Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
Hot-tempered
belle Laurette Allen gets more than she bargained for when she leaves the
stifling confines of polite, southern society for the wilds of 1830s
California. At her very first fiesta, she is nearly seduced by notorious Cade
Caldwell, a fellow Louisianan whose reputation for swordplay is only exceeded
by his skill with women.
But
soon Laurie’s attention is consumed by threats to the local villagers, who are
suffering under cruel tax collectors. If only there were an avenger brave
enough to sweep in with blade in hand . . . a brave soul trained at riding and
dueling, just as she is . . .
Cade’s
desire for beautiful Laurie Allen is tainted by his memories of betrayal by
another southern belle; he learned a hard lesson about trusting Laurie’s type. He wants to possess Laurie, to own her body
and soul but not to love her. What is the hint of danger around her? Cade
suspects his competition for her affections might just be El Vengador—The Avenger—the masked rider who’s been stealing from
the corrupt tax collectors.
But
is The Avenger her partner in crime, or does Laurie need his protection?
Virginia Brown is the
author of more than 50 novels in romance, mystery and general fiction. She’s
the author of the bestselling Dixie Divas mystery series.
Coming soon!
Prologue
I
New
Orleans, Louisiana, 1835
LAURETTE
ALLEN had just turned sixteen that spring of 1835 when she discovered that her
life was about to completely change. That morning her father, Phillip Allen,
had told her that he intended to remarry after almost sixteen years of being a
widower.
Shocked,
Laurette could only stare at him for a long moment of silence. "M-m-marry
Carlota?” she echoed, hating herself for stuttering. Her fingers tightened into
the satin skirts of her fashionable gown, and her wide hoops swayed as she took
several steps forward. "But I never thought you would—that you were serious,
Papa!”
Phillip
Allen smiled slightly, his thin lips curving in amusement. "A man needs a wife,
Laurie,” he said as gently as possible. "I’ve been alone a long time now since
your mother died.”
"But
Carlota? She’s so... so different, and she disapproves of me
so—you know she does, Papa!”
Laurie’s
cry was forlorn and childish, and she could not help the quick start of tears
in her large amber eyes. Her lower lip quivered slightly, and Phillip drew her
into his embrace, one hand stroking her blond hair.
His
poor, beautiful child. She really didn’t understand about a man’s needs, but
one day she would. Phillip spared a brief prayer that his headstrong daughter
would find a man who could handle her as well as love her, then tilted up her
face, his finger beneath her chin. He almost changed his mind about chiding her
when he saw the huge golden eyes swimming with tears, the slight quivering of
her full lower lip, and the delicate arching of her winged brows. He steeled
himself.
"You’ve
not done a lot to encourage Carlota to approve of you, you know,” he said
softly. "Some of your escapades have shocked her sensibilities. She was brought
up in a strict household, Laurie, and I think some of her discipline would
benefit you a great deal...”
"Oh
no!” Laurie twisted out of his embrace, and her drenched gold eyes swiftly
altered to a biting clarity. "I am not about to become a Spanish simpleton with
a prayer book in one hand and a sanctimonious cloak in the other! Why, I’ve
seen Carlota’s family, and they’re all just like her, swathed in gray or black
from ankles to chin like crows, with those long veils over their heads and
faces—they don’t know anything about fashion or beautiful things,
and...”
"Laurette!”
Her father’s voice was sharp. "You have just insulted your future stepmother.
Please be so good as to mind your tongue and your manners in my presence. I
cannot tolerate such behavior from my daughter.”
Much
more meekly than she felt, Laurie lowered her rebellious face and muttered,
"Yes, Papa.”
She
kept her eyes on the carpet while her father told her about the wedding plans
and his expectations for her behavior.
"And
you must no longer ride your horse astride or continue with your fencing
lessons,” Phillip Allen ended his conversation, bracing himself for the storm
to come. He still wasn’t prepared for the sharp glitter in Laurie’s eyes as her
tawny head jerked up. Phillip recoiled slightly when her large, dark-fringed
eyes narrowed as she stared at him, and he was reminded more than ever of his
late wife. Françoise had had eyes like that, cat’s eyes, startling and
beautiful and dangerous...
"What?
Am I to cease everything I enjoy because it annoys Carlota’s sensibilities?I refuse!” Laurie grated.
"Laurette,”
he began warningly, but she rolled over him like a storm cloud.
"Cease
riding and my fencing lessons? But you’ve never minded them before, and you
know how I enjoy them, Papa!” Her tone altered from angry to slightly
wheedling. "I’ve done as you asked, and I haven’t let Gilbert—Monsieur
Rosière—talk me into disguising myself as a man again and joining in another
contest. You were right about that, and I...”
"Laurette,
you will stop them,” Phillip Allen repeated firmly. "If anyone in New Orleans
were to discover that you were doing something so common, your reputation would
be ruined. I allowed it only because you pleaded so, and I’ve never been able
to withstand your sulks. All that will change now.”
Everything
will change, Laurie thought with a pang, everything!
She
was right. Everything did change. Carlota Sanchez y Alvarado swiftly and
irrevocably changed the entire household in the space of only a few weeks.
Laurie’s former freedom was sharply curtailed, all in the name of propriety,
and as time for the wedding drew near, and the spacious house on Rue Royale
became crowded with guests and Carlota’s family, the tension grew.
"But
I don’t see why he wants to marry that cold fish!” Laurie raged as she crossed
her bedroom to gaze out on the wet New Orleans streets. "She is
so... so haughty!”
"Ah,ma petite,” crooned Isabeau Lautrec, "you would not approve of
anyone who wanted to marry your papa. You have had him to yourself for
too long now.”
Whirling,
Laurie glared at her old nurse. Her small chin tilted stubbornly. "That’s not
true!”
Isabeau
just smiled, her creamy brown face as smooth and placid as always. Laurie’s
rages and occasional tantrum had no more effect on her now than they had had
when the girl was a small child. Granted, Laurette had matured a great deal and
no longer threw herself to the floor with her tantrum, but she had not yet
learned to keep her anger to herself, either. Isabeau was still trying to
convince her tawny-haired charge that one’s anger was much more effective if
expressed in scathing words rather than with a broken mirror or vase.
"Well,”
Laurie amended after a moment of Isabeau’s silence, "perhaps it is true a small
bit.”
"Oui,perhaps,” Isabeau agreed. She continued checking the clothes hanging in the
huge armoire against one wall, sliding Laurie an occasional glance. The girl
paced the floor, pausing to gaze moodily out the rain-spangled window, then
paced back to the fireplace. The fire crackled, and rain hissed softly against
the glass windowpanes as Laurie fought her own private misery.
Finally,
sinking into a deep-cushioned settee, Laurie looked up at Isabeau’s
understanding face. "I will try to be nice to her for Papa’s sake,” she
whispered through a throat aching with unshed tears. "But I don’t have to like
her.”
"Non,
ma petite,” Isabeau agreed, "you don’t have to like her.”
