While Passion Sleeps

by Shirlee Busbee

  Swallowing with difficulty, she couldn't help a quick, almost fearful glance around her, as if she expected to find Rafael watching her. But there was no one concealed in the shadows, just bright, warm sunlight and the gracious welcome that was being extended by Sebastian's cousins. Yet in spite of the warmth of the day, Beth shivered, wondering what she would do if it did turn out that these kind people were indeed related to Rafael Santana.

  But there was little she could do except smile and accept the tall, cool glass of sangria that was pressed upon her once they had entered the house. They were seated in a large, elegant room that opened out onto a shaded patio where sprawling ferns and potted trees made leafy green umbrellas. The room was soothing, the white walls reflecting back the bright sunlight that poured in through tall, arched windows, the dark, heavy Spanish furniture attractive against the vibrant colors of the Brussels carpet.

  Beth tried to relax, tried to join in the conversation, but her jumbled thoughts would give her no rest. Until she knew for certain there was no relationship between these Santanas and Rafael, it would be impossible for her to do anything but sit there filled with dismay and anxiety. Nervously she twisted her untouched glass and smiled blankly at some comment that was made, wondering how she could discover if her worst fears were about to be realized.

  Sebastian innocently did it for her. After the first flurry of exchanges had died down he asked Miguel, "Has Rafael arrived? I saw him at Galveston on our way through there, and he said he would meet me here."

  Don Miguel smiled. "My son is like the wind—one never knows precisely where or when he will appear. Rest assured, though, that if he said he would be here, in time he will be."

  The delicate crystal glass in Beth's hand slipped from her nerveless fingers and the only thing that saved it from shattering was the soft cushion of the carpet. The sangria spilled over her yellow muslin gown and dazedly she stared at the spreading pinkish stain, her thoughts whirling in wild confusion. Yet one thought remained like a spear in her chaotic mind—Don Miguel is Rafael's father! Unaware of it, a moan of sheer dismay escaped her pale lips, but in the rush that everyone made to alleviate the damage to her gown it went unnoticed.

  Madelina, bustling aside the gentlemen, said, "Leave it, please. Come, Senora Ridgeway, I shall show you to the rooms where you will stay. We will have a servant cleanse it for you immediately." Turning to her husband, she added briskly, "Miguel, amado, have Pedro or Jesus bring Senora Ridgeway's trunks to the gold rooms so that she may change."

  "Our servants can see to that, Dona Madelina," Nathan protested.

  "That will not be necessary—let them rest, we have servants enough." Turning to Beth, Madelina urged, "Come now, senora, if you will follow me, I shall see to it that all is set right. Come, mi cara, come!"

  Like a sleepwalker Beth followed the short, plump figure down the shady arcade created by the extended eaves of the hacienda and supported by graceful rounded arches that faced the central courtyard. It seemed like a long walk to Beth, but she was so shaken by the news that Rafael Santana was her host's son that she was not in full control of her senses. Even when they entered a spacious set of rooms decorated in white and gold, her thoughts were numb and incoherent. But she had to say something, she realized as Madelina gazed at her in concern. She forced a smile. "I think that the trip from San Antonio must have tired me more than I thought."

  Madelina's look of concern lessened. "Si, it is a long and often uncomfortable journey," she commiserated. "Would you like to lie down and rest until dinner? I can have a tray of refreshments sent to you. Would you like that?"

  "Oh, senora, I would like it above all things."

  Smiling kindly, the older woman said, "Fine. I will leave you now, and in just a few moments one of our servants will see to your needs. Your servants can assume their duties in the morning, if that meets with your approval."

  Beth nodded and Madelina finished, "I believe that settles everything for the moment. Don't worry about anything, just rest and I shall see you later."

  With the departure of Madelina, Beth's composure fled. With trembling legs she stumbled to a chair and sat down. I must not be a fool, she told herself, her hands clasping and unclasping agitatedly in her lap. There is nothing to be frightened of—he is only a man, he can't hurt me—he might not remember me.

