The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(32)

“Not bad,” Cachito said cheerfully. “Different.”

Montgomery carefully grabbed a silver stick pin with the head of a fox and surveyed himself. He supposed he did look funny, different from what he thought of as his uniform—the white shirt and white trousers he wore every day.

Montgomery did not delude himself. His face was plain and prosy, always had been. When he’d courted Fanny he’d made an effort with his hair and clothing. He’d pursued her with zeal, and with the young woman at his side, he’d sometimes felt himself transformed into a prince. But those days were long past.

Yet he couldn’t appear before the Lizaldes with dirt under his nails and his hair tangled. His coat wasn’t of the newest style, but he supposed it would look fine, and grooming never did a man wrong, did it? Simply because he didn’t tend to himself lately didn’t mean he had to walk around looking like a bumpkin.

“Perhaps I should shave,” he told Cachito, rubbing a hand against his cheek. The Lizaldes had tidy little mustaches. Montgomery had let his beard grow. “What do you think, should I get rid of these side whiskers?”

“You’re ugly without the hair,” Cachito said.

It was Montgomery’s turn to laugh. “I suppose I’m no boy, but I might as well trim the damn thing before tomorrow,” he said, and he pulled at the cravat.

“I wish I could see the visitors.”

“You know you can’t. You are to stay out of sight.”

“Yes, yes. But I’m curious. These are men who want to kill Juan Cumux. They must be fearless to hunt him down.”

“They’re cowards and fools, the lot of them. If they really thought they would meet Cumux they’d turn around and flee.”

Cachito cocked his head at him. “It doesn’t matter. They’d never find him. Juan Cumux knows each tree in the jungle, and he has sixty men with him at all times. I read it in one of the papers that you brought from the city.”

“You mustn’t believe all the stories in there,” he said and wondered what else Cachito had read in the papers.

“But he is fearless, and he fights for his kindred. Unlike the Lizaldes. I think they fight for themselves.”

“You’re still worried about the nohoch cuenta? You shouldn’t be.”

“But you don’t like them.”

“No I don’t, but it’s not my place to like them,” Montgomery said simply.

The next morning he was up bright and early, not the slightest whiff of aguardiente on his lips. He did shave the beard, left it at a mustache, and then, feeling irritated, not wanting the boys to think he’d imitated them, he shaved all his facial hair off. Like that he looked gaunt, careworn, but he preferred it to attempting a stylishness he didn’t possess.

Again he thought of Fanny, of the way she’d looked at him, of his days of courtship and yellow roses. He’d chipped a tooth since then, gained scars on his arm and lines under his eyes. He was thirty-five years old and couldn’t remember who he’d wanted to be at twenty. He’d lost himself long ago.

He attended to his expected duties, then planted himself at the entrance of the house at the appointed time, awaiting the men. They were not punctual, and an hour after they’d said they’d arrive, they finally rode up to him, and he guided them and their horses to the stable. He needed to take the saddlebags off the animals and their belongings to their rooms, so he directed the gentlemen to please make their way to the sitting room.

Once he managed that, he asked Ramona to unpack the men’s things and stopped by his room to change into the outfit he’d picked, quickly pinning the cravat in place. When he walked into the sitting room he saw Dr. Moreau was already there, chatting amicably with the gentlemen. Eduardo let his finger fall idly upon a piano key, banging out the same note three times.

They hardly noticed Montgomery as he stood stiffly to the side. Not that he expected to truly be included in these interactions. He was there merely because he must show his face. Dr. Moreau would consider it rude if he were to brick himself in his room with a bottle, which was what he looked forward to.

He forgot the bottle when Carlota Moreau walked into the room, forgot almost to breathe.

She wore a green dress strewn with a pattern of dainty white leaves that closely fitted her figure from neck to hip, then gave way to a wide skirt. Her hair was piled atop her head, soft tendrils falling charmingly around her face. In her right hand she carried a fan, and she moved with that wonderful ease of hers.

How lovely she was, the picture of youthful beauty, and how quickly he looked away, fearing someone might notice the sudden, keen smile that had threatened to spread across his face, the pure joy at watching her, the embarrassing eagerness lighting his eyes.

Eduardo tugged at his jacket before stepping forward and throwing the girl a dazzling smile, capturing her hand and depositing a kiss on it. “Miss Moreau, we were wondering where you’ve been hiding,” he said.

“Yes, indeed,” Isidro said. “Eduardo has been threatening to play the piano. You mustn’t let him.”

“Would you play and sing for us?”

“If you wish,” Carlota said, now allowing Isidro to kiss her hand, though her eyes remained on Eduardo, scarcely alighting on Isidro for a couple of seconds.

She didn’t spare Montgomery, in his blue jacket and yellow cravat, which he thought fine enough, even a cursory glance.