Bride of Thunder (13 page)

Mercy glanced at Mayel. Did the girl know all this, or did she only remember garbled half-mythical stories of Jacinto Canek? And Vicente, who served so silently and well—behind that smooth, dark face, what was he thinking?

The woods grew denser and in places the branches thrust so low that they had to dismount and lead their animals. Mercy was never sorry to do this. Her mare had a jolting, ragged gait, and Mercy was even stiffer and sorer this last day than the one before. She welcomed the distraction of the blackbirds calling, “What chee-e-er!” And orioles flashed through tall ceibas, while hummingbirds flashed blue, green, and purple as they flew here and there.

Golden cassia shone like a yellow blaze through the forests, and Zane told Mercy that the tree that stood out against the green with its dark red bark was called the
indio desnudo,
or “naked Indian.” Everywhere were orchids growing high in the trees, some a brilliant yellow, others red or blue, while air plants, looking like upside-down pineapple stalks, flaunted red and blue flowers.

She pulled in her breath in delight at the sight of a handsome bird perched on a breadfruit tree, swinging two long tail feathers that were striped most curiously from about halfway down to right above the fan-like flaring tips. Its frog-like croak contrasted with its beautiful colorings of green, blue, and turquoise.

“Is that a quetzal?” Mercy inquired.

Zane shook his head. “They're found only in the high cloud forests. You're looking at a mot-mot. But we do have several kinds of birds with the green and red coloring of the quetzal, though they lack the fantastic tail plumes and rather bushy head and wings. Look at that iguana sunning itself on the big rock yonder!”

Mercy couldn't discern the creature till it moved its head and shifted the four-foot-long reptilian body that blended perfectly with the grayish-white limestone outcropping.

“They may crash down from trees where they've climbed after birds or eggs,” said Zane. “But they're completely harmless and very good to eat.”

“People eat snakes, too,” said Mercy, shuddering. “But I've never cared to try it!”

“Wait till you're hungry,” Zane said and grinned.

They rested for an hour that afternoon. In spite of weariness, Mercy could scarcely stay quiet. What would La Quinta be like? Could she make a place there for herself? Most of all, what would Jolie be like? Mercy was much more concerned with these questions than with safety from Cruzob raids.

Glancing at Mayel, she thought the girl looked forlorn. Mayel had refused to fit the mold of hacienda life, but it had been familiar and she could have no more idea than Mercy of what La Quinta would offer of joy and grief. Their eyes met. Mercy smiled, trying to promise wordlessly that she'd look after the girl. Mayel dimpled, relaxed, and burrowed her head against Mercy's arm, the mirror still gripped in one hand, but there was no one to whom Mercy could turn for reassurance. If she voiced her doubts, Zane could say, truthfully, that he'd given her every chance to choose a different course and that now she must make the best of it.

Philip's handsome, reckless face flashed through her mind. What kind of man was he, to gamble away his wife and leave her to whatever use her owner decided? Anything, anything at all, was better than being married to someone capable of that!

Sunset threw a red tint over the arched stone gate carved with the name of the hacienda. Through it, Mercy caught her first glimpse of the white stone house with arches running its length. A small chapel, with its bell and cross, stood to the left, with a row of stone buildings between it and the approach to the house. To the right was another long stone structure divided into what seemed to be storerooms and a commissary, and beyond these were other buildings and yards separated from the main house by breadfruit trees and coconut palms.

A huge ceiba dominated the center of the front grounds. It was ringed by carved stones piled several feet high, and the ground in the raised bed was covered with marigolds. Walks of pebble mosaics led from it to the house and in the other three directions. An old Indian at the gate ran out to kiss Zane's hand. Several boys, responding joyously to Zane's greeting, took charge of the mules while other followed toward the house.

Suddenly, as Zane rode under the ceiba, a small human form hurled itself precariously down into his arms, startling the horse so that it went dancing, but neither Zane nor his impetuous welcomer seemed to care.

“Papa! Papa! I thought you'd never come!” Winding brown, thin arms around him, the child hugged him with ecstatic force, her golden head close to his dark one. “Did you bring me something? Show me!”

