Chapter 13
It was early afternoon when the betrothal entourage arrived at the Avila Hacienda. Sorina’s backside ached from sitting so long inside the carriage. Thankfully, her great-aunt had dozed most of the way and had spared her a lecture on etiquette, behavior, or attitude—three of her favorite topics.
They’d missed the noon meal, but their host would have a light repast brought to their room.
Stepping down onto solid ground, Sorina stretched and watched her host approach. Juan Avila was a portly man with muttonchop whiskers. He wore a silk scarf, tied snugly over his scalp, as was the style for men of his class.
Sorina curtsied.
“My dear, what a delight it is to see you again. I trust you and Señora Vega had a comfortable journey.” Although her great-aunt was a spinster, people used señora as a courtesy title in deference to her age.
“It was long, Señor Avila, but without incident. Has my grandfather arrived?”
“An hour ago. He is resting in his room.” He turned to greet Tía Consuelo.
Grandfather had chosen to accompany the food wagons. A large contingent of outriders had been assigned to escort the carriage. Lobo was not among them.
Sorina surveyed the scene before her. The compound was a hive of activity. A full block long, the hacienda faced the town square in front of the mission. A bare dirt space, the plaza was fenced and used to confine cattle, sheep, goats, and other animals brought to town for sale. It would also be the location of the rodeo. On the far side of the square, adobe buildings with red-tiled roofs were outlined against a montage of low hills beyond. A road wound into those hills. It led to a natural hot springs where many of the Vega servants had been born. It was a place of healing, according to the locals, and displaced Indians, formerly associated with mission, lived there now.
Sorina nodded to a group of women seated on the covered porch as she followed a housemaid to the room she would share with Tía Consuelo. Maria would sleep with other female servants in a low wooden building near the barn.
Guests were expected all afternoon, some from as far away as San Diego. Sorina was acquainted with most even though they were her grandfather’s friends. They were members of the best families of Alta California, who had come for the festivities.
Ysidora Forster nodded to her in the hall. Like Sorina’s mother, Ysidora had wed an English sea captain. John Forster was younger than his wife, and like most of the foreign-born husbands, had left the sea and now oversaw thousands of acres of land. The woman’s brother was Pio Pico, Governor of California, who had sent word that although he would not be attending the betrothal, he would be present for the wedding.
Please God, let me save him a trip.
The room assigned to them was small, but had a deep window inset into the thick adobe walls, overlooking the courtyard. A heavy red velvet curtain was drawn across for privacy.
“I wonder if dear Antoine has arrived. He is so handsome. I still cannot believe your good fortune in attracting his attention.” Her great-aunt prattled on about his thick wavy hair, impeccable manners, and flowery speech.
“If you are so taken with him, perhaps you should wed him, Tía Consuelo.” Sorina spat out the words and immediately regretted them. She must watch her tongue. Although her family knew it wasn’t a love match, she must still feign resignation and humility for the sake of her family. The dutiful granddaughter, that’s what she must appear at all times—dutiful and grateful to those saving her from spinsterhood.
Her great-aunt paused in her inspection of the room and frowned. “You sound like a spoiled child who fancied a pony, but has been given a stallion instead. Appreciate your good fortune. Bask in it. Flaunt it. You are envied by all the unmarried girls here.”
Sorina scowled and tested the bed. A hand-crocheted spread covered it. Someone in the household did beautiful needlework. How many hours had it taken to produce such a piece, and how much patience?
Patience was not her strong point, but she needed it now more than ever.
As restless as she felt today, it would be a huge effort to school her features and conduct polite conversation during the evening’s banquet. After dinner, Santoro would most likely retire to a corner of the sala for cards. As his fiancée, she would be expected to remain nearby, her eyes fixed on her betrothed. An occasional sigh wouldn’t be amiss.
Tomorrow would be equally tense. Her shoulders already ached at the thought.
Sorina walked to the open window and pulled back the curtain. A gentle breeze blew into the room, carrying the smells of meat cooking on a spit over an open pit.
“Where is Maria with the trunk? I should have brought my own maid. That girl is never to be found.” Tía Consuelo peeked inside the large armoire. The smell of cedar drifted in the air. As if on cue, Maria entered followed by a man who carried a trunk on his shoulder like it was a sack of feathers.
“Put it down behind the screen.” Consuelo gestured toward a folding screen painted with large birds that stood in the corner next to the window. The trunk landed with a loud thud. Startled, Sorina turned and met the vivid blue eyes of Lobo. Today he smelled of leather and woodsmoke, but his lazy grin still ignited an odd tingling in her belly.
“Buenos tardes, señorita.” He tipped his hat and left the room.
“What did he say to you? Was it something impertinent?” Her great-aunt pursed her lips and drew her shawl closed with her fingers. She was hard of hearing, knowledge Sorina often used to her advantage.
“He said, ‘Good afternoon.’ What’s wrong with you?”
“You stared at him.”
Like he was a crème cake? I must be careful.
“You are overtired, Tía. I shall let you take a siesta, since we must share this bed. I shall go in search of our hostess and have a small meal brought to you.”
