Savage Enchantment

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Only Diego, an old leather-jacket soldier, saw Kathleen for what she really was -- a lonely young woman. As majordomo of the hacienda since the death of Andrew King some twenty years earlier, he saw and knew everything. He spent the long, warm days sitting on a hard bench on the veranda. The bench stood next to the kitchen door, and, amidst the clucking of the chickens and the barking of the yard dogs, Diego listened to the gossip of the household servants. The brown, wrinkled face beneath the thatch of white hair would smile in secret amusement as the cook, Maria Jesus, chased her grandson from the pies cooling in the kitchen or would grow nostalgic as he overheard the vaquero Julio whisper flirtatious words to plump Amelia, one of the house servants.

  So it was Diego's bench Kathleen naturally sought, after her teaching duties were completed. Sometimes they talked of days past; sometimes they only sat in companionable silence. But many times Kathleen wished to ask bony Diego what he knew of Simon Reyes.

  Yet a perverse reluctance kept her from doing so. She rarely saw the haughty patrón of Valle del Bravo, but when she did, there was something about him that never failed to infuriate her. Maybe it was the sardonic curve of the lean lips. Or the way the slashed brow raised in mocking amusement whenever their eyes happened to meet.

  She was therefore glad that Simon rode out every day, dressed in leather britches and a worn cotton shirt like the other vaqueros; she was glad to be rid of his unsettling presence.

  However, this ended with the advent of the spring festivities. These gay celebrations sometimes went on for a week at a time, often moving from one rancho to the next. Each family competed to display the most bountiful table, the most gracious hospitality. Peace, gaiety, harmony -- a pastoral paradise.

  And Kathleen was introduced to this idyllic life through the avid curiosity of the Southern California populace.

  "Qué? A woman tutor?" cried Doña Arcadia, the wife of the richest man in California -- and the ugliest -- the horse-faced Don Abel Stearns. "You must bring her, Simon!"

  "Una mujer norteamericana, mi amigo?" Don Pio Pico, the ex-gobernador exclaimed. "I have to see the young woman," he told Simon, his fierce gray mustache quivering beneath his large, aristocratic nose.

  * * * * *

  "So you see," Simon explained to Kathleen in the privacy of his study, "good manners require that I present you at the next fiesta."

  Kathleen tore her gaze from the shelves of bound volumes -- Don Quixote ... Laws of the Indies ... Gil Blas -- confused to find that the Texas scout should have such an education. But then perhaps the books had belonged to the previous owner of Valle del Bravo, Doña Delores. Yet somehow she doubted it.

  Returning her attention to Simon, who stood looking out the grilled window, his hands jammed in his pants pockets, Kathleen said crisply, "I was somehow under the impression that you were not one to bother with good manners."

  Simon turned with a laugh of pure amusement. "You got to permit an uncouth ranchero his black moods, Kathleen," he said with a wry grin. "But no, it's very important that the good manners of Valle del Bravo never be questioned."

  Kathleen was tempted to inquire further, but Simon went on, his relaxed attitude once more replaced by cool, clipped words:

  "You'll need something more ... oh, festive."

  He nodded at the heavy woolen gown she wore, one of the few gowns she had. It was formerly the cook Amanda's, and was more suitable to New England's cold climate than the semitropical weather of California.

  "I'm afraid I've nothing fitting for a party, Señor Reyes."

  "Simon," he said with exasperation. "Well then, have one of the Indian girls make something up for you. Show them what you want. You know more about that than I do," he said impatiently.

  It was one of black silk and ivory lace. And when the gown was finished, it accomplished just the opposite of what Kathleen had planned -- attracting the attentive eye of every person at the fiesta of Don Pedro and Doña Lucia Escandón, the relatives the Castilian couple at the mission had spoken of to Kathleen.

  Kathleen had meant to appear matronly, but the lovely apricot skin and shimmering gold tresses against the background of the brilliant black gown had just the reverse effect. Only the thick, distorting spectacles spoiled the perfection of Kathleen's appearance.