  With a wild lurch in the region of her stomach, she realized that she would also be meeting Consuela, and at that thought her hands shook so badly that only by clasping them tightly together could she control them. Oh, God! Beth thought with anguish, I simply could not face Consuela, not greet her politely... and all the while have those flat black eyes watching me, knowing of my degradation. Consuela's cousin Lorenzo, what of him? Will he be present also?

  Beth had no time to ponder her dilemma, for there was a tap on the door. The heavy door was pushed open and, just as she had on that terrible afternoon in New Orleans, Consuela's servant Manuela entered the room bearing an ornate silver tray. Beth froze, her face pale with shocked dismay.

  Manuela halted just inside the room, her dark eyes staring at Beth's frozen features. She remained silent for a taut second before saying quietly, "You have nothing to fear from me, senora. I only obeyed my mistress that day, and I would not harm you now. Nor, except between the two of us, will I ever speak of it." When Beth made no move, when she stayed like a lovely frozen statue, Manuela sent her a long look and setting down the tray on a marble-topped table that was against one wall, she approached Beth. Manuela stopped a few paces in front of Beth and, her voice soft and filled with sincerity, she repeated, "You have nothing to fear from me, senora. Senora Consuela is dead, and with her died many things. Trust me, nina, I will not harm you. She is dead and the past is behind us."

  Beth heard little beyond Manuela's words that Consuela was dead. Her eyes clinging to the lined, sallow features, she whispered disbelievingly, "Dead? How can that be? She was a young woman."

  Her face impassive, Manuela answered, "Comanches. She was leaving here—but on her way to the coast, where she hoped to board a ship that would take her to Spain, she and two female servants as well as the eight men who escorted her were killed. She suffered, nina, before she died. Por Dios, she suffered! I bathed and prepared her body for burial here in the family cemetery, and I saw the tortures that had been inflicted upon her. She suffered a thousand times more than you, senora. That does not excuse her, but perhaps you can find pity in your heart for the horrible way that she died."

  Beth's heart skipped a beat and she heard again Consuela saying viciously, "I wonder why you have not hired some of your filthy, estupido savages before now to rid you of a wife like myself!" and Rafael's cruel reply, "I'm surprised I hadn't thought of it before now!" In this serene, elegant room, Beth shivered.

  It didn't bear thinking about, she told herself, trying to quell the ugly suspicions that were going through her mind. Her voice thick and rusty, she asked, "How was it that she was leaving? And why wasn't he with her?"

  Manuela shrugged and turned and walked over to the tray. Her thin hands moved quickly as she poured a tall glass of sangria and offered it to Beth. Numbly Beth took the glass from her and, staring at the cool, ruby-colored drink, she remembered inanely the wine stain on her gown.

  She glanced down at it and muttered foolishly, "My gown. It is stained."

  As if the other conversation had never been, Manuela said easily, "Yes, I see that it is. If you will permit me: I will help you out of it and see that one of the other maids has it soaked immediately."

  Helplessly Beth agreed, unwilling to dwell on their conversation, unwilling to think that Rafael Santana had deliberately sent his wife to her death at the hands of the Comanches.

  Manuela did nothing to break the fragile hold that Beth had on herself, as she stripped off the soiled gown. Leaving Beth in her lace-trimmed chemise and ruffled petticoats, Manuela disappeared into one of the rooms that comprised the suite. She returned almost instantly with a peignoir of
French cambric trimmed down the front with a deep ruffle of Valenciennes lace. Beth recognized it as her own and rightly assumed that her baggage had been unpacked in the adjoining dressing room.

  Manuela helped her into the peignoir and gently coaxed Beth to drink the sangria. Still in a state of blessed numbness, Beth did so.

  The sangria warmed her and sent a tingle along her veins. It was pleasant, and absently she took the glass that Manuela refilled. At least, Beth thought half hysterically, if I drink enough, I won't feel anything. I won't feel anything and I won't be able to think... to think the terrible thoughts that are waiting for me if I dare let them begin.

