once and for all, and the silver market, Roque told her that Tranquilino had twenty children, twelve by a first wife, eight by Magdalena. In nineteen years of marriage, Elena had born fifteen to Nacho, and Anselmo and Beatriz had eleven with plenty of time for more.

Dumbfounded, Brittany wondered what Kah-Tay or Sara would have thought about that. An Apache didn't sleep with his wife till their baby was weaned, so children never came very close together. Even the few men with several wives seldom had what Americans would have considered a big family. A roving existence and scant food supply, coupled with the Apache belief that each baby was entitled to a period of his mother's whole attention, didn't make for a large number of births.

“You lag far behind your brothers, Don Roque,” said Brittany, attempting to tease.

“At least I'm relieved from the need to perpetuate the family name.” His gaze made her hastily turn hers to the brandied quince loaf heaped with thick cream and slivered almonds. “I have the luxury of wedding whom I please when I please.”

“Always assuming,” cut in Tranquilino, “that she pleases too.” After a chuckle at his own wit, he grew serious. “We all loved Francisca, Roque, but she is ten years with God. It is not good for a man to live alone.”

“Like most
politicos
, you steal your best lines,” Roque said flippantly. “Until very recently, I have been content—and you, elder brother, a bit jealous!”

Tranquilino smiled charmingly at Brittany. “Ah, Roque, now that Señorita Laird is your guest, I am wildly jealous!”

“It won't be for long,” said Brittany. Somehow, she felt it important to let Roque's family know that she was here temporarily. “I must return to Arizona as soon as possible. I don't want more of my friends being killed on searching parties sent out for me.”

“Surely, señorita, a message to Camp Bowie would solve that problem without curtailing your visit.”

Beneath the tablecloth, her hands were trembling. Clasping them tightly, she said, “You are all very kind, Don Tranquilino, but I've been away from my people a long time.”

“You find us as unendurable as Apaches?” he joked. “Sad, for Americans haven't always been welcome. For years they hatched one scheme after another to take over Sonora. Nacho, just home from Heidelberg, was visiting an uncle in Caborca when Henry Crabb invaded with his filibusterers twenty years ago.” He said something to Nacho, who grinned and made a throat-cutting gesture. “Only a sixteen-year-old boy was spared, but even after that lesson, Americans still coveted our sea ports.”

“Times have changed,” said Roque pacifically. “Wars and our own brawling politicians have made Sonora look like an easy plum for picking by adventurers with a long reach, but now that Governor Pesqueira has crushed opposition and President Díaz holds the reins of all of Mexico, we have only to subdue the Indians to finally enjoy peace.”

“Yaquis are
our
problem,” said Tranquilino. “But the United States has done little to check the raids of Apaches and Comanches into our country. It seems to me that in gobling up western lands it cannot defend, the United States has given itself an enormous stomachache.”

The comparison was so apt that Brittany had to laugh. The party moved from dining room to salon. A guitar was brought and Nacho, in a resonant baritone, ranged from “
Du, du liegst mir im Herzen
…” to ballads with the beat of galloping horses and nonsense songs with bird and animal sounds in which the family joined, even dignified Tranquilino and Magdalena clapping and trilling “
Cu-cu-cucaroo
!” or imitating the bray of a donkey.

It was the kind of hilarity that Apaches would have enjoyed. All people, it was beginning to seem to Brittany, were much more alike than different in ways that really mattered. When, then, would they stop trying to destroy one another?

Where was Jody tonight? Pretty Eyes? Sara?

Heart heavy for them, Brittany rose as the song ended and said her good-nights. Roque went with her down the colonnaded hall, took her hand in his. “I hope it wasn't too wearing an evening. My family was eager to meet you and since we leave for Los Caciques tomorrow, this was the best opportunity.”

“Los Caciques?” she frowned.

“The name of my principal
hacienda
.”

“But—you promised! The first merchant train—”

She tried to withdraw her hand. He kept it firmly between his. “Brittany.” It was the first time he had called her by her first name and he drew it out in a caress. “I have inquired. No trains are expected to form or pass through for some weeks.”

Her eyes stung with tears of furious disappointment. “There must be some way! I want to go home!”

“From what you've said, you have no real home, my dear. Only a position as nurse-housekeeper in some officer's dreary quarters.”

Something warned her to say nothing of how she felt about Zach. “I still want to go back to my own country.”

“You shall, but while waiting for a train, you might as well see something of life on a
hacienda
. It's pointless to remain in Alamos. Anselmo will send a messenger as soon as a train forms or comes this way.”

She couldn't answer, bitterly upset at the prospect of weeks, even months, before she could get back to the post. If she could have been sure that Zach was all right, it would have helped, but she was wary of expressing this concern.

Roque took her chin in one hand and lifted her face, smiling in the light of the sconce hanging by her door. “Don't look so distressed, Brittany. I have much to attend to at Los Caciques and the mines, but if no escort appears for you in a reasonable time, I'll take you north myself.”

“What's a reasonable time?”

He laughed. “We can settle that after you've been a while at Los Caciques.” He turned her hand over and kissed the palm, breath warming her flesh. “Sleep well, Brittany.”

Inside, a tall white taper burned on the bedside stand, the covers were turned smoothly back, and a gown of finest white cotton, embroidered with lilies, lay across the pillows.

Looking under the bed, Brittany found that in this house, even chamber pots were of silver. Smiling at this amazing discovery, she prepared for bed, but her smile quickly faded.

Should she try to stay in Alamos and find a quick way north? Penniless and in a strange country, that seemed foolhardy. There was nothing for it but to trust Roque.

She woke to find Anita smiling down at her. Brittany greeted her and sat up, covering a yawn. Anita plumped pillows behind her and placed a legged tray over her lap.

A pot of frothy cinnamon chocolate, fresh crusty rolls with butter and conserves, a platter of sliced fruits. “
Gracias
,” Brittany sighed, surrendering to enjoyment while ruefully certain that such luxury verged on the immoral. At Los Caciques, she must find some chores or she'd grow worthless or get fat. Or both!

She giggled to think of Zach's expression if she turned up as immense as Doña Mercedes. Anita happily giggled back and opened the armoire to reveal several new dresses, these suitable for day wear. As she held them up, one by one, Brittany saw that they were riding habits. Again, she wondered uneasily whose things she was using.

Parading the wine wool trimmed with black velvet for a second, Anita so clearly wanted Brittany to choose it that she nodded. Placing the dress across a chair, Anita opened another door of the armoire and got out soft leather boots. She added stockings and undergarments to the array, removed the emptied tray, and helped Brittany dress.

The wine habit was flattering, but Brittany refused a dashing three-cornered hat with sweeping egret plumes. She had seen the beautiful birds often in swamps near Tristesse and hated the thought of their being killed just to ornament a hat.

Anita was combing her hair when the door opened and Lisette McDonald swept in. “So this is the sacred chamber!” Pale gray eyes took in every detail before they fixed on Brittany. “By all that's wonderful, you're even tricked out in her clothes!”