The Beloved Woman

by Deborah Smith

  He must be pleased with their separate schedules, she mused, because he never complained, and when he was with her he seemed utterly content. They shared their daily happenings, they cheerfully argued the fine points of his business negotiations, and they spent long, blissful hours in bed.

  Katherine gazed out a hotel window pensively. They never spoke any endearments or made any reckless vows about the future, but they filled those hours together with a wondrous brand of passion that mingled affection and respect with bawdy lust. Surely that meant something special to him. Surely.

  A small hand tugged at the sleeve of her dress. “Señora Gallatin.”

  She looked down at an impeccably dressed youngster with olive skin and dark hair. “Felipe! How are you today?”

  Before he could answer she was surrounded by six more children, all expensively clothed and dark-complected. The eldest was a teenaged girl, Leanor; the youngest was Felipe. They chattered their hellos in heavily accented English and tried to tell her all at once about their visit to an ice cream emporium.

  A wiry little woman arrived in a rustle of blue satin. An entourage of nannies and personal maids hovered behind her like dull-colored chicks following a peacock. “Silence!” Francesca Adela Mendez ordered.

  Her dark Spanish eyes gleamed with friendship as she gazed at Katherine. “Reading again! Bah! You are truly an American woman! A Californio would never sit still so long!”

  Katherine laughed. “Good afternoon. Would you like to go to tea with me?”

  “Bueno. And I have a dinner invitation for you and your husband. Tomorrow night. My brother-in-law Vittorio returns from his trip to Boston. I want you to meet him. He reads too much, like you. You will have much to say to each other, yes?”

  “Yes. Thank you. We accept.” Katherine nodded toward one of the children. “How is Juan feeling today?”

  “Perfect! I had Anita mix the medicine as you said. Gracias.”

  “De nada.”

  Adela clapped her hands in delight. “I will make you into a Californio yet!”

  “Could an Indian become a Californio?” Katherine asked, smiling drolly.

  “Oh, yes. We have thousands of Indians!”

  Katherine glanced at the short, swarthy maids. “Are they all servants trained by the priests?”

  Adela arched a brow at the innuendo. Then she swept her hands out in an exuberant, dramatic gesture and looked around in mock horror. “No! There are still many wild, free savages who make war on our people!” Her eyes snapped with humor. “And there are many Indian wives among our men. So you see? Come to California! For you all the handsome rancheros would fight each other! What excitement!”

  “What flattery.” Katherine stood up and they traded smiles. They made an odd pair of friends—Cherokee and Mexican-Spanish, Protestant and Catholic, outcast and aristocrat. But Adela Mendez was the only one of Katherine’s new acquaintances who inspired true friendship and trust. In Katherine’s world, haunted by an uncertain future and a lonely present, it was a great prize.

  “THERE. DONE. A finely tied cravat, if I do say so myself.” Katherine stepped back and admired her handiwork.

  Justis held out his hands and arched one chestnut brow. “A fine-lookin’ man,” he coaxed.

  “A fine-looking man.”

  He turned around slowly, his hands still out in a look-at-my-handsomeness gesture. She drew a slow breath of admiration. His big, rangy body with its broad shoulders and lean hips was hardly fashionable, but the way New York ladies stared at him, she doubted a fashion critique was uppermost in their minds. She always clothed him in conservative colors—mostly tan, black, or white—because a magnificent rooster didn’t need to gild his plumage.

  For tonight’s supper party at the Mendez apartments upstairs, he wore tan trousers and a crisp white shirt with a black silk cravat. He had not yet donned his black vest and fitted black coat.

  “A good, strong back,” he hinted.

  “I’ve admired it a few times, I admit.”

  “Sturdy legs. Muscled haunches.”

  She laughed happily. “A handsome mule.”

  He turned around and gave her an exasperated look. “Mule? No mule has what it takes to fill the front of these trousers.”

  She was giggling now. “Indeed. He’d need a very large opinion of himself.”

