Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  “But in my mind, Sorina, I cursed you as ungrateful and disrespectful. I condemned you for your actions without allowing you to explain.” His fingers curled tightly around the letter. “You were not the only one. I disowned my own son and forbade anyone to speak of him. Because of Santoro’s lies, and because Gabriel fled, I erased him from my life, as if he never existed.”

  She squeezed her grandfather’s hand and spoke with calm authority, hoping he would listen and believe. “Antoine Santoro was an evil man, and like many devils he had a special gift. He could make you believe he was a hero, a savior, a man of action who put everyone’s needs above his own, when his real talent was lying.”

  “You did not believe him, Sorina.”

  “No, but my informants were servants who had direct knowledge of his crimes. Your peers believed him, as you did. Servants’ gossip rarely met your ears. You are the patrón, the grandee of Rancho de Los Lagos. Gossip was beneath you. Uncle Gabriel’s letter says he was falsely jailed for a crime by corrupt officials who were influenced by Santoro. He does not condemn you for what you believed. Nor do I.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” His veined hand was trembling in hers.

  Sorina looked away so as not to embarrass her grandfather. He’d always been a rock. It hurt her to see him like this.

  Swallowing away the lump in her throat and willing herself to be strong, she turned back to the man braced against his pillows, looking small against the carved oak headboard. “I have written to Uncle Gabriel, asking him to come home. His distance will give you time to recover, Grandfather. You will want to be well when he arrives. You will have much to talk about.”

  He blinked and a wry smile rewarded her efforts to cheer him. “Thank you for writing him, Sorina. And for your forgiveness.”

  “There is nothing in this world more important than family, Abuelo. You and Tía Consuelo and Uncle Gabriel are my family . . . not the Braithwaites in England. I love you, and I will always forgive you, no matter what you do.”

  She meant every word. If only she could include Grainger in her declaration.

  Sorina kissed her grandfather’s damp cheek, then left the room and hurried back to her own.

  There was much to do to prepare for the arrival of her uncle. His room must be cleaned and aired and his belongings brought back from storage. A room must also be readied for Isabella. She should be here by tomorrow evening, ready to help. She’d be eager to hear Sorina’s entire story.

  She stopped in front of Tía Consuelo’s room. Maria said her great-aunt was better, now that Sorina was home, but she had not yet had time to visit her.

  She cracked open the door and peered inside, not wanting to wake her if she slept. Tía Consuelo sat in a chair, a blanket on her lap, and her rosary in her hands. Her hand flew up to her mouth, stifling a cry.

  “It’s true. You are home.” She started to rise, but Sorina quickly went to her and wrapped her in her arms.

  “I’m home and I’m well.”

  “Let me look at you.”

  Sorina stepped back and her aunt’s eyes flickered over her. She shook her head, the silver beads clutched to her bosom. “You are thinner.”

  “I shall put the weight back on as soon as you are up and supervising the kitchen, Tía.” Sorina smiled. “I’ve come from Grandfather’s room. He is resting and seems peaceful.”

  “He was so worried about you. And angry. It is no wonder he finally collapsed. He thought you’d run off to escape your marriage.” Her eyes seemed to search Sorina’s face. “What is the truth? Did you run away and bribe a servant to help you? Or were you kidnapped, as Señor Santoro said?”

  Sorina averted her eyes. The cloth of her skirt was coarse under her flexing fingers. “I confess Grandfather was right. I could not face marriage to a man like Santoro and I feared that the ceremony would be hastened because of the war. So I left.”

  Tía Consuelo, still seated, grasped Sorina’s wrist. “Tell me you’ve changed your mind and that’s why you’re here. Tell me you won’t run off again. It was such a foolish thing to do. Your reputation can never be repaired. But worse, you could have been harmed.” She clutched her beads, but her eyes never left Sorina’s face.

  Madre de Dios. She doesn’t know about Santoro.

  “Tía, there’s something you don’t know, and I won’t go into it now. But I will tell you this. Antoine Santoro is dead.”

  Consuelo gasped and crossed herself. Her eyes filled with tears. “What happened?”

  “A hunting accident.” It was close to the truth. He was hunting her.

  “How awful. I shall pray for the poor man’s soul.”

  It took effort for Sorina to maintain her calm tone, while her breathing increased and her eyes hardened. She wanted to say, “Do not waste your time. He won’t need your prayers where he’s going.” Instead she nodded and said, “You are a good woman, Tía.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The hard cot did nothing to alleviate Grainger’s considerable aches and pains. But it was the troubling thoughts in his head that kept him awake at night.

  Where the hell was Mitchell?

  He’d asked himself that question a dozen times, and the only answer he came up with was one he didn’t want to contemplate. If Mitchell was dead, then his hopes were dead, too. Mitchell was the only one who could corroborate his story. Without him, there was only Sorina and while she could tell them he stole her away at her request, it was not a valid reason to leave the area he was assigned to monitor.

  Unless I can prove I was ordered to go by my superior.

