Chapter One

  Seven days out of New Orleans and buffeted by the tail end of a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico, the cargo ship, “Martinique” finally docked at the Caribbean port of Aguadulce on the island of San Cristóbal. Among the few passengers lined up at the rail on this August midday were Cornelia Thornton and her husband, Miguel Estrada.  With her silk scarf Cornelia dabbed at the perspiration that beaded her neck from the tropic heat and welcomed the gust of wind that slapped her blond tresses across her face.

     Below on the dock a horde of vendors aggressively vied with each other to offer fruit and other native products to debarking tourists. A commotion broke out as a contingent of police disgorged from a truck and waded into the vendors with batons swinging. Vendors screamed in pain and fell to the ground.. A tall man in khakis and a pith helmet supervising a crew unloading sacks at another berth headed toward the melee. On the way, to loud cheers, he helped vendors to their feet, seeming to chastise the police for their brutality.

     As Cornelia watched in apprehension the truck door swung open and an officer jumped to the ground to confront the man who had insinuated himself into the police business. The officer tensed and drew himself up indignantly as the other man addressed him. Finally, he angrily snatched at a whistle suspended on a lanyard around his neck and blew several shrill blasts. The small police contingent reassembled and were ordered to remount the truck, while the sergeant glowered at the departing form of one who had dared to challenge him.

     “My lord,” Cornelia exclaimed to Miguel, “Wasn’t that something? I don’t see what those poor vendors were doing to deserve that treatment. Whoever the man was who intervened surely must have great power to stand up to the authorities like that.”

     Miguel watched the police vehicle disappear off the embarcadero before saying,. “We have to be careful what we say, Cornelia. We really don’t know anything about the situation here. I think it’s best if we just observe and keep our own counsel.”

     Cornelia, nevertheless, felt a wave of disgust flow through her at what she had witnessed. Her turned-down mouth showed it. The memory of this ugliness, coming in the midst of an otherwise idyllic setting, would last with her for a long time

     She was still fuming when a slender man slightly shorter than Miguel dressed in khakis stained with sweat, approached up the gangway. He removed his battered straw cowboy hat and nodded to them. “Señor y señora Estrada? I am Gaspar, the capatáz of the Central Arroyo. Welcome to San Cristobal.” he said in Spanish.

     “Tanto gusto, señor,” Miguel said to the man who was to be his chief foreman.

     When Cornelia responded with a greeting in Spanish, Gaspar favored her with a gap-toothed smile. His walnut complexion was leathery from hours in the hot fields and his dark brown eyes were framed in a perpetual squint. Gaspar took their hand luggage and led them down the swaying gangplank to a large shiny black Cadillac parked in a reserve stall on the dock. Gaspar explained he had been sent by the Arroyo Sugar Company to take them to the plantation.

     Cornelia rode in silence, observing the oceans of sugar cane that wrapped about them on the narrow strip of blacktop. This would be Miguel’s domain for the next three years Metal signs declaring “Peligro” attached to the never-ending wire fence caught her eye and gave her reason for concern. What danger could there be in the cane fields? Did the action at the dock, and now this “Peligro”, belie the tranquil scene they had first admired from the ship? She shook off these worrisome thoughts as they arrived at a large wrought iron gate inscribed with “Central Arroyo” across it. The driver got out and swung the gate open, drove the car inside and then got out to close it once more

     Cornelia was not prepared for the sight of the huge red-tiled two-story white plantation house wrapped about with its wide veranda. It was nestled between mountains and tropical gardens framed by an avenue of tall royal palms and shaded by large magnolia trees. Her mouth opened in wonderment.

     As they stood on the veranda admiring the breathtaking beauty, a short stout woman, smiling broadly, opened the screen door and popped out to introduce herself.

     "Bienvenidos. Yo soy Loisa, su ama de casa.” She was gray-haired, possibly in her sixties, and walked with difficulty. “I have a touch of arthritis,” she said, as if feeling the need to explain herself.

     A short muscular man, swarthy with thinning gray hair appeared suddenly behind Loisa. He removed from his head a straw mambo hat dark with old sweat stains. Loisa stepped aside and said, “This is José , my husband.” José ’s deep brown eyes crinkled in a smile and he nodded self-consciously to the new mayordomo and his wife.

     “Come in, come in,“ Loisa said exuberantly and the way she said it Cornelia knew an inspection of the house was de riguer, As much as she desired otherwise, she had to forgo for now her much desired and needed bath. José brushed by them carrying their bags up the stairs to their bedroom.  The inside of the house was as impressive as the outside and was immaculate from its gleaming mahogany floors to the antique furnishings. A place, thought Cornelia, that anyone would be proud to call home. Even the television was set in a burnished mahogany console.

