Not once did he mention Christina’s interesting disappearance from his other party. Nor did he bring up his former aid, Colonel Manzanal, whom he had sent out to find her and who had ended up dead. Neither did he recollect her other adventures. And he also - and for this alone Christina was grateful - seemed to have forgotten that she was once betrothed to his friend Luis Arredondo; unlike others of his guests, tonight, who seemed to find it fascinating to comment on the Marquès’ recent return to good health. Santa Anna seemed to have only one major topic in his memory and that was the war. Everything else he had forgotten.
Christina had not wanted to attend this reception. How could she, when the memories of the last time she was here, surrounded by figures now dead or lost, would bombard her from the moment she stepped out of the carriage . . . just, as before, on the arm of Don Ignacio? And when she feared that Santa Anna might try to question her, out of sympathy or out of curiosity, about her broken engagement to Luis Arredondo? She had spent the last five months attempting to erase all insupportable remembrances from her immediate consciousness, to bury them deep in her mind, where they belonged. She had no desire to have them shocked to the surface again, along with the pain that always accompanied them.
But Don Ignacio was still a forceful man, despite his long recuperation from illness, and had beaten down her will. He had decided that she was peaked and in desperate need of amusement. And what could be more amusing than attending the fiesta of a humbled Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna? The Condé was, as usual, fiendish in his sarcasm. He had always felt contempt for the grandiose general, whom he considered to be not very well-bred, despite their own family connection. He thought it would be humorous to observe how poorly Santa Anna was handling his total and abject defeat. And besides, it would be a large neighborhood affair and just the place to have her re-enter Jalapa society - for the second time now . . .
At least, Christina realized regretfully, Santa Anna was too preoccupied with his own memories to concern himself with her. She would not need to rebuff any probing inquiries into her affairs with any rudeness at all. The other guests present tonight would soon learn to leave her alone, lest they find themselves offended by her sharp tongue. She had no desire, even, for the most banal conversation. Damn her father-in-law for bringing her here! Why had he insisted on her coming as though she were being forced to perform in some sort of vulgar play!
She had chosen to wear on this chilly night a subdued gown of purple brocade, over the combined protests of both Maria Juana and Penny, who would have seen her dressed more becomingly. It was made in the English style and worn without a mantilla. And at the last minute before leaving her room, she had withdrawn her pearls from the little suede pouch that she still kept them in; and put them on. She had not even glanced at them in months. They had not changed in shape or luster, but she had changed . . . and observing herself at home in the long, glass mirror of her French armoire, she thought that the pearls were the only real evidence of the person she had once been. A frightening woman, capable of feeling, and loving, and living. The lady who wore them now knew how to regret and how to exist, but that was all.
She danced with her father-in-law once and then allowed him to escort her to the refreshments. She knew that she was being talked about. As she passed through the crowd of former military officers, neighboring haciendadoes, and their wives and children, she observed the curious looks being cast her way, and even overhead her name on various lips. Don Ignacio, if he comprehended the gossip at all, gave no sign of it, merely walking along with his back held rigidly straight and a sardonic countenance. Christina followed suit. What did she care, after all? Let the neighborhood seethe with rumors about her aborted engagement, her reclusive ways. There were many worse things they could be talking about . . .
She was approached by the windowed son of a wealthy hacendado, long considered an eligible party by the locals. He asked her to dance, and to pass the time, she did; all the while wishing she was somewhere else. At home, in her bedroom, going over the minor events of the day with Penny and Maria Juana. Anywhere! Just not here, in this macabre setting so fraught with memories.
She danced three more times, with men of slight acquaintance. Don Ignacio had slipped away, pleased with her gaiety. If only he weren’t so concerned over her dull life . . . really, she was doing fine - until he had brought here! A peaceful existence was what she needed these days, both for her body and her spirit. She didn’t need, or want, dancing and laughter, and music . . .
