Frustration creased Sonya’s brow, a slight furrow in a face that was rarely allowed to reflect her emotions. Her gown was a flattering deep-rose silk, her pale skin flawless still, save for a tiny network of lines at the corners of her blue eyes as she looked at Ginny.
“I told William you wouldn’t listen.”
“Listen to what? Vague warnings of doom should I go to Mexico? Steve’s grandfather is still influential there and has many friends in high places.”
“Yes, and he was influential the last time, and it did you no good. Ginny, listen to me! I don’t know why I feel this way, but I do. No, don’t turn away, please! It’s all so wrong, don’t you see? The rebellion going on, the threat of another revolution, and then the unrest along the borders. You know far better than I how dangerous it can be. Why will you risk your life?”
Ginny took a sip of the hot chicory coffee; it scalded a path down her throat, strong and bitter. “Because I do not want to be separated from my husband again.”
The truth of her reply stunned them both. For several moments the only sounds were those of the logs in the fire and the distant hum of servants beyond the closed doors. It was an illuminating self-discovery.
The delicate Limoges cup Sonya held rattled slightly in its saucer, breaking the spell the truth had cast. “I see. Even if it greatly endangers you?”
“Yes. Even if it takes me from my children for a time, even if I risk grave peril. Oh, don’t you see? I’ve changed. I don’t know how or why, but after all this time—the years I’ve resisted what I felt, hated him, distrusted him, wished I’d never met him—I’ve realized that he’s the reason behind all I’ve done, even if indirectly. I can’t help what has happened to me beyond my will, but I can help what I do now. I intend to go with him.”
Sonya gave a helpless sound, a mixture of a sigh and a sob. Carefully, she set down the delicate cup and saucer, slender fingers arranging it on the tray as if it were vitally important that it sit exactly right. Then she said, “At least be careful. The situation in Mexico is volatile. There’s more at stake than just the resignation of one president in favor of another. There are men who will stop at little to hold their interests, and who may be involved in the efforts to keep their choice in power.”
“I didn’t realize you cared about politics in Mexico, or even in the United States,” Ginny said.
“Normally, I don’t.” A tiny frown creased her brow, and she lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. Blond hair caught the light from the window, a soft gleam that framed her face; she looked worried, somehow, something not usually associated with Sonya. “You’ll do what you want, of course.”
“Yes.” Ginny leaned forward, set her cup on the tray next to Sonya’s and rose, her hands smoothing the soft bronze folds of her cotton riding habit over her slender hips. “It’s getting late. I have so much to do before we leave, and I promised I would not be too long. Do you like it here? It’s lovely, and much closer to the city than I thought it would be. It took hardly any time at all to ride out—”
Sonya had risen, too, and said quickly, as if to forestall any questions, “You will go up and bid farewell to your father before you leave, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course. He seems to tire easily these days. I suppose it’s taken him much longer to recover from his injuries than even he thought it would. After all, he almost died from that bullet. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for him.”
“Yes. He used to wonder where you were when he was still so feverish. It took some time for him to realize that you were missing. And, of course, we thought you dead for a long time, until—until we learned you had survived.”
“I imagine it was quite a shock for all of you.”
“You sound so mocking. Must you ridicule me when I’m trying to understand, trying to—build a bridge?”
“Build a bridge? Between you and me? That’s not at all necessary, Sonya. There’s nothing to bridge.”
In a brittle tone, Sonya said, “We both know better than that.”
Ginny caught the undercurrent in her voice. The memory of the last time in New Orleans swept back, sharply.
Sonya, delirious after the senator had been shot, hysterical in her bedroom, defying all efforts to calm her. Adeline Pruett, an avid witness, Steve holding Sonya by the wrists; Sonya in her white nightgown clinging to him, babbling, “No—I don’t want to hear any more. It doesn’t matter…. Why do you keep standing there? You weren’t so slow that day of the storm when you took me by force! What’s stopping you now? Aren’t I more beautiful than she is? My skin’s whiter, look—”
So much was a blur after that, even her own cold voice dredged up from the icy pit of her stomach as she had stood in the open doorway and said, “He’s really no damn good—and not at all worth yearning for, you know.”
But she was wrong. She’d known it even as she said it, even when she thought she hated him….
“Maybe I’m wrong,” she said stiffly and saw Sonya’s brows lift in surprise. “There has been a certain amount of constraint between us. We both know the reason for it. Not enough time has passed since…since I learned about you and Steve. Oh, I know it was before I met him, before I even met you. But you must understand how I felt, how it shattered me when I learned of it.”
Sonya flushed; an ugly shade of bright pink stained her cheeks and made her eyes a hot blue. “Yes, of course I can understand that. I have no explanation for my actions.”
An awkward silence
