Woman of Three Worlds

by Jeanne Williams

  A barefooted girl about Pretty Eyes’s age padded in, long braids swaying as she ducked her head to Roque and Brittany. “Concha will be your maid,” Roque said. “If you can’t make her understand your needs, come to me.” He sniffed with appreciation. “Panchita has my favorite mole cooking. As soon as you’re ready, we must do it justice.”

  Nodding at instructions from Panchita, Concha led the way along the outside colonnade, passing several doors till she reached the last one. Holding it open for Brittany to pass in, she took the pitcher of water from a boy who had hurried after them and sent him off with some quick directions before she put the pitcher on the washstand, looking at Brittany with a questioning smile that showed saucy dimples and perfect white teeth.

  To see a girl of Pretty Eyes’s age always stabbed Brittany into wondering what had happened to her young friend. Brittany thanked Concha and motioned that she could go.

  Concha pointed at the trunk Mateo’s horse had carried. It rested on a bench beside the fireplace. Opening it, Concha unfolded six dresses, which she hung up in an armoire, took out underthings, slippers, shawls, and put them neatly away.

  Francisca’s things. It gave Brittany an eerie feeling to be using them, but she had nothing else except the bedraggled buckskins.

  In Don Roque’s houses, where she was showered with luxuries, garments she had made herself became precious, reminding her of that life in the wilderness and those treasured though fear-ridden days with Zach. Sending Concha out, Brittany shook out the skirt and tunic.

  The pungent odor of hundreds of fires wafted from them, dominating other scents. The fires she remembered best were when Grouchy told stories and those small, guarded ones in the cave where she’d made gruel and brews for Zach.

  Surely, under the priest’s care, he’d soon heal and make his way back to Arizona. She doubted that he’d come to Alamos, because he’d expect her to travel north with the first merchant train. With a pang, she wondered if he’d be really angry at losing the reward Erskine had offered.

  That led to thoughts of Michael O’Shea, a bright scalp on a warrior’s lance. And that made her chill to think of what Roque’s soldiers must have done to the ranchería.

  Would she ever be of one heart again, a single allegiance? In future, when she heard of an Apache raid on Mexican haciendas, she’d think of Concha and Panchita being killed or carried away, have visions of children like Trini or Chuey being slaughtered.

  The one thing that didn’t change was that she loved Zach, even if he’d come after her only for the reward, which might make him more attractive to Regina. Placing moccasins and buckskins in the bottom of the armoire, Brittany washed, changed out of the voluminous riding habit into the simplest gown, brushed her hair with a silver-handled brush lying on the dresser, and hurried along the gallery to the dining room.

  The mole was excellent, turkey served with a richly piquant sauce flavored with chocolate. Beans, corn soup, and warm, tenderly moist tortillas completed the meal, as different from the Alamos banquet as this ranch house was from the city mansion.

  Panchita, a child on either side, resembled the dark madonna enshrined in the sala. She clearly adored Roque, but he was el Señor, the lord. Since he had brought another woman into the house, Panchita was trying to treat her with humble sweetness, an attitude that Brittany found far more uncomfortable to deal with than Lisette’s strident jealousy.

  After a dessert of caramel custard, Roque said he was going to inspect one of the de Haro mines that afternoon and asked if she’d like to ride along.

  An outing on La Dorada appealed to Brittany far more than staying in the house with her besieging anxieties. Roque lent her a dove-gray wide-brimmed sombrero, and after a short rest, they rode south, attended by Mateo and two men Brittany recognized from Roque’s soldiers.

  They passed out of the broad valley into another where hundreds of cattle grazed. A small settlement was located near a number of corrals, one of the eight centers that, Roque explained, were placed around the 38,000 acres that made up Los Caciques. Five thousand head of cattle were divided among the centers.

  Each had its foreman and there was an overall manager, but Roque kept a careful eye on the outposts himself, making rounds to oversee the branding and castrating of calves and the culling of cows for slaughter or market.

