by Tom Murphy
It had always been in Lily’s mind to quit whoring the instant she had earned enough to support herself and little Katie. Now that time had come. In her brief career as the madam and mistress and half-owner of the Fleur de Lis, the Fleur de Lis had coined money. Lily had banked nearly every penny of her own fees, plus half of the earnings of the other girls. Now more than half a million dollars sat in her account at Wells Fargo, earning enough interest to keep them in comfort. And when they sold the place, it would bring big money—millions, probably. And the farm itself would generate a living after a time, for Lily intended to do the most serious and up-to-date kind of farming, and fresh produce ever brought a premium price in San Francisco.
I will come here away from the scorn of the town, thought Lily as the Tiburon shore drew nearer. I will come here away from the dangerous looks in the eyes of men and the revulsion in the eyes of their women. I’ll come here with Katie, and we’ll make a whole new world, all our own, where we will be happy all our days and all our nights forever.
The slender bow of Stanford’s new plaything headed directly north across the choppy bay, cutting the waves like butter.
The wind defied the encircling hills, and Lily had the feel of adventure again. It was almost like being back on board the Eurydice. Almost, but what a difference! What a poor, thin, frightened creature she’d been then, Jack Wallingford’s hush money burning a hole in her pocket and in her soul, a girl filled with subtle dreads and unformed hopes.
She could look back on that other Lily now and smile indulgently.
But it had been dicey. It had been a very narrow thing, the fine sharp-honed edge between life and death, between good luck and bad. I had so little to lose, and gained so much.
It was a big sloop, and Stanford had two crewmen to help him sail her. He’d wanted to name her the Lily, but Lily would have none of that.
She looked back over her shoulder to the seven hills of San Francisco. The nearest was Rincon Hill, and on it, squatting proudly like some fat king, was the big gray-shingled, whitetrimmed mansion that Stanford had built for his wife. Mamie Dickinson’s probably up there right now with a spyglass or—more likely!—a mortar or a cannon. Mamie Dickinson, self-appointed doyenne of San Francisco society, moral avenger of all the affronted matrons whose dignity was threatened by Lily and her kind. Mamie Dickinson, whose lofty moral position would not earn her the love of the man she married, nor grow the missing chin. Lily had long since left off fretting about the Mamie Dickinsons of the world, for nothing they could say or do could make her feel more shame or regret than she felt already.
The sloop edged in past Sausalito and entered the small harbor at Tiburon. A horse-drawn trap, she knew, would meet them there and drive them the eight or so miles north to the hacienda where Diego Velasquez waited.
It was scrubby land for the main part, hills laced with sand and low bushes, just like the San Francisco side of the bay. But once the rickety trap hauled them up over the first low hills, the character of the landscape changed, and for the better.
The land here was uncultivated still, as Lily knew it would be. But the richness of it was obvious in the green of the wild grasses and the luxuriance of the live oaks and pines and eucalyptus groves with their strange spicy aroma. How empty it all was, and wild. And how very promising.
They trotted past a rude stone marker. “The hacienda,” Stanford said, pointing to the marker, “starts about here.”
Lily said nothing, but felt a quickening in her pulse, a flush on her cheek. Sure, it’s not much to look at the way it is, but what it can be!
They drove for two hours on a dirt track through emptiness before the first decaying outbuildings announced the existence of the ranch itself. It took Lily’s breath away, first for the splendor of the setting, then for the sad state of ruin that had come on the beautiful old buildings.
Adobe lasts almost forever if it is properly kept up and continually whitewashed and mended. What Lily saw at the old Velasquez place was a near-ruin. Roofless sheds might once have held chickens or small animals. A very large stable, a long colonnade of big arches, all but three of them in ruins now, and stalls for fifty horses.
“Pure Arabians, they were,” said Stanford. “They moved like the wind itself, Lily, and were priceless. Or, at any rate, the old man would never sell them, just kept them for his own pleasure.”
