Silver Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Two

by Vivian Vaughan

  “What are you two doing in here without the lamps lit?” Tío Luís strode across the enormous room, looking left, then right. “Where is that maid of yours, Relie?”

  Instead of answering, Aurelia straightened the ties on her hat, then crossed to the mirror that hung above the mantel. Standing as close to Carson as she dared, she adjusted her hat on her head, concentrating on the exact angle, on the tautness of the tie beneath her chin.

  Satisfied, she swiveled to face her uncle, smiling with the greatest of difficulty. “How is this, Tío? Do you think your dear Enrique would approve?”

  “My dear?…” Luís huffed a moment. “I am certain he would not approve of you spending time in a dark room with this…with another man. Such behavior is grounds for—”

  “Come now, time to be going.” Tía Guadalupe burst into the room, scattering the scent of gardenias in her wake, her fashionable gown sweeping the floor. “We mustn’t be late. The governor’s honor, you remember.” She halted abruptly in front of Aurelia, perusing her attire.

  “You didn’t change.” Her tone expressed such a depth of disbelief that Aurelia stopped just short of consoling her.

  By the time they arrived at the Plaza de Toros, Aurelia had been properly chastised, which left her feeling no guilt whatsoever. Her happiness could not be diminished.

  Enhanced, given the chance to be alone with Carson, but definitely not diminished since he had arrived. Santos, however, was outraged by their aunt’s harangue.

  That fact became apparent as soon as Tía Guadalupe issued their seat assignments in the governor’s box. While the Reinaldos settled themselves, Santos took charge, maneuvering himself into the chair their aunt had indicated for Aurelia, leaving his sister to sit between himself and Carson.

  “Tía will make us move,” Aurelia worried.

  “She won’t make a scene with the governor present,” Santos whispered.

  Aurelia could have hugged him. She could have hugged both of these beloved men. How she longed to hug one of them.

  “Looks like we’re making headway,” Carson whispered.

  “I’m sorry about…” Before she could finish, the paseo began.

  “Have you ever seen a corrida?” she asked him when the procession of brilliantly attired men entered the arena.

  “Never from the shady side,” he answered, his voice teasing, tantalizing. “Nor seated beside the guest of honor. Tell me, which one of those handsome men is your hero?”

  She turned gleeful eyes on him. “The most handsome one of all, of course. The one sitting beside me.”

  His eyes held hers, then curiously darted to her stomach. What was his fascination?…She felt a flush rise up her neck. It wasn’t her stomach. How foolish. She squirmed, trying to still her jangled nerves.

  Santos leaned forward and a discussion ensued between the two friends about the Mazón bulls.

  She listened more to the sound of Carson’s voice than to his words. The words she wanted to hear would come later, much later. When or where she had not determined…yet.

  Santos sat back in his chair when the procession stopped before their box. The toreros, three of them, removed their small caplike montillas from their heads and lifted them toward the governor in salute. Behind the men their cuadrillas stretched to the center of the arena—three banderilleros and two picadors each. The entire assemblage glittered beneath the afternoon sun. Each man’s satin traje de luces was fashioned from a different color and decorated, both jacket and trousers, with an array of brilliantly colored sequins.

  “I recognize him,” Carson mumbled.

  “How?” she questioned quietly, watching the majestic procedure.

  “The one in the middle.”

  “Antonio Suarez, the junior torero,” she acknowledged. “How did you know?”

  “By the way he’s looking at you.”

  She laughed, a soft challenge. “How’s that?”

  “The same way I do.”

  Her eyes flew to his. “He is not.”

  He nodded, grinning that wry grin of his, his attention riveted on Antonio Suarez, resplendent in his blue and gold suit of lights. “That’s a look you only recognize when you feel it, too.”

  “Then it’s the way I look at you,” she whispered.

  The paseo ended, the bugles blared another flourish, and as soon as the arena cleared, the toril gates opened and an enormous black bull charged into the ring. For the next couple of hours, Carson watched the unfolding drama of the bullfight with renewed interest.

