Chapter 11: Interlude

A/N: La Pavana Real is my own invention.

Maggie had be up and around for four days now, slowly recuperating from her riding accident. She would have loved to be able to be readying the hacienda at Rancho Flores, but her father, citing what he call her "adventurous nature," had forbidden her to leave the De la Vega grounds. Likewise, Don Alejandro had informed the servants and stablehands in no uncertain terms that anyone who assisted Maggie in going off wandering, even in a carriage, would be dismissed on the spot.

Fortunately for her, it was her left shoulder that had been injured, so her right side was free to brush her hair, hold a book, sew, or groom Thunderhead. Entertaining as all these might have been, she was beginning to feel restless. She had been pacing the balcony above the patio for some time when she realized she heard the sound of a guitar. Stopping and listening at each door, she finally found the room from which the music was coming. She knocked gently.

"Entra," came a familiar voice. She opened the door to behold Diego sitting on the edge of his bed, guitar in hand. "Senora Emerson," he said, surprised to see her standing in the doorway, "is there something you need?"

"Oh no, Don Diego. I just heard you playing, and I wondered if I might listen?"

"I hardly think my playing deserves an audience," he stated modestly. "You are most welcome to listen, but I think perhaps it would be best to listen somewhere other than my room. My father and most of the Pueblo de los Angeles would be scandalized to find us here unchaperoned."

"But I have been a married woman," she protested.

"Quite frankly," he laughed, "I don't know whether that would make it better or worse. In any case, let us go down to the sala."

Settling themselves, Diego adjusted one or two of the instrument's strings and began to play. He played several soft tunes, and then a gypsy dance. "You and your guitar are great friends," observed Maggie.

"Well, we have known each other since I was a boy. My father was chiefly concerned with managing the rancho and making a living, as he should have been. It was my mother who told me that I was going to grow up to be a caballero, and that meant I had to learn to play the guitar whether I wanted to or not. She insisted that she had never met a Spaniard who could not learn to play the guitar. Do you play? We have a piano," he added, nodding toward the other end of the room.

"It's been too long. According to my mother I was going to grow up to be a proper lady, and that meant I had to learn to play the piano whether I wanted to or not. But after she died I let it go and I haven't played in years." She paused. "Although I still enjoy music. So please, play another song. This is most enjoyable, and I'm feeling very very cooped up just now, with not being able to ride."

"Well then, perhaps we should pretend that you are the princess imprisoned in the tower and I am your faithful troubadour come to serenade you." She smiled at that. Ah, a smile for me and not for Zorro for a change! He began a formal piece with a long, strummed introduction followed by a stately plucked melody."

"That's beautiful, what is it?"

"it is 'La Pavana Real,' a court dance performed on formal occasions in honor of His Majesty. It is a fairly complex dance, not easy to learn," he said, continuing the music. "I danced it once or twice as a student in Spain, and I'm afraid I didn't do it very well."

When he concluded the pavana, he began a slower, more languid gypsy tune. She studied his face as his fingers move skillfully over the strings. His hair had fallen slightly forward, and his face seemed to reflect the mood of the melody itself: now introspective, now pleasantly at ease, now spirited. When he was finished, she applauded. He turned to her and said, "Perhaps you will allow me to show you something of the guitar? Come."

He led her over to the piano bench, seating her at the narrow end and handing her the guitar. "First, the right hand plays the strings," he explained, guiding her hand to the sound hole. "Now the left hand goes here," he continued, taking her left hand and placing it at the top of the neck. But her response was a wince. Her left shoulder was still too sore. "Hmm, let us try something else." He moved her left hand to the base of the neck, saying, "Hold it here, firmly." He sat down close behind her. With his left arm brushing her shoulder, he brought his hand up to the neck. Then he reached around her waist with his right hand, and grasped the body of the instrument to hold it steady.

"Now, if you will strum, Señora, I will work the chords. Shall we play a waltz?" He counted out the three-quarter time, and she began to strum in time. Her first efforts were ragged.

"Oh dear," she giggled.

"Just use the pad of your thumb, in one smooth motion," he instructed.

She tried again and the result was better. "Like that?" she asked, turning to look at him.

Their faces were less than a handbreadth apart. She saw his hazel eyes shining with an emotion she was afraid to identify. She saw the fine planes of his face, which seemed to be drawing ever so slowly closer to hers. He noted the curve of her cheek and the fullness of her lips, softly parted, inviting his kiss. Surely she could hear his heart pounding as they drew closer, for it was thundering in his own ears.

Somewhere in the hacienda a door banged shut, startling them both. A few seconds later, by the time a servant passed through the other end of the sala and out to the patio, Diego was sitting alone on the piano bench once again tuning his guitar, and Maggie was standing beside the piano carefully studying the piece of music she held in her hand.

She never noticed she was holding the music upside down.