Borderlands Read Online Free Page B
smile. “Legs as spindly and knobby as sugarcanes, eyes like a baby owl’s. Your luck is pure gold, Sebastián. Who would have thought she’d bloom into a rose of Castile?”
It was indeed a matter of luck—a bartered bride’s beauty, or her lack of it, is of no significance in these arrangements. My father’s sole concern, of course—the only concern of any don seeking a bride for his son—was to secure some sort of economic or political gain for our family. My union with Delgadina would increase both the expanse of our land and the strength of our political influence in Hermosillo, the capital, where her father, Don Antonio, had powerful connections. “Your dowry,” my father said proudly, “is the most admirable I’ve heard of since my own.”
He paused to light a cigar and regarded me over the flame. “I am told,” he said, “that she is spirited and quick of wit. Somewhat saucy. Occasionally even impertinent. Such qualities in any woman can be amusing, sometimes charming. It is natural to desire a beautiful woman, but if she also possesses charm and a proper wit, well, then love is certainly possible.”
He stood at the window and stared for a long moment at the distant San Antonios. “But listen, my son,” he said with sudden gravity. “Of all the misfortunes a man might meet in life, none is more terrible than to become subservient to a woman. That is a perversion of the natural order. Yet it can happen when a man loves a woman with more passion than he can control. Passion is like a powerful stallion champing at its bit. We must keep a tight rein or risk losing control of the beast. A man on a runaway horse, Sebastián, is both a dangerous fool and an object of ridicule, a thing of scorn in every man’s eyes—and to all women. Such a man’s own wife will look on him with contempt. If she is a worthy woman, she will curse the day fate married her to a weak, unworthy man.”
He had leaned closer to me as he spoke and now was gripping my forearm hard. “Passion, Sebastián, is like fine brandy—a joy, a great pleasure to the man who knows how to drink. But it is an infernal cruse to the fool who gulps without restraint. This you must remember.”
He was suddenly aware of his own intensity and stepped back, smiling awkwardly, and then busied himself refilling our cups. Without looking at me, he said, “Never give her reason to question even in her own mind who is master and who is maid.”
I respected my father above all men, but I was not as guarded as he, as suspicious, as—let us speak bluntly—as fearful of the heart’s strong passions. I had the arrogant confidence of youth. Unlike him, I was absolutely sure of my self-control, utterly confident that my love for Delgadina would never prove a weakness. Indeed, even as he counseled me in his study, he did not know that I was already in love with my bride-to-be. I had been since the first time I’d seen her, a little more than two years before, when she was yet fourteen and I five years older.
It was at my cousin Marco’s wedding reception. I was in the main patio with another cousin, Roberto Luis, a handsome but salacious fellow who would be killed in a duel a year later in consequence of publicly insulting the daughter of a don. He asked if I knew that my betrothed was in attendance, and then laughed at my look of surprise. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a group of girls standing in the shade of a willow at the far end of the patio, protected from male encroachment by a clutch of sharp-faced dueñas. “The sleek thing in the green dress. You lucky prick! A little skinny, maybe, but look at the melons on her!”
She was laughing with the others at some amusement, then turned in a sudden swirl of copper hair and caught me staring at her across the crowd. She smiled boldly and held my gaze—and I felt the breath sucked out of my heart. One of the crones spotted the look between us, and in the next instant the dueñas hastily
It was indeed a matter of luck—a bartered bride’s beauty, or her lack of it, is of no significance in these arrangements. My father’s sole concern, of course—the only concern of any don seeking a bride for his son—was to secure some sort of economic or political gain for our family. My union with Delgadina would increase both the expanse of our land and the strength of our political influence in Hermosillo, the capital, where her father, Don Antonio, had powerful connections. “Your dowry,” my father said proudly, “is the most admirable I’ve heard of since my own.”
He paused to light a cigar and regarded me over the flame. “I am told,” he said, “that she is spirited and quick of wit. Somewhat saucy. Occasionally even impertinent. Such qualities in any woman can be amusing, sometimes charming. It is natural to desire a beautiful woman, but if she also possesses charm and a proper wit, well, then love is certainly possible.”
He stood at the window and stared for a long moment at the distant San Antonios. “But listen, my son,” he said with sudden gravity. “Of all the misfortunes a man might meet in life, none is more terrible than to become subservient to a woman. That is a perversion of the natural order. Yet it can happen when a man loves a woman with more passion than he can control. Passion is like a powerful stallion champing at its bit. We must keep a tight rein or risk losing control of the beast. A man on a runaway horse, Sebastián, is both a dangerous fool and an object of ridicule, a thing of scorn in every man’s eyes—and to all women. Such a man’s own wife will look on him with contempt. If she is a worthy woman, she will curse the day fate married her to a weak, unworthy man.”
He had leaned closer to me as he spoke and now was gripping my forearm hard. “Passion, Sebastián, is like fine brandy—a joy, a great pleasure to the man who knows how to drink. But it is an infernal cruse to the fool who gulps without restraint. This you must remember.”
He was suddenly aware of his own intensity and stepped back, smiling awkwardly, and then busied himself refilling our cups. Without looking at me, he said, “Never give her reason to question even in her own mind who is master and who is maid.”
I respected my father above all men, but I was not as guarded as he, as suspicious, as—let us speak bluntly—as fearful of the heart’s strong passions. I had the arrogant confidence of youth. Unlike him, I was absolutely sure of my self-control, utterly confident that my love for Delgadina would never prove a weakness. Indeed, even as he counseled me in his study, he did not know that I was already in love with my bride-to-be. I had been since the first time I’d seen her, a little more than two years before, when she was yet fourteen and I five years older.
It was at my cousin Marco’s wedding reception. I was in the main patio with another cousin, Roberto Luis, a handsome but salacious fellow who would be killed in a duel a year later in consequence of publicly insulting the daughter of a don. He asked if I knew that my betrothed was in attendance, and then laughed at my look of surprise. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a group of girls standing in the shade of a willow at the far end of the patio, protected from male encroachment by a clutch of sharp-faced dueñas. “The sleek thing in the green dress. You lucky prick! A little skinny, maybe, but look at the melons on her!”
She was laughing with the others at some amusement, then turned in a sudden swirl of copper hair and caught me staring at her across the crowd. She smiled boldly and held my gaze—and I felt the breath sucked out of my heart. One of the crones spotted the look between us, and in the next instant the dueñas hastily