“Not if we have to go through with this, no.”
“Even if we don’t.” He swallowed, then seemed to steel himself to go on. “Gloria, there is something I must tell you.”
She could not read his eyes, but his mouth trembled. “Oh Joe,” she whispered. Her stomach rolled with dread. “Please tell me you are not ill. That they have poisoned you despite all our precautions.”
“No. I am not ill. But …” He cleared his throat. “Gloria, I have been deceiving you. Deceiving everyone. I am not the Viceroy’s bastard half brother.”
It took her a moment to adjust her expectations of bad news to such an innocuous reality. “That does not signify. It is your resemblance to him that counts, not your relationship.”
“I am his bastard half sister.”
His words made no sense. In a morning that had seen her entire life turned upside down, she could not bear any more. “Joe, this is no time for levity and nonsense. We must come up with a plan, and I cannot do it alone.”
“My name is not Joe,” he said in the same flat tone. “My name is Honoria Luisa de San Gregorio, and I am a woman.”
“No, you aren’t,” she objected stubbornly. Had he gone mad?
He rose and, to her utter astonishment, began to disrobe. “Joe! For heaven’s sake, what are you doing? What if someone should come in? Stop it! Stop it at once!” She had no desire to see him unclothed. The only man she—
Gloria’s frantic thoughts ground to a halt as his shirt came off. Then his belt.
Her very brain stalled.
Acknowledged the evidence of her own eyes.
She raised her gaze to that familiar face that from one moment to the next had become the face of a perfect stranger. Now it was her turn to be utterly bereft of speech.
Joe—Honoria—tucked in his—her—shirt and buckled her belt, then shrugged on the short black jacket. “I am sorry to have embarrassed you, but sometimes actions are stronger than words.”
“How—how—all this time—Evan—the prison—”
“I wear a device invented by May Lin that enables me to behave as a man as long as I am able to remain at least partially dressed. So far, I have managed it.”
“But—but—why—”
“Gloria, you know as well as I what can happen to a woman alone here. Someone had to smuggle information to the witches. Someone had to sow the seeds of revolution. It happens to be a talent of mine—and it was only once I was shanghaied to work on the dam that I could no longer do what I had been sent to do.”
But Gloria could not think of politics when this revelation had much more personal consequences. “Does Ella know?”
Honoria’s face warmed with humor, and her long-lashed eyes twinkled. “Of course. We have loved each other since we were children. But of course, society being what it is, we can never marry.”
Any student at St. Cecilia’s Academy for Young Ladies knew that friendships among girls reached many levels of affection and intimacy. And during her sojourn with the witches, Gloria had learned that love came in many shapes and forms. Now that she herself had experienced the fullness of love, it broke her heart to know that these brave women, who had shouldered the burden that Gloria had thrust upon them with such grace and skill, could never know the fullest, most sanctioned of its joys.
But then, perhaps they had found joy another way. Perhaps there was more to love than a document that conferred a title and status upon one or the other. Perhaps there are more ways to love in heaven and earth, Gloria my dear, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “I want to see you happy. You and Ella have suffered so much.”
“Don’t be sorry. Now that we have found one another again, we are happy. Simply being able to see her every day is a gift.” She resumed her seat, and helped herself to a glistening wedge of orange.
Suddenly Gloria was ravenous. When they had eaten all there was to eat, she was about to return to the prickly topic of their marriage, when an idea struck her with blinding clarity.
“That’s it!”
Honoria regarded her over the rim of her cup of coffee, which she preferred to chocolate. “Yes?”
“That’s how we’ll get out of it.” She leaned in, her excitement bubbling into her voice. “I have not been able to figure out how we will manage the marriage when the time comes for you and the Viceroy to switch back.”
“That has also been a concern to me.”
“But you yourself have provided the key. When the Viceroy comes back, he will take your place, and we will tell him that you are not a man, but a woman. That marriage will have to be annulled and we will both be free.”
Honoria’s forehead crinkled. “It will not work. For his name will be on the marriage document. There will be no difference—except that at least one of us will be quietly removed and executed. You may be entitled to a state funeral, but it is certain that I will not.”
Gloria nearly dropped her cup. “What? Why should Honoria not simply go about her business and take up her life again? Why should I not do so?”
“For a dozen reasons—such as impersonating a sovereign, aiding in a kidnapping, but most important, loving where it is illegal to love, or marrying someone whom you ought not to marry—which in this country is punishable by death.”
Gloria’s cheeks cooled to ice as her excitement faded and horror poured in. She had thought they were in a tight spot before. She’d had no idea that in revealing herself, Honoria’s honesty could mean death to them both.
Chapter 17
Ella Maria de Balboa did not seem unduly bothered about the prospect of imminent execution when Gloria returned, shattered, to the privacy of her chamber. “I have looked La Llorona in the face a time or two before this,” she told her, fishing the green linen skirt’s matching jacket out of the closet trunk. “She has told me my time is not yet. Put it out of your mind and finish dressing. One does not pay a visit to the bishop in one’s shirtsleeves, be they ever so prettily embroidered by one’s friends.”
“But—but Ella, oh, why did you not tell me?”