  The action rose steadily from the first simple passes to the intricate capework, during which the torero tested the bull, learning his disposition, his weaknesses, his strengths.

  It reminded Carson of the way his relationship with Aurelia had begun—their meeting in the jailhouse, the way she had charged into his life, taking control, leaving him amused, confused, then totally mystified.

  He identified with the heaving bull when with a flick of his wrist, the torero left him standing stupefied in the center of the arena, turning his back on the once-raging animal and walking out of the arena as if taking an afternoon stroll.

  Music played, the crowd went wild, and the picadors entered the ring on fine horses, carrying long-handled lances. Carson gathered his wits.

  “Do you provide the horses?” he asked Santos, leaning across Aurelia, brushing her breast with his shoulder.

  “No, I don’t risk my horses in this manner,” Santos replied frankly. “We supply horses only for the charriadas.”

  “We brought the bay for you to ride in the charriada tomorrow,” Aurelia added.

  He exchanged a knowing smile with Santos, then sat back. “Thanks.”

  “How do you like the corrida so far?” she whispered.

  He grinned. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t shame me into performing here instead of at the charriada.”

  She laughed, gaily, happily. “I would never do such a thing. You mean too much to me.”

  “We’ll see how much I mean to you tomorrow,” he teased, “when I don’t perform up to your expectations.”

  The banderilleros came next, one at a time, slim and graceful, possessing great control and much courage. When the bull lunged, the banderillero leaned far over the deadly horns to expertly place two barbs, which were decorated with multicolored paper ribbons.

  The banderilleros, too, reminded him of Aurelia, of her grace and beauty. Her love of life had worked magic on him, old leather pounder that he had always been.

  “What do you think of the Mazón bulls?” Santos asked.

  He leaned across Aurelia again, showering her breast with tender yearnings once more. “Your bulls are very brave.”

  Santos watched the ring intently. “They have brave mothers.”

  She felt Carson tense against her.

  “How’s that?” he questioned.

  “It is well known that a bull’s courage comes from his mother,” Santos explained, his attention riveted on the bull’s every move. “We use only the bravest Mazón cows for breeding.”

  Carson turned stricken eyes to Aurelia. She saw his questions, his seriousness.

  “What?” She laughed, uneasy for some reason under his strange scrutiny.

  Silently, he gazed into her eyes, questioning like before, then turned back to the arena.

  When time came for the brandis, Antonio approached the governor’s box. He held forth his montilla, toasting Aurelia by calling her name.

  “La señorita Aurelia Mazón.”

  The governor nodded approval. Antonio stepped three paces sideways, as gracefully as he had danced around the bull, she thought, and bowed deeply in salute. Before he performed the customary toss of the hat, however, he held forth his glistening sword, and she caught her breath.

  She had completely forgotten his intention to seek a favor. She should have carried a scarf. Striving to disguise her unforgivable lapse, she glanced to Carson for help.

  His raised eyebrows said it all
. He had no idea what she wanted. She spied his neckerchief. That would do.

  It must do. Reaching quickly, she untied the knot, while he sat as though mesmerized. Removing it from around his neck, she leaned forward and tied the Texas bandanna to the hilt of the torero’s sword.

  “Buenas suerte,” she whispered, blowing Antonio a good-luck kiss from the palm of her hand.

  His startled expression melted into a broad smile. He bowed again, then turned his back and tossed his montilla over his head, straight into her waiting hands. The band played and the crowd roared its approval.

  Carson eyed the fancy black hat that lay clutched in Aurelia’s hands. “Some exchange,” he whispered. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

  “He warned me last night he would ask for a favor, but I forgot.”

  “A favor? Last night?”

  She laughed. “Something to tie on his sword for good luck.”

  His eyebrows remained raised, questioning.

  “If I thought it would make you jealous,” she teased, “I would lie. But the truth is, I was sitting in the governor’s box at the opera with Tío Luís expounding Enrique’s virtues in one ear and Santos breathing down my neck on the other side.”

