The Dancer

by Jane Toombs

  "Enjoy the cradle," he murmured. "You earned it."

  "Darling?" Meg came to stand beside him and he realized she must have overheard what he'd said. "Do you know that's the first time I've seen you touch Patrick?"

  He looked into her hazel eyes, reached for and fingered a strand of her dark brown hair. "The red must come from your side," he said, smiling, "because it certainly doesn't come from mine."

  "Way back somewhere in my mother's family--or so I've heard." Meg leaned her head against his shoulder. "I hope Patrick doesn't have a temper to go with it."

  "Like his uncle."

  Meg pulled away and glanced up at him. "His uncle?" Her voice was uncertain.

  Warren paused for a long moment, enjoying the fright he was giving her. He knew she feared he meant Mike Dugald. "Why, yes--I've always thought Davis had a rather short fuse."

  Meg laughed. "I can't deny that.

  Warren put his arm around her. "So now that we have our boy back safe and sound, we'll make that trip to New York. Patrick'll do very well here with Felicia nursing him."

  He felt her stiffen. "We don't know Felicia very well," Meg said. "I'd trust Elena with Patrick but she's in Mexico City."

  "Elena's never coming back, you told me that yourself when you arranged for her to study with that Frenchman--what's his name--Petipa?"

  "Davis made the arrangements and paid for the lessons, as you very well know. Not that Elena's aware--she never would have gone if she realized Davis had anything to do with it. I had enough trouble convincing her it was the only way I could repay her for saving Patrick." Meg sighed. "It's what she's always wanted--being a dancer--but I feel I've lost my only friend."

  "Doesn't a husband count?"

  Meg snuggled next to him, giving him a hug. "Woman friend, I meant."

  He held her closer. "I must visit New York on business and I'm not traveling alone. You'll enjoy the trip--haven't you always wanted to see the country? It'll be like a second honeymoon. I know you haven't had a chance to make new women friends but I plan to keep on this full-time companion I've hired to look after mother. With her, and with Felicia

  taking care of Patrick, when we return you'll have fewer responsibilities and be able to socialize more."

  "That's wonderful. And I'd love to go to New York. But Patrick--"

  "Will be fine. Dugald's dead, no one, nothing will harm the boy. Felicia treats him like her own. And we'll ask Davis to come around and check on how things are going."

  Warren felt a perverse pleasure in the quiver that ran through her when he said Dugald. He might have to pretend he thought Patrick was his but that didn't mean he couldn't punish Meg whenever the chance came. "Strange, isn't it, how your brother shot both the Dugalds," he added. "Mike must have gone as crazy as the younger one--what was his name?"

  Meg pulled free. "I don't recall," she said.

  Warren shrugged. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."

  "When do we leave for New York?" Meg asked, turning away from him.

  He smiled.

  After Elena arrived in December of 1901, Mexico City overwhelmed her at first, especially the mountains topped with snow-capped volcanoes surrounding the city. The mountains of southern California seemed puny in comparison. She'd thought Los Angeles had grown into a gigantic city--

  after all, over 100,000 people lived there--but La Cuidad de Mexico impressed her far more.

  There was Chapultepec Castle for one. Los Angeles had nothing as magnificent as a castle. Once the Emperor Maximilian and Empress Carlota had lived in the castle but their rule ended in tragedy when he was executed by a firing squad and she went mad. Now President Diaz ruled from the castle.

  Mexicans were her people, they spoke her language. But there was more. She'd always been aware dancing came from the soul, here she was learning what was meant by el alma espanol, the soul of Spain. Mexicans were, after all, Spaniards, too.

  Her teacher wasn't the great Marius Petipa, the French composer and dancer who'd made Spanish culture and dancing his life's work, However, she'd been fortunate enough to be taken on as a pupil by a woman who'd studied under him, Maria Cuadro, a thin, lithe woman in her sixties.

  Madame Maria, as she preferred to be called, was full of tales of the old days in Spain. "Someday you'll dance in Madrid, my child," she assured Elena. "In the Teatro Real, of course, since you're foreign, but that's where everyone goes anyway. Even the king. Think of dancing before a king!"

  As Elena walked along the cobbled streets, to and from Madame Maria's studio, she promised herself one day she'd do just that, dance before the King of Spain, Alfonso XIII.

  When she practiced her tacaneo, the heel beats synchronized with complicated rhythmic patterns on the castanets, she pictured King Alfonso sitting in the royal box at the Real watching her. Applauding. It helped relieve her homesickness.

  She'd been living at the Allende casa--they were friends of Madame Maria's--for a year when she came home from the studio late one Saturday afternoon in early December to find a visitor waiting. The last person in the world she expected to see.

  He sat in a chair in Senora Allende's parlor and at first she thought her eyes had deceived her. It couldn't be him!

  "Hello Elena," Davis said, rising. "I had business in Mexico so I came by to visit."

  For a long moment she couldn't speak, all she could do was stare at him. He hadn't changed, he was still the handsome Sir Lancelot of her dreams. Conscious of Senora Allende hovering in the archway, Elena gathered her wits.

