“‘Know in order to foresee, foresee in order to work,’ I suppose? Positivism at its best. A ‘Triumph and Study over Ignorance and Sloth’ motto that works well in theory, but is not always practical. You see, I am familiar with Gabino Barreda as well. A brilliant man with most intriguing hypotheses, but shortsighted in applying them to modern life, I fear.”
“Juarez didn’t think so.”
“Juarez is dead. And so, for the most part, is his effort to educate an entire country in Positivist philosophy. Despite Barreda’s noble efforts, it is far more practical to the rural youth to have enough food than it is to follow elitist dogma, however virtuous in concept it may be. I’m surprised you’d think it practical.”
“Not practical, just idealistic.” Steve grimaced. “I find that the thought of my own children growing up in a world where the first solution to disagreement is all-out war is somewhat daunting.”
“Ah. Yes, of course. You’ve become well-acquainted with your children now, haven’t you? How old are they?”
“That’s not the point.” Steve folded his cards, shoved them toward the middle of the table.
Bishop’s cigar made an arc, gray ash drifting to the table to lie in a fine powder over cards and oilcloth. “Then what is the point?”
Impatiently, Steve reached for the bottle of bourbon, poured a half glass in a dingy tumbler and sipped it. “It should be fairly obvious. I’m ready for peace, not war.”
In the thick silence that descended on the room, Bishop regarded the men with an opaque gaze, his eyes moving from one to the other before coming to rest on Steve’s wary face.
“The situation in Mexico is dangerous. A few years ago, when the French were involved, the outcome was never really in doubt. We knew the French would not stay in a country that was not their own once the tide turned against them. But this is different. Díaz is Mexican, an Indian from Oaxaca just like Juarez. It’s his country—he’ll fight to keep it.
“There is an ancient principle of politics that a revolution devours its children. It happened in France during the Terror, and it happened to Maximilian in Mexico. During the Reform War and the French intervention as well, Díaz distinguished himself as the strong right arm of the Liberal cause. By the time the French were ousted, he was a general and well-known throughout Mexico. It was a matter of great pride to him that he was so influential, a staunch ally of Juarez until their estrangement.”
When Bishop paused, eyes squinting against the curl of cigar smoke, Tige tossed his cards to the table. “What happened to estrange them, if Díaz was so close to Juarez?”
A ring of smoke drifted into the air above the table as Bishop pursed his lips. “It was the kind of misunderstanding that causes wars and revolutions. When Juarez was making a triumphal entry into Mexico City after beating the French, General Díaz rode out to meet his old friend and mentor, wearing a brilliant uniform and riding a splendid white horse. It was a statement of pride, a triumphant moment when he expected, and rightly so, to be greeted with courtesy and gratitude. After all, he had been wounded twice, escaped capture three times, and for three years led forces that inflicted nine defeats on the imperialists. Not only that, he had gained a reputation for honesty by returning to the government an eighty-seven-thousand-peso surplus that had not been spent during the long Juarez campaign against Maximilian.
“But when he rode out to meet Juarez, the new president extended no greeting, no gratitude, but merely nodded curtly and signaled for his coachman to drive on. It was a crushing blow to Díaz’s pride, an undeserved humiliation.”
Tige whistled softly. “Did Juarez suspect him of treachery?”
“No, I think it was more a case of principle. Juarez was antimilitary. After the defeat of Maximilian he dismissed two-thirds of his army, as Morgan can attest. But after that, Díaz was no longer in Juarez’s camp. He resigned his commission and retired to La Noria, a hacienda in Oaxaca that the grateful state awarded him in 1867. And from there, he began plotting to overthrow Juarez. His attempts to be elected president failed, as Juarez narrowly won against Díaz and Lerdo in ’71. Then Díaz claimed that the election was fraudulent, and demanded the overthrow of Juarez.
“That revolt failed, and when Juarez died in 1872, Lerdo, as chief justice of the supreme court, succeeded him as president. Since Lerdo has been so unpopular, it was easier for Díaz to revolt this past January. It seems that he will succeed this time.”
