“Lo siento.” Damian grinned.
“Sorry, indeed,” Señor Hartnell grumbled. “You’re not sorry. You enjoy stirring the pot. But I have here someone who puts your exploit into the realm of mere braggadocio. Let me introduce my guests. Señora Katherine Maxwell, this is a great explorer from your country. John Charles Frémont, Señora Maxwell.”
“John Frémont!” Katherine exclaimed, startled out of good manners. “John Charles Frémont, the explorer of the West?”
The blond man smiled in modest acknowledgement. “You’ve heard of me?”
“Heard of you?” Katherine held out her hand. “When I left Boston last year, all of the city was reading of your exploits. The pamphlet you published had been passed through many hands, and your courage was standard drawing room conversation.”
He dropped his head and shrugged, but not before taking her hand. “I’m doing no more than any good man should do for his country.”
“When I read ‘The Report of the Exploring Expedition to the Rocky Mountains and to Oregon and Northern California,’ it gave me the courage to proceed with my plans to board my vessel,” she said, sincerity ringing in her voice. “If it weren’t for you, Mr. Frémont—”
“Call me John Charles.”
Startled, she disengaged her hand. “Thank you. I couldn’t be so unceremonious.”
“We’re countrymen in a strange land. It’s not familiarity, it’s just friendship.” He smiled with engaging candor. “You call me John Charles. I’ll call you Katherine.”
He made it sound so reasonable, and she was so thrilled by the request from a man she admired, she almost capitulated. After all, she argued to herself, many of the Californios called her Doña Katherina. Surely it was the same, and she could slip from her formality just once.
Then she looked at John Charles Frémont, and she knew it wasn’t the same. The Californios used “Doña” as a title, an indication of respect. The use of her first name by an American wouldn’t mean the same thing, and Frémont displayed a shallow familiarity by suggesting it. Firmly, she refused. “Thank you, Mr. Frémont, but I’m not used to being so disrespectful to a hero.”
He wavered, wanting to press, to encourage intimacy. Yet he seemed to recognize her resolve.” A hero. You exaggerate.”
“No, not at all.” Instinctively, she identified his weak point and utilized it, flattering him with the truth. “If it weren’t for you, I would still be languishing in Boston.”
He twisted his hat and smiled modestly. “Well, if it weren’t for Kit Carson, here, I would have never made it over the Sierras during that dreadful winter crossing.”
“Of course. I should have guessed you were Kit Carson.” Courtesy reasserted itself, and she shook his hand. His body odor discouraged any prolonged contact, and she stepped back. “To meet two such famous men is an honor.”
“An honor.” Damian agreed from above her left shoulder. She glanced up, but he wasn’t looking at his guests, as he should be. He watched her, and the fire of his displeasure scorched her. She glanced away and then back. She must have imagined it, for nothing on his smooth countenance revealed anything but polite welcome for his guests.
“An honor for all of us. I met you on your last trip into California, Señor Frémont,” he said. “It is indeed wonderful that your writings brought us to the attention of the United States.”
“Of course, of course!” Frémont said. He shook Damian’s hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Don Damian. You and I spoke of California’s annexation by my government.”
“So we did.” Damian’s smile was nothing more than a cool curve of the lips. “That was when I believed the Californios would be allowed a say in their fate.”
“The United States government has a policy of fair treatment of all its citizens, rich or poor.”
“A pleasant fairy tale. If the United States were interested in anything but its own welfare, it wouldn’t be hovering over California like a bird of prey over a dying man.”
“England is hovering, too,” Frémont reminded him. “Last time I was here, we discussed the advantages of administration by the United States.”
“Please, not on an empty stomach,” Damian protested.
Bewildered by the change in Damian, Frémont lifted one hand and dropped it. Don Lucian and Mr. Hartnell, too, seemed paralyzed with shock.
Only Damian remained in control. “I’m told you have a large armed force with you.”
