Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  “It has special meaning for me. I had not intended to wear it again.” And that was the truth, thought Sorina. This gown was the one she wore the night of her shame, the night of the tryst, the night a stranger with violet eyes and a military bearing awakened her with a stolen kiss. Perhaps Lobo would recognize it.

  “And you decided this occasion was special enough to wear it? I am touched at your complete change of heart. I was very worried that you would not see the value of this marriage.”

  Sorina hung her head as guilt swept over her.

  One day you will understand why I ran, Abuelo.

  The ride to the chapel was short, but townspeople lined the street to see her in her finery. She could only imagine what it would be like if this were her wedding day. But what she heard after dinner last night gave her hope. Perhaps her self-imposed exile would be short in duration.

  There had been talk about the American army on its way to San Diego. Speculation was that American ships were sailing toward Monterey. The conversation continued after the ladies were excused and the gentlemen lit cigars and drank port or brandy. Loud arguing could be heard all the way into the parlor where the women chatted over tea and needlework, trying not to hear the anxiety in the voices of their husbands and fathers.

  The voice of reason had been Forster, the Englishman. Sorina recognized his commanding tone over the din. He urged caution, a wait and see attitude. No blood had been let as yet, according to reports. Perhaps a truce could be worked out. But Santoro was adamant. They were Mexican patriots and they must fight to the death . . . for honor. Let the Americans come. They would find a superior force when they reached the village of Capistrano.

  Sorina cringed at the memory. How many would die if Santoro’s voice was loudest? And if the invasion was imminent, would Santoro be willing to put off the wedding?

  I cannot chance it.

  “You’re pale, my dear.” Her grandfather patted her hand as they reached the church. “Take a deep breath. This part will be over soon.”

  They entered the cool, dark interior of the chapel. The room was long and narrow, its width constrained by the size of the logs that spanned the roof and tied into thick adobe walls. Rows of carved wooden pews smelling of old incense faced the altar. Windows without glass formed a pattern in the walls far above their heads, providing the only daylight.

  Sorina, her grandfather, and her great-aunt seated themselves in the front row. Across the aisle were Antoine and his mother. Two of his sisters, who had traveled from ranchos near Mission San Gabriel to witness the betrothal, sat behind them. The guests, the cream of Mexican society, filled the pews behind the two families.

  First came the Mass. When it was time for the banns to be read, Jose de la Vega escorted his granddaughter to the front of the church where Santoro joined her. They stood facing the altar as the priest began.

  “Today we are celebrating the betrothal of Sorina Victoria Carlotta Braithwaite to Antoine Francisco Damian Santoro, two people whom I hold in high esteem. Let us all bow our heads in prayer while I intone the words of the betrothal ceremony used by the señorita’s family.”

  Sorina and Antoine knelt, their hands steepled in prayer, their elbows resting on the railing of the prayer bench. Two young acolytes, stood on either side of them, holding tall white candles.

  The gray-robed friar faced the simple wooden cross on the altar, his clear voice speaking the words of commitment in Latin. Sorina tried to concentrate on the words, knowing that each one brought her closer to her escape. But the smell of the incense made her dizzy and her knees ached from the hard surface. If she did not get up soon, she was afraid she might faint.

  Madre de Dios, that would be a disaster.

  Instead she cleared her mind and shut out the singsong voice of the priest and thought of Lobo the first time she’d seen him—a tall, dark-haired man in a trim blue naval uniform, standing with his arms folded across his chest in her Aunt’s ballroom. If she were honest, she would admit they had been drawn to one another then—and they were still.

  Sorina blinked as the priest held out his hand, preparing to help her up. The prayer must be over and it was time for the pledge. Santoro’s fingers closed over her arm and drew her to her feet. She rose awkwardly, willing herself to stand straight and face the toad.

  “Señor Santoro, do you have something for your affianced?” The priest beckoned to Antoine, who took three gold coins from his pocket.

  Sorina responded as she had been taught, holding her left hand out to receive the coins.

  Antoine’s smug face taxed her composure. His lip curled in triumph as he dropped them one by one into her hand, speaking his pledge to wed her before God, to give her many children, and to provide for the family, as was his role in life. The metal against her palm was warm from being in Santoro’s pocket, next to his body. Her revulsion traveled to her hands and she let the coins slide to the floor.

  A chorus of gasps filled the room. It was considered bad luck for the bride-to-be to drop even one coin, let alone all three. Santoro knelt and scooped them up, tucked them into her hand and folded her fingers over them. Sorina shuddered as he drew her to him and kissed her on both cheeks, his lips hot and moist. He lingered a little longer than propriety allowed as he pressed his cheek to hers and said softly in her ear, “You will soon be mine—body and soul.”

  May an eagle gouge you with sharp talons and drop you over a cliff.

  Chapter 15

  Thick layers of clouds shrouded the sun at the end of the service. Well-wishers gathered outside. Sorina bolted for the carriage, but a firm hand on her arm stopped her.

  “What is your hurry, my dear? You are like a frightened rabbit seeking his hole. Are you overcome by shame because you dropped the coins?” Grandfather’s glare pinned her to the walkway.