  He strode to her and grabbed her around the waist. She yipped as he swung her around. When he halted, grinning, she ruffled his hair in mild rebuke. “You shaggy hellion.”

  “My hair and mustache are gonna stay uncivilized. I like ’em that way.”

  “All right.” She sighed as if horribly defeated, but looked up at him with glowing eyes. She never wanted to see him clean-shaven or close-cropped. Nothing was more provocative than the feel of his mustache damp with sweat and kisses, or his hair disheveled by her excited caresses.

  “I have a present for you,” he told her. “Cover your eyes.”

  She did as he asked, thoroughly intrigued. She heard him moving about the parlor, then coming back to her. He’d already given her several pieces of beautiful jewelry.

  “Look,” he whispered. “On the table.”

  She withdrew her hands and gazed at a sleek black satchel. Breathless, she opened it and gazed down at a complete array of doctor’s implements and medicines. She caught a soft sob in her throat. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

  “Now you’re a full-fledged doc again.”

  She slipped her arms around his neck. “You are as dear sometimes as …” She struggled to find praise that wouldn’t complicate their unsentimental brand of affection. “As a real husband would be,” she finished.

  His expression changed only a little, but the subtle tightening made it go from tender to grim. “Maybe you’ll find one of those someday. A real husband.”

  She winced. “I thought I was complimenting you.”

  “I know.” He sounded weary. “I’m glad you like it. I just didn’t want you to lose your doctorin’ skills. You bein’ an independent woman and all. Someday you’ll be on your own again.”

  So much for sentiment, she thought in silent despair, and stepped back. “It’s truly a wonderful gift. Thank you again. I suppose we’d better be going upstairs. It’s impolite to be late to a private meal.”

  “I’ll add that to my list of rules to live by.”

  Both of them subdued, they turned away.

  ADELA’S BROTHER-IN-LAW was a dashing figure who seemed suited to the richly ornamented backdrop of the Mendez hotel suite. Vittorio Salazar was dressed all in dark colors except for the startling white of his shirt, which set off his dark complexion to perfection. His features were elegant, like his tall, graceful frame. He made Katherine think of a black swan.

  Gray feathered his hair at the temples, and he had a look of quiet sorrow. He was a recent widower, Adela had explained at tea. His wife—the sister of Adela’s husband—had died in childbirth after years of barren frustration, taking their child with her. This trip to New York was his idea, a way to escape the memories at his rancho.

  Adela had gleefully snatched the opportunity to sojourn in New York with him as chaperon. She had kissed her husband good-bye at their rancho and told him not to let his mistresses grow too fond of running her casa. Then she had rounded up her children and her servants and happily followed Vittorio aboard a ship bound for the east.

  Salazar’s mournful eyes were huge and rimmed with upswept girlish lashes. When he bowed deeply to Katherine, murmuring in a melodic Spanish-tinged voice, “What ethereal loveliness. I hope you will favor me with your presence often,” she felt as though a tragic poet were offering his soul.

  Which was all well and good and interesting in a melodramatic sort of way, except that Justis was not the kind of man—loving husband or not—who wanted another man to admire his wife so boldly. Katherine glanced at him and saw seething disgust in his expression.

  Anger burst into a stubborn flame inside her. What right did he, who didn’t lo
ve her, have to glower? She was still no more than a possession to him. Even a possession deserved to enjoy compliments.

  She thanked Vittorio in slow, careful Spanish, and he smiled at her as if she’d said something important and very private. She watched with quiet victory as the Californio introduced himself to Justis. Her husband was chewing the inside of his cheek, a sure sign that he was trying to control his temper.

  There were several other couples at the supper party, all people who either lived permanently at the hotel or were in New York for a lengthy visit. Adela’s maids served a ten-course meal catered by the hotel’s staff of French chefs.