  Carson laughed at that and they turned their attention to the arena, where Antonio had begun a breathtaking series of seven right-hand passes that, before he finished, had them all on their feet, holding their collective breath in one instant, shouting “¡Olé!” in the next.

  “Seven derechazos,” Santos shouted. “Seven! What a fight! What a bull!”

  “What a torero,” Carson added. But as he watched the finale, seeing Antonio standing poised and courageous in front of the raging bull, inciting him for one last charge with the brilliant maneuvering of his red muleta, held low now, directing the bull’s head downward in order that the sword might find the exact spot for an instant kill, he saw only himself and Aurelia.

  Aurelia, carrying his child. Aurelia, who had teased and flirted and led him on. Aurelia, who had excited his passions and taught him to love. Now in the moment of truth, their roles were reversed, and he was the one who had thrust the perfectly honed sword into her life. He was the one responsible, in the final analysis.

  Drained by the drama they had witnessed, by the courage and honor played out before them, the Reinaldo party filed from the Plaza de Toros in silence. Carson’s fingers tipped Aurelia’s waist, bringing a measure of life back to his energy-sapped body.

  Tía Guadalupe declined to visit the Patio de Caballos, where they would return Antonio’s montilla. When Tío Luís declared that he, too, would forgo congratulating the young torero in order to accompany his wife home, Aurelia exhaled a sigh of relief.

  Her aunt, however, did not leave without a stern aside to Santos to watch Relie around that Norteamericano.

  “You must return in time to dress for the ball,” she added to Aurelia.

  “This social life would soon take its toll on an old cowpuncher like myself,” Carson commented when the Reinaldos were out of sight.

  Santos studied his sister. “That’s what I told Relie.”

  Ushered into the dressing room by Antonio’s aide, the three of them entered reverently, subdued in the presence of a man who had faced death with such grace and courage only moments before.

  Aurelia introduced Carson, and Antonio thanked him for the use of his bandanna, saying how it must have been lucky for him. When he extended it to him, Carson refused.

  “I would be honored for you to keep it. Your performance is one I will long remember.”

  “Gracias.” Antonio glanced from Carson to Aurelia with a gleam in his eyes. “And the woman by your side, my friend, you will long remember her as well?”

  “I guarantee it.”

  “So be it, then. But I will request a dance or two tonight at the baile.”

  “At the lady’s pleasure,” Carson agreed with a pleasant smile.

  Back at the house, Aurelia further annoyed Tía Guadalupe by refusing to eat a bite, by rushing through her bath, and by returning downstairs ready to leave for the ball without María to attend her as dueña.

  María had been sent on a hasty mission, although Aurelia dared not reveal as much to her aunt. After helping Aurelia comb her hair into a nest of small curls on top of her head, she had sent the girl off with a shopping list.

  “Señorita,” María had wailed, “your aunt will not like this. Neither will your uncle. We are not in Catorce, where you can run about at will.”

  “Never mind, María,” Aurelia had chided. “There is no other way. Be careful that no one becomes suspicious.”

  “What if the shops are closed?”

  “Then borrow the clothing from one of the household maids, but don’t tell them who it is for. Do you understand?”

  “Sí, señorita, pero—”

  “Wait until everyone leaves for the ball, then slip into Señor Jarrett’s room and leave the package on his bed. Do not let anyone see you. Do you understand?”

  “Sí, pero—”

  “But nothing!” Aurelia returned. “Just do as I say.” She caught up her red taffeta cape and swished from the room, arriving at the top of the staircase only to catch her breath at the sight below.

  Carson and Santos stood in the foyer—waiting for her, she knew—attired for the ball. The beloved figure who turned to watch her descend the steps took her by such surprise that she grasped the banister to keep from tripping.

  “Where did you find those clothes?” She gaped at Carson’s black evening costume. Much like the suit Santos wore, it was cut to the customary Spanish tailoring—snug trousers, cropped jacket, string tie. He looked as if he had been born to the highest strata of society.

  He grinned self-consciously. “Your mother advised me what to bring.”

  “You look wonderful.”

