by Martha Hix
She regretted their argument and her flouncing away from their home. All Joaquin had ever wanted was to love her, yet in her frustration over her barren state, she had lashed out at him. Oh, those awful names she had called him.
If possible she would retract each and every one. And a few of her deeds, too.
Such as with Erasmo de Guzman.
Why had he killed Joaquin? He claimed he hadn’t. But the housemaid Josie had found el mestizo standing over the body, his hand clutching the bloodied candlestick.
Sainted Mother above, why did he do it?
In the past Mercedes had thought Erasmo incapable of such violence, and she didn’t want to believe it now. Yet . . . While she was loath to accept it, she realized that he was not the man who had left Vera Cruz in 1835. No longer was he the gentle and sweet man she remembered. War had scarred him physically and emotionally. On the heels of his release by the Tejanos, politics had provided a podium for his revolutionary, dangerous ideas.
Mercedes shivered. It had nothing to do with the brisk morning or with her widow’s grief. Though Erasmo claimed to love her, she feared his consuming devotion to politics and to her.
She shouldn’t have—absolutely should not have!—fallen prey to his advances.
If only she hadn’t . . . If only she had behaved as a proper wife, Joaquin would not be in his grave.
What had happened that night?
Oh, Dios, it was too much for her to think about.
“Mercie,” she heard Alejandra say quietly, lovingly, “Papa and Mamacita are waiting.” She felt her sister tug on her arm. “Come, dear one. We must go home.”
Mercedes refused to quit the gravesite. Her sister knew the scope of her sin, and to face the words that went unspoken was more than she could handle. The gravity of it all overwhelmed her. She turned her face to the heavens, letting the needle-like rain beat into her face. And she wailed. For the first time since word had arrived at Campos de Palmas that Joaquin was dead and Erasmo was his slayer, Mercedes allowed herself self-pitying tears.
For hours, she stayed in the graveyard, crying over what-might-have-been and refusing her family’s comfort. Finally, at dusk, she entered the black-draped coach for the ride to the Toussaint family home here in Jalapa. So profound was her grief, she never remembered the journey to Hacienda del Pappagallo.
It took her a week to comprehend that at half past two on the day of her husband’s funeral, the French attacked San Juan de Ulúa. The islet fortress considered impregnable for over two hundred years had surrendered to the invaders the following morning. Command of Vera Cruz had fallen to Admiral Baudin.
Vaguely, she knew His Excellency the former president of Mexico, Antonio López de Santa Anna, played no part in the battle, his advances having been spurned by Commandante Rincón.
She took full note, however, when, on the morning of December fourth, Alejandra announced that she’d had her carriage packed for a return to Campos de Palmas.
The family Toussaint was sitting in the armory at Alejandra’s announcement. The armory was a big room, its walls lined with all sorts of weaponry. Papa hunched near a gun case, cleaning a Brown Bess musket. A fire blazed in the hearth. Mamacita sat in front of it, her fingers flying through a piece of embroidery. Alejandra, her arm in a sling and her face more white than Mercedes had ever remembered seeing it, was curled up on a window ledge, staring at the mountains to the west.
She eyed the white sling. It was quite unlike Mercedes, not knowing everything about everyone, especially about her baby sister. A bit of her inquisitiveness returned, though.
What had happened to Dulce?
Trying to sort through the cobwebs of the last few days, Mercedes vaguely remembered her sister flying off to stop Erasmo from killing that American soldier-of-fortune. When word arrived, just before dawn, that Joaquin was dead, she had sent a messenger to fetch Alejandra. He returned with her—and she had been shot. Who did it?
“I must see to my plantation as well as Mercie’s,” Alejandra said to Papa.
“Don’t leave,” Mercedes interrupted, and realized that even though she had shunned her sister’s comfort, she yearned for it. “Please don’t.”
“You’ve decided to rejoin the living, I see,” said Mamacita, not missing a stitch.