  The fiesta, which was to begin before noon and last for two days, drew neighboring families separated by distances of hundreds of miles or more. In that Mexican province which revered the horse, no one came by buckboard or buggy. Corpulent duennas, sober matrons, flippant belles -- they all rode sidesaddle. And the men, from youths to grandfathers, proudly rode in advance of the women.

  Kathleen dressed in a russet riding habit, rode astride Estrellita, with fat Maria Jesus at her side, weighting down a bony burro. The cook, whose flat, dour face made her the perfect duenna for Kathleen, was one of the few Californios who did not take to the four-footed animal as a means of transportation. In one hand she clutched the burro's reins while with the other she told her rosary, mumbling beseechments with each obsidian bead.

  The Escandón rancho was some twenty-five miles from Valle del Bravo. Twenty-five miles of juniper and chaparral, mountain creeks and lily-pad-filled lagoons. Twenty-five miles that passed quickly, as Simon talked casually of the Californios Kathleen would meet.

  He told her of old Juan Bandini, whose performance of the decorous fandango was th ehigh point of any fiesta; and of the American Henry Fitch, who had run off with Josefa Carrillo to Chile.

  "The most dramatic elopement in California," Simon said, smiling.

  "Why?"

  "It seems the flinty American had been courting Josefa for three years. There they were at the altar, when there's brought an edict banning their marriage. Issued by none other than the governor, Echeandia -- Josefa's spurned suitor."

  Kathleen was delighted with the story -- and at the same time somewhat amazed at the unseen humorous side of Simon. "Tell me more," she prompted.

  "You may meet another American -- Cave Johnson Couts. His wife Ysidora, a daughter of Bandini, fell into her husband-to-be's arms when she was watching his column of cavalry from her roof and the railing gave way."

  Then he told Kathleen of the leading merchant in Monterey, Thomas Larkin, whose wife would soon give birth to the first fully American baby born in the California province and would therefore be unable to attend the fiesta. "An American woman," he said, "is as rare here as the white buffalo. There are only yanqui husbands seeking Mexico's daughters."

  "All the more reason why you should keep me as your tutor," Kathleen told him. "I'm an oddity."

  Simon laughed aloud. "That's something I've found out for myself."

  The hours flew by with Simon's stories of the Californios who would be at the fiesta. But never did he once speak of the host and hostess's beauteous daughter, Francesca.

  By the time they arrived, the guests were having their midday feast at tables set out in the gardens or on blankets spread beneath the trees. Kathleen's mind spun with the long, difficult names of those she was presented to, many of them requiring the Castilian lisp to pronounce correctly.

  Simon seemed to find it amusing when Doña Lucia at once cornered her, demanding to know of the latest fashion in the United States.

  "Not nearly so femine as your lace mantillas and high-backed Spanish combs," she told the pompous matron politely.

  But when Kathleen turned back to Simon, she found he had abandoned her to talk with a gentleman who still wore his graying hair clubbed at his neck with a ribbon, a style that had gone out a decade earlier.

  "That's the Lord of the North, Mariano Vallejo," a woman with warm brown eyes and a friendly smile said, joining Kathleen. "All his daughters are married to American men.

  "Which is all the more reason for Vallejo to join us, Doña Arcadia," the man at her side said, his heavy jowls quivering with anger. "If Vallejo listens much longer to that damned Sutter, we won't stand a chance against Micheltorena!"

  "José!" Doña Ar
cadia said warningly, and hastened to present Kathleen to the ex-general of California, José Castro.

  Well, you can't ignore the fact," the man said indigantly, after the introductions were made. "The Californios are suffering under Micheltorena -- Santa Anna's puppet!"

  Warming up to his subject, the general rocked back and forth on his heels as he continued his tirade. "And Micheltorena knows we want him removed. It's no secret. What's more, if there were a separation of the political and military commands, there wouldn't be such discontent among the Californios!"

  His diatribe on California politics would have continued indefinitely had not Doña Arcadia rescued Kathleen, saying it was time for the siesta. "A voluble man, but a brilliant general," she said with a smile as she led Kathleen to the room that had been assigned her.