  He lay back on the cot and studied the movements of a spider spinning a web in the corner of the dark room. He’d been placed in an old storeroom. Its thick adobe walls had a large window with bars to keep thieves from stealing hides, most likely. The smell of tanned leather still lingered when the breeze was right. The room was his billet until the mess he found himself in could be cleared.

  The spider swung from one wall to the next in long easy arcs. It had a tiny body and long legs and seemed to have a single focus: to get the web constructed. Grainger understood. He too had lived with a single focus . . . to be a better man than his father. But living a life of honor and integrity, while important, were not the only reasons to live.

  How ironic he had come to that conclusion while tied to a tree watching Santoro marry Sorina.

  A face danced before his eyes. So beautiful. So trusting. Sorina had thought him a hero, a man who had nearly given his life to save her. Now she knew the truth. She probably hated him and thought him a seducer. She didn’t know his time with her had given him a new purpose. He’d fallen in love with her. And he wanted to take care of her for the rest of his life.

  He shifted on the cot, trying to get a more comfortable position, trying to think of someone else who might help.

  He’d invoked the name Larkin to try to get someone to send a messenger to Monterey. Everyone knew Larkin’s role in California. He was likely to be put in charge of the transitional government. But the military authorities who had invaded the pueblo of Los Angeles were not sympathetic. Larkin was occupied with more serious matters right now. Only the Captain who had brought him in believed his story and promised to send one of his men to Monterey to try to get official verification.

  Monterey was a long way.

  What a tangle.

  And what of Santoro? Had he lived? He was sure he hadn’t missed. But there was no body and that made him very nervous. He’d either walked away or died elsewhere. He sincerely hoped it was the latter.

  Good God. How had he found himself in this muddle? Mitchell could straighten it out. Perhaps he’d been recalled to Monterey. Or he could be languishing in some remote jail cell, watching spiders spin webs, just like he was.

  He opened his eyes and stared at the s
pider. He had finished his task. Efficient little devil. Now all he had to do was wait for a fly or a mosquito to stumble into his clutches.

  Grainger waited as well. It was all he could do.

  And if Mitchell wasn’t found?

  His heartbeat quickened.

  Another Grainger, disgracing his country.

  He bit his lip and closed his eyes once more, uneasy in his thoughts, but resolved to remain hopeful. Sorina was smart and resourceful and unconventional.

  She would find a way.

  She was his best hope.

  If she’d forgive him.

  Chapter 37

  A small carreta with a single horse entered the stable yard. A woman held the reins, a maid at her side.

  “Isabella, I knew you’d come.” Alerted to her arrival, Sorina had waited in the courtyard. She now ran forward to greet her friend.

  “Couldn’t wait a single minute longer. I’ve been curious to know what happened.” She jumped down while a servant assisted her maid. “I plan to stay until I am sure you are fully recovered, although I must say you don’t look too bad for a kidnapped woman. But I’m going to strangle you, once I have tea.”

  Sorina laughed and gave her friend a quick hug. “Whatever for?”

  “For not telling me your plans. Do you know how worried I was? I was sure that Santoro was mixed up in it. I figured he might have faked the kidnapping. He would want to make sure he had a bride when the time came, given your feelings about him.” She paused. “Is it true? Is he dead? How do you feel about that?”

  Sorina shook her head. “Come in out of the sun. I’ll tell you everything.” They strolled arm in arm through the door to the inner corridor and stopped in front of a sleeping room next to Sorina’s. “Join me in the sala when you are settled. I’ll order tea and cakes like my English relatives.”

  “Can’t wait. I’m famished. For news as well as food.”

  Sorina stepped back to let her friend enter the room. What a beauty Isabella was. Her dark hair was glossy and her heart-shaped face showed care for her complexion. She had delicate features, but it was easy to misjudge her. Isabella was not soft. Inside she was tough as rawhide and had a keen mind. For a time she thought her friend and her uncle might make a match of it. But it was only a youthful flirtation. Isabella ended up marrying a man twice her age.

  Sorina needed her. She was a friend who would help her sort out her feelings—a friend who would not judge her. Especially now with tongues wagging in all the drawing rooms.

  Hurrying along the corridor, she stopped in the kitchen to give orders and met Pablo crossing the courtyard.

  “Isabella has arrived. How long before we’ll hear from Uncle Gabriel?”

  “A swift rider was dispatched yesterday morning, señorita. It will take another two days to get to Santa Barbara and the same to get back.”

  “I was hoping it would be sooner.” Sorina bit her lip. She couldn’t leave her elderly relatives until Uncle Gabriel arrived. What if one of them had a setback? She had caused enough trouble.

  Not knowing Grainger’s fate gnawed at her daily. Perhaps she could convince Isabella to accompany her to the camp. The men who brought her home said she would have to sign a statement that she had not been kidnapped. They expected Grandfather to bring her to the camp to do this.

  Now she would have to do it alone.

  A servant with a heavily laden tray entered the sala waiting for instructions. She spread her skirts and seated herself on the horsehair sofa. “Put it on the small table next to me.”

  Sorina gazed around the room noting the vase of fresh flowers and the bright shine on the oak tabletops. Servants in the household had pride in their work. Soon their children would have a school to attend. Her birth date had passed and her father’s land and money soon would be hers. She could move forward with her plans. Isabella would help.

