Stronger Than Passion (39 page)

She slapped him then, and he caught her wrists, pinning them to the mattress. “That’s the truth, querida, although I don’t expect you to believe it. I know him, remember? I also know that he’s a greedy bastard, for himself as well as Santa Anna. I wouldn’t trust him with my money. Just a little advice from an old friend.”

He kissed her then, and his lovemaking was determined and harsh. She didn’t forgive him for it, or for his words. When the time came, the next day, for her and Penny to leave the men and ride into Jalapa alone, she kept the barrier of her anger raised high against him.

Penny whispered tearful goodbyes to Thomas and Ernesto, who kissed her cheek and her hand, respectively. Then she spoke to Michael, and her tears flowed harder. Christina knew she was thanking him for rescuing her from her life in Cuba. He patted the girl on the shoulder, and told her something quietly. She moved off.

Then Michael rode to Christina. He looked down at her. There was no emotion in his eyes at all, only an inscrutable blankness.

“Goodbye, Señora. Perhaps the rest of your life won’t be as difficult as the last few months.”

“No.” What else was there to say? Too many things, and not enough. “Perhaps not. Goodbye.”

She turned her horse into the now curiously watching traffic, and Penny fell in beside her. She resisted the urge to glance back. Would he now go off to spy, and would he get caught? Would he be killed soon? Would she survive the tightening of her throat, the headache that throbbed in her temples, the nausea beginning in her stomach?

She hoped she could see through the glaze of tears that blinded her way.

The outskirts of Jalapa lay ahead, and near them her home.

The Hacienda de los Flores Rojas awaited its Patrona in all its fragrant beauty. Seemingly unchanged during the months of Christina’s absence, the house still partially covered with intertwining scarlet blossoms retained its elegant serenity. Unlike, Christina couldn’t help thinking as she approached its mistress.

Christina and Penny, dressed in dirty peasant clothes and riding tired-looking mounts, were greeted at first by the bewildered stares of the servants and workers they passed. But when Christina threw off her dusty reboza and strode into her home, the cries and shouts of those who knew her proud stance and profile anywhere arose. The exciting news spread throughout the estate: the Patrona was home!

Later, as Christina lay in her deep bath, fussed over by an alternately scolding, questioning and crying Maria Juana, she waited for the deep joy of her arrival to flood in. But for some reason, a sense of desolation had taken hold of her and kept the joy out. She refused to address it. She was home now, where she belonged. Where she was loved; or at least respected. The feeling of wrongness, of despair, which threatened her contentment and promised her misery, must disappear. Damn Michael Brett! She would not let him spoil the rest of her life!

For days she rode and walked the perimeters of her estate, checking her crops, talking to her people and reassuring them of her presence. There had been panic, she learned, after her abduction. Everyone thought the Yanquis had come and stolen her away (which was not in reality far from the truth!) And no one knew what to do. But Don Ignacio was there, as well as Don Luis; and they left overseers to ensure the proper management of the land. Yet, it had not been the same without the Patrona. They had all prayed for her, that the Yanquis would return her to them. Christina heard the gratitude of her tenants with warmth. If she could immerse herself in their concerns again, she would be fine.

Gradually the news of her reappearance overcame the district. People came to call; the leading citizens of Jalapa, the local Dons of neighboring estates. There would be fiestas in her honor, everyone said - as soon as it was determined that the Yanquis would never land at Vera Cruz, as was both dreaded and expected every day. How horrible that dear Christina had been mistakenly claimed as a prisoner of war! How glad they all were that she had been courteously treated and, when the mistake was realized, sent home. No one understood why she had been stolen from beneath their noses at El Encero, but, since she refused to elaborate, they could only guess. Certainly General - now resident, Santa Anna - was wildly concerned. Had he been notified of her return?

