“Not entirely,” she muttered. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with it.”
“Not this time,” he said. “It takes a braver man than me to tangle with suffragettes. Here. I’ve seen you stop for these whenever you pass by the cart and I thought you might be hungry.”
A fragrant bag of roasted peanuts was pushed in Graciela’s direction. She closed her hand around it and gave Aguirre a sidelong look. Though the tails he’d worn to Mrs. Gonzalez’s dinner had been cut in a dashing style and were obviously of good quality, the suit he wore now was slightly shabby, and rusty with age. In the light of day, it was obvious to Graciela that he was not the gentleman she’d assumed him to be that night.
He did, however, look even better than he had by candlelight. Against the black, his hair and skin were tawny and his eyes looked even paler. They were a curious color, a brown with flecks of green in them. A slight discoloration around one of his eyes, likely from engaging in the sort of fisticuffs Graciela had been led to believe men of his station enjoyed, made him look rakish and dangerous.
He was dangerous. Not because of the strength and the promise of violence that seemed to be contained in that lean and powerful body, or because of that rough, blunt way in which he’d spoken to her the night before. He was dangerous because, even though Graciela knew he was her aunt’s creature and she should be doing all she could to keep him at arm’s length, all she wanted was to press herself against his rusty suit and slide her fingers through his hair.
She’d heard it say often enough that all women wanted was to be rescued. With no time or inclination to wait for a knight in shining armor, she’d set about rescuing herself. But it was exhausting. And so far unsuccessful. So when she’d seen him strike Alvaro, she’d felt how tempting it would be to give up arms and have this man—or someone like him—take them up for her. Or at least wage battle at her side —protect her flank or whatever the term was.
But he was employed by Aunt Elba and that made him someone to wage war against.
For the moment, however, for the space of their walk, she could pretend like they were allies. Or friends, even, the kind that bought roasted peanuts for each other and shared them in silence as they walked down the street.
At that hour of day, the avenue was busy with motorcars and pedestrians. Graciela, closely followed by Mr. Aguirre, turned right into Camino de las Azucenas, a quieter and slightly darker street, shaded by the massive trees whose branches almost touched overhead.
“Pray tell, Miss Rodriguez,” Aguirre asked, and Graciela, startled by the sound of his soft voice, jumped. She looked up at him, stiffening slightly, certain that he was going to ask her about Alvaro, but all he said was, “Where will your quest take us next? Shall we find a fountain to dance in? Strip down to our drawers and paint advertisements for raunchy plays on our backs?”
“Those are all excellent suggestions,” Graciela said. Dancing in a fountain sounded refreshing, at least, in this scorching heat. But Beatriz’s house was just up ahead and she’d be waiting for Graciela to fill her in on the results of her latest scheme. “I’ll take them under advisement. But for the moment, I have a very important appointment I mustn’t be late to.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Mr. Aguirre said, and Graciela had no doubt that he would.
*
“I’m beginning to think that there’s nothing I can do to ruin myself.”
Graciela dropped the curtain she’d twitched aside. Aguirre was leaning against the lamppost down the street, cleaning under his fingernails with a pocketknife, his face shaded by a ratty Panama hat.
“Surely a sign of these dissolute modern times,” Beatriz said from her chair.
Striding from one side of the room to the other in front of the large bank of windows, for all the world, as Beatriz put it, like a prowling tiger, Graciela fought an increasing sense of desperation.
There were only five days left until the wedding. Her fitting at the modiste was in less than an hour—no doubt Aguirre had been charged with making Graciela arrive in time. To hear Alvaro tell it, most of the preparations for the ceremony and the party were in order. Everything was marching along according to his and Aunt Elba’s plan and Graciela could just scream with the frustration of it.
“I know why my aunt is so keen on the match,” she said as she paced. “But what about him? Why does he want me so badly? He doesn’t love me, and there are a dozen girls far prettier and more accomplished than me who would give anything to be the future Mrs. Medina. It’s not a question of position or social standing, not when his family is just as well-connected as mine and much wealthier.”