"And
as long as we stay here, I suppose everything will be the same,” Laurie said
reflectively. She shrugged her shoulders. "After all, it’s not as if I have to
put up with all her relatives for very long.”
"That’s
true,” Isabeau said with another sidelong glance at Laurie. "They are here only
for the wedding.”
Nodding,
Laurie propped her small chin in the cup of her palm and sighed. "They jabber
in Spanish all the time, so fast that I can barely understand a word they say.
And they stare down their long, pointed noses at me as if I had two heads and
tell me that my gowns are too daring, and only loose females wear paint.”
Isabeau
hid a smile. "It is known that well-bred Spanish girls do not use artifices to
enhance their beauty, but this—this is New Orleans, and here are many Creoles
who believe in fashion.”
Laurie
laughed. "Like you, Isabeau!”
Smoothing
her day dress of fashionable mint-colored brocade, Isabeau gave a
self-satisfied, "Tch, tch! It is true that I know fashion, while those
ladies—ah, they are still wearing muslin, and no hoops!”
Laurie
laughed again, her eyes sharpening with slight malice. "Those old crows must
not get the latest fashions out in California.”
"No,”
Isabeau agreed, and rearranged the full sleeves of her dress. "They must not.
But California is a primitive place, and so far from civilization.”
"I
find it hard to believe that they would travel all this way just for a
wedding,” Laurie muttered, and Isabeau reminded her that Carlota’s relatives
had been returning from a visit to Spain.
"And
you must recall, that although Señorita Alvarado is from California, they are
very well connected. It’s just that her father came to New Orleans, and she
came with him for a time. She had never left her rustic home before, you’ll
recall.” Isabeau smiled at Laurie’s scowling face and smothered a laugh at her
delicate shudder.
Laurie
murmured, "No wonder Carlota stayed here in New Orleans! If only she would not
marry my father, I would not care. But...”
She
let her voice drift into silence and rose from the settee to go to the window
again. The house was on the corner of Rue Dumaine and Rue Royale, and delicate
wrought-iron balustrades enclosed a courtyard that helped muffle the sounds of
the busy city. In early spring, the courtyard was filled with fragrant blossoms
and new green foliage. Laurie pushed open the window and inhaled the sweet
fragrance of spring. A gust of damp air swirled into the room, and Isabeau
hurriedly crossed to shut the window. The mulatto maid’s face was indignant.
"Do
you invite the sickness?” she demanded. "Do you want the shakes, the chills,
and fever that come with the air?”
Restlessly
pacing from the closed window back to the fireplace, Laurie fought against the
prick of rebellion that urged her, and lost. She turned to face her nurse with
a defiant stare that immediately put Isabeau on her guard. "I shall go to
Exchange Alley. That will cure my boredom.”
"You
know your papa has forbidden it.”
"No,
he just forbade fencing lessons, not visits to Monsieur Rosière.”
Isabeau
shrugged, but muttered underneath her breath, "It is an embarrassment that you
visit those maîtres d’armes, such low-class ruffians! How your
papa allows it, I do not know!”
"I
heard that,” Laurie observed. "Now, come unlace my gown so that I may change.”
Still
muttering under her breath, the maid did as her mistress bade her, albeit
disapprovingly. As she laced the fresh gown around Laurie’s slim waist, Isabeau
had the thought that her young mistress was too tempting to allow so much
freedom, especially with a hot-blooded Creole. Laurette’s maturing beauty had
already caught many a young man’s eye, and there would be trouble if she was
not curbed soon. For what young man blessed with even the most limited sight
could long resist the vision of Laurie, with her cloud of golden hair, high
cheekbones, pouting mouth, and seductive topaz eyes? Not many at all, Isabeau
had found, to her extreme pride. Mixed with that pride, however, was the fear
that Laurie’s promising beauty would attract the wrong kind of suitor, and her
headstrong charge was not prone to advice most of the time. No, she rushed
headlong into life, not pausing to think about possible consequences along the
way.
Oui,
perhaps it was good that the stern Californian would be her step-mama, for Isabeau
had seen the effect Laurette had on the gentlemen of New Orleans. That a young
woman of breeding should visit free-spirited men like Gilbert Rosière, even
though he was French and had come from a good family, was courting disaster. It
was simply not done, and it did not matter if she was chaperoned or not. The
friendship would ruin her if it was discovered. What was Phillip Allen thinking
of, that he would allow his only child to run about New Orleans so freely?
"Papa
is distracted lately,” Laurie said slyly, somehow sensing Isabeau’s thoughts,
and the maid’s head jerked up indignantly.
"He
should not be that distracted!” was the swift retort.
"But
he is, and after the wedding, when Carlota takes up residence here, I shall
never get out again, so I intend to take full advantage of it now,” Laurie
said. Her steady gaze dared Isabeau to object or refuse her, and the maid did
not.
"I
still think it is a dreadful thing to run about New Orleans like a stevedore’s
child,” Isabeau muttered as she withdrew Laurie’s heavy rain cloak from the
armoire. "What if someone should see you? What if your Tante Annette
should see you?”
That
gave Laurie a moment’s pause, for she loved her mother’s sister dearly. But
then she gave a characteristic shrug. "She will think I am on my way to the
Market, and that is all,” Laurie said impatiently. "Now, do hurry, or we
shall miss Monsieur Rosière.”
With
that in mind, Isabeau dawdled as long as she dared, until Laurie threatened to
go alone with only old Jaspar as chaperon.
"And
him as old as dirt and just as wise!” Isabeau snapped as she grabbed up her own
cloak and swirled it around her shoulders. "He is a coachman, not a chaperon!”
Laurie
just smiled, and was still smiling when the closed landau rolled to a stop in
Exchange Alley. Rain pattered softly on the top of the carriage as old Jaspar
climbed slowly down and went to the front door to announce his mistress’s
arrival. He was back in a moment with a sheet of paper, his leathery
face crinkling into a frown as he handed it up to Laurie without a word.
"What
is this?” she began, then understood that he had found it nailed to the door.
After swiftly scanning the hastily printed words on the paper, she gave a
short, determined nod of her head. "Very good. Proceed to the Oaks, Jaspar.”
"The
Oaks?” Isabeau echoed in a horrified tone. "Sacré bleu, you have gone
mad!”
Laurie
gave Isabeau a hard look. "I most certainly have not. At once, Jaspar,” she
repeated, and the grizzled old coachman shook his head as he climbed back up to
the driver’s box.
Laurie
could feel Isabeau’s disapproving frown even in the dimly lit interior of the
landau. She did her best to ignore her. After all, it was only to watch, wasn’t
it? And didn’t everyone in New Orleans know that only the most exciting duels
were fought beneath the Oaks? Gilbert Rosière was about to fight a duel, and
she intended to be there, to see his skill with an epée demonstrated in a real
duel, not just a match.
But
once there, Laurie wondered with a sudden lump in her throat if she should have
listened to the things she had not allowed Isabeau to say. It was much more
bloody than she had ever thought. And it seemed as if Gilbert Rosière, for some
astonishing reason, was not faring that well at all.
