The Infamous Miss Rodriguez: A Ciudad Real Novella (9 page)

They were already as close as two bodies could get, but somehow she contrived a way to snuggle even closer. “I should go to the factory,” she said, her voice heavy with sleep, “and see this process of yours.”

She was asleep in another second. He was still holding her hand. Vicente brought it to his lips in order to brush a kiss over her knuckles, the metal of her ring cold and unyielding against his mouth. And then, for the first time, Vicente allowed himself to put words to the thought that had been tugging at the edges of his consciousness ever since he first saw her, red-lipped and bare-legged as she strutted her way across the stage at the bawdy theater: He was falling deeply, irrevocably, in love with Graciela Rodriguez.

But it wasn’t love she wanted from him. Everything he could offer her he already had, the moment he’d signed the registry. After today, all she would need was for him to stay out of her way while she went on with her life.

For now, however…

Vicente clasped his arms tighter around his wife. For now, he would take what he could.

G
raciela awoke
the next morning gripped with the cold certainty that her aunt would find a way to invalidate the marriage.

“What can I have been thinking?” she said miserably as she cast herself onto the armchair across from Vicente’s and watched him sip coffee from a porcelain cup branded with the hotel’s crest. She had slipped on her nightdress when the hotel maid brought in the breakfast tray, for decency’s sake, and even though it covered her from neck to ankles, it felt wonderfully improper to sit beside a man in such deshabille.

Vicente certainly seemed to feel no reservations about breakfasting in his smallclothes. He dunked a piece of bread into his coffee and tucked the dripping mass into his mouth, his tongue darting out to catch a falling drop. That tongue had been responsible for some of the most delightful sensations Graciela had ever experienced. She allowed herself a moment of distraction as she recalled how he’d traced a long, hot line along the crease of her thigh. She’d spread her legs to allow him further access, feeling as sinful and wicked as she’d been trying to appear. The way he’d looked at her—not with disapproval or annoyance, but with an expression she could only interpret as desire. It was the only time a man had made her feel wanted for herself. And then he’d shown her the depth of that want, over and over again.

Catching sight of the eyebrow he’d raised in inquiry at her earlier statement, she sat back in the chair and explained, “I just know Aunt Elba will go to the courts, claim you kidnapped or blackmailed me, and have the marriage annulled, consummated or not.”

“I don’t think that can be done,” Vicente said. He slathered guava jam onto a bun and offered it to her, but she declined.

“You have no way of knowing that for certain,” Graciela retorted. “You’re not a lawyer.”

Rather than answer, Vicente—wisely enough—stuffed the entire bun inside his mouth. Graciela watched him eat, trepidation and coffee curling unpleasantly in her stomach. Once he’d demolished the entire contents of the breakfast tray, Vicente rubbed a napkin over his face and said, “Your aunt isn’t all-powerful. But if you want to truly rid yourself of Medina, there’s only one thing you can do—you’ve got to humiliate him in public. Men like him aren’t used to it, and he doesn’t strike me as the forgiving sort.”

Graciela bit her lip. “His parents are holding a dinner tonight, to welcome the Spanish uncles who’ve come to attend the wedding. The members of the Board will be in attendance, as will the Germans. If I’m to do anything, it’ll have to be tonight.”

Vicente laid his hand on top of hers. It was large, warm, slightly sticky with guava jam—and so comforting despite the rough palm and calloused fingers. Her father’s ring, a plain gold band, echoed the shine of the ring she wore. “You’re not doing anything,” he corrected her gently. “We are.”

Graciela, suddenly reminded of her wish for someone to wage war at her side, could only smile.

* * *

T
he Medina’s
Spanish-style townhouse was one of the largest in Ciudad Real. It took up half a block, and was shielded from view by the glossy-leafed tropical almonds that grew along the streets. It was almost eight in the evening and despite the late hour, the street was jammed with motorcars. As they approached the house, Graciela could see the chauffeurs converging in pairs under the street lamps, their cigars glowing in the dark like fireflies.

