Mendoza in Hollywood (36 page)

He was amused. He was deciding there was no need for unpleasantness. He wasn’t through with me yet, though. Was I disappointed?

“What price ought I to have charged, señor?” I asked.

He smiled wryly. “The price of a good dowry in this backward country, or whatever donation the nearest convent requires to take in a novice. I believe I have a fair idea of the exchange rate at the present time. I’ll leave that sum in gold; but you must promise me you’ll use it for the one purpose or the other, as your inclination directs. Harlotry’s a dangerous business.”

He was a professional killer, and so far as he knew, I was a wretched nonentity he might just as easily have discarded, by one means or another. Instead he had opted to
do the decent thing
. Who was this man? Who sent him here, to this miserable place? Queen Victoria’s Foreign Office?

“Thank you, señor” was all I could think to say.

He smiled again and kissed me, releasing my arms. “There’s a good girl. Now, shall we seal the bargain with a toast? What wine or spirits does the resident strumpet keep here?” He rolled off me and sat up.

“There’s aguardiente,” I said.

“Your local brandy, yes. That’ll do. Fetch us a bottle of the best and two glasses, and we’ll drink to your future as an honest woman.”

I hastened to obey, so readily that I was on my way back from the pantry with the bottle and glasses before I remembered that I was stark naked. He smiled engagingly at me as I scurried back to him where he lounged against the headboard of the bed. He was concealing something in one hand, however.

“Many thanks,” he said, taking the bottle and one of the glasses. He poured a drink for me, dispensing a white powder into my glass as he did so with beautifully neat sleight of hand. It dissolved without a trace in the aguardiente. He handed me my glass and poured one for himself. “Back into bed, now. Climb under the blankets. There’s rather a chill in the air.”

There certainly was. I analyzed the contents of my glass, smiling
ingenuously at him. Not poison, at least; something to make me sleep. Sleep while he did what? Made off with the valise, of course. What was I going to do now?

“To your good health and moral reclamation,” he said, lifting his glass. I lifted mine too. He drank, but as soon as he saw that I wasn’t drinking with him, his attention was fixed on me again.

“Perhaps you don’t indulge in spirits, my dear?” he inquired, in a way as delicate as the perfect spring mechanism of a steel trap.

“Not often,” I said, lowering my glass. I leaned affectionately on his right arm. “Never mind, señor. You know, it’s only just occurred to me how you must have come to hear of this place. You must be a friend of Mr. Alfred Rubery.”

Ha, that startled him. Nobody but a cyborg who was reading his pulse and skin conductivity could have told, however. His eyes narrowed in that dangerous smile.

“The young ass,” he said. “Yes, he was quite taken with Madam Martha.”

“I hope he was able to get back to his hotel safely? Really, señor, you’d have laughed if you were here to see it. A perfect farce! Except that he really was in danger of being shot by the jealous lover. He barely escaped with his clothing as it was. In fact. . .” I looked around the room as though searching, then pointed a finger at the valise as though I’d only just discovered it. “There it is, señor, that’s Mr. Rubery’s valise. He left it here in his haste. We expected he’d send for it, but ever so many days have passed. I assume he’s afraid to come back here. Would you perhaps be so kind as to take it with you when you return to the Bella Union?”

“Anything to oblige a lady,” he said, kissing my hand, all cozy gallantry, but there was a coldly inquiring look in his eyes. Had I overplayed the scene? Had I swung too quickly from vulnerable waif to cheerful servant girl? I rather think I had. He looked again at the glass I wasn’t touching and sighed. I had given him a way to exit gracefully with the valise, but something about me rang false, and he couldn’t afford to leave a loose end.

Damn. I do
not
interact gracefully with mortals. They can always tell.

“This is all quite pleasant,” he said, getting his right arm free and sliding it around me snugly. “And may I say, my dear, that you speak English beautifully? I am really quite astonished at your command of the language.”

Oh dear.

“My mother was English,” I temporized. It was happening again; three hundred years, and another tissue of lies to conceal what I truly was. Talk about déjà vu.