His
opponent seemed relaxed, even amused as he feinted, lunged, parried, and
thrust, barring Gilbert’s most expert moves with a slim-bladed rapier. Rosière
was bleeding from a long scratch on one arm, and his face was grim as they
circled on the wet ground beneath the spreading arms of the huge live oaks. A
light rain made the ground slippery and treacherous, yet Rosière’s opponent had
the surefootedness of a large cat as he moved.
Laurie
sat forward, her gloved hand clenching the edge of the carriage window, her
lips slightly parted as she watched the two men with awe and excitement.
Gilbert Rosière was small and slightly built, with a compact frame that hid his
sinewy strength.
His
opponent was tall and muscular and looked much too large to be as graceful as
he was. He moved lightly on the balls of his stockinged feet; his boots lay
discarded on the wet grass a few yards away. The rain had plastered his dark
hair to his skull, giving him a saturnine appearance that made Laurie shudder
and Isabeau cross herself. His bored voice carried through the rain to the
carriage.
"Are
you tiring, Monsieur Rosière? We can stop anytime you
please...”
Rosière’s
lips tightened into a grim line, and his dark eyes flashed at his opponent. "Do
you mock me?” he shouted, and gave a graceful lunge with his rapier. It almost
caught the other man, but he moved swiftly out of the way and returned the
lunge with a counterthrust that brought blood from a slice across the
Frenchman’s upper arm. Rosière recoiled in shock, looking from the bloodied arm
to his antagonist, who smiled.
"Second
blood,” was the soft remark. "Do we continue?”
Rosière
stiffened. "Of course, Monsieur. I would not dream of stopping now.”
Rosière’s
seconds rushed to his side and anxiously checked his wound, while the tall American
waited with a casually indifferent pose. He was lean, and the rain had drenched
his loose white shirt so that it clung to his broad shoulders as if a second
skin, outlining the smooth flux of his muscles. Laurie stared at him in
fascination.
When
Rosière stepped forward again and said, "En garde,” Laurie dragged her
attention from his opponent. The fencing master seemed tired, and his eyes were
bright with pain.
Excitement
drummed in Laurie’s ears, and her breath was short and fast as she watched the
two men move warily through the rain. The grass under the oaks had been churned
by their feet, and it had grown slippery. Once the tall man almost slipped, but
he quickly caught himself and returned Rosière’s expert rapier thrust, deftly
fending off a counterattack. They lunged and parried, and it was apparent that
the men were almost equally matched in spite of the difference in their sizes.
Leaning
forward, her gaze fastened on the duelists, Laurie did not hear Isabeau’s swift
order to Jaspar until the carriage lurched forward.
"Wait!”
she cried, but Isabeau would not listen.
"It
would be a great scandal if you were to be seen!” Isabeau hissed angrily. "I
will not allow it!”
"I
must know who wins!” Laurie cried, but the carriage rolled on, leaving the Oaks
behind.
II
CADE
CALDWELL was still wet from his duel in the rain. Cursing the weather and his
luck, he slammed into the house on Rue Royale and found Cecelia waiting on him,
another stroke of the bad luck he’d been suffering lately. Damn it! Hadn’t she
caused enough trouble already? If he’d known who she was when she began
pursuing him, nothing would have come of it. But he hadn’t, and now there’d
been trouble because of it. He flicked her an impatient glance, noting that she
wore nothing other than a thin silk peignoir that did nothing to hide her
considerable charms.
"What
are you doing here?” he asked in a blunt, harsh tone. He tossed his soaked hat
on a table and stalked to the fire burning in the grate. His clothes were
plastered to his body, outlining hard ridges of muscle and the fact that
Cecelia’s scanty attire and firelit curves had begun to interest him.
She
noticed his reaction and smiled. "Waiting on you, mon chèr,” she
purred. She walked toward him, and in the dim light afforded by the fire and a
candelabra on the table, she could see that Cade’s desire was increasing. Her
smile grew even wider.
Cade
did not move when she reached him and exclaimed softly over the blood on his
shirt. Nor did he react when she ran her fingertips lightly over his body to
assess the damage. It was only when she began to remove his wet shirt that he
grabbed her hand, his fingers tightening around her small wrist.
"Don’t.”
"But
I...”
"But
don’t. It’s only a scratch, nothing serious, and I don’t want you fussing over
me. Especially if I take into consideration that the duel would not have been
necessary had you not decided to spread around your charms.”
The
brunette beauty blinked, and her full mouth formed a ripe pout. "But I only
flirted a small bit, chèr—just to make you jealous—and that is all!”
Cade
turned away in irritation. "Your flirting could have cost a man his life, CeCe.
Did you stop to think of that?”
She
shrugged. "Well, what of it if he is foolish enough to challenge you?”
Turning
back, Cade glared at her in the dim light, his eyes raking her perfect features
with condemnation. "You don’t really care, do you, CeCe?”
She
shrugged again. "Non, chèr, I do not. It was his choice, you
understand.”
Unbuckling
his sword belt, Cade tossed it to the table beside his hat, then turned in the
same smooth motion and jerked Cecelia close. He held her against his hard, wet
frame, and she could feel the imprint of him against her stomach. The silk
wrapper parted from around her throat and floated to the floor, and she smiled
as she curled her arms around his neck.
"Don’t
you want to know if he’s still alive?” Cade asked against her parted lips, and
felt her shrug.
"You
are alive, and that is all that matters right now, chèr.”
Cade
lifted her into his arms, and as he strode toward the bedroom he muttered, "You
are an amoral cat, CeCe, unlike most women, who possess at least a small degree
of conscience.”
Wriggling
in his arms as he placed her on the bed and bent over her, Cecelia let her
small, hot tongue flick over his bare skin before she whispered against him, "I
am not at all like most women, who are dull and boring and would not think to
do this for you... or this...”
Cade
pushed her back onto the bed and stripped off his clothes, ignoring her
appreciative gaze. Then he was over her, penetrating her without preliminaries,
hearing her cries of satisfaction in his ears as he took her.
When
it was over, and they lay panting and listening to the beat of rain against the
windows, Cade surprised the brunette by pulling her into his embrace and
holding her gently. It was all the more surprising to her because of his
earlier anger and disgust, and Cecelia snuggled closer to him.
"You
like me more than a little,” she murmured, and felt the rumble of laughter in
his chest.
"I
like doing this with you,” he said, running a finger over her full breast, then
over the curved arch of her ribs to her flat stomach. His hand wandered to the
thrust of her hip, then smoothed over her buttocks as he pulled her hard
against him. When his palm smacked against her bare buttock she cried out with
shock, and he laughed again. "But that’s all,” he said before smothering her
indignant protest with his mouth.
"This
is not all you like about me,” Cecelia said after several minutes. Her slim
arms curved around his neck, and she looked into his handsome face. Her heart
gave a funny lurch as she saw the amusement in his dark eyes, and suddenly she
knew that he was telling her the truth. She sat up and glared at him. Shaking
her long dark hair from her eyes she said, "You fought a duel for me! You must
like me more than this, more than the time we share in your bed! I would be a
good wife to you, and—”
Cade’s
burst of sardonic laughter stopped her words, and she stared at him as he
uncoiled his lean frame and rose from the bed to look down at her.
