by Betina Krahn
“O’Keefe?” He blinked. “You are the ‘yanqui’ O’Keefe?”
“I am.”
Valiente hurried around the table, banging into the corner of it in his eagerness to take her hands in his.
He was slightly shorter than O’Keefe, who admittedly was tall for a woman. He had the black hair and dark eyes common to Latin types and the flashy white teeth and reckless grin common to lothario types. His age was hard to guess—silver at the temples, fifty at least—but his solid frame and quick movements made him seem younger. He wore well-tailored trousers, handmade Italian shoes, and a shirt embellished with white-on-white silk embroidery.
Expensive clothes for an academic. Hart hadn’t spent eighteen months as a tycoon’s butler without learning to read a man’s clothing. He knew at a glance that Valiente didn’t furnish his wardrobe on a professor’s stipend.
“Welcome Senorita O’Keefe.” Valiente admired her with an openness that skirted the bounds of decency. “Is rare to meet so lovely a colleague.”
“I take it you were expecting a man.”
“Forgive me, senorita. I am very, very pleased to be wrong.”
The bounder kissed each of her hands and didn’t release them until she turned to make introductions. “Allow me to introduce my aunt, Miss Hedda O’Keefe, the artist and recorder for our expedition.” Then she thought to include him with an offhanded wave. “And, of course, that is Goodnight.”
The professor stared at him, taking in his odd pairing of garments and trying to make sense of her dismissive introduction.
“Would it be possible to show you our sketches now, Professor?” She plunged emphatically into the reason for her visit. “We know you’re busy, and we don’t wish to take you from your work for long.”
“But of course.” Valiente hurried to clear his worktable and arrange lighting for viewing the drawings.
Hart bristled at the look of disapproval she shot him. It inflicted a sting to his pride that took him by surprise. He had thought himself beyond caring about other peoples’ opinions; a year and a half in domestic service to Hardacre Blackburn had inured him to humiliation and invisibility. In spite of himself, he looked down at his rumpled tailcoat. What began as a show of defiance and a demonstration of his indifference to others’ opinion had just taken on the unpleasant odor of a joke past its prime. Goodnight the butler would have dismissed it with a stroke of sarcasm and remained above it all. Goodnight the scholar, the chemist, the son of a respected family felt perfectly skewered by it.
The professor hovered around Cordelia as she laid out the sketches in rows down the long table, and Hart watched him staring at her narrow waist, flame-kissed hair, and graceful movements. When she turned to invite the professor to inspect the drawings, he was so close they almost bumped noses.
Blushing, she glanced at Hart and he experienced a brief but vivid memory of being exactly where the professor was now, in close proximity to her glowing eyes and voluptuous curves. An unwelcome surge of heat boiled up in him, making him fiercely aware of the mantle of servitude he wore. This—this was what he hated most about her, he realized, ripping the coat from his shoulders and tossing it aside. She reminded him he was a man.
It took only a question or two from Cordelia to elicit from the professor a short lecture on the representation of nature in the language and culture of the Mayans. After a few minutes extemporizing on familiar symbols and elements in their imagery, he turned to the topic of writing.
“Initially, the scholars think each block or pictograph represents a unit of meaning, a word. But some—like myself—believe that the glyphs are made of symbols that are combined again and again to make new meanings. Diego de Landa’s alphabet—it makes too many problems in translating other writings. No one uses it now. But the German mathematician, Ernst Forstemann, he discovers the key to the Mayan number system in the Dresden Codex, which helps us understand a great deal more.
“Clever Mayans.” He tapped the side of his head. “One of only two cultures in history who make a number to be ‘zero.’ Forstemann uses his ‘number key’ to unlock the secret of their calendar. The Mayans mark events with carving and writing that show dates. Now we can read these dates.
“But scholar Alfred Maudslay”—he wagged a finger— “he is most important to we students of the ancients. I use his magnificent photos and drawings myself, in my work. They help me to make elements of an improved alphabet.”
“So, you think these blocks are a form of writing?” Cordelia asked, trying to steer him back to the sketches.
“No doubt of it.” He reached for the closest drawing. “But like other languages, a symbol here has many meanings. Here, you see this dots and bars?” He pointed to tiny balls and what looked like stick bundles at the side of the drawing he held. “Wherever these are, you know you look at numbers. And this figure that looks like an eye, this is always a zero.”
Cordelia began to reconsider her decision to withhold the story Samuel P. had given them concerning the rubbings. She and Hedda had decided to say nothing of it, so as not to influence the professor’s evaluation. They needed his best scholarship and full objectivity if they were to learn what the rubbings truly represented. The temptation to tell him what they suspected was overwhelming.
“Sketches are drawn to what—scale?” he asked.
“One to one,” Hedda supplied. “They are the exact size of the rubbings.”
“Is big tablature, blocks nearly a foot on each side,” he mused, moving methodically along the table with his hand outstretched, as if sweeping it along a line of print he was reading.
Goodnight, standing behind Hedda, watched for a time and then suddenly leaned over the table.
“I say, Valiente, is that a school ring or a family signet?”
The professor roused from contemplation to glance at the ring on his hand.
