Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  Don’t you remember? Forced loans were part of the reason we’re in this mess.

  He waved a hand of repudiation. “No, no. I don’t like my ideas. Negotiating with the French is beneath our dignity. We will not sully ourselves by–”

  “Sir Richard has spoken with Admiral Baudin. Perhaps the admiral wishes for a face-saving retreat,” she bluffed, “and Sir Richard wishes to relay these feelings.”

  Santa Anna grew pensive. At least a couple of minutes passed before he nodded. “All right. I’ll see the envoy.”

  “Good. Shall I tell General Morales, or will you?”

  “I’ll tell him.” One side of El Presidente’s upper lip lifted and quivered, flattening into a frown. “Never did care for Morales. I don’t think he’s to be trusted. A transfer to California would be good for him.”

  Alejandra quelled a frown of her own. Considering the President of Mexico’s cruelty and caprice of the past, General Morales might be on the way to a firing squad.

  She didn’t want to think about what could happen to Reece and to herself . . . if they were found out.

  Into the sudden quiet, Santa Anna said, “I suppose I should give that peg leg another try. Send for Moran.” Santa Anna put a restraining hand on her arm when she arose. “Tell me, what do you think of the good doctor?”

  “He is devoted to you. And he worries over your use of opium.”

  Santa Anna disregarded the advice. “No, no. That wasn’t what I meant. Has he ceased his affection toward you?”

  Affection? They had been friends only. He was such a fine man, he needed to find some worthy someone to share his life in New York. Being the stern and serious sort, he needed the excitement of a volatile woman.

  “Alejandra, you have nothing to say about Moran?”

  “My fondest hope is, he finds the excitement and affection he craves.”

  Santa Anna’s dark eyes rested on Alejandra’s face. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “Actually, I think my sister would be a good candidate.”

  “He would not want for excitement.” Santa Anna chuckled. “Isn’t she in mourning, though?”

  “Her widow’s weeds are packed away.”

  “Bueno. I shall invite her here. Señora Navarro will make an excellent addition to my household.”

  Alejandra said nothing. As much as Mercedes loved the glitter and pomp of la capital, it seemed doubtful she would leave Coatlpoala. Mercedes Navarro, according to her letters, had fallen hopelessly in love . . . with a baby named Chico.

  Chapter Thirty

  The planting season bloomed abundant in the hillside village of Coatlpoala. Everywhere the Totonacs rejoiced, for they loved springtime and flowers. They clothed themselves in vivid dress to celebrate the occasion. And if the local priest had discovered they offered sacrifices to the gods, he would have been furious.

  At least that was what Mercedes Navarro figured. She had gotten to know Padre Ximenez pretty well over the past months, since she had demanded shelter in his casa upon arrival in Coatlpoala. He lived in the village’s only proper shelter, after all. The others were mere huts with goats and chickens running rampant throughout. Which was totally abhorrent to Mercedes.

  As for the Indians’ pagan sacrificial practices, she wasn’t so vehement. The natives were in no danger of her telling on them. The lives and customs of the Totonacs meant nothing to her. No, that wasn’t quite true. She was quite interested in two of them, both of whom weren’t full-blooded Indians anyway. What affected Josie Montana and her son Chico was of utmost importance to Joaquin Navarro’s widow.

  It was late afternoon now. And it had been a wonderful day. Josie had left Chico here this morning, allowing Mercedes to cluck over him for hours, but, alas, the mother had come for her son. Mercedes stood at the door of Padre Ximenez’s house and waved adios to Josie and the boy.

  The old priest laid a tender hand on her shoulder. “My child,” he said, “come away from the door. We must talk.”

  She took a bench. Propping a blue-veined hand on a sideboard, he looked at her, and there was something in his wise old eyes that spelled trouble.

  “You are bringing hurt on yourself,” he said. “You love that boy far too deeply.”

  “How can that be possible, to love too deeply?”

  “Because you are not his mother. Josie has been kind, allowing you to see him frequently, but she is still his mother. Someday she will tire of your interference.”