Beatriz threaded a needle with blue. She’d moved on to another scene, this one a rocky landscape filled with blue and green devils who, if Graciela understood the markings correctly, would wield tridents to torment a twisted knot of nude figures on the center of the composition. Graciela studied the embroidery for a second, wondering if she could pass it on as her own and present it to Mrs. Ferrer as a gift.
“He wants you,” Beatriz said, adding, with a censorious look as she saw Graciela begin to paw through her sewing basket, “for some unfathomable reason. I don’t think he’d be satisfied with someone else, no matter how pretty or accomplished they were.”
“Well, he can’t have me,” Graciela said, lifting a pricked finger to her lips. “He won’t. Not if I have any say in the matter.”
“You’ve another plot beneath your sleeve, don’t you?”
Graciela nodded. “Tomorrow, Aunt Elba is hosting a dinner for the board of Medina Enterprises. All the members will be in attendance and it’ll be my last chance to make an impression on them.”
“Not a very favorable one, I imagine.”
“Not a particle,” Graciela assured Beatriz. “I’ll be rude and crass and vulgar and by the end of the evening, they will all be begging Alvaro to let me go.”
Chapter 7
Though the flurry of activity just outside her bedroom door should have awoken her the next morning, it was the heavy dread that had settled inside her stomach that dragged Graciela from her fitful sleep. She dressed with her maid’s help and went down to breakfast, so busy planning her next move she hardly noticed the commotion that had overtaken the entire house.
Aunt Elba had hired half a dozen manservants to help the maids ready the house for that evening’s affair. Drapes were being sponged, carpets beaten, furniture polished, and every speck of dust efficiently wiped off every surface. Try as she might, Graciela could not keep out of the way. She was chased from the dining room after breakfast by a contingent of maids armed with rags and dusters. She was evicted from the parlor by two of the hired men as they lifted the sofas in order for the maids to sweep underneath them. And, most vexing of all, she was ordered out of her own bedroom by her aunt’s maid as she frantically examined the dress Aunt Elba had commissioned for Graciela to wear that evening, looking, Graciela was sure, for any signs of sabotage.
By afternoon, Graciela had found refuge—if it could be called that— in her aunt’s study. She had been banned from leaving the house and there was not much she could do but pretend to read and stare balefully at Aunt Elba as she went through what seemed like mountains of paperwork.
Dinner was to be held at seven. At half past four, Alvaro arrived.
Aunt Elba had just stepped out to solve a minor emergency—or a catastrophic one, according to the cook—and Graciela was jotting down a list of all the things she could say to Mrs. Ferrer that would make her heart come to a shuddering stop inside her chest—no, wait, that was too cruel. She wanted to shock the lady, not kill her. Graciela crossed out the last item on the list and was tapping her pen against her aunt’s silver inkwell when Alvaro strode into the study.
“I’m glad you’re alone,” he said, without preamble. “There’s something I must tell you.”
Graciela was sitting at a small round table. She shuffled her papers together and slid them inside a book as Alvaro sank into the armc
hair across from her.
“I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day at the gambling hall. It was not gentlemanly, but neither was your conduct ladylike.” His eyes softened and he grasped Graciela’s hand before she had a chance to pull away. “Sometimes I forget how young you are. I know the prospect of marriage and family must seem like a daunting responsibility to someone your age. I’m sorry I hadn’t realized it sooner, but your aunt confided in me yesterday that your antics stem only from nerves and not from willfulness.”
“For heaven’s sake, Alvaro, I’m twenty-three years of age, not thirteen,” Graciela said irritably. She tugged at her hand, but Alvaro was holding fast to it. “And you’re only twenty-seven, so you needn’t lecture me as though you were Wise Pedro from those awful children’s stories.”
Alvaro’s lips tightened, and so did his grip around her hand. “You’re very young,” he repeated, “and your aunt has spoiled you dreadfully. In time, you’ll learn to manage your anxiety in ways more befitting your stature.”
Graciela had a few choice words about that, but before she could voice them, her aunt returned.