Ella gazed at her. “Because you would behave exactly like this. You are not going to give us away, are you?”
“Of course not. But it is so dangerous, this game we are playing!”
“More dangerous than carrying a man’s child? I think not.”
Gloria did not want to think about the actual mechanics of that just now. She had nine months to think about it, and to discreetly ask questions of Isabela’s mother, who might possibly stand in for those she really preferred, namely Mother Mary and Tia Clara. At the moment, she just needed to get through this day. And then somehow come up with a plan to get through tomorrow, and the day after that.
Once she was suitably dressed, Isabela came in with a length of black lace. “You must wear the mantilla in the bishop’s presence, Gloria. Wear it over your face the entire time to signify, er, blushing modesty.”
Gloria sighed. “If I must. At the very least he will not be able to see my rose.”
“He would not know what it meant in any case,” Ella told her with some satisfaction. “Men have no business in the affairs of women, and prelates even less.”
With these bracing words, Gloria went down to meet Honoria—Joe—dadburn it, the Viceroy. She must be very, very careful not to slip and address him as anything but Your Serene Highness, which would cover all contingencies. They had not even walked as far as the end of the gardens when Ignatio de la Carrera y Borreaga met them on an intersecting path.
“I have been checking my hydrangeas,” he greeted them. “Another month and they will be in full bloom. Are you unescorted, Your Serene Highness?”
“By choice, my dear sir.” Honoria smiled with real affection. “We are going to the bishop to set a wedding date.”
Joy bloomed on the man’s face, and he grasped the royal hand to give it a delighted shake. “I am so pleased. If I may be so bold, would you allow me to accompany you
… in a father’s place?”
“We would be pleased and honored,” Gloria told him. “Since neither of us has any experience in these matters, yours will be welcome indeed.”
The broad avenue accommodated them three abreast, talking amiably until they reached the cool shadow of the mission. And then Gloria’s hand tightened in the crook of Honoria’s elbow as they heard an all too familiar voice.
“Why, Your Serene Highness,” Ambassador de Aragon said smoothly, emerging into the sunlight. “What a pleasant surprise to see you and Miss Meriwether-Astor out of doors. Senorita, I trust you are feeling better?”
Trapped, Gloria could only say, “I am, thank you.”
“Then perhaps your maids might be instructed to make your small household ready to travel soon?”
“We have other matters on our minds today, sir,” Honoria said stiffly. “We are on our way to see the bishop.”
“They are setting a date,” de la Carrera said happily. “If you will excuse us, sir? Such a happy event must not be delayed by even a moment.”
The Ambassador seemed to gather his wits with difficulty. “A wedding date? This is rather hasty, is it not? Why, you have not even set a date to begin your progress about the kingdom. Surely the kingdom must come first, before matters of a personal nature?”
De la Carrera chuckled. “How long has it been since you were young and in love, Your Excellency? Come, let us not keep them any longer. In any case, when His Serene Highness sets off on his progress, you know the date of the wedding will be the first thing his people will wish to know.”
Outnumbered, the ambassador did the only thing he could. He bowed … and then followed them into the church. Gloria would much rather he had gone about his business out of her sight, but now was one of those times when she must choose her battles.
An audience was requested and granted with alacrity, and their little party was shown into the bishop’s spacious west-facing study, where arched windows admitted views of the sea and, presumably, reminded man of his insignificance beside God’s creation. “Your Serene Highness,” he said, “you had only to send word, and I would have attended you.”
“It is we who seek your approval, Bishop.” Honoria handed Gloria into a studded Spanish leather chair that had probably come over with the conquistadores, and seated herself. The other three followed suit. “We wish to set a wedding date.”
The bishop took in Gloria’s suitably bowed head covered in its frosting of lace with approval. “Normally at this juncture I would ask the couple if they had the approval of their families, but that does not seem appropriate in this case.”
“His Serene Highness has graciously allowed me to serve in the place of a father, though of course there is no replacement for our late lamented Viceroy,” de la Carrera said. “I can say without hesitation that San Luis Obispo de Tolosa approves their decision. We consider Miss Meriwether-Astor a member of the family, and support her wholeheartedly as she contemplates this step.”
“Then let the calendar of saints’ days be consulted.” From a shelf behind the ornately carved oak table he used as a desk, the bishop lifted down an enormous book whose pages were rippled and spotted with age. “What part of the year had you considered?” he asked Honoria. “Once Your Serene Highness’s progress about the kingdom is completed, we might consider next February, when the weather can reasonably be expected to cooperate.”
The Ambassador nodded with approval. “February would be an excellent time for a wedding. All the grandees and their families can be expected to attend after Christmas but before spring planting.”
“We prefer April,” Honoria said. “Or perhaps May, if we cannot be accommodated sooner.”
“April of next year?” The bishop nodded to the clerk waiting beside him, who uncapped a pen and pulled a leather-bound diary closer.
“No. April of this year. Or May.”
The bishop’s hand froze in the act of turning a page in the saints’ calendar. “I beg your pardon? This year, did you say?”
“Yes,” Honoria told him as though this were nothing unusual.
“But it is April now.” The bishop looked down at the diary, as though confirming the fact.