Christina always managed to hide her uneasiness at the mention of Santa Anna’s name. She had sent a prim message to El Encero, knowing that only servants were there to receive it. Santa Anna was off somewhere with his army - near San Luis Potosi, some said - and his wife was in Mexico City, where most of the wealthy families of Vera Cruz and Jalapa were preparing to flee. She had also sent a lengthy letter to Don Ignacio, and - after consideration - to Luis Arredondo. She expected a reply or, more likely, a visit if the war permitted, from Don Ignacio at least, shortly. As to Santa Anna, she hoped she never heard from him.

Her hopes were in vain. Santa Anna was extremely interested in the Señora de Sainz, and, when told of her release from the Americans, had ordered a special envoy to ascertain her present
condition. That envoy was Luis himself.

*

Arredondo and an official escort of ten men arrived at the hacienda two weeks after Christina’s arrival. From the presence of the uniformed men and Luis’s grave expression, she was in trouble.

Luis was delighted and relieved to see her. He stated it in front of the servants and before the lieutenant of the men he had brought with him. Then he pulled Christina to him., uncharacteristically, and held her for several seconds. But he did not in the least understand what had happened to her, and neither did Santa Anna. And even though the President was involved in preparing for battle, he wanted the truth of his cousin’s abduction and any useful knowledge she might now possess. He wanted her, in short, to come to Mexico City for questioning.

Christina could only stare, first at Luis and then at the young lieutenant, standing beyond him. And then she laughed.

She laughed until tears were in her eyes and something like grief was in her heart. She laughed until Luis exchanged a significant look with her waiting porter out in the hall, who hurried in to ask if the Señora desired any refreshment. Still she laughed, at the concerned look on Luis’s face and the bewildered ones on the lieutenant’s and the porter’s. She laughed until her recognition of the absurdity of the situation snapped. Her amusement was over; fear would settle in.

Luis handed her his handkerchief, watching her carefully. What did he know or suspect? She took the cloth and raised it to her eyes. What did Santa Anna know, that he should send Luis and an armed escort to bring her to Mexico City?

She hoped Michael was out of Mexico by now. She would not think of Julian, because she must forget his name.

She lowered the handkerchief. “Luis, forgive me. As you can see, I am not myself. It is only that I’ve just returned home - and I have no desire to go to Mexico City, or anywhere. Particularly for questioning. That is why I was mistakenly abducted in the first place. Please, ask me whatever you like here, and leave me be!”

Luis’s expression softened. He took Christina’s arm, and guided her to a sofa. “Sit, my dear.” He gestured to the porter. “Bring some sherry, at once. Lieutenant - please be so kind as to wait outside.”

Luis sat beside Christina, and took her hand. His present demonstrativeness told of his worry for her. “I have been driven mad wondering about you, hoping you were not hurt. The only time I’ve been happy these last months was when I heard Colonel Manzanal had discovered your location, and would rescue you. I am not myself either, Christina. If you forgive me for my abruptness, then I shall certainly forgive you anything.”

Why had he said he would forgive her anything? Her uneasiness grew. “Then understand that I will not go to Mexico City. I will tell you whatever you wish, and you may relay it to the President.”

Luis’s brown eyes looked regretful. “I am under orders to escort you to Mexico City. Santa Anna hopes to either see you there, or have you brought closer to him later. He is determined on that. Colonel Manzanal has disappeared . . .”

“He is dead.”

“Luis’s gaze narrowed. “We had heard rumors of his death. Strange rumors. Even stranger ones of you.”

She looked away. “I’m not surprised. Even with the war, information seems to pass quickly - both true and false. Are you saying, Luis, that I have no choice? I must leave my home again/”

“Yes. It is Santa Anna’s wish.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not unless you refuse to come.”

Christina knew the peace of the last two weeks was shattered, perhaps permanently.

*

She was detained in a cell-like room at Santa Anna’s military headquarters for two days. The President-General was not present for her interrogation. Instead, a Colonel Diaz had been entrusted with the delicate task of questioning the Señora de Sainz, cousin to Santa Anna and suspected - possibly wrongly - of collaborating with the enemy.