  “La Purísima has been worked off and on for a hundred years,” he said as they neared a jumble of huts and buildings situated among the hills. “It had been abandoned because of flooding, but when Nacho returned from Germany he thought it could be drained and put back into production. He and Anselmo made up dizzying charts of expenses and potential profits. We took the gamble and it’s paid off handsomely. In its worst year since the restoration a million dollars has come out of here.”

  Indians in loincloths sweated as they broke large chunks of ore into smaller pieces, which were then gone over with a small hammer. Other men carried the sledged chunks to a sorting yard.

  “The highest grade goes to the smelter,” said Roque, nodding to a brick furnace into which attendants were shoveling charcoal. “Lower grade gets crushed in the arrastras.” These were circular pits with heavy drag-stones attached to wooden crossbeams. Blindfolded oxen were harnessed to these beams, and as the animals walked around the pit, the stones crushed the ore.

  Meanwhile, out of the dark shaft, a windlass raised Indian after Indian, each bearing an ore-filled fiber basket secured with a tumpline around the head, just as Apache women carried heavy burdens.

  Mexicans were superintending each process, but Brittany was glad to see that they had no whips. “The workers aren’t slaves?” she asked, remembering that countless Apaches had been worked to death at this same kind of labor.

  “They’re free,” said Roque. “When the flood that ravaged Alamos destroyed many of the Yaqui towns and fields, most of these were glad to come to work at La Purísima and have been here ever since. It’s not a bad life. Wages are good and the women enjoy buying at the company store. If a man is killed, his family can stay on and are given necessities, while the widow can earn cash or store credit by cooking for bachelors or doing their laundry.”

  In spite of these reassuring words and the laughter of playing children and women chatting gaily as they ground corn or made tortillas, Brittany shivered as she thought of Kah-Tay in such an existence. Toiling in the dark underground, kept at the monotonous hard labor from dawn to dusk, it was small wonder that when captured Apache warriors were forced into mines, they usually died quickly.

  Brittany found the sight of so much human and animal drudgery depressing, particularly when it was to obtain a precious metal worth only the imaginary value assigned it. While Roque examined the works and talked with the overseers, she tried her Spanish with a wide-eyed little girl who was marveling at the golden mare. When the child timidly reached up to pat the silvery mane, Brittany pointed at the saddle.

  “Quieres?” she asked. “You like?”

  The warm-skinned youngster shrank, but when Brittany didn’t urge her, after a few minutes, she longingly touched the mare again.

  “Bueno.” Brittany smiled and lifted her up, fitting her knee over the horn of the sidesaddle and leading her around the little plaza.

  Roque, scowling, strode up and lifted the child down. Almost tossing Brittany onto the saddle, he said, “It is not good to let indios ride unless they are vaqueros. Come, it’s time we started home.”

  He rode stiff-backed and silent for a time. Brittany too was vexed. When he finally asked her what she thought of the mine, she was in no mood to be polite.

  “I suppose I agree with the Apaches. It doesn’t seem right to gouge ugly holes in the earth. They say silver is useless, too soft to make good bullets.”

  “By the tears of the Virgin!” he snapped. “Must you always be quoting those savages? Captivity has warped your mind!”

  He said nothing else to her all the way home, but when in the courtyard he helped her down from La Dorada, he held her
hands a moment after placing her on the ground.

  “I regret that I was short with you, Brittany.” The way he broke her name into syllables was caressingly musical. “Of course you cannot yet understand our ways.”

  “I doubt I’ll have time to learn.” She gave him a level look before she walked away, but foreboding gripped her.

  He didn’t sound the least bit like a man offering temporary hospitality until transport could be found. As dead Francisca’s skirts curved about her, she decided that she must ask for other garments, anything, however old and faded. She was glad that this bedroom was plain and wasn’t filled, like the one in Alamos, with the personality of Roque’s lost, beloved wife.

  XXII

  There was time for a bath and rest before the late evening meal. Roque was pleasantly attentive, as if there’d been no disagreement that afternoon. After they had dined and Panchita took the children off to bed in the wing of the house opposite Brittany’s room, Roque asked if she played chess.