“Was she?” He had another sip of his aguardiente. “How did she come to be here, might one ask?”

How indeed. Pirates? Kidnapping? Shipwreck?

“She came in search of her brother,” I said carefully. “He emigrated, you see, señor, first to America and then to Texas, when the Mexican government was inviting settlers to farm the land. He sent word that he had a fine farm and was prospering. Her parents died, and there had been some thievery by solicitors—what, I never knew precisely, but she was left nearly penniless. She wrote to her brother to expect her and spent the little she had inherited to buy passage to Texas.”

He was nodding thoughtfully. Nothing improbably romantic, nothing that clashed with geographical or historical facts.

“Unfortunately,” I continued, “it appeared that her brother had exaggerated his success. He had become, in fact, little more than a beggar. The New World had failed to reform the prodigal vices of his youth. His parents were well-born, you understand, small gentry of an old family, but not rich. Yet he lived as though he had a fortune to inherit, drinking and gambling. That was why he’d been obliged to emigrate in the first place.” I monitored his reactions to my story. Was that all right, that little intimation of good bloodlines to appeal to his English snobbery? Yes, he was accepting it.

“So, she arrived in Texas and found that her brother was not only not prosperous but sitting in the village prison for vagrancy, and all
her prospects were dashed forever. I am afraid she quite collapsed. Luckily, as she sat weeping in the street, she drew the attention of a gentleman who had come to Texas to see to some business affairs he had there. He was a kind and gallant man, and he rescued her from her plight.

“That man was my father, Don Rodrigo Mendoza. He was not a Mexican, you understand, señor, he was born in Old Spain, the youngest son of a house of ancient valor but no fortune. All his parents could procure for him was an officer’s commission, and he made the best of it. He came with the army to New Spain and won a grant of land in Alta California from his king. After the Revolution he remained here; there was nothing in Europe to draw him back, and he had come to love this New World.” There, a little more aristocratic ancestry, a father who was an officer and a gentleman. How was he taking that? He was still listening.

“My father was no longer a young man when he befriended my mother, but such was their love that he married her and brought her back to Alta California with him. They lived happily at his rancho near”—what was the most remote and unlikely spot I could think of?—”San Luis Obispo. I was born there, and they had no other children. I was educated in all that a lady of property need learn, and more, for my father had a great admiration for classical studies. I also had to learn what it is to manage an estate. We thought we would always be happy, but the coming of the Americans ruined my father’s fortunes, and we lost our home.” My Englishman was quite interested by that, to judge from his heart rate and respiration; but he merely made a sympathetic noise. I drew breath and went on.

“The shame killed him, señor. To be cheated out of what he had won with his sword, by shrewd Yankee traders. And my mother did not long survive him, such was her grief. I was left with the clothes on my back and a determination to live. For five years I have won my bread by honest means, cooking and cleaning for strangers; and if it was menial work that my own maids would have scorned to do, when I was a cosseted child, at least I had the satisfaction of knowing that I
had never descended into another kind of shame.” How was that playing? Pretty well. His pupils were dilated; always a sure sign he was moved about something.

At least, that had been true for Nicholas Harpole, who was not this man.

“Two years I have been the cook at this station, señor, and it has been enough to keep me. But times are hard, señor, surely you know that. The American war, the floods, and then the smallpox, and now the drought. Men run mad, and this land is dying. I have not been paid in weeks. Can you blame me for the despair that led me to this bed? The inn is nearly deserted now, and I fear it will be abandoned soon. Where shall I go then? How am I to live?”

There, I’d written myself a role to play. This was Hollywood, after all. Though the slight tremor in my voice was genuine. My fear and misery were real enough; if they could be made to convince this glorious stranger of my sincerity, so much the better. But had I convinced him?

Maybe.

He was excited about something I’d said, intrigued, not suspicious. His blood was racing. And now he turned to look down into my eyes, and there was a genuine emotion visible for a second behind the smooth opportunistic facade. Was it sympathy? Not love by a long shot, but a good start; and a damned sight better than the reluctant intent to kill me. Yes, we were coming along splendidly.

