by Jane Toombs
Elena blinked. Had Diarmid concealed more than the fact he'd been married twice?
"While I don't put it past Diarmid to have littered the countryside with bastards," Stella went on, "it isn't all that easy for one of them to prove who his father was. Hank Jarvis thought this guy might have proof. You know Davis--he flew off the handle at the mere idea and rushed into Los Angeles to confront the claimant face to face."
Elena took a deep breath. Was Stella making this up out of kindness? No, Stella didn't lie outright. There probably was a claimant but she doubted if that's where Davis had gone. He'd brushed off Lois easily enough last night but it was morning now. Whether he'd brought Lois to Bothwicks by buggy or motorcar, she wasn't sure, but she did know he'd left his fiancee stranded there last night without, as far as she was aware, any explanation.
Wasn't it likely Davis had realized what he'd done and hurried off to present some excuse to Lois and make amends? The more she thought about it, the more certain Elena became that was what had happened. Otherwise, wouldn't he have left her a note? He probably hoped she'd have the sense to leave before he came back.
Elena lifted her chin. "Thanks for inviting me to breakfast, Mrs. White, but I really do have to go."
"You always were proud as hell," Stella said. "Any message for Davis?"
Elena shook her head. What was there to say?
"I've got a message for Meg," Stella said. "You tell her I don't mind not getting invited to her parties but she better get over here to see me pretty soon or there'll be the devil to pay."
As it turned out, Jack hadn't yet gotten around to sending the horses back to the Bothwicks so Elena had Bella to ride. Jack offered to go with her on the gray Davis had borrowed last night, leading a mount to return on, but she refused curtly. Why should she care about Jack's feelings or anyone else's when no one cared about hers?
She urged Bella into a gallop, the wind drying the tears on her face but doing nothing to ease the pain in her heart. Davis hadn't so much as told her he loved her; what had she expected? That he'd break off his engagement and marry her? Marry Elena Gabaldon when Lois Hughes's father owned half of San Diego?
Her lips tightened. She wasn't merely poor little Elena any longer, she was also La Coralilla. Who would soon be dancing in Spain, dancing for a king. Other men admired her, she'd turned down several offers of marriage. To hell with Davis Burwash! She didn't need him.
Meg rushed out to meet her as she was dismounting by the back door of the Bothwicks.
"You surely did surprise me!" Meg cried. "You and Davis. It's been him all along, hasn't it? But I never thought you'd go off like that, right in front of everyone."
Elena shrugged. "I'm not the same person you once knew, Meg, you said yourself I've changed."
“I guess so!" Meg grinned at her as she led the way inside. "I'm all for the new you. Apparently my brother feels the same way. Lois got her comeuppance for that nasty remark she made to you--she had to go home with the Bradons last night."
The old Elena would have apologized for causing embarrassment, La Coralilla didn't. But then, the old Elena wouldn't have ridden into the night with Davis, either.
"I'm all ears if you feel like talking," Meg said. "I never kiss and tell." Elena kept her voice light. "But I'm afraid I'll have to leave much sooner than I planned. Today, in fact, if there's still an evening train leaving Los Angeles."
In spite of Meg's pleas and protestations, Elena called the Santa Fe station and arranged for a berth. With the help of a maid, she packed her belongings, pausing for a moment with her hand on the small velvet-covered box she'd bought for the Gabaldon locket. Had Concepcion loved Diarmid as much as she did Davis? Had Concepcion's love led to her death as Don Francisco had claimed?
I should have listened to the old man's warnings about Burwash duplicity, Elena told herself.
Meg, who'd been pacing back and forth in agitation, stopped in front of her. "Aren't you even going to say goodbye to Davis?" she demanded.
"Stella told me he was involved in some law dispute--I can't wait."
Meg's eyebrows rose. "That's strange, Warren didn't mention anything about it. I wonder what--?"
Patrick ran into the room and stopped short, staring at Elena. She smiled at him. He was all boy, red-haired and freckled, with a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes.
"You going away?" he asked.
"Yes. On the train."
"My mama and daddy go on the train all the time. I don't get to. Can I go with you?"
"I wish you could," Elena told him. As she spoke she caught sight of a round, childish face peering around the doorjamb. "Hello, Antonio," she called.
Antonio ducked back, too shy to answer.
"You have to bring Tonio, too," Patrick told her. "He always goes with me. He's my friend."
Remembering that long ago fearful and jouncing ride from Tia Juana to San Diego with Patrick in her arms and Antonio on her lap made Elena's eyes prick with tears. She blinked them back.
"I'm glad you have a friend like Antonio," she told Patrick. "But I'm afraid I can't bring either of you with me. You see, the train's taking me all the way to New York City and then I'm sailing on a ship, clear across the Atlantic Ocean to Spain. That's too far for you or Antonio to go. Think how your mama and daddy would miss you."
"Antonio hasn't got a daddy. And mine wouldn't miss me."
