The Abducted Heart (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (16 page)

“A golden Madonna,” she murmured, and looked away to share with Doña Isabel a strange, almost secretive glance.

Ramón, reaching out to touch the hair of the sleeping child with gentle fingers, said nothing.

Seven

On the following Monday Ramón returned to work. He was still able, however, to spare the time to show Anne around some of the late-closing museums and art galleries and to take her out to dinner. On Wednesday they attended the Ballet Folklórico as planned. Anne was enthralled with the pageantry, the beautifully authentic costumes, and the lilting music. The experience would always be one of her favorite memories of Mexico.

With Ramón at her side, protecting her from crowds and annoyance and language difficulties, explaining what she did not understand, she should have been completely happy. She was not. Though he was courteous and endlessly helpful, she had the feeling his attitude would have been the same if she had been his maiden aunt. When he touched her, it was in guidance or assistance; there was nothing personal in the contact. At the close of their outings together he escorted her punctiliously home and left her at the foot of the stairs.

Anne found his manner baffling. He seemed to enjoy her company, he took meticulous pains to ensure her pleasure, but he never took her in his arms, never kissed her. Sometimes she could not help but think his restraint unnatural, a penance self-imposed. At others she was forced to wonder if she no longer held any interest for him.

As the days passed, the date of Irene’s party drew relentlessly nearer. Doña Isabel when she learned of the gala her great-niece had planned, was not at all pleased.

“I do not like it. Mark my words, she has some devious scheme in mind to take the shine from our own party. Why in the name of all the saints didn’t you refuse to go when you had the chance, my dear Anne?”

“I didn’t feel I had the right,” Anne tried to explain.

“Right? Pray, what does that mean? You are the fiancée of Ramón Carlos Castillo, are you not? You are the injured party, the person who was insulted by this woman. Who has a better right?”

“But you know—” Anne began, only to be waved into silence.

“Never mind. It is done now. We must make the best of it.”

“You will go too?” Anne asked.

“I’m not sure. It is certain to be an overcrowded affair with a lot of loud noise called music and a too generous supply of drink. It has been some time since such a gathering was to my taste. You and Ramón can be representatives for the Castillo family, and I expect Estela and Esteban will put in an appearance. That should be enough.”

“I could do with your moral support,” Anne told the elderly woman with a smile.

“Moral support you shall have, though it may come from another source,” Doña Isabel said, winking.

It was during the afternoon two days later before Anne discovered what the old lady meant. Calling for the car, Doña Isabel took Anne into town to her favorite hairdresser. After listening closely to his elderly customer, the hairdresser had shampooed Anne’s hair and set it. When it was dry, he swept it into a mass of loose, shining curls at the back of her head. Soft tendrils were teased forward to curl before her ears. That done, she received the first professional manicure of her life, though her nails, after being shaped, were buffed to a high gloss rather than polished. Makeup came next, a skillful blending made her eyes appear enormous in her pale face and caused her lips to glisten with the pink and dewy innocence of childhood. The effect was topped off by a final complimentary spray of some perfume that had the sweet seductiveness of roses and gardenias.

Though Doña Isabel heaped praises on her hairdresser for the effect he and his beauticians had achieved, she did not stop there. Anne had expected to wear the last of the dresses Ramón had bought for her, the long gown of salmon and rust. Instead, she found a creation far different laid out upon her bed when she returned. There was no card, no message with it, but it was such a perfect foil for the hairstyle she had been given that Anne did not doubt for a moment Ramón’s grandmother had had it delivered for her.

Anne was not very knowledgeable about Mexican native costume; still, even she could recognize that style in the superb dress she had been given. It consisted of a double skirt, one longer by at least a foot than the other. The top skirt was of maroon velvet, banded and fringed with gold, to be worn over a petticoat of lace ending in a deep lace flounce. The top skirt had side slits edged with gold bands and tied up with maroon and pink ribbons. With this went a soft white blouse stiff about the neck and sleeves with embroidery, and, to be worn over that, a short vest of maroon satin embroidered with gold and tied over the breast with ribbons. Also included was a long satin sash trimmed on the ends with gold fringe, and a pair of satin slippers embroidered on the toe.

Bathing while trying to keep her hair from getting damp or smudging her makeup was not very relaxing; Anne did not linger over it. Anxious to try the dress for fit, she put it on at once.

When the last ribbon was tied, she turned to look in the mirror. The fit was perfect, the skirt length fine with the low-heeled slippers, still, she felt a twinge of disquiet. The color was rich, even becoming, but she had to admit that it was also a little garish, especially with the intense pink of the ribbons. The style, though it might have been carried off by a brunette, had a tendency to overwhelm her subdued blond coloring.

Still, she could not disappoint Doña Isabel. She had to wear the dress.

Estela and Esteban had accepted the invitation and it had been decided they would all go together. Ramón’s sister and her husband had already arrived at the house when Anne came down. She could hear them laughing and talking above Ramón’s deeper tones from the direction of the sala as she descended the stairs.

There was no one in the hall. She hesitated on the bottom step, thinking that she should go to Doña Isabel first to thank her for her gift of the costume. The old lady might be waiting to see her in it. She would be anxious to cheek her final donation to the proceedings since she had decided against putting in an appearance herself.

