Everyone treated her as if she was made of priceless porcelain, and while she chafed at it, Beth was grateful for their care and concern. The weeks that Dona Madelina and Senora Lopez had tenderly nursed her made the three women very close, and Beth, never having experienced the warmth and comfort that comes from being part of a family, dreaded the journey to Natchez. It would be wrenching, not only because of Rafael but because of the deep and abiding affection she had for Rafael's relatives.
As the days passed she gained her health rapidly, as much from her own determination to do so as from the solicitous care and nourishing viands pressed on her. The first few days out of bed she spent resting in the garden under the shade of a huge Cottonwood tree, rebuilding her depleted strength. As she grew stronger, when the purple shadows faded and some of the weight she had lost had been replaced, Sebastian took her for pleasant rides in an open gig around the environs of San Antonio—never too far from town these days for fear of Comanches.
It was spring in the hill country, and the acres of bluebonnets that covered the meadows, the saucy black-eyed Susans, the purple gay-feather with its spidery plumes, and the bright golden color of the goldenrods brought an exclamation of pleasure to her lips. Even the cacti—the prickly pear with its orange and yellow bloom and the delicate magenta shade of the rainbow cactus flower—astonished her.
The open rides were good for her. The sun painted a hint of gold on her pale cheeks and the exercise and fresh air revitalized her: the violet eyes again became clear and bright. Pleased with her recovery, Beth began once again to think of leaving for Natchez, aware that Rafael could return any day now.
Riding in the gig one afternoon with Sebastian, her face protected from the strong rays of the sun by a leghorn bonnet trimmed with a black velvet ribbon and by a frivolous black silk parasol, she mentioned casually, "I shall miss these rides with you once I am back in Natchez—the rides, the marvelous and varied countryside, and of course dear Senora Lopez and Don Miguel and Dona Madelina."
Keeping his eyes on the shining haunches of the little chestnut mare pulling the gig, Sebastian asked in a bland tone, "Oh? Are you thinking of leaving us?"
Her lovely face troubled, she admitted, "I must. I have written Nathan's parents of his death, and my own father also, but there are things that will need to be done and I must do them. I cannot remain in San Antonio forever. My home is in Natchez, and it is there that I must go... and soon."
Sebastian frowned. He had gotten over his infatuation with Beth, but in doing so he had become cynical and he wondered what she was she up to. He couldn't believe that Rafael wanted her to leave. Had they quarreled before his cousin left for Enchantress, and she was punishing Rafael by leaving?
He glanced at her, not able to believe her guilty of that kind of spiteful coquetry. Feeling he should make some push to prevent her leaving, he asked carefully, "Is that wise, do you think? What does Rafael say about it?"
Beth's black-gloved hand tightened about the carved ebony handle of her parasol. Was the dark fascination that Rafael held for her so obvious? Her eyes shadowed, she replied, "I hardly think Senor Santana is concerned with my plans." Curious that Sebastian would make such a statement, she asked, "What difference would it make to him?"
Sebastian's lips thinned. How could she sit there and act as if nothing existed between her and Rafael? What a little Jezebel she was behind those fine eyes and sweet features!
"You can quit playing off your innocent airs on me," he snapped. "Rafael told me about you, you know."
Beth stiffened. "What do you mean by that? What could he possibly tell you about me?"
Not bothering to hide his feelings, Sebastian retorted angrily, "A damn sight more than I would have suspected, I can tell you that." Seeing the shocked expression on her face, he said bitterly, "Oh, for God's sake, you can act naturally around me! Even knowing what you are, I am not about to tell anyone else, so don't worry I'll betray you to the gentle ladies of San Antonio."
"And what exactly is it that Rafael told you?" she asked in a dangerous voice. "What is this dark forbidden secret?"
Tiredly he said, "I saw you that night at Cielo when you and Rafael exchanged that rather revealing embrace in the courtyard; I later taxed him with it. He had no choice but to confess that you were his mistress, that you two had a long-standing liaison." A sneering note in his voice, he added, "You've been his mistress for years, so why pretend the need to go back to Natchez? Now that your husband is dead, you won't have to be put to the usual shifts in meeting one another."