  Manuela ushered her into the bedroom, urging her to sit in a comfortable chair of white-and-gold brocade. Moving about the room, Manuela turned back the gold satin coverlet of the bed and opened twin doors that revealed a small patio off the room. She glanced at Beth and, seeing that some of the whiteness had left her face, she said practically, "I have given your gown to Maria and she will see to it. Dona Madelina asked me to assist you... you may request that someone else serve you."

  Beth ran a hand wearily through her hair. "No," she said. "No. It would only raise speculation, and by tomorrow morning my own servant will take over from you." Beth was too aware of the raised eyebrows that would result from her refusal of Manuela's services and had decided it was best to let sleeping dogs lie... and yet, she wanted to know the facts of Consuela's death. She simply had to know. Gripping the crystal glass, she pleaded, "Manuela, tell me of Consuela's death. Why was she leaving?"

  Manuela hesitated before saying "Senor Rafael was determined to divorce her. He gave her the choice of returning to Spain and seeking the divorce herself, or of remaining here and being humiliated while he sought the divorce." Manuela's face took on an expression of distaste. "How she raged and shrieked at him! She was like a madwoman—so incensed by his ultimatum that she did not even wait for her personal belongings to be packed. She had Lorenzo hire the men to escort her to the coast, and within three days, taking two of the younger maids, she was gone. I was to follow with all her trunks and baggage. I thank the good God that she did not insist that I accompany her—she trusted me to see that all of her possessions were accounted for, and so I was spared. The Comanches killed them all within two days of their departure."

  "I see," Beth said in a shaky voice, wondering with revulsion if Rafael had met those same Comanches and had suggested to them where they might find his wife. A quiver went through her at the ugly thought, not wanting to believe him capable of such vicious action and yet fearful that he was. There was just one more question she had to ask, "And Senior Mendoza, what of him?"

  "He has his own rancho not far from here," Manuela answered. A pitying look on her face, she added, "I should warn you that Don Miguel considers him a member of the family... and he will be here tonight for dinner."

  Chapter 11

  Manuela proved to be an excellent lady's maid; she had a fine eye for fabric and color and she was helpful without being obsequious. It was Manuela who decided that Beth would wear a silk gown of deep purple, and that the silvery curls would be arranged high on the head, one long ringlet coaxed to lie curled against the white neck and slim shoulders revealed by the gown's low-cut bodice.

  The two women did not discuss Consuela or what happened, but it was never far from Beth's mind. Just as she was about to leave the room, she turned to Manuela and asked abruptly, "Does Rafael know the truth about me?"

  Manuela would not meet Beth's eyes. "No, senora, he does not. Dona Consuela threatened me with physical harm if I ever spoke of it—and after her death the subject did not arise." Giving Beth an unhappy look, she added, "It would do little good to tell him now—he would not believe it and there is no proof." She glanced away and said in a low tone, "I would not want to reveal my part in it, senora. I am very much afraid that he would have me dismissed. I am not young, senora—I have no place to go, no place to live, and I would have no work."

  "But if you explained that it was because of Consuela that you did it—that she made you do it?" Beth persisted, wanting Rafael to know the truth, even after all these years.

  Manuela shook her head. "I would like to do this thing for you, senora, truly I would, but I am afraid—please, do not ask it of me."

  Beth started to reassure the other woman that there was nothing to fear—she would take care of her—and it was then that she realized it would be useless to have Manuela speak now. Rafael was not likely to believe Consuela's former servant in any event—why should he? More importantly, there was an excellent probability he would think Beth had bribed her. It was dreadful enough that he already thought she was an adulterous slut, Beth decided bitterly, without adding bribery to her list of crimes. What did it matter? She and Nathan, hopefully, would have left the Hacienda del Cielo far behind them before Rafael Santana appeared on the scene.

  A tap on the inner door of the sitting room ended the conversation. "Shall I answer it, senora? It is probably your husband. He has been given the suite which adjoins yours."

  Beth nodded, and a moment later Nathan strolled into the room looking elegant in a plum-colored coat with a black velvet collar and slim black pantaloons. He glanced appreciatively at his wife and murmured, "Ah, my dear, how lovely you are. I take it you have recovered from your earlier indisposition? It would be frightful if you were to become ill just as we are about to return home." An unpleasant thought occurred to him, and he said with a delicate shudder, "Why, if you were ill, we might even have to delay our departure."