“How did he lose it?”
“The same old story. A fine proud man, but never a businessman. Never had to be. Thought the money would just go on forever, as it always had done. But then everything went bad for the Velasquez family. The old man’s brother—older brother—who was the rightful heir, got himself killed in a duel. The son ran off and came to no good, worse than no good—Tiberio’s a menace, a real killer, not just another wild kid. And it all fell to old Tio Diego, who wasn’t ready to handle the situation. So it’s mortgaged now, and in bad repair, just look around you, and he’s sold off the Arabians, what few were left, and some of the furniture, and now all he wants is to go back to Spain and forget all this.”
“As if you could have all this and just forget it. Poor man.”
“He may not be so poor after he gets finished with you, my dear.”
“I’ll pay fair.”
“I’m sure you will, and in gold.”
“Is it his to sell? Doesn’t the son—the bandit—have some right to the place?”
“Tiberio Velasquez is wanted for five murders at the very least, Lily. He has no rights whatsoever, under Mexican law or our own. And now that we’re a state, officially, there can be no problem about that.”
Lily had too much Irish in her, and too intimate an acquaintance with the fickleness of luck, to believe that this land and all it represented could ever truly be hers. She would try, and make a fair offer, but to own these hills, this house, that piece of sky? Heaven itself could offer no better, for truly the Velasquez place was a heaven on earth, or could be. She paused for a moment, soaking up the stillness, letting her eyes wander over the hills with a building desire, a need so intense it scared her. I look at these hills as though they were Brooks Chaffee himself, for aren’t they a dream, too, just as much as he was? But even as she thought it, Lily knew that this part of her dream was attainable, to own this land or some land like it, whereas her feeling for Brooks had no more reality than a sunbeam, to warm her heart in the flash of an instant, then vanish forever with the first passing cloud.
When she spoke, it was in a reverent whisper. “The land is very beautiful.”
The Velasquez hacienda’s main house was in slightly better condition than its outbuildings, but the house was still a pathetic ghost of what it must once have been. Just looking at the missing roof tiles, the sagging balconies, the door that didn’t hang quite straight, and the windows carelessly patched with wood where glass had once been made Lily sad for the old man who’d struggled for years to keep the place together.
Nothing stirred in the dusty courtyard as they climbed down from the trap.
Stanford knocked with the huge black iron knocker that made the ancient door rattle on its hinges.
There was total silence for a few minutes. A dog barked, high on the hill behind the main house. They could hear the wind conversing with the trees. There was a shuffling sound, then a grating, creaking noise as a rusty bolt slid painfully out of its hole. The door opened slowly, by fractions of inches, to reveal a tiny white-haired man, beautifully dressed in a style that Lily had seen once or twice in old pictures. The man bowed graciously, smiled a vague, unfocused smile, and beckoned them to come in. They followed him in silence. The front door opened onto a large reception hall that stood absolutely empty, two stories tall, flanked by a double staircase in heavily turned dark wood. The floor was pale terracotta tiles, their edges softened by time, still faintly gleaming in the shaded light. It was a mournful sight, but beautiful. Lily could instantly see what might be made of such a fine space, given some new paint and sunlight and the proper furnishin
gs. Immediately she imagined little Kate playing here. It would be a palace to Kate after the tiny Baker farmhouse. Indeed, it seemed a palace to Lily herself.
The tiny man led them down a dark hallway paved with the same soft tiles. Then he stopped, bowed, and directed them toward a library whose door stood open.
It was a large, high-ceilinged room lined with dark bookshelves. The shelves were all empty, and so was the room, but for one huge trestle table that obviously served as a desk. Behind this desk was a great high-backed chair covered in fraying brocade. In the chair was a man. He was every bit as small as his servant, and equally distinguished-looking. In fact, Lily thought with a sudden irrepressible mirth, they could have been brothers. The little man nodded and gestured for them to sit down in the two primitive chairs that were the room’s only other furniture.