     The first week dragged by for Cornelia, each day longer than the previous one. Her mind was too active to become absorbed in television outside of the local news and an occasional program devoted to happenings in the States. By this time she had worn another groove in the path to the stable, as well as around the house and down the avenue of the palms. Twice she was at the point of asking José to saddle a horse so she could explore more of the area. She’d hesitated because Miguel had left word with Loisa that he might be home to lunch with Cornelia. It hadn’t happened yet, of course, and she doubted if it ever would until after the sugar had been harvested in a few months. The highlight of her day thus became Miguel’s arrival home from the fields in the evening, often past the dinner hour, dusty, weary, his face a deeper brown than the day before. Even at that, their companionship was brief. After dinner he’d usually close himself up in his office to work on the production records and prepare for the next day. Most times their conversation was limited to her questions and his brief responses. Once they were together in bed he’d give her a warm, loving kiss, caress her cheek, then sink back on his pillow where in minutes she would hear Miguel begin his deep rhythmic breathing, leaving her to stare up at the shadows on the high plaster ceiling.

     So it was again on this night that she lay in bed listening to Miguel in deep slumber, staring at the shadows cast by the narrow crack from the partly ajar bathroom door. Meanwhile her mind and body ached for his touch, his gentle laugh, to exchange words of devotion as a prelude to their intimacy. Outside of Loisa and José , she had no human contact all day, nor as it turned out, little at night.

     A slight rumble of guilt passed through her as she wondered whether she were being entirely fair. After all, she had been here only ten days. That was hardly enough time to judge the situation. Or was it? Before they had made their decision to leave New Orleans, Miguel’s boss, Alfredo Rincon, had painted a beautiful picture of San Cristobal and the plantation. Both had lived up to their expectations visually. Although it had not been discussed, she had pictured a nearby town where she could stroll about during the day, eat in small quaint cafes, browse in delightful little shops and markets, find exotic foods and wines. She missed the activity of busy streets , the sights and sounds of a boisterous humanity.

     Among her social group in Boston she had always been recognized as the lively, inventive one. The moving force behind their youthful revels. Not that she was especially wild and uncontrolled, but she had a fertile mind that conceived pranks and enticed others to carry them out, especially on the boys they scorned. Compared to her friends, her conduct actually had been quite disciplined. It had to be. Uncle William and Auntie Priscilla, who had raised her since she was orphaned at age twelve, let her know early on that to be otherwise would mean dispatching her to some girls’ school in a remote part of the country. She could hear her aunt’s voice now, “You’re just like your dear departed mother, impetuous and stubborn. You always have to see how far you can push things before disaster sets in.” Instead of bringing tears of remorse, such a comparison to her mother only filled her with unabashed pride.

     That’s how Cornelia later gained a reputation as a fund raiser for local charities; how she had organized relief for indigent families in Boston and Charlestown. According to her uncle, that sort of activity was beneath her station, as there were plenty of jobs for anyone who wanted to work for a living.

     How ironic that she, of all people, should find herself in this predicament in a strange land, confined and strapped down by customs and traditions that came with being the wife of a mayordomo.

     Last night she had begged Miguel to take her with him when he went to town for his weekly meeting with the Company, but he had demurred.

     “First of all, Cornelia, people here frown on a woman who wanders around town unescorted. Especially a newcomer--and a majordomo’s wife. Wait until I can take a day off and we’ll go together.”

     “Oh, sure--and when will that glorious day ever arrive?” she had said with biting sarcasm. Of course he had counseled her to be patient. That they hadn’t any more than just landed there.

     By the next morning she had made up her mind that the Arroyo’s could never tame her into being just a simple majordomo’s wife. She would help Miguel as much as he needed her, but during his absence she would find ways to use her days more creatively.

     “There’s no time like the present to get started ,” she told her image in the full-length mirror on its adjustable mahogany stand by the matching highboy. She hummed Gershwin’s “Someone To Watch Over Me.” and glanced at ruggedly handsome Miguel Estrada, the proud groom in the wedding picture on her dresser. She hoped he’d continue to watch over her if she carried out the plan she’d begun to formulate during her waking hours in the early morning. It was important that the Arroyo villagers knew that they had a friend in the plantation house.

     Satisfied with her appearance in a white cotton blouse, khaki slacks and brown loafers, Cornelia picked up her yellow straw hat and strode purposefully out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

     Loisa must have heard Cornelia’s steps descending the staircase, calling from the dining room, “Buenos dias, señ --” She had come to the foot of the stairs to greet her, but now met her with pursed lips and furrowed brow. Cornelia flashed her a big smile as she returned the greeting. She knew Loisa wouldn’t dare question her mistress’s attire or intentions, but her cocked head and narrowed eyes said it all. Cornelia kept on to the dining room and took her usual place at the huge table. “I’m only going to have a piece of plain buttered toast and a cup of your delicious coffee,” she told the housekeeper, knowing Loisa was bursting with curiosity.