She moved away from her little knot of dancing partners, murmuring that they must excuse her, she had just seen an old friend. She took a glass of champagne from a passing servant and sipped it as she disappeared into the thick mass of guests.
She was feeling strangely aloof. The music changed tempo, switching from a frenetic country tune to something more plaintive. Dancers were trading places, many more leaving the floor than coming to it, preferring something more lively. The faces coming toward her and surrounding her all looked warm and complacent and even vaguely happy. She felt alone amongst them, a stranger. Yet she called them her people. Were they, after all? Was she really of them, as she so stubbornly preferred to think?
The ladies here tonight were all dressed, as usual, in handmade lace flounces that echoed the Mexican-Spanish traditions that they had followed for so many years. Most still wore high mantillas on their heads, further evidence of loyalty to the fashions of Spain. These ladies were proud of their national spirit, in defeat or not. Yet she - against all thought - had dressed to spite them all, in an American-style ball gown.
Why had she done it? And why, tonight of all nights, had she worn her pearls?
She fingered the cool round stones of her necklace.
Memory-fragments began to crowd her, from several directions at once. Visions of Santa Anna, as he was before the war . . . supremely confident and talking in speech-like phrases. Rousing his guests to an almost worshipful fervor.
Angel Manzanal, obsequious and insistent and annoying; hadn’t she followed him once through this very room, as he led her to Santa Anna? How long, now, since he was killed?
How long had it been since Luis had been shot? Strangely, her thoughts of Luis were unexpectedly hurtful. She remembered dancing with him here. She remembered laughing with him, enjoying his conversation and his wit. How had she contrived to so thoroughly misjudge him? And in what way actually had she misjudged him?
And Michael Brett. He had been here, too, in Santa Anna’s house . . . the one memory to be fought against the most. The whole, of which the others were merely a part.
It was an effort to keep strained lines from her face, to look as though she was having a pleasant time as she strolled slowly through the crowd, in search of Don Ignacio. If she stopped, if she stood still, the memories would grasp her again. She must move, to keep them away.
The music seemed composed of two lone guitars now, a poignant duet of strings which seemed to represent something still and sore at the core of her heart. Why didn’t that yearning noise cease? Why didn’t someone complain that they wanted to dance? Where in God’s name was her father-in-law? It was time - past time - for her to go. She wasn’t sure if she could bear any more of this.
She wandered out of the ballroom, into the foyer, knowing that she must search for Don Ignacio in one of the smoke-filled rooms where there was surely gambling. As she crossed the tiled floor, her mind leapt backwards treacherously, despite all of her efforts to keep it focused on the present. She paused. She remembered Michael, as he had been here - glimpsed in this very foyer, on that night so long ago.
Oddly and powerfully, she recalled how he had looked then, in very British evening clothes. He had been pretending to be someone other than the disreputable Texan she had thought him before she discovered later that, in reality, his true identity had more closely paralleled his assumed character. What a confusing man he was! She hoped in a sudden, sickening fury that he rotted in England. She hoped he choked on
his title, and his estates, and on all of his lying democratic ideals . . .
She was standing in the center of the foyer, directly beneath the high iron chandelier, unsure which room to invade in search of Don Ignacio. Two servants stationed by the double doors watched her inquiringly. One of them started to speak to her, but then turned to catch the door behind him as it swung open, letting in a burst of frigid air which billowed Christina’s skirts and nearly blew out every light in the hall. The weather outside had apparently worsened. And it seemed - to Christina at least - as if the storm was coming directly her way, chilling her blood and freezing her thoughts. Because a man had entered, bringing in the cold. A man she knew - or thought she had known - well. For one insane instant, she wondered if her anger had conjured him.
