by tiffy
The following week, Green‐Eyed Boy was baptized Joaquín Maria Alejandro.
The name of Joaquín suggested itself to Fray Bartolome the very night before the baptism. He did not know why, since it, unlike the other names, had no familiar association attached to it. But somehow it was right.
After a week of basic catechismal instructions and then his baptism, Joaquín began his lessons in earnest. Never had Fray Bartolome seen a keener intelligence. The boy was like a sponge, picking up reading and writing with skill and speed. He also went through the motions of religious observances, fooling everyone but the shrewd priest.
After nearly a year had passed, Joaquín appeared unannounced in Bartolomeʹs study one day. The boy had missed confession for several weeks and Fray Bartolome had debated confronting him. Not that his confessions were ever of any depth, but they were at least an instrument of communication.
He smiled in welcome. ʺPlease, sit down, Joaquín. Iʹve missed you in the libraryand the confessional. You were not in church last Sunday either.ʹʹ He waited, knowing the boy would answer in his own good time.
Joaquín was startlingly well poised for an eleven‐year‐old, tall and mature for his age. When he looked at the priest, his eyes were dark. ʺI went into the city last Saturday after finishing my chores.ʺ
In his white cotton shirt, full pants, and leather sandals, the boy could easily pass for one of the numerous ʺcivilized Indiansʺ inhabiting the province. Few would question a green‐eyed boy in peasantʹs garb who was fluent, in Spanish. ʺWhy did you go alone to Chihuahua City without my permission?ʺ the priest asked gravely.
ʺOne of the travelers who stayed here the night before said my father was in the great City of Mexico. I wanted to see if anyone else had heard this.ʺ
ʺAnd had they?ʺ
ʺNo,ʺ the boy confessed flatly.
Fray Bartolome studied the boyʹs expression for some clue to his carefully hidden emotions. When he had tried to get Joaquín to let out the pent‐up grief over his motherʹs death, the boy would not even speak her name. Lipan felt it dangerous and disrespectful to say aloud the name of a departed relative. He did say his mother and all his Lipan family were killed by the Spanish when he was taken to the mines. Then he had refused to say more. That breakthrough had been months ago. Now this. The priest asked carefully, ʺWhy do you want to find your father, Joaquín? To show him what a fine, bright son he has?ʺ
ʺNo, Fray Bartolome,ʺ the boy replied levelly. His clear green eyes stared measuringly back. ʺI wish to kill him.ʺ
Chapter 2
Madrid, Spain, October 1774
Orlena was very nervous as she inspected herself in the long French rococco mirror in her bedroom. Her maid Maria fussed endlessly with the ruffles at her neck, then again smoothed the rich red velvet of her gown. Her long, dark golden curls were set back with combs and flowed in ringlets down her back.
ʺHow beautiful! Just like your porcelain doll from France,ʺ Maria exclaimed, proud of her handiwork. Getting the active five‐year‐old Orlena to stand still to untangle her hair was trial enough, much less to dress her in such finery. But the normally vivacious child was strangely subdued this morning, making Mariaʹs job far easier.
ʺDo you really think Iʹm beautiful?ʺ Orlena asked uncertainly, her small hands running over the rich folds of her velvet skirt. The clothes were so stiff and hot!
She must remain cool and not sweat like one of the horses in her brother Ignacioʹs stables. Today was the most important day of her life. She was meeting Don Conal Quinn, soon to be her new stepfather.
Just then her mother entered the room, beaming at her lovely daughter. ʺSo, Maria, you have done well. You may leave us now,ʺ she said quietly to the young maid, who curtsied and left silently.
Orlena noted the glow on her Mamaʹs face. Serafina had never acted this way with her father. Perhaps Don Conal would be kinder than her cold, unloving father, who had died nearly two years ago. She curtsied as she had been taught, then waited obediently for her mother to address her.
Serafina looked at the pale, nervous child, wanting to reassure her, but afraid encouragement would restore her daughterʹs penchant for disastrous pranks.
They were at court, not the country estate where her husband Pedro had exiled them in his last years. Orlena must not disgrace herself in front of Conalnot to mention the king and all his courtiers!
ʺYou do understand how important this day is, do you not, Orlena?ʺ
ʺYes, Mama. I must be presented to Don Conal. He is a very brave soldier from New Spain.ʺ Her face crinkled in childish puzzlement, but when her mother began to reiterate all the proper rules of protocol, Orlena quickly gave up the idea of asking questionsat least for the present.