Getting off his horse, Zane laughed with so much love and pride that tears stung Mercy's eyes. Her own father had once hugged and loved her like that, but never again … never again. She would never even see his grave.

“I brought you a lady,” Zane told his daughter, reining so that Mercy could come level with them. “Doña Mercy, this is Jolie. Jolie, Doña Mercy will teach you all you need to know about growing up, and she will do your lessons with you.”

Violet eyes stared at Mercy with such adult, feminine antagonism that Mercy inwardly recoiled. It was as if the girl's mother was present in that look. It was a relief to hear a child's voice speak pettishly.

“I don't want to grow up, Papa! And I like to do lessons with you! Just with you!”

“I've taught you all I know,” he joked, apparently untroubled by her reaction. They had reached the house now. He sprang down easily, gave Jolie a final hug, and set her down before he helped Mercy to dismount. Then he said a few words to Vicente, who nodded and took Mayel through an archway at the side of the house.

Jolie claimed her father's hand as soon as he stepped back from assisting Mercy. She almost dragged him up the broad flight of stone steps. Mercy followed, admiring the plants and vines that grew in urns or stone troughs placed by the arches and against the walls of the tiled veranda, though only humorous self-mockery kept her from shedding a few hasty tears behind Zane's broad back.

Jolie didn't like her—she wouldn't have liked anyone who threatened her complete possession of Zane. So there went the fanciful dreams of a child pathetically eager to be mothered and loved. May as well embrace a cactus! Jolie shot a challenging, curious look over her shoulder.

Mercy met it directly and dropped one eyelid in a slow, deliberate wink. Jolie scowled, turned around, and walked faster.

I'll still be here when you turn around,
Mercy thought.
You may not love me, but you'll learn some things
. She thought even more vehemently:
And so will your father!

6

There were four great doors opening into the house, each carved with a tree, and an arched center entrance of wrought iron leading to a narrow courtyard that ran back to a joining wall at the end. Doors opened off this garden court, and as Zane motioned for Mercy to precede him through the gate, a stately woman stepped from the last door on the right.

Appetizing cooking aromas came with her. Graying hair was plaited into a thick, single braid, and her loose white dress was spotless, worked with green at the neck and hem. Her broad face lighted up at the sight of Zane, who swept her close and kissed her cheek, speaking a few sentences in Spanish before he turned to Mercy.

“Chepa was my nurse. She's housekeeper now and oversees all the running of the house, though she also does most of the cooking herself. She'll take you to your room and see that you have whatever you need. We'll dine in an hour.” He spoke slowly to the older woman. “Chepa, this is Doña Mercy.”

Chepa's black eyes flicked to Jolie's annoyed face, then rested on Mercy with vigilant intentness.
What will you be to us?
inquired that anxious, though wise and steady, gaze.
Do you bring La Quinta a blessing or a curse?

“Welcome,” she said and crossed the tree-shaded court to a door next to the one Zane was now opening, with Jolie still clinging to him.

The room was exactly right for its furniture, large enough to hold without crowding a tall chest, an armoire, a velvet cushioned chair with a matching footstool set near a small bookshelf with a reading lamp, a washstand behind a red-and-gold-lacquered screen that also sheltered a copper hip bath, and the most beautiful bed Mercy had ever seen.

The headboard's deep Oriental curves built to a graceful peak, and the red lacquer was designed with intricately delicate golden tendrils, flowers, and birds. The coverlet was crimson, quilted with golden leaves. There were no pictures, but a large oval mirror framed in red and gold hung over the washstand, and gold and red flowers were painted in a border around the doors, one large window, and at the top of the white walls, the colors mellowed with age.

“Water,” said Chepa, signaling that she would have it brought for the tub and stand. “You … want … what?”

“
Gracias. Agua
is
todos
.”

There was going to be a weird mix of Spanish, English, and Mayan around here, but instead of sniggering at her effort, Chepa looked pleased and seemed to search for words.

“Welcome,” she said at last, again.

“
Gracias,
” said Mercy.