Elena glanced at Meg who was frowning at her son. "Why he would too, Patrick," Meg scolded. "Daddy loves you just as much as I do."
Patrick's scowl told Elena he didn't for a moment believe his mother. It told her something else as well.
That he resembled a Dugald in more ways than his red hair. "If Elena took you with her you'd miss your birthday party in October," Meg went on. "Think about that."
"Aw, she won't take me anyhow. But when I get big enough I'm gonna ride all the trains I want to. And drive a big car, too. Me and Tonio."
"Even if I can't take you, will you give me a hug goodbye?" Elena asked him, stooping down and holding out her arms.
"I guess I have to." Patrick advanced slowly across to her but as soon as her arms closed around him, he was squirming to be free. She let him go and ruffled his hair.
"I'll bring you and Antonio a present from Spain," she promised.
"Okay." He darted out the door, calling to Antonio.
Meg frowned after him. "It's impossible to teach that boy any manners. Antonio is ten times better behaved than Patrick."
"I think Patrick's a little darling."
Meg grinned at her. "You try raising him and you'd soon change your mind. And the word. Little devil's more like it."
"Speaking of devils, Stella gave me a message for you."
"Never mind, I know what it is. It's past time I visited her. Remember how she was always scolding me? She hasn't changed a bit."
Nor have you, Elena thought. Davis really hasn't either. But I have.
"Miz Bothwick." A maid stood in the doorway. "There's a call on the telephone. For Miz Gabaldon."
Elena's heart lifted. Davis! She flew down the stairs to the telephone closet in the foyer and lifted the receiver.
"So glad I caught you, Elena," Lois's cool voice said into her ear. "You tend to be elusive."
"I'm in a hurry." Elena didn't care if she sounded ungracious, she didn't wish to talk to Lois. Why had she thought it would be Davis when she knew better?
"I thought someone should tell you how embarrassing your brazen behavior was last night. Davis is very upset about it, more so than I, actually, but that's how men are. I don't mean to be unkind but--"
Elena took the receiver from her ear and set it deliberately into the holder. Davis had gone to Lois, exactly as she'd thought. And he'd told her--oh, God, what had he told her? Elena closed her eyes.
Meg called to her from the top of the stairs. "Who on earth was that?"
"No one important." Elena was amazed she could speak at all, much less so coolly. "Nothing that makes any difference."
Chapter Seven
Spain was everything Madame Marie had promised and Elena's dancing at the Teatre Real in Madrid more successful than she'd dreamed.
King Alfonso honored her by standing following her performance and he sent a gracious note afterwards, with flowers.
She knew she was dancing well, the trouble was she felt alive only when she danced. The rest of the time, though she made the effort to smile and talk with admirers and fellow dancers, she felt only numbness. Nothing mattered, she didn't care who she was with--what difference did it make when she'd just as soon be alone?
When Count Sevillano proposed marriage it meant nothing. He was wealthy, he was handsome, he was the catch of Europe and she didn't care. Very politely, she refused. Used to getting anything and everything he wanted, the count couldn't believe she meant what she said, he was certain she was only being coy. He persisted.
After three months of his courting, surrounded by flowers and candy and offered jewels she wouldn't accept, Elena finally took stock of herself.
She liked Luis well enough, he was a gentle man, if a trifle boring. Was she to spend the rest of her life dreaming of Davis at night and pushing him from her thoughts during the day? Davis would never be hers. Did she want to remain single all her days?
Elena accepted the count's proposal in March, setting the wedding date for June. Every newspaper in Spain carried the announcement that La Coralilla, the fiery Mexican dancer who'd captured the heart of every man in the country, was to wed one of their own.
Papers in New York picked up the news and it filtered west to California.
"The hell she is!" Davis balled up the Los Angeles Examiner and flung it across the room. "She'll marry that Spanish bastard over my dead body!"
Stella raised her eyebrows. "How unpleasant for her."
Davis glared at her.
"What did you expect Elena to do?" Stella demanded.
Davis sprang up from his chair and began pacing. "I thought she'd come back."
"I warned you she was a stiff-necked Californio but you wouldn't listen. Pride's making her marry the man--a count is he?--and I doubt anyone will talk her out of it."
"I swore I wouldn't run after her," he muttered.
Stella shrugged. "Countess Sevillano--it has a nice ring."
"Why is she marrying him?" he demanded. "What did I do wrong?"
"Took too much for granted, is my guess. Exactly like your papa. Did you ever ask Elena to marry you?"
He never had. But after the night they'd spent together she must have known how he felt. How could she have gone away without a word?
"Don't forget, as far as Elena knew, you were engaged to another woman," Stella reminded him.
He'd broken off with Lois. But not until after the night with Elena. He'd never gotten the chance to tell her.
"Women need to hear that a man loves them and wants to marry them." Stella smiled a bit sadly. "We can get along without those words being said but it isn't easy."