  His words knifed through Mercedes. In her heart she accepted that her time with Chico was limited, but she didn’t want to accept it.

  It was insane, of course, her love for Joaquin’s bastard child. What widow in her right mind wouldn’t be anything beyond too furious and hurt at her husband’s infidelity to open her heart to his child? Well, there was her own infidelity . . . Never mind, that! Mercedes figured she just wasn’t in her right mind about Chico. But who would want it differently?

  Chico had wormed his way into her every thought. She adored him. No, she wasn’t his mother, but he wasn’t just any foundling. He was a Navarro, just as she was, even though she held nothing in her heart for the Spaniard who gave her the name.

  Padre Ximenez spoke, breaking into her justifications. “You never speak of the boy’s father. You must have loved him dearly for his child to be so special to you.”

  Mercedes’s teeth set. When Joaquin had died, she had been a mass of guilt and remorse. By the time she learned the truth about Joaquin–about his affair, about his brutality–Mercedes had seen the absurdity and mockery of her marriage. Never should she have married Joaquin. He wed her for money and land and heirs; she took his hand to spite Erasmo. Everlasting love hadn’t been a part of their life together.

  “He was my husband, what more can I say?”

  “He lay with a servant. That had to hurt you.”

  “Of course it did, but my pride was bruised rather than my heart.” She picked at the wooden bench arm. “Our marriage was good, for a while anyway. We both wanted children, wanted them badly. Our marriage began to deteriorate when I didn’t conceive. We argued, over and over and over. Finally . . .” She turned her face, for this was a secret she’d confided to only her parish priest and her sister. She certainly hadn’t mentioned it in Padre Ximenez’s confessional. “We both ended up in the arms of others.”

  Suprisingly, the priest didn’t appear shocked. “You feel no animosity toward Josie? Since she was the one who took your husband’s life.”

  “I don’t hate her, if that’s what you’re asking. And I’ve begun to understand why she did it. It was self-defense.” It had been fear that drove Josie to condemn Erasmo as the murderer. But she had been honest, her confession setting him free. Mercedes found Josie a likable and conscientious person, but she was too circumspect to admit such a thing.

  She quit the bench and walked to the window. Looking down the now-deserted road, she said, “I would like to adopt Chico. He deserves to be reared in wealth and privilege.”

  “Where would that leave Josie?”

  “I’d provide for her. She doesn’t look well, if you ask me. I think she needs help.” Mercedes studied the floor. “Of course her strain might come from my presence.”

  “I agree. Have you discussed an adoption with her?”

  Mercedes shook her head. “I fear if I mention it, she’ll cast me out of Chico’s life.”

  “I fear you are right.” Slowly, the priest creaked across the room to pat her shoulder again. “The Bible tells of two women loving the same child. Would you have Chico cut in half so that both of you could have a part of him?”

  Those words were food for thought. At last she replied, “No, I would not want that. I could give him riches, yes. But with Josie, he will have a mother’s love. He is hers,” she added, swallowing the lump in her throat, “and I will not tear his loyalties between the two of us.”

  Tears welled. She averted her face, then added, “I will not leave him destitute. I trust you will act as
my agent, padre, and see that Josie has a decent home for her child. And medical attention if she needs it. Make certain both of them have whatever they need.”

  “I would be honored, my child.”

  Again her eyes turned to the window. “It’s time I packed for the journey home. I’ll leave on the morrow.”

  Padre Ximenez nodded, then said, “Chico is a very lucky boy to have the affection of two women as good as you and his mother.”

  Mercedes started to turn from the window. She stopped when a horse and rider appeared on the street. Why, that looked like . . . No, it couldn’t be him. Could it?

  It was.

  Heart sinking, Mercedes stepped back from the window and turned to the priest. “Tell him I’m not here. ”

  Padre Ximenez tried. But Erasmo de Guzman, his spurs jingling, elbowed his way into the house. “Mercedes,” he shouted, “I’ve given you time to mourn your doctor man. Now I’m here to make you my wife.”

