Treasure of the Sun (11 page)

"We're countrymen in a strange land. It's not familiarity, it's just friendship." He smiled with engaging candor. "You call me John Charles. I'll call you Katherine."

He made it sound so reasonable, and she was so thrilled by the request from a man she admired, she almost capitulated. After all, she argued to herself, many of the Californios called her Dona Katherina. Surely it was the same, and she could slip from her formality just once.

Then she looked at John Charles Fremont, and she knew it wasn't the same. The Californios used "Dona" as a title, an indication of respect. The use of her first name by an American wouldn't mean the same thing, and Fremont displayed a shallow familiarity by suggesting it. Firmly, she refused. ''Thank you, Mr. Fremont, but I'm not used to· being so disrespectful to a hero. "

He wavered, wanting to press, to encourage intimacy. Yet he seemed to recognize her resolve. "A hero. You exaggerate."

"No, not at all." Instinctively, she identified his weak point and utilized it, flattering him with the truth. "If it weren't for you, I would still be languishing in Boston."

He twisted his hat and smiled modestly. "Well, if it weren't for Kit Carson, here, I would have never made it over the Sierras during that dreadful winter crossing."

"Of course. I should have guessed you were Kit Carson."

Courtesy reasserted itself, and she shook his hand. His body odor discouraged any prolonged contact, and she stepped back. "To meet two such famous men is an, honor."

"An honor." Damian agreed from above her left shoulder. She glanced up, but he wasn't looking at his guests, as he should be. He watched her, and the fire of his displeasure scorched her. She glanced away and then back. She must have imagined it, for nothing on his smooth countenance revealed anything but polite welcome for his guests.

"An honor for all of us. I met you on your last trip into California, Senor Fremont," he said. "It is indeed wonderful that your writings brought us to the attention of the United States."

"Of course, of course!" Fremont said. He shook Damian's hand. "A pleasure to see you again, Don Damian. You and I spoke of California's annexation by my government."

"So we did." Damian's smile was nothing more than a cool curve of the lips. "That was when I believed the Californios would be allowed a say in their fate."

''The United States government has a policy of fair treatment of all its citizens, rich or poor."

"A pleasant fairy tale. If the United States were interested in anything but its own welfare, it wouldn't be hovering over California like a bird of prey over a dying man."

"England is hovering, too," Fremont reminded him. "Last time I was here, we discussed the advantages of administration by the United States."

"Please, not on an empty stomach," Damian protested. Bewildered by the change in Damian, Fremont lifted one hand and dropped it. Don Lucian and Mr. Hartnell, too, seemed paralyzed with shock.

Only Damian remained in control. "I'm told you have a large armed force with you."

Promptly, Fremont assured him, "Only sixty men. I left them at Mr. Hartnell's rancho. They're not a threat to you."

"General Castro doesn't agree, does he, Senor Fremont?" The ingratiating smile on Fremont's face disappeared as if it had never been. "General Castro is nothing but a churlish windbag, a braggart. If he thinks he can command me with a letter-"

"A letter?" Damian leaned back on his heels. His shot in the dark had found an unexpected mark, and he pressed for information. "What does General Castro write?"

Mr. Hartnell sighed. "Lieutenant Jose Antonio Chavez arrived with a letter from General Castro, ordering Fremont and his men to pack their rifles and get out of Mexican territory at once."

''That Chavez spoke rudely to me!" Fremont quivered with the insult. "I told him I wouldn't obey such an order."

"Did you tell Castro?" Damian asked.

"I told Chavez to inform him of my displeasure."

"You didn't even have the courtesy to take pen in hand and reply yourself." Don Lucian sounded scandalized.

Damian snapped, "Have you no respect for the comandante of your host country?"

Buffeted by conflicting emotions, Katherine stammered, "Why would General Castro order such a thing? Where is the Californio hospitality?"

In deference to her femininity and her nationality, Hartnell answered only, "Mr. Fremont ignored the General's specific order to stay away from the major coastal towns of Alta California. General Castro considers Fremont a threat to the continued peace of the area."

With sincere assurance, Fremont said, "I assure you, Miss Katherine, my men carry guns for their own protection."

He looked young and earnest, and Katherine didn't notice his use of her first name. "You have accomplished so much," she complimented him sincerely. "What a fantastic life you've led."

"Why, thank you, Miss Katherine."

This time she noticed. She stiffened, fingering her watch chain, but before she could chide him, Damian interrupted.

"Extraordinary, indeed," he agreed, a sarcastic edge in his voice, "to so betray his hosts."

Fremont
shook his hair back from his forehead and struck a pose. "I have betrayed no one."

Rounding on Damian, Katherine declared, "Mr. Fremont would never cheat anyone. He's a national hero."

"Not of my nation." Damian drew himself up and looked down his aristocratic nose at her. "Not of my nation."

She stepped back, stricken.

"Now, see here, sir," Fremont objected, his southern accent ringing out.

"Damian," Don Lucian expostulated.

Recovering herself, Katherine lifted her chin. "No. Don Damian is right. I'm grateful for his reminder." Lifting her skirts, she strode into the hacienda, bumping the door frame in her rush to be away.

John Charles Fremont mashed his hat onto his head. "Sir, I'm a man, big enough to ignore the threats and lies of a bully, but you have been cruel to one of the flowers of womanhood. You, Don Damian, are no gentleman."

