The Infamous Miss Rodriguez: A Ciudad Real Novella by Lydia San Andres Page A

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 armchair 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