  In a grass hut across the village from Padre Ximenez’s church and home, Josie Montana steeled herself against her almost constant nausea while she cuddled her child. Oh how she loved him. He was well-loved. Josie knew Señora Nevarro loved him, too.

  “Chico, she is a good woman. I feel this now that I’ve gotten to know her.” Josie stroked his fine head of dark hair. “You return her love, don’t you?”

  He cooed and reached for a lock of Josie’s hair.

  “Ouch.” His mother spied a tiny carved hobby horse. Instead of the expensive toy, she gave him a gourd, then kissed his cheek. “She gives you real toys, my son. She could give you everything. And all of it is your due . . . as the son of Joaquin Navarro. But I will never give you up. You will grow strong on beans and chiles, and you will grow up to make your mother proud.” She tickled his chin. “Maybe you will get a fine job, and take care of me in my old age. Sí?”

  He threw the gourd to the ground.

  Josie laughed. “Shame on you. You act like your father.”

  Her accusation stunned Josie into silence. Chico would never act like Joaquin. Never! He would grow up strong and brave and considerate.

  Juggling him onto a hip, she stood. Pain knifed her midsection, yet she tried to ignore it. A foot swept at the chicken roosting on his pallet, which was topped with a beautiful blanket the señora had bought for him. These were the differences in what she and Joaquin’s widow could provide for Chico.

  The widow offered love and comforts. Josie offered love . . . and a hovel.

  She bent to place him on the pallet. And nearly dropped him. The room swam before her eyes; her bloated stomach felt as if it would explode. Chico began to cry as she teetered like a drunkard to her chair.

  Something was wrong with her, and had been for a long time. Some sort of stomach devil. She reached for a pail. And retched up blood. Not a lot of it, but enough to scare her into practicality.

  She looked across the room to her child. “Chico . . . oh, Chico. If I could, I would make the best life for you. But I am dying. You must go to the señora. She will be your madre.”

  It took all her strength, but before dawn the next morning, Josie carried Chico in his basket to the priest’s house. She knelt to tuck his blanket around him; his tiny hand reached for her. She turned her eyes to the windows. No lights shone. They would soon, she knew. Soon Señora Navarro would waken to the bright of day . . . and to motherhood.

  Stumbling and shaking, Josie walked away from her beloved son.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Alejandra worried over her sister. She had heard nothing from Mercedes, and that was unusual, since her sister had regularly sent glowing reports of her love for Chico. But this evening, barely more than a week after Alejandra had spoken with El Presidente about seeing Her Majesty’s envoy, she forced her attention to something else. A possible settlement in the Pastry War.

  Sir Richard Pakenham was on his way to Vera Cruz to negotiate with Admiral Baudin, General Guadalupe Victoria accompanying him. This heartened Alejandra, but financing the uncertain peace had Alejandra troubled. Customs revenues could pay the supposed debt, but until the French lifted its blockade, no monies flowed into Treasury.

  Mexico was in dire straits.

  And Santa Anna had a debt of honor against him.

  In his up-and-coming years, he had courted favor from the church. Trouble was, there was a royalist faction among the clerics. His debtors meant to call in the marker. A church representative presented himself to the President.

  At the time, Alejandra and El Presidente were sitting in his large office in the quiet hour before dinner. She sipped coffee; he, laudanum for his painful leg.

  The bishop of Mexico, his long cassock flowing around his feet, strode into the office to stand adamant. Without preamble, he said, “Our country is besieged with strife. Those to the north are, as we speak, arming for revolt. And–”

  “You propose to tell the Commander in Chief and President of Mexico the state of his country?” Santa Anna roared.

  Undaunted, the bishop squinted at him. “We must have a form of government that can unite our land. We demand you resign.”

  Every shoulder in the room stiffened, save those of the clerics.

  Santa Anna, teetering on a cane and his new peg leg, whitened and shouted, “How dare you suggest my government isn’t above reproach!”

  The bishop wasn’t cowed. “This country needs empire. Resign, gran señor, in favor of Prince François of Joinville.”

  The dishonorable despot always professing to be honorable made Alejandra proud for once, even if his reasons were impure. He banished the churchmen from the presidential palace.