He was dressed incongruously for the formal affair he had walked in on, wearing buckskin breeches and scratched riding boots with spurs, a long coat and a dusty hat. A far cry from evening attire! His eyes, light in his beard-darkened face, fixed on her and narrowed without surprise. He removed his hat and pulled off thick gloves, watching her all the while, ignoring the astonished servants who hovered near him, unsure if he were an invited guest or not. He put his gloves into his hat, holding it with one hand while he used the other to rake through his shaggy dark hair.
She stared at him, at a fascinating and frightening stranger. She was unprepared for this. Unprepared for his intrusion back into her life. Why was he here? What did he want?
Her body, which had gone so still with shock, began to tremble as he came toward her. What would happen if he touched her? Would she shatter, fall apart, as though made of glass too fragile to withstand the brush of his fingers? Why was she incapable of strength at this moment? When she most needed to be strong . . .
Her every sense was aware of him as he approached to stand two feet away, facing her. She smelled the cold wind on him, rapidly being displaced by the heat of his body. She heard the sound of his breathing, even over the music and the talking in the rooms behind her. She even imagined she felt him, the memory of his skin against hers so strong, even after all this time . . . And the sight of him, oh Dios, the sight of him filled her eyes and her world, hurting them both. It was pain to see him. And there must be worse to come.
When he spoke, his voice was husky and gentle. “You seem surprised, Chrissie. Didn’t you expect to see me, one day? Didn’t you think I’d come back?”
His pale blue eyes were fixed on her steadily and unnervingly. She forced herself to glance away to muster some remaining reserve of sanity to use in self-defense. “No, I didn’t. And I’m wondering why you should bother.”
He shifted his position, and she sensed the tautness in him, the tight self-control. This Michael Brett seemed different to her, and the difference puzzled her almost as thoroughly as his presence.
“I’ve come a long way, Chrissie. Can’t you even be polite, for old times’ sake?”
The slight banter in his voice was familiar, and it angered her. She was glad to feel the anger; she nursed it carefully. Her eyes swung back to his face, the shock of seeing it blunted now by a thickening wall of fury. “I hardly think politeness is possible between us now!”
“Why? Because I went to England? My brother died, you know. I had to go, as soon as I could. I left you in good hands - ”
“You left me! Her voice rose unsteadily to a near cry. “Ill with strangers - without even bothering to write me a note of explanation! And all this time, all these months . . .” She broke off as three gentlemen passed them, coming from the ballroom. Each man nodded, staring as they continued walking across the foyer toward another room.
Michael’s wind-chapped lips were pressed tightly together, his jaw became a hard rectangular line as he glanced around him, obviously seeking a private alcove of some kind. But there were servants and guests everywhere. His gaze returned to Christina, and she recognized the instant demand in the narrowed, bluish eyes.
“I want to talk to you, Chrissie. I want to explain a few things. I’ve come here straight from London; I think I deserve a few minutes of your time! Walk outside with me. I’ve brought along a diligence - we can sit in there, out of the wind.”
“No!” She said the word immediately, automatically; an image of her pretty hacienda, and her orderly life, flashing through her mind as a charm against him.
“Why not?” He countered harshly.
Words and feelings came together out of desperation in her brain, forming into sentences that were forced out by their own power. “Because you are selfish! Incredibly selfish. Horribly selfish! I hate that in you, Michael. You are too self-centered to please anyone but yourself, ever - just like Luis! And I am not going to be used by you or anyone else again. Go back to London, go back to your new title and estates. Go back to your good friend Lady Elizabeth, whom I’m sure you’ve only recently left! And leave me alone, to live as respectably and happily as I can. I don’t want to see you again!”
She turned away, stunned by her own outburst but determined to prove to him that she meant it. Her legs were weak, her skin burned feverishly, and her eyes blinked continually to hold in hot tears, but her resolve was - and must be - firm. That she loved him, that she knew it and hated it and would fight it for the rest of her life, meant nothing. Michael Brett was a cruel man who only wanted her because she resisted him. If she ever gave in, he would treat her with contempt. And then her pride would be gone. Her life would be over.