Promptly, Frémont assured him, “Only sixty men. I left them at Mr. Hartnell’s rancho. They’re not a threat to you.”
“General Castro doesn’t agree, does he, Señor Frémont?”
The ingratiating smile on Frémont’s face disappeared as if it had never been. “General Castro is nothing but a churlish windbag, a braggart. If he thinks he can command me with a letter—”
“A letter?” Damian leaned back on his heels. His shot in the dark had found an unexpected mark, and he pressed for information. “What does General Castro write?”
Mr. Hartnell sighed. “Lieutenant José Antonio Chavez arrived with a letter from General Castro, ordering Frémont and his men to pack their rifles and get out of Mexican territory at once.”
“That Chavez spoke rudely to me!” Frémont quivered with the insult. “I told him I wouldn’t obey such an order.”
“Did you tell Castro?” Damian asked.
“I told Chavez to inform him of my displeasure.”
“You didn’t even have the courtesy to take pen in hand and reply yourself?” Don Lucian sounded scandalized.
Damian snapped, “Have you no respect for the comandante of your host country?”
Buffeted by conflicting emotions, Katherine stammered, “Why would General Castro order such a thing? Where is the Californio hospitality?”
In deference to her femininity and her nationality, Hartnell answered only, “Mr . Frémont ignored the General’s specific order to stay away from the major coastal towns of Alta California. General Castro considers Frémont a threat to the continued peace of the area.”
With sincere assurance, Frémont said, “I assure you, Miss Katherine, my men carry guns for their own protection.”
He looked young and earnest, and Katherine didn’t notice his use of her first name. “You have accomplished so much,” she complimented him sincerely. “What a fantastic life you’ve led.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Katherine.”
This time she noticed. She stiffened, fingering her watch chain, but before she could chide him, Damian interrupted.
“Extraordinary, indeed,” he agreed, a sarcastic edge in his voice, “to so betray his hosts.”
Frémont shook his hair back from his forehead and struck a pose. “I have betrayed no one.”
Rounding on Damian, Katherine declared, “Mr. Frémont would never cheat anyone. He’s a national hero.”
“Not of my nation.” Damian drew himself up and looked down his aristocratic nose at her. “Not of my nation.”
She stepped back, stricken.
“Now, see here, sir,” Frémont objected, his southern accent ringing out.
“Damian,” Don Lucian expostulated.
Recovering herself, Katherine lifted her chin. “No. Don Damian is right. I’m grateful for his reminder.” Lifting her skirts, she strode into the hacienda, bumping the door frame in her rush to be away.
John Charles Frémont mashed his hat onto his head. “Sir, I’m a man, big enough to ignore the threats and lies of a bully, but you have been cruel to one of the flowers of womanhood. You, Don Damian, are no gentleman.”
“Why do you look one way and steer another?” Don Lucian pitched his voice below the wild rhythm of the guitar, but he questioned his son with fierce exasperation. “She admires this Frémont, and rather than let her discover for herself what a braggart he is, you drive her into his corner. She went storming off one way, he went storming off another. Everyone’s mad at
Damian crossed his arms over his chest like a m
an who knew he’d done wrong, but would maintain his actions to the end. “She defended him.”
“She’s an American. He’s an American. Why shouldn’t she defend him?” Don Lucian’s voice rose, and Damian shushed him. “What, you don’t want our guests to know you’re angry at Katherine? You think they haven’t noticed how you stand and glower while they dance? You think your attitude hasn’t soured the mariachis? It’s the last danza of this fiesta, and you act like a mule with a stone in its hoof.”
“She thought he was attractive.”
Don Lucian shook his head, turned on his heel, shook his head again. “Do you think that she’ll never look at another attractive man as long as she lives? It is possible to admire your neighbor’s apples without stealing any from his tree.”
“She’s a woman. Women are modest, shy, retiring. They wait until a man chooses them and accept with gratitude.”
