CHAPTER 7
Though Rosemary’s fluency in Spanish increased so that she did not miss conversing in her native tongue as much, she nevertheless yearned for female companionship. In the Castle there was only old Consuela and the staff of boys and girls, of which there seemed to be a constant turnover. And in the village the people held her in such a deep respect that it was impossible to converse with them as an equal. At her approach the men removed their hats and the women humbly dropped their gazes.
So the arrival of Dona Margarita Sanchez y Chavez marked a vast improvement in Rosemary’s life. Rita, as Rosemary came to call the woman three years older than she, was the wife of the much older Jiraldo Sanchez y Chavez, a slab-like Spanish hidalgo whose grandfather had been awarded a community land grant by Spain’s king. Not quite a hundred and thirty miles to the northeast, the Sanchez land grant was much smaller than Cambria.
As patron, Don Jiraldo could control by influence and manipulation the vote of his people, and lately both he and Stephen had developed an intense interest in the Territory’s growing political awareness and especially in the power wielded by the Republican Party. Therefore, once or twice a month, Don Jiraldo and Rita made the journey to Cambria, staying over several nights at the Castle.
And while Don Jiraldo and Stephen retired to Stephen’s offices to gamble and discuss the problems of nesters and the evils of cattle, Rita entertained Rosemary with gossip of the Territory. New Mexico’s population was so small that any happening of importance was flashed from mouth to mouth as quickly as any message over telegraph wires.
"Ahh, Rosita,” Rita said one evening when they were alone in the sitting room that Rosemary had converted to her office. "Always about others I have talked. This time it is about myself I wish to share.”
The petite woman ceased rocking and leaned forward, her small hands clasped before her lips. "Tonight at cena I wish you to rejoice with us. For five years now I have been childless. Finally I am to bear Jiraldo a child, gracias a Dios!”
Rosemary stifled her envy and hugged her friend with felicitation. In the four months of marriage Stephen had without fail questioned her about her menses.
"Have you had your flux?” he would ask her as he cleansed himself of his lovemaking before taking his leave.
And as shocking and painful as Stephen’s bluntness was, she found it even more painful to admit she was not with child. A child was what Stephen wanted most, the only thing he lacked. The only thing she could give him.
The Christmas had season arrived, bringing with it the cold winds whistling down out of the blue mountains to the northwest. It also brought roomfuls of guests, most of them from Santa Fe to stay through the Novena, the series of nine daily masses lasting from the sixteenth of December through Christmas. Stephen was preoccupied with the male guests, discussing politics, ranching, and the increasing Indian forays; Rosemary, with Rita’s aid, coped with the last-minute dinner preparations.
Although mutton and an occasional beef were the main staple in New Mexican households, Stephen suggested she serve roasted venison Christmas Eve. "Father Felipe shall be here from Las Vegas to say the Novena,” he told her, "and he has a liking for the venison’s wild taste. Talk to Lario about supplying us with two or three deer.”
She was tempted to send one of the little boys to deliver Stephen’s request. But annoyed by her irrational fear of Indians, and especially of Lario it seemed, she instead sent the Indian caporal a message that she wished to see him in her office. As she waited for him, she wished that Rita were with her rather than taking a siesta. Perhaps, Rosemary hoped, Lario would be away at one of the three ranches.
It was Lario who actually took care of the day-to-day details of running Cambria . . . from seeing that corral fences were mended to handling the curly-haired gunslingers, instructing them which ranges they would ride in protection . . . from the rough job of breaking in newly captured mustangs to the delicate, painstaking work of silver-smithing.
He was something of an enigma to her — a fairly well-educated man by frontier standards yet still superstitious enough, she learned, to wear as an amulet the sacred turquoise stone which was set in his silver bracelet. He was soft-spoken with measured movements that equaled the grace of a woman. Yet she had once watched from her office window as he mastered a particularly vicious mustang in one of the corrals encircled by his wranglers.
There came the jingle of spur’s rowels on the stairs, and she felt the too-familiar tightening in her stomach. She dipped her pen in the secretary’s inkwell and calmly forced her mind to the ledger’s list of names —t heir purchases and what they had traded in return. One plow, her mind read . . . for a pack of beaver pelts. Pair of boots . . . three Apache scalps.
"Senora?”
She jumped in spite of herself. The pen dropped from her fingers and rolled off onto the floor. "Aye, Lario,” she replied sharply, angry at her clumsiness. "I need—would it be . . .” Her voice was muffled as she leaned to pick up the pen.
His dark hand met her pale one. She froze. Her gaze lifted to meet the deep-set eagle eyes. For the first time she noticed how deeply black they were, without any other color to tint them—blacker even than Stephen’s which had the slight shade of coal-dust gray to lend them color. One could drown in their inky depths, she thought.
He was very still, scarcely moving, watching her with the intensity of a predator. Suddenly her office seemed terribly small. It was agonizing to draw a breath, and she felt lightheaded.
At that moment he handed her the pen and rose. Not a trace of emotion showed in the eyes that were crinkled with weather lines — the only lines in the otherwise smoothly planed brown face. "You needed something, Senora?”