Beth was so taken aback at Sebastian's revelations that she was struck dumb. As the full import sunk in, she was so angry she feared she would explode like a Fourth of July sparkler. A furious and hurt glitter in the violet eyes, she snapped, "What gossips men are! So I have been his mistress, have I? Well, thank you for letting me know. You can rest assured that when I next see your abominable cousin, I shall express my appreciation for his assassination of my character." Her eyes full of contempt, the soft upper lip curling with scorn, she spat, "And you, you fool, you believed him! I thought you were my friend!"
Nettled, Sebastian replied heatedly, "I am your friend! Your being Rafael's mistress makes little difference to me. I just wanted you to be aware that I knew of your relationship so you could drop this pretense that Rafael is a stranger to you. I dislike hypocrisy above all things, and I would not have thought it of you, Beth."
So full of rage at the unjust remarks, Beth was in danger of losing her temper. How could he? she thought furiously. How dare he tell Sebastian an outright lie like that? She'd kill him. It wasn't enough that he overcame her scruples, that he took advantage of her weakness for him, but to claim that she was a creature of loose morals—his mistress—and to speak of it to someone else! What a dastardly act! And Sebastian had believed him! Dismayed, hurt unbearably, and blazingly angry at the same time, Beth stared stonily ahead, thinking that she would like to whack her parasol over Sebastian's head and then find Rafael and... and... She was so outraged she couldn't even think of a retaliation wicked enough to pay him back. But she would, she thought grimly, she would.
There was a frigid silence between them as they rode toward the house in San Antonio. Sebastian, aware he had handled the affair badly, made several attempts to redeem himself in Beth's graces, but his friendly overtures were met with an icy look of disdain.
It was not to be a pleasant day for Beth. She returned to the house, out of sorts with Sebastian and deeply wounded that he could believe Rafael's lies about her and in a flaming temper with Rafael himself. She had barely entered the front hallway when she was met by Dona Madelina with the news that Charity had run away with a Mexican youth this very morning. Dispirited by her maid's defection and the knowledge that she would miss Charity's merry face, Beth took off her bonnet and murmured, "Now, why did she have to go to that extreme? Surely she knew that I would set her free to go away with a husband that was not one of my own slaves? Am I such a monster that my own servants are afraid to approach me?"
Her dark eyes full of sympathy, Dona Madelina shook her head. "No, nina, I think it was that she knew you would object to what she meant to do. You see, Jesus already has a wife and child in Mexico and Charity knew it. She was aware of what she was doing when she rode away with him this morning. Do you wish to put out a reward for her return?"
Beth shook her head. "No. To force her to return when she obviously has made her choice will do no good—she would only run away again, and would resent and hate me."
There was more unpleasant news, but she didn't find out about it until after the heavy afternoon meal. Anticipating she would once again think of returning to Natchez, Don Miguel, determined to nip such thoughts in the bud until his son returned, had underhandedly sent all her servants to Cielo that morning. His eyes guileless, he said mildly, "I hope you don't mind, mi cara, but a messenger arrived from Cielo while you were out and there has been a crisis at the rancho. As your servants were idle here in
San Antonio, I took it upon myself to make use of them. They shouldn't be gone more than a few weeks." Innocently he asked, "You had no immediate need of them, had you?"
Beth gritted her teeth, suspecting his motives. Feeling considerably ill-used and put upon, Beth felt her temper rise. It was as if Don Miguel had foreseen that she would return to the house with every intention of making plans to go home, and to find that she had been neatly scotched was the final straw to an already beastly day. Her head aching, her feelings scraped raw, she rose from the table. "Why, of course not," she said bitterly. "Why should I? You have been so kind to me that it is only natural that I help you in your hour of need. If having my servants whisked away with neither my permission nor my knowledge is how I have to repay you, then it will have to suffice."