  “I’m not ashamed. I am eager for the horse race.”

  And I am even more eager to wash the toad’s kisses from my face before I grow the warts I wished for earlier.

  “Then you can smile and thank people for coming today.” His fingers bit into her arm. “And you can invite them to the wedding.”

  “Si, Abuelo.” She lowered her head and focused on her feet.

  If he’s angry now, he will have apoplexy when he discovers I’m gone.

  Sorina searched the crowd for Santoro, but thankfully he was nowhere in sight. Horse racing was a serious business and took great preparation. He was probably already at his lodging changing his clothes and making last minute wagers.

  “My dear, you are the picture of your mother,” a white-haired woman with a kind face said. “I am so looking forward to your wedding. You will be a beautiful bride.”

  “Thank you, Señora Yorba. You are too kind.” Sorina smiled at the petite woman who had been one of her grandmother’s closest friends. Many members of the Yorba family had come today. Several had ranchos in the territory, and all thought of the mission as their home parish. A few lived in town. Other Yorbas joined the group, shaking her grandfather’s hand, and throwing compliments her way, like coins to a dancer. Sorina worked hard to appear humble and appreciative.

  “Look at you. A bride-to-be in what . . . four weeks’ time? And here you thought you would become a spinster, tending her ranch and teaching her Indian servants how to survive in a gringo culture.” The low voice came from behind and Sorina whirled to see her dearest friend, Isabella clapping her hands. “I knew you would find a husband, although I am a little surprised at your choice.”

  Sorina found herself grasped in a fierce hug while a cool cheek pressed against her own. “But what of all those grandiose plans of yours? Will Antoine allow you to start your school? A man like that will want his wife’s undivided attention. He will keep her in the marriage bed until she is with child.”

  Sorina shuddered and pushed herself back. “Come
with me.” She led her friend to a low bench a short distance from the nearest group. They could sit and talk without anyone overhearing. “I did not find this husband. He found me. And I am quite sure you are right. A conceited egotist like Santoro will not allow me to follow my dreams.”

  Isabella shook her head, her eyes sad. “I was afraid of that. Santoro prances and preens, yet underneath that demeanor he seems to be stubborn and strong-willed. And stupid. Not the husband I would have chosen for you.”

  “Madre de Dios, no.”

  “Then why are you going through with this? Surely your grandfather isn’t forcing you.”

  “But he is. He is worried about the war. He thinks marriage will save me if the country is overrun by the Americans.”

  “I see.” Isabella tilted her head and appeared to study a bush covered with tiny pink rosebuds that grew near the bench. “He loves you. He will do what he thinks he must to protect you. And you will have to make the best of it. Our culture requires it.”

  “I know.” Sorina wanted badly to confide in her friend, but the risk to her would be too great. Better to pretend to be acquiescent.

  “You know, Sorina, you can talk to me any time. My home is fairly close to the Santoros.”

  “Thank you.” Sorina patted her friend’s hand. “I must go.”

  “Of course, I am sorry to have kept you. You have a horse race to start.”

  “I do?” Panic, kept at bay during the Mass, welled up into her throat and threatened to choke her.

  “Yes.” Isabella narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t realize I had anything to do with the race. I expected to watch it from the Avila’s porch with the other ladies.” Sorina forced out the words, hoping Isabella attributed her agitation to nerves.

  “It is not difficult. But you are the guest of honor. You will stand at the starting line and drop a handkerchief to the ground. It is the signal to begin.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t aware that she had held her breath until it came out in a sigh. “Is that all? I can do that.”

  “Of course you can.” Isabella patted her hand. “Come, I will accompany you to the hacienda. It is a short distance and the walk will calm you.”

  “Do I have enough time?”

  “Yes, goose. Stop worrying. Come.”

  Sorina slipped her hand through Isabella’s arm and nodded toward Grandfather. They turned toward the inner courtyard of the mission and followed the remains of the corridor to the opening in the southernmost section of the quadrangle. The high-pitched warbles of swallows followed them.

  “Now that we are alone,” Isabella said, “tell me what is really bothering you.”

  “Anxiety. The smell of incense was strong. Dropping the coins unsettled me. Santoro’s kisses made me gag.”

  And my escape is less than an hour away and I shall die if something goes wrong.

  Isabella’s laughter was loud and infectious. Sorina tittered in response, amazed at how laughter seemed to lift a yoke from the back of her neck.

  “I assume Tía Consuelo has not spoken to you about the delights of the wedding night.”

  Sorina nearly choked. “How would she know what to say?”

  “True. But you already know what transpires between a man and woman, do you not? A bit more than kisses.”

  A blush warmed Sorina’s cheeks. “I have spent my entire life on a ranch and I am quite observant. And I confess to eavesdropping in the servants’ quarters at a very early age.”

  Isabella snorted. “Your education in the matter is probably more complete than mine.”

  “Servants marry by choice. They do not choose partners who are repulsive,” Sorina said. “Bedding Santoro is my worst nightmare.”