“Bachelors know much more about women than married men.” Damian glared. “They must. If they didn’t, they would be married, too.”
“Well, she shouldn’t think men are attractive.”
Don Lucian shouted with laughter. “You mean she shouldn’t think any man but you are attractive.”
“She hasn’t even noticed men for a year.”
“Did you think this state of blessed blindness would last?” Don Lucian stepped back as one of the dance couples whirled off the cleared area and disappeared into the trees. “You worked hard to break through her isolation. Be glad that at last she’s behaving as a normal woman should.”
“I break through her isolation so every man can catch her eye? That wasn’t my intent.”
“No, I suppose it wasn’t.” Rubbing his forehead with his fingers, Don Lucian said, “Love is a temporary derangement, I suppose. Perhaps your courtship will proceed more smoothly when the fiesta is over and our guests leave. Meanwhile, why don’t you find a woman and dance?”
“Who would I ask?” Damian queried.
“Ask Doña Maria Ygnacia. She’s got enough problems, she’ll hardly laugh at yours.”
“Why?” Damian looked around him with observant eyes for the first time.
“Julio’s neglecting her for the punch bowl again.”
“Oh, God.” Damian pushed away from the tree trunk where he rested his back. “What’s the matter with that damned Julio?”
“That’s what they’re saying about you,” he heard his father murmur, but Damian ignored him as he strode to the circle of chairs where the ladies rested between dances.
Maria Ygnacia sat there, talking with the elderly matrons, the widows, the women who had no one to dance with them. She wore flowers in her chignon, accenting the distinctive white streak in her black hair. Her dress, a crisp dimity, hung with lace at the collar and sleeves. Her lips smiled, her toe tapped, she fluttered her fan and gossiped madly. She gave every appearance of having a marvelous time, and Damian knew how miserable the quiet lady must be to put on such a performance.
Straightening his cuffs, he bowed before the group of women, then before Maria Ygnacia. “Dance with me,” he commanded.
The wind off her fan dusted his face. “Thank you, Don Damian, but—”
He pulled her to her feet. “I’m honored.” His arm around her waist, he led her away and whispered in her ear, “Misery loves company.”
An unwilling laugh puffed from her lips. “Really, Don Damian, that may be true, but I swear this is not a good idea.”
“Leave the swearing until I step on your toes,” he advised. “They’re playing a jarabe. You know how bad I am at those.”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth as they took their places on the floor. “I remember.”
“You would.” His droll disappointment brought forth a genuine laugh.
She curtsied and he bowed. “As usual, the fiesta has been marvelous. This dancing in the meadow is a wonderful idea.”
“To dance beneath the stars is always memorable,” he agreed, “and I got to use my lanterns.”
“They are pretty. Indeed, the ladies exclaimed over them, but we never suspected they were your idea, Damian.” She took his hand and followed him through the intricate steps.
“I enjoy the Indian art work, you know that. I had the Indians take bits of colored glass and set them in wood, like the stained glass in the missions, and encase a candle holder in them.” All around them, the trees hung with the glowing lights, adding a gracious fillip.
“They’re like a flickering rainbow. I suppose you’ve just set the newest fashion among us.” Old habits took over, and she looked at him with warmth and interest. “You always made me laugh.”
“Looks,” he said severely, “aren’t everything.”
She gurgled with merriment, and the sound caught at his throat. So had the young Maria Ygnacia laughed when the self-important Damian came courting. She’d been the loveliest thing in Alta California. It had been too long since he’d listened to her joy. “You were the only girl I ever asked to marry me.”
“So many years ago,” she retorted.
“You were the only girl I ever wanted to marry.”
Her smile was still genuine, but a wisp of sadness stilled her sparkle. “Until last year, when a certain Americana—”
“Named Katherine. Yes, I know, but if I’d been married to you I would have never even seen her.”
“Ah, we’ll never know that.” She spun in the dance. “Perhaps we’d have been so dedicated to each other you’d have never seen her—and perhaps you would have been stricken, as you are, yet trapped in a marriage with me.”