  She despised Santa Anna, but he’d have to do until the Federalists unfettered by the French could come to power. The Vera Cruz invaders must be dispensed with. Then the bishop and his followers would be forced into resignation and complacency . . . if Santa Anna could fashion a settlement with Admiral Baudin.

  For several days an idea had been turning over in her mind. Thus, Alejandra retired to her quarters and composed a letter to her father.

  “If you and Mamacita have any interest in Mexico remaining a republic for its own people, I entreat your indulgence. Beg, borrow, or steal (I’m only jesting, Mamacita, on the last) a large amount of money. Sell my property as well. The government needs all the funds it can get to settle our debt to His Majesty Louis Philippe.”

  Scowling, Alejandra pulled back her quill. She started to rip the parchment and start anew. Imagine, writing “our debt to His Majesty Louis Philippe.” Why, that was heresy! The truth as she perceived it, though, wouldn’t sway Papa to part with so much as a copper, or even one of his precious sous.

  And selling Campos de Palmas . . . It pained her to let go of that part of her past, for the land and its people had been her life, before Reece charged into it. But her future didn’t lie in Vera Cruz. These last months had changed her. She didn’t want to go back to being the pious mistress of Campos de Palmas, even if she could. She wanted to be free to follow her man to Tejas–to Texas! If that was what he desired.

  Again her quill went to paper.

  “Papa, we as a country are in desperate straits. If you can’t do it for Mexico, dear Father, do it for France. Do it for me. Send money.

  By the way, have you heard from Mercie? His Excellency has invited her to the palace, but we’ve heard nothing in reply.”

  Go with God,

  Alejandra Toussaint Sierra

  P.S. I am very much in love with Señor Montgomery.

  The balcony door opened. Magnificent in his colonel’s regalia–a blousy shirt, a red sash at his waist, uniform pants, and high-topped boots–Reece entered her sleeping quarters. He unfastened his saber, then placed it on a bureau.

  Meanwhile, Frisco bounded from his box to bark and wag his tail. He loped to Reece, who took the enthusiastic pup into his arms and scratched his ear. Reece’s eyes were on Alejandra. They were sleepy, owing to the late hour, but a sensuous smile cut across his a
ngular face. He meant to bed her, she knew, and she wasn’t opposed.

  She folded the letter, then sealed it with wax. He set Frisco to his paws, then threw a diversionary ball into the air.

  “What are you doing?” he asked Alejandra, crossing the room to run his tongue along the curve of her neck.

  Stretching, she got up from the escritoire. “Mmm, hoping for your appearance?” she teased.

  His fingers loosened her chignon. “Damned good thing,” he growled in English.

  A knock on the door called their attention away. Reece receded behind a wardrobe. Alejandra, the dog in the lead, answered the page.

  “A visitor awaits you downstairs,” said the yawning servant girl. “Here is his card.”

  Reading the name, Alejandra smiled, thoughts of an evening of lovemaking relegated to later tonight. Erasmo was here! Her joy lasted less than a second. What in the world did he think he was doing? Federalist operatives courted danger in the Court of His Excellency!

  “Tell him I’ll meet him inside the Cathedral.”

  “Sí, Doña Alejandra,” the girl replied, curtsying, and backing away.

  Alejandra closed the door.

  “Who’s the ‘him?’ ”

  “ ’Rasmo. Can you believe it? He’s here in the capital.”

  Every muscle in Reece’s body tensed. “I forbid you to leave the palace.”

  Francisco II, catching the tension, whimpered and ducked his tail. He retreated to a spot beneath the bed as Alejandra spit out, “No one forbids me to do anything.”

  “I am trying to look out for your own good, Alejandra. De Guzman has to be a wanted man. A while back he was captured by the Santanistas outside of Tampico. He’s been in prison. He must have escaped.”

  Her shoulders went stiff. “Yet you said nothing to me, his dear friend, about it.”

  “What was the use in worrying you?”

  Irked that Reece hadn’t been frank, she went for her mantilla. “Well, I am going to see him.”