He'd never told Elena, not in words, because he believed she knew. As for marriage--he just hadn't thought that far ahead before she'd up and left. His father had never married Stella, though it was obvious how fond he was of her and how much he depended on her. Had his father ever told Stella he loved her?
Davis hesitated, then strode over to Stella, pulled her to her feet and hugged her, something he hadn't done since he was a small boy. The words came easier than he thought. "I love you," he told her. "As much as if you really had been my mother."
"You think I don't know that?" Stella spoke gruffly but when he let her go he saw her eyes were wet with tears. "Why waste time with me when you could be on your way to Spain?"
In her dressing room backstage at the Real, Elena sat at her dressing table surrounded by flowers and other gifts from admirers. This had been her last performance before her wedding. She smiled as she picked up a small gold box with a flower engraved onto the lid. Luis simply couldn't believe she wouldn't accept jewels from him until they were married. Except for the emerald and diamond engagement ring, of course. She started to set the box back on the table unopened but paused, frowning as she examined the flower engraving more carefully. Her heart began to thud, beating faster and harder. Holding her breath, she lifted the hinged lid.
A poppy nestled on a tiny green velvet cushion, a poppy artfully fashioned from golden topazes set into gold. A California poppy. She plucked a folded note from beside it.
"I love you. Meet me at Plaza Mayor before midnight tonight," the note said.
He hadn't signed it but he didn't need to. Even if she hadn't recognized his writing, here in Spain, where everyone thought of her as being from Mexico, who else but Davis would send her a California poppy?
She lifted out the golden poppy and cradled it in her hands. All the magnificent jewels in their ornate settings that Luis had offered her weren't half so beautiful to her as this simple poppy.
Davis loved her. Elena closed her eyes, smiling. They popped open almost immediately. Luis was waiting for her; they were going to an after-theater party given by one of his aristocratic relatives. The king would be there. The huge square-cut emerald surrounded by smaller diamonds gleamed on her finger, the ring so heavy it weighed down her hand. Luis loved her, too, and she'd promised to marry him.
In the mirror Elena saw her dresser, Rosita, waiting for her to stand so the long black velvet evening cape could be placed over her shoulders. Elena was suddenly reminded of the black cloak Meg had worn to meet her lover Rory, the same cloak Elena had worn when Mike Dugald abducted her and baby Patrick.
What good had ever come from her association with the Burwashes? Her friendship for Meg but precious little else. If she met Davis in the plaza wouldn't she be inviting pain and heartache anew?
"The count awaits, senorita," Rosita reminded her.
Elena's fingers closed over the poppy so hard its pin pricked her hand. She still clasped it as she rose and allowed Rosita to settle the cape on her shoulders. Because she held the poppy and because the large stone of the ring made it difficult, she carried her gloves instead of pulling them on. Her mirror reflected a brilliant image, the elegant velvet gown of scarlet enhanced by gold braid and set off by the black cape. La Coralilla's colors.
The plaza was very near the Real but soon Luis's carriage would transport her across Madrid to his cousin's palacio. They'd arrive sometime after eleven, too late for her to return to the Plaza Mayor by midnight, even if she wished to.
The old Davis would have barged backstage, never mind who objected, and forced his way inside her dressing room. Instead, he was offering her the choice of coming to him or not. Elena took a deep breath and walked to the door. She'd made up her mind, she'd given her word, she'd not change it.
Luis handed her into his carriage with its crested door. He had a motor car as well but preferred the carriage at night.
"A marvelous performance tonight, my dear," he told her. "You quite outdid yourself."
She hardly heard him, she was hardly aware of anything except the poppy pin inside her closed hand. The driver clucked to the horses and started off, the carriage moving slowly because traffic was heavy near the theater. She willed the carriage to move faster, to speed her across the city. Once she arrived at the palacio, it would be too late, the decision would be made for her once and for all.
Luis spoke to her but she couldn't respond, she was coiled so tight that a single word might send her spinning out of control. The driver turned off onto a less-traveled street, hoping, she supposed, to detour around the busiest avenues. To her dismay, she realized he'd chosen the street leading to the plaza.
She knew she should face Luis and not look from the window again until they were well past the plaza but she couldn't help herself.
You won't see him, it's too early, he won't be there yet, she thought. And, even if he is, what use is it to catch a glimpse of him as you pass by?
She caught her breath. A man stood under the str
eet lamp and she knew by his wide-brimmed hat he wasn't a Spaniard. The carriage rolled closer, spun past and she clenched her hand around the pin so that it stabbed her again. The hurt was nothing compared to the dagger of pain piercing her heart.
"Stop!" she called to the driver.
As he pulled the horses to a halt, she tugged the heavy emerald off her finger and dropped it in Luis's lap. "I'm sorry," she said, flinging open the door, leaping to the cobbled street and, holding her skirts hiked up, ran toward the man under the lamp. And then she was in Davis's arms and nothing else in the world mattered. She’d come home.
Chapter Eight