  Kathleen had not yet become accustomed to the siesta, the hour which promised to make a young woman's eyes more brilliant by candlelight but unfortunately also brought about matronliness. During this hour the women gathered in the spacious recameras, the bedrooms, which were cool and dim after the hours of untempered sunlight, and gossiped of the day's flirtations.

  For a while Kathleen talked with the woman she shared the bedroom with, Anita de la Guerra, who, although only twenty-five, had been married for eleven years to the American shipping agent at Santa Barbara, Alfred Robinson. But after a while, Anita grew drowsy and dozed off.

  Unable to sleep, Kathleen used the hour to freshen herself. She was sitting before the marble-topped bureau, repairing her wilted hairdo, when a girl of no more than sixteen or seventeen years entered. Small in height, she was elegantly dressed in black lace and yellow silk, with a high-backed comb of black pearls securing the heavy ebony tresses.

  Her jet eyes flashed at Kathleen. "Perdóneme," she said. "I have the wrong bedroom."

  "That's quite all right," Kathleen replied to the girl's image in the mirror, an image that was both seductive and innocent -- one that Kathleen imagined would lose its appeal with age.

  "I am Doñanita Francesca Escandón," the girl announced imperiously.

  "My name is Kathleen Summers." What did the girl want?

  "You are Simon's little tutor?"

  "I work for him."

  Francesca stood in the doorway a moment longer, her curiosity clearly not satisfied, unable to think of any further excuse for remaining. "Con su permiso," she said finally, with pouting lips,a nd closed the door.

  Kathleen breathed a sign of relief with Francesca's departure, knowing instinctively that the girl disliked her sharing the same household with Simon.

  She smiled faintly at the girl's naïveté. If Francesca could but know of the contemptuous indifference with which Simon held his tutoress ...

  * * * * *

  That evening, as the stars came out, fires were lit and the guests dined on barbequed beef, corn griddle-cakes, a thick soup with meatballs and red peppers in it, and the vino del país. Later the older guests retired to the benches to tell stories while the younger ones danced to the gay music of guitars and violins.

  Feeling, as a tutor, not quite a part of the grandee class, Kathleen remained in the shadows watching, observing. During the intervals between the dances she saw Francesca flirting with the admiring caballeros, tapping one on the shoulder reprovingly with her jeweled fan or laughing gaily at another's whispered words.

  Tiring of them, she danced more and more with a handsome black-haired man who seemed to have eyes only for her. Kathleen thought she recognized the man from the mission.

  "That's Dimitri Karamazan, isn't it?" she asked Doña Arcadia.

  "Sí. It is said that he decided to remain in California when his countrymen gave up their settlement at Fort Ross."

  But apparently Francesca grew weary of trying her newly found feminine powers on Domitri, for Kathleen watched the girl's eyes rove longingly in the direction of Simon, who had been engaged in deep conversation with various men the entire evening.

  "You can't really blame Francesca for preferring Simon Reyes over the Russian officer." Doña Arcadia said.

  "Why do you say that?" Kathleen asked, with an inflection of casual interest.

  Doña Arcadia's dark brown eyes regarded Kathleen wisely. "Well, you must admit that Simon is not as handsome, but --"

  The woman's eyes took on a speculative look as Simon turned to find Francesca at his side. He seemed to give the girl his full attention, and a slight smile hovered at the ends of his long lips.

  "There's something about him," Doña Arcadia resumed. "His tough defiance -- and his genuine interest in women ... when he asserts himself ... that makes his rough masculine looks undenyingly attractive."

  Kathleen arched a sceptical brow.

  "Well, never mind," the other woman said, "You'll find out."

  Kathleen's gaze strayed to Simon. Dressed in a jacket of black silk, a richly embroidered waistcoat, short breeches with white stockings, and deerskin shoes made by his Indian workers, his lean, tall physique did indeed cut an impressive figure.

  But, unlike Francesca, Kathleen had no intention of succumbing to the ranchero's rugged attractions.

  Chapter 10

  Amelia brushed out the golden hair of her young mistress. The lovely maestra had already, in one short month, captured the affection of all of Valle del Bravo.

  Everyone, that is, thought the plump, brown girl, except el patrón. A pity, she mused. For though Señor Simon looked as ferocious as Satan himself, he had been more than fair in his dealings with the servants since he came to Valle del Bravo.