  "How kind of you," she managed to say while thinking it was anything but kind. "I didn't realize you knew where I lived." Or cared.

  He smiled at her, an unusually tentative smile. "Since tomorrow is Sunday, I hoped you might show me some of the sights of Mexico City. I've never been here before."

  Elena blinked. How unlike Davis not to take it for granted she'd do whatever he asked. She'd never seen him so stiffly polite. "I don't know that much about the city," she told him.

  "But more than I do. I've heard there's a palace--am I right?"

  "Yes."

  "Chapultepec Castle," Senora Allende put in, unable to restrain her interest in Elena's obviously well-to-do, attractive visitor from California. "It is well worth seeing, Senor Burwash. Our city has many wonders."

  "Yes, it does," he agreed, his eyes on Elena.

  "I've invited Senor Burwash to share our evening meal," the senora said, beaming at them both. "At that time perhaps my husband can help you with your plans for tomorrow."

  She was committed to eat with Davis at the very least, Elena realized. Senora Allende wouldn't understand if she didn't. She managed a smile for the senora and then turned to Davis. "If you'll excuse me--I must change before supper." She all but fled from the room.

  As she dressed, nothing looked right to Elena, not her hair, nor her shoes, nor her gown--a blue serge trimmed with black braid and a bias band of white silk. She tried her best to convince herself her appearance made no difference but she failed dismally. Though she might wish Davis was anywhere but at the Allende table tonight, she wanted to be at her very best.

  Elena stared at herself in the mirror over her dressing table, noting her heightened color. Because of Davis.

  Because she was still angry at the despicable way he'd treated her. She had no intention of ever forgiving him, she'd be polite tonight because to be otherwise would upset the Allendes. As for tomorrow--for her and Davis there was no tomorrow.

  Dinner was agony. Chicken and rice with peppers was one of her favorite meals but her appetite left her as soon as she sat down across from Davis. Since she didn't want Davis or the Allendes to notice, she forced herself to eat, all the time conscious of his dark eyes watching her every move.

  After dinner, in spite of all she tried to do to prevent it, the Allendes left them alone in the parlor.

  Elena stood up and Davis immediately sprang to his feet. "I'm very tired," she said. Before she could reach the archway, he intercepted her.


  "I hoped you'd be glad to see me." As he spoke he captured her hand.

  He was too close, how could she think when he loomed over her like this with the warmth of his hand penetrating the wall of ice she'd so carefully constructed?

  "You're even more beautiful than I remembered," he said softly. "I've missed you, Elena."

  Well, she hadn't missed him! Elena tried to convince herself she meant it, at the same time attempting to withdraw her hand.

  "Look at me," he murmured, his grip tightening.

  She knew better. "Let me go," she said, tugging against him.

  To her surprise, he released her. "Nine o'clock tomorrow morning," he told her. "Until then, hasta luego, until later." He strode past her and was gone.

  Elena hadn't been lying. She worked hard at her practice every day and was tired at night. But once she went to bed that night, she couldn't sleep. When she left California for Mexico City she'd thought she was rid of Davis forever. Why had he come back to torture her? She hated him, she didn't want any part of him and yet when he touched her she had to fight against the attraction she still felt.

  Despite everything. How was she to get through tomorrow? By pleading a headache? Elena took a deep breath. No, this lingering feeling for him was something she must conquer once and for all--by meeting it head on, not by hiding from him.

  Very well, they'd start tomorrow by attending Mass at La Catedral, built in the sixteenth century--surely an historic sight. After Mass she'd show him El Senor del Veneno, the image of a black Christ crucified, a sacred figure that had turned black to absorb poison, so the story went, in order to save a long-ago bishop from death by poisoned wine.

  Then she'd tell him how an ancient Aztec temple, the Teocalli had once been on the cathedral site. The hill where Chapultepec Castle had been built was Aztec, too, and she'd go on about Montezuma and the Aztecs. If she kept the conversation limited to Mexico City, he'd have no chance for the personal. With people all around them he wouldn't be able to touch her, either. If she was careful, Sunday could be gotten through without problems. After that, she'd be too busy with her lessons to see him.

  With the decision made, she fell asleep.

  On Sunday all went as she'd planned until their buggy, lent by Senor Allende, passed the closed castle gates, guarded, as usual, by soldiers. Though they couldn't go inside, they could and did circle the hill.

  "All this belonged to Montezuma," she said. "Hill and city, land as far as he could see from the summit."

  "Rather like the Burwash ranch," Davis commented.

  "Do you expect a Cortes to appear from the East and unseat you?"

  He grinned at her. "I rather think it was the other way around--my father unseating the Spaniard."

  "Who happened to be a Gabaldon. As I am."

  "Hell, I forgot." He looked so downcast she couldn't help but believe him. "I always seem to say the wrong thing to you," he went on. "When you're near me I can't think straight."

  He urged the horse into a trot, traveling north along the broad Paseo de la Reforma until they came to a wooded area she knew was Alameda Park. Here he halted the horse. "I thought we might walk," he said.