“We’d have been so busy, I’d have never seen her. Our children—”
She stumbled. He cursed the tactlessness of his remark, first to himself, then, when he saw the tears hovering on her lashes, loudly. “I stepped on you. Perdón, perdón. Please, let me help you.” He stood between her and the other dancers.
“Don’t concern yourself,” she said, playing along with him, holding an ankle he’d never come close to.
“I’m so clumsy. Let me take you to the house.”
“I just need to sit.”
“No, I insist.” With a firm hold on her waist, he drew her away from the dancing and into the darkened walk between the party and the hacienda.
She struggled in earnest as they swerved into the trees, but he ignored her, dragging her along behind him. He stopped where they could still hear the murmur of voices and music, and see in the faint light from the lanterns. To go farther abroad would cause talk—talk he already risked. This chance he felt compelled to take, however. Angry with her unhappiness, he demanded, “Madre de Dios, Nacia, what made you take Julio over me? At least I’d have made you happy.”
“I love him. Now will you stop tugging on me as if I were a dog?”
Letting her go, he turned to her. “You love him. Does he love you?”
She hesitated. “I think so. Yes.”
He couldn’t see her face in the dark, but he felt her distress. “Nacia,” he began and stopped. He didn’t know what to say.
“You want to know why there are so many rumors about us? Why they say Julio doesn’t stay home? Why he drinks when we go out in public? Why he treats me as he does?” Her voice rose as she recited the litany of their woes. “Well, I don’t know why he’s doing those things. I don’t know why he—” her voice broke “—why he treats me as if I’ve betrayed him. I haven’t betrayed him, not ever. Not even with you. I never even teased him with you. I could have, for you were so dedicated and everyone knows what rivals you are. But the first time I saw Julio I knew I wanted him, and he wanted me. I didn’t care that his father never married his mother, or that his mother was so poor they had to depend on the charity of others. Everyone said he was below me, but I had enough money for us both, and I thought it was forever.”
“Now?”
“Now I don’t know.”
Hearing the tears she fought, he kept compassion from his tone. “Tell me what he’s been doing.”
“Julio?” he said, startled. “Julio would never . . . He adores the town. He adores civilization and all its trappings.”
“I know, I know.”
“Do you ask?”
“Not anymore. He won’t tell me. But he likes it when I tend his hands and hover over him. He treats me with affection when we’re home. It’s better than the way—”
She stopped so abruptly he knew what she wouldn’t say. “I hoped you didn’t know.”
“How could I not know? He fornicated with every whore in Monterey, the widows, the Indian women, the servant women.” Humiliation sounded clear in her tone. “As if I wouldn’t be slapped in the face with it every day.”
“He’s stopped that,” he offered.
“Oh, my, yes.”
Sarcasm and hurt, he diagnosed. “Julio’s not an easy man to understand. I’ve known him all my life, and I still don’t understand him. When we were young, the other boys called him ‘bastard’ and beat him. I leaped in to help him, and we both got our teeth knocked out.” He chuckled a little. “Lucky they were loose, hmm?”
She didn’t move, didn’t react to his humor.
He sighed. “When he staggered to his feet, he kicked me for trying to help him. Then he helped me up. There are dark undercurrents in the man, but at the same time, if I had to trust my life to anyone, it would be to my father, or to Julio.”
“But what is he doing, to get dirt under his fingernails and blisters on his palms?” she whispered. “What if it’s illegal? Those dark currents you speak of—they worry me. What is he doing?”
“I don’t know.”
She began to cry, and he pulled her against his chest. “I don’t know. I wish I could lie to you, but we’ve known each other too long for that. I don’t know.” She cried harder, and Damian wished, with all his heart, he was elsewhere. No matter how much he adored Nacia, no matter how badly she needed this emotional release, her tears still made him squirm.
Treasure of the Sun Page 8