The Farm Girl's Dream

by Eileen Ramsay

  John returned the smile. He had seen the young don several times from a safe distance, had seen the respect and, yes, the fear in the eyes of the Mexican peasants when the don and his younger brothers passed. Now Don José Luis was standing there in front of the rickety table at which John and Pedro sat, and the power emanating from him was almost palpable. Pedro, who had managed to combine grovelling with jumping to his feet, was already sweating with fear, but John would not sweat. He would bluff his way through this encounter as he had done through many others. It was obvious that his relationship with the girl had been discovered – or was it? Why the wait of several days? Surely, if the don knew, then he, John Cameron, would now be lying bleeding in the dirt.

  Everything depended on Lucia. How much had she said? To what had she confessed? God, that Mexican moon had driven him mad. Otherwise he would not have, not have . . . He looked into the young man’s cold eyes. Did he know what John had done with his sister? A shiver of fear passed down his spine, but he would not abase himself here.

  ‘Don José Luis,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘This is an honour, sir. May I offer you a drink? Though I regret to say that this cantina does not serve the vintages that men like you and I usually enjoy.’

  ‘It is a cantina for peasants, Mr Cameron,’ said the young man, ‘and the wine is good enough. It comes, after all, from my father’s vineyards.’ Don José Luis watched the flush of embarrassment travel up from the gringo’s neck, and again he smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘It is of my father that I wish to speak. His excellency wishes you to join him for dinner. You will come too.’ He gestured to the cowering Pedro and, without waiting for a reply, turned and left the room.

  ‘When does he mean?’ began John.

  ‘Now.’ Pedro was almost in tears. ‘He expects us to follow them. I do not like this, Señor Juan. No way would the don and his family eat with me. He has found out that you are a nuisance to la dama.’

  ‘Stop grovelling,’ snapped John. ‘If the don has heard of a little dalliance, he has sensibly decided to become acquainted with the one his daughter favours. This is the twentieth century, man, not the middle ages.’

  ‘No, Señor Juan. This is Mexico, and el padrón is king. He will never accept you into his blood, and he will banish la señorita Lucia to a convent before he allows her to sully her bloodline.’

  In spite of his bravado, John was more than a little concerned by his henchman’s obvious fear. ‘It will be different when he finds out that I too am a landlord, Pedro, that I too have acres of fertile farmland.’ Mentally he thanked the ill-luck that had made him unable to sell the Priory. It would perhaps be necessary to exaggerate a little, but since he had no intention of returning to Scotland, it was highly unlikely that any of the Alcantarillas would compare the actual acreage with his description. For the rest of the long ride to the hacienda he sharpened up his descriptive skills.

  The house came as a surprise. He had been some distance from it on his visits to the creek and had not expected anything quite so grand. It was long and low, all on one level, and lights spilled from every one of the many windows. They had ridden for miles into the desert, but before the house there was a green lawn, a fountain surrounded by blooming flowerbeds and some strange but lovely bushes with bright red leaves.

  His host, looking like a portrait from an old schoolbook, was on the verandah to meet John. Like his sons, el padrón was tall and slender, with the incredibly straight carriage of the lifelong horseman. He was dressed in black, but they were the evening clothes of a Spanish grandee, not the riding dress usually favoured by his sons. There was no smile on his cold face as he greeted his guests.

  He dismissed Pedro to the servants’ quarters with a gesture and preceeded John into the house. His two younger sons stood before a fireplace of Moorish tiles imported from Spain. Of la dama Lucia and Don José Luis there was no sign.

  ‘You would like to wash the dust away, Mr Cameron. My son is doing the same in his room, and Soledad will show you where you can ready yourself.’

  An elderly woman in stiff black silk smiled graciously at John and showed him into a well-furnished bedroom. The air was full of the scent of the white lilylike flowers that stood in a bowl on the table, and John saw a basin, a pitcher of water and a soft, clean towel arranged beside the flowers. Soledad gestured to the silver-backed brushes on the dressing table and then withdrew slowly, closing the door behind her.