“Where will you go?” he said, taking my face in his fine strong hands and kissing me. “Why, wherever in this wide world you please, with such a brave heart. You’ve no need to sell yourself to strangers, my dear; you can make your own terms for a husband. If you once catch the eye of a man of property, your fortune’s made, and he’s a damned lucky fellow!”

Well,
that
rang false, though I doubt a mortal girl could have told. He wanted something from me. Some detail of my pathetic story had suggested an opportunity to him. What did I care? I loved the taste of his mouth.

“You are married, I suppose,” I sighed.

“I? No. My line of work prevents that indulgence; travel, you know. And I’m no man of property, unfortunately. No, my dear, you can do better for yourself than me; but if you’ll allow me to come to your assistance, I think there are certain measures that can be taken to ease your entry into better society.” He looked deep into my eyes, and the fact that he had thought of a use for me didn’t make his smile any less sincere. “Upon my word I do.”

“I am in no position to refuse assistance, señor,” I told him guardedly.

“No, poor child, and God knows that’s none of your doing,” he said, settling me gently into the pillows. How persuasive and silken his voice, and how nicely he smiled with that wide humorous mouth of his. “See here: I represent the interests of Imperial Export of London. My firm would pay handsomely for the exclusive rights to supply British manufactured goods to the inhabitants of this coast. That’s not our main object, however. You may be aware that British textile industries have suffered from the American conflict. Cotton production in the Southern states (on which our mills depend) has come to a virtual halt, and the little that is being produced is blockaded. Meanwhile our researches indicate that the prevailing weather in this part of California would be ideal for cotton.

“At the present time, the vast pastoral ranchos of your childhood lie fallow and desolate, mortgaged to unscrupulous Yankee moneylenders, and the hereditary gentry of your people are impoverished—not merely by debt but also by the present drought, which has driven the price of cattle down so far as to ruin them. Your countrymen have exchanged independence for a dubious citizenship in a nation that despises them. How they must regret signing the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo,” he said, not too theatrically, and had another sip of brandy.

“Assuredly they do,” I said. “But what is to be done? Were we able to defend ourselves? Our cavalry was magnificent, señor, but we were something short on weapons. Perhaps before gold was discovered here we might have driven them out; after that, never in the
world. The United States of America won’t relinquish California willingly. We must resign ourselves to being a conquered people.”

How intently he was listening to me. His face didn’t show it, though, as he moved his hand idly along my thigh.

“And if this Civil War of theirs should alter the situation in your favor . . .?”

“I try not to hope for anything these days, señor,” I said, watching his hand. “Life is so uncertain.”

“How very true. But consider what might happen if a benevolent interest were to buy up the debts of your countrymen. What if they found themselves once again in free and clear possession of their lands, with that same benevolent interest offering to lease their abundant acreage at handsome terms for a new industry?”

“The British want to grow cotton here, señor?” I asked, drawing my brows together. I was beginning to understand Imarte’s blather about the fascination of secret history. “But . . .where would you get the workers, señor? Most of the Indian population has been wiped out. Who would pick this cotton?”

“Not Negro slaves, certainly,” he said, smiling as his hand traveled. “But former slaves have a great deal of agricultural expertise, and if they were offered good wages for honest employment, I daresay many of them would find their way here. Irrigation would present a difficulty, but one easily surmounted by the best engineers an empire could provide. All this remains to be worked out. At the present time, my principal interest is in arranging to meet with the prominent rancheros of your father’s race and determining whether they might be interested in Imperial Export’s offer. I truly feel that such an arrangement would be in California’s best interests.

“And,” he continued, tracing the curve of my shoulder with a finger, “if I were to engage in negotiations with a representative of the displaced ruling class at my side, one who could advise me as to local customs and relationships . . . my chances of success would be greatly improved.” Had his teeth always been that long? Yes, in that saturnine smile. I realized that it looked strange to me because I’d so seldom
seen my poor godly Nicholas laugh. We’d been happy, though, at least at first . . .