Anxious to be free of his overpowering presence, she tumbled out her request. “There will be many guests for Christmas dinner, Lario. Would it be possible for you to slay two deer — for Consuela to roast?”
"I will have venado for you by morning, Senora.” He turned to go but at the door stepped aside for Rita, murmuring in a voice that was faintly provocative, "Buenos dias.”
She flashed coquettish eyes up at him, and when he had left, she rolled them and shook out her hand, as if her fingertips burned. "This Lario, he is a very handsome man — even I take notice and compare him with my husband who has the body of a wet noodle!”
Rosemary laughed at the woman’s refreshing candor, and the tension eased from her.
Rita, who was now large with advancing pregnancy, threw up her hands, saying, "I give up — I cannot rest with that Gila monster down the hall screeching for something every other minute!”
She knew the "monster” Rita referred to was Hilda Goldman. As the wife of Stephen’s partner, she had expected the best guest rooms in the Castle, but Rosemary had given them to Governor Caden and Clara and Libby. As it was, the Goldmans occupied rooms several doors down from Don Jiraldo — and this, Rosemary discovered, was a social error; for the German woman, who was in her late forties and childless, was fiercely jealous of Rita’s vivacious personality and let Rosemary know she would not associate with the Sanchez y Chavez couple, even if they were of aristocratic Spanish blood.
As the others waited for the couple to appear downstairs for the Novena, Hilda declared to Libby, who sat languidly fanning herself, "The Mexicans are only a little better than the Indians!”
Father Felipe’s tonsured head broke out in perspiration, and Governor Caden tugged at his white goatee to cover his embarrassment. Hilda’s husband, a pink little man, grew beet red and slammed his brandy glass down, sloshing the liquor. "Dumkopt! It’s depending on Sanchez we are to pull the votes from his — ” He broke off, seeing Stephen’s frown.
"Pardon us, Father,” Stephen said. "Politics should never be mixed with religion.”
The fact that Stephen even bothered to observe religious traditions amazed Rosemary, for he had written her, "Heaven and hell dinna exist for me. Whether I fail or succeed, me dear, will not depend on relics or rosari
es!”
Yet he had agreed to a Catholic wedding, and Rosemary could only feel a deep sense of gratitude toward him. He had been good to her in all ways, and it was with much pleasure that she looked forward to the end of the Christmas Eve dinner. Then all the occupants of the Castle, the guests as well as the servants and their families, would assemble at the adobe chapel for the traditional distribution of gifts to the large number of Indian and Mexican families who worked for Stephen Rhodes, el patron.
Afterward she and Stephen would be alone, and she could give him her gift.
When the dark onion soup, fruit compote, and baked squash had been consumed along with the roast venison and stewed mutton, the guests braved the cold weather to descend to the village. Soft snowflakes drifted down on them to enhance the magic of Christmas Eve.
Farolitos, small bonfires of dry, pitchy wood, outlined the drive, which was swept smooth daily, and lit the way to the chapel. There was laughter and singing, for Stephen’s excellent cherry brandy had done more than warm the blood and ease the digestion.
Behind Father Felipe, Rosemary, and Stephen, Rita could be heard singing a merry carol with Governor Caden and several other guests. Libby, with no available men to court her, walked with her mother and Hilda. All three looked as grim as funeral attendants. Louis and Jiraldo, who was hobbling along with the aid of his cane, brought up the procession’s rear.
The people who could not crowd inside the packed chapel stood deferentially aside for Stephen and Rosemary to pass by. In the chapel’s small room everyone stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting in gay anticipation for the arrival of the good padre and El Patron and su esposa.
Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and excitement, and she welcomed the warmth of the press of people who were dressed in their best clothes. Beneath a white velvet cape she wore her best—a taffeta gown of apple green, the basque of which was almost too small for her now.
Stephen moved onto the altar’s dais and wished everyone a merry Christmas in Spanish, telling them that as a gift from the Castle each family was to receive a calf and lamb. After the applause and cheering had subsided, he pulled her to his side. From his brocaded waistcoat pocket he produced an object wrapped in white paper.
"For La Patrona,” he said. "Open it.”
"Oh!” she breathed, when she saw the exquisite piece of jewelry. The soft lines of silver encompassed four perfect turquoise stones.
"I wanted to have a sidesaddle made for you,” Stephen said, "but Lario suggested you might be preferring the bracelet.”
"Thank you, Stephen,” she said, but her gaze slid past him to Lario, who stood in the room’s far comer.
“You mentioned having a gift for me?” Stephen prompted after she shyly kissed him on the cheek and the crowd once again erupted in cheers.
"Aye,” she said hesitantly. "But not now. Not before—” Her gaze flickered to the multitude of faces—Miguel, Consuela, Pedro, all the villagers she was coming to know.
"But now be the perfect time,” Stephen said. "It emphasizes the solidarity of Cambria and its traditions.”
Trapped, her glance switched from Stephen to the expectant faces around them. "I — we — are to have a child early next summer.”