Graciela, who had gone home to change into a suitable gown, rode in the back of her aunt’s Packard, anxiety tying her insides into knots. She had won, and even with that knowledge carefully stored in her heart, she could feel the old desperation rising.

Aunt Elba hadn’t suspected a thing. In a charitable mood now that she felt she’d won, she reached over to pat Graciela’s knee. “It’s all for the best. You’ll see.”

Graciela kept her gaze trained on the scene unfolding outside the motorcar’s spotless window. “I hadn’t realized there would be so many people. Have they invited
all
of Montsant, or only everyone under the age of ninety?”

“The Medinas know a great many people,” Aunt Elba said mildly. “You might do well to cultivate some friendships of your own. There will be a great many important people in your life now, and you never know who might result useful.”

“So I’m to marry for profit and choose my friends for their usefulness,” Graciela snapped. “Tell me, Aunt Elba, will I be allowed to have the regular sort of children, or must they serve a purpose as well?”

“You may complain now, but in time you’ll see I was right.”

Aunt Elba’s refrain was starting to grate on Graciela’s nerves. She wanted to cross her arms but, mindful of the beaded gown that might snag the fine fabric of her gloves, she settled for turning her head in order to look out the window again. Aunt Elba didn’t seem to mind being so pointedly ignored, which only made Graciela all the more annoyed.

“I wouldn’t have chosen this life for myself, you know,” Aunt Elba said. “I wasn’t allowed to make many choices of my own growing up—most were made for me, by my father and later my brother. If I’d had the opportunity to marry, I’m sure my husband would have assumed the responsibility. When your father passed away and your grandfather after him, I was left with the burden of making decisions for myself as well as for you. And do you know what I’ve found out, Graciela? Life allows very few true choices, even to those as fortunate as ourselves. There are simply things that must be done, in order to survive, and things we must not allow to happen at any cost. Your marriage to Alvaro was not a decision I made lightly. It’s one of those things that must be done. And you
will
do it, or we will not survive.”

The motorcar coasted to a stop and before the white-gloved chauffeur could walk around the motorcar to open their door, Aunt Elba said, “Stop frowning. You will smile tonight, and you will be graceful. And if I hear one word about that confounded dancing costume…”

Graciela, who’d been struck silent during her aunt’s speech, thought it prudent to answer by saying, “Don’t worry, I’ve left my dancing days behind. I hope you won’t be
too
disappointed.”

Sailing ahead of Aunt Elba seemed like a good idea until she found herself alone in the Medina’s foyer, watching the crowd through the wooden archway. The men looked like they were sweltering in their tails; the women, their arms and shoulders bared and their fans in continuous motion, looked marginally less uncomfortable. Musicians played from atop a dais on one side of the room, waiters wove their way through the guests, bearing silver platters, and somewhere in the fashionable multitude was Alvaro.

Graciela had never given in to cowardliness. Squaring her shoulders, she made her way inside.

Vicente hadn’t arrived. She looked for him first of all, and was so busy trying to make out his features in all the faces that surrounded her, she didn’t see Alvaro approach until he was at her elbow.

“There you are! I was just telling General Espaillat here what a—”

“Alvaro,” Graciela said loudly, ignoring the General, who looked like a squat little toad of a man as he stood beside Alvaro in his green uniform, its sash bristling with medals like warts, “there is something I need to discuss with you.”

“Is there? What outrageous thing have you done now?” Alvaro said with a laugh. He waved a waiter over and took a glass of champagne from the proffered tray. He didn’t, Graciela noticed, think of taking a glass for her. “Have you need of another pair of dancing slippers? This girl,” he told the General with a wink, “will be the ruin of me.”

“I won’t be anyone’s ruin,” Graciela said.

“Oh, but I beg to differ. Your beauty is enough to drive a man to commit the most grievous sins.”

Alvaro had always been grandiose with his compliments. This one slithered down Graciela’s back and made her shudder with disgust.

