Christina.
“Now tell me, my dear, how you go on. Your letters were too brief. And is there any truth to the wild rumors my servants tell me about a captured Yanqui in your house?”
Nervously, Christina prepared to answer him, when the crowd parted to allow the presence of Santa Anna’s young, bejeweled wife, Doña Maria Dolores.
Santa Anna immediately lost his train of thought as he re-introduced his wife to Christina; and she was thankful of it. She did not want to speak of Jim Malone tonight, or ever! The entire episode was an annoying and deeply embarrassing memory which she hoped one day to forget.
Unfortunately, forgetting Malone was not to prove so easy, even in the midst of a large party.
Christina left the Santa Annas and moved off to find another cool drink. Aggravatingly, Colonel Manzanal followed her, offering his assistance in procuring some refreshments. She cast her gaze around the room, searching the crowd for Luis, or Don Ignacio, or anyone else she knew who could intimidate Manzanal away . . .
And then she saw him. But it could not possibly be him. It didn’t really look like him, and yet . . .
“Who is that gentleman?” she demanded.
“Your pardon, Señora?”
‘That gentleman over there - talking with Don Gutierrez. The man in gray. I wish to know who he is.”
Manzanal squinted in the direction she pointed out. “He is an Englishman, I believe. He arrived with the Ambassador’s party. His name is Lord Michael Brett.”
“Present me to him.”
Without bothering to notice whether Manzanal followed, Christina wove her way over to where the Englishman stood.
She inserted herself into the low conversation between the Don and the Englishman.
Pardon, Señor Gutierrez, but may I congratulate you on your daughter’s novitiate? My father-in-law, the Conde de Castillo, has just informed me of the happy event. She has entered the Convent of the Magdalenes, has she not?”
Don Gutierrez beamed down on Christina with eyes both sad and proud. “Si, my daughter Elena has left me. I wish her great joy.”
“As do we all,” Christina added.
“My felicitations, Señor,” Manzanal interposed, having caught up. “Are you enjoying yourself, my Lord?” He turned to the watching Englishman.
Christina took this chance to face the man directly and study him up close, as he replied to Manzanal. The man was tall, taller even than Luis Arredondo. He was lean, but strongly boned, and clean shaven; she was able to watch the play of expression on his countenance as he answered the Colonel’s query in heavy, British-accented Spanish. It was there, but not there . . . the resemblance that Christina sought, that had struck her with amazing force as she first glimpsed him across the room. Was that a small scar on his forehead, half-hidden by a falling lock of hair?
*
“Allow me to make known to you the Doña de Sainz y Sequenza Cabra, a cousin of our illustrious host,” Manzanal intoned pompously.
“Señora. I am Lord Michael Brett, lately of Great Britain.” He bowed, no stiffness in his movements, bluish-gray eyes friendly and open. No wariness or t he slightest recognition in them at all.
“Señor. I do hope you find Mexico as beautiful and hospitable as I do.”
“Indeed yes, Señora,” he said, his deep voice mangling the Spanish. “I do so love the climate. So different from London, you know. Never rains here. People are charming.”
His dark hair was neatly cut, he appeared clean, and well-groomed. Actually, he seemed young, especially when he smiled so ingenuously. No, she had been completely mistaken. This handsome Englishman could never be taken for the surly, hard-faced American she had once nursed, and kept prisoner . . .
“You must visit Chapultepec, Señor. The castle and its views are magnificent.”
“I look forward to it, Señora. I intend to see and to admire everything.”
Christina nodded, congratulated the Don again, and moved off. She was puzzled, mainly at
“Now tell me, my dear, how you go on. Your letters were too brief. And is there any truth to the wild rumors my servants tell me about a captured Yanqui in your house?”
Nervously, Christina prepared to answer him, when the crowd parted to allow the presence of Santa Anna’s young, bejeweled wife, Doña Maria Dolores.
Santa Anna immediately lost his train of thought as he re-introduced his wife to Christina; and she was thankful of it. She did not want to speak of Jim Malone tonight, or ever! The entire episode was an annoying and deeply embarrassing memory which she hoped one day to forget.
Unfortunately, forgetting Malone was not to prove so easy, even in the midst of a large party.
Christina left the Santa Annas and moved off to find another cool drink. Aggravatingly, Colonel Manzanal followed her, offering his assistance in procuring some refreshments. She cast her gaze around the room, searching the crowd for Luis, or Don Ignacio, or anyone else she knew who could intimidate Manzanal away . . .
And then she saw him. But it could not possibly be him. It didn’t really look like him, and yet . . .
“Who is that gentleman?” she demanded.
“Your pardon, Señora?”
‘That gentleman over there - talking with Don Gutierrez. The man in gray. I wish to know who he is.”
Manzanal squinted in the direction she pointed out. “He is an Englishman, I believe. He arrived with the Ambassador’s party. His name is Lord Michael Brett.”
“Present me to him.”
Without bothering to notice whether Manzanal followed, Christina wove her way over to where the Englishman stood.
She inserted herself into the low conversation between the Don and the Englishman.
Pardon, Señor Gutierrez, but may I congratulate you on your daughter’s novitiate? My father-in-law, the Conde de Castillo, has just informed me of the happy event. She has entered the Convent of the Magdalenes, has she not?”
Don Gutierrez beamed down on Christina with eyes both sad and proud. “Si, my daughter Elena has left me. I wish her great joy.”
“As do we all,” Christina added.
“My felicitations, Señor,” Manzanal interposed, having caught up. “Are you enjoying yourself, my Lord?” He turned to the watching Englishman.
Christina took this chance to face the man directly and study him up close, as he replied to Manzanal. The man was tall, taller even than Luis Arredondo. He was lean, but strongly boned, and clean shaven; she was able to watch the play of expression on his countenance as he answered the Colonel’s query in heavy, British-accented Spanish. It was there, but not there . . . the resemblance that Christina sought, that had struck her with amazing force as she first glimpsed him across the room. Was that a small scar on his forehead, half-hidden by a falling lock of hair?
*
“Allow me to make known to you the Doña de Sainz y Sequenza Cabra, a cousin of our illustrious host,” Manzanal intoned pompously.
“Señora. I am Lord Michael Brett, lately of Great Britain.” He bowed, no stiffness in his movements, bluish-gray eyes friendly and open. No wariness or t he slightest recognition in them at all.
“Señor. I do hope you find Mexico as beautiful and hospitable as I do.”
“Indeed yes, Señora,” he said, his deep voice mangling the Spanish. “I do so love the climate. So different from London, you know. Never rains here. People are charming.”
His dark hair was neatly cut, he appeared clean, and well-groomed. Actually, he seemed young, especially when he smiled so ingenuously. No, she had been completely mistaken. This handsome Englishman could never be taken for the surly, hard-faced American she had once nursed, and kept prisoner . . .
“You must visit Chapultepec, Señor. The castle and its views are magnificent.”
“I look forward to it, Señora. I intend to see and to admire everything.”
Christina nodded, congratulated the Don again, and moved off. She was puzzled, mainly at
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