Except for her blue eyes and fair hair, a legacy from an ancestor born in the north of Spain, Anita del Lago Toussaint was an older and heavier image of Alejandra. Though known for her domineering personality and for the iron hand in which she controlled Hacienda del Pappagallo and everyone on it, Mamacita wallowed in a morass of apathy when it came to her daughters. Mercedes figured it had something to do with the four sons who died at birth. Dynasties were founded on male children, not on defiant daughters. Especially barren ones.
“Drink some of that broth, Mercedes,” Mamacita ordered, “you need your strength.”
Mercedes would have none of the soup sitting on the table beside her chair, but she did plead one more time for her sister’s continued presence.
There was a look to Alejandra, a certain plea for understanding. “I can’t stay, Mercie. The French could be overrunning our properties.”
Obviously offended that his countrymen roused no respect in his daughter, Papa put down the musket and puffed out his thin chest. “They would do no such thing. All they want is financial redress for our ex-patriots.”
“Forever the Frenchman, aren’t you, Papa?”
Mercedes eyed her father as he answered, “Bien sûr.” Pierre Toussaint resembled his countrymen: diminutive and rather sharp-featured, with black hair straight as a poker and thick as a feather mattress. There was a typically French air of insolence, mixed with defiance and overwhelming national pride, to his bearing.
And Alejandra had inherited his arresting hazel eyes.
“What is the matter with you, Alejandra?” he asked. “Have you no sense of yourself? Your heritage is as much French as it is of this land, yet you have no regard for—”
“Hush up, Pedro,” Mamacita demanded, using the Spanish appellation for Pierre and brooking no argument. The needle took another poke at material. “If you like France so much, maybe you should return to it.”
It was an idle challenge, one employed each time Papa got too carried away with his homesick pin-ings. Mercedes and her mother both yawned.
His next words shut their mouths and snapped their faces to meet his.
Alejandra’s face turned even whiter. “What did you say?”
“I have no choice in staying,” he repeated.
Mamacita snipped a thread with her teeth. “Pedro, what trick are you pulling now?”
“No trick, Anita. In retaliation for the capture of San Juan de Ulúa and Vera Cruz, President Bustamante has ordered the expulsion of all French citizens from Mexico.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Pedro. You made no claims against the government. Furthermore, you have the embrace of my family.” It was no secret that Mamacita considered her wealthy French husband beneath her station. As far as she was concerned, in light of her noble Spanish ancestors, the blue-blooded Toussaints might as well have descended from beneath some mossy rock. He had been lucky—it was de rigueur for her to announce to anyone who would listen, and that was at any opportunity—she had married the Frenchman, thus securing his place in Mexican society.
“No del Lago will allow your expulsion,” she said airily.
Mercedes knew her mother was correct about her family’s influence. Trouble was, that power resided in la capital. Far from the jungles of Veracruz.
Besides, the del Lago challenge was much the same as Papa’s threat of home: a pawn in their marital game.
A curl to his lip, Papa came back with, “We shall see how much power is wielded by the venerable del Lagos when Mexico falls to greater power.”
This was no game. War was brewing on the home-front, Mercedes could tell. Alejandra spoke up, no doubt to forestall it. Which was another family absolute. For all of Mamacita’s pride
of kin, she was easily distracted, and her younger daughter played peacemaker.
“Tell me about the hostilities, Papa,” Alejandra was saying.
“Did you know Santa Anna and his retinue, during the ceasefire to collect bodies and wounded, inspected the fort?”
Alejandra’s eyes widened. “I did not.”
“Well, he did. But that isn’t my point. President Bustamante has called Commandante Rincón a traitor for capitulating.”
“A good enough name,” Alejandra muttered.
“Agreed,” was Mamacita’s comment.
“Call him what you like, it doesn’t matter. What matters is, Bustamante has declared war. Furthermore, the president is impressed with the speed in which his old foe Santa Anna came forward to offer advice and assistance. He has named him commander of the army.”