  It should have been a marvelous event. For Katherine it was torture. Justis ignored her and most of the food, opting instead to drink outrageous amounts of the various wines and liquors that accompanied the meal. He turned his attention to the guests near him, including Adela, and soon had them entranced with wild tales of the frontier, most of which Katherine recognized as inventive lies.

  She regretted her part in antagonizing him and began to worry about the consequences. Vittorio, though seated at the far end of the table from her, managed to direct most of his conversation to her, and she knew Justis had an ear tuned to every word. Vittorio was well-read, impeccably sensitive to the arts, and he gave fascinating accounts of the Californios’ lazy, regal life-styles on their immense ranches.

  Justis managed to maintain an air of indifference until the after-dinner liqueurs were served. When Vittorio spent several minutes describing the European liquors he imported and the time he spent developing vineyards, Justis turned to him slowly and said, “Sounds to me like you Californios just sit around piss-drunk with your grapes hangin’ out to dry in a warm wind.”

  The women gasped and their husbands sputtered with consternation. Adela unfurled a large fan and laughed merrily behind it. Vittorio rubbed a long, smooth finger across his lower lip and looked thoughtful, as if pondering the image of his personal grapes drying in a warm wind.

  “I do not understand the insult very well, Señor,” he said at last. “I also do not understand why a gracious and intelligent lady is married to a man who seems intent on ignoring and then humiliating her in public.”

  “She’s used to it,” Justis shot back. “She’s an Injun.”

  Katherine hoped that years of rigid self-discipline kept her face from showing her devastation. How could he talk about her that way?

  Two of the couples coldly excused themselves, thanked Adela for her hospitality, and left. Katherine drew her chin up and looked at Adela, whose expression was carefully nonjudgmental. Mustering all her training in decorum, Katherine said in a calm, conversational tone, “I believe my husband is attempting to compliment me. He means, I believe, that my peculiar status in life has taught me to overlook trivial slander.”

  To Vittorio she said, “My husband would never deliberately humiliate me, Señor. I respect him and he shows me the utmost respect in return. Your defense is noble, but misguided.”

  “No, the bastard’s right,” Justis said.

  Stunned, Katherine pivoted to look at him. His eyes were full of a bitterness she didn’t understand, but when he took the hand she’d clenched in her lap, his touch was infinitely gentle.

  He kissed her hand, stood up, and bowed to her. “Forgive me.” Then he turned and left the apartment.

  When Katherine returned to their suite a short time later, he was standing, his arms crossed, in front of a window in the dimly lit sleeping chamber. The slow stiffening of his posture was the only sign he gave that he’d heard her come in. He might have been riveted to the never-ceasing activity of Broadway.

  “I wish I could cut my tongue out for what I said about you,” he told her. “Something ugly came out in me that I couldn’t stop. God help me, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  She went to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Vittorio Salazar is nothing. Why be so angry at him?”

  “He’s everything I’m not. Educated. Got good manners. Knows how to say the right thing—in at least two languages. Hell, he’s even kinda dark, like an Indian.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake …”

  “You were taken with him from the second he spoke to you. I could tell.”

  She groaned in despair. “Justis, how could you—”

  “You’re not to see him again, you hear? I won’t have you trailin’ after that Spanish dandy. You and me got a deal. You may not like bein’ my wife, but you better act the part. I expect you to be faithful.”

  She backed away, her hands clenched. “How could you ruin all the friendship and trust between us by accusing me that way?”

  “I’m not accusin’. I’m warning.”

  “It’s the same thing.” She was so hurt and angry, she could barely breathe. Shivering, her breath coming in short gulps, she said tightly, “I will see whom I please. I would enjoy talking to Señor Salazar about art and literature.”

  Justis turned slowly, his body and face rigid with restraint. “I’ll dump you out of this hotel with nothing but your smile for a meal ticket.”

  She straightened proudly. “Never offer an ultimatum to me, sir. I thought you learned that long ago. Good-bye.” She turned on one heel and headed toward the parlor. “ ’Tis July. I’ll get by with nothing warmer than my smile.”

