“No. You did not!”
“Sit down. You must listen to me.”
She sat. What else could she do? The chair was in front of her, a stiff wooden chair that bit into her back. She dug her fingernails into her thigh, feeling pain through the skirt and petticoats underneath.
Taking a deep breath, she forced her lips into a straight line and stared directly at her grandfather. This was the man who took her on his lap and let her dampen his shirt with tears when her parents died, the man who saw that her education continued when others told him women did not need to be taught, the man who loved her unconditionally. If he ever found out she stole off into the night to the beach, he would lecture and punish, but she was sure he would forgive her.
Could such a man betray her?
“Antoine asked for your hand in marriage and I have granted it.”
“But, I am less than two months to my majority. I don’t need a husband.”
“I gave that consideration, my child. You are unique—not only beautiful, but smart. You are still a woman and war between Mexico and the United States will be upon us before we know it. Women must be protected from the ravages of war, from soldiers bent on mayhem, from the loss of property, all of which could happen. I took these factors into consideration, Sorina, when I gave Antoine my blessing.”
“But I have no wish to marry. And if I did, I would not marry the likes of Antoine Santoro.” She stood suddenly and the chair toppled behind her. Righting it, she faced her grandfather, her hands white as she clutched the top of the chair.
“I admit Antoine can sometimes be difficult and his flowery phrasing can be rather trying.” He smiled. “But cultured men tend to be more sensitive. His property borders mine. And when I die, all of it will be yours and you will be a rich woman. The two ranchos combined will produce great wealth. Besides, he is not difficult to look upon, is he? Women like that.”
“You did not hear me grandfather. I . . . will . . . not . . . marry . . . Antoine Santoro.”
The sound of a quill snapping brought Sorina back to the gravity of her situation. Her grandfather was a gentle man, and was not easily angered. But his eyes sparked with fury and he bared his teeth as he spoke.
“You will do as you are told. Get out of my sight. I am weary of your disobedience.”
Turning, she strode from the room, slamming the door behind her.
I will not marry that toad. But if I am forced, I shall run him through with a sword before we ever reach the marriage bed.
Running down the hall, Sorina reached her room, appalled that tears stained her cheeks. Maria was folding clothes from a large basket. Startled, she dropped the lacy pantaloons from her hand.
“Señorita, what is wrong?” She moved toward Sorina, her arms at her sides.
“It is true, Maria. I am to marry.”
“But that is wonderful. Is it not? Who is the lucky señor and when will the marriage take place?”
“It is Antoine Santoro. And the marriage will not take place.”
Maria’s reaction was not one she expected. The girl put her hands in front of her mouth and gasped, her eyes wide with fear.
“Maria, what’s wrong? Is it Santoro? Do you know something? I’ve heard things . . . bad things, but I have no proof.”
The maid turned away, her back to her mistress. Sorina moved toward the girl, glad to have her mind on something other than the disaster looming in her future.
Maria trembled when Sorina touched her arm. “Tell me.”
“It is not for me to carry tales, señorita.”
“It is not for me to teach servants to read, Maria, but I do it willingly, even though we must keep it a secret for now.”
The maid turned and bit her lip. She did it whenever she struggled with a problem. “My cousin works in the Santoro household. She . . . she said the señor does not treat his servants well. Those who run away are brought back and beaten. And sometimes they disappear afterward . . . especially disobedient girls.”
Sorina frowned. She’d heard the toad had a temper. Did Grandfather know? Probably not, although sadly, it was common for a servant who stole or harmed another to receive lashes. More often they were dismissed. Many others were in need of employment, and work on a rancho meant food and shelter and sometimes a small wage.
“Do they leave on their own?” she asked.
“I do not know, señorita. But one or two have been found . . . dead.”
If they ran away, ill prepared for living off the land, they could easily succumb to the elements. But Maria was implying that Santoro had something to do with the disappearance. Perhaps this is what Uncle Gabriel had warned her about. Maria’s confirmation of her own suspicions strengthened her resolve to resist the marriage at all costs.
A weak knock at her door brought her out of her reverie. “Come in.”
“My child, my child, I just heard the news.” Tía Consuelo wobbled into the room, her cane and heavy steps making scraping sounds on the tile floor. She handed the cane to Maria and threw her arms around Sorina in a hug. “You are the luckiest girl alive. A wedding at your age! I did not believe it to be possible.”
Sorina detached her great-aunt’s arms and guided her to a chair. The woman pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief and blew her nose.
“I admit, Tía, marriage was not one of my priorities.” She chose her words carefully. In spite of her age, her duenna was very good at picking up nuances and not above reporting any suspicious signs. “And I have told grandfather that I am loathe to marry at my advanced age, being close to my majority.”
She had said a great deal more. But for now, it would not do to alert the household that there might be a reluctant bride in the house. Easier to make plans if her relatives thought her to be obedient and submissive.