Papa beamed, for all in attendance knew he thought the Napoleon of the West “sorry.” At best. Veritable stars danced in his eyes; no doubt he was dreaming of the fleur-de-lis waving over the main plaza of Mexico City.
Alejandra was not beaming.
She rose from her window perch. “My carriage should be packed by now. I must bid you adios.” With that, she swept out of the room.
Mercedes followed close behind.
Once they reached Alejandra’s quarters, she placed her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Dulce, please don’t leave. I need you.”
“I—I can’t stay.” The shoulder wilted. “Really I can’t. I must return to Campos de Palmas.”
“How can you leave when Papa needs us?”
“Mamacita won’t let him be deported, I guarantee you.”
“You’re leaving because you can’t stand the sight of me. Because I am weak and went to Erasmo’s arms.”
“I’ve learned weakness is a very human thing.”
Mercedes took a long look at her sister. I’ve learned weakness is a very human thing. So . . . Alejandra had slept with the Anglo. Interesting. She yearned to get to the truth of her sister’s motivation for leaving Pappagallo. “You want to leave because of what Papa said about Santa Anna, yes? You want to rejoin your Federalist friends, no?”
Alejandra walked to the bed and sat down. “Naturally I’m concerned about these turns of events.”
“Aren’t you concerned for me?” Mercedes did nothing to hide her affront. “I’ve just been left a widow.”
“Of course I’m concerned for your welfare, Mercie. But I’ve been with you for over a week, and you’ve taken little regard of my interest.”
“I hope you understand why.” Tears forming, Mercedes bit her lip. “Dulce—” she could barely get the words past her throat “—why do you think Erasmo killed Joaquin?”
“I don’t know.” Alejandra stared at her hands. ‘I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Dulce, are you still angry with me over Erasmo?”
“I never was. You weren’t happy with Joaquin, and—”
“Then what is the matter?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“You are still angry over me and Erasmo.”
“No.” Alejandra shook her head. “That has nothing to do with my reason for leaving.”
“Which is?”
Alejandra studied her hands. “Reece Montgomery is an agent for the French.”
“Dios mio.” She had heard many things about the man from St. Louis, most of them of a titillating sexual nature from her friends, but never had Mercedes heard a whisper that he might be a Frog. “How do you know this?”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
“Have you told anyone?”
“Not yet. I was going to, but fate turned against me. Naturally I rushed from Casa Montgomery as soon as word reached me about poor Joaquin. I returned to you immediately. As you know, we left for here that same day. I’ve had no opportunity to alert the authorities about . . . El Cazador,” Alejandra said, uttering Señor Montgomery’s sobriquet as if it were vile.
Alejandra touched her sling.
“What happened, Dulce? Who shot you and why?”
Through the silence that was as deep as a cave, Alejandra dropped her chin. What was she trying to hide?
At long last, she elevated her gaze to Mercedes, and said, “It was an accident. I took the shot meant for Reece.”
“Erasmo shot you?”
“Yes.”
Mercedes swallowed. “When he went charging after Señor Montgomery, I didn’t think he would actually try to kill him. Beat him to a bloody pulp, yes, but not try to shoot him!” She paused. “You got in the way, though, and he injured his best friend’s widow. That says little for his character, yes? None of which explains why he turned up at my home, with whatever intentions or whatever results.”
Alejandra ducked her head. “I am the one who sent ’Rasmo to your home. If not for me, he wouldn’t have gone to del Noche. You see, I needed a doctor, so I asked him to fetch your husband. Oh, hermana mia . . .”
Mercedes’s hackles rose. “Did you do that on purpose? To try to cause trouble between my husband and Erasmo?”
Hurt crossed Alejandra’s face. “You ought to know me better than that.” She explained the events of that ill-fated night. “That’s why I just want to go home. To lick my visible and invisible wounds. And to protect our lands,” she affixed, almost as an afterthought.
“Protecting property? Huh! I think you wish to return to find out what part your Anglo played in the loss of San Juan de Ulúa and Vera Cruz.”