She would not allow him to take her and destroy her. If she had reached any conclusions at all during her painful contemplations of these last solitary months, it was that Michael was too selfish a man to ever care deeply for her or anyone else. His bitterness precluded anything other than casual affection, such as that which he had felt for Julian, and for his aunt. He was incapable of feeling anything stronger than that.
She took three steps, and was unsurprised when he grabbed her bare forearm to stop her from walking away. Naturally, having come all this distance, as he had reminded her, he would never let her go so easily! Yet when twisted to glare up at him, there was none of the arrogant impatience in his fact that she had expected to see. Instead, he looked grim and determined.
“Wait, Chrissie. Just one more moment. Long enough for me to agree with you. That should be worth a few more seconds, surely?”
If only he wasn’t holding her, she would run away. But she could hardly pull or jerk her arm back from him in Santa Anna’s foyer, could she? Besides . . . was it really safe for him to be here at all? There were several disgruntled soldiers in this building, not the least of which was Santa Anna himself. What would happen if anyone recognized the prominent former Texan, uninvited, in their very midst? She must at all accounts not create a scene.
“What are you agreeing with?” she asked in an undertone. “That you’ve just seen Elizabeth?” She hadn’t intended to say that! She bit her lip in frustration.
“Of course I’ve seen Elizabeth. That’s not what I meant. I am agreeing with your estimate of my character. Selfish is an appropriate word.”
“Quite!”
He stepped closer to her, not releasing her arm, but shielding his tight grasp from view. “I realized that myself some weeks ago. “I’ve been a selfish bastard - to you, to Robert, even to Julian . . .” He paused, considering his words. His eyes stared down into hers, with unusual expression in them: honesty. “I’ve lost Robert and Julian, Chrissie. I don’t intend to lose you. That’s selfish, as well. I haven’t changed. I’ve only come to understand myself a little better. And to regret some of the things I’ve done.”
His voice seemed unaffected, almost casual. But his eyes searched Christina’s, and his grip tightened, almost to bruising strength.
“It’s nothing I could’ve written down in a letter.”
“I wish you had tried,” she whispered.
“Come outside, Chrissie. Where I can hold you.”
She shook her head. Her face had paled, until only her eyes shone w
ith unnatural color: huge, dilated, green-flecked gold.
“Chrissie, I love you.” He said it abruptly, matter-of-factly. “You will come with me, by God - or I’ll take you anyway . . .”
“Christina, my dear - I’m afraid I’ve neglected you for a game of dice! You must be ready to leave. Present me, please, to this gentleman!” Don Ignacio’s abrupt interruption brought both reality and a strange sense of absurdity to a scene which seemed to have exploded into an unexpected, mind-shattering direction.
Christina moved away from Michael, but he retained control of her by-now-bruised-arm - dragging her back, forcefully, to him. Don Ignacio would be shocked, she knew. She felt a sudden, ridiculous urge to laugh, and repressed it with difficulty. She glanced up at her father-in-law through lowered lids.
The Condé’s white eyebrows were both raised. His face, wrinkled but still high-bred and aristocratic, flushed slowly, until he went red to his receding hairline. His thin lips parted, and finally he spoke.
“What is occurring here? Daughter, who is this impertinent man?”
“The Duke of Westbrook, at your service, Sir,” Michael answered for her. “I’ve only recently returned to Mexico from England, and I’ve come for the direct purpose of stealing away the Señora, here. I’m taking her to Texas, where we’ll be married from my aunt’s home. My aunt is Lady Torrance of San Antonio and I am sure you must be acquainted with several good friends of Luis’s in that town. Someone there will vouch for my - respectability, I’m sure.”
The Condé ignored Michael and addressed Christina in astonishment. “The man is mad! Are you acquainted with him?”
“Oh, yes. Well acquainted.” Embarrassingly, she giggled. Her head felt light and completely empty.
Stronger Than Passion Page 39