Frowning, Tige, a beefy man with close-set eyes and a good-natured face, shook his head. “What is the United States’ position on this? Do we want Lerdo or Díaz?”
“Either one can be manipulated, or bought, into acceding to our interests, but Lerdo has been particularly generous with his concessions. What we must do, gentlemen, is ascertain that Díaz is just as amenable should he succeed in his coup—and we must be ready.”
Steve leaned forward, crushed his cigar into the glass ashtray. “And that is where I come in as ambassador, I presume. I’m to humor the victor.”
“Not necessarily.” Bishop’s smile was thin. “There are, shall we say, certain factions that have invested heavily in Lerdo. Díaz is an unknown quantity to some of these men. He could destroy them if he chooses. Some of these investors are powerful. Lust for wealth and domination is a dangerous motivation. Unscrupulous men are capable of endangering the peace efforts and negotiations underway, and at this time, we do not want to risk another war between Mexico and the United States. I’m certain we all agree on that, gentlemen. It is even more risky when the diverse actions of some are sanctioned by the law of a foreign power that lies so close to our borders. The threat of losing land and wealth can make men act—precipitately.”
“You mean, they’ll fight to save their holdings before Díaz takes them away.” Butch Casey, the Texan that Steve had met years before in California, leaned forward, elbows on the table and his fingers forming a steeple under his bearded chin. “If Lerdo is ousted, the lands he sold could be reclaimed. If Americans fight back, we’ve got a war on our hands with Mexico.”
“Yes.” Bishop shoved aside the cards to clear a space on the oilcloth, and began to draw a map of Chihuahua. “I happen to know that a certain senator from Virginia has purchased a large hacienda right here, along the border. It’s being mined for silver and copper, and stands to be exceedingly profitable. I am certain he would stop at very little to save his interests. Right now, the senator has a private railroad, but the Central Pacific has recently purchased rights to run tracks through the property, giving the American government the perfect opportunity to supervise the situation as ore from the mines is transported north. It has also incurred the avid interest of the Mexican faction, and needs to be monitored.”
It didn’t take a map to see the direction in which Bishop was heading the conversation.
Steve sat back in his chair, mouth curled into a wry smile as he met Bishop’s opaque gaze. “Since Ginny’s father is involved, it stands to reason that her presence in Mexico City is expected and perfectly natural.”
“Exactly. And since she insisted upon coming with you, how better to learn what each side is doing than to have a foot in both camps?” Bishop coughed discreetly. “Of course, our government cannot acknowledge any part in this, as everyone here is aware. But there is backup available. Casey is known in a few towns along the Mexican border, and Charley has taken a job at the mines. All that remains now is for a man accepted as a Mexican landowner and ambassador of goodwill to be included in the Mexicans’ confidence. It could avert a full-scale war between the two countries, which would only end badly for Mexico, especially since the country is already in the throes of a struggle between Lerdo and Díaz.”
“Damn you,” Steve said without rancor. By now, he should be accustomed to Bishop’s machinations. And the man was right. Another war between the United States and Mexico would be disastrous for both sides, too newly recovering from catastrophic civil wars.
“When do you plan to leave?”
&nb
sp; Steve poured another half glass of bourbon, downed it in one shot and shrugged.
“I’ll let you know. Don’t bother with the usual reminder about being on my own—I never forget it.” He stood up, chair legs scraping loudly on the floor. “But this time, I want you to stay out of it. Let me work alone. That means that I’m not involving Ginny. It’s too dangerous.”
“Of course.”
But despite Bishop’s too swift agreement, an uneasy suspicion lingered. It wouldn’t be that easy to keep her out of it. Not once they arrived in Mexico. He had learned the hard way that no plan was perfect, no scheme safe.
What the hell would Ginny say?
9
“William, I do wish you would find a way to talk Ginny out of going to Mexico.”
