Pilar was entertained by the widow's single-minded pursuit of her own desires, and also by Enrique's baiting the woman about them; still, she was disturbed at the same time. She herself was not even wearing mourning for her dead aunt, much less preparing to forego the pleasures of the evening. The situation was difficult, it was true, but there might have been some way to show her respect.
Señora Guevara was speaking to Pilar, though her manner was no less stiff than that shown to Doña Luisa. “I am sorry for the imposition, señorita, but I fear I must ask you to ride with my good friends, our neighbors, the—”
Her son spoke then. “Your pardon, Mother, but I will drive the lady. It will only take a moment to have the horses put to my caléche.”
The woman frowned at her son before glancing around at her guests, who were watching the proceedings with avid interest and varying degrees of disapproval. Her face reflecting her chagrin, she said to Pilar, “This is satisfactory to you?”
Pilar was aware of Refugio's gaze on her from where he was already mounted on a dancing, sidling black stallion. It seemed, in truth, that half those in earshot were waiting for her reply. Her voice composed, she said, “Perfectly. I had thought to take my maid Isabel in case of problems with my costume. This way will be more comfortable for her than riding on top with the coachman.”
Philip appeared somewhat discomfited, but did not withdraw his offer. He was definitely not pleased, however, when Refugio, Charro, and Enrique closed in on either side of the small carriage, riding escort.
The drive to the governor's palace was pleasant. It took them along the edge of the harbor, in view of the old citadel of La Fuerza, with its watchtower crowned by a weather-vane in the form of an Indian maiden that was known as “La Habana,” and past the two fortresses that guarded the harbor entrance, Morro Castle and La Punta. The fortifications, including that of La Cabana behind Morro Castle and the city walls, had been built, so Philip informed Pilar, to discourage pirates and also to confound the English. They had served well for the first, not so well for the last. Havana had been captured by the English a little over twenty-five years before, during the Seven Years' War. It had been returned a year later, at the war's end, in exchange for the territories of the Floridas.
The governor's palace was an imposing pile of baroque splendor located on the eastern side of the town center which was known, as usual in Spanish colonial cities, as the Plaza de Armas. It was newly built, and parts of it were still under construction. Its rooms were large and richly furnished, in keeping with the consequence of the man who had final jurisdiction over all Spanish officialdom in the new world.
The ball at the governor's palace was a gala affair, for Mardi Gras was a day of revelry and mirth just prior to the abstinence of the lenten season. The ballroom was long and narrow, with a cavernous ceiling enlivened by a religious fresco touched with gilt, and French doors on two sides which were thrown open to the night air. The lusters of enormous crystal chandeliers tinkled in the draft from the doors. The music of violins and guitars, a flute, harpsichord, drums and castanets, was spritely, with an edge of passion that seemed to vibrate in the air. The guests, gleaming with jewels and shimmering with costly silks and velvets, danced constantly, crowding the floor as if they craved the abandon of movement in time to the music. Men bowed, women plied their fans and smiled with flashing glances from behind their masks.
Regardless, propriety was firmly in place, with duennas and anxious mothers fanning themselves as they sat along the walls, and stern husbands on guard. The repressed nature of the passions only added to the air of licentiousness hovering over the gathering, increasing the hint of barely restrained impulses and only half-spurned temptations.
Pilar danced first with Señor Guevara. It was, she thought, both a duty dance from her host and an attempt by the señor to establish for her a degree of respectability. His manner was stiff with decorum, scrupulous in its adherence to the rules of formal conduct. Immediately afterward Philip insisted on leading Pilar onto the floor for a quadrille. It seemed impossible to refuse after his father's gesture, and especially since he had taken the trouble to drive her. She regretted her agreement immediately, however. His attitude was of someone showing off a prize. His costume was the velvet doublet with the hose, breastplate, and helmet of a conquistador. It was fitting, since it seemed he was intent on conquest. Though Pilar had felt a little self-conscious from time to time on the ship with her role as the count's Venus, she had never until that moment felt demeaned by it. The burning looks Philip gave her, the lingering touch of his hands as he guided her through the dance, were like a public declaration of the kind of woman he thought her to be, and of his desire and intent to possess her.
“If you do not stop looking at me in that idiotic way,” she said to him through her teeth, “I'm going to slap you.”
“I don't know what you mean.” The gleam in his eyes belied his words.
“I think you do. I am not some silly maiden to fall swooning at your feet. The game you are playing is dangerous, I tell you.”
“Are you sure? I think you may place too high a value on yourself. I don't see your protector leaping to your side to take you away.”
“Because he would prefer not to make a public spectacle of himself, or of me.”
“Or else he doesn't care. Men do tire of their mistresses.”
It was, of course, a possibility, but she refused to consider it. “I'm amazed you would be interested in discarded goods.”
“To me you would be fresh and new, besides being far more beautiful than any lady of the night Havana has to offer.”
Her face congealed in anger, she said, “You flatter me, I'm sure.”
“Impossible.”
“You are the one who is impossible!” she said in a chill undertone, and refused to speak again.