“Family. Valiente is venerable name in España and also Mexico.”
“Ah. Family.” Goodnight’s knowing look puzzled Valiente and annoyed Cordelia. “That explains the shoes.”
Fortunately for him there was nothing suitable for throwing within Cordelia’s reach. What was he doing— making personal remarks to the man who held the key to their expedition? She smiled, then touched the professor’s sleeve to distract him from Goodnight’s hostility.
“In the original the blocks are attached and form three columns,” she said.
“Order is critical to learn the meaning,” he said earnestly.
“I numbered each of the sketches.” Hedda pointed to the numbers on the corners. “So we would know exactly how each block fits with the others.”
With Cordelia and Hedda helping to match the numbers, it wasn’t long before the sketches lay in the same three columns found on the originals. With the blocks now aligned, it was easy to see that one stood out as different: the block with the head of the cat.
“What is here?” He grabbed a lamp and held it closer to the drawing. “A cat, yes? But with such”—he muttered a moment in Spanish—“deepness and realness. Elaborate carving work for this period.”
“And what period would that be?” Goodnight asked from the opposite side of the table. “Jurassic? Devonian? Paleolithic, perhaps?”
Cordelia so longed to give her “observer” a swift kick.
“Classical period,” the professor said, catching the sarcasm but gallantly rising above it. “Mayans’ first and longest time of building is called ‘Classical.’ In this time, religion, myths, and culture all come to full flower.” He ran his finger over what seemed to be smudges on the drawing. “Spots? Are these spots true?”
He bent to inspect them closer as Hedda assured him they were.
“This is the panther the old people and today people call the jaguar.” Excitement rose in his eyes. “Where do you get these rubbings?”
“From a collector in the States, who asked that we investigate them.”
“Does this ‘collector’ say how he comes by them?”
Valiente thought a moment, frowning, then walked up and down the table tracing lines of connection between blocks. After a while, he rubbed his eyes, arched his back, and sat down on his stool to gather his thoughts.
“Well?” Cordelia prompted, wringing her hands with tension.
“This cat…he is certainly a jaguar. Your drawing is very fine, senorita.” He shot a smile at Hedda, who blushed.
“We know there are groups—sects—in Mayan times which are devoted to the Spirit of the Jaguar,” he continued. “They worship the great cat for his strength and smart cunning and long life. They believe he lives from the creation of the world, a spirit who has helped humankind since its infancy. Warriors in these villages, when they do great deeds in battles, they are called ‘Knight of the Jaguar.’
“It is told that this spirit of the big cat is wise in all things. And noble of heart. He sees the short, hard lives of people, and he decides to give them a gift to comfort them in their days.”
“A gift from—the cat spirit,” Cordelia murmured, catching herself.
“Exactly.” Valiente’s face lighted. “The Gift of the Jaguar.”
“Can you tell what the blocks says about this ‘jaguar spirit’?”
He shrugged. “It takes some study yet. These ‘jaguar people’ are known by the writing and stories of others—no sites are found. But there are places to explore, many treasures not yet found. A whole world sleeps beneath the sands of Mexico, waiting to be uncovered.”
He went to Cordelia and took her hands in his.
“You go to search for these stones, senorita?”
“Yes. It is our task to find them.”
“Then I go with you.” He drew her hand to his chest above his heart. “My soul does not rest until I know their secret.”
Nine
“You cannot honestly be thinking of taking him along,” Goodnight said to her in a forceful whisper, later, as they trailed the professor and Hedda through the darkened streets. After another hour of studying the drawings and demonstrating on a map the various locations where stories of the jaguar people had been encountered, the professor had insisted on taking them to dinner at one of his favorite cocinas. They had to accept.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she answered in an even more furious whisper. “He knows the languages.” She enumerated the professor’s assets on her fingers. “He knows the country. He knows Mayan culture and can recite the entire catalog of recent discoveries. I’d be mad not to take him.”
“He’s …he’s…”
“What?” She halted on the cobbled street and jammed her fists on her waist. “Too knowledgeable? Too helpful? Too qualified?”
That stopped him. Briefly.
“Too eager,” he blurted out after a pause. “He’s too bloody eager.”
She narrowed her eyes, refusing to admit to him that that bothered her, too. But they needed the professor’s help, and she would be deviled if she let a butler tell her what to do on her expedition.
“Considering how reluctant the rest of us are to be here,” she said, moving again, “his enthusiasm should provide a much needed bit of balance.”
The restaurant was a bright and noisy place on the point of an intersection between busy streets. Floor-length shutters between the pillars on the two main sides were thrown open to draw the night air, and light spilled into the street in puddles that bathed small tables erected outside to accommodate the overflow of patrons. Inside, the walls bore colorful hangings, and the tables were covered with bright cloths and lit with candles that gave the place an exotic golden glow.
The professor was greeted half a dozen times before they made it to the table the owner cleared for them. His acquaintances ran the gamut from university scholars to government bureaucrats, from merchants and community leaders to students and waiters. At each stop he introduced the women as American explorers, pointedly ignoring the British contingent. They even ran into a fellow American, a short, robust ship’s captain from New York, named Johnny O’Brien.