  Beth smiled with tolerant amusement, guessing that his anxiety to return to Natchez far outweighed his concern for her. "I'm feeling much better, Nathan. I think it was merely that the journey from San Antonio proved more strenuous than I expected."

  Nathan seemed satisfied with her explanation, but as they walked toward the sala, he glanced at her keenly and asked, "It was just the journey, Beth? I saw your face, you know, and you looked as though you had experienced a terrible shock."

  Her mouth dry, Beth stared wordlessly back at him. If Nathan guessed in whose house they were, if he realized who Rafael was, it could prove fatal. A duel would be inevitable, and remembering Nathan's ineptness with a pistol, she felt a quiver of fear. At all costs she had to allay Nathan's suspicions. Somehow she summoned a bright, carefree smile and said lightly, "Did I? Well I'm not surprised at all. I felt perfectly horrid. So giddy and nauseous from the ride that I was very much afraid I might faint at your feet—and that would have been shocking."

  He remained silent, his gray eyes searching her face. "Yes, I suppose it would have been," he said finally. Flicking an imaginary bit of fluff from his jacket sleeve, he added, "Well, then, now that we have that behind us, shall we join our hosts and Sebastian?"

  Hiding her unease, Beth agreed. Had she convinced him? Or increased his suspicions? She greatly feared it was the latter, but there was nothing she could do about it now—they had reached their destination.

  Walking into the main room that night, knowing that Lorenzo Mendoza would be there, that her husband was watching her closely, and that Rafael Santana might arrive at any moment, was one of the most difficult things Beth had ever done. In her own unassuming manner, she was a woman with a great deal of inner strength, and so, even though she dreaded the coming evening, she entered the room with outward serenity. No one seeing her lovely features would have guessed that she was a mass of seething, churning emotions.

  She saw Lorenzo as soon as she entered the room, and her heart sank when she glimpsed the flash of recognition that glittered in his eyes. Recognition—and something else that made her thankful they were meeting in a room full of people.

  Lorenzo smiled at her when they were introduced, his eyes lingering on her mouth, and she knew he was remembering. But instead of being frightened, Beth found herself shaken with rage. How dare he smile at her so! Her eyes sparkling with a temper seldom aroused, Beth stared back defiantly, daring him to speak of th
at despicable afternoon.

  Lorenzo had no intention of mentioning what had occurred in New Orleans four years ago. He was no fool and he was aware that his position was at best precarious. All Beth had to do was open her mouth and he would find himself looking down the business end of a pistol. Almost as bad, he would lose his patron, Don Miguel, for there was no doubt that the other man would lend his benefaction to someone accused of the crime that Beth could expose. It was imperative that Beth keep her mouth shut—he had no intention of allowing her to ruin his position. Bending over her hand he muttered, "I must talk to you alone; senora."

  Don Miguel, who performed the introductions, had turned away to answer some question his wife asked, and under the cover of his answer to Dona Madelina, Beth hissed, "Are you insane? I have nothing to say to you, and if you are wise you will forget that you ever met me."

  The black eyes cold and calculating, he murmured, "My sentiments exactly."

  Don Miguel turned back and there was no further opportunity for them to speak of an event uppermost in both their minds.

  Relieved that Lorenzo had no more desire to speak of past history than she did, Beth relaxed slightly. But only slightly, too conscious of the fact that Rafael could appear and whatever breathing room she had gained would disappear in an instant.

  Dinner was superb, the spicy Spanish and Mexican food pleasantly hot and biting on Beth's tongue, the conversation light and lively, Sebastian and Nathan both outdoing themselves in being clever and witty. Don Miguel was a charming host, effortlessly putting his guests at ease and conversing on a variety of subjects, which proved that though he and his family lived miles from any sophisticated center he was a man of culture and refinement. Dona Madelina had little to say, but it was obvious she adored her husband; her glance was kind and friendly as she surveyed her guests, and an infectious smile was seen on her lips throughout the meal.