“Gloria—”
She had gulped down most of the punch before she realized that it contained a generous helping of that fiery gold wine. “I cannot speak of this now,” she told him. “The waltz will begin at any moment, and besides—no, I must think quickly of what I shall say.”
“But it seems we must speak together.”
“I thought we had,” she choked out, and then with a start, noticed the slender gentleman next to her.
He bowed and said something in the Californio tongue.
“This gentleman will conduct you to the Viceroy,” the captain said with a bow of his own. “Good luck.”
Luck! If Gloria had possessed a fan, she might have smacked him with it. Now that he had reduced her nearly to tears, he could launch her off on her mission, could he? Evan would not have done so. Evan would have been supportive, and encouraging, and made her feel as though her task were actually possible.
Well, she would have to do the best she could on her own. Her entire life had been leading up to this. One waltz—one chance—one moment in which she might be like dear Claire, and change history.
Gloria took a deep breath and gave a smile of thanks to her escort as he delivered her to the Viceroy, then sank into a curtsey. The prince raised her, and the orchestra conductor, ever vigilant, struck up the first notes of a Strauss waltz.
The Viceroy whirled her out onto the floor and to her horror, the other dancers stepped back along the fringes, as though it would be a social faux pas to crowd them.
“Dear me,” she said a little shakily. “I did not expect to monopolize you to quite this extent, Your Serene Highness.”
“Oh, do please dispense with that long title,” he murmured, sounding so young that it took her a moment to adjust. “Call me sir if you must.”
“Sir,” she said obligingly. “Please ask the other dancers to join us. What if I should stumble? The entire kingdom would see it.”
“Then I should take the blame,” he said gallantly, and with a lift of his chin, indicated to Senor de la Carrera y Borreaga that he and his wife, and the other dancers might join them.
How did one introduce the subject of war into such an elegant, festive scene, while one whirled in a man’s arms? Gloria’s mind raced through one line of conversation after another, discarding them as quickly as a housewife examining apples at the market. Too bruised. Too soft. The wrong color.
“How long have you been married?” the Viceroy asked. “Your husband seems a handsome gentleman.”
“He is that, thank you, sir. Not more than a week.”
“You are newlyweds, then.” He smiled in delight. “Is it too soon to ask after the prospect of children?”
“Goodness me, yes,” she blurted. “Does one discuss such a subject in public in the Royal Kingdom?”
“Children are a topic of discussion anywhere and at any time during fiesta,” he told her. “Think of this plaza on which we dance as one great map of bloodlines, ebbing and flowing this way and that.”
“And you the prize at the center, I should imagine,” she said pertly. “I must take advantage of my chance, must I not, for there are at least forty young ladies of marriageable age watching for theirs.”
“Ah, but I alone may choose,” he said, his cheeks reddening. “I chose not for expediency, but for pleasure. I chose the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“You are very kind, sir, though since I am at least five years older, I will say nothing of your taste—or the strength of your eyesight.”
He laughed, and around them, the dancers obligingly smiled.
Gloria took a breath and plunged. “But I confess I am glad to be your choice, for I have a question of some urgency, and we are already halfway through this waltz.”
“And what is that? If it is in my power, I will grant your request.”
“Oh, it is,” she assured him. “I have come all the way from Philadelphia to ask you to meet with me, and discuss ending the war that is brewing before it begins in earnest.”
A hitch in the smoothness of his turn was the only indication of the depth of his surprise—and of his training as a gentleman. “And what reason would a respectable woman have for a request so far outside her sphere?”
The waltz would end in one minute—Gloria knew it well. She must be frank without being rude, or politically foolish.
“My maiden name is Meriwether-Astor, sir. I believe you knew my father, Gerald.”
His long-lashed brown eyes widened as they met hers, and she took advantage of his momentary speechlessness.
“I believe that your nature and mine might share a similar desire for peace, not the machinations of our fathers to bring war upon a country and a people as beautiful as this. All I ask is half an hour of your time—tomorrow, perhaps, or when it is convenient—in order to put my case before you.”
His arms had slackened about her. Now they tightened again. “I have heard about you.”
“From my father? He has visited San Francisco de Asis on a number of occasions, I believe.”
“No. From my Ambassador to your Fifteen Colonies. He tells me that not only did you lose my mechanical horses, you escaped while he was bringing you to me to apologize for your carelessness.”
She must not faint.
She could not flee.
She must take one step after another, and spin, and smile, while she waited for him to call the armed guards that stood at attention at every column surrounding the plaza.
Chapter 18
Evan’s grandmother had used a word now and again in connection with both cooking and life. When he’d asked her the meaning of it, she’d laughed. “Bittersweet? Why, silly boy, it means the combination of those two things, nothing more.”
“But that is impossible,” he had objected, his orderly mind offended by paradox even at nine years of age. “They cannot exist simultaneously in nature.”
She had gazed at him. “Not in the nature you are thinking of, boy. But in human nature—oh, yes. You will learn that soon enough.”
