by finding our way around the dance floor?”
With a resigned shrug for John, Lizzy assented. Bingley proved to be an excellent dancer and charming companion, with a cheerful line of banter that was amusing without being too personal. Lizzy enjoyed dancing with him, but didn’t take his compliments seriously; and he asked enough questions about her brother that she was happy to lead him back to John at the end of their dance. She left them chatting and strolled around to keep an eye on her younger siblings.
Kitty, Lydon, and Jenny had found a congenial group of young airmen and neighborhood youths, and were having some noisy but apparently harmless fun. The music was shifting into higher gear with banda and norteño numbers, and Kitty was laughing immoderately at her own attempts to master an unfamiliar dance style under the tutelage of a heavily tattooed young man. At that moment another ripple of excitement moved through the assemblage—or at least the more youthful and female portion of it—as all eyes turned once more to gaze upon a new arrival.
Spurning the de rigueur white tie uniform for the evening, Frank Carrillo’s son, George, was posed in the doorway, clad in the formal dress of a Mexican cowboy, tight black pants and short jacket adorned with silver, above fancy decorated cowboy boots. A sigh of female ecstasy gusted around the room, and much as she was amused by his skill at drawing attention to himself, Lizzy was not proof against the allure of the picture he presented. He was easily the handsomest man present, even better looking than John, and carried himself with an air of confident athleticism that was not lost on any of the women present. He savored for a moment the happiness of being the man on whom every female eye was trained, and then Lizzy had the happiness of being the woman on whom his attention finally came to rest. He walked straight from the door to her side.
“It is a sin for such a beautiful woman to be standing by the wall while others are dancing,” he said.
“I’m loath to shock the neighborhood by sinning in a public place,” she replied, smiling.
“Allow me to rescue you from degradation, then. My name is Jorge Carrillo, and I am at your service, Jezebel.”
“If you’re certain I won’t drag you into my depravity . . .” said Lizzy, as he led her onto the dance floor. Not wishing to carry the line too far, she added, “But I have met your parents, and your father said your name was George?”
He smiled. “So you have been asking about me? My father has taken on American ways, it’s true, but I’m more traditional.”
“Jorge it is, then,” she agreed, and turned her attention to keeping up with his steps in the cumbia. Unlike many of the other youthful dancers, he moved with grace but did not cross the line of propriety; she liked his demeanor, and suddenly found herself enjoying the evening more than she had anticipated.
The dance ended and was succeeded by a slower number, but Jorge exhibited no inclination to lead her to the sidelines. He struck up an easy conversation on neutral subjects, and in speaking of the climate of California versus that of Ohio, the differences between big cities and small towns, and the like proved that the most commonplace topics may be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker. He was charming and lightly flattering, always turning the conversation to humor before it became too personal.
While attending to her own pleasure, Lizzy still had an eye for her brother’s, and she observed that although Charles Bingley danced with a variety of ladies in the room he favored none with special attention, and between each round of dancing he could be seen chatting with John. She asked Jorge about him.
“Charley Bingley? I don’t really know him, but everybody seems to like him—even though he hangs out with Darcy.”
“Darcy is less popular? I have to admit he looks conceited to me, but I would think his position in the neighborhood would have rescued him from disapproval.” They looked across to the refreshments table, where Fitzwilliam Darcy and Caroline Bingley were standing in an uncompanionable silence of shared ennui.
“Oh, the Anglo ranching families think they’re superior to everybody—especially their brown neighbors. Some of the cattle and sheep ranchers aren’t so bad; they’re at least marginally in touch with the real world. But the thoroughbred breeders are totally snooty—they think pursuing the sport of kings makes them royalty. And the Darcys and their cousins the de Bourghs are the worst! I’m amazed Darcy even showed up here; Bingley must have dragged him. Bingley is the social type, and likes mingling. For Darcy an event like this must be torture—how will he ever wash off the stain of rubbing shoulders with dirt like us!”
“But I thought your family was among the original settlers in the neighborhood,” said Lizzy, considerably surprised. “Wouldn’t that count for something with a snob like Darcy?”
Jorge laughed. “Hardly. The old Anglo families act like history began when they settled here. They’ve convinced themselves that my father is nothing but an immigrant row-crop farmer.”
“But why?”
“Because it’s dangerous for them to acknowledge the truth: that they seized half our land illegally. They’re nothing more than robber barons, no matter how much they pretend to be the local aristocrats.”
Lizzy was shocked. “How could they get away with that?”
“It’s not as if California was a civilized place back in the 1870s. It hadn’t been a state for long, and American lawmen were few and far between, while the Mexican governors had been chased out. Basically, land ownership was determined by who commanded the most gunfighters.”
“Much the way the Spanish and Mexican settlers took land from the Indians, I expect,” observed Lizzy.
“Not exactly. The Hispanic settlers here lived side by side with the local tribe, the Chumash: they shared skills and technologies, and farmed and hunted together. That’s why most of the remaining Chumash descendants have Spanish surnames—they intermarried and blended into one people. My mother is of Chumash descent; so you could say that we’re more of an original family on her side than on my father’s.”
“But if your land was taken illegally, can’t you get it back? Like Jewish families recovering works of art that were stolen from them by the Germans in World War II.”
Jorge smiled ruefully. “You know the expression, ‘To the victors go the spoils’? The Darcys have all the old land grant papers and other legal documents in their archives, and they don’t let anyone have access. That’s why Darcy hates me, of course. He thinks everyone should bow down and adore him—and he hangs out only with the people who do! But I call a spade a spade, and he can’t stand it.”
“What about the de Bourgh family? Are they here tonight?”
Jorge laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding! Darcy’s bad enough, but Catherine de Bourgh is the worst. She’s his aunt, you know, and luckily the last of the de Bourgh line. She’s old-school—she’d rather hunt varmints like us than dance and drink punch with us. She thinks she’s the queen of the valley, and everyone calls her Catherine the Great behind her back.”
“I hope she’s not as fond of her horses as her namesake,” remarked Lizzy.
“Who knows what goes on in that huge, fancy barn of hers? Actually, though, we’re lucky she thinks herself too high-and-mighty to mingle with us. The people she does see, she likes to boss around and direct their lives. She’s always getting in everyone’s business.”
They were
