Spanish Serenade (44 page)

Señor Huerta was unabashed. “Carranza is the friend of my son, and a man of great honor and courage. Not one claim made by this nobleman from Spain can be proven against him. Don Esteban Iturbide's actions are nothing more than an attempt to use the official machinery of this province in a private vendetta, one of long standing between his family and that of Carranza. I say it should not be allowed!”

“And who are you to say anything at all?” Don Esteban demanded. “You, señor, can know nothing and less than nothing of this matter, stuck here as you are in this provincial desert. I would advise you to allow Carranza to fight his own battles, or you may find yourself in a war not of your choosing.”

Charro's father drew himself up. “Are you threatening me?”

“Take it as you will. As for proof of what I say, there is my stepdaughter at Carranza's side. What more is needed?”

Charro moved forward. “What if Pilar is here with us?” he asked. “A fine care you have for her, when you stand there blackening her name before the world.”

Don Esteban sneered. “You ride with Carranza so must be one of his bandits. What possible weight can your opinion hold? Of course you support him, since he may save your skin by saving his.”

“A vicious lie!” Señor Huerta cried.

“Come, we are straying from the purpose at hand,” the governor said, his expression harassed.

“I must speak,” Charro insisted. “Have you never heard, Don Esteban, of the affections of the heart? Your stepdaughter would not be the first women to consort, as you so elegantly put it, with the enemy of her family.”

The governor tried ineffectually to call them all to order. Don Esteban ignored the official as he gave a harsh laugh. “Affections? Is that what you call it? You mistake Carranza's sentiments, my friend. He knows nothing except how to hate. He has kept my stepdaughter with him solely to make me look foolish, because her shame is my shame, and it pleases him to have it so.”

“No,” Refugio said, the single word cutting like a honed sword through the babble of voices as Charro and his father tried to refute Don Esteban's statement and the governor attempted to restore order. “No,” he went on in a quieter tone as the voices began to die away. “Pilar Sandoval y Serna has traveled under my protection, it's true, and my behavior toward her has not always been the most honorable, but this much I swear: I never meant to cause her harm. I would like nothing so much as to have her with me, beside me, all my days. It is my most ardent wish to make her my wife.”

Silence descended as the men turned toward Pilar. The governor, his tones clipped, spoke first. “Is this true?”

Was it? Pilar didn't know, nor could she bring herself to trust that it might be so. The reason was the emeralds. It was not their value, the wealth they represented, that mattered; quite suddenly that seemed not to count at all. The important thing was that Refugio had not told her about them. He had kept the knowledge from her, allowing her to think she had no way to live, denying her the freedom from want and care that they represented. If he had betrayed her by keeping them to himself, then what else in the long list of charges Don Esteban had made might not also be true?

Had Refugio kept her with him from the beginning merely to bring dishonor on her stepfather? Could he have made love to her, accepted her offer of herself merely for the sake of the added shame to his old enemy? Had he kept her with him, not because he had begun to care, as she had dared hope, but rather because it had suited his schemes of vengeance?

And yet even if it was true, she had only herself to blame. Had she not offered him just such a bargain that night in the patio garden? She had not meant it to go so far. She had thought the embarrassment to Don Esteban would be no more than a few hour's duration, a day at the most, until she could be left with her aunt. Still, the principle was the same. She did not, then, have grounds for complaint.

But she did have reason to put an end to being used. She could do it now, this moment. She clasped her hands together in front of her and drew a deep breath.

“Wait,” Refugio said, his voice softly urgent. “There are more reasons than you know, and more pledges.”

Charro, standing no more than an arm's length away, turned toward her also. “Let her speak,” he said. “She has that right.”

Pilar looked from one man to the other. Charro's face was open and calm, with a steady light in his blue eyes in Refugio's features there was remorse, hope and despair in equal measure, and a hundred other things she did not understand. His thinking was too convoluted, his feelings too complex, for her to meet him easily on common ground. The effort at this moment was too painful. It seemed that the best thing to be done for him — for them all — was to deny that there had ever been anything approaching intimacy between Refugio and herself.

When she spoke, her voice was clear, and edged with the anger that gave her courage. “Refugio, Carranza has been of great service to me, and I am grateful. But if he intended more, then he failed to tell me. I am very sorry. I have been previously honored by a request for my hand from Señor Miguel Huerta.”

“You mean to marry him?” the governor asked, his voice sharp.

Pilar looked at Charro, gazing into his wide eyes. Still, she was aware of the abortive movement Refugio made as he started to take a step after her, then restrained himself. “Yes,” she answered, “I do.”

Charro suddenly smiled. He moved to her side, putting his arm about her shoulders, drawing her close against him, away from Refugio. “Ah, querida,” he whispered, “I will be a good husband.”

The governor cleared his throat and straightened the edge of the foolscap near his elbow. “Yes. That seems to dispose of that. May we now continue?”

“Precisely,” Don Esteban snapped.

The governor gave the man a glance of annoyance before turning once more toward Refugio. “It appears, Señor Carranza, that you did indeed abduct Señorita. Sandoval — whether at her request or for your own purpose is beside the point. The escapade itself seems to indicate that acting outside the law in this manner was not unknown to you.”

Refugio was silent as the governor paused. It appeared that his mind was elsewhere, or that if he had any defense to make, he had lost interest in presenting it.

“It is plain then,” the governor went on, “that I cannot absolve you of the charges made against you out of hand. It's also true that the fact that you abducted the lady does not prove that you are El Leon. Therefore, I have no cause to hold you.”

A ragged cheer went up from the men gathered around, the members of the band and Vicente, and also Señor Huerta's charros. Don Esteban cursed and pounded the table, making the governor's papers scatter.