“Commit them on your own and don’t drag
me
into it,” Graciela said rudely. “Heavens, Alvaro, only you could make a Jezebel out of an ordinary woman.”

“My dear, you’re no ordinary woman.” Alvaro’s dark eyes flashed— a warning, perhaps, but Graciela was in no condition to heed it.

“But I am,” she cried. “And to say that there’s something exceptional about me when there isn’t isn’t flattering— it means that you think that ordinary women are somehow unworthy of a man’s attention. But being extraordinary shouldn’t be a requirement for being loved.”

“It
is
a requirement for being my wife.” Alvaro smiled at the General, but he stepped closer to Graciela, who unconsciously moved out of reach.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you—I can’t be your wife.”

Neither the music not the conversation faltered but to Graciela, it seemed like the room was ringing with silence after her words.

The smile remained on Alvaro’s face, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “Why ever not?” he asked, laughing, casting a look at his guests that made it plain that he was wondering what inanity his future bride would think of next.

Vicente spoke from the doorway. Graciela saw him, and felt her knees go soft with relief. “Because she’s mine.”

“
Y
ou
married
her
?”

Vicente had never seen a dark-skinned person turn this shade of red. No doubt Graciela would consider it a personal triumph but Vicente was worried the elder Miss Rodriguez—the only Miss Rodriguez now that Graciela was Mrs. Aguirre—would collapse from an apoplexy.

He’d assumed they’d be summarily ejected from Medina’s house. It seemed, however, that in polite circles cordiality was maintained at all times, even through a broken engagement and public humiliation. Alvaro was the one who’d left, after saying tersely, “I wish you the happiness of it.” He’d flickered his gaze over Graciela then added, for the benefit of the crowd, “And plenty of luck as well. You’ll need it.”

The silence had been absolute when Vicente and Graciela, escorted by a tight-lipped Elba Rodriguez, had walked through the door, coming face to face with the distinguished Spanish uncles, three paunchy gentlemen who’d looked startled to walk in on what was obviously a scandal in the making. Tongues would wag soon enough but the silence had followed them all the way to the townhouse, where it had been broken by Miss Rodriguez’s outrage.

They were in the study, sitting in front of the great desk Miss Rodriguez liked to hide behind. Vicente was on his feet, standing behind Graciela’s chair, wondering how fast he could fetch a doctor if Miss Rodriguez collapsed.

“I hired you to safeguard her reputation and instead you decided to destroy it. You took advantage of my kind-heartedness, of my
niece—
” Miss Rodriguez paused to draw in a breath and Graciela stepped in.

“If anything, Aunt Elba, I took advantage of him.” The corner of Graciela’s lips dipped inwardly, no doubt recollecting all the ways in which she’d taken advantage during their wedding night, and Vicente was hard pressed to keep an answering smile off his face.

“And
you
.” Miss Rodriguez faced her niece. “How could you? You unbearably selfish girl. Hadn’t I told you, countless times, how much we needed the Medinas to invest in the factory? I’ve been trying my damnedest to keep it afloat but without that money, Graciela, there’s nothing I can do to keep the factory on its feet. We’re as good as ruined.”

Vicente didn’t know what rich people meant by ruined. He wished he could tell Graciela that if it came down to it, he could keep her clothed and fed, if not in the style she was accustomed to. It seemed wiser, however, to keep from speaking.

A small frown was beginning to knit Graciela’s delicate brows together. “Things can’t be so dire,” she told her aunt, firmly, as if by saying it she could will it to be so.

“The factory is insolvent. I tried to keep it from you so as not to cause you worry. More fool me,” Miss Rodriguez snapped.

“Well, we can use my dowry. I know Papa made sure it couldn’t be touched by anyone until I was married, to protect me in case something should happen at the factory. I’ll tell his man of business to turn over whatever you need—”

Miss Rodriguez let out a humorless laugh. “Your entire eight thousand wouldn’t even cover this quarter’s losses.”

