“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 mu
rmured, 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.
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.”
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