"CeCe,amour, while I freely admit that I enjoy your charms in the bedroom, I
fought the duel only because I was challenged to it. It was a point of honor,
not love, that took me to the Oaks. Whatever you may think, I will never marry
you.”
Stunned,
Cecelia de Marchand felt a burning anger. Rising to her knees on the bed, she
burst out, "Don’t you know who I am?”
Cade’
s amusement was obvious. "Of course I know who you are. You’re the governor’s
spoiled niece.”
Vibrating
with rage and rejection, Cecelia clenched her small hands into impotent fists.
"You are a nobody, a man with mixed heritage, yet you dare to reject me? To
refuse me as a wife?”
"I’m
not a marrying man, CeCe. I told you that a long time ago,” Cade said
impatiently. He stepped into a dry pair of trousers and pulled them up,
buttoning them around his lean waist.
"But
I never thought you meant... meant me,” the girl said in such
a bewildered voice that Cade felt a pang of pity for her in spite of the fact
that she had relentlessly pursued him.
"Look,”
he said, "I’m sorry you got the wrong idea, but that’s the way it is. It has
nothing to do with you, but I am just not ready for marriage.”
Cecelia’s
aristocratic nose tilted upward, and her brows drew down over her dark Creole
eyes. "That is your misfortune,” she said softly, and Cade looked at her
through narrowed eyes.
"What
do you mean by that?” he demanded, but Cecelia did not reply. He did not
discover the answer to his query until the following morning, when a squad of
soldiers appeared at the door of his house and arrested him.
"And
the charges?” Cade asked as he buttoned his trousers and stepped into his
boots.
"Unlawful
dueling,” the sergeant replied without a flicker.
"Unlawful
dueling?” Cade laughed shortly. "How interesting, Sergeant. I had no idea the law
was being enforced now.”
Cade
had plenty of time to think about it in the following days as he languished in
a damp cell. River breezes did not enhance his small quarters, nor did the
occasional meal of weevil-infested rice cereal with chunks of fish floating on
the surface.
By
the time an official solution presented itself he had long since come to the
correct conclusion for his imprisonment.
A
stone-faced Creole officer sat behind a desk and did not look up when Cade was
escorted into his office. The prisoner’s chains rattled slightly as he swayed,
and finally the officer looked up with an expression of distaste.
"You
smell unpleasant, Monsieur Caldwell,” the officer remarked, and put a scented
linen handkerchief to his nose. It was an affected gesture, and Cade disliked
him on sight.
"How
unfortunate for you, but I’ve grown accustomed to it,” Cade said with a lift of
one dark brow. His manacled hands clenched into fists behind his back, and he
was well aware of his unkempt appearance and the lice in his hair and the fact
that his stomach was growling, and the Creole had a plate of untouched food on
a tray beside his desk. The tempting aroma wafted to his nostrils, and he did
his best to school his features into indifference.
The
linen square fluttered as the Creole said from behind it, "I’m afraid I have
not grown accustomed to the odor. Be so good as to stand back a bit, if you
please.”
"Look,
I didn’t ask to come here, so if you object to my
presence...”
The
guard behind Cade slammed his rifle stock across Cade’s back, and his legs
buckled, sending him to his knees. The Creole officer stood and walked a few
paces away, looking down at Cade thoughtfully.
"I
shall make this very brief, Monsieur Caldwell. You have been arrested for
dueling, which is against the law. There are many witnesses who can testify
against you, so it is apparent what the outcome of a trial will be. You can
spare the state the expense if you will only be sensible.”
"I’ll
think about it,” Cade said when it seemed that an answer was expected of him.
"What are the conditions of my, uh... cooperation?”
Seating
himself on the corner of his desk, the officer reached out and plucked a hot
roll from the tray. Butter dripped between his fingers as he bit into
it, and he seemed to take pleasure from the fact that Cade’s stomach was
audibly growling. Cade looked away, and a muscle in his jaw twitched with
anger.
"It’s
very simple,” the officer said when he had finished the roll and wiped his
hands on the linen handkerchief. "You will agree to wed the young lady you have
compromised. For some reason, she desires it greatly, and her uncle is very
indulgent.”
"So
I’ve heard,” Cade muttered. "And the alternative to a wedding?”
"A
well-attended hanging,” was the prompt reply.
"Ah,
my choice of deaths. How pleasant.”
The
officer laughed. "You are very amusing, monsieur! I have heard that the lady is
well favored, so perhaps you should think of that, heh? After all, one death is
permanent, while the other—well, there are consolations to marriage at times,
and you are still young. What— twenty-four years of age? Think about it.” He
made a gesture to the guard, and Cade was jerked to his feet. "I will send for
you tomorrow and hear your answer.”
But
it was two days before Cade was summoned again, and he was weak with hunger and
from being chained.
"Phew!”
the Creole said with a shake of his head and a grimace. "You smell much worse,
and I did not think that possible, monsieur!”
Cade
said nothing, just stared at the officer with flat, dark eyes. For some reason
his direct, piercing gaze made the smaller man shift uneasily, and he retreated
behind his desk to look at Cade.
"Your
reply, monsieur?”
"Yes.”
It
was all Cade said, but it was enough, and the Creole hurriedly had him removed
from his office and taken away, giving the order that he was to be released at
once.
III
"THEY
SAY HE IS a devil with a sword,” Isabeau remarked as she brushed Laurette’s
heavy hair into curls on each side of her face.
"He
who?” Laurie asked idly, frowning at herself in the mirror over her dresser.
She looked pale, too pale, and her eyes had circles under them. It was
difficult to pay attention to anything Isabeau was saying when she had so much
on her mind lately, but the woman’s next words jerked up Laurie’s head.
"Cecelia
de Marchand’s fiancé. He is the one who defeated your precious Monsieur Rosière
a fortnight ago.” Isabeau smiled at her in the mirror, a slightly malicious
smile that made Laurie’s eyes narrow. "They say that he fought and won six
duels in as many days, and that he compromised the governor’s niece and refused
to marry her until he was imprisoned for it.”
"They
say, they say—who are they?” Laurie demanded crossly. "And besides, who
cares about Cecelia de Marchand? I think she is terribly vain and haughty, and
I never have been very fond of her, even though we attended the same classes at
the convent last year. Though two years older than I, she was always disrupting
the nuns with her silly, constant chatter about men, and I grew tired of her.”
"Nonetheless,”
Isabeau continued imperturbably, "she is to be married, while you are not. And
she is only a little older than you are...”
"And
marrying a man who went to prison rather than face marriage to her!” Laurie ended
with a snap. "If you ask me, he is smart even though he weakened in the end.”
"Well,
he is not a Creole,” Isabeau said, as if that explained his weakening. "His
father was American, while his mother was Spanish, a gauchupine.”
Rising
from the dresser chair, Laurie turned away, her face set and pale with misery.