The music came to an end. Charro, by accident or design, was beside her. He bowed to Philip and offered Pilar his arm to lead her away. For a moment it appeared Philip would refuse to release his grip upon her hand. He scowled as he squared up to Charro, staring into his eyes. Something he saw there, however, gave him pause, for he executed the briefest of bows and turned away.
Pilar, curtsying to her new partner as the music began, gave him a warm smile. “The rescue was timely. Thank you.”
“He's making a pest of himself, that one?”
“It's no great matter. He's merely young and full of himself.”
“I can send him home, if you like.”
“I'd rather not attract attention.”
He laughed, his narrow face creasing with amusement as he moved with her into the country dance just beginning. “It's too late for that.”
Charro was dressed as a Knight Templar, a medieval Christian warrior from the monk-like order based on the island of Malta. His militant appearance, with the red cross on his tunic, suited him somehow. His comments on the other guests were apt and funny; his manner was admiring yet carefully, perhaps too carefully, impersonal. His bow as his dance was ended carried that extra degree of depth and duration that lifted it above mere politeness. His light blue eyes seen through the slits of his half mask, as he gave her into Refugio's keeping, held dedication tinged with regret.
Refugio, watching the byplay, was disturbed but not surprised. For the effect Pilar had had on his followers, there was no one to blame except himself. She was beautiful, persecuted, and alone in the world; the result was inevitable. He himself felt the warring instincts of protectiveness and exploitation. Why should he expect the men of his band to be any different?
What did Pilar feel? He wished he knew. She was flushed from heat and the exertion of the dance; her skin was moist and warm and her breathing quick. He took her hand and curled the fingers into the crook of his arm as he moved to stand in an open doorway. He gave her a little time before he finally spoke in bland warning.
“Devotion from admirers improves the complexion and warms the heart, but has a way of exacting its pri
ce.”
Pilar glanced after Charro, knowing it was to him Refugio referred. She was aware of the way the other man sought her out, but felt sure it was only the close association of the long voyage that caused it. Refugio's attendance on Doña Luisa, however, was not quite so innocent. Her tone was cool as she answered.
“You speak, of course, from experience.”
“Of course.”
“And what form does this price usually take?”
“The devoted require bits and pieces of you, chosen at random.”
The words were exact and astringent. He was not speaking in general terms. Could he be thinking of the past days with the fiancé he had lost? She said, “Can't a person defend themselves?”
“It requires a strong stomach and an aptitude for giving pain.”
“The alternative could be total acceptance?”
“Yes, there is that, if you have a taste for martyrdom.”
“Or if martyrdom is forced on you?” she asked, her gaze on the hard planes of his face, though her thoughts were elsewhere.
“There is usually a choice.”
“Except when others are involved.”
“Even then. Clean wounds heal and babes weaned in season don't cry after the breast, and a fast death carefully selected is better than a stinking progression to the same end.”
He was telling her a great many things, none of which she was sure she understood. Slowly she said, “I see why you don't want to be loved.”
“Who was speaking of love?” he answered. “That's another subject altogether.”
Dancing with Refugio was an exercise in precision and the glory of perfect timing. There was knowledge and guidance in it, but most of all there was untrammeled instinct and limitless grace. He enjoyed it. The music was an exultation inside him which he translated into movement, taking his partner with him.
Pilar, making these discoveries, felt her own pleasure rise triplefold. She had her instincts and they met his and mated with them. That she could, with some small effort, match his exacting pace was a private triumph. She looked into his silver-gray eyes as they advanced and retreated with the steps, and what she saw there, half hidden by his lashes, made her fingers tighten in his grasp. He might not wish to take love or to return it, but he was not indifferent to her. It was a potent consolation.
The evening progressed toward midnight, the hour that would bring the ending of Mardi Gras and the beginning of Ash Wednesday. Then would come the unmasking, also, though there would be few surprises. Shortly before that hour there was served a last supper of meats and pastries and all the rich comestibles that would be forbidden during lent. The governor of the island, resplendent in silver lace, a full wig of white silk, and shoes with red heels, led the way into the dining room. He was flanked by scarlet-clad guards carrying silver maces. Laughing, joking, in fine appetite considering the short period of time that had elapsed since dinner, his guests trooped behind him.
Refugio took Pilar in to supper and found a chair for her. By the time he turned to go in search of food for them both, Philip was there proffering a filled plate. Not far behind him was Charro, also bearing a selection of delicacies, and behind him came Enrique with an extra glass of wine. To be surrounded by men was gratifying, even if the intentions of several of them were more protective than amorous. It was also ludicrous, for there was far more food than she could eat. The only way to prevent hurt feelings was to taste something from each offering. It did not help that it must be done under Refugio's sardonic gaze. Still, she nibbled first one confection and then another, and sipped at the wine, all the while making pleasant chatter designed to alleviate the awkwardness between the men.
Enrique and Charro did not seem to care for Philip or his presence. They made a number of sly comments, only half joking, about the provincialism of the island, the blandness of its food, and the complexions of its women. In a final closing of ranks, they disparaged the isled-bred horses, the horsemanship of the riders, and even cast doubt on the local level of expertise with a sword. Philip, at first inclined to agree with them and to long for the excitement and adventure of a sojourn in Spain, began to grow pink in the face.