  “I thought I smelled something tasty.” Isabella breezed in wearing a fresh muslin gown, looking like she’d just risen from a siesta, instead of spending hours on a dusty road.

  “Grandfather’s cook learned to make scones and tarts for my father. He was especially fond of poppy seed cakes. That’s what you smell.”

  Isabella sat next to Sorina and took a plate from the tray, piling it with delicate English biscuits and the special treats from the kitchen. “I swear I shall eat every one of these. I didn’t have time for more than my morning chocolate before we left.” She wolfed down a scone and licked her fingers. Her brown eyes sparkled as she glanced up at Sorina, her wide smile resplendent with crumbs.

  “Tell me everything. Start at the beginning.”

  Sorina handed her a napkin, poured their tea, and sat back to relay her story. It was nearly dusk when she finished.

  “So you see, I must go to the Americans’ camp immediately. I know nothing of his spy work, but he is not a kidnapper or ravisher.” She almost did not add the latter. His honor had kept him from seducing her until she’d practically thrown herself at him like a common whore. She wasn’t sorry. Her resolve to never marry was stronger than ever and she was glad she’d experienced lovemaking with Grainger.

  Isabella lounged against the pillows, her third cup of tea cold in her hand. She frowned and shook her head. “If you convince them to listen and tell the story you told me, your already damaged reputation will be destroyed. Unmarried ladies, no matter their age, do not travel in the company of unmarried gentlemen. And they certainly don’t sleep with them.” She paused and leaned forward, an eyebrow raised. “You did sleep with him, didn’t you?”

  Sorina had left that part out, but she couldn’t escape the truth and she certainly didn’t have to hide anything from Isabella. “Yes.”

  “I thought so. You have a look about you . . . a glow, despite your ordeal.” She paused and set down her cup. “Do you love him, Sorina?”

  “Can one love when there is no trust? He didn’t lie to me, but he wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Sorina focused on her hands. “With all my heart.”

  “I see.” Isabella seemed to choose her words carefully. “You know, my dear, if this ever gets out, you will be ostracized from polite society. If you ever hoped to marry within your own social circle, it would not be possible now.”

  “Do you think I care? I love only one man, Isabella, even if he used me. I’m a fool but I cannot help my feelings. I saved him once. I must do everything in my power to save him again.”

  “And does he return your love?”

  “Yes . . . no . . . he has not said.” Sorina brushed away a tear forming in her eye. This conversation was more difficult than she had ever imagined, but it helped her find answers she had been searching for within herself. Did she still love him? Yes. Would she love him less if he didn’t return her love? No.

  God help me.

  Isabella seemed to study her teacup, then set it down. She leaned forward and took Sorina’s hand. “Look at me, Sorina. When a man beds a woman, it is not necessarily a sign of love, even when it is gently and passionately done. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Sorina studied her friend’s earnest expression. Her eyes were intent, her lips pursed. “I do understand. Lovemaking is not always love. But he was kind, and he took care of me . . . at great risk. During the journey to San Diego there were many times when he could have been rid of me. He could have dropped me outside the Bandini’s gate. He knew they would keep me safe before returning me to grandfather. In San Pedro, he could have put me on a ship bound for Santa Barbara and joined his countrymen. But he stayed and protected me. Until Santoro . . .”

  She had omitted the part about the marriage. Isabella was a modern woman who would insist that she demand her rights as Santoro’s widow . . . rights that could intrude on the well-be
ing of his mother and sisters. As much as she despised Santoro, she could not hurt his family. In her mind, they were his victims, too.

  Isabella patted her hand. “All right, then. We must formulate a plan. You say this man Mitchell was a party to your escape. Where is he now?”

  “Nobody knows. That’s one of the problems.”

  “Think carefully, now. Was there anyone else who was enlisted to aid your escape? Concentrate on the facts you have.”

  “If I wanted anyone else to know, it would have been you, Isabella.”

  “And as I said, I should horsewhip you for not telling me.” They sat in silence, side by side on the sofa. The smell of beef roasting over an open pit wafted into the open doorway from the inner courtyard. Soon it would be time for the evening meal.

  “Mitchell helped you escape to the boat. Where did Grainger get the boat?”

  “He said he bought it from fishermen.”

  “When you arrived at San Luis Rey, was there anyone who aided you there?”

  “No. The only contact was the man who traded a horse for the boat.”

  Sorina’s body warmed at the memory of the day Grainger returned with the horse, his eyes feasting on her body as she bathed in the pool among the lilies. She swallowed and refocused her attention on her friend.

  Isabella stood and stretched. They’d both been sitting so long Sorina feared her limbs would wobble if she tried to stand. They’d missed their siesta today, but she appreciated Isabella’s questions and concern. The story she’d told was an emotional one, about feelings and desires. She thought hard now about the journey itself.

  “What about San Diego. Where did you go?” Isabella paced the length of the room, stopping to look out of the window.

  “We went to a cantina, a place with rooms in the back.”

  “How did he select it? Had he been there before?”