  John almost rubbed his hands together. ‘God, what class,’ he said, ‘what style, and in a God-forsaken place like Mexico.’

  Quickly he washed his face and hands in the scented water, brushed his hair and tried to remove at least the top layer of dust from his clothes. Satisfied with his appearance, he took the towel and wiped it across the toes of his boots, reflecting, when he saw the dirt transferred to the towel, that only a servant would see it and the servant’s opinion of her master’s honoured guest did not matter. He dropped the towel on the floor and returned to the large hall, to find the tableau hardly changed since he had left it. A peasant woman in a richly embroidered blouse and skirt brought him a glass of sherry. The glass was of fine crystal, and the sherry was subtler and smoother than anything he had ever drunk.

  ‘My daughter will join us when her brother is ready, Mr Cameron,’ said the don in his perfect English. ‘She is a very silly little girl and I should beat her – so say her brothers. Well, except for Alvaro, who takes her side always.’

  John met the measuring glance of the youngest of the brothers, but his smile was not returned. Don Alvaro’s softness was reserved for his sister.

  ‘Your daughter is enchanting, padrón.’

  ‘And very foolish. My first thought when Jaime’ – he gestured to his second son – ‘told me of her indiscretions was to send her back to her convent. I kept her here because I am an old man, and I had sorely missed her laughter for three long years.’

  ‘You were right, Don Alejandro,’ said John.

  ‘I was wrong, Mr Cameron,’ said the old man and his voice bit with the accuracy of a rattlesnake, ‘but I do not make the same mistake twice. My daughter is spoiled and headstrong.’ John almost winced at the contempt in the voice as he continued. ‘She says she will marry you, Señor Cameron. I have brought you here to renounce her within her hearing, and before me and my sons.’

  Before John could answer, there was a flutter of skirts and a sound of running footsteps, like castanets, on the cold tiles of the floor. Lucia freed herself from her brother’s arm and threw herself at John.

  ‘No, Papa, I will not give him up. You may do as you wish.’

  ‘Foolish child,’ said the don coldly. ‘But come, Mr Cameron, we are civilized people, and José Luis tells me you are a connoisseur of fine wines. We will dine. Remember your breeding, Lucia, or Jaime will be forced to take you upstairs to your nurse.’

  Lucia flounced over to her brother Alvaro and pouted at Jaime and José Luis. Her father smiled.

  ‘She is a child pretending to be an adult, Mr Cameron, and not yet worth the regard of any real man. And no real man, of course, would dally with a young girl in the grounds of a mission, and assuredly not on her father’s land – and never against her father’s wishes.’

  John coloured furiously. Damn these aristocrats. What made his daughter so special? All women were the same, everywhere. How much did the don know? I could tell you a thing or two about your precious, innocent little daughter, my oh-so-patronizing señor. Wisely, however, John decided to say nothing, but to follow his host into a large dining room where a huge, carved wooden table stood flanked by twenty superbly carved chairs. There was fine plate on the table and the glasses at each place were of the finest crystal.

  ‘We have selected a French meal in your honour, Mr Cameron. I am told that you have spent some time in France and, as you no doubt know, France and Mexico share a cultural heritage.’

  John smiled, man to man – naturally he, as a man of the world, was familiar with Mexico�
��s history. No need for the don to know that it was a chance conversation with Pedro that had taught him all he knew. What did trouble John was the fact that his past seemed to be an open book to his host. What else had this haughty man learned?

  The meal was superb and the wines that accompanied each course better than any John had ever tasted. As one glass followed another, John relaxed. What a set-up. Thank God that his late lamented father had insisted on a divorce. If the old fool could see me now, thought John, a grandee among grandees. I hope you’re looking on with envy, he said to the memory of Jock Cameron.

  Don Alejandro’s cold voice cut through John’s warm thoughts. ‘It is time to banish Lucia to her duenna, Señor, so that we may enjoy our cigars, like the men of the world we are.’ He stood up and walked to his daughter’s chair. ‘I ask you now, in her hearing, to say that you have realized that the gulf between you – of culture, education and breeding – is too large to be bridged.’