Pilar looked to Refugio, expecting him to put an end to the baiting. It would be unwise to start an imbroglio at the governor's palace, especially with the son of their host in the middle of it. The bandit leader, however, seemed to have found something of supreme interest in the bottom of his wineglass; his concentration upon it was total.
The comments continued. Pilar herself attempted to redirect them, but to no avail. As Philip's voice in defense grew hotter and his face redder, she sent Refugio a fierce frown.
It was then, during a temporary lull, that an elderly woman nearby spoke, her tone querulous and positive.
“The man is an impostor, this I tell you! He is far too handsome, for one thing; for the rest, he lacks fire. If he were Count Gonzalvo, there would not be this cluster of men around his Venus, oh no! If he were the count, there would have been swordplay by now.”
Refugio stiffened, then turned slowly to face his detractor. There was about him, in that moment, the unyielding pride of generations of grandees, with also the chill hauteur of the Moorish prince that he was portraying for the evening. His face behind his mask was dark with anger.
Around them the spreading silence grew, broken only by the soft sibilance of whispers. Those guests who were nearest turned to look, pausing with their supper plates in their hands.
The apprehension that rose inside Pilar was as much for how Refugio, intended to answer the woman as for the danger that had suddenly caught up with them. An angry defense, or one of cold and formidable formality, would be wrong, she thought; it would give the old woman's idle words far too much weight.
She moistened her lips, gathering her courage. “Ah, my love,” she said to Refugio in a tone of low, humor-tinged intimacy, “how little the lady knows you.”
He swung his head to look at her in surprise, then he smiled, a realignment of the features that brought the light of impatient desire to his eyes and curved his mouth with sensual remembrance, caressing promise. He answered softly, “Or you, cara.”
Returning his attention to the elderly woman with what appeared to be an effort, he inclined his head. “I would not seek to justify my conduct to you, señora, for there is nothing that compels it. However, I would not have you think I value my Venus less now than in the first days of my love. Think you that it is impossible to trust a woman? You would be wrong. But there is more. Show me which of these men around her is worthy of her smiles. You cannot, for she is too far above them, just as she is too far above me. Slaying them would be as sensible as trying to slay every man who gazes with longing upon the moon.”
“If you were Count Gonzalvo, you would try,” the old woman said, though there was a certain approval in her faded eyes.
“How can I?” Refugio, asked, all rueful frankness. “To spill the blood of the son of my host would be an intolerable breach of conduct, nor can I think that the governor would appreciate a gory ending for his ball.”
Behind Refugio, Philip uttered a sharp exclamation. “The blood spilled might well be yours.”
“It might, if your skill was equal to the task,” Refugio replied politely.
“I also have strength and youth. What would you wager on the chance?” The young man's face was purplish red, his stance belligerent. His gaze flicked to his mother and father, who stood chatting on the far side of the room, then moved away again.
“Do you expect me to place my Venus as a prize? A vulgar notion, one she would doubtless refuse.”
“I would,” Pilar said as the two men looked to her in speculation.
“You need have no fear of paying the forfeit, I assure you,” Refugio said, his tone light, before his gaze moved above her head to where Charro and Enrique stood.
Some communication passed between the three, Pilar thought, some semblance of an order given and received.
> A frisson of purest alarm ran along her nerves. Refugio was up to something, but what was it? She wished she knew, wished she could tell whether she was meant to indulge him by agreeing or aid him by opposing him. She thought the latter, though she despaired of ever being certain of the convolutions of his reasoning. Her voice low with her indecision, she said, “I have no fear.”
“How very gratifying.”
“Not to me!” Philip Guevara declared. “I demand a meeting.”
“I also,” Charro said, suddenly.
“And I,” Enrique added, drawing himself up in imitation of Refugio's rigid stance. “The honor of us all has been besmirched, as well as that of the men of Santiago de Cuba. We require redress.”
“No,” Pilar said, her eyes widening as she saw the direction that was being taken. “I will not be a part of such madness.”
“But yes,” Enrique declared with fervor. “Have I not been insulted, along with the horses and the women of this island?”
“Horses?” the old woman who had begun the incident said in puzzlement.
Refugio shook his head. “This grows ridiculous. It would be repetitious to fight you all. Besides, what would it prove, the private and deadly settlement of this issue? No, no, I will not be guilty of such disregard for hospitality.”
“You must,” Philip said. “It would be infamous to refuse now.”
Refugio heaved a mock sigh. “I have no need for further infamy. But should the governor and his guests not gain some further entertainment from the contention? What say you to a public trial, one more nearly equal? What's needed is a tournament, the splendor of a passage at arms, a contest pitting men against each other.”
“A tournament?” Philip said in disgust.
“Precisely. Doesn't it please you to think of demonstrating your skill before all, particularly the ladies?”
A speculative gleam appeared in the young man's eyes, then he shook his head. “That might be, but it would take too long to arrange. Now, a duel—”
Spanish Serenade Page 17