“Quiet,” the governor rapped out, straightening his papers once more. “That will be enough. This matter is not settled.”

“What do you mean?” Señor Huerta asked.

The governor ignored him, speaking to Refugio. “While I cannot hold you, señor, neither can I, in all  conscience, ignore the possibility that there may be some truth in the accusations against you. My only recourse seems to be to send to Spain for a description of this bandit, El Leon.”

“This is an outrage,” Don Esteban shouted. “I demand that you place this man under arrest.”

“Do you, señor?” the governor said, rising to his feet. “And would you also like to remain here in custody in San Antonio until word arrives from Spain on this matter? Just in case Refugio de Carranza would like to bring charges of slander against you if the answer is in his favor?”

“You would not dare!”

“Would I not?” The governor looked down on the don from his superior height. “I would remind you that I am the supreme authority north of the Rio Grande.”

“For the interim only. I have friends who can see to it you never receive official appointment!”

“I hope they may, Don Esteban,” the governor replied, tight-lipped with rage, “since I want nothing more than to leave here and return to Spain!” The governor swung from the fuming grandee. “You have all heard my decision. I extend my deepest appreciation for your prompt response to my summons, and now I bid you good day.”

They were dismissed, and they were not sorry to go. There was much shouting, much riding in circles and general celebration on the way back to the hacienda. The ruling of the governor was felt to be a victory of sorts. The request to Spain for information must go, laboriously, southward across Sonora, and along the twisting trails to Mexico City, then from there to Vera Cruz and across the ocean to Spain. It was always possible that it would be lost somewhere along the way, or else that, on being received in Spain, it would be shuffled onto the desk of some minor official and forgotten. Failing that, it seemed possible that the description of El Leon, even if it finally made its way back to New Spain after a year and a half or even two, might be so vague that it would be difficult to apply it with any certainty.

Of course, it was true that most of the country people  between Seville and Cordoba knew, and many town people guessed, that Refugio Carranza was El Leon. However, Spanish officialdom in Madrid might not be aware of it, or else would find it difficult to prove.

Whatever might come of it all, for the moment the threat Don Esteban represented had been reduced to less than nothing. Refugio was free. They were all safe and on their way to good food and a warm bed, and there was going to be a wedding. So they whooped and they laughed and cracked jokes in their joy. The only ones who were silent were Pilar and Refugio, and the prospective groom.

Señora Huerta, once the hacienda was reached, greeted the news of the coming nuptials with something less than delight.

“Is this the truth, my son?” she asked, cradling Charro's face between her two hands.

“Yes, madre.”

“And you will be happy and remain with us here?”

“Yes, madre.”

She gazed into his eyes a long moment before she gave a slow nod. “It is well, then. If there is to be a wedding, we must begin to make ready.”

“There is no hurry,” Pilar protested from where she stood to one side.

The older woman turned on her. “Is there reason to delay?”

“None at all,” her son answered for Pilar, “the sooner, the better.”

“You agree?” Señora Huerta asked Pilar with lifted brows.

What else was there to say? She summoned a smile, echoing in a whisper, “The sooner, the better.” They began the following morning.

Charro's mother came to Pilar's room with the maid Benita trailing behind her. In the maid's arms was a pile of gowns for evening in pale blue, cream, and yellow, also one of white embroidered with tiny blue flowers. They were the bridal gowns that had been used by members of the señora's family, her own gown and that of her daughter, Charro's sister, who had married the summer before and moved with her new husband to a home below the Rio Grande. There were also one or two other gowns belonging to Charro's sister which she had left behind as too youthful in style for a married woman. Pilar must try them all on. When she had made her choice for a wedding gown, and also for other occasions, Benita would alter them to fit.

As she spoke, the older woman gestured toward the curtained bed, indicating, that the maid should lay out the gowns upon it. The señora then walked to the narrow double doors that opened onto the upper balcony. She pulled them shut, closing off the view, then moved away to take a seat beside the large armoire against the wall opposite the foot of the bed. She folded her hands, waiting to see that her wishes were carried out.

It made no great difference to Pilar what she wore; still, she did her best to appear cooperative and to show her appreciation. The gown that had belonged to the señora was far too short for her use. The ones belonging to Charro's sister were too large in the waist, but fitted well elsewhere. After some discussion the white with the blue flowers was pronounced by the señora as suitable for the ceremony. It would be taken up first, with the others to follow.

Pilar stood still with her arms held stiffly out beside her while Benita advanced upon her with needle and thread. Pins were scarce in the Tejas country, it appeared; the maid would use basting stitches to take up the seams that needed alteration.

The girl had nimble fingers. Señora Huerta had time for only one or two questions about Pilar's family and her convent schooling before the girl finished one seam, then moved around to begin on another. She drew the silk and cotton material tight, so that it constricted Pilar's waist, then plunged the needle into it. Pilar felt a sudden excruciating sting in her side. She yelped and jerked away from the girl.

“A thousand pardons, señorita,” the Indian girl said, but there was no regret in her dark, red-rimmed eyes. Pilar, meeting her gaze, recognized jealousy mingled with resentment on Benita's broad face. The girl was in love with Charro; she was forever doing some small something for him, dusting his hat for the sake of holding it, bringing him water or some special tidbit from the kitchen. Pilar was suddenly contrite, for she realized she had not considered what her unexpected announcement might mean to anyone except herself.

Señora Huerta rose to her feet. “Clumsy girl,” she said in anger. “You have caused a spot of blood on the gown. Finish what you are doing, quickly now. Then go and soak out the stain.”

Pilar did not flinch as the girl approached her once more with the needle. It had been a small act of revenge, that stab, one intended to attract attention. It had succeeded.