William Brandon frowned slightly. “I agree it is unwise of her to go, especially now, with Díaz threatening to take over the presidency. Damn him, it could ruin everything I’ve worked for this past year if he does manage to overthrow Lerdo. Another revolution endangers my new investments.”
Sonya paused in brushing her hair, her arm still lifted and lamplight gleaming on the silver-backed hairbrush in one hand. “You have investments in Mexico as well?”
“Of course. It’s legal, and quite profitable. Since Congress passed laws allowing railroad access into Mexico, it’s smoothed the way to transport raw and smelted ore back into the United States. I stand to make more money than ever now that President Grant’s Specie Resumption Act has made greenbacks redeemable in gold or silver coin. Dr. Durant’s lobbying has paid off for all of us, it seems.”
In the sudden silence, he laughed wryly. “Don’t tell me you disapprove? But my dear, that would be so hypocritical of you. It’s the money I’ve made from Mexican mines that purchased the Delery plantation, and even that hairbrush you’re using.”
Sonya dropped the hairbrush as if burned, and whirled to face him, her pale face rigid with distaste. “Do you have any scruples at all, William?”
His tone hard, he said, “More than you at times, my dear. After all, it was you who slept with your son-in-law, wasn’t it?”
“Damn you! You know very well that was a long time ago, during the war when you were so far away and he…he was so persistent. And that was before he’d even met Ginny, so don’t pretend otherwise.” Hugging her arms around her body, clad in a silk peignoir that floated around her like soft ivory mist, Sonya turned away again and moved to the long windows that looked out on a small balcony. “Oh God, it seems that my penance for it is to be forever haunted by him. I wish he would go to Mexico and stay there! It would be better if I never had to see him again, hear him call me Belle-Mère in that drawling contemptible voice, and know that he remembers everything—”
Halting abruptly, she whirled back around to face her husband, still seated in a straight-backed chair near the fire. “You have no excuse, William. Whether you want to admit it or not, the world knows Ginny as your daughter. You still love her, I think, though at times I wonder what you really do love. Did you ever love me, I wonder….”
“You’re talking rubbish.” He stamped a foot irritably on the thick carpet spread near the hearth. “Plain rubbish.”
“Am I? I don’t think so.”
“Do you think it’s easy for me, constantly walking a fine line between factions that are out for blood? And I do not mean just a figurative manner of speech, but a literal one as well. Steve Morgan is one of the most ruthless men I’ve ever met in my life, and God only knows what drives him to do the things he does, or why Virginia keeps coming back to him. Christ, after that debacle two years ago, then the rumors that nearly ruined me before, in San Francisco with her Russian prince…I do what I have to do to survive, my dear, as you should appreciate instead of condemn.”
Sonya shuddered lightly and turned back to the window. Rain slid down glass panes, tiny rivulets like crystal, forming spidery tracks. She thought of the Beaudine plantation that she had inherited from her first husband, wild and impetuous Raoul, whom she had loved so much. She could hardly bear to go there anymore. There were too many memories, first of Raoul, then of Steve Morgan, the young Union captain who had taken what she’d so freely given, hating herself at the time but unable to resist the urges of her own body.
Yes, she had told William she hated Steve Morgan and she thought she must. He had humiliated her, preferring a quadroon girl to her, even fighting a duel over the girl! And then, even worse, he had married her stepdaughter so that she could never be completely free of him.
So why did it suddenly matter to her that Ginny not go to Mexico? Why should she care if the girl endangered herself?
Perhaps because, despite their differences and the frequent times she didn’t even like Ginny, she recognized in her a resilience and courage that was to be admired. It was a grudging admiration, for after all that had happened to her over the years, Ginny had survived. Some of the stories of her past were too horrible to contemplate, the indignities she’d endured far more humiliating than anything imaginable. Yet Ginny didn’t surrender. She kept her head up and her eyes on the future.
It was, in a strange way, inspiring.