“I am quite aware of the date,” Honoria replied. “I do not wish to wait. In fact, I have waited long enough. When I go on progress, I wish it to be with the Vicereine at my side, to introduce her to my people. Of course, the coronation may wait until after the progress.”
“But—but Sir—”
“Your Serene Highness, there is absolutely no reason for such unseemly haste,” the Ambassador cut in, as though finishing the sputtering bishop’s sentence. “In fact, if you marry now, the people will most certainly look upon it with a degree of censure, as though you had, er, anticipated the ceremony.”
“That has most certainly not happened!” de la Carrera exclaimed. “I can vouch for the utter rectitude of this young couple’s behavior. My own daughter has been so much in Miss Meriwether-Astor’s company that there has been scarcely a moment when she has been alone with the Viceroy.”
“Young couples are notorious for finding moments to be alone,” the ambassador said darkly. “Really, sir, I must protest, for your own good.”
“I will decide what is for my own good,” Honoria said with cold hauteur. “These inferences cast a slur not only upon the lady present, but upon me. I can assure you that I do not like the presumption suggested by censure from my subjects at all. I advise you to tread carefully, sir.”
Ambassador de Aragon flushed as scarlet as the ribbon crossing Honoria’s chest under her short jacket.
The bishop became very focused upon the ancient pages in front of him and hastened to proceed. “Your name-day saint, sir, is San Felipe Neri, the patron saint of joy. May I suggest that your wedding day be the same—the twenty-sixth of May? That would give the bakers time to create a cake, the messengers time to return with the acceptances of the grandees, and the dressmakers time to make our future Vicereine her wedding gown.” He bowed in her direction.
As she graciously inclined her head, Gloria added up weeks with lightning speed. It would not be wise to quibble over the date, lest the Ambassador feel free to make more impertinent remarks. At the same time, on May 26 she would be eight weeks along. Would she be showing by then? Could they adjust the dress to hide it if she was? How she wished Isabela were here!
She turned to Honoria. “If May twenty-sixth holds meaning for you, sir, then it will mean everything to me.”
It would also give them time to think of a way out of the fix that switching the real Viceroy back into his place presented.
Honoria took that as the approval it was meant to be. “Then it is settled. We will marry on San Felipe’s day.”
“At the royal chapel in San Francisco de Asis?” the Ambassador inquired, smooth as an assassin slipping a blade between the ribs. “As your forebears have done for generations?”
“Perhaps,” Honoria said. “We have sent for my fiancée’s private airship. Once it arrives, travel between the ranchos will become much simpler and more expedient. In fact, one could spend the night before the wedding practically anywhere in the kingdom, and fly to San Francisco de Asis in time for the ceremony in the evening.”
The bishop mumbled his sentiments on that head in the Californio tongue—or perhaps he was imploring protection from a saint—as he slumped in his thronelike chair with a shudder.
A commotion broke out in the corridor, and the Ambassador, whom Gloria was quite sure had been about to make an additional disparaging remark, clamped his molars together and frowned in the direction of the clerk. But instead of opening the door to request propriety outside, the young man was thrown back as it was flung open with such force it nearly bounced off the paneled wall.
A monk burst in. “Your Excellency—Your Serene Highness—a messenger—”
On his heels came a man in military uniform, stained to the knees with what appeared to be mud. He snapped a salute and
ignored everyone in the room but the Viceroy, who rose from the chair. “Your Serene Highness, I bring news in haste from the water meadows and Commander de Sola.”
“I thank you for your haste. What has happened?” Honoria asked.
“Sir, the dam has failed.”
“What?” Ambassador de Aragon lunged forward. “Impossible.”
“Not only possible, it has been a disaster. We can only be grateful to God that it happened during the night, when all were asleep. Hundreds of additional lives could have been lost.”
“How many were lost?” Honoria asked.
“Thirty-four, Your Serene Highness. Twelve soldiers, twenty-two rancho volunteers, and the rest conscripted—er, that is, involuntary labor.”
Gloria, who had been frozen into the silence of shocked horror, sighed and found that her lungs could resume their work. Oh, Evan. Thirty-four people. Men who would never see their families again—many of whom had never wanted to be there in the first place. The innocent who had given their lives in order that many, many more might be saved.
Honoria crossed herself and bowed her head. “Send a message to all the missions for a special mass to be sung on Sunday for the souls of all who perished.”
“It will be done, Your Serene Highness.” Before the words had even escaped the bishop’s pale lips, the clerk had begun to write.
Tears welled into Gloria’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She pulled a handkerchief embroidered with yellow rosebuds from her sleeve and wept into it as though her heart were breaking. She could not help it—the tears seemed to come from nowhere, just as they had done earlier this morning. Embarrassed, she turned her face into Honoria’s shoulder and attempted to get her emotions under control.
Part of it was grief for the lost men and for their families. Part of it was gratitude that the witches and the Navapai villages up and down the river would now be saved. And a part of it was awe that with one act, the Royal Kingdom’s plans for commerce and the eventual annexation of the Texican Territory were now foiled, perhaps forever.
Fields of Gold: A steampunk adventure novel (Magnificent Devices Book 12) Page 16