While mother and daughter rehearsed, Conal waited in the specially appointed chambers, fuming. His interview with his soon‐to‐be stepson had gone badly.
Pray God the girl would be more easily won over. With one look at Ignacioʹs cold, aristocratic face and pale Castillian features, Conal had known the boy could smell the stench of a mercenary clinging to him.
Damn, I come from good bloodlines, the best! The Quinns had been of a noble Irish house, but unfortunately had chosen to defy their English overlords, resulting in the loss of their lands and titles. Conal had learned at an early age that he must regain for himself what his ancestors had squandered back in Ireland. He had killed and stolen to survive, then to obtain money sufficient to buy a commission in the English army. But his fierce Irish temper had led to a disagreement with a fellow officer, a fatal one for the English peerʹs son. That was when Conal had first become acquainted with sailing ships. He had stowed away across the channel to France, then to Spain. Now finally, after years of living by his sword and his wits, everything was about to come to fruitionif that accursed boy and his foppish cronies did not ruin it!
He considered the Viceroyʹs glowing reports, which had preceded him to Madrid, praising his valor in making New Mexico safe for settlement. Let the spoiled, crafty Ignacio do his worst! The king had already set his seal on the alliance between the great house of Valdéz and Conal Quinn. He had made friends at court and had easily charmed Serafina. She was no great beauty, but she was not uncomely either, with her dark brown hair and pale olive complexion. A trifle on the thin side for his taste, but after all, she was several years his senior. She had borne her first husband five children. Fortunately for Conal, only the eldest boy and one young girl had lived. Thinking of the girl, he smiled to himself. Women he could always handle.
As if on cue, Serafina and Orlena were announced. Conal observed the small, golden‐haired girl. With her fair coloring and clear amber eyes, she obviously took after the Valdéz side of the family.
ʺHow lovely you are, little butterfly.ʺ Mariposa. How the Spanish word rolled off his tongue. It fit her perfectly as she made a dainty curtsy. She smiled tremulously at first, then with more spirit at the friendly, red‐haired giant.
ʺWhy am I a butterfly, Don Conal?ʺ Her wide‐eyed, childish question caused him to laugh just as Serafina was about to rebuke the girl for her forwardness.
ʺNo, no, my dear, do not scold. It is a fair question.ʺ Conal turned from her to the child, who reached for his proffered hand with boundless confidence.
The two strolled leisurely across the room to a large window seat, richly cushioned in maroon velvet. The bright morning sunlight filtered through the heavy, leaded‐glass panes like warm honey, further enriching the childʹs exotic coloring.
ʺYou, little one, are like a butterfly, golden hair, eyeseven your skin.ʺ
Serafina frowned. ʺI have tried to keep her indoors, but the moment my back is turned, she is out at the stables, riding without any protection for her fair complexion.ʺ
ʺI hate silly hats,ʺ the child said, eliciting another rumble of laughter from Quinn, who watched how she turned her attention eagerly from her prim mother to him.
He had heard that old Don Pedro was a cold fish, like his so
n. The girl was looking for a surrogate father. Good, he could use that to his advantage.
ʺYou speak wonderful Spanish,ʺ Orlena said ingenuously. ʺI thought you were an Irishman. Do they not speak Irish?ʺ
Conalʹs eyes darkened as he recalled his homeland. ʺIt is called Gaelic, and yes, I grew up speaking that tongue and English, the language of our conquerors,ʺ he added bitterly. Then his eyes lit up again and he took her hand, saying gravely, ʺI thank you for the compliment on my Spanish. It is all I have spoken since I was but a lad.ʺ Orlena was impressed. All she could speak was Spanish. Her brother had tutors who taught him Latin and French, but girls were not permitted such indulgences. How she longed to learn about the great wide world this man represented. She squeezed his big, callused hand.
Conal watched the way she fluttered her thick dark lashes and made a pretty little moue. Then he remembered that the Spanish word for butterfly also translated into flirt. He decided not to ask her to call him papa.
La Villa de Realización, Spain, 1775
A soft breeze swept across the orchard behind the formal gardens on her familyʹs estate, but Orlena was not comforted by its refreshing coolness. She had been sent away from the house, even banished from the fountain in the central courtyard where she often played. Maria had been instructed to get her out of earshot of the terrible screams of her mother. It seemed hours since she had awakened to the first cry at daybreak. Now it was well onto the supper hour.