“Your grandfather sent me here to talk to you. He told me you oppose the marriage. Why, I cannot understand.” Tía Consuelo pursed her lips, elongating the wrinkles around her mouth. “This is your chance, my child, to have a household and family of your own. And such a handsome husband. Antoine is the epitome of grace and kindness. You should count yourself lucky to be his bride.”
Sorina knelt in front of her great-aunt’s chair and took her blue-veined hands in her own. Looking directly into the woman’s eyes, she said, “I am afraid this has come as a complete surprise. As you said, it is not often a woman of twenty years receives a proposal of marriage.”
“Yes, well, you are known to be headstrong, my dear. And you do speak your mind, when you should sit quietly. Many men prefer someone who is docile for a wife.”
“You are right.” She squeezed the hands, retrieved the cane, and helped her great-aunt out of the chair. “Tell Grandfather I appreciate his need to protect me and I shall think carefully and review all of the advantages such a marriage will bring. He will be pleased that you had this little talk with me.”
She dipped her head and studied the pattern in the floor. She hated lying to her great-aunt, but it had to be done.
“We have many plans to make. The engagement must be followed by a grand fiesta, perhaps at Señor Avila’s home. He and your grandfather are such good friends. And plans must be made for the wedding and at least three days of feasting. I shall see to all the arrangements. Your grandfather wants the news to be announced before the week is out.”
Maria held the door open and helped the older woman into the hall. Closing it, she turned and faced Sorina. “What shall you do?”
Sorina sat on the vacant chair and held her head in her hands. “I need time to think . . . to make plans. This marriage will not take place, Maria, but I may not be able to get out of the fiesta. My grandfather is one who thrives on ceremony. He will want it done right, even if it will be done in haste.”
“What is the hurry, if I may be so bold as to as
k, mistress?”
The war. Grandfather must know something. She would have to get her hands on an old news sheet, if she could not find one in her grandfather’s office. There was one printed in Monterey to announce special events. Those papers were difficult to come by, but there was a ship due tomorrow. Perhaps there would be reading material onboard picked up from larger ports.
“I believe he fears for my safety.” Sorina answered the question, but her mind was whirling out of control. She needed the beach, her thinking spot. Perhaps tonight she could sneak out and lay under the stars. Would Lobo be there too? A ship was due, but this one was known. It would anchor near the mouth of the river and goods would be rowed in and exchanged for hides, tallow, and sometimes rocks from the beach, used for ballast. And it would not be done at night.
“If you do not need me further, señorita, I shall depart now. May I return during the siesta hours?”
“Not today. I have much to do.” She got up and went to the desk, removing a piece of paper and a fresh quill. “Do you still have ink?”
“Yes.”
“Practice writing your name. We will resume our lessons tomorrow.” She handed the maid the writing materials and watched her leave. Then Sorina bolted the door behind her and pushed the desk aside. Kneeling on the floor, she lifted the edge of the rug and removed three loose tiles from the floor. A box lay beneath. She lifted the lid and took out a pistol. It had belonged to her Uncle Gabriel as a young man.
Her uncle had taught her to shoot years ago. He said it was useful for women to know such things in the lawless environment in which they lived. Corruption thrived among provincial officials and crime was worsened by displaced Indios who had depended on the mission system prior to its dissolution.
She’d paid close attention, thrilled with his praise when she became a quick learner. It had been several years since she’d handled a gun, but she was sure she could still fire it with accuracy.
How sad that war with the Americans would bring the need to review such skills, or fan her grandfather’s fears to the point that he would force her to marry someone she despised. The Americans would not harm her. She was half English. Surely her father’s name would protect her. Santoro’s name might put her in greater danger.
If only there was someone she could ask for help.
A blue-eyed pretender came into her mind, a man who would not want his identity revealed as an American naval officer, especially now.
She placed the gun in a small valise under her bed and quickly sat down at her desk. Penning a note, she sealed it and slipped it into her bodice. It would not do to seek Lobo herself. But Pablo could do it. He wouldn’t like it. But he would do it . . . especially when she told him what was happening.
If Maria had heard of Santoro’s character flaws, Pablo surely would know more. And Pablo had kept her secrets for years.
Chapter 8
Sorina found Pablo in the candelaria, supervising the making of tallow candles for the house. Large vats of rendered animal fat bubbled in the center of the room. Three servants stood over a black cauldron where cooled fat thickened. Each held a long stick with candlewicks dangling at about three inches apart. As the wicks were dipped, tallow adhered to the wicks in small quantities. The dipping was repeated, over and over, until the desired thickness was achieved, and the hanging candles could be left to dry.
Sorina wrinkled her nose at the noxious odor and beckoned to Pablo to join her outside.
“Señorita Sorina, what brings you here? Have all your candles melted? Do you need a fresh supply?” He wiped his hands on a burlap sack, used to strain the fat into the vats.
“I need to speak to you.”
They walked away from the open doorway. The day was overcast, making it cool enough to replenish the household candle supply. Candles could not be made during the hottest days of summer, and the candles used for trading were all made in fall. A wooden bench faced a similar-sized building used for making soap.