“Buenas tardes, Señor Dickinson, señora.” His voice was like a whisper from the past, a ghost’s voice.
Stanford carried on the conversation in fluent Spanish, for Lily herself had only a few words of that soft tongue. They talked, and Stanford nodded wisely, and the old man produced a document that was both a map and a deed, very old it was, hundreds of years old, and drawn on yellowed parchment, sealed with deep green wax, tied with a ribbon that must once have been red. It was the original land grant, signed by the king of Spain! There was more talk, more nodding and smiling, more questions. After about forty-five minutes that seemed like a week, Lily found herself agreeing to purchase 6,783 acres, all of the original Velasquez grant, for one hundred thousand dollars. Subject, naturally, to certification by the proper authorities in the county and in San Francisco.
It was over in an instant, this great, enormous deed that would change Lily’s life forever. Stanford wrote a few words in Spanish, the old man signed underneath them, and then Lily. A letter of agreement, prior to signing the actual transfer of deed. But Lily knew that this was the crucial document, for the old man’s word was implacably good. She signed effortlessly, then looked down at the little paper and felt herself trembling. It was happening, then! No angels sang, nor devils appeared in puffs of smoke. Yet with this simple stroke of her pen Lily certified all the dreams that had carried her through the pain and inner shame of the last few years. She could never erase the Fleur de Lis, nor Sophie’s house, nor Jack Wallingford’s bedroom in the mansion on Fifth Avenue. But somehow, with this paper, on this great ranch, Lily felt for the first time in all her life that her fate was in her own hands at last. It was a feeling so new and awesome that she had no concept of how to deal with it.
She looked at Stanford as if seeing him for the first time, and smiled. He reached out and squeezed her hand. She turned her eyes to the old man; he, too, nodded slightly, a nobleman’s gesture of recognition, and he smiled.
There was a slithering noise behind them then, and the old servant glided into the room with a small silver tray. On the tray were three glasses of rare old sherry. None of the glasses matched, but each was very fine.
The old man lifted his glass. “Salud. Y buena suerte, Señora Lily.”
“Gracias,” she replied, smiling, for Lily caught the twinkle in the old man’s eye, and thought: Why, the old devil knows precisely who I am, and thinks it’s funny. And I’ll bet anything he was quite the ladies’ man in his day. She sipped her sherry, which was soft and mellow as old satin.
As they drove back to Tiburon, Lily could scarcely believe her luck. She had left the old man a bank draft for a deposit, and he had given her the land-grant deed. There would be weeks of detail work before the thing was truly official, but Stanford had assured her that Diego was absolutely a man of his word, and everything she had seen at the hacienda led her to agree.
“Look,” said Stanford, pointing to the far hills. “It’s all yours, Lily. Lily’s hills, Lily’s valleys, trees, house…”
“Don’t, pray, forget Lily’s sky and God and all his angels, Stanford. After all, I don’t own the place yet.”
“But aren’t you pleased?”
“Pleased hardly covers it. ‘Overjoyed,’ that might do. It’s what I have wanted all these years, to the bottom of my heart. It’s a new life for me, and I count the hours until it begins for real.”
31
Lily’s life dissolved into a frenzy of planning. It was only the good counsel of Stanford Dickinson that kept her from selling out of the Fleur de Lis at once and moving onto the ranch. He reasoned with her, and she saw the sense in what he said: the ranch buildings must first be restored, an overseer found, workers hired, land cleared, plantings considered. It would be at least a year before the place was even habitable. And perhaps another year before the ranch was a going concern. Stanford advised her to wait until then.
Still, Lily burned for it and rushed as best she could to speed the day when she could leave the Fleur de Lis forever. Lily went out to the Baker farm and made Fred and Mary a handsome offer, for she liked them well, and having Fred as her overseer would make the transition easier for Katie. Lily offered Fred a generous salary and five percent of all profits. He accepted on the spot, and Lily felt the world could hardly contain her happiness.
