Autumn Sage

by Genevieve Turner

  Too bad the three of them put together had no more sense than God gave a goose. Perhaps less, since geese knew to fly south for the winter, but the Alvarado girls didn’t have the brains to come in from the cold.

  Thank goodness it never froze in Los Angeles.

  They swarmed Isabel in the entry, assaulting her with embraces, kisses, and questions until her head throbbed from the warmth of their welcome.

  “Girls!” her mother said with a sharp clap of her hands. “We’re here all week. Please let us get through the door.”

  They scattered to the parlor.

  Once Isabel and her mother had washed the travel dust from their faces, they found their way to the front parlor, where the table was set for tea and the air was thick with the scent of roses.

  Isabel breathed deeply before settling on a sofa next to Pilar. Pilar was the middle of the sisters and tended to be the one most likely to speak sensibly. Sometimes.

  It also gave her a clear view of the windows, with none at her back.

  Her mother and the Don sat themselves in a far corner of the room, no doubt to discuss things the children shouldn’t hear.

  Dolores, the eldest girl and de facto mistress of the house since her mother had passed, handed Isabel a dainty cup with enviable grace. “Do tell us how you are faring, Cousin Isabel.”

  “Well enough.” They knew why she was here; hopefully they would take that answer as a warning not to discuss the details further. She took a sip of her tea. Much too weak for her taste and already a touch cold.

  The pleasantries out of the way, Pilar leaned forward, an absurdly excited look on her face. “I have the most shocking news about Rosa Verdugo. You remember Rosa.”

  “Faintly.” No doubt they were related in some convoluted way and they’d met once, briefly, at some family function.

  “She…” Pilar paused for effect. “Is marrying…” Another pause. “A Scotsman.”

  That last was hissed so low, the S seemed to go on forever.

  “A Scotsman?” Isabel searched her mind for something that could be shocking about a Scotsman. “Does he wear a kilt like Waverley?”

  Daria gasped. “No. Do you think he might one day? And we’ll see his bare legs?” She mouthed the last two words to escape the attention of the Señora and the Don.

  “I should die if I saw a man’s bare legs,” Dolores whispered.

  “That bodes ill for your marriage,” Isabel murmured behind her teacup.

  Pilar flapped her hands. “Forget about his legs. He’s a Presbyterian! And there’s something even worse.”

  “Worse than being a Presbyterian?” This Isabel had to hear. Did he have cloven hooves instead of feet?

  Daria compressed her lips, then bravely went forward. “His hair is… orange.”

  Isabel blinked as Pilar nodded solemnly. “Yes. It looks like he has carrot peelings atop his head.”

  “I couldn’t look at such hair for the rest of my life,” Dolores said, bringing her hand to her breast. “It would hurt my eyes so.”

  Isabel studied the tray of food. She preferred to speak of books or something similarly elevating—or at the very least, people she actually knew.

  She reached for a plate. There were some dainty tortas, the cilantro topping them greenly fragrant, and little pastel cafes as well, sprinkled with cinnamon and studded with pecans.

  She glanced up to catch Dolores sliding her a sly look. “I know one man who has fine, dark hair,” her cousin said archly.

  Her scalp prickled. They could not possibly be speaking of…

  “Marshal Spencer!” Dolores finished triumphantly. The volume of her voice made Isabel flinch. “We hear he apprehended your outlaw.” Her cousin tried for serious, but spoiled the effect with a titter. “Isn’t he utterly too much?”

  “Too much of what?” Isabel asked coolly.

  “So thrilling,” Pilar went on, “how he captured that man! Tell me, did he appear quite savage when he did it? Because he appeared quite savage the time we saw him.”

  Savage? If anything, he was remarkably controlled. It was only his size that made him appear savage.

  That and his shocking attack on McCade. Then he’d appeared savage indeed.

  She took a sip of tea as she gathered her thoughts. What to say about the marshal?

  “Well?” Dolores demanded.