  On Sunday the park was crowded so she agreed, there was safety in numbers. He helped her from the buggy, his hand lingering on her arm a moment longer than necessary.

  "You look charming in green," he said, "but I remember you best in white."

  "President Diaz is having a monument to Juarez erected here," she said, saying the first thing that came into her head to mask her confusion at his nearness. She edged away. "The newspapers refer to the city as 'the Paris of America.'"

  "When are you coming back to California?" he asked as they began to stroll side by side along a path with birds chirping in the bright-flowering shrubbery.

  "I don't know. Perhaps never."

  He caught her arm, stopping her, oblivious to the people who had to skirt around them. "I can't accept never."

  "I didn't ask your opinion."

  "Damn it, Elena, you know I'm sorry for everything I said and did." His hands slid up to her shoulders, his gaze held hers.

  The sound of the birds faded, the passing Sunday strollers disappeared. She was aware of nothing except Davis.

  "Come back with me." His tone was urgent. "I miss you

  more with every day that passes."

  She was tempted, she couldn't help herself, not when he was so near. If he said one word of love--she knew better than to expect a marriage offer--she might yield. Instead, he kissed her. She clung to him, momentarily overwhelmed with her need for him.

  Church bells clanged, bringing her back to sanity. She couldn't give up everything for Davis as Meg had done for Rory Dugald. Meg had a family to shelter her from the consequences, she had none. She had only herself. And her dancing.

  Elena pulled away. "I can't go with you." The words seemed torn from her throat. "I came here to learn all I can about flamenco from Madame Marie. I've barely begun. I intend to stay."

  "Damn Madame Marie." He reached for her again but she eluded his grasp.

  "I said no!"

  His dark eyes glowed with rising anger. "I won't ask you again."

  "Good. Because my answer would be the same."

  He stared at her for a long moment before saying curtly, "I'll drive you to the Allendes."

  Neither of them spoke again until they pulled up to the casa. Davis helped her to the ground as a manservant came to see to the horse and buggy.

  "Adios," Davis told her, turning from her before she had a chance to reply. He strode away without once looking back.

  For the next year and a half Elena threw herself into her work, concentrating on the Spanish dances--the polo, zorongo, gitano and tirana--all part of flamenco.

  "Boldness!" Madame Maria would cry. "Passion and grace! As you move your wrists and arms and hips, think of the supple voluptuousness of a snake. One of the colorful snakes, perhaps the coral, with the promise of death within her beauty. Then reach past all you've been taught, reach into your soul for duende, the trance of the flamenco that only a true dancer finds."

  Out of those lectures Elena's stage name was born--La Coralilla, the Coral Snake.

  "You must dress always in her colors of red, yellow and black," Madame insisted. "It will be your mark of recognition."

  Halfway through her third year, in May of 1904, Madame announced that Elena was ready for Spain.

  "Spain!" Elena whirled to face Madame, her wide yellow skirts flaring, her heart hammering in mixed fear and pleasure. "So soon? You've only allowed me to accept one dance engagement up until now, here in Mexico City."

  "And weren't you a tremendous success? Didn't the newspapers rave over your performance?"

  Elena couldn't deny her success. But Mexico wasn't Spain. She thought of Madrid's Teatro Real with its traditions stretching back over a hundred years. In the old days, Madame had told her, ladies and gentlemen weren't even permitted to sit together. Ladies were placed in the cazuela, men in the tertulia, with guards who saw the two sexes stayed apart during the performances. It was hard to imagine anything so old-fashioned. How would the Real, with its old-world background, take to a brash newcomer from America? Elena was frightened and challenged at the same time.

  Madame, hands on her hips, struck a pose. "When I, Madame Maria, say a dancer is ready, she is ready. Do you deny it?"

  "I've always listened to you," Elena said.

  Madame nodded, her dark eyes smiling. "That is why you are ready. I will see to getting you an engagement in Madrid. Meanwhile, I've arranged another performance for you here, a most lucrative one. Before you leave for Spain, you'll have more than enough money to return to your home for a brief time to see the kind friend who enabled you to come to me."

  Elena wrote Meg often but she'd forced herself not to think of Davis. Unfortunately she couldn't control her dreams and he haunted them. She'd love to visit Meg but feared she'd see Davis if she did. And that wouldn't
do.

  "I'll think about a trip to California," she told Madame.

  When Elena returned home, Senora Allende handed her a letter. "I believe it is from your friend in California," the senora said. Though not exactly nosy, the older woman didn't miss much. It had taken months to cure the senora of asking after Davis.

  Elena took the letter to her room.

  Four pages were filled with Meg's distinctive sprawling script. She spoke of Patrick's growth, Warren's prosperity, her own growing interest in painting and the sad news of Warren's mother's death. Near the bottom of the last page she wrote:

  "If you can believe it, Davis has finally gotten himself engaged. Her name is Lois Hughes, she's from San Diego, she's tall, blonde and beautiful and her papa owns half the city. The wedding's in October--how wonderful if you could be here for it! I'm dying for you to visit.