Not so long ago, I would have been offended by his paternalistic innuendo, but just then I was too distressed to feel anything but relief.
“Your wish is my command, Your Majesty,” I said as was expected. And with a deep curtsy to both of them, I left the Hall.
It was strange to be back in my own room, to lose myself in Ama Bernarda’s bosom and pretend I still needed her to take care of me. It was strange and familiar, like the memory of a pleasant dream.
I smiled at Ama, who was assessing me, her deep blue eyes bright with tears, her bony fingers probing my face, and said nothing. Finally Ama moved back and proceeded to strip off my soldier’s uniform. But when she removed the linen bandage Tío had wrapped around my chest and saw the ugly cut under my neck where Don Alfonso had dug his sword, her cries broke into a wail.
I told her the wound was not deep and was almost healed by now, but Ama was too busy making up her own story—a long string of reproaches and accusations at the blood-thirsty tyrant, Don Julián, who had done such a terrible deed—and did not listen.
I moved away from her, and to escape the pain her words had awakened, I sank into the tub. The water was warm, and the smell of sandalwood, my favorite fragrance, almost sent me back to a time when to wear a dress for dinner was the worst of my worries.
My head underwater, I held my breath until my lungs were bursting. When I came out, Ama was still talking. “I cannot thank Don Alfonso enough for returning our dear princess to us,” she was saying. “How could anyone want to hurt my dear child, I cannot understand. An evil mind Don Julián must have to kidnap you like that. But don’t you worry, my princess, it is all over now. You see, now that Don Alfonso has forced him to resign, he cannot hurt you anymore.”
I climbed out of the tub and grabbed the towel from the chair. Ama came after me. “I’m sorry, Princess. How insensitive of me to remind you of him. I promise I will never say his name again. As far as I am concerned, he is as good as dead. And grateful I am for it.”
Still I said nothing. Ama shook her head and went on with her apologies while she helped me into my nightgown. Weary beyond endurance, I climbed into my bed and hid my head under the quilt.
That night, my nightmares returned. I dreamed again of blood all over my clothes and on the boat, of corpses floating down the river, of the bridge aflame.
Early the next morning, Mother came into my room. Before I had time to get up, she bent over my bed and took me in her arms. And because she had never done such a thing before, I knew how much she had worried about me. I also knew that she did not know.
I moved back from her. “Mother, there is something you must know—”
Mother raised her hand in a commanding plea for silence. “I do,” she said in an even and clear voice—the Queen’s voice. “Don Ramiro has told me what happened upriver.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I understand, Princess. It was not your fault. Don Julián was not well enough to travel. His chances to reach his people were slim from the start. In fact, without your help, he would never have made it that far.”
I frowned. Did she really mean that?
Mother grabbed my hands. “I’m proud of you, Princess Andrea. It took a lot of courage to go to Suavia and confront Don Alfonso and your father.”
“But Mother, it was because I brought John into this world that the war started. And it was because of me that Don Julián was wounded on the bridge.”
Mother took my face into her hands. “Stop blaming yourself! War existed before you were born, and it will long after your time in Xaren-Ra has passed. I don’t know what would have happened without your interference. No one will ever know. But I do know nobody could have done more to help Don Julián.”
I felt her eyes deep in mine, forcing her will into my mind, leaving a wave of peace in its wake. “Besides,” she said, a faint smile on her lips, “brooding doesn’t accomplish anything and will only make Don Andrés suspicious. So dry your tears, Princess, and come celebrate with us tonight. After all, it is thanks to you that the war is over.”
Soon after Mother left, my sister Margarida came in. She was so radiant in her happiness, I felt ashamed of having ever suspected her of flirting with Don Julián. As far as Margarida was concerned, the world turned only for one reason: Don Alfonso.
Margarida helped me into my gown and then, as we had done so many times in the past when we did not want to be overheard, we went down to the orchard. Strolling under the apple trees, whose branches protected us from the heat of the sun, we discussed the recent events. Margarida asked me millions of questions about her beloved Don Alfonso. I tried to paint him as brave and dashing as she expected him to be, without stretching the truth too much.
We walked in silence for a while, the summer sun bright over our heads, my mind in shadows, until Margarida stopped. “Mother has told me about Don Julián,” she said, her hazel eyes deep with sorrow. “I am really sorry, Andrea, that Don Julián didn’t make it.”
I jerked back, leaves and branches swirling before my eyes, the ground swaying under my feet, and a voice, a pressing voice in my ear holding me down. “Andrea, please, please, forgive me. I didn’t mean it that way. I am sure Don Julián will get better.” But when I looked into her face, her eyes avoided mine.
Wrapping her arms around my waist, Margarida pulled me to her, rocking me and gently stroking my hair. When I opened my eyes again, a tall figure was closing in on us. My vision blurred by tears, I didn’t recognize him until, in a heavily accented Spanish, he greeted us. “Buenos días. Good day.”
I wiped my eyes on my long sleeves, while Margarida curtsied to him. “Buenos días, Don Juan,” she said. “We are honored by your presence.”
John nodded, a faint smile on his lips at her obvious lie, but his eyes did not leave mine.
My sister took the hint. “I should be going now,” she said and, after hugging me once more, turned to go.
John waited until Margarida was out of sight. Then his words, this time in English, came rushing forward in a long stream I could hardly follow. “Andrea, I’m going back to California. I’ve asked your father for permission to take Rosa with me. It wasn’t easy, but finally he’s given his consent. If she agrees.”
I shrugged. “Congratulations.” I wondered whether he knew that he had been Father’s prisoner until Tío had pleaded for his freedom.
John shook his head. “Don’t congratulate me, Andrea. Not yet, anyway. You see, the problem is Rosa doesn’t want to come. That is why I’m here. I thought maybe you could tell her about California, how much you like it and all, so she will change her mind.”
“I? But Rosa and I . . .” I did not finish. John was looking at me with such despair that I felt I had no choice. “All right. I’ll talk with her. What do you want me to say?”
“You’ve been there, Andrea. You know what it’s like. Just tell her the truth.”
So that very morning I went searching for my sister Rosa—the same dear sister who had stolen my boyfriend—with the implausible mission of convincing her to go with him to my lost paradise. Most amazing still was the fact that I was not jealous of her. I could not even remember how it had felt to be jealous.
For two days, I told my sister about California and its wonders. But despite all my efforts, Rosa found the world I described dull and cold. Nothing that John or I said changed her mind.
On the third day, John and Rosa said their good-byes while I spied on them hidden behind a hedge in the garden. John cried a little and Rosa a lot. Between her tears, Rosa told her lover she would go to a convent, and that if he ever wanted to come back, she would be there waiting. Knowing my sister, I found it a little melodramatic. I had no doubt in my mind that she would be back with us in less than a month.