     “Certainly,” Loisa said, adding, “Are you sure that’s all you want?”

     “For now, Loisa. In the meantime, could you ask José to saddle up that chestnut mare for me?”

     “Of course, señora …but--” Loisa paused, shifting from one foot to the other, as if not sure whether she would be overstepping her bounds.

     “Yes, Loisa?”

     “Well-don’t you think someone should ride with you? You could get lost by yourself. I’m sure José can spare Chico, the stable boy. He knows the trails around here very well.”

     “Thank you, Loisa. I’ll do just fine. I’ll be gone only a short time.”

     Cornelia’s stomach was jumpy with excitement and she had to force down the toast and excellent marmalade Loisa had provided, lest she face the housekeeper’s disappointed expression.

     She had to control herself to keep from exhibiting unladylike haste to the stable. Once there she donned her hat and tied the ribbon under her chin. José held the horse steady by the bridle and handed the reins to Cornelia, who expertly mounted the well-groomed animal, called Estrella. She reached over to stroke the long silky mane before setting out on a trail behind the stable that led away from the cane fields. She undid the knot under her chin and let her hat flop back on her shoulders. With her right hand she shook her hair loose and felt freedom rush through it. What a wonderful escape this would be from the confines of the plantation.

    The trail wound over dusty patches and curved through a grove of sagging coconut palms. A small hillock to her right, covered with a dazzling carpet of unfamiliar wild flowers beckoned to her. How fascinating it would be, she thought, to find a book to help her identify all the flowers and vegetation she had encountered just in this short ride from the plantation.

     Up ahead a creek meandered down toward the sugar fields, now lost from view. Cornelia guided her horse across it to a place where the flowers formed a wreath around a flat, grassy opening about ten feet wide. There a lone jacaranda, which she did recognize, leaned over, its leaves stretching thirstily, like tongues, to reach the slowly flowing water.

     Squinting through the glare of late morning sun she saw that the land fell away. Without realizing it, she had made a steady climb to reach this place. She decided to follow the trail a little more to see where it came out. It shouldn’t be much farther, anyway, she reasoned.

     Soon Cornelia was picking her way over imbedded rocks, tree roots and around bushes that groped out to impede her progress. Up and up she rode, Cornelia and Estrella as one, challenging the rough trail and the now stifling heat. The horse’s sides heaved and glistened with sweat as if she had been ridden through a waterfall. Still, Cornelia urged her mount onward through the rocky, wooded path until they burst out onto a sun-blanched clearing. She reined to a stop and leaned forward, transfixed by the sight of the huge plateau before her. Flowers garbed in their brilliant finery, leaned against dark green ferns swinging lazily in the soft trade winds. She had discovered her own, private Shangri-la, a paradise unlike she had expected to find.

     Straight ahead, the mountain that so often had claimed her attention from her bedroom window, continued its climb to the white clouds as puffy as bon-bons that floated in a luminous blue sky. To Cornelia’s left a mesmerizing panorama stretched out below. She was at once an insignificant pimple on the face of the earth, and the Huntress Diana on Mount Olympus.

     In the distance she caught a glimpse of sunbeams reflecting off the bay at Aguadulce--or, was it the river that divided the Central Arroyo plantation from its neighbors and the town? In the distortion from the heat waves she could not be certain. In the foreground below, the sugar cane fanned out like a giant green bedspread. Somewhere in there Miguel and his workers, toiling and sweating, would appear mere ant-sized objects from this height.

     Dismounting, as if in a trance, Cornelia tethered the mare to a low bush. She moved farther out onto the plateau where she became Cornelia-in-Wonderland, stepping across a mystical threshold into a huge and enthralling landscape. Never could she have imagined that such a spellbinding site existed beyond the borders of the sugar cane plantation.

     Arching her back to relieve her stiffened muscles, Cornelia took a deep breath of the perfume laden air. She checked her wristwatch. One o’clock--still plenty of time. This was too good to leave right now. She unrolled her blanket and spread it out, then stood up to inhale the whole atmosphere. How she wanted it to become a part of her before she must thread her way back down to her less than mundane existence on the plantation. She sank to the blanket and turned her face into the quickening breeze. Immediately her golden locks were swept up and around her head. She leaned back on her hands and a comforting zephyr washed over her as she savored every exhilarating moment of her freedom.

     Cuddled up within her scenic splendor, Cornelia was unaware of imminent danger.