After a lengthy and bewildering recitation of the menu in Spanish, the professor took it upon himself to order for them. They were soon served tall, fragrant glasses of the city’s best sangria, a mixture of wine, fruit, and sugar that was pure ambrosia. Goodnight watched Cordelia sipping it and glowered; she narrowed her eyes at him and took several emphatic gulps.
Through the meal the professor regaled them with stories of adventures in the wilds of southern Mexico, British Honduras, and Guatemala. As the food arrived and the pitcher of sangria was refilled, his tales grew wilder and more outlandish. And the music began.
Tables at one end of the dining area were taken down, clearing an expanse of floor for dancing. The music of the guitars, drums, maracas, and brass rose steadily, with infectious rhythms unlike anything Cordelia had heard before. The music demanded movement, even if it was only tapping toes or drumming fingers on a tabletop. The professor invited Cordelia and then Hedda to take the floor with him, and Goodnight looked outraged and shook his head. As if they didn’t have sense to decline on their own. Cordelia refused to look at him again.
Just as the noise and atmosphere began to overheat, there was an abrupt change in tempo and the professor and most of the men present roared approval.
“What is it?” Cordelia leaned toward their host. “What’s happening?”
“Feel that?” The professor undulated his shoulders in time to the beat. “Is a new dance from Argentina…called tango.” The next moment, he was pulling her to her feet, bent on ushering her onto the dance floor.
“Really, O’Keefe.” Goodnight shot to his big, heavily shod feet as she passed. “This is most irregular.”
As the professor drew her into a dance pose at arm’s length, her need to defy her watchdog’s disapproval far outweighed her worry about what the professor had in mind. She embraced the dramatic but oddly natural rhythm and was soon moving in steps not unlike the social dances she knew. As she mastered what seemed to be a fundamental step, the professor pulled her into a sort of promenade that ended with her whirling back and forth at his direction. As the dance progressed, their lower halves drew steadily closer. And closer still. So close, in fact, that their legs brushed and even entwined at times. Mildly alarmed, she considered leaving the floor. But one look at the outrage that awaited her at their table made her decide to see it through.
Suddenly the professor brought her body fully against his and guided her leg into a dramatic extension that pressed her into a startling proximity with his, mimicking a far more intimate dance between a man and a woman.
“Good God.” Hart gripped the edge of the table to keep from bounding onto the dance floor to pull them apart.
“Most… unusual,” Hedda said in a constricted voice.
“Unusual?” He sounded a little choked himself. “If they were spaniels, we’d be throwing buckets of water on them!”
“Cordie is a remarkable dancer,” Hedda’s voice shrank to a squeak. “More than one gentleman has fallen in love with her on a dance floor.”
“Believe me,” he said, “Valiente isn’t falling into anything half that noble.”
“Oh, my! That was extraordinary!” Cordelia was breathless and fanning herself with her hands when they returned to the table. Goodnight pushed up from the table and turned on her with his eyes hot and shoulders oddly swollen.
“I’d like a word with you, if you don’t mind.”
Before she had a chance to object, he seized her upper arm and escorted her toward the arches that formed a colonnade along the rear of the restaurant. Reluctant to make a scene, she allowed herself to be pulled to the far corner of the corridor. There he released her but planted an arm against the wall in front of her to bar an escape.
“What the devil’s gotten into you?” she demanded.
“Me?” He nearly strangled on the word. “What’s gotten into you—making a specta
cle of yourself out there? There are mating rituals in Borneo less explicit than that. May I remind you that you’re in a foreign country, you’re on a mission, and the man whose shirt you just steam pressed with your… body… has just attached himself to our expedition to Mexico.”
“I’m in Rome—I’m doing as the Romans do,” she said irritably. “Or don’t they teach that little nugget of wisdom in butling school?”
“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t attend ‘butling school.’ Where I went, we were encouraged to develop more rational and coherent standards.”
“And where was that, Goodnight? Where do they teach condescension, snap judgments, and insulting references to other people’s shoes?”
“Oxford.” It came out in a burst, as if it had been building in him for days, weeks, months. Even he seemed surprised by the force of it; he visibly reined the rest of his reaction. “Though to be fair, I never saw ‘shoes’ mentioned on a single exam there. That bit I learned from your grandfather.”
“You? Oxford?” She had difficulty mating the two concepts at first. Then she realized that in a moment of raw pride he had handed her the key to his secrets. Her ire was seriously undercut. “What did you study there?”
“Chemistry,” he declared, looking like he had to struggle to keep from saying more, “which is irrelevant.” He straightened and she could actually see his sardonic detachment sliding back into place. “What is important here is how you expect to maintain control of the expedition if you behave like an accommodating tavern wench around the professor.”
“A tavern wench?” She sucked a sharp breath. One minute he was almost human and the next—
A thunderous crash and a boom burst from the dining room. The music died in a discordant bleat that was replaced by shouts and screams and sounds of furniture being overturned and dishes shattering. Shock galvanized them. Together they headed for the arches, where they were turned back by frantic waiters and patrons escaping back through the colonnade toward the kitchens.