“A loan from the bank, then,” Graciela suggested. Vicente could have told her not to bother. Miss Rodriguez was nothing if not thorough, and proud besides. If there had been a way to the money she needed without Medina’s help, she would have long since found it. “Or from somebody else—”

“If really think I haven’t tried everything I can to preserve your family’s legacy, then you don’t know me at all.” The creases around Miss Rodriguez’s eyes deepened. “In any case, it’s no longer only about the money. You humiliated Alvaro in front of half the people he knows. There will be repercussions.”

“There must be something I can do to—”

“You’ve done enough. You’ve ruined the factory’s chances, and yourself in the bargain.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have if you’d told me all this before instead of keeping things from me, and ordering me about, as if I were a
child
—” Graciela choked off, and Vicente squeezed her shoulder in support.

Miss Rodriguez got to her feet. “I’ll meet with prospective buyers this week. Once I find someone willing to take the factory off my hands, I’ll send the papers over for you to sign. And then we can stay out of each other’s way.” She stopped at the doorway. “I tried my best, Graciela. It’s a damn shame you couldn’t.”

Miss Rodriguez left the room. Graciela bowed her head and, for the first time since Vicente had met her, she looked thoroughly defeated.

* * *

H
aving held
up his end of the bargain, Vicente had been about to return to his boarding house when Graciela stopped him and told him he was welcome to stay at the hotel with her.

Any hope that she would invite him into her bed again faded when she opened one of the doors in the suite and revealed a second bedroom, identical to the first. She’d had her maid put some male clothing in there— shiny black shoes lined up by the door, a hairbrush on the dresser, and a set of tails in the wardrobe along with several crisp shirts. All of it brand new, and all of it expenses that would need to be paid for.

She had also, he discovered once he had made sure the man he’d found inside the dressing room was not, in fact, stealing his new shirts but putting them away, had also procured for him a valet.

Having politely but firmly declined the valet’s help, he had undressed and was getting into his damnably empty bed when there was a knock at his door. It opened a crack and through the narrow opening Vicente could see a nightdress-clad figure standing there.

“Graciela? I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Her unbound hair cascaded in ripples over her breasts as she stood in the doorway, fiddling with the ribbon that fastened her nightdress at her throat. “I know I told you I wouldn’t make a nuisance of myself. But—is it all right if I come in?”

She waited for him to nod before closing the door behind her and coming to curl up on the edge of his bed. Her legs were completely covered by the excess fabric of her nightgown—any amount fabric at all seemed excessive now he’d seen her naked body—but her slim toes peeked out from beneath the hem, looking oddly vulnerable.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what Aunt Elba said earlier. I knew something of the difficulties she’s been having but I hadn’t realized matters were so dire. Have I really ruined her chances to keep the factory open?” She bent her head, pressing her face against her covered knees. He wanted to hold her and stroke her hair, but by putting him in the second bedroom she had made it clear how things were to go between them and he wasn’t sure if she would welcome his touch. “The factory was my mother’s family’s. Aunt Elba didn’t know the business but she took it on for my sake—to preserve my grandfather’s legacy. And now we might lose it because of me.” She lifted her head. “You worked with Aunt Elba for weeks. Did she never say anything about what was happening?”

“Not to me,” he said helplessly. “As far as I can tell, your aunt has done the best she could. She’s done better than a lot of men might have in her position.”

“She has a good head for business but she isn’t an industrial engineer and hasn’t kept abreast of the innovations in the field. There must be things which might be done to optimize conditions, for instance, or make the processes more efficient, that she probably doesn’t know about. But you do. You know everything about factories—” She clutched his arm. “You can save it.”

“I can try to help,” he said cautiously. “I’m not a chemist and I don’t know anything about perfume. But I have worked in factories for most of my life and I know what to do to make it run more smoothly.”

“Oh, Vicente, we have to see Aunt Elba again tomorrow and tell her you can help us.”

He should have said no. He should have told her, in no uncertain terms, that he had carried out his role and now he needed to make a life for himself.

But all he could bring himself to do was nod, and say, “I’ll do what I can.”