Some of the despair of the past weeks began to lift, and Sonya turned away from the window. Even after William had fallen asleep beside her, she could not sleep for the restless thoughts spinning in her head. Memories of the last time Ginny had been in New Orleans summoned all too familiar premonitions.
Something terrible was going to happen. It always did when Steve Morgan was involved. If only Ginny had stayed safely in London with her children. Disaster loomed, and there was nothing Sonya could do to prevent it….
“Really, Sonya,” Ginny said with a lift of her brow, “I am capable of making my own decisions. While I appreciate your concern, I assure you that the situation isn’t nearly as bad as you may think.”
It was quiet in the drawing room, the servants having already brought a tray of hot Louisiana coffee and the small pastries that Sonya loved. Dustings of sugar frosted steamy pastries, the sweet smell almost cloying. A low fire burned, and the sharp light of late summer streamed in through floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a wide gallery.
Frustration creased Sonya’s brow, a slight furrow in a face that was rarely allowed to reflect her emotions. Her gown was a flattering deep-rose silk, her pale skin flawless still, save for a tiny network of lines at the corners of her blue eyes as she looked at Ginny.
“I told William you wouldn’t listen.”
“Listen to what? Vague warnings of doom should I go to Mexico? Steve’s grandfather is still influential there and has many friends in high places.”
“Yes, and he was influential the last time, and it did you no good. Ginny, listen to me! I don’t know why I feel this way, but I do. No, don’t turn away, please! It’s all so wrong, don’t you see? The rebellion going on, the threat of another revolution, and then the unrest along the borders. You know far better than I how dangerous it can be. Why will you risk your life?”
Ginny took a sip of the hot chicory coffee; it scalded a path down her throat, strong and bitter. “Because I do not want to be separated from my husband again.”
The truth of her reply stunned them both. For several moments the only sounds were those of the logs in the fire and the distant hum of servants beyond the closed doors. It was an illuminating self-discovery.
The delicate Limoges cup Sonya held rattled slightly in its saucer, breaking the spell the truth had cast. “I see. Even if it greatly endangers you?”
“Yes. Even if it takes me from my children for a time, even if I risk grave peril. Oh, don’t you see? I’ve changed. I don’t know how or why, but after all this time—the years I’ve resisted what I felt, hated him, distrusted him, wished I’d never met him—I’ve realized that he’s the reason behind all I’ve done, even if indirectly. I can’t help what has happened to me beyond my will, but I can help what I do now. I intend to go with him.”
Sonya gave a helpless
sound, a mixture of a sigh and a sob. Carefully, she set down the delicate cup and saucer, slender fingers arranging it on the tray as if it were vitally important that it sit exactly right. Then she said, “At least be careful. The situation in Mexico is volatile. There’s more at stake than just the resignation of one president in favor of another. There are men who will stop at little to hold their interests, and who may be involved in the efforts to keep their choice in power.”
“I didn’t realize you cared about politics in Mexico, or even in the United States,” Ginny said.
“Normally, I don’t.” A tiny frown creased her brow, and she lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. Blond hair caught the light from the window, a soft gleam that framed her face; she looked worried, somehow, something not usually associated with Sonya. “You’ll do what you want, of course.”
“Yes.” Ginny leaned forward, set her cup on the tray next to Sonya’s and rose, her hands smoothing the soft bronze folds of her cotton riding habit over her slender hips. “It’s getting late. I have so much to do before we leave, and I promised I would not be too long. Do you like it here? It’s lovely, and much closer to the city than I thought it would be. It took hardly any time at all to ride out—”
Sonya had risen, too, and said quickly, as if to forestall any questions, “You will go up and bid farewell to your father before you leave, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course. He seems to tire easily these days. I suppose it’s taken him much longer to recover from his injuries than even he thought it would. After all, he almost died from that bullet. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for him.”
“Yes. He used to wonder where you were when he was still so feverish. It took some time for him to realize that you were missing. And, of course, we thought you dead for a long time, until—until we learned you had survived.”
“I imagine it was quite a shock for all of you.”
Savage Desire Page 9