Her great-aunt’s shoulders drooped and she nodded in agreement.
Sorina gave instructions to Maria and left the room. Lobo was nowhere in sight. She strolled through the courtyard, pausing to examine the raised beds of herbs near the cooking area. Two women snipped oregano and cilantro, placing their cuttings in a small woven basket. She asked one where she might find the barn, saying she wanted to see Avila’s famous racehorse. The woman gestured toward the back of the property where a large wooden building stood next to corrals.
The smell of horse dung was overpowering as she entered the enclosure. Stalls lined the central corridor on both sides. A whinny came from the one at the end. A tall man with a drooping mustache and fiery red hair stepped in front of her.
“Miss Braithwaite, I presume.” He doffed his cap and bowed.
“You speak English?”
“Well, now, lass, that’s a matter of opinion. Some say my English should stay in my head and not be uttered from my mouth, but I’m guessing you might need a little practice yourself.” The man smiled. “Mitchell’s me name. I’m the horse trainer.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mitchell.”
“How may I be of service?”
She glanced around, hoping to see Lobo, but he wasn’t there. “I would like to see Señor Avila’s racehorse. I understand he is a magnificent animal.”
“That he is. Follow me and mind your step. We’re housing a lot of extra horses today and haven’t cleaned up after them yet.”
Sorina followed the man to the end of the building. Bolero pawed the ground, as restless as she was. Mitchell reached into his pocket and withdrew an apple. The horse stuck his head over the bars and nuzzled Mitchell’s hand.
“Now there’s a good lad. Stay real still while the lass pets your forelock.” He nodded toward Sorina who reached up and ran her palm over the smooth muzzle. Mitchell rewarded the horse with the apple. “Do you ride, miss?”
“Yes. I learned sidesaddle in England. M
y uncle Gabriel taught me to ride astride.”
“Now that’s downright useful information.”
An odd statement.
Sorina slanted a glance at the unusual man. “How did you come to work for Señor Avila? Are you not far away from your home?”
“Now that’s not a story fit for a lady’s ears, lass. Let me say that a night spent with demon rum left me stranded on this strange shore. Now if it had been good Irish whiskey, I might have made me ship before it sailed off.”
Sorina laughed, feeling the tightness in her chest ease. “Say no more, Mr. Mitchell.” She put out her hands as if to ward off a blow. “I’m glad you were skilled with horses.”
“That I was, lass. No better, if I might say so, meself.”
Sorina clasped her hands in front of her and wandered past the rows of horses. “Is Antoine Santoro’s horse here?”
“No, miss. He’ll be keepin’ the horse close to his person. I understand there is a large wager on the outcome of tomorrow’s race.”
“I see.” It meant he would be focused on the race. The men would remain after the start, interested in the outcome. It wasn’t only the participants who wagered. Horse-racing was a passion in Alta, California. Some would say it was an obsession.
And the women would drift away to take tea or begin their siesta.
She turned back toward the doors. “Thank you for the tour and the chance to speak English.”
“My pleasure, lass.” He turned away and strode back toward Bolero’s stall.
Sorina strolled into the yard and pretended to admire the view out the open rear gate toward the west. A shallow stream lay beyond, with low hills on the west side. A stand of pepper trees with thick trunks grew directly behind the barn. The trees would hide them from view once they left the barn, if they kept to the base of the hills.
A shudder wracked her body.
Someone walked over my grave.
Sorina wasn’t superstitious, but the old saying came to mind when she thought about the consequences of failure. Her shoulders sagged and her breath caught. She needed a brisk walk to clear her head and calm her nerves. But she would be denied that today.
The Avila courtyard was almost totally enclosed by buildings. Where there were openings, adobe walls with sturdy wooden gates blocked access. Lobo had chosen to meet in the barn, and now she knew why. It had a second entrance, presumably for horses to escape in case of fire. That’s why Bolero was stabled at the end. His trainer was probably housed nearby.
The trainer shouldn’t be a problem. He would be present during the race. Hopefully, he wouldn’t return to the barn too soon.
Timing would be tricky. Hopefully, Lobo was good at logistics, because she wasn’t. Too often she let her emotions rule, getting her into trouble.
Nearing the house she glanced at the orange-streaked sky. Could they really make this happen? She hurried along the corridor to her room, crossing herself as she opened the door.
“Where have you been?” Her great-aunt stood before her wringing her hands.
“I was cramped and sore and wanted to stretch my legs before tonight’s banquet.” Sorina glanced at the bed. Maria had laid out her bloodred silk gown with matching slippers. It was another favorite, purchased in England. While woefully out of date there, it would appear stylish here where women were starved for fashion news. The lace-edged scooped neck was modest and short puffed sleeves gave ample room for the elbow-length gloves she wore with it. A black lace shawl draped over her shoulders and her mother’s delicate silver cross would complete her ensemble.
The color of the dress would give her courage. It would remind her she was to keep her wits about her if she and Lobo were to make their escape. If they got caught, Santoro would not let Lobo live.
She did not want his blood on her hands.
Chapter 14
Pale light seeped through the edges of the shuttered windows the next morning, telling Sorina it was time to get up.