Lily looked at the Fleur de Lis as her prison now, and if it was a prison of her own devising, knowing this diminished her desire to escape it not one whit. She took no customers now, but for Stanford, and this from gratitude, and at Stanford’s suggestion found an accountant named Rufus Holden to manage the books of the Fleur de Lis and to keep an eye on Fergy. Subtle feelers were put out regarding the possibility of selling the Fleur de Lis, and here, too, Lily accepted Stanford’s advice, to bide her time and hold out for the best price. Still, she paced the floors and counted the hours. Stanford’s sloop was put into such regular service, ferrying Lily back and forth across the bay, that he jokingly called it “Lily’s Navy,” and Lily herself began considering the purchase of some sort of boat. Malone Produce, Incorporated, was now a fact, all properly drawn up and witnessed. Fergy laughed at her suggestion that he come in as a partner, but Lily made him one in any case, for blood was blood and Fergy was all she had in this world besides Kate.
Her visits with Katie were touched with a special poignance now. The girl was four, bright as a penny, and convinced the Bakers were her parents. Katie was happy, and healthy, and seemed to love Aunt Lily, and this was enough for the moment. God in heaven knows I did what I could, and soon will do more, Lily told herself, watching the child, but it won’t be an easy thing, telling her the truth, when the time comes, and if she ever finds out what I have been, that may be the end of it.
Lily’s withdrawal from active whoring only served to feed the growing legend of the fabulous Lily Cigar. A silver king offered her fifty thousand dollars for one night, and she refused, and before dawn the fifty had grown in rumor to a hundred, and another facet had been added to the glittering myth, unasked for, unwanted, but always present, looming like a thundercloud over all her plans. For some time now Lily had gone out into the town only seldom, hating as she did the unabashed desire in the stares of the men and the open scorn of the respectable ladies. Shopkeepers sent things to her at the Fleur de Lis, dressmakers came, and she still sewed for herself from time to time. She went out with Stanford and to see Katie, and now, to the ranch. But the simple pleasure of stepping out of her own front door for a breath of air was all but unknown to Lily, and she longed for the freedom she knew she must find on her own little kingdom across the bay.
In the meantime, the Bakers and Katie were living on the new ranch, and work was going forward quickly. Soon, Lily prayed with every passing day, please, God, let it be soon!
The smile came hard to Brooks Chaffee’s handsome face. It wasn’t his style to fake emotions, but he did it now as he walked down the blue-carpeted, mahogany-railed stairs of his town house on West Eleventh Street in New York. At the bottom of the stairs was the drawing room, and in it was a large and brilliantly decorated Christmas tree. And Caroline. Caroline would be there, gowned in the very height of fashion, he
r skin glowing, her eyes sparkling, the ruby pendant he’d given her for their anniversary making a spot of fire against the creamy skin of her bosom. As if more fire were needed, when it came to him and Caroline!
But something was wrong this Christmas of 1860, and Brooks wasn’t sure what it was, or how to make it better.
So he fixed a smile on his face and entered the drawing room and kissed Caroline as she stood by the fire, rearranging an ornament on the black marble mantelpiece.
“You are looking very damn beautiful, Caroline.”
She half-turned her fine dark head, laughing. “It’s the company I keep.”
“How many are we expecting?”
Caroline was giving one of her famous little suppers, sparkling, witty, glamorous occasions at which her husband sometimes felt a bit like part of the furniture, so little did he have in common with her fast-living artistic crowd.
“An even dozen. So many people must be with their families this time of year.”
“Speaking of this time of year, Merry Christmas, my darling.”
He handed her the little box, plain blue leather, unwrapped. Caroline said nothing, but took the thing and opened it. Her eyes said it all. It was a dull gold ring set with one large cabochon ruby surrounded by small pavé diamonds, a drop of blood on a lake of ice. She slipped it onto her finger, smiled, and kissed him again.
