Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [92]
“No, my dear,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “I, too, wish to do those things. But we agreed.”
“Please, Eugenio,” she said. “They will not come to us. Let us go to them.”
When Eugenio started to repeat the same reasons, Leonor placed a soft hand over his mouth and gently pressed his lips. “I won’t hear that it can’t be done.”
He kissed her hand, took it from his lips, and wrapped it in his fingers.
“I’ve never defied you, Eugenio,” she continued. “Not in thirty-four years have I challenged your decisions. I’ve followed you wherever you’ve asked me to go, and I’ve also waited for you. I’ve waited in dismal rented rooms, in cold cities in Europe, and in dusty villages in North Africa. I’ve not questioned your judgment about what was best for our family. But now … I will not give in on this, Eugenio. I will not give in.”
He looked into her gray eyes. She was fifty-two, still pretty and vibrant, but he was saddened by the sorrow that dimmed her sparkle.
“I’ll consult Captain de la Cruz. Perhaps he can recommend some men as escorts.”
“Thank you, my love,” she said, kissing him.
“But you must prepare yourself, my dear. They live humbly.”
“I just want to see Ramón and our grandson. I want to hold him before he grows too big to carry in my arms.”
Their journey began in late June. The ladies traveled in a battered but sturdy coach purchased from the estate of Gualterlo Lynch, Irish citizen, engineer, whose name and crest were emblazoned on the doors in vivid green edged with gold. Eugenio and the hired escort went on horseback. As soon as they learned of their plans, friends offered their country estates, and those of relatives and friends along the way, so that the Argosos need not spend a single night in rented lodgings with dubious reputations and unpredictable services.
She appreciated their friends’ generosity as soon as San Juan was behind them. Wind-driven rain pounded the dry, cracked earth and turned the ruts on the road into deep puddles filled with a claylike mud that neither coach nor horses could easily maneuver. Rain pursued them on their journey south, making it impossible to see anything through the foggy windows of the vehicle. Leonor’s impatience to reach Los Gemelos was further tested as she, Eugenio, Elena, and their escorts spent more days than anticipated waiting out the rain in borrowed rooms, in a true test of the hospitality of their hosts and servants.
When they crossed the Cordillera Central and began their descent into the drier southern slope, the problem became the unforgiving sun that made the coach feel like a stove in spite of the occasional breeze that blew through its open windows. They left their lodgings at dawn and traveled until the sun was directly overhead. They then detoured into tree-lined drives leading to estancias where they took lunch and a siesta, followed by a light supper and conversation with their hosts, repeating the news of the night before in a different parlor to a different audience, adding what gossip their previous hosts had shared.
They were delayed twice when the coach needed repairs, and then Leonor, Elena, and their hostesses attended Mass in cool churches and walked circles around tree-lined plazas at dusk.
So far, while the journey wasn’t easy, Leonor couldn’t account for her sons’ and daughter-in-law’s insistence that they not travel to Los Gemelos because of the poor roads leading to the plantation. She, as a soldier’s wife, had seen worse, had ridden over steeper terrain, had slept in less comfortable beds in structures lacking the grace and beauty of any of the homes they visited on the journey. If there was unrest, it was invisible to Leonor and Elena, perched inside the wine-colored coach, surrounded by men with swords and rifles.
The military road from north to south was well enough traveled, but when they began their drive west, the road narrowed into paths that made the horses skittish. Low-lying branches, buzzing insects, and small birds battered the coach and knocked hats off the men riding behind. Once, they