Part 113 (1/2)
”Your husband is back in Veracruz...”
”I am not married.” She was silent for a moment. ”From your look I can see that you wonder why I am not married when I am past the age that most women marry. My uncle expects me to marry, but I have been undecided whether I will marry a man or G.o.d.”
”You mean you are considering becoming a nun?”
”Yes, I am in discussions with the prioress of the Sisters of Mercy.”
”No!”
”Senor?”
”I mean, well, you shouldn't become a nun. There is so much to life-”
”The spirituality of the convent I would never find in marriage.”
I almost blurted out that she could write plays and poetry outside of a cloister, but then held my tongue. I could not reveal that I knew too much about her. Disclosing my true ident.i.ty would win me nothing. Nor was the absence of a husband any reason to buoy my spirits. She was still the daughter of a great house of Spain and could only marry an equal. There would be few social equals in all New Spain. Luis was of that rank. My intuition told me that she would rather enter a convent than marry him.
Again, she probed my soul with her eyes.
”Senor, I do not know why you risked your life for me, but for reasons only you and G.o.d know, I am not ravished or dead. You will find my uncle, the viceroy, very grateful.”
Don Diego Velez had been appointed viceroy a year ago when I was in Seville. Ramon de Alva was closely a.s.sociated not only with Luis but with Don Diego. Considering the way governmental services and positions were bought and sold, Don Diego was probably involved in the tunnel debacle. If so, bringing down Alva and Luis would destroy Elena.
”Is the pain worse, senor? Your features darken.”
”No, senorita, but for a moment I remembered a friend and was sad.”
She smiled knowingly. ”I see. You left behind on the peninsula a piece of your heart. I hope, senor, that like so many of the men who come to the colonies, you did not leave her heartbroken.”
”I can a.s.sure you, senorita, mine is the heart that was torn.”
”Perhaps now we are friends, we could be less formal and use out names. Mine, as you know, is Elena...”
Ay de mi! I could have given all the gold in Christendom to have said to her that my name was Cristo the b.a.s.t.a.r.do; that I had loved her the first moment I saw her nearly a dozen years ago on a Veracruz street. But it was ”Don Carlos,” a young hidalgo, whom she took to the sugarcane hacienda.
I pa.s.sed out again on the road, and it was several days before I was able to travel. During most of that time, Elena, with help from the majordomo's wife, treated my wound.
After my first excitement at seeing her, I had become silent and morose. She took this to be a natural reaction to my wounds. But my wounds ran deeper. I had returned to New Spain seeking retribution. Until I saw Elena, I had not considered how my revenge might affect her or how seeing her could divert me from my path.
During those days that she nursed me, Elena and I became close. To the scandal of the majordomo's wife, she insisted upon laying cool, wet compresses on my head and bare chest when the fever raged. When I was weak, but conscious, she sat by my bed and read poetry to me. No well-born, unmarried woman would have done either.
I could see that the majordomo's wife had noted the growing closeness between us. If word got to the viceroy that I was romantically pursing her, the viceroy would not be pleased. Instead of hailing me as a hero, he would examine my background with a jeweler's eye, and unfortunately, my past would not stand scrutiny. Ay, and Luis. His jealousy would jeopardize my new life, too.
I finally realized that my love for Elena could only end in tragedy for us both. I resolved to terminate my friends.h.i.+p with Elena in a way that would brook no further contact. My lying lepero tongue served me well.
”Elena,” I said, when she brought me dinner, not permitting a servant to bring it, ”something lies heavily on my conscience.”
”What is it, Carlos? Are you going to tell me that you hate the way I read poetry to you every night?”