“Alvaro,” Aunt Elba said as she came to a stop just inside the tall mahogany door, blinking in surprise. “Is anything the matter?”
“Not at all.” Giving Graciela’s hand a final squeeze, Alvaro got to his feet and strode closer to her aunt. “I stopped by to see how you were getting on. The house looks splendid.”
“Thank you,” Aunt Elba said. “I believe everything should go smoothly tonight. The cook has been baking all day, the musicians are tuning in the parlor—”
“I’m sure it’ll be wonderful,” Alvaro interrupted. “My clerk received a note from you this morning about this quarter’s reports.”
“Yes, I thought you would like to go over them with me so we could pinpoint exactly where—”
“No need for all that. I told you I’ll have my man look them over as soon as he can be spared and I’ll see about taking the whole mess off your hands once I’m done with the Germans. You’ve done as well as can be expected, Elba, but the factory needs a firm hand if it’s to turn a decent profit. And I expect you’ll be relieved to be able to turn your attention to more pressing matters, like helping my future wife establish our new household,” he added, bestowing on them what he probably thought was a charming smile.
All right, so his smile was charming. It also made Graciela’s hands clench around the seat of her chair as she contemplated doing him grievous bodily harm.
Graciela didn’t miss the way her aunt’s eyes flashed, nor the way she lowered her eyes to hide it. “I’m sure we’ll find a suitable arrangement,” Aunt Elba said.
“I’ve no doubt. Oh, and by the way, Graciela— Mother said you should meet her at La Parisienne this week to pick out a tea service for our home. She’ll send a note with instructions.”
Alvaro nodded at them both, as if dismissing them, even though it was he who left the room. Still holding herself with a rigidity that betrayed her anger, Aunt Elba seated herself behind her desk and glared at the documents there, seemingly forgetting that Graciela was still there.
Something about the thin figure behind the massive desk made Graciela feel, for the first time, some sympathy for her aunt’s situation. It must not have been easy to carry such a heavy burden, but neither could it have been easy to have her hard work so easily disregarded.
“You don’t have to do it,” Graciela said. With effort, she kept the pleading and the petulance out of her voice and tried to sound like a reasonable adult.
Aunt Elba’s head snapped up. “I’m sure I don’t need advice from you,” she said frostily.
“I can’t believe you would let Alvaro take over the factory after all you’ve worked to keep it going after Abuelo died,” Graciela said.
“I’ll do anything that needs to be done to secure its future and yours. Your grandfather made me responsible for the factory, and for you. I will not fail him.”
“But you would sell me.” Graciela’s fingers dug into the upholstery of her chair.
“If anything, I’m buying you a future, Graciela. Marrying Alvaro will give you a position in society, and wealth beyond what I could provide for you.”
“But I don’t care about money, Aunt Elba.”
“You will when you don’t have it. You wouldn’t think yourself so above money if you had to toil for it in a factory floor or scrub other people’s underthings for pennies.”
Graciela did not remember her parents very clearly, but she did remember her grandfather. Aunt Elba, being her father’s sister, was not related to him, but there was something in the flintiness of her gaze that put Graciela in mind of the old man. He’d been wonderfully kind, but steel had run in his blood. In this moment, it was easy to see that it ran through Aunt Elba’s as well.
“Perhaps you haven’t realized it, but your entire existence is only possible thanks to the money you disdain. It takes money to dress you in Spanish leather and French lace. It takes money to buy Turkish dates and American pecans and that Colombian coffee you love so much. It takes money to keep a motorcar and a chauffeur to take you out for rides, and to employ maids so you don’t wear out your hands or your back. Life requires money, Graciela, and you’re far less intelligent than I gave you credit for if you think not having it would give you more freedom.”
The study was so silent Graciela could hear the footsteps as they paused outside the room, and the faint metallic grind of the unoiled doorknob—likely the only object in the entire house that had escaped refurbishment— as it was turned.
“Miss Rodriguez,” her aunt’s maid said, poking her head inside, “I apologize for disturbing you but you said to let you know when your bath was ready.”