  Her mother sent them a quelling look from across the room. “Well-bred young ladies should not be discussing a gentleman in a familiar manner.”

  Pilar and Dolores had the grace to blush, but Daria never removed the simper from her face.

  Isabel leaned toward her cousins and pitched her voice a little lower, a dash of heat blooming under her skin. She hoped she hadn’t an answering flush across her cheeks. “You’re familiar with the marshal?”

  Her mother might disapprove, but curiosity burned a hole in her stomach, right through her morals.

  “Of course we are,” Pilar answered. The three tittered again, ignoring the Señora’s stern expression. “His mother is a Vasquez.”

  “Cousin Enrique,” the Señora said, a bit too loudly, “please, tell us all about the La Fiesta parade.”

  She was clearly announcing that the children should stop speaking.

  The Don smiled brightly and clasped his hands together. “I was Grand Marshal last year. Of course, this year it was cancelled, thanks to this terrible war, but never fear. Next year it will go on once more and I’m certain to be Grand Marshal again. They say I give an authentic feel to the festivities.”

  “How lovely,” the Señora murmured.

  Isabel turned back to her cousins. “What do you know of the marshal?” she whispered. The girls were terrible gossips, which she normally frowned upon, but such information could only aid her in dealings with the marshal.

  Her curiosity wasn’t a bit prurient.

  The three leaned in close, almost knocking their heads together.

  “We don’t see him much,” Dolores said. “His mother visits occasionally, but he’s only accompanied her once.”

  “He was very stern.” Daria shuddered theatrically.

  Isabel pressed her lips together. She already knew all of that. Was that the best these three had? Is he worse than that Scotsman? she wanted to ask.

  Pilar said in the barest whisper, “They say his father drank himself to death.”

  Isabel sat back in shock. Now that was something new. She remembered his pronouncement that he never touched alcohol. His fervency made perfect sense now.

  “Who are they?” she whispered back.

  Pilar shrugged, obviously uninterested in the source—true or false, it was too salacious not to repeat.

  “He’s quite well off,” Dolores said.

  “Yes, it’s a shame he’s not married by now,” Daria added.

  The three sisters exchanged a look.

  “What?” Isabel asked. “What was that about?”

  “Papa says the marshal would make a fine match for one of us,” Pilar said.

  “But…” said Daria.

  “He’s too stern,” Dolores finished.

  “Too brutish,” Pilar offered.

  “Too… much,” Daria said.

  Her cousins were correct; a few years of marriage to the marshal would turn one of these three to dust. Isabel could hardly imagine the marshal married to anyone, really. No lady would want those cold gray eyes trained on her for a lifetime.

  But then she remembered his lips on the back of her hand, her fingers trying to curl round the warmth of his breath…

  A lady might like a lifetime of that. She might like a lifetime of that.

  A knock at the front door sent every neck craning toward the hallway. The patter of the maid’s feet came as she hurried to answer.

  “My daughters, were we expecting another visitor today?” the Don asked.

  All three girls shook their heads.

  The door gave a whining squeal as it opened. The heavy tread of booted feet approached, accom
panied by a rapid swishing.

  She knew who it was. She recognized that step, remembered it behind her on the stairs at their very first meeting. Something bloomed deep within her at the knowledge—lush, blood red, thorny. She didn’t even try to force it to wilt.

  Isabel slowly raised her gaze to find him in the doorway, immaculate as ever in a perfectly fitting black suit. The sight of the marshal sent her stomach tripping up to her throat, her heart jumping to join it.

  She didn’t care that he was too stern, too brutish, too much—she craved the sight of him. Seeing him there, so still and solemn, as unmoving as the mountains—everything might be all right now.

  Irrational, yes, but her reason was gravely listing with this unexpected visit from him.

  On his arm was a tiny doll of a woman, in a dress a decade out of fashion, pearl gray to match her upswept hair. She was about the same age as Isabel’s mother, but with a kind, painfully open smile. A smile her mother had never and would never wear.

  This must be Marshal Spencer’s mother. How did a woman with a smile so open produce a son so guarded?