Her stomach lurched.
Today her life would change, for better or worse.
The smell of camphor filled her nostrils. It was her great-aunt’s favorite ointment and she used it liberally to prevent joint ailments.
Her aunt’s bulky form next to her, swathed in a heavy cotton nightdress, wheezed in her sleep. Sorina smiled. She would miss this woman. Lectures and raised eyebrows aside, Tía Consuelo cared about her.
I hope you do not suffer ill consequences from my actions, dear tía. Santoro will call it an abduction, to save face, and Grandfather will support him. But you will know that I ran away because you know me best.
Throwing her legs over the side of the high bed, Sorina dropped to the floor and turned back to tuck the covers around the sleeping woman. A big day lay ahead, one with an emotional ending for both of them.
Needs propelled her behind the screen. After she washed, Sorina put on a simple wrapper and knelt in front of her open trunk. Lifting out the garments on top, she took out her servant’s garb and her uncle’s gun and stuffed everything into the empty flour sack she had snatched from the kitchen after last night’s banquet.
The lid made a thud as she closed it. Bedsprings creaked, followed by the low rumble of a snore. Shoving the sack under the bed, Sorina released her breath and slowly edged the curtain open at the window. She unlatched the shutters and peeked out. The day was overcast and gloomy, but the temperature was mild.
The ceremony was planned for ten o’clock and would take place in the small chapel on the east side of the mission. Built by Father Junipero Serra, the chapel was once again used for religious ceremonies. No priest was in residence these days, but visiting priests were summoned when needed. One had arrived during dessert and had offered to hear her confession this morning before the service. She had politely declined, pleading a headache. The good man had smiled and blessed her instead.
May God forgive me for lying to a priest.
A low knock at the door told her Maria was outside with her morning chocolate. She opened the door and stepped aside.
“Good morning, my lady,” Maria said. She carried in a heavy tray and set it down on a small table. The smell of chocolate and freshly baked morning buns came with her. If noises did not awaken Tía Consuelo, the smell of nourishment would. “Are you ready for your big day? Of course, a bigger one looms in a month, does it not?” The maid chattered on for Tía Consuelo’s benefit, rattling cups and taking a napkin off the basket containing the pan dulce. Maria’s loathing of Santoro was almost as great as her own and she was instructed to pretend nothing was amiss.
Maria now knew what was happening, but did not know details of the escape plan. It was better that she did not. Antoine Santoro had ways to get information from people, especially those he considered inferior. “Yes it is,” Sorina answered.
Lifting a cup to her lips, Sorina drank deeply, letting the fragrant liquid slide down her throat. No sipping today. She set down the chocolate and picked up a bun, stuffing it in her mouth. She needed her strength. Who knew when she might eat again.
“I am going to take your blue dress to the clothespress now,” Maria said. “Señora Avila has a fine laundry here. I want it to be perfect. During the ceremony, I want everyone to be envious of your beauty and fine garments.”
“And fine bridegroom. Don’t forget him.” Tía Consuelo yanked back the covers far enough to sit up in bed and prop herself against the carved oak headboard. Her gray hair, worn in a braid, seemed as neat as when she went to bed.
“Indeed, Señora, how could anyone forget him?” Maria lowered her head, but Sorina saw the scowl on her lips.
“Hand me my chocolate and get on with your duties, girl.” Consuelo held out her hand and Maria put a cup in it. A plate with two large sweet buns came next, placed on the table next to Consuelo’s rosary.
&
nbsp; Turning to the armoire, Maria opened the doors and removed the blue gown, shaking out the folds of the skirt.
“Here, press this, too.” Sorina thrust the white shawl Santoro had given her into the maid’s hand. Wearing it would signify her acceptance of the arrangement, and would cover the gown’s low bodice, which was not appropriate for such a ceremony. Her mother’s sapphire brooch could hold the shawl in place. She didn’t want Santoro to ogle her breasts, as he had last night while she sat opposite him while dining. It was outrageous enough that they sat side by side on the settee before dinner was served. She received a set down for that breach of etiquette, although she’d tried to move away when his thigh brushed hers.
Always the woman’s fault, never the man’s.
Today he would kiss her after the banns were read. It was customary in Alta California. A shudder crawled down her spine. She prayed she would not throw up in front of the company.
May I grow a large wart on my nose in the next few hours to dissuade him.
When her aunt left her bed to perform her morning ablutions, Sorina grabbed the last bun from the plate and tucked it inside the clothing bag. Ten o’clock would come all too soon, and her new life would begin. If Lobo didn’t fail her.
~ ~ ~
“Are you ready, my dear?” Grandfather handed her into the open curricle and climbed in beside her. Tía Consuelo would follow in the one behind.
“As you can see, I am an obedient grandchild.” The blue dress settled around her, its silk folds neatly covering her ankles. She reached up to adjust the white lace mantilla over her tall comb. Although there was still a chill in the morning air, the shawl, fastened above the top of her bodice, kept her warm.
“And a beautiful one,” Grandfather said. Pride and admiration beamed from his eyes. “That gown is quite fetching. Was it another you purchased in England? I do not recall seeing it before.”
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