nurse, waddled past the parlor door to answer the knock. She had been with the Van Ryan family since Trinidad married her and brought his young bride to the Texas border to escape the persecution that followed the mixed marriage between the Mexican and the Negress.
Weighing in e xcess of two hundred pounds, Tia Juana had run the house to suit Jeanette’s father and ruled Jeanette and Trinidad to suit herself. They both loved her. No hand could soothe a child’s fevered head as hers did, or lovingly stroke a man as she did the pint-sized Trinidad.
“ Well, knock me over,” the strapping black woman exclaimed, “if’n it ain’t Cristobal Cavazos!”
The tall, elegantly dressed man replied something in Spanish and kissed the black woman ’s piano-key-sized fingertips. When he released her hand, she snorted her contempt for the boy who had grown into the man before her. “Hmmph. Clothes don’t make no man!”
“ Cristobal!” Jeanette impatiently called out. “Do come in and unscramble this awful mess to Aunt Hermione’s satisfaction.”
Cristobal entered the parlor and swept both women a bow that would have been the envy of St. James’s Court. “I am at your service, Miss Van Ryan,” he told the flustered old aunt.
Jeanette maneuvered her hooped skirts around the chaise longue to come before Cristobal. She was sh ort, barely five feet, and he was well over six feet; yet she glared at him with all the defiance of David facing Goliath. “Please clarify to Aunt Hermione what happened last night.”
He raked a well-defined brow. “ What happened?”
Jeanette stamped a kid sl ipper. “Cristobal!”
“ Ahhh, yes. I see.” He turned from the furious blue eyes to meet Aunt Hermione’s anxious ones. “I spilled some wine on your niece’s—uh, bosom—”
With a moan Aunt Hermione ’s hand fluttered to her flat chest.
“ Aawwk! Help!” Washington squelched.
Cristobal cast an uncomfortable glance at Jeanette. It was the first time she had ever seen him ill at ease. He cleared his throat and finished with one of his silly laughs that was meant to be reassuring, “ I was merely making reparations, Miss Van Ryan, when you and your companions happened to chance on your niece and myself in the courtyard.”
Aunt Hermione began rocking the chair in discombobulated motion. “ Jeanette’s reputation will be ruined,” she moaned half to herself. “Your father will think me the poorest of guardians if he hears of this. There is nothing left but for you to offer marriage, Cristobal.”
“ What?” the other two cried in unison.
“ Aunt Hermione,” Jeanette said when she regained her faculty of speech, “you’ve lost your senses! You’re getting senile! Utterly mad! I could never remarry.”
“ Pshaw!” the old lady said, more firmly now that she had arrived at a solution. “People who are not in love marry all the time. I should have married that old undertaker instead of waiting for some Lancelot to ride along and whisk me off to Camelot. Now it’s too late,” she mused. “Old Orville lies in one of his own coffins.”
Jeanette could see that this conversation was going to be a new low in an already hellish day. “ I’m not waiting for Lancelot or any man to—”
“ You could come to care for another man—yes, even Cristobal here—just as much as you did for Armand,” her aunt continued, unperturbed at the volcanic tremor that seemed to be threatening her niece.
“ I will never care for anyone as I did for Armand,” Jeanette said, underscoring each word with clenched jaw muscles.
“ Ahhmmm.” Both women turned to look at Cristobal. “Ladies,” he interrupted, “your discussion does me great honor, but I must beg off.”
“ What?” Aunt Hermione demanded, shocked far beyond her previous dismay.
“ Oh, do listen to him,” Jeanette pleaded. It wasn’t just the thought of marrying another man that upset her. It was the knowledge that with Cristobal underfoot, all her
Weighing in e xcess of two hundred pounds, Tia Juana had run the house to suit Jeanette’s father and ruled Jeanette and Trinidad to suit herself. They both loved her. No hand could soothe a child’s fevered head as hers did, or lovingly stroke a man as she did the pint-sized Trinidad.
“ Well, knock me over,” the strapping black woman exclaimed, “if’n it ain’t Cristobal Cavazos!”
The tall, elegantly dressed man replied something in Spanish and kissed the black woman ’s piano-key-sized fingertips. When he released her hand, she snorted her contempt for the boy who had grown into the man before her. “Hmmph. Clothes don’t make no man!”
“ Cristobal!” Jeanette impatiently called out. “Do come in and unscramble this awful mess to Aunt Hermione’s satisfaction.”
Cristobal entered the parlor and swept both women a bow that would have been the envy of St. James’s Court. “I am at your service, Miss Van Ryan,” he told the flustered old aunt.
Jeanette maneuvered her hooped skirts around the chaise longue to come before Cristobal. She was sh ort, barely five feet, and he was well over six feet; yet she glared at him with all the defiance of David facing Goliath. “Please clarify to Aunt Hermione what happened last night.”
He raked a well-defined brow. “ What happened?”
Jeanette stamped a kid sl ipper. “Cristobal!”
“ Ahhh, yes. I see.” He turned from the furious blue eyes to meet Aunt Hermione’s anxious ones. “I spilled some wine on your niece’s—uh, bosom—”
With a moan Aunt Hermione ’s hand fluttered to her flat chest.
“ Aawwk! Help!” Washington squelched.
Cristobal cast an uncomfortable glance at Jeanette. It was the first time she had ever seen him ill at ease. He cleared his throat and finished with one of his silly laughs that was meant to be reassuring, “ I was merely making reparations, Miss Van Ryan, when you and your companions happened to chance on your niece and myself in the courtyard.”
Aunt Hermione began rocking the chair in discombobulated motion. “ Jeanette’s reputation will be ruined,” she moaned half to herself. “Your father will think me the poorest of guardians if he hears of this. There is nothing left but for you to offer marriage, Cristobal.”
“ What?” the other two cried in unison.
“ Aunt Hermione,” Jeanette said when she regained her faculty of speech, “you’ve lost your senses! You’re getting senile! Utterly mad! I could never remarry.”
“ Pshaw!” the old lady said, more firmly now that she had arrived at a solution. “People who are not in love marry all the time. I should have married that old undertaker instead of waiting for some Lancelot to ride along and whisk me off to Camelot. Now it’s too late,” she mused. “Old Orville lies in one of his own coffins.”
Jeanette could see that this conversation was going to be a new low in an already hellish day. “ I’m not waiting for Lancelot or any man to—”
“ You could come to care for another man—yes, even Cristobal here—just as much as you did for Armand,” her aunt continued, unperturbed at the volcanic tremor that seemed to be threatening her niece.
“ I will never care for anyone as I did for Armand,” Jeanette said, underscoring each word with clenched jaw muscles.
“ Ahhmmm.” Both women turned to look at Cristobal. “Ladies,” he interrupted, “your discussion does me great honor, but I must beg off.”
“ What?” Aunt Hermione demanded, shocked far beyond her previous dismay.
“ Oh, do listen to him,” Jeanette pleaded. It wasn’t just the thought of marrying another man that upset her. It was the knowledge that with Cristobal underfoot, all her
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