"Enough of this. I am much more concerned with Papa’s wedding than Cecelia de
Marchand’s forced vows.” She paced the floor, then went to stare out at the
dark street. "It will all change somehow, I know it will,” she murmured. "I
have this feeling that my life is about to change quite drastically.”
Isabeau
said nothing, though her heart ached for her young mistress. It was quite true
that Laurie’s life was about to change, for she had overheard Phillip Allen
agree with Carlota that his daughter should be sent abroad for a continental
education. They would not tell her until after the wedding, and her pauvre
petite would be given no opportunity to refuse. Laurie would be sent away
from New Orleans for four long years, and there would be nothing she could do.
Stepping
up behind Laurie, Isabeau said softly, "Just remember, ma petite, that
you will face whatever the future may bring. You are strong, much stronger than
your maman ever was.”
Laurie
turned to look at Isabeau. "Am I? Am I much like my mother, Isabeau? I mean, I
know I have her eyes, and her color of hair, but am I like her in any
other ways?”
After
a moment of silence, Isabeau said, "Françoise was delicate and fragile and
lovely, just like you are, but she did not have the inner strength, the fire
that you have. A strong wind defeated her, where you may bend with it, but you
do not break, as did poor Françoise.”
"You
make it sound as if my mother died of a broken heart,” Laurie said in a puzzled
tone, and Isabeau nodded.
"That
is true,” she said, and silence fell again before Isabeau spoke slowly. "There
was another child, a boy, and when he died, my pauvre Françoise wanted
to die also. But then she was enciente with you, and so she held on until
you were born. Not long after, she died, and the physician said she died of a
broken heart, not the milk sickness.”
For
a long moment Laurie said nothing, then she released her breath in a soft sigh.
"Oh,” she said. "I see. I had always thought... I
mean...”
Isabeau
hastened to say, "She loved you very much, ma petite, truly she did! She
could not have stayed alive so long if she did not, but the loss of a child was
too much for her, and not even your birth or your papa could keep her alive.”
Laurie
had the rebellious thought that if her mother had truly wanted to live she
would have. Her chin tilted up and her mouth hardened, and she knew that she
would never give up so easily.
Seeing
her face, Isabeau knew that Laurie would never lie down to die as her mother
had, and she gave an inward sigh of relief. She had done the right thing in
telling her. Perhaps she would not always be with Laurette, and her old bones
had lately been telling her so. But if the girl had a strong will to live, she
would survive whatever life dealt her. Isabeau smiled. It would be all right;
even if Phillip Allen sent her away, Laurette would be all right.
Chapter One
California, 1840
STANDING
ON solid ground for the first time in so many weeks it seemed like she’d always
been aboard a rolling ship, Laurette Allen glanced at the California coastline
with a frown. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that it was beautiful, with
blinding white sand along the beaches and water as blue as the bright sky
overhead. Fields of brilliant blossoms dotted rolling hillsides with splashes
of color—red, orange, creamy white, and yellow, and the stucco houses with red
tiled roofs looked quaint and picturesque.
Yet
somehow, actually arriving was even worse than her overactive imagination had
visualized. It was hot. And as glad as she was to disembark from the dreadful
steamer that had rolled ceaselessly over the swells of the Atlantic and
Pacific, she was not glad to be standing on the docks of a sleepy village that
looked as ancient as the caves she’d seen in northern Italy.
After
leaving Europe, where cities stood in soaring splendor and civilization was
crowded, arriving in a primitive coastal town was anathema. Though she was
eager to see her father, for after all, it had been almost five long years,
Laurie could not help but be dismayed by California.
Why
had Phillip Allen accepted the position as diplomatic ambassador between
Spanish California, which was a province of Mexico, and the United States? Just
because he had Spanish connections through his wife did not mean he should have
left gracious New Orleans. A pang hit her at the thought that she no longer had
a home in that lovely old city. Of course, her Tante Annette was
still there, and it was still home, would always he home, yet now here she was
in Higuera, California, a tiny coastal town perched amid green hills and
overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
There
was only a small fort, or presidio, in the center of the town, a
walled fortress guarded by what looked to be a minimum of soldiers. Fig
trees—hence the village’s name, she presumed—shaded the mercado, or
marketplace, in the center of town. There was an air of somnolence, lent
credence by the dozing figures in wide-brimmed sombreros and dusty serapes
under the trees.
"Señorita,”a voice prompted at her elbow, and Laurie
turned. "Do you wish to have your trunks put in the wagon?” a young boy asked,
pointing to the high mound of baggage stacked on the wharf.
"Yes,
I suppose so,” Laurie said with a trace of impatience. She looked around again
and saw only strangers and dock workers, busy sailors scurrying over the long
wooden docks that jutted into the crisp blue waters of the bay. Gaily dressed
men and women swept past her, some throwing her curious glances, but most
intent on going out to the ships and steamers to examine the goods aboard.
She
had seen the cargo aboard the steamer, the casks of wine and brandy, teas,
coffee, sugars, spices, raisins, molasses, hardware, crockery, clothing, boots
and shoes, and huge bolts of material. The hold had been crammed with all
styles of furniture as well, making Laurie wonder if these Californios produced
anything at home.
As
she waited on the dock a feeling of uneasiness crept over her, but Laurie
determinedly ignored it with a toss of her head. After all, she was twenty-one
years of age now, mature enough to travel over half a continent alone, so she
would not allow a small thing like having to wait alarm her.
Yet
in the back of her mind was the uneasy feeling that she had been forgotten.
Hadn’t her father received her letter? She had written it months before, giving
the approximate time of arrival. A servant sent down to the docks would have
been able to discern when the steamer would arrive, because it had already
stopped at every tiny port on the California coastline. She would have probably
made better time if she’d disembarked in San Diego and taken a carriage the
rest of the way.
But
she hadn’t, and now here she was, waiting, feeling like a small, lost child
again as she stood on the dock and looked for a familiar face. Why was no one
there to meet her? Was she to find her own lodgings, or had they even gotten
her letter? If only Isabeau was still with her, then she would not feel quite
so alone.
But
Isabeau would never be with her. Her old nurse had taken a chill in the spring
before Laurie had been sent to her mother’s family in France and had died in
only a few hours. It had been sudden, with little suffering, but had left
Laurette more alone than she’d ever felt before. In the past five years she had
learned to deal with her new independence, and though she still missed
Isabeau’s loving, scolding guidance, she rarely felt at a loss.
Now
was one of those times. Standing on the wharves and waiting for her absent
father, she felt a slight qualm, as if she was truly alone. She turned
abruptly.
"Take
my baggage to the nearest inn,” Laurie told the waiting boy in a decisive tone
that helped banish the qualm of uncertainty. She would send word to her
father’s house, and he could look for her there. "Pronto!” she added
when the boy just stared at her, and he jumped into action.
But
before Laurie had hired a carriage to take her to an inn, her father’s carriage
arrived with two servants.
"We
are from Señor Allen. Are you Señorita Allen?” a voice inquired, and Laurie
nodded.
"Yes.