A boy came with her packs just as two young women brought pails of water. They filled the porcelain ewer on the stand and poured the rest of their sparkling burden into the tub, standing so they could watch Mercy from beneath their eyelashes. Both wore flowers in their shining hair and looked like flowers themselves, with bright embroidery edging their white shifts.

The moment they were outside the door, Mercy could hear them giggling and chattering. No doubt she looked strange and hampered to them in her full skirts and long sleeves.
Also grubby!
she thought, catching her reflection in the mirror. She took her dresses and one cloak from the pack, hung them in the armoire in the hope that some wrinkles would fall out before dinner, and, with a sigh of anticipation, stepped behind the screen to undress.

Glowingly clean after soaping, rinsing and toweling, Mercy put on her last clean drawers, chemise, and petticoat. One of her first sewing tasks must be to make new underthings. Hers were patched and mended till patches and thread, not the original cloth, held them together.

The blue calico dress was less wrinkled than her gray poplin. She slipped into it and wore her old black shoes, because any of the fine new footwear Zane had purchased would make the gown look even more faded. She brushed her hair, promising to wash the travel dust out of it tomorrow, coiled it high on her head, and told herself that at least she was clean and neat.

It didn't take long to put away her things. She hesitated over the little carvings, then ruefully tucked the pheasant, deer, and jaguar into a drawer. Jolie would scorn presents now and any clear overtures. Her confidence would be painfully won, if at all.

Mercy didn't know where dinner would be served, but she decided there was nothing wrong in exploring a bit. Opening the other door, she found herself in a hall that ended with a door just beyond her room. There was another door between her room and a wide arch leading to what appeared to be a large and spacious sitting room. Across the hall were two other doors. Mercy neither saw nor heard anything. Stepping back inside her room, she went out through the courtyard.

Good cooking aromas tantalized her. Those, along with a hum of muffled laughter and talk, must have come from the kitchen. Mercy knew this wasn't the time to get acquainted there. She walked to the entrance and stood on the long porch. It was twilight. The storerooms and commissary were dark, but lamps shone from the opposite row of buildings. Like a guardian, the great ceiba bulked against the distant walls and gate.

“Are you glad the journey's over?”

Mercy whirled at Zane's voice. He stood in the entrance of the right side of the house, silhouetted against the glow of a lamp on a desk. Bookshelves lined the walls, there was a long trestle table littered with books and periodicals, a huge leather chair, and a jumble of pipes on the stand beside it. It was clearly Zane's lair, his office and place of relaxation.

She couldn't see his expression, but his tone had a note of sympathy, or Mercy's need made her imagine it did. So far from home, from her people, language, and places she understood—but she'd been betrayed by her husband, her last link to the past. And it
was
past. Elkanah lay in Pennsylvania's soil, their land was sold—there was nothing to go back to.

Yet she missed the common history, shared opinions, and familiar places. If Philip had been willing, they could have made a future, forged strong again the links broken by war. That was over now, though. She was bound to this man she couldn't see, whose face was hidden in the shadows, but whose body called to her, this man who seemed to have only bitterness and contempt for women he might desire.

She loved this man.

But he mustn't know that—not now. He would use her and throw her aside. Someday, perhaps, if he came to trust her, she might win something from him beyond casual lust. If he loved her, she wouldn't care that much about marriage vows. What she couldn't endure would be for him to use her till he grew tired of her, only to defuse sexual need, and deny her any part of his thoughts and heart.

“I'm glad the traveling's over,” she said, then risked some of the truth with a shaky laugh. “It's like falling down a well and hitting bottom. I'm a little dazed.”

She knew the moment she'd said it that it was an unfortunate simile. “So you're trying to find a way out?”

“No! I just meant that I'm groping, trying to find out where I am, what I can do.”

“You needn't fly into it all at once.” He sounded almost kind. “Get acquainted with Jolie and Chepa, have the women start sewing those dresses, and look over my books and see what can be used for Jolie. For a classroom, you might want to have what was my room when I was a boy. It's right across the hall from yours, and there's a globe, atlas, and many of my old books.”