  “I never learned,” she said regretfully. “My father had a beautiful set, though, and I used to play with the figures when I was small.” It was one of the things Tante had been forced to sell after most of the furniture went.

  “Poor lonely little girl,” Roque teased. “Well, come now and let me teach you. It’s a fine game for long winter nights.” He laughed at her, tawny eyes lingering on her mouth, the curve of her throat. “That is, if there’s nothing more interesting to do.”

  “I should like to learn chess,” she said hastily.

  He got a silver and ebony set down from a shelf in the sala and built a small fire in the hearth. “More for company than need,” he said, shifting the candelabra to best light the board without glare.

  The first two games ended quickly, Brittany losing her queen to first a bishop and then a knight, but thus lessoned, she played such a cautious and defensive third game that it took Roque well over an hour to trap her king and declare a checkmate.

  “You’ll make a good opponent,” he approved as they sipped chocolate brought by one of the sleepy kitchen maids. “Is your room to your liking? You have all that you need?”

  She summoned her courage. “I’m very comfortable, Don Roque, except for one thing. I should not be wearing your wife’s clothes.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Lisette has been talking. But what’s the harm? I thought you Americans were practical. The things become you and are a near perfect fit.”

  “I appreciate your kindness, but it makes me feel like—like a usurper. Please, Don Roque, there must be cloth in the storerooms. Let me make myself a few simple dresses.”

  “The storeroom cloth is only coarse cotton.”

  “I’ll be glad to use it.”

  She met his stare resolutely. After a long pause, he spoke with grudging reluctance. “There are seamstresses here who can sew for you. I will send Mateo to Alamos for proper materials. Will that content you?”

  Flushing at the implication that she was being unreasonable, Brittany said, “All that isn’t necessary, Don Roque. I should be very grateful for just a few skirts and blouses of the kind Panchita wears.”

  “That would offend my eyes.” He rose, leonine coloring set off by the tight-fitting black charro clothes. “Mateo will fetch proper cloth tomorrow and Panchita will measure you and put the women to sewing.” His tone was acid. “Till then, I trust you can endure wearing the garments of a most beautiful and gracious lady.”

  “That’s just it!” flashed Brittany. “I’m not the sort of wonderful person your wife must have been. Going about in her gowns makes me feel like an imposter!”

  He laughed suddenly. “Oh, when I think what many women would give to be such imposters! Never mind, funny, honest Brittany! You shall have your own gowns. Let me walk you to your door.”

  She was nervous, far from town, isolated in what was this imperious man’s private kingdom. But he didn’t enter her room, only brushed her hand with his lips before he said good-night and moved up the sconcelit colonnade.

  Next day Panchita took her measurements, knotting cords for length, waist, bosom, and arms. Her full mouth was rather swollen, and there were dark hollows beneath her eyes, a certain languorousness about her movements. Brittany thought it likely that Roque had spent the night with her. If he were entertaining some fantasy, surely Panchita’s sweet reality would dissolve it.

  When Mateo returned from town Brittany asked eagerly if there was any news of a train. Roque shook his head. “There have been new Yaqui troubles to the south and more Apache mischief in the north. It may be weeks before anyone cares to risk going to Arizona.”

  She could have waited with more patience had she only been sure that Zach was safe and getting well. There was no use punishing those around her, though, for her anxieties and those waves of pure horror when she couldn’t repress a quick picture of what had happened at Kah-Tay’s ranchería. She prayed each day that at least Jody, Pretty Eyes, and Sara had escaped, but it was unlikely that she’d ever know.

  Each day she rode spirited but gentle La Dorada as Roque took her to the cattle settlements, which ranged through several valleys. The division foreman’s wife would serve them steaming tamales, enchiladas or chilies stuffed with cheese, along with the inevitable but toothsome beans and tortillas. Brittany thought it the best food she had ever tasted.

  “Whoever thought up the combination of corn, beans, chilies, cheese, and onions has my gratitude,” she said after a particularly excellent repast.