It’s about time you arrived. Has there been trouble?” she asked as she was
handed into the carriage. A surge of relief made her unconsciously haughty, but
her smile was tremulous as she looked down at the older man.
"Sí,
but it has been settled,” was the reply from the old man. He smiled, his
gnarled hands twisting his hat as he bobbed his head at her.
Laurie
smiled back, some of her tension easing. It was never well-bred to be impolite,
especially to servants, she had been taught, and as she settled back into the
cushions of the open carriage she said, "Thank you. Will it take very long to
get to my father’s house?”
"No,
señorita, it will not take long at all,” the old man said with another smile.
"Unless we run into soldados again,” he began when the other
servant quickly interrupted with a nervous laugh.
"What
Tómas means, Señorita Allen, is that unless we must wait for soldiers to clear
the road of a fallen tree, we shall be there shortly,” the younger man said,
nudging Tómas. "I shall finish loading the trunks, Tómas, while you take the
señorita home.”
Laurie
surveyed her new surroundings as the open carriage rolled down quiet streets.
Adobe buildings lined dirt and cobblestone lanes and paths, and alleys jutted
erratically at every conceivable angle. Thatched roofs adorned some of the
buildings, while others had the distinctive red tile that she’d noticed from
the steamer. The entire town seemed to cling precariously to the sides of the
slopes, rushing seaward, until the buildings looked as if they only waited to
slide into the ocean. Though the breeze was brisk and salty, the air was
already hot in early June. Laurie waved a painted fan to stir the air and
wished she had worn something a bit cooler.
She
saw brightly dressed women with lacy shawls over their heads and shoulders and
short sleeves that left their arms bare. Amazed, Laurie stared at them,
wondering why she had assumed that all Californian women wore only drab gowns
with no color. These women wore dresses of silk, crepe, and bright calico. None
of them appeared to be wearing corsets, but wore skirts above the ankles and
loose blouses circled with a sash. Their shoes were fashioned of kid or satin,
and the women all wore necklaces and earrings, sometimes several at once.
Bright scarves were worn around necks or draped over shoulders like capes. All
the women were dark like Carlota, with long black hair worn loose or in braids.
Laurie stared at them with interest, feeling rather out of place with her gold
hair and pale complexion.
And
the women were staring at her, too, chattering among themselves, obviously
wondering about the identity of the newcomer in their midst. Feeling ill at
ease, Laurie tried not to notice their stares, or the stares of the men she
saw, all of them on horseback.
Nervously
smoothing the wrinkles in the shimmering blue skirts of her gown, she lifted
her chin in an unconsciously haughty gesture, avoiding their admiring gazes.
Why did she feel like a duck in the henhouse, as her cousin would say? She felt
very out of place, very different, and even the few comments she overheard did
nothing to make her feel more at ease.
Clad
in broad-brimmed hats of dark material with gilt hatbands, the men made
admiring comments as Laurie’s open carriage rolled slowly through the narrowstreets. She slid them surreptitious glances, noting their short jackets,
white shirts open at the neck, and straight-legged trousers of velvet or
broadcloth. And to her astonishment, in spite of the warm weather, every man
wore a long broadcloth cloak of black or dark blue. Some were festooned in a
great deal of gilt trim. Even the horses wore trappings of velvet and gilt,
with silver bridles and huge saddles.
The
men on foot wore loose-fitting garments—white trousers and long shirts, and
some of them wore a sort of blanket with a hole in the middle for their head.
Those men were barefoot, or sandaled, and obviously from the lower class,
Laurie decided. They looked down at their feet and scurried between the long
rows of adobe buildings with an indolent haste, carrying baskets of produce or
fowl over their shoulders. The women of the class seemed similarly burdened,
with children slung in brightly woven blankets across their backs. Small
children ran about the streets either half-clad or clad like their elders.
She
had donned her best dress that morning, hoping to impress her father and
Carlota by sweeping down the wharf from the ship in a sophisticated arrival.
Her exit had been remarked only by sailors and stevedores, however, so she hoped
that she would not wilt completely before arriving at her father’s home. It
would be embarrassing to be all damp and smelling of the ship in spite of the
expensive French cologne she wore.
Laurie
realized that she was nervous about meeting her father again, and why not?
After he had so summarily sent her away immediately following his marriage to
Carlota, she had vowed never to see him again. She had been hurt by his
detachment and grief stricken over Isabeau, and it had seemed as if her world
was ending. But time had slowly eased the pain, and she’d even lingered in
Europe for a year after her schooling had ended, visiting with relatives and
touring the Continent. When his letter had come pleading with her to return to
the United States, she had done so reluctantly. Now she found herself eager to
see him again.
Had
he changed much? Would he recognize her? After all, he had last seen a
red-eyed, rebellious daughter who barely filled out the bodice of her dresses.
Now she had matured, and she was no longer that awkward child who had left New
Orleans vowing eternal hatred.
Indeed,
Laurie had been quite the rage in London, Paris, Barcelona, and Rome, where she
had moved in the circles frequented by her French cousins. It had been a gay
whirl of laughter and dancing, and she had loved it. Now she was back, only not
in her beloved New Orleans but in California, where life moved at a snail’s
pace and nothing ever happened.
As
the carriage rolled to a halt in front of a sprawling adobe structure, Laurie
peered out the windows and was pleasantly surprised. A red tile roof and a
profusion of greenery lent the house a comfortable atmosphere and made her
think of Spain, and so when she was helped down from the carriage and Phillip
Allen strode down the walk to greet her, she was smiling.
"Papa!”
she cried in a natural way, and the slightly uneasy expression he wore
vanished.
"My
lovely Laurette!” He opened his arms, and she rushed into them as if she had
only been gone a week instead of five years. "Oh, my child, my lovely child!”
Phillip said over and over, then held her at arm’s length to look at her.
"Though I suppose I should not be referring to you as a child now. You are
definitely quite a young lady, and the most beautiful I have seen!” He said it
with such conviction that she laughed.
"And
you have grown to be quite a flatterer, I see,” she teased, though she was
delighted at his words. When she glimpsed Carlota standing in the arched
doorway watching them, Laurie decided she could be gracious, so she smiled and
said, "I have brought gifts for you and some pretty things that I hope will
please Carlota.”
Putting
an arm around Laurie’s shoulders, Phillip walked her up the tiled
pathway to the house. "I am sure she will be delighted with your gifts,
Laurie,” he said, unconsciously reverting to his old name for her.
Carlota’s
greeting was reserved, and not as spontaneous as her husband’s, but pleasant.
And she exclaimed with pleasure over the painted fans Laurie had brought her,
and the lace mantilla from Spain.
"Thank
you,” Carlota said with a smile that made her sallow features light up most
attractively. For the first time, Laurie could see what had attracted her
father to the Spanish woman. Carlota truly adored Phillip Allen and looked to
his every need and whim with genuine attention. The wine had to be exactly the
right temperature to suit him, and his chair must be just so and his dressing
gown pressed with just the right pleats—Laurette found herself thinking that
her own mother must never have devoted herself to him so completely. It would
stand to reason, as Françoise had not wanted to even live for her husband.