“I’ll be upstairs in a minute.” Aunt Elba waited for the soft click of the door being pushed closed before speaking again. “You may not see it now, but everything I’ve done is for your own good. I hope one day you’ll come to realize it. Until then, I expect you to do as I say.”
*
They ascended the staircase together, in silence, parting at the top and heading for their respective bedrooms.
Graciela was quiet as her maid undressed her and helped her into the bathtub, then excused herself, saying she needed to finish polishing Graciela’s patent leather shoes.
Alone, Graciela wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin on them.
The dress she was to wear that evening was spread out on the bed. It was a demure ivory, and cost more money than her maid earned in a month. Probably. Aunt Elba had been right when she’d said that Graciela hadn’t a clue about financial matters. She’d never worried about the cost of anything and hadn’t considered what it would be like to live in reduced circumstances, like the brave heroines in novels, who turned their gowns and starved with good grace and gentility.
Graciela had never so much as missed a single meal.
She plucked a sponge from the bathwater and squeezed it absentmindedly as she thought of her grandfather. He’d treated his wife as an equal. She, the first Graciela, had as much a say in what happened at the factory as he did, and they often visited the premises together, returning home full of plans and ideas. From her bedroom, as a young child, Graciela had often heard them talk deep into the night, and the sound had lulled her to sleep and comforted her in those moments when her ache for her parents grew too hard to bear.
She would never have that with Alvaro.
Maybe it was selfish of her to refuse the match, when it was obvious it would bring Aunt Elba some of the relief she deserved after working so hard to support Graciela. But as she tried to reconcile herself with the idea, everything in her recoiled.
She’d never had to live without Spanish leather and French lace. But she could learn how to.
There was one last ace up her sleeve. This one came in the form of a dress she’d borrowed from one of the girls who’d danced with her at Mr. Hernandez’s theater. It was bright red and made f
rom a shiny, cheap fabric that still reeked of the wearer’s scent. It had been fairly conservative in cut, but a few alterations here and there had turned it from tawdry to vulgar— in other words, it was just the sort of dress that would make the members of the Board hyperventilate with disapproval.
She’d sent her maid for it while leading Aguirre through a long walk through the waterfront, so neither Aguirre nor her aunt should’ve had any reason to know about its existence. It was hidden at the bottom of her armoire, inside a blue leather portmanteau…
Graciela rose from the tub and wrapped a dressing gown around her dripping body before going to the armoire and dragging the portmanteau onto the bed. She tugged its straps open and her heart all but plummeted to the floor when she flipped the lid and saw nothing inside save the pale blue lining.
The dress was gone. And she had a very good idea of who had taken it.
*
Vicente had never been caught while thieving but it stood to reason that when it finally happened, it would be Miss Rodriguez who caught him.
Unfortunately for her, she came upon him just as he was feeding the bright cloth of her frock into a fire he’d built inside a metal bin. He was in the narrow alley that ran between the Rodriguez’s townhouse and the house next door, in fully view of her bedroom windows, and he’d been expecting her for the past fifteen minutes.
He’d found the dress while performing a quick but thorough sweep of her bedroom while she and her friend had their daily cup of coffee in the parlor. Her maid had proven to be far more loyal than Vicente would have given her credit for, and after failing to bribe her he’d been forced to search the house for any evidence of her next move.
“I’m afraid you’re too late, Miss Rodriguez,” he said as she approached. Twilight was beginning to set in and she was easy to spot in the growing dark, a tall, slim figure in a pale dressing gown and bare feet.
Shock made her pause for a second but then she lifted her chin. “Fine. Then I’ll just have to act shocking and unpleasant. I’m sure Mrs. Ferrer will be happy to hear all about my stint as a dancer in Mr. Hernandez’s theater. Oh, or perhaps she’d find my suffragist beliefs more entertaining. Then again, perhaps she’d appreciate the singed look.”
The Infamous Miss Rodriguez: A Ciudad Real Novella Page 5