Alejandra got to her feet. She walked to the window and stared out. Turning to face her sister, she replied, “That’s not quite true. First of all, I must see to Erasmo’s comfort.”
“¡Dios mio! Have you lost your mind? He’s been charged with murdering my husband! Yet you propose to see to his comfort? Why would you do such a thing?”
“In the name of friendship. Guilty or not, he needs my help. I will not turn my back on him.” Alejandra bit her upper lip, then leveled a look at Mercedes. “Would you have me do otherwise?”
Pondering the question, Mercedes shifted her weight from one foot to the other. What do I feel deep inside myself?
Her heart was torn. One part of it grieved for Joaquin and the respectable life they had shared. The second, the part she had tried to deny these past three years but had miserably fallen victim to under Erasmo’s sexual advances, wished that some miracle would happen. Perhaps to prove the innocence he claimed in Joaquin’s death.
She recalled the beginning of their love affair, when he had been tender and dear, when he had shown her how right it felt to delve into forbidden love. The Erasmo of 1835 had not been a murderer. The Erasmo of that fateful Saturday night in this year of 1838 . . . when they had lain in the hay—oh God! He had seemed the sensitive and lovable man of three years ago.
Surely he couldn’t be guilty of slaying Joaquin. Surely!
“Dulce, go to him. I would not have it any other way.”
Alejandra exhaled. “I’m glad you approve of my helping ’Rasmo.”
“Why do I get the impression that helping Erasmo”—she would not mention that Anglo again, for he annoyed Alejandra—“is not your only purpose?”
Alejandra nodded. “I must search for the Yucatecan, Don Valentin Sandoval. He is old, and far from the succor of his Merida home. I worry for his health. And pray God that he left before the bombardment began.”
Mercedes, caring nothing for some stranded octogenarian, studied her sister’s mien. Courting trouble, she said, “Those are all well and good, your proposed good deeds, but I still think your purpose is to seek revenge against the golden-haired Señor.”
Alejandra clenched her teeth; her face was molded into stone. “Maybe, sister, you know me too well.”
Chapter Thirteen
Reece Montgomery figured he was living on borrowed time.
While her brother-in-law’s death had quelled her determination, at least temporarily, to expose Reece as a traitor, he knew Alejandra was out to get him.
Which was what he would rather be doing.
Rowing out here, undercover of course, hadn’t been his idea. It had been his intention to ride for Jalapa and try to make amends with Alejandra. Obligations got in the way, not only to Antonio but also to the French admiral who was pacing this spacious shipboard cabin.
Being that distance forestalled him, Reece could neither protect Alejandra nor protect himself from her. He knew she was damned mad, and if he had been walking in her shoes, he’d want to get vengeance on a spy. Unfortunately, he was the spy in this case.
How much longer would it be before she did something to expose him as a French sympathizer? What, if anything, could he do to save himself from a firing squad?
Well, there was always retreat. He felt and heard water lapping against the Néréide’s hull, swaying the frigate. All it would take was a word to the admiral, and Reece would be aboard a northbound supply ship headed for the calm waters of Texas.
Sailing off with his tail tucked between his legs had never been his style, though, so why take up cowardice?
“Monsieur Montgomery, have you gone deaf?”
Reece rolled his cigar to the opposite side of his mouth and turned his attention to the speaker. François of Joinville was a lad of twenty who looked as if he were always smelling something foul. A short fellow, rather pigeon-chested, he sported a clipped beard and side-parted straight hair that covered his ears. He had a sleepy-eyed countenance. There was a word for a guy such as this Orleanian prince, what was it? Oh, yeah. Insipid.
On the other hand, the room’s third occupant was the personification of prepossessing. Charles Baudin, in the mid-years of his life, stood tall and distinguished, his blue eyes filled with intelligence. He had lost his right arm to one of Wellington’s guns at Trafalgar, but none of his naval cunning or ability to lead men.