Forcing
such thoughts from her mind, Laurie tried to follow the thread of their
conversation as best she could, until finally Carlota noticed her weariness and
suggested she get some rest.
"We
have been selfish,” Carlota said softly, "and not thought of your long journey.
I shall have Serita show you to your room.”
Gratefully,
Laurie followed the young girl down a hallway to her room. "Here we are,
señorita!” Serita said with a cheerful smile. She was slender and dark
complected, with the lustrous black hair that seemed common in California. She
wore a bright yellow skirt, a scoop-necked loose blouse, and a bright orange
scarf tied around her slender waist, and Laurie thought she looked very pretty
and comfortable. No tight shoes nipped her feet, but a pair of loose leather
sandals slapped against the stone floors.
It
was obvious Serita was measuring her, too, for her dark eyes flicked over
Laurie’s fashionable gown, and she gave a small sigh of envy. "You are so
lovely, with such fine, pale skin—and such lovely gowns, señorita. It must be
wonderful to have such things.”
Laurie
smiled back at her as she unpinned the wide-brimmed bonnet atop her head and
noticed that Serita had already hung up all the clothes from her trunks. They
stood open and empty, her clothing neatly stored in a huge armoire against one
wall. She tossed the bonnet to the bed and sat down in a chair nearby.
"Serita,
I have some things that are too small for me now,” she said in a burst of
generosity. In France it was common for cast-off clothes to be given to the
maids in her aunt’s house, so she thought nothing of offering her clothes so
casually. "Would you care to have them? I think there is a gown that would just
fit you if you would like...”
"Oh
no!” Serita quickly shook her head. "I could not. It would
be... dangerous.”
"Dangerous?”
Laurie laughed. "Come now; it’s just a gown, and I assure you that no one will
think you stole it.”
"That’s
not it, señorita. If a soldado saw it, he might think I had money to pay
for such a gown, then he would think my taxes should be raised,
and... oh, I dare not!”
Puzzled,
Laurie would have said more, but the girl quickly ran from the room. Perhaps it
wasn’t the same here, she mused as she gave a shrug. Alone, Laurie wandered
about the large chamber, looking from the turned-down bed to the ornately
carved dark Spanish furniture. Some of it appeared to be very old, and she
assumed it had been in Carlota’s family for years, as was the ranchero. It wasa lovely old house, with large, airy rooms and tile floors that kept it
cool.
Serita
returned to help Laurie get ready for bed, and she seemed so subdued Laurie did
not attempt to ask her any questions, just thanked her for her attentiveness.
After placing a small carafe of water on the bedside table, Serita left again,
and Laurie realized how tired she was after her long journey. A small courtyard
filled with greenery and sweet-smelling flowers was just outside her
bedchamber. As she lay on the soft mattress that was a welcome relief after the
weeks spent on a ship’s hard cot, the moonlight streaming through the open
doors seemed to smile a welcome to California.
Perhaps
it won’t be so bad, Laurie thought drowsily just before she
drifted to sleep.
She
slept soundly, but was awakened in the night by voices. The moonlight had
faded, and only pale patches lit the floor of her room. Sitting up, Laurie
pushed at tumbled waves of hair in her eyes and strained to hear the voices.
It
was a man and a woman, and they were speaking in guarded tones, the man’s
insistent, the woman’s fearful.
"You
must do so!” the man was saying, and Laurie heard the woman moan with
apprehension.
"But
it is so dangerous, and if the alcalde should find out, we would be executed,
Juan!”
The
man she had called Juan must have grabbed her, for the woman—who sounded like
Serita—gave a soft cry. "Oh! I shall do it, but it is so dangerous in these
times. To hide monies from the tax collectors invites instant death, even if we
starve slowly by paying...”
The
voices faded, and Laurie realized that they must have been passing by her open
doors and windows. She frowned. What had they meant? The alcalde must be the
official responsible for collecting the taxes, and a small amount of resentment
was normal, but those two had sounded almost desperate.
Lying
back down, Laurie made a mental note to ask her father about it the following
day. The thread of true fear in Serita’s voice haunted her.
But
Phillip Allen did not have an easy answer for her question. He frowned, looking
down at his hands. "I do not know who you heard talking,” he said, for Laurie
had not mentioned a name or that she thought it was Serita, "but I am afraid
that they are correct to fear the alcalde. He has imposed
rather... brutal... taxes upon the peons in
Higuera.”
"The
alcalde is the tax collector, then?”
Phillip
shook his head. "No, not really. Usually, you see, there is a governor-general
who is appointed by the central government in Mexico, but Higuera is too small.
You may have noticed the size of the presidio—the fort?”
"Yes,
and I saw very few soldiers lounging about in the sun.”
A
wry smile curved his mouth as Phillip nodded. "Yes, it’s almost unmanned most
of the time. The cannons are old and rusty, and the soldiers undisciplined;
usually just peasants from the countryside who hope to better themselves.
Higuera, instead of having a general, has a military commandant in charge of
the fort and one alcalde. The alcalde is usually elected by the citizens, but
Don Luis was ‘appointed’ by Mexico after his predecessor’s untimely death.”
"And
now he is heavily taxing the peons.”
"Yes,
and the hacendados, too, the wealthy landowners like Carlota’s family.
But they can afford it. The peons cannot so easily afford it.”
"But
some of these people must work for you, Papa. Would the taxes be unbearable for
them? I mean, could you not cushion the severity of their life?”
"As
ambassador, I am required to abide by a few rules myself, Laurie. Foreigners
and Protestants are allowed no rights under the law. And I must truthfully
report the wages I pay the peons and servants who work for me. The soldiers
collect the taxes, and while I do what I can to provide food and lodging for
those people, I’m afraid that it is not very much help to their families.”
As
Carlota joined the breakfast table the conversation changed by unspoken
agreement, and Laurie greeted her stepmother with a smile.
"Good
morning, Carlota. Did you sleep well?”
"Very
well, thank you,” Carlota said, blushing slightly and looking shyly at her
husband.
Laurie
sat in awkward silence, suddenly realizing that her father was a handsome,
virile man who loved his wife, and what that meant. A faint flush stained her
cheeks, for she had learned a great deal in the past five years, and though she
was still a virgin herself, she had listened to the young married girls talk
among themselves quite frankly. It had been another part of her education.
"That
is a very lovely gown you are wearing,” Carlota said after a moment, and Laurie
smiled.
"Thank
you.”
"Don’t
you think it is a little—immodest?” Phillip asked with a faint lift of his
brows.
"Immodest?”
Laurie looked down at her gown, at the low scooped neck that bared just the
smallest hint of her breasts. It was the latest fashion, and she had made a
concession in not wearing one of her other, more daring gowns. In France, such
gowns were common, but she had realized from observing Carlota’s attire that
the fashion had not yet reached the Californios living here. Carlota always
wore a scarf around her neck, pinned with an ornate brooch, but modestly
covering her.
"Well,”
Phillip said quickly, voicing her thoughts, "perhaps it’s just that the latest
fashions have not yet reached California,” and Laurie nodded silently.