The maid had brought a picnic of meat pastries and fresh sweet peaches at noon.
Maria had tried to cajole the frightened child to eat, but Orlena had refused.
Looking down at the glistening, sweet fruit in her hand, her stomach now rumbled in protest, but still she could not take a bite.
ʺIs my mother going to die, Maria?ʺ she asked in a very small voice, afraid of the answer.
ʺNo, of course not, little one! She is only going to give you a new baby sister or brother. Sometimes it takes a long while. Be patient and eat your peach.ʺ Maria walked over to the child and reached for her hand. ʺWe could walk to the stables and see your new pony,ʺ she suggested hopefully.
Orlena shook her head stubbornly. Even the beautiful new filly Conal had bought her would not distract her today.
Conal and Ignacio were both in the house, tolerating each otherʹs presence in strained silence. Ignacio, who had lived with his paternal uncle at court the past year, had come for a brief visit. Orlena had scarcely spoken to him, for he always ignored her. Mostly he ignored Mama, too, but she and Conal had argued with him late last night. Now Mama was having the baby. Orlena was certain Ignacioʹs hatefulness had caused something to go wrong.
Last month, when Orlena had stolen into the kitchen for a crisp heel of bread and freshly churned butter, several of the women had been discussing Serafinaʹs pregnancy. She eavesdropped on the conversation and then fled in fear. They said the lady was too old and frail to bear more children. She should never have been married to a lusty younger man like the Irishman.
Orlena had watched her emaciated mother grow great with the child she carried ill‐concealed beneath the suffocating layers of pleated, ugly dresses designed for a ladyʹs confinement. I shall never have a child and let my belly grow fat like that, she vowed to herself.
The girl had no idea why Conalʹs presence had, anything to do with Serafinaʹs predicament. Indeed, he had become the brightest spot in her life in the months since she had first met him at court. He laughed with her and teased her, spoiled her with outrageously expensive presents, even took her riding on her splendid new pony. Shortly after the marriage, her mother had become wan and ill, giving little time to her daughter. Ignacio had always disdained her, but since Conal had come into their lives, it seemed her brother disliked her even more. Conal was her only confidant among all the adults in her family. Perhaps this new baby would not be such a bad thingas long as her mother was all right, she guiltily amended.
Just then, a shout went up from the house. It sounded like Conalʹs voice. Orlena broke away from Maria and raced pell‐mell through the orchard toward the courtyard, holding her gown up in a very unladylike fashion as she leaped over rocks and logs.
Coming down from Serafinaʹs room, Conal headed to the sala for a bottle of fine old Madeira he had been saying to celebrate. A son! He had a fine, lusty red-haired son, the heir to replace that puny, scheming Ignacio. Let Ignacio keep his paternal inheritance. Now Santiago Quinn would inherit all the wealth of the Guardunos, plus the sizable lands a grateful Charles III had bestowed on Conal.
Just as he lifted the glass to his lips, Orlena burst into the room, her face ashen, her breath coming in painful gulps. Taking a quick sip of the fine old wine, he set the glass down and scooped her up, tossing her into the air exuberantly. ʺRejoice, little Butterfly! You have a new baby brother and we have named him Santiago for the patron saint of Spain and for my long dead father.ʺ
When he had twirled her about and set her back on the ground, she gathered her faltering courage and asked, ʺIs . . . is Mama all right?ʺ
His face slashed into a wide, handsome grin. ʺNever better,ʺ he reassured the girl. In fact, Serafina had passed out with exhaustion as soon as the boy was born. The midwife had told him, given the size of the boy and her advanced years, that it was a miracle she had survived the birth. Now that he had his heir, he would leave her cold bed permanently. Actually, he had already done so on the very day Serafina had announced her pregnancy. Several comely wenches in the village, as well as highborn ladies at court, had kept him well entertained.
But he had produced an heir!
Conal smiled beatifically and reached for Orlenaʹs hand. ʺWould you like to meet your new little brother?ʺ
Orlena returned the smile uncertainly. Mama was all right, and she had a new brother who seemed to please her idol. Just so long as the baby did not replace her in Conalʹs affections!
As she walked upstairs with him, she asked tentatively, ʺDoes he have red hair or tan hair?ʺ She hoped he would not be like Ignacio.