  A few seconds later she was kicking and flailing as he carried her back to the bedroom. He wrestled her onto the bed and stripped off every stitch of her clothes, then used her stockings to tie her wrists to the headboard. Standing over her with a patient expression on his face, he listened until she ran out of virulent insults in both English and Cherokee.

  “Good night, wife,” he said sardonically, and pulled the covers over her.

  “I am not an a-tsi-na-Ha-i anymore! I will never be your captive again!”

  “Doesn’t look that way right now, does it?”

  “You will pay for your distrust,” she said bitterly, crying with humiliation. “We were friends. You have taken that away.”

  He uttered a concise obscenity. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

  He slung his clothes off as he went to the lamps and turned them down. Katherine jerked on the tethers that held her hands and turned her back to him as he got into bed. The darkness crackled with silent tension. Finally he thumped a fist onto the mattress as if in frustration, then slid close to her and arranged her pillows so that she’d be comfortable.

  “There. You’ll sleep without misery.”

  She exhaled raggedly. “You think I’m a dog who will forget a beating if her master pets her.”

  “I didn’t beat you!”

  She groaned in disgust. “You will never understand. Go away.”

  “Fine.” He moved to his side of the bed and didn’t say another word.

  Katherine quivered with anger and disappointment. His stubborn determination to make her do his bidding was born of pride, not love. Now he had let it ruin the lovely camaraderie that had given her so much hope for the future.

  Before they had abandoned their traditions for the more complicated dicta of white law, her people had regarded revenge as a good and necessary thing. It was the accepted way to rebuild honor and peace between enemies. She wanted revenge.

  She pretended to sleep. Sometime later Justis slid close to her again. He untied her hands and rubbed the wrists gently. Tears pooled behind her eyelids as she felt him kiss her hair. Scoundrel! Why did he confuse her so? He sighed as if exhausted, then went back to his side of the bed. Within a few minutes she heard his breathing fall into the deep, even cadence of sleep.

  She waited for more than an hour, until she knew he was settled firmly in his dreams. Then she tiptoed from bed and got her new doctor’s satchel. Revenge.

  JUSTIS STRUGGLED TO wake up. His arms and legs felt weighted, and his mind was groggy. It was puzzling but not unpleasant. He stretched and dragged a hand up to rub some life into his face. With any luck he’d be able to force his eyelids open.

 
There was something odd about his face, something different. He yawned and rubbed a knuckle over an itchy spot along his upper lip. His hand froze.

  His mustache was gone.

  With a bellow of disbelief he pushed himself upright and squinted painfully as morning sunshine struck his face. His throat was sore and his voice came out a deep, brutal rasp. “Kath-er-ine!”

  “I’m right here.” She rose from an armchair near the fireplace and walked to the bed. She looked regal in a white dressing gown with her hair in a neat braid around the crown of her head. Her expression was troubled but stoic. Her dark eyes held no victory. “I didn’t run away after taking my revenge. There would be no honor in that.”

  “Revenge,” he echoed hoarsely. “Honor.”

  “I couldn’t live with you otherwise. I couldn’t bear it, after the way you disgraced everything good that we’ve shared. Now I have my revenge. If you accept it, we can go on together. If you don’t …” She looked at him sadly and waited for his response.

  Speechless, he slung the covers back and rolled out of bed. He staggered to the dressing room and stared at himself in the mirror over the washstand. Years had passed since he’d last seen the scar on his upper lip. It was a distinct white ridge that ran just above the corner of his mouth to a little past halfway across. It made him look evil.

  She had shorn the hair on his head to a uniform inch in length, all over. The luscious waves were gone. It was straight and so short on top, it bristled. He felt like an ugly cur dog with its hackles up.

  To add insult to injury, she had shaved his chest hair off. Justis looked down in horror. His pubic hair was gone too. He braced his arms on the stand. His head drooped and he shut his eyes, then he cursed softly, viciously.