  His perusal of her attire sent fiery tingles running down Aurelia’s spine. He scanned her slowly, from the curls atop her head, across her tawny shoulders and the mounds of bosom rising above the deep décolletage of her dress—cut in the fashion of the gold gown she had worn to the opera, off-the-shoulder with a fitted bodice—to the full skirt that belled gracefully from her nipped waist, all in the deepest blood-red.

  Carson offered his hand. “My common vocabulary can’t come close to describing you tonight, angel.”

  She placed trembling fingers inside his hand, feeling his warmth radiate up her arm. “I’m yours, that’s all that needs to be said.”

  But when she stepped into the foyer, Tía Guadalupe emerged with a lot more to say.

  First she questioned where Aurelia’s jewels were. Receiving a negative answer, she sent a maid to fetch some of her own.

  Then she asked if María was ready.

  “María isn’t coming,” Aurelia answered.

  “She must.”

  “She can’t. She is…ah…indisposed.”

  Tía Guadalupe stewed, her fashionable green gown swaying to the rhythm of her discontent. “Unthinkable, unthinkable. Bella always was too provincial for her own good. I should have taken you long ago, while there was still time.”

  Carson had stepped aside when the lady approached, but at her belligerence he moved toward Aurelia. Santos cleared his throat.

  The maid rushed back into the room, handing their aunt a brocaded jewel case into which Guadalupe dipped manicured fingers.

  “Here we go.” She approached Aurelia with a string of rubies in hand.

  “They’re enormous,” Aurelia murmured. The rubies clanged against her collarbone when her aunt tried to fasten them around her neck.

  Aurelia’s eyes went to Carson’s. Her hands flew to the necklace. “No, Tía, I couldn’t.”

  “They are a perfect match for that gown, Relie.”

  “Thank you, but no.” Aurelia tugged on the necklace, pulling the ends loose from her aunt. “I prefer not to wear them. Thank you.”

  “This isn’t some country dance, dear. It is a baile
de etiqueta. You cannot attend a dress ball without jewels.”

  Aurelia almost laughed at her aunt’s tone. She could just as well have been telling Aurelia she couldn’t attend the ball without bloomers. Without warning, the morning she’d sneaked into Carson’s room wearing neither bloomers nor any other kind of underclothing popped into her mind.

  She blushed.

  Carson grinned. He couldn’t have guessed her thoughts, she knew that, but his presence gave her courage. “Thank you, Tía.” She returned the handful of rubies to her aunt. “I don’t like things…of this nature…around my neck.”

  Guadalupe shook her perfectly coiffed head. When Tío Luís joined them, advising that they must hurry to be ahead of the governor, Guadalupe was still in a stew about the jewels.

  “Whoever heard of a girl not wanting to wear jewels? It is Bella’s fault. I should have taken you over your father’s objections. I could have made something of you.”

  Inside the carriage Aurelia burst into laughter, and after a stunned moment, Santos and Carson joined her.

  They were obliged to take two carriages, since Guadalupe would not hear of arriving with crushed gowns. A fact that made instantly clear their aunt’s concern over Aurelia’s missing dueña.

  “I assure you, Tía,” Santos had said, “I have provided Aurelia with that service since she grew to womanhood and needed such protection. Most gentlemen find me a formidable dueño.”

  Aurelia was still laughing when the carriage pulled away. “She could have made something of me.” She wiped tears from her eyes.

  “I didn’t find that amusing,” Carson observed.

  “Neither did I,” Santos said. “Not only was she maligning you, but Mamá as well.”

  Aurelia strove to bring her laughter under control. “Wouldn’t you love to see her face if she ever discovered what I have made of myself?” She squeezed Carson’s hand. “Can’t you see both of them if they knew I was a robber of trains?”

  The ball went well from Carson’s point of view, considering how he had dreaded the ordeal. Not that he minded dancing. At least he would be able to hold Aurelia in his arms, something he had anticipated all day. But he had never been comfortable in situations where everything from a man’s looks, to his attire, to his manners, was constantly under scrutiny.