Christina had a first protested her stern, if courteous, treatment. But she had been warned by Luis that Santa Anna had received ominous news of her behavior these last months; news that belied her patriotism to Mexico, and wounded the General. And Colonel Diaz’s attitude left her in no doubt of her disgraced status. She would be questioned like any other accused traitor and her answers relayed to the General, who would decide her guilt . . . and see her when the war permitted. She concentrated on her defense.

Christina sometimes wondered, during those two days of apprehension and fatigue and endlessly repeated words, how Santa Anna had learned anything of her movements with Michael Brett. She finally concluded that someone close to either Michael or Julian must have related her actions to Santa Anna. How else had he known of Angel Manzanal ’s death? Of her “friendliness” with American soldiers, especially the Texan Michael Brett? Of her stay at Dos Rios?

“Of course the chief charge against her of sympathizing with the enemy could be dismissed as vague and twisted and wrong. She bent all of her efforts, during these two days, of doing so. Colonel Diaz must be made to understand that she had been a guarded prisoner, even if her captor had decided by then that she was useless for his mysterious needs. But who had passed this accurate information on to Mexico City? Some enemy of Michael’s? Oddly, there was no mention of Julian in Diaz’ questions, only Michael. And the Colonel’s tone almost had a jealous slant. Perhaps, he had derived that from Santa Anna . . .

“Do you deny that you plotted with Michael Brett to steal Mexico’s secrets on your return?”

“Yes. Mexico is my country, not America. I would never betray her.”

“Do you deny any involvement in the death of Colonel Manzanal?”

“Yes.”

“Do you deny any intimate contact with Michael Brett during your time with him?”

“Yes! He was my captor, nothing more.”

It was questions like the last one that began to batter Christina’s spirits. Here she was lying, and the weight of the lie combined with her care not to reveal any damaging information that might lead to Michael’s arrest wore her down. She grew to hate Colonel Diaz; to hate his false deprecation, his pretense of civility. His scarcely-hidden lust, which began to expose itself in his supposedly-reassuring touch.

She grew defiant; she grew desperate. She refused to eat the food they gave her. She didn’t sleep during the brief breaks she was given. Her body weakened, but not her will. She remembered
her story: she was abducted by mistake. Michael was preparing to return her to Mexico when Manzanal arrived in Washington. She left with Manzanal, who was killed by bandits. Michael took her from the bandits, and returned her home. She knew nothing of significance that Santa Anna would be interested in. Nothing. Why was he prosecuting his friend, his cousin?

She demanded to send a letter to her father-in-law, the Condé de Castillo. She demanded to see the Marquès de Lara. She demanded the presence of Santa Anna. She was an innocent, despicable-treated lady, a noble lady of Spain, and Diaz had no right to keep her in such appalling conditions.

Finally, Diaz agreed. He had received authorization to release the Señora into custody of the Marquès, until Santa Anna could visit her. Would she swear to remain in Mexico City, at the home of the Marquès, until Santa Anna arrived?

She said that she would. The Colonel promised to send for Señor Arredondo immediately.

When Luis entered her cell, Christina went to him with the relief of freedom.

Mexico City - like a scheming woman - was in its glory during times of political upheaval . . . a condition it had seemed to find itself in almost constantly, from the times of Montezuma onward.

The town must be given to intrigue, Christina thought one afternoon shortly after her release, as she strolled in the verdant Alameda with Luis; observing Mexican society as it rushed from one source of military gossip to another. Certainly its setting - in a valley lush with lakes, marshes and forests, and a temperate climate - was conductive to restlessness year-round. When the rich had little to worry about in the way of surviving the elements, then their minds could turn naturally to struggling for intangibles, such as power.

Suspicions and innuendos, and doubtless even a few facts, flew from door-to-door and mouth-to-mouth in this most social city, whose upper-class inhabitants met almost nightly in a constant parade of hospitality. Mexico City residents were always entertaining and being entertained, whether it was at home, at the theater or the opera, or even walking through the park called the Alameda; and the exchange of gossip took place almost as the act under discussion actually occurred. No wonder the atmosphere was thick with plots! If only one sensible plan were to emerge which would benefit the country . . .