Stronger Than Passion (52 page)

February 1848

El Ence4ro was no longer quite the elegant estancia that Christina remembered, from that grand reception so long ago. The American army, which had passed directly by and through the estate on its way to Jalapa and Mexican City, combined with the humiliating disgrace of its master, both contributed to its air of violation and melancholy. The bougainvillea still combed the walls strewing them with color; laughing guests now, as then, strolled the lawn on their way into and out of the house; but some of the grounds were disarranged by the heavy treads of artillery wagons, and as for the guests . . . they were a much changed assembly, too.

Santa Anna remained very much out of favor with the present, embarrassingly humbled government in Mexico City. He was feared as well as reviled; no one doubted that the former President would instantly give up his seclusion at El Encero, and proceed to stir up trouble for the country, and publicity for himself, should the slightest opportunity arise. The current ministry intended to avoid his interference at all costs, by shutting him out of governmental affairs as thoroughly as possible. He was completely ignored, socially as well as politically.

Yet Santa Anna still retained friends, and even a few followers. Those who still smarted over the recent signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, ceding land to the United States in return for money and the withdrawal from Mexico of all troops, which Santa Anna would have opposed had he an army to enforce his opposition with. And those who still believed the former general’s allegations that he was not to blame for losing the war. Santa Anna’s oratorical power was formidable, even now.

However, there were few members of Mexico’s social and political elite here tonight, at Santa Anna’s much-quieter fiesta. Unlike the former occasion, more than a year and a half ago, when Santa Anna was celebrating his triumphal return to Mexico and was preparing to take over the reins of the war. Then, he had presided almost royally over a packed household of prominent admirers. Now he was pleased to receive a fraction of that number, most of them family connections, military associates and neighbors.

The Condé de Castillo was perhaps the only guest in attendance of high rank and standing, and it was possibly fortunate that Santa Anna did not know that he was only present out of a sense of duty to his daughter-in-law, whom he had persuaded to come. Santa Anna, lugubrious already, would doubtless have sunk even further into the depths of depression had he known that neither Don Ignacio nor Dona Christina were happy to attend his fiesta.

Santa Anna’s early greeting to Don Ignacio at his and Christina’s arrival was dignified and faintly sad, an air he cultivated these days, as though he were a deposed monarch. His attitude had, however, risen slightly in enthusiasm when he welcomed Christina. He appeared to scarcely notice her restraint in returning his affectionate words.

“How lovely you are, my cousin! How good of you to visit us in these dark days!”

He then proceeded to monopolize Christina’s attention, to the exclusion of the Don and anyone else, for a good thirty minutes; during which he referred many times to the misfortunes caused by the war, and those worse ones brought about by a traitorous peace. His normally pallid complexion had heated during these references, making him seem almost healthy. Typically, he had the pale look and the burning eyes of a very ill man.

Not once did he mention Christina’s interesting disappearance from his other party. Nor did he bring up his former aid, Colonel Manzanal, whom he had sent out to find her and who had ended up dead. Neither did he recollect her other adventures. And he also - and for this alone Christina was grateful - seemed to have forgotten that she was once betrothed to his friend Luis Arredondo; unlike others of his guests, tonight, who seemed to find it fascinating to comment on the Marquès’ recent return to good health. Santa Anna seemed to have only one major topic in his memory and that was the war. Everything else he had forgotten.

Christina had not wanted to attend this reception. How could she, when the memories of the last time she was here, surrounded by figures now dead or lost, would bombard her from the moment she stepped out of the carriage . . . just, as before, on the arm of Don Ignacio? And when she feared that Santa Anna might try to question her, out of sympathy or out of curiosity, about her broken engagement to Luis Arredondo? She had spent the last five months attempting to erase all insupportable remembrances from her immediate consciousness, to bury them deep in her mind, where they belonged. She had no desire to have them shocked to the surface again, along with the pain that always accompanied them.