Sorina sat on the bench and stared up at her friend, hoping he would not be in a mood to lecture her. “I need to speak to Lobo. Do you know where he is?”
“What business can you have with a vaquero, even if he is one of your grandfather’s favorites?”
“I cannot say, even to you, Pablo. You must trust me. It is muy importante.”
Pablo raised an eyebrow. His white hair was hidden under a kerchief, tied at the back of the neck, making the features of his face more prominent. A large mole stood out on his cheek near his scowling lips.
“Lobo is out rounding up strays. He returns when the sun sets.”
Seeing no one about, Sorina grabbed the note she had tucked into her bodice and handed it to Pablo. “See that he gets this note.”
“And how do you know he can read? As far as I know, none of your grandfather’s vaqueros have that skill.” Eyes full of wisdom and concern gazed at her, but he reached out and took the note from her hands.
“He can read.” Sorina stared back, daring Pablo to ask additional questions. He looked away and sighed.
“You are so like your mother . . . beautiful, stubborn, determined. But she was not so reckless.” He tucked the note into the inner pocket of his leather vest. “When she first saw your father, she stomped into your grandfather’s bedchamber and announced that she was in love. In love! She had spent all of three hours in your father’s company. How could she know such a thing so soon?” He stepped back, his jaw slack. “You are not in love with this Lobo, are you?”
“Of course not. I do not believe in love. This is business.”
Pablo tilted his head and stared hard, then cast his eyes down. “I have heard the news of your betrothal. If only your uncle were here, he would know what to do.”
“Where is he, Pablo? I am desperate.”
He nodded. “It is said he resides in Santa Barbara in the hills near the old mission there. But it is a rumor, one you did not hear from me.”
“I understand.”
He shook his head and turned to go back to his duties. “I will see that Lobo gets your note as soon as he returns.”
Sorina jumped up, threw her arms around the old man, and gave him an impulsive hug. “Thank you, Pablo.”
He plodded off, but Sorina was sure a brief smile had flickered on his lips.
~ ~ ~
The man striding toward him was old, but his back was straight and the look on his face grim. Pablo was the majordomo of the hacienda. What could he want? Grainger sat on a bunk, his boots at his side, a rag and a bar of saddle soap in his hand. He put the soap down, stood, and waited for the man to approach.
“Señor Lobo. I bring you greetings from Señorita Sorina. She asked me to give you this.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper, thrusting it into his hand.
“What’s this about? What does it say?” Cowhands couldn’t read. If he was to maintain his cover, he would have to play dumb.
“Señorita Sorina seems to think you will know what is written here.” The old man glared at him. As if struggling to find the words, he said, “She is like a daughter to me. Do you understand my meaning?”
Grainger nodded and went back to cleaning his boots. The note lay next to them, unopened. He watched the man leave, then quickly put the note inside his shirt. The light was dim inside the bunkhouse and he needed to be closer to a candle to see it better.
Damn. This was a complication he didn’t need.
The bunkhouse was still deserted when he went outside. Most of his compadres were drinking around the campfire. Someone had obtained a bottle of aguardiente, a local alcohol that burned your insides as it went down. Most would be snoring by nightfall.
Finding a lantern hanging from a post near the corridor, he unfolded the note. Uneven block letters, probably scribbled in haste, told him t
o meet her at the beach near the bottom of the cliff path at midnight.
What was she up to?
He leaned closer to the wrought iron lantern and held the edge of the note next to the flame. In seconds it curled and charred and when he dropped it to the ground, he stepped on it with the thick sandals he’d put on while cleaning his boots.
Glancing over to the campfire, where a round of singing had broken out, he sauntered back to his bunk and stretched out. Mitchell wasn’t going to like this. A note assumed he could read. If she knew he could read, then she’d probably remembered him from that ball years ago. Damn. How could he have figured someone he met in England would show up here? He’d been told there were fewer than eight hundred hidalgos in all of California. What were the odds?
He raised his arms and settled them under his head and thought about the young woman he’d met in the dark garden.
Skin as soft as a newborn lamb came to mind, making his fingertips tingle and his groin stir. Her moss green eyes had flashed with bravado one minute, and softened in anxiety the next.
And she had made soft sighing sounds as his mouth found hers and she opened to him.
He got up abruptly and strode outside into the cold night air. It would take all his will power to keep his hands off her. But he could do it.
Of course, you could ignore her request and not go.
He had to go, if for no other reason than to find out what she wanted. It couldn’t be blackmail; hell, she had more money than he had. Maybe she wanted to renew their acquaintance. Maybe she liked to live dangerously. If that was it, she might get her wish. As randy as he was at this moment, her virtue was in serious danger.
~ ~ ~
Tonight’s dinner seemed endless. With no guests, only four courses were served. The braised pork cutlets in wine was one of her favorite dishes, but Sorina barely pushed the meat around on her plate. Anticipation filled her stomach and spilled over into the restless movement of her feet under the table. At one point she crossed her ankles to keep them still, but then her fork tapped on the table until her grandfather set down his wineglass and glared at her.
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