He hadn’t. Not until now, as he sat, stunned silent, at the table under the colonnade, watching the dancers spin and twirl in and out of the pools of light cast by cheerful hanging lamps.
Gloria, alive. Oh, sweet, sweet joy, enough to render a man overcome with tears!
And married. Bitterest gall, sickening disappointment like a fatal wave poised to crash and carry him away into darkness.
He watched her in the lines of the contredanse, her hair gleaming gold, her lithe figure bending and twirling with a grace that seemed to etch itself in the light. When she stepped into the Viceroy’s arms and smiled up at him, Evan realized as he had never before the depth of his own failure.
He had crossed an ocean and then a desert to help her in her mission. But he had not.
He had learned to operate the greatest weapon devised by humankind so that he could rescue her. But he had not.
All he had managed to accomplish was to get himself captured, while a pirate in a bowler hat had swept in somehow, married her, and delivered her like a package tied up in pink and lavender ribbons, right into the arms of the Viceroy.
Evan’s dinner threatened to come up, and he stood uncertainly. He must escape. He could not face this crowd and allow them to bear witness to his shame. He had failed at Collingford Castle. He had failed at the Battle of Resolution. Three times was the charm … and of what use was a life charmed in such a way?
Even Joe had deserted him, dancing in a lower set with the young woman who had come with Gloria. Well, why should he not dance with a pretty girl? He had not failed her in every way it was possible to do so.
“Are you ill, Senor Douglas?”
For a moment, he could not find the source of the voice, and then he realized she was standing right in front of him, so small and fragile that her head came only a little higher than his heart.
“Senorita Isabela,” he managed to say with a good impression of civility. “I confess I feel rath
er ill.”
“A feast after a famine will often cause an upset stomach,” she said as sympathetically as though she had actually experienced the latter. “I came to claim the dance you promised me, but I do not wish your dinner to make a reappearance out on the floor.”
Now he really did feel ill. “Nor do I.”
“Come. Let us walk, then. Mama has had lights put up in the gardens for those who do not dance. Let me show them to you, and perhaps the air will do you good.”
He might remind her they were already outside, where there was no shortage of fresh air.
He might protest the impropriety of a young lady of good family walking in the dark with a prisoner.
He might decline and make his way up to his room, where he could gaze out at the sea and imagine how it would feel to sink under the waves and hope that people would forget that a person called Evan Douglas had ever existed.
Or he could simply do as she asked, since he did not have the energy for any of the other options.
She led him down the nearest walk, which was lit by cheerful orange, red, and yellow paper lanterns every three feet or so, and in the lavender-scented darkness, he did begin to feel a little better. Or maybe it was the effect of his companion, clinging to his arm and quite content to remain silent until he felt well enough to speak.
He finally cleared his throat. “Are you always this concerned with the welfare of your guests?”
“Not usually,” she said. “Beatriz and Esperanza tend to monopolize the young men at fiesta, but now that Bea has declared for the missions, I fully intend to take her place.”
“Until the heir of San Gregorio comes up to scratch,” he suggested.
“What odd expressions you English use! But si, until then, I shall be the most popular girl at fiesta, and all the heirs will jostle for a space on my dance card.”
It took so little to make some people happy.
“Do you know her, that blond girl?” she asked. “I saw you greet her and her party, and caught you looking at her like a man in love.”
Was he that transparent? Had Gloria seen him staring at her like a lovesick puppy? Scalding shame flooded his face. “You think everyone must be in love.”
“I think everyone should be. I cannot wait until I am. But that girl—she is very beautiful. Look.” She stopped him, and pointed through one of the arches of the colonnade behind them. “She is dancing with the Viceroy.”
Of course she was, whirling with him in the waltz like a fairytale princess. And no doubt convincing him to stop the war with just a few soft words and a pretty smile.
“Oh my, won’t the mamas be angry. He has distinguished her now—they will all have to extend invitations to their ranchos or be considered rude.”
Social interaction was exhausting. He could not bear it. “Then I recommend you find a place in line and dance with him, too.”
“Oh, I already have, in the first set. He has made a tiny faux pas, you know—the first waltz should have gone to Mama. But I will have the fourth one. Luckily I love dancing much more than my sisters.” She executed a step and a twirl, then took his arm once more. “Do you feel better? We could waltz right here. We can still hear the music.”
Like an automaton, he bowed to her with the gentlemanly flourish of the hand due a lady, and then swept her into his arms. She was indeed a very good dancer, light as thistledown and so responsive to his touch upon her back and wrist that it seemed she could read his mind. When the waltz ended, they had traversed the length of the gravel walk and found themselves so close to a rose arbor that it seemed natural to walk into it.
“I will lay you odds that either a troop of soldiers or your duenna will appear in less than five minutes,” he said.
She laughed, a tinkling sound that nevertheless sounded sincere. “My duenna is dancing with Papa’s majordomo, with whom she is desperately in love despite the fact that he is married, and the soldiers are so terrified that something will happen to the Viceroy that they have no powers of observation left for someone as insignificant as I.”