It was not very gracious of her, and under any other circumstances Beth would never have spoken in that manner, especially not someone she had a great deal of affection for and who had been so very kind to her during these past trying weeks. An uncomfortable silence greeted her words, but not in the mood to be polite, she excused herself and swept from the room, leaving the others to stare at one another with dismay. Ruefully Don Miguel admitted, "I suppose I wasn't too tactful."
"You were not, my husband!" Dona Madelina agreed with unflattering promptness. "Surely you could have spoken with her first before you sent away all her servants—she is a good woman and would not have denied them to you. I understand what you are about, but there was probably a better way to accomplish it."
What Dona Madelina said was true. All Don Miguel would have had to do was ask and Beth would have given him anything she possessed, but to steal her servants when her back was turned went against the grain, and Beth was more than a little annoyed. She spent the remainder of the day secluded in her room, more from the pain that had rapidly developed into a sick headache than because she was sulking or at odds with Don Miguel and Sebastian.
When the nausea in her stomach and the painful pounding in her temple ceased, it was well into evening. Her disappointment and anger with Sebastian had not abated one whit, but she was feeling ashamed at her outburst in the dining room. She was the most wretched creature alive to have spoken so pettily to a man who had shown her nothing but generous hospitality and consideration.
Rising from her bed, she rang for Charity, only to remember with depression that Charity would serve her no longer. I hope she's happy, Beth thought sadly, thinking of the difficulties ahead for the laughing little black girl.
She would have to start training Judith, the other Negress she had brought along, more as a companion to Charity than any other reason, she decided without enthusiasm. Thinking it would be Judith who answered her ring, she was surprised when Manuela knocked and entered the room.
They stared at one another, these two women with their shared ugly secret, and Beth finally said resignation, "Don't tell me—Dona Madelina has assigned you to serve me in view of Charity's desertion."
Manuela smiled and nodded. "Si, senora. As soon as it was discovered what had happened, Dona Madelina informed me that I would act as your personal maid until other arrangements could be made. Do you object?"
Beth shook her head and smiled wryly. "It seems that you and I are destined to remain together. I suppose I should stop fighting against it and let fate take its course."
Manuela shrugged. "It would seem so, senora." Looking uncertainly at Beth, she asked anxiously, "Do you mind?"
"No. Not anymore," Beth answered, discovering with surprise that it was true. So much had happened to her during these past months that New Orleans and the events that had taken place there four years ago seemed as if they had occurred to another person. She would never forget it, but it no longer had the power to hurt her—she had new wounds now that were far more painful.
As if she had been Beth's personal servant for years, Manuela set about preparing her mistress for the evening. A hip bath was provided, and after Beth had bathed and powered herself, she reluctantly approved the gown Manuela selected.
It was a beautiful gown of black satin with touches of black lace at the throat and wrists, but already, with Nathan dead barely six weeks, Beth was beginning to hate the sight of black. How she was going to endure the months ahead always in widow's color, she didn't know.
The gown became her, it was true, her bosom enhanced by the perfect fit and her narrow waist emphasized by the figure-hugging cut of the gown before it fell in full, voluminous skirts to the tops of her heelless slippers. She had no need of a corset—Nathan's death and her own illness had left her reed-slender.
She descended the stairs intent upon making her apologies to Don Miguel. Finding him in the main salon, she did so, very prettily and sincerely. He accepted them in the spirit with which they were conveyed, and the affair was put behind them. Things were very much as they had been... except for her stiffness with Sebastian. It would be a long time before she forgave him for believing Rafael's lies.
Everyone was gathered in the salon, the ladies sipping sangria, the two gentlemen enjoying a brandy, when Lorenzo Mendoza was announced. Beth went rigid, wondering at his purpose, for certainly he knew Rafael would not tolerate his presence in his house.