  Her friend stopped and put her hand on Sorina’s shoulder. “Let me tell you a secret. The marriage bed does not have to be a burden. Close your eyes, lie still, and think of a man you admire. Let his face be the one you see behind your eyes, let it be his hands and lips you feel on your body. Surely, there is someone you fancied . . . maybe in England? And drink wine before you retire. It will relax you and make it all bearable.”

  A face with blue eyes and a dimpled chin came into Sorina’s mind. “Was it like that for you, Isabella?”

  She hesitated. “It was at first. As you know, my late husband was nearly my father’s age. But he was kind and patient. And in time, we grew quite close, despite the age difference.”

  “But Santoro is neither kind nor patient.”

  Isabella hugged her friend. They were at the southern end of the ruined barracks that once housed soldiers of Spain assigned to protect the mission. Avila’s hacienda was a few steps away. “No, he isn’t.” She sighed.

  Sorina persisted. “Did you ever consider running away?”

  “From my marriage? Of course not. I knew my duty. But now that I am a widow, I hope to marry again . . . this time for love.”

  “You deserve to be happy.” Sorina smiled at her friend. “And please remember that no matter what happens in the future, I will always treasure our friendship.”

  Isabella looked at her oddly. “What could happen?”

  “The war,” Sorina sputtered. “I’m talking about the war.” She hurried into the house, aware that her friend was still staring, cursing herself for the sentimental slip of the tongue.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Why did you choose to walk? Now there is no time for you to change.” Tía Consuelo’s mottled face peered at her over her fan. Her eyes, sunken in folds of flesh, were still bright with anticipation. Sorina recalled that her great-aunt loved to gamble and probably had a wager on the outcome of the race.

  “Forgive me if I caused you distress, Tía. I shall wear this gown and change my shawl. The paisley one will do nicely. It has these colors in the weave.” She took off the mantilla and dislodged the high comb from her nest of braids. Taking them down, she looped each one over her ears, pinning it by feel.

  “Where is that lazy girl, Maria? She should be seeing to your attire.” Tía Consuelo’s fan fluttered, creating drafts of cool air.

  “I’m sure she’ll be along shortly.” Sorina stood at the side of the bed and unpinned the white shawl, tossing it on the bed, and replaced it with the paisley. Her toe prodded the flour sack. “I told her I would not be changing until this afternoon.”

  “Then let us depart.” Tía Consuelo led the way into the corridor and followed it to the front of the building. A number of chairs were arranged on the porch for spectators, and townspeople already lined the route. A cheer followed by clapping announced the arrival of Juan Avila on Bolero. Sorina saw Mitchell standing near the horse’s head, adjusting the bit. Avila waved at the ladies on the porch.

  Santoro and his groom trotted into view. His horse was black, its coat groomed to a high gloss. Sorina had never seen it before. It was kept in a special place, not in the stables of the rancho.

  The horse reared, but Santoro kept his seat, pulling hard on the reins to keep the animal under control. He rode over to the porch railing, stopping in front of her.

  “I dedicate this race to you, my beloved.” He smiled and saluted. The women on the porch giggled behind fans.

  And may you fall off your horse and be stomped in your ass.

  Sorina nodded and smiled sweetly and watched Santoro move off to the starting line.

  “It is your cue.” Isabella was at her elbow. “Take your handkerchief and stand next to your grandfather. He will tell you when to drop it.”

  Sorina made her way past the chairs and benches to the end of the porch, where steps led down to the street level. She took Grandfather’s arm and they strolled to the Garcia Adobe, a few paces south of Avila’s hacienda. The building was a two-story adobe building with porches above and below. Sorina and her gra
ndfather stood in front of the building, opposite the hotel’s entrance, then moved further down the street to the Yorba’s home where they racers waited.

  “On my granddaughter’s signal, the race will begin.” Vega’s voice boomed out. A hush settled on the crowd. Speaking in a softer tone, he addressed Sorina. “Raise your handkerchief and let drop on the count of three.”

  Sorina swallowed. Clutching the lace-edged handkerchief she always carried, she thrust out her arm and held it in front of her. At the count of three, she released it and watched it flutter to the ground. Hooves thundered past her, dislodging dust and small rocks. The crowd cheered.

  Sorina swayed.

  It was time.

  Chapter 16

  “You’re pale, my dear. Come, I’ll escort you back to the other women.” Grandfather smiled and held out his arm. Sorina had no choice but to take it. She hoped he wouldn’t stop to talk to friends until they reached the porch. “You’re shaking, chica. I would expect you to be nervous on your wedding day, but not today.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Abuelo. I’m just tired.”

  “Perhaps you should rest. I’m sure your fiancé will want to celebrate his win with his friends at the finish line, before returning to bask in your praise.”

  “If he wins.”

  “He will. Santoro does not like to lose.”

  They reached the porch and mounted the steps. Several women sat back in the chairs with needlework on their laps. Tía Consuelo was not among them.

  Sorina turned to her grandfather, squeezing his arm. “Thank you for taking care of me all these years.”

  “My pleasure.” He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and turned back toward the street.

  Sorina entered the house, closed the door behind her, and scurried through the sala to the door that led to the back area. She reached the exterior corridor and hurried toward her room, nearly running into her hostess, who carried a stack of bed linens. “I beg your pardon, Señora Avila.”