  Roque smiled indulgently. “Then you must thank Indians, except for cheese, which could be had only after Spaniards brought cattle and goats. For my part, I wonder how we existed without chocolate, a great favorite of the Aztecs. It’s said that Montezuma served it to Cortez in goblets of beaten gold.”

  Roque, in addition to his having received a classical education, knew many fascinating oddments and was an unfailingly interesting companion. He had some English books and when he learned that Brittany loved to read, he sent Mateo to see if any could be found in Alamos.

  There were none, but in the busy port of Guaymas, the persistent Mateo tracked down an old English engineer who, for a sum, parted with Darwin’s Origin of the Species, Whitaker’s Almanack for 1869, Lecky’s History of European Morals, and Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd.

  Brittany’s pleasure over the volumes kept her from erupting in a tide of fury when Panchita brought several gowns to be tried before the final seaming.

  Garnet silk in a cut that echoed the one Brittany had worn in Alamos; wine wool riding habit trimmed with black velvet, almost identical to Francisca’s; blue silk like a gown in the Chinese-red armoire; bottlegreen velvet with full upper sleeves tapering snugly to the cuff.

  Brittany had discussed the general design of the clothes with Panchita, and though much of this had been done with gestures, Brittany was sure she couldn’t have been so misunderstood. Swallowing hard to get control of her voice, for there was no use in lashing out at Panchita, Brittany studied the dresses for possible ways to change them from facsimiles and picked up the riding habit.

  Though sorry for the way a troubled expression replaced Panchita’s pleased expectancy, Brittany used motions and a few words of Spanish to indicate that the black velvet trim should come off, the sleeves be narrowed, and the regal, turned-up collar replaced with a plain one.

  Panchita’s eyes widened with alarm. “Don Roque told me—” she began in Spanish, broke off, and brought some sketches out of a basket of laces, trims, and other sewing items. In mute appeal, she put the drawings in Brittany’s hands.

  They confirmed what Brittany was already sure of. The similarity of style was owing not to underlying basic Spanish fashions or Panchita’s copying the dresses she saw Brittany wearing. Roque had detailed the wardrobe; and it was Francisca’s.

  “Mil gracias,” she said quietly. “Pero no es possible.” “A thousand thanks but it is not possible.”

  Opening the door, she held it firmly till the
unhappy Panchita murmured to the seamstresses and all withdrew. Shaking with outrage, Brittany unbuttoned the lovely dress she was wearing and hung it in the armoire. Scooping up the buckskins, still redolent of woodsmoke, she put them on, scuffed off the soft kid slippers, and pulled on the moccasins.

  She snatched silver combs from her hair, gave it a furious brushing, and plaited it into long braids, securing them with bits of thongs she had in the rolled tops of her moccasins. Staring into the mirror at a gray-eyed Apache, a surge of power hummed through her.

  She was Blanca, who had planned only weeks ago to make her way north alone! The distance was longer now, but she could do it. What was the matter with her, waiting tamely for merchants who were evidently afraid of their shadows?

  Each day Roque’s seductive company and the comforts of this life domesticated her a trifle more, made her softer, less able to fend for herself. She would go to him right now, thank him for his kindness, and say that, train or no, she was leaving.

  She had almost reached the door when it swung open. Roque stared at her, eyes yellow aflame. “What,” he grated, “are you doing in those filthy hides?”

  Proud confidence ebbing, she kept her head high and unflinchingly met his gaze. “They are mine.”

  “So were the garments you refused.”

  “No,” she hurled. “Those were Francisca’s.”

  His hands clenched. She thought he would hit her before he put them behind his back. “I will tell you how it is,” he said in the tone she imagined he would use for executions. “You will resume the gown you were wearing or I will strip you naked. You will not wear those vile skins in my house.”

  “I don’t want to! I wish to leave this very day! If you won’t give me a horse on credit, I’ll go on foot.”

  He caught her wrist. “You’ll do no such thing! That barbaric garb unhinges your reason! Little fool, if armed trains can’t travel, do you think you can?”