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Authors: Barbara Hambly
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Graces, though to do her justice, Doña Filomena is a sweet-natured soul, if a trifle fond of her sherry, and mended my shirts for me up until the time I was accused of murdering her nephew. Ah, there’s Doña Josefa. . . .”
A woman emerged into the light, dust, and confusion of the courtyard, clothed and veiled in funereal black unrelieved by the slightest brightness of ribbon or jewel.
“There’s a gate just beside the stair,” provided Hannibal. “It leads through to the ladies’ courtyard that lies to the north of this building. Doña Josefa, her daughter Paloma, Valla, and Doña Filomena dwell there in a sort of Catholicized purdah. Up until a few months ago Josefa’s son Casimiro was in there as well. Casimiro’s eight, and has just been promoted to that room down at the far corner on the other side of the stair. Señora Lorcha, I might add, was livid that she and her daughter weren’t allotted rooms in the ladies’ courtyard, but there are limits, even in this household. I wonder if we’ll be privileged to witness . . . Ah, yes! Here they are now.”
Hannibal leaned his chin on the railing, like a man high in the gallery of a theater looking down upon the stage, and January, looking past him, saw another little group of vaqueros ride into the yard, guarding two women in black. The taller, dismounting, seemed to ooze from the saddle and into the arms of the vaquero who sprang to assist her down; her riding-dress was cut so as to leave no one in the slightest doubt as to her charms. The vaqueros sent an Indian servant to bring a bench for the shorter woman to dismount. She was stocky, stubby, and moved with a kind of stiff wariness. Even though she was veiled, January could sense the bitter watchfulness of her eyes.
Doña Imelda’s middle-aged son stared at Natividad like a child at a plate of gingerbread. His mother had to speak sharply to him, to wrest his attention away, and she did so without, apparently, even giving the two newcomers a glance.
“And all of them were sitting with you here, at the end of the
corredor,
on the night of Fernando’s death?” asked January.
“As far from one another as they could be and still remain in the same group,” replied Hannibal. “Concha must have told you about Señora Lorcha’s attempt at pre-emptive nuptials. The last time I encountered an atmosphere that glacial was when a cousin of mine married a poacher’s daughter by the rites of an inappropriate church and brought her to Sunday dinner. I don’t think Doña Imelda even looked at either of them throughout the evening. But this far from town one has very little choice about after-dinner entertainment: it was sit out here or go indoors and contemplate the horrors of the religious art on your bedroom walls.”
Rose said, “Hmmn.” In every inn and house January had so far entered—including Consuela’s—nearly every room that did not contain a painting of the Virgin boasted a crucifix, usually of Indian work, Christ’s face and body streaming with blood from graphically depicted wounds.
Just what I want to see the last thing before I blow out my candle at night.
“And no one came in or went out of the study?”
“No. As you see, there’s a torch-bracket immediately opposite the door. Josefa dragged Paloma away fairly early, rather than have her exposed to such a raffish crew as Natividad, Concha, and Señora Lorcha; Valentina left as soon as it grew full dark. Doña Filomena dozed off after her fifteenth sherry, and I can hardly say I blame her.”
January glanced over the rail again, observing, indeed, how Doña Imelda and Doña Josefa kept their distance from—and their backs turned to—Natividad and her mother. “And no one heard anything from the study?”
Hannibal sighed and shook his head. “The door was shut and bolted—the window shutters, too. The walls are three feet of solid adobe. From where we sat we could hear Santa Anna thundering on in the
sala
about how he was
A woman emerged into the light, dust, and confusion of the courtyard, clothed and veiled in funereal black unrelieved by the slightest brightness of ribbon or jewel.
“There’s a gate just beside the stair,” provided Hannibal. “It leads through to the ladies’ courtyard that lies to the north of this building. Doña Josefa, her daughter Paloma, Valla, and Doña Filomena dwell there in a sort of Catholicized purdah. Up until a few months ago Josefa’s son Casimiro was in there as well. Casimiro’s eight, and has just been promoted to that room down at the far corner on the other side of the stair. Señora Lorcha, I might add, was livid that she and her daughter weren’t allotted rooms in the ladies’ courtyard, but there are limits, even in this household. I wonder if we’ll be privileged to witness . . . Ah, yes! Here they are now.”
Hannibal leaned his chin on the railing, like a man high in the gallery of a theater looking down upon the stage, and January, looking past him, saw another little group of vaqueros ride into the yard, guarding two women in black. The taller, dismounting, seemed to ooze from the saddle and into the arms of the vaquero who sprang to assist her down; her riding-dress was cut so as to leave no one in the slightest doubt as to her charms. The vaqueros sent an Indian servant to bring a bench for the shorter woman to dismount. She was stocky, stubby, and moved with a kind of stiff wariness. Even though she was veiled, January could sense the bitter watchfulness of her eyes.
Doña Imelda’s middle-aged son stared at Natividad like a child at a plate of gingerbread. His mother had to speak sharply to him, to wrest his attention away, and she did so without, apparently, even giving the two newcomers a glance.
“And all of them were sitting with you here, at the end of the
corredor,
on the night of Fernando’s death?” asked January.
“As far from one another as they could be and still remain in the same group,” replied Hannibal. “Concha must have told you about Señora Lorcha’s attempt at pre-emptive nuptials. The last time I encountered an atmosphere that glacial was when a cousin of mine married a poacher’s daughter by the rites of an inappropriate church and brought her to Sunday dinner. I don’t think Doña Imelda even looked at either of them throughout the evening. But this far from town one has very little choice about after-dinner entertainment: it was sit out here or go indoors and contemplate the horrors of the religious art on your bedroom walls.”
Rose said, “Hmmn.” In every inn and house January had so far entered—including Consuela’s—nearly every room that did not contain a painting of the Virgin boasted a crucifix, usually of Indian work, Christ’s face and body streaming with blood from graphically depicted wounds.
Just what I want to see the last thing before I blow out my candle at night.
“And no one came in or went out of the study?”
“No. As you see, there’s a torch-bracket immediately opposite the door. Josefa dragged Paloma away fairly early, rather than have her exposed to such a raffish crew as Natividad, Concha, and Señora Lorcha; Valentina left as soon as it grew full dark. Doña Filomena dozed off after her fifteenth sherry, and I can hardly say I blame her.”
January glanced over the rail again, observing, indeed, how Doña Imelda and Doña Josefa kept their distance from—and their backs turned to—Natividad and her mother. “And no one heard anything from the study?”
Hannibal sighed and shook his head. “The door was shut and bolted—the window shutters, too. The walls are three feet of solid adobe. From where we sat we could hear Santa Anna thundering on in the
sala
about how he was
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