  John choked on his wine. What had gone wrong? A few seconds ago everything had been going swimmingly. He recovered and looked up. Lucia was staring at him, her eyes wide in terror. How beautiful she was. He remembered her boldness tempered by her innocence and shyness, her sweetness, her passionate response. A few weeks ago he had been praying that he would soon be out of her life for ever. Now he felt that he could not give her up. Perhaps it was time to settle down again.

  ‘I cannot, Don Alejandro. Your daughter has entered my blood like a drug.’

  Don José Luis sprang to his feet, a knife in his hand. ‘Easy to let her out, gringo.’

  ‘No, no!’ It was Lucia. She jumped to her feet, her yellow skirts flying around her ankles like a host of exotic butterflies. She threw herself at her brother’s chest and he held her easily and gently, as he would have trapped the butterflies.

  ‘Little vixen,’ he said. ‘This foreigner is not worth your little finger. I will cut his fingers off, one by one, and give them to you to play with.’

  ‘Silence.’ The cold voice cut through the excited cries. ‘Such melodrama, José Luis. We do not wish to frighten Mr Cameron. Listen to me, señor. Never will I give permission for my daughter to marry you. I would rather return her to her convent and have her take the veil.’

  ‘No, Papa, no,’ cried Lucia. ‘I must marry him. I have . . . we have . . .’ She stopped, confused, unable to meet her father’s eyes.

  ‘I know what you have done, Lucia,’ said the don and his voice was like ice.

  Lucia looked at him and at John, then she put both of her beautiful little hands on her stomach.

  ‘No, Papa. It’s too late.’

  Don Alejandro stood up and for just one fatal moment he looked like a very old man. Then the colour returned to his face. He took his daughter from her brother’s arms and looked at her very gently.

  ‘Is this true, Lucia, or a story?’ But he could not doubt what the girl was too terrified to tell him. ‘So,’ he said sadly and he turned away. Lucia relaxed against her brother, who held her again. The padrón walked to his high, carved chair and sat down and for some time no one spoke.

  Then at last Don Alejandro looked up and a wordless communication passed between him and his eldest son. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I thought we were to have a funeral tonight, but instead we are to have a wedding. Jaime, go to the mission for a priest. Alvaro, take your sister to her duenna and have her dressed in her prettiest gown. And, José Luis, take Mr Cameron upstairs and find him something decent to wear . . . for his wedding clothes. I will stay here and make the arrangements.’

  John smiled. He had not expected the don to capitulate quite so quickly. He was to marry Lucia. He had never really believed in his wildest dreams that he would be allowed to marry her. He was not quite sure, however, that he did in fact want to marry her; she was so young. Another young girl’s face came into his head and he dismissed it. So what if Lucia was even younger than his own daughter? He banished the thought. She was beautiful and very, very wealthy. He would be a faithful husband, at least until she became fat like the peasant women who had waited at table. He smiled and followed the silent figure of Don José Luis.

  He did not see the look of hatred and calculating cruelty on the face of the man who had just ordered his wedding.

  This time José Luis led John up one flight of stairs to another bedroom, even more ornately furnished than the first one. It felt as if someone lived there and since the wardrobe, when opened, revealed rows of hanging clothes, John decided that it was probably José Luis’s own room. The young don rifled through the suits and eventually selected one, which he threw on the bed. He went to the dresser and found shirt, tie and cufflinks, and then from another wardrobe he withdrew a pair of hand-made leather shoes.

  ‘Try these,’ he said coldly. ‘I will wait outside, unless you would like me to play valet.’

  John decided correctly that the last remark was facetious, and he laughed and began to peel off his clothes.

  The shirt and suit fitted surprisingly well, but the shoes, although beautifully soft, were perhaps a little too narrow for perfect comfort.

  ‘Their cobbler will soon get my size right,’ he said to himself, as he took one last, admiring look at himself in the mirror.

  Then he went out and joined the young man who was about to become his brother-in-law and together they walked down the wide staircase.