  Don Enrique practically fluttered as he rose to greet them. “Señora Vasquez! What a lovely surprise.” He craned his neck to look up at the marshal. “You’ve brought your son. How… unexpected.”

  “My son wished to pay his respects to Señora and Señorita Moreno. I thought I might accompany him to visit you and your lovely daughters.” Señora Vasquez’s voice was as sweet and delicate as the rest of her. After carefully settling herself across from Isabel’s mother, Señora Vasquez accepted a cup of tea with a hand as fine as the china cup itself.

  But there was something amiss. Señora Vasquez’s ring finger stuck out at an odd, painful angle, and a fine network of scars was patterned like lace across the back of her hand. Her gaze rising to the lady’s face, Isabel found more evidence of violence written on her—a bump on the bridge of her nose, more scars climbing out of her high collar to twine up her neck.

  And the marshal, looming over his mother: his hands bore the same scars. She could suddenly see nothing else.

  It all clicked into place.

  She had seen this innumerable times in her students. It began with a bruise or a cut, which soon enough faded. Then the bruises and cuts began to pile atop one another as the students slowly shrank in on themselves. The mother often bore the same signs.

  Always the same thing was whispered about the father: he was a drunkard.

  She’d witnessed too often the wages of violence and alcohol in her students—every bruise, every cut, every ashamed flinch sickened her. The innocent should never suffer for the weakness of men.

  She guessed that the marshal and his mother had paid those wages personally.

  She looked up at him and her breath caught. As he waved away Pilar’s offer of tea, his gaze locked onto her in the most unsettling manner, searching her face. He lifted his eyebrow the barest fraction, as if he knew what she was thinking.

  She swallowed hard, dropping her gaze.

  Of course he couldn’t read her thoughts. He’d said as much before.

  “Señora Vasquez,” Don Enrique said, “allow me to introduce my cousin, Señora Maria Dolores Alvarado Jaramillo de Moreno, and her daughter, Isabel.” The marshal’s mother nodded to each of them in turn. “Of course, they are both already familiar with your son.”

  Every head in the room turned to the marshal, and Isabel almost laughed at the discomfort twisting his mouth, the spark of unease lightening his eyes. He hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t sociable. His clothes might be fit for a drawing room, but it was plain to see he did not like being the center of attention in one.

  “I had the pleasure of meeting these fine ladies in Cabrillo,” the marshal responded, “and when I heard they would be arriving in Los Angeles, I wished to pay my respects.” Those eyes drilled into her again. “And to introduce them to my mother.”

  Her cousins looked as though he’d announced some sort of romantic expectation. How absurd. His interest in her was solely one of obligation.

  “How kind of you to check up on us,” Isabel said coolly. “Don’t worry, Marshal Spencer. I fully intend to do my duty.”

  “What my daughter means to say,” her mother cut in with a sharp look toward her, “is that while testifying in this trial may be difficult, she is eager for the opportunity to put this outlaw in jail.”

  Difficult. Her stomach twisted at the reminder of the ordeal she still had to face, the real reason why the marshal was here: the trial.

  “Indeed,” said Señora Vasquez. “Señorita Isabel is most brave to testify at that trial. I think not one girl in ten could have such fortitude.”

  She sent Isabel a smile so sympathetic, so true, the blood rushed to Isabel’s cheeks that she had attempted to be rude to her son.

  “Señorita Moreno’s bravery would not be found in one in a hundred girls,” he agreed.

  Now she was truly mortified, heat flaming across her face. She hated this—being embarrassed, being the center of attention, receiving compliments from the marshal—she had to stop it.

  “You needn’t skulk like Mr. Darcy,” she said. “There are plenty of seats for everyone.”

  She thought he’d be confused by the reference or, worse, annoyed. Instead, the corners of his mouth twitched slightly and he went round the sofa to sit right next to her. Which might have been worse than complimenting her.