But Don Miguel would and did, much to Beth's dismay. It seemed during the days that she had been ill, Lorenzo, knowing Rafael was absent, had been a frequent visitor. With his serpent's grace he insinuated himself into Don Miguel's favor, and from the bits and pieces of their conversation she overheard, Don Miguel was determined to put an end to the estrangement between his son and a man he regarded as a member of the family.
"This is a ridiculous state of affairs," Don Miguel stated firmly. "I admire your unwillingness to precipitate an ugly scene, but surely you see that you two must put aside your differences. The day will come when I am no longer alive and you will be invaluable to my son in helping him with the running of the rancho."
Lorenzo smiled modestly, but the man's fawning mannerisms grated on Sebastian's nerves and under his breath he muttered, "Unwillingness or cowardice?"
No one but Beth heard his low-voiced comment—at least she thought she had been the only one until she happened to glance over at Lorenzo and saw the malevolent look he shot Sebastian. Sebastian smiled at him sweetly and raised his glass confirming he had indeed said the words. Lorenzo's black eyes narrowed but he made no attempt to challenge the insult.
It had been a frustrating time for Lorenzo since Beth had arrived in San Antonio. His hopes had been bolstered, only to be dashed as Beth escaped from a tragic death time after time. He bitterly regretted that the Comanche lance that had killed her husband had not buried itself in her soft bosom. When she had come down with the fever, he had been delighted, especially when she hovered near death's door, but to his fury she had recovered; her death had become an obsession with Lorenzo.
He feared her, knowing that with one sentence she could destroy all that he had worked for over the years, and because he feared her, he hated her. He wanted her dead, but he wanted no wind of blame to travel his way.
As long as she remained under the Santana protection she was safe, and yet every day she spent with Don Miguel and Dona Madelina terrified Lorenzo, frightened that with their growing intimacy Beth might speak of his part in Consuela's scheme. He wanted to avoid the house, feeling that the less Beth saw of him the less likely it was she would speak. At the same time, he was unable to stay away, calling frequently to discover whether he was still in favor or if the blow had fallen.
When Beth had been ill there had been no danger, but as she increased in health so had Lorenzo's fear and fury. She must be silenced!
But if Beth had been saved from him thus far, her time was running out. Sooner or later she would leave San Antonio, and once she was away from the safety it and the Santanas afforded... Who knew what would happen then?
PART FOUR
DUELS, DEVILS, AND LOVERS
The time and my intents are savage-wild,
More fierc
e and more inexorable far
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.
~William Shakespeare,
Romeo and Juliet, Act V, Scene III
Chapter 23
While Beth had lain so ill, the Comanches, filled with bitterness and deadly zeal, had been harrying the frontier with lethal lightning raids. They struck everywhere from north of Austin, the new capital, to the Mexican border, attacking without warning and with terrifying vindictiveness. The Texas Rangers, their numbers never very great, were helpless to stop or contain the widespread raiding and looting.
Smoking, burned-out homesteads, charred and mutilated bodies became a common occurrence, and in desperation, knowing his rangers were not enough, Jack Hays organized a posse of men from San Antonio to help strengthen his own hard-pressed forces. These "Minute Men," as the volunteers became known, were in service constantly, their horses, arms, and provisions kept for instant use. The signals that sent them running for their mounts were the raising of a flag over the courthouse and the mournful ringing of the San Fernando church bell. As the weeks passed everyone began to dread the sight of that flag and the pealing of the bell.
Other communities suffering the same losses and bloody attacks formed their own companies of Minute Men, but there was no stopping or halting the Comanche war. It had become the nightmare Rafael had predicted.
The Republic's regular army was useless when fighting Indians. Against other infantry the army was awesome, and when ensconced behind stone walls the soldiers were nearly unbeatable, but against the highly mobile and widely ranging Comanches they were as ineffectual as had been the Spanish troops before them. The Comanches refused to battle with the grouped infantry; it was impossible for the foot soldiers to follow and attack the well-mounted enemy. Nothing seemed to stop the relentless, deadly raids. The Comanches mauled the frontier until it was a blackened, bleeding mass of destroyed homes, hopes, and lives.
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