But Don Ignacio was still a forceful man, despite his long recuperation from illness, and had beaten down her will. He had decided that she was peaked and in desperate need of amusement. And what could be more amusing than attending the fiesta of a humbled Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna? The Condé was, as usual, fiendish in his sarcasm. He had always felt contempt for the grandiose general, whom he considered to be not very well-bred, despite their own family connection. He thought it would be humorous to observe how poorly Santa Anna was handling his total and abject defeat. And besides, it would be a large neighborhood affair and just the place to have her re-enter Jalapa society - for the second time now . . .

At least, Christina realized regretfully, Santa Anna was too preoccupied with his own memories to concern himself with her. She would not need to rebuff any probing inquiries into her affairs with any rudeness at all. The other guests present tonight would soon learn to leave her alone, lest they find themselves offended by her sharp tongue. She had no desire, even, for the most banal conversation. Damn her father-in-law for bringing her here! Why had he insisted on her coming as though she were being forced to perform in some sort of vulgar play!

She had chosen to wear on this chilly night a subdued gown of purple brocade, over the combined protests of both Maria Juana and Penny, who would have seen her dressed more becomingly. It was made in the English style and worn without a mantilla. And at the last minute before leaving her room, she had withdrawn her pearls from the little suede pouch that she still kept them in; and put them on. She had not even glanced at them in months. They had not changed in shape or luster, but she had changed . . . and observing herself at home in the long, glass mirror of her French armoire, she thought that the pearls were the only real evidence of the person she had once been. A frightening woman, capable of feeling, and loving, and living. The lady who wore them now knew how to regret and how to exist, but that was all.

She danced with her father-in-law once and then allowed him to escort her to the refreshments.
She knew that she was being talked about. As she passed through the crowd of former military officers, neighboring haciendadoes, and their wives and children, she observed the curious looks being cast her way, and even overhead her name on various lips. Don Ignacio, if he comprehended the gossip at all, gave no sign of it, merely walking along with his back held rigidly straight and a sardonic countenance. Christina followed suit. What did she care, after all? Let the neighborhood seethe with rumors about her aborted engagement, her reclusive ways. There were many worse things they could be talking about . . .

She was approached by the windowed son of a wealthy hacendado, long considered an eligible party by the locals. He asked her to dance, and to pass the time, she did; all the while wishing she was somewhere else. At home, in her bedroom, going over the minor events of the day with Penny and Maria Juana. Anywhere! Just not here, in this macabre setting so fraught with memories.

She danced three more times, with men of slight acquaintance. Don Ignacio had slipped away, pleased with her gaiety. If only he weren’t so concerned over her dull life . . . really, she was doing fine - until he had brought here! A peaceful existence was what she needed these days, both for her body and her spirit. She didn’t need, or want, dancing and laughter, and music . . .

She moved away from her little knot of dancing partners, murmuring that they must excuse her, she had just seen an old friend. She took a glass of champagne from a passing servant and sipped it as she disappeared into the thick mass of guests.

She was feeling strangely aloof. The music changed tempo, switching from a frenetic country tune to something more plaintive. Dancers were trading places, many more leaving the floor than coming to it, preferring something more lively. The faces coming toward her and surrounding her all looked warm and complacent and even vaguely happy. She felt alone amongst them, a stranger. Yet she called them her people. Were they, after all? Was she really of them, as she so stubbornly preferred to think?

The ladies here tonight were all dressed, as usual, in handmade lace flounces that echoed the Mexican-Spanish traditions that they had followed for so many years. Most still wore high mantillas on their heads, further evidence of loyalty to the fashions of Spain. These ladies were proud of their national spirit, in defeat or not. Yet she - against all thought - had dressed to spite them all, in an American-style ball gown.

Why had she done it? And why, tonight of all nights, had she worn her pearls?

She fingered the cool round stones of her necklace.