As she wavered there, Estela came out of the sala, throwing a last bit of repartee over her shoulder. She was dressed in a knee-length dress composed of white flounces edged in red for a picotee effect. With red spaghetti-strap sandals, she looked charmingly cosmopolitan. Then as she saw Anne, the blood drained from her face, leaving it as white as the flounces of her dress.

Her sudden stillness alerted the two men. They came to the door of the room. Esteban glanced at his wife in puzzlement, flashing Anne his easy, friendly smile. But on Ramón the effect was the same as on his sister.

As the stunned silence continued without end, Esteban stepped forward. “Good evening, Anne,” he said, clearing his throat. “I hope — that is — I trust nothing is wrong?”

Estela found her voice at last. “That dress—” she said. “Where did you get it?”

“It was in my room, laid out for me to wear,” Anne answered over the tightness in her throat. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“You will go upstairs and take it off,” Ramón told her, an accusation she could not understand burning with the cold fury in his eyes.

“Take it off?” she repeated without comprehension. “But what shall I wear?”

Moving to the foot of the stairs with a noiseless tread that somehow signaled danger, he answered. “Wear the turquoise, wear anything, but take that dress off.”

The softness of his tone sent a shiver of alarm along her veins. “Why? I don’t understand,” she cried.

“It doesn’t matter why,” he said in a voice low enough to be heard by Anne alone. “If you don’t go upstairs and remove it immediately, I am going to carry you there and tear it off myself!”

There could be little doubt he meant what he said. In his quiet tone was a steely determination that brooked no refusal. Still Anne wavered. It was such a senseless fuss over nothing that she could see. She wanted only some reason for the violence of their reaction. It did not seem too much to ask.

As she stood without moving, the maroon and pink ribbons across her breast rising and falling with the quickness of her breathing, Ramón’s hand tightened on the stair raft until the knuckles showed white. An explosive tension filled the air. Anne found she could not look away from the harsh, commanding light in Ramón’s dark eyes.

It was Estela who shattered the strained tableau. Stepping forward with her small hands clasped and an appeal in her wide black eyes, she said, “Shall I go with you? If I help you to change, it won’t take long.”

The offer was the deciding factor. With no more than a nod, Anne turned and, with Ramón’s sister beside her, ascended the stairs once more.

They moved along the hall in silence. Anne opened her bedroom door and allowed Estela to precede her.

The other girl glanced at the gold-stamped white dress box, still lying on the floor beside the wastepaper basket, in which the costume had arrived. Without comment, she moved to the wardrobe, from which she took out the turquoise dress and spread it with care over the bed. She stood fingering the iridescent blue and green material thoughtfully for a moment before she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and looked at Anne.

“You must forgive Ramón, really you must. He has reason for his attitude.”

Anne stripped off the velvet vest of her costume and tossed it on the bed. “Does he?” she asked without inflection.

“Yes,” Estela asserted, flicking the ribbons of the vest with a disdainful gaze. “You see, this dress you are wearing is of the poblana, the women of the Pueblo. They are traditionally beautiful, but of few morals and many vices. You comprehend?”

“I see,” Anne replied slowly as with fingers grown suddenly clumsy she untied the fringed sash about her waist.

“That is not all,” Estela went on with a lift of her chin. “Ramón would be very angry if he knew what am about to tell you, but I think that it is important for you to understand his feelings.”

“If he would not like it—” Anne began, but Estela waved her compunction away with a quick gesture. As if agitated by her thoughts, she moved to the window, staring out.

“Our mother — but perhaps someone, Abuelita even, had told you about the woman who was the mother of Ramón and myself?”

Anne shook her head. “Doña Isabel spoke of your father and his death. She did not mention your mother.”

“No, she would not. It is not a part of her life she likes to remember. Our mother, you see, was an American movie actress — not, it must be admitted, a very good one. Our father, rich, handsome, and also young and impressionable, was visiting in California when they met. Our mother was a beautiful woman, as fair as our father was dark, but cold and calculating. She managed to give the impression that she might warm to life for the right man. Realizing that her career as an actress was at a standstill, she turned her attention to the young Mexican millionaire. She thought she would be rich, cosseted by a husband she could manipulate at will. It was a dreadful mistake. Our father was not so easily led as she imagined. He had certain standards he expected her to meet, certain obligations he expected her to fulfill. For some years the feuding was confined to the family, but eventually the warfare became an open secret.”

Stepping out of the skirt of her costume, Anne tossed it aside with the blouse and slipped the turquoise dress on over her head, settling it into place. The picture Estela had painted for her was clear. It explained many things she had not understood. Ramón’s immediate distrust of her as an American, his excessive contempt for women who chased after him for his money.

Estela, turning from the window in time to help Anne with the zipper of her dress, went on.

“As was natural, they came to hate each other, both feeling they had been duped. The woman our father had married made little attempt to fit into his life. She went her own way, flaunting custom and tradition. She scorned Mexican society and made her friends among the raffish and seamy underworld of the city, the Bohemian element my father could only despise.

“Somehow she learned that the dress of the poblana was frowned upon by good society and she made a point of wearing it, deliberately provoking our father and society. And there was a certain justness in the action, for at this time she was having an affair with her husband’s cousin and best friend, a married man, Irene’s father. The two of them, our mother and her lover, went away together to the west coast to Acapulco, where he kept a yacht. My father followed. We heard later there had been a boating accident. None of them returned.”