"Why do you look one way and steer another?" Don Lucian pitched his voice below the wild rhythm of the guitar, but he questioned his son with fierce exasperation. "She admires this Fremont, and rather than let her discover for herself what a braggart he is, you drive her into his corner. She went storming off one way, he went storming off another. Everyone's mad at you."

Damian crossed his arms over his chest like a man who knew he'd done wrong, but would maintain his actions to the end. "She defended him."

"She's an American. He's an American. Why shouldn't she defend him?" Don Lucian's voice rose, and Damian shushed him. "What, you don't want our guests to know you're angry at Katherine? You think they haven't noticed how you stand and glower while they dance? You think your attitude hasn't soured the mariachis? It's the last danza of this fiesta, and you act like a mule with a stone in its hoof."

"She thought he was attractive."

Don Lucian shook his head, turned on his heel, shook his head again. "Do you think that she'll never look at another attractive man as long as she lives? It is possible to admire your neighbor's apples without stealing any from his tree."

"She's a woman. Women are modest, shy, retiring. They wait until a man chooses them and accept with gratitude."

"Bachelors know much more about women than married men." Damian glared. "They must. If they didn't, they would be married, too."

"Well, she shouldn't think men are attractive."

Don Lucian shouted with laughter. "You mean she shouldn't think any man but you are attractive."

"She hasn't even noticed men for a year."

"Did you think this state of blessed blindness would last?"

Don Lucian stepped back as one of the dance couples whirled off the cleared area and disappeared into the trees. "You worked hard to break through her isolation. Be glad that at last she's behaving as a normal woman should."

"I break through her isolation so every man can catch her eye? That wasn't my intent."

"No, I suppose it wasn't." Rubbing his forehead with his fingers, Don Lucian said, "Love is a temporary derangement, I suppose. Perhaps your courtship will proceed more smoothly when the fiesta is over and our guests leave. Meanwhile, why don't you find a woman and dance?"

"Who would I ask?" Damian queried.

"Ask Dona Maria Ygnacia. She's got enough problems, she'll hardly laugh at yours."

"Why?" Damian looked around him with observant eyes for the first time.

''Julio's neglecting her for the punch bowl again."

“Oh, God." Damian pushed away from the tree trunk where he rested his back. "What's the matter with that damned Julio?"

“That’s what they’re saying about you," he heard his father murmur, but Damian ignored him as he strode to the circle of chairs where ladies rested between dances.

Maria Ygnacia sat there, talking with the elderly matrons, the widows, the women who had no one to dance with them. She wore flowers in her chignon, accenting the distinctive white streak in her black hair. Her dress, a crisp dimity, hung with lace at the collar and sleeves. Her lips smiled, her toe tapped, she fluttered her fan and gossiped madly. She gave every appearance of having a marvelous time, and Damian knew how miserable the quiet lady must be to put on such a performance.

Straightening his cuffs, he bowed before the group of women, then before Maria Ygnacia. "Dance with me," he commanded.

The wind off her fan dusted his face. “Thank you, Don Damian, but-"

He pulled her to her feet. "I'm honored." His arm around her waist, he led her away and whispered in her ear, "Misery loves company."

An unwilling laugh puffed from her lips. "Really, Don Damian, that may be true, but I swear this is not a good idea."

"Leave the swearing until I step on your toes," he advised.

"They're playing a
jarabe
. You know how bad I am at those."

A smile played at the corners of her mouth as they took their places on the floor. "I remember."

"You would." His droll disappointment brought forth a genuine laugh.

She curtsied and he bowed. "As usual, the fiesta has been marvelous. This dancing in the meadow is a wonderful idea."

"To dance beneath the stars is always memorable," he agreed, "and I got to use my lanterns."

"They are pretty. Indeed, the ladies exclaimed over them, but we never suspected they were your idea, Damian." She took his hand and followed him through the intricate steps.

"I enjoy the Indian art work, you know that. I had the Indians take bits of colored glass and set them in wood, like the stained glass in the missions, and encase a candle holder in them." All around them, the trees hung with the glowing lights, adding a gracious fillip.

''They're like a flickering rainbow. I suppose you've just set the newest fashion among us." Old habits took over, and she looked at him with warmth and interest. "You always made me laugh."

"Looks," he said severely, "aren't everything."

She gurgled with merriment, and the sound caught at his throat. So had the young Maria Ygnacia laughed when the self-important Damian came courting. She'd been the loveliest thing in Alta California. It had been too long since he'd listened to her joy. "You were the only girl I ever asked to marry me."

"So many years ago," she retorted.

"You were the only girl I ever wanted to marry."

Her smile was still genuine, but a wisp of sadness stilled her sparkle. "Until last year, when a certain Americana"

"Named Katherine. Yes, I know, but if I'd been married to you I would have never even seen her."

"Ah, we'll never know that." She spun in the dance. "Perhaps we'd have been so dedicated to each other you'd have never seen her-and perhaps you would have been stricken, as you are, yet trapped in a marriage with me."

"We'd have been so busy, I'd have never seen her. Our children-"

She stumbled. He cursed the tactlessness of his remark, first to himself, then, when he saw the tears hovering on her lashes, loudly. "I stepped on you. Perd6n, perd6n. Please, let me help you." He stood between her and the other dancers.

"Don't concern yourself," she said, playing along with him, holding an ankle he'd never come close to.