  “You’re quite correct, Señorita,” he murmured. “I needn’t behave like an arrogant oaf. Especially since I haven’t the wealth or social standing for it. But you, however, do have a very fine pair of eyes.”

  As his own very fine pair of eyes stared into hers, something quite fierce clutched at her insides, stealing her breath.

  He was so closed, so reserved, he must have truly meant what he said.

  He’s only interested in justice, and you are merely a tool in that quest. Fine eyes or not.

  “Ladies,” he said to her cousins, “would you permit Señorita Moreno and I a few private moments? So that we might discuss the trial?”

  The three of them were up in a flash. Her cousins moved away to the piano in the corner, all three crowding onto the bench together.

  The marshal angled himself so that he and she formed a cozy T, the two of them like half-opened bookends.

  “The bail hearing was this morning,” he said in an undertone, canting his head toward hers.

  She was grateful for his attempt to keep this between them, even as her skin prickled at his nearness. “And?” she prompted.

  “No bail. He’s to remain in custody.”

  A quiver of relief shimmied to her very toes. “Oh. Oh, that is good news. Thank you.”

  His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I had nothing to do with it. I’m only the bearer.”

  “The bearer of good news also deserves gratitude.”

  His expression tilted toward discomfort before he recovered. “I’ll bring the prosecutor by tomorrow,” he said briskly. “He’ll help to prepare you for the trial, which will begin the day after.”

  That was worse news—no doubt the prosecutor would want a piercingly detailed dissection of her story.

  “I’ll remain with you throughout the day to ensure your safety,” he finished.

  She blinked at him in shock. “But you said… He’s going to remain in custody.” Her chest heaved. “What is there to fear?”

  “Nothing,” he admitted. “Simply a precaution.”

  She watched him for a long moment, especially studying his eyes, since those often escaped the hard mask he set his features into. She found nothing but firm assurance.

  “I meant what I said. About your eyes.”

  Such a thing, spoke so steadily—never had a man’s words flustered her more.

  “Thank you,” she said, wishing she had Catarina’s trick of graciously accepting compliments. “Shall we move on to discussing some other novel you’ve never read?”

  His eyes
gleamed quicksilver. “What novels do you think I haven’t read?”

  She, who read with a passion each and every day, found her mind curiously blank of even a single title. She seized on the first name to float free. “Waverley!”

  He closed his eyes in a moment of disgust. “If you mean to turn my taste toward novels, choosing a tasteless romance set in a place I’ve no desire to visit is not the way to do it.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “A well-read lady like yourself can do better than that.”

  Was he actually… flirting with her?

  She didn’t have enough experience to tell, not with him or with men in general. Aside from Joaquin, no man had ever paid her any considered attention. Joaquin preferred practicality to flowery speech, and had rarely complimented her. If asked, she would have said she, too, preferred practicality, yet she found herself unacceptably pleased by the marshal’s attention.

  “You don’t read novels.” He opened his mouth and she quieted him with a shake of her finger. She placed that same finger against her lips as she studied him. “You strike me as a philosophical sort of man.”

  “I have read some philosophy.” Now the quicksilver was in his voice as well. It tickled her, that change in his voice.

  “Theology as well, I’d imagine,” she said.

  “You’d imagine correctly.”

  “I would guess that you’ve read St. Augustine.”

  “I confess to that one.”

  She pressed her lips hard together to keep the smile from them. “And Cardinal Newman?”

  “Of course. I thought you were going to make this difficult, Señorita.”

  She thought back to her first impression of him. “And St. Ignatius?”

  His eyes flashed some deep emotion, painful to see, guttering like a candle before being snuffed out. “Yes.”

  He went to utter stillness, the teasing air doused.

  He’d exposed himself, and when she’d touched a sensitive spot, he’d withdrawn. There was a code to the marshal, if one took the trouble to decipher it.

  She wasn’t one to shy from a difficult task.

  Time to change the subject and allow him his retreat. “Tell me, what really brings you here on this visit?” she asked. “You yourself said you don’t pay many social calls.”