ʺHair as red as mine, Butterfly!ʺ
Orlena laughed. ʺGood! Then I am sure I shall like him!ʺ
The joyous pair ascending the winding stairs did not see Ignacio. His narrowed, yellow catʹs eyes brooded on their retreating figures.
Chapter 3
Aranjuez, Spain, June 1787
Orlena shivered as a draft of cool night air hit her. The hour was late and if she was found unescorted in this part of the palace, it would create a terrible scandalalmost as great as if her fiancé had been caught tearing her dress off in the woods this afternoon, she thought grimly. In retrospect, she realized that telling Ignacio had been the feckless gesture of a foolish child. Of course he would not be incensed at the besmirching of her honor. He was the one who had arranged the politically expedient marriage, was he not?
ʺI must convince Santiago. Conal will do anything for him,ʺ she murmured to herself, then smiled. Most of the time Conal would do anything for her, too.
Hearing muffled footsteps on the carpet and low giggling, she quickly secreted herself behind a heavy drapery in a window alcove.
One of the young court gallants and his latest paramour, the wife of a duke, passed her while busily engaged in blatantly flirtatious loveplay. The old king would never countenance this, Orlena thought sadly. Charles III had ever been a faithful husband and had led a chaste life since the queenʹs death a quarter of a century ago. Soon he would join her. Then the weak Prince of Asturias would be king and Ignacio would possess frightful power.
ʹʹI will not live within his cruel grasp another day,ʺ she vowed, again gliding undetected down the hallway, heedless of the opulence of velvet, marble, and gold surrounding her.
When Serafina died, Orlena had been only a child, shuffled from a maiden aunt to a series of distant female cousins at court, mostly ignored by the noblewomen and pampered by the servants. The bright spots in her childhood were those spent with Conal and Santiago. They were her
real family. And now she needed them as never before!
A soft rapping on the sitting room door awakened Santiago Quinn, who in truth slept none too soundly anyway. Tomorrow his great adventure would begin. He and his papa would go to Cadiz and thence to the Viceroyalty of New Spain, where Papa would be governor of a whole province!
Santiagoʹs deaf old servant, Rubio, snored soundly on a pallet as the boy slipped into the sitting room and opened the door to their apartments. Rubio knew, what the boy did not, that Conalʹs appointment was really a banishment engineered by his elder halfbrother, who hated Conal. But Rubio would say nothing to his young master.
ʺOrlena! What do you do, abroad so latewith no dueña, of course!ʺ Santiagoʹs childish voice broke in horror as he inspected hershe was clad only in a silk robe!
He quickly yanked her inside the door, then stuck his head out to see that the hall was empty and she had not been followed.
ʺI had to dress simply. One does not sneak down corridors at midnight with hoops and panniers,ʺ Orlena said, knowing how shocked the boy was.
His eyes glowed with amazement as he asked, ʺWhy have you come? We already said our good‐byes.ʺ His adamʹs apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, determined not to humiliate himself again with womanish tears, as he had yesterday.
Orlena took his small, chubby hands in hers. Still the hands of a little boy, poised on the brink of adolescence, she thought. ʺSantiago, I cannot let you go and leave me to Ignacioʹs mercy. The marriage he plans for me will be unendurable.ʺ She paused, unsure of how to explain to an eleven‐year‐old child what had transpired that morning between her and her fiancé, Gabriel. She began again, very carefully, ʺYou and your papa plan a very grand adventure. I would like to share it, not languish here in this boring old court.ʺ
ʺSo you would become a pioneer, eh?ʺ Conal stood with one shoulder braced against the doorway.
His hair had grayed slightly at the temples and lines creased his eyes and surrounded his mouth, but he was still lean and vigorous, the handsome, laughing man his stepdaughter had worshipped since childhood. Conal looked at the lush curves revealed by her sheer silk robe. The dark amber color of the fabric matched her eyes and hair. Always the promise of beauty had hovered about Serafinaʹs waif, but in the last two years that promise had more than been realized. He had been so occupied with the power struggle at court and enamored of a series of mistresses that he had left her and Santiago to their tutors too long. The boy, of course, had to be educated, but when the girl had pleaded to sit in on his lessons, learning not only to read, write, and cipher, but to comprehend philosophy, history, and literature with a mind as keen as Santiagoʹs, Conal had been amazed and indulgent. Serafina had never learned to do more than sign her name, and many women of the Spanish nobility could not even do that. He had delighted in the bright, enchanting child. Now the magnificent promise of her womanhood robbed him of breath.