Memory-fragments began to crowd her, from several directions at once. Visions of Santa Anna, as he was before the war . . . supremely confident and talking in speech-like phrases. Rousing his guests to an almost worshipful fervor.

Angel Manzanal, obsequious and insistent and annoying; hadn’t she followed him once through this very room, as he led her to Santa Anna? How long, now, since he was killed?

How long had it been since Luis had been shot? Strangely, her thoughts of Luis were unexpectedly hurtful. She remembered dancing with him here. She remembered laughing with him, enjoying his conversation and his wit. How had she contrived to so thoroughly misjudge him? And in what way actually had she misjudged him?

And Michael Brett. He had been here, too, in Santa Anna’s house . . . the one memory to be fought against the most. The whole, of which the others were merely a part.

It was an effort to keep strained lines from her face, to look as though she was having a pleasant time as she strolled slowly through the crowd, in search of Don Ignacio. If she stopped, if she stood still, the memories would grasp her again. She must move, to keep them away.

The music seemed composed of two lone guitars now, a poignant duet of strings which seemed to represent something still and sore at the core of her heart. Why didn’t that yearning noise cease? Why didn’t someone complain that they wanted to dance? Where in God’s name was her father-in-law? It was time - past time - for her to go. She wasn’t sure if she could bear any more of this.

She wandered out of the ballroom, into the foyer, knowing that she must search for Don Ignacio in one of the smoke-filled rooms where there was surely gambling. As she crossed the tiled floor, her mind leapt backwards treacherously, despite all of her efforts to keep it focused on the present. She paused. She remembered Michael, as he had been here - glimpsed in this very foyer, on that night so long ago.

Oddly and powerfully, she recalled how he had looked then, in very British evening clothes. He had been pretending to be someone other than the disreputable Texan she had thought him before she discovered later that, in reality, his true identity had more closely paralleled his assumed character. What a confusing man he was! She hoped in a sudden, sickening fury that he rotted in England. She hoped he choked on his title, and his estates, and on all of his lying democratic ideals . . .

She was standing in the center of the foyer, directly beneath the high iron chandelier, unsure which room to invade in search of Don Ignacio. Two servants stationed by the double doors watched her inquiringly. One of them started to speak to her, but then turned to catch the door behind him as it swung open, letting in a burst of frigid air which billowed Christina’s skirts and nearly blew out every light in the hall. The weather outside had apparently worsened. And it seemed - to Christina at least - as if the storm was coming directly her way, chilling her blood and freezing her thoughts. Because a man had entered, bringing in the cold. A man she knew - or thought she had known - well. For one insane instant, she wondered if her anger had conjured him.

He was dressed incongruously for the formal affair he had walked in on, wearing buckskin breeches and scratched riding boots with spurs, a long coat and a dusty hat. A far cry from evening attire! His eyes, light in his beard-darkened face, fixed on her and narrowed without surprise. He removed his hat and pulled off thick gloves, watching her all the while, ignoring the astonished servants who hovered near him, unsure if he were an invited guest or not. He put his gloves into his hat, holding it with one hand while he used the other to rake through his shaggy dark hair.

She stared at him, at a fascinating and frightening stranger. She was unprepared for this. Unprepared for his intrusion back into her life. Why was he here? What did he want?

Her body, which had gone so still with shock, began to tremble as he came toward her. What would happen if he touched her? Would she shatter, fall apart, as though made of glass too fragile to withstand the brush of his fingers? Why was she incapable of strength at this moment? When she most needed to be strong . . .

Her every sense was aware of him as he approached to stand two feet away, facing her. She smelled the cold wind on him, rapidly being displaced by the heat of his body. She heard the sound of his breathing, even over the music and the talking in the rooms behind her. She even imagined she felt him, the memory of his skin against hers so strong, even after all this time . . . And the sight of him, oh Dios, the sight of him filled her eyes and her world, hurting them both. It was pain to see him. And there must be worse to come.