She
had already noticed the modest gowns with pinned scarves and the large black
lace mantillas worn in public by most of the women from the upper classes,
covering them from the tops of their heads to their waists in some cases. They
adorned themselves with jewelry and glitter, but did not believe in showing too
much flesh.
Phillip
Allen cleared his throat and pointed to a bowl of fruit. "Some of your
favorites are there, and I know how you love fresh melons.”
"Yes,
I do.” Laurie sipped hastily at her chocolate, a thicker version of the hot
brew than she was accustomed to drinking. "This is very good,” she said when it
seemed as if the conversation lagged. "It’s richer than what the French
prefer.”
"But
not as good as café brulot, eh, Laurie?” her father teased, and she
laughed.
"You
remembered!”
"How
could I forget the scene you made when I refused to allow you to drink it? You
were only six, but oh, what a determined child you were!”
Laurie
smiled at him over the rim of her cup. "I still am, Papa.”
Phillip
nodded, and his gaze met hers. "I rather thought so. You always were
strong-willed.”
"Do
you still like to ride?” Carlota asked after a moment. "Everyone rides here,
from the smallest child to the oldest.”
Laurie
nodded. "Yes, I love to ride.”
"I
will have Paco escort you, if you like. We have some excellent horses, and you
may choose your favorite.” Carlota slid a shy glance toward her husband. "If we
can manage to drag your papa away from his work, perhaps he will ride with us.”
"You
know I’ve been very busy lately, but I will try,” Phillip promised with a
smile.
After
breakfast, Carlota accompanied Laurie outside, where horses roamed freely in
the pastures, trailing long ropes the vaqueros used to catch them.
Laurie stared up the hillside, wide-eyed at the fine-blooded horses peacefully
grazing.
"Why,
they’re beautiful, Carlota!”
"Yes,
my father was quite a horseman and had an eye for bloodlines. These come from
his stock.”
"Where
are the stables?” Laurie asked, and Carlota laughed.
Sweeping
her arms out in an expansive gesture, she said, "The hills are their mangers,
the mountains their fences. We do not stable them here, as you did in New
Orleans. Here, if a man wants to ride, he goes out and catches his mount. When
the horse is weary, he gets another one. It is simple, sí?”
"I
suppose, but don’t they run off? Or get stolen?”
"Sometimes.
But usually they are returned. We brand them with our mark, so that they can be
easily recognized.”
"Brand
them?”
Carlota
nodded and explained to Laurie how marks were burned into them or the ears
notched. They walked as they talked, under huge shady trees and the
long-trunked, top-heavy trees called palms. The mountains edged the horizon,
and the gentle hillsides were green and fertile, spreading as far as the eye
could see. Laurie took a deep breath, detecting the salty tang of the ocean on
the currents.
A
warm sun beat down, and Laurie was grateful for her thin cotton gown with
short, puffed sleeves and a low bodice. It seemed to be drawing Carlota’s
attention, however, and after a moment the older woman said in a hesitant
voice, "Girls here don’t usually wear such...
daring... gowns until after they are married, you know.”
Laurie
laughed gaily. "Really? What’s the point after they’re married? I mean, I
thought a pretty gown was meant to attract a suitor, didn’t you?”
"This
is not New Orleans,” Carlota said after a moment. "It is not the same here.
This is a small village, and here the girls must wear proper gowns.” She
cleared her throat when Laurie did not reply, then said more strongly, "I
promised your papa I would say something to you about it. He wants people
here—my family and some of the older families—to accept you without
reservation.”
"And
they won’t if my gowns are too risqué?” Laurie’s voice was brittle, and Carlota
gave an unhappy sigh.
"No,
they won’t. It could endanger your papa’s position here, you understand.”
Some
of the brightness faded from the day, but Laurie could see how unhappy the
conversation was making Carlota and bit back a sharp retort.
"I
see,” she said. "Perhaps I should wear a modesty-bit and a shawl, then.”
"Perhaps,”
Carlota said, and Laurie had the dismaying thought that the auspicious
beginning of her stay in California was quickly fading.
When
Laurie appeared at lunch in the same gown, she wore a thin scarf tucked into
the bodice and pinned, and a light shawl or mantilla was draped over her head
and shoulders. Phillip seemed pleased with her concessions, and Carlota smiled
gratefully, but to Laurie it was a sharp reminder that California was not New
Orleans or Europe.
Here
she was called Doña Laurie by the servants, a term of respect accorded her. And
she could not leave the hacienda without a dueña right behind her as chaperon,
another irritating reminder that she was far from home.
Another
reminder came the next day.
Carlota
Alvarado y Allen’s hacienda lay just on the eastern edge of Higuera, on a slope
overlooking the town. To reach the market near the harbor, they had to
ride through the town. On this day, soldiers had cordoned off the square and
were publicly flogging a man.
Laurie
paled and turned to her father. "What are they doing, Papa? Why?”
Phillip’s
face was grim, his mouth a taut line. "Taxes. He must have tried to withhold
more than he was supposed to withhold. The new alcalde has invested a great
deal of time and energy in collecting the correct amount of taxes, it seems,
and raises them every time the wind shifts direction from east to
west... but I speak out of turn. It’s not my place to
interfere with the existing government, but to maintain diplomatic relations
with the Californian people here.”
"How
can you remain neutral when that poor man is being beaten?” Laurie demanded.
"Doesn’t it sicken you?”
"More
than you know,” Phillip replied tersely and signaled to the driver to turn
around.
It
was when the carriage was maneuvering in the tight space bounded by the crowd
of silent peons ordered to watch the punishment that Laurie recognized Serita.
She was at the edge of the crowd, her face pale and eyes wide as she held up
her hands in a pleading gesture. The soldiers paid her no attention, but
continued to flog the now-unconscious man tied to a post.
That
evening, Laurie confronted the red-eyed maid. "It was you I heard under my
window the other night,” she said, then put out a hand when Serita gave a
frightened gasp. "I don’t intend to say anything. But—why, Serita? If you
needed more money, why didn’t you come to my father or even to me?”
Looking
down at her sandaled feet, the girl muttered, "It would not have mattered. If
we gave them more, then the next time they would expect the same amount, or
even more. And my family, they cannot continue paying such outrageous sums.”
"I’ll
speak to my father, and we...”
"Oh
no!” Serita begged. "Por favor, Doña Laurie! Do not do so! If Don Luis
should discover that one of the peons has complained to the American
ambassador, it would be very bad. And at least Juan was only beaten and not
killed.”
"Don
Luis is the alcalde?”
Serita
nodded. "Sí. And he has spies everywhere. It is not easy now since he came to
Higuera, but we must live. Surely you understand.”
Staring
into the girl’s frightened brown eyes, Laurie nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose I
do. If there is anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
Serita
laughed bitterly. "Unless you can steal back our pesos, there is nothing! We
will starve one day, and the alcalde will have no one else to steal from.” Then,
as if frightened by what she’d said, the girl clapped a hand over her mouth and
fled, leaving Laurie to ponder her words.