  John Cameron had never seen anyone more beautiful than Lucia Alcantarilla in her wedding gown. It was a high-necked white lace gown that contoured her young figure so perfectly that it could have been sewn upon her form. A necklace of pearls the size of pheasant’s eggs hung around her neck, and there were more pearls in her ears and entwined in her glossy black curls. In her hand she held a crucifix formed of yet more pearls and tiny, perfect diamonds. Through the exquisite matching lace mantilla that covered her head John could see her eyes shining like the diamonds in her hands.

  ‘I have no ring,’ he had gasped to his prospective brother-in-law, who had wordlessly handed him a thick gold band set with dark-green emeralds.

  ‘Her mother’s,’ said Don José Luis and his eyes had glitered, not like the diamonds, but like the eyes of a snake.

  I am not young Joseph’s favourite relative, thought John, trying to shake off the cold feeling at the nape of his neck.

  It was not the happiest of weddings. Only the bride was smiling. The priest from the mission conducted the service as if he could not wait to get back to his cell to fall upon his knees in prayer. Don Alejandro was grim-faced as he gave his daughter in holy matrimony, and his sons knelt with bowed heads and made automatic responses to the prayers.

  ‘You will wish to change, Lucia,’ said Don Alejandro at the end of the service. ‘The cooks are preparing a feast: you have plenty of time. José Luis will take Juan to his room to rest until you are ready. José. You have the room arranged, with everything as I ordered?’

  ‘Si, Papa. Everything is perfect for him.’

  Don Alejandro took his daughter’s hands in his and looked down at the winking emeralds on her finger. ‘Go with your nurse and take off your mama’s dress. You look very beautiful, Ninita, almost as pretty as Mama.’

  Lucia pouted, threw her brand-new husband a kiss, lifted her lace skirts and hurried up the staircase, the lace mantilla floating around her shoulders.

  ‘Juan,’ said Don José Luis and pointed to the staircase.

  John went with the young don and the two men walked side by side to the first turn of the stairs. They stopped and looked back. The padrón was standing, his other sons beside him, motionless, silent.

  John shrugged. It would take time, but he would win them round.

  Don José Luis led him down another corridor to a room with magnificently carved double doors.

  ‘My father keeps this room for very special guests, Juan,’ said José Luis. ‘I trust you will be comfortable.’

  ‘Is this the bridal suite? Will my wife join me here?’ John refused to be intimidated.


  ‘Dona Lucia’s rooms are on the other side of the house. Please, allow me to open the door for you. See, it is a beautiful room, no?’

  John stepped inside the door, and immediately José Luis closed it behind him and John was alone. The room was sombrely furnished with heavy Spanish furniture, but there was an embroidered red satin cover on the huge bed and coiled in the middle of the bedspread . . .

  John gasped and turned desperately, his hands clawing at the door handle but although it turned, the door did not open. He had been locked in.

  ‘José, Don José Luis, for God’s sake,’ he whimpered as he turned again to look at the bed. ‘For Lucia’s sake. Help me.’

  ‘It is for la dama’s sake, swine,’ came the cold voice from the other side of the door. ‘You think to despoil the jewel of the Alcantarillas. May you rot in hell.’

  There was the sound of scuffling, a strange rattling, then silence followed by a scream that soared around the wooden rafters and died away, as Don José Luis unlocked the door and, without even looking in, turned and walked away.

  16

  AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK ON 11TH November 1918 Tam Sinclair was still with his regiment in France. His heart was, however, in a wee flat up a close in one of the less salubrious areas of Dundee.

  It’s over, Nellie, it’s over, his heart sang across the miles, and gin somebody tells the laddies over there who are still shooting at yours truly to stop, I’ll be coming back to you, to you and wee Jimmy.

  There was a defiant hail of bullets over his head and he ducked automatically to avoid them.

  ‘Haven’t you got a home to go to, Fritz?’ he yelled, as soon as he could stand up again, across the mud. ‘I’ve a girl and a bairn waitin’ for me.’