  And the maestra -- Amelia looked in the mirror at the reflection of the young lady who sat dispassionately before her. Although the maestra was gentleness itself, and very patient in the hours she spent teaching them, there was something about her -- a fierceness that matched el patrón's.

  Perhaps it was the way the violet eyes slanted -- or the tawny mane that framed the golden face. La señorita reminded Amelia of some cat that would come down from the mountains to drink from the ponds ... never to be tamed, only subdued by a mate of equal spirit. Yes, she was glad that el patrón, on his return from the Escandón fiesta, had told her to care for the maestra during the long months of fiestas ahead.

  Simon Reyes occupied Kathleen's thoughts too. Why did she feel so uneasy around him? Not since that rainy night at his cabin had he been anything but polite to her, though in an almost mocking way. True, he had probably heard the gossip spread by those two spinsters -- and had seen her on the beach with the detestable Aguila. But was that any reason to judge her -- when his own past seemed just as open to speculation.

  And believing her to be a woman of easy virtue -- or worse -- what could Simon have been told by Nathan Plummer to make him change his mind and return to interview her?

  However, Simon's poor opinion of her was little to worry about, since she rarely saw him anyway. He was always gone, often for days at a time. And, fortunately for her, on the days he did spend on the rancho, he would ride out early in the morning with his vaqueros to hunt wild horses or round up stray cattle, the cimarrones, and not return until late at night.

  And that was another thing. Kathleen noticed that in spite of his Spanish surname, Simon did not adhere to many of the Latin customs, such as taking the heaviest meal in the middle of the day. Rather, after his return, he would bathe, then dine alone at the long, heavy table of oak.

  But that night, after Amelia left Kathleen, things were to be different. There was a timid knock at Kathleen's door as she brushed her teeth before the pine-framed mirror over the bureau. She pulled the lawn wrapper about her. "Sí?" she asked.

  "Perdóneme," Amelia said, opening the door slightly and sticking her round, pigtailed head through the aperture. "El Patrón would like to see you in the dining room."

  "At this hour? It's almost ten, Amelia. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

  Amelia's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth, then closed it. Of course, thought Kathleen, no one keeps el patrón waiting. "
Tell Señor Reyes I'll be there in five minutes, por favor."

  Amelia bobbed her head in relief. "Sí, Señorita Catalina."

  Kathleen put on one of three day-dresses Amelia had made up for her in the weeks since the fiesta, a lilac batiste with ribbon sashes, and pinned her hair up in a chignon, but did not bother with the spectacles, in her haste to dress.

  She realized it would be the first time Simon had seen her without the disguising glasses, but in the dimness of the scented candlelight she doubted whether Simon would notice. Yet from the far end of the table she saw the scarred brow raise in mild amusement.

  "Yes?" she asked, ignoring the twitch of his lips. "You wanted me?"

  "Take a seat, Kathleen. Maria Jesus'll bring you something to eat."

  No, thank you. I've already eaten."

  Kathleen noticed that he looked tired; the lines around his mouth seemed harsher, deeper. And against the whiteness of the linen shirt, his face, normally as bronzed as an Indian's, looked pale.

  "I asked you to sit," he said evenly. The green eyes, as fathomless as mirrors, watched her, waiting.

  "Very well." Kathleen took the seat at the end opposite Simon, remaining silent as Maria Jesus brought in another plate. Kathleen took a few tentative bites, noticing that Simon did not eat much either, though he consumed a great deal of the sangría from the decanter Maria Jesus had left on the table.

  When the strain of the silence began to grate on Kathleen's nerves, Simon spoke. "The workers -- what have you taught them so far? Are they willing to learn?"

  Kathleen put down her fork. "At first they were hesitant. Especially the older servants. The first week Maria Jesus refused to come to the arbor. Declared she was too old. But she comes now and listens, though she still won't participate."

  "And Diego?"

  "Diego's quick, you know. He and Amelia seem the most promising. He's picked up English remarkably fast. And since he's started coming, I've found that after the comida some of your shepherds and vaqueros steal into the arbor during the siesta hour instead of resting.