“That is their loss, then,” he said gallantly. “However, the first eligible suitor to present himself to defend your honor may be right behind us.”
She snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “I am glad to hear you sounding better. If you are to fight a duel, at least you will be in good spirits.”
“I am not a very good fighter, sadly,” he admitted. “Though I have learned to shoot well enough to defend myself, and I can operate the behemoth, which has a cannon in one arm.”
“Dios mio!” she exclaimed. “Are you speaking of the monster they call el Gigante?”
“How does a gently bred young lady know about that?” he asked in some astonishment, having looked forward to explaining in some detail what the behemoth was.
“You forget our close ties with San Gregorio,” she said, tapping him on the arm. “The last time Senor de Aragon was here to visit Papa, they talked of it at length. I heard His Excellency say that he wanted five hundred men from San Luis Obispo de Tolosa to fight in its company when war was declared, right at the front of the host in the place of honor.”
“And did your father agree?”
In the silence that fell, Evan heard the music start up again, a polka this time. Isabela’s mama would be collecting on what was due her. In the distance, almost under the range of hearing, came the crash and boom of the breakers on the beaches below, and in the gardens, a woman laughed, cut off suddenly as though she had been kissed.
“Papa is a man of honor,” Isabela said at last, “and as brave as any general, but he does not believe in war. Not this one, at least.”
“Does he discuss these things with you?”
“Of course not,” she said soberly. “Everyone thinks I am like la mariposa—the butterfly—without a brain to bless myself with. But I listen. I understand. I read, unlike my sisters. And I think—” She glanced down the arbor, with the lanterns swinging rosily at the end of it. No one stood there. “I think that if our glorious Viceroy goes to war with those to the east, many men will die needlessly, including my dear Papa.”
“I agree with you,” Evan said simply. “Are there others among the rancho families who feel the same?”
“Si.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But no one dares say so aloud. It is treason.”
“Yet you take this very great risk with me, senorita.”
It was difficult to see in the leafy darkness, but her oval face seemed to tilt up, as though she were trying to see his expression, too. “You are a prisoner of war,” she whispered. “You cannot be on His Excellency’s side.”
“In that you are right. Yet I am forced to operate the behemoth in the south, at the water meadows, at his command.”
“Building the dam. Si. I know.”
“What else do you know?”
Another silence, as though she were struggling with herself. “I know our Viceroy is not really possessed of the Holy Spirit. Or rather—he may be, since he is anointed of God to be our prince, but that is not what is making him so ill that he cannot keep his food down, or sleep when the night is alive with visions.”
Evan was silent with the fear that had never quite receded since the previous day.
She looked up, and clutched his sleeve. “You have been summoned to interpret his dreams. You are a doctor. Use the skill you have gained to help him—but be careful.”
“Of course I will—”
She leaned in, so close her words were hardly more than a breath beating on his skin. “I was my great-grandmother’s favorite. You were right earlier. She taught me a little of herbs, and lore. I do not know much, but I will wager my chance of a wedding that somehow, his doctors are behind his decline. Why, I do not know. But be careful, Evan Douglas.”
And before he could ask her anything more, she danced away down the tunnel formed by the rose vines, and disappeared into the lights and the crowd.
* * *
Well, his grandmother
had not brought him up to be a coward. Evan was a scientist, and he knew better than anyone that feeling sorry for himself would not elicit a reciprocal emotion in the hearts of others—rather, they would simply despise him. So, back to the fiesta he would go, difficult and painful though it might be.
At the table he found Joe with his pretty partner, and did his best to smile. “Wondered where you’d got to,” Joe said.
“Isabela took me out for some air and a waltz.”
“Careful, or you’ll give San Gregorio’s heir something to worry about.”
“Is he here?”
But Joe only shrugged. “Evan Douglas, may I present Ella Balboa, companion to your friend Mrs. Fremont and a friend of mine for many years.”
Evan bowed, while the young lady treated him to a smile of such sweetness that for a moment, he envied Joe. Then reality got the better of him. No matter how lovely her smile, the girl could not change the fact that Joe was a prisoner, too, and despite what Commander de Sola had said about citizenship, he had as much hope of a life with her as Evan had with—
“Gloria speaks of you all the time,” Ella confided, inviting him to sit on her other side. “I cannot tell you how wonderful it is for her to see you alive and well when she believed you to be dead.”
“It is wonderful for me, too,” he managed past a throat swelling with emotion. “Is there any news of our other friends—Alice Chalmers, Ian Hollys, the members of Swan’s crew?”
She shook her head. “Not that we had heard before we left, I am sorry to say. But take heart. If the two of you survived the Battle of Resolution and everything that came after it, chances are good that they did, too.”
“I hope you are right.” As though he had no control over his own faculties, his gaze found Gloria out on the dance floor, enjoying the polka with her husband. “Is she happy?”
Ella’s gaze followed his own. “I do not know that happiness comes into it, but they certainly get on well.”
“How could she?” came out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “Married. And to—” This time he succeeded in controlling his tongue.
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