CHAPTER 8
As Rosemary went about her daily duties, she often marveled that Stephen could be so certain she carried a son. She hoped the child would bring them even closer, that she would come to better understand the man she married. But although Stephen was overjoyed about the coming child and almost overly solicitous about her health, checking to see that she ate properly and felt well, Rosemary saw no more of him than before. In fact, less; for he came no more to her bed at night.
And she winced guiltily when she realized she was relieved. Then, of course, as her flat stomach gradually rounded, she was glad Stephen did not see her misshapen ugliness.
"You must get more exercise, Rosemary,” he said one morning at breakfast. "You look pale.”
She set down her cup of chocolate. She sorely missed English tea and thought she would never acquire a taste for the bitter coffee. "The weather has been so cold lately.”
"I’ll have Lario hitch up the buckboard and take you for a ride. A little sun will do you good.”
"I’d really rather not,” she protested. "There’s so much to —”
"Nonsense!” Stephen said, rising. "We’ve plenty of help here. Our first concern be the baby’s health. Besides, spring has come to the prairie. You’ll enjoy the ride.”
Instantly the newest serving girl, the Arapaho child Chela, appeared with Stephen’s hat. "It’s sorry I am you will be missing the constitutional convention, dear. But I should return from Santa Fe as soon as we’ve a delegate elected—within a fortnight I should say.” He kissed her on the cheek and took his hat from Chela, tweaking the cherubic Indian girl on the chin.
Desolately Rosemary looked after Stephen’s back. She desperately wanted to go with him. It had been so long, since Christmas, that she had talked with anyone other than to exchange a few pleasantries with the villagers who, because of their devotion to her, were terribly shy in her presence.
By now Rita would have had her baby, and Rosemary could only hope that Stephen would bring her back some word about the Sanchez household. She sighed and rose from her untouched food. She would have to consign herself to spending the next few days knitting clothing for the baby, due now in less than three months.
She stationed herself in the rocking chair before her office window. To her it was the most beautiful view from the Castle. The window faced the southwest, taking in the village below with the undulating emerald prairie that stretched out beyond the Pecos’s bend. To the far west, below the horny backbone of the mountains, the firs and spruces were putting on their blue-green coats.
But it was the ugly cottonwood tree at the edge of the Castle’s knoll that always snapped up her attention. Other than the shrubby tamarisks and poplars that marked the Pecos’s course it was the only tree for mile upon mile. Old and twisted, its main trunk burnt by lightning, it was nevertheless magnificent. Its budding branches could offer shade to a hundred people or more. There was something about its strength that attracted her so that in the previous summer’s hotter days she often had sought out its shade to read.
It was nearly mid-afternoon, when the spring sunshine flooded her office, that a girl came to tell her that Lario waited outside with the buckboard to take her for a ride. Twice she dropped a stitch while trying to decide whether to go. Lario was only following orders, but she knew, big as she was, she would feel more awkward than ever with him. Finally she jammed her needles away. She had to get outside.
Despite the cool temperature, the sunshine felt warm, and she stood on the veranda steps and tilted her face up to receive the sun’s full radiance. She felt him watching her from the wagon. She seemed to have developed an unnatural instinct about him. "Where should you like to go, Senora?”
She heard the deliberately provocative edge to his voice. Turning her gaze on him, she frowned, refusing to quail. His gaze held a smoky darkness. She jerked her woolen shawl about her. "Where is there to go?” Her gaze swept the horizon. As far as the eye could see, mountains and prairie and desert hemmed in her narrow world. "Somewhere,” she muttered. "Anywhere!”
His hand cupped her elbow as he helped her into the wagon, and her breath caught as if she had been pricked by a needle. His unsettling eyes scanned her face, and she knew he was searching for the habitual look of dislike she could not help but wear when around him.
She allowed her mouth to form a slight smile to mitigate her ill-at-ease feelings and pulled her shawl tighter about her to shield her greatly rounded stomach. "I must be out of breath.”
"An hour southwest is a pueblo — where my family lives,” He said, flicking the reins. "Would you like to visit it?”
That was the last thing she wanted to do. But wasn’t that what one was supposed to do when thrown by a horse — get back on again? "That will be fi
ne,” she replied primly, her chin held high, her back stiff.
She sensed that Lario could not help but be aware of her fear, which in her mind weakened her position from the outset and challenged her authority as mistress of Cambria, so her next comment was tinged with spite. "I had no idea there were Indian villages on Stephen’s land.”
A faint smile touched his lips, and she demanded, "What is so amusing?”
"My people — the Dine’e — would call this their land, Senora.”
"But Stephen told me the land grant originally belonged to the DeVega family.”
"The Spanish and Mexican governments have been very free about giving away what is not theirs to give.”
"Oh?” her brows arched. "I suppose the land belongs to your people by right of first possession?”
His countenance was devoid of mockery. "I think that is how the Anglo law could call it.”
She stole a glance at the Navajo and saw the finely carved lips curve in a cold smile, and she hurried to fill the awkward silence. "Then Stephen bought the land from the DeVegas?”
He fully looked at the woman beside him for the first time since they left the Castle,. "That is what your husband has told you?”
She was smote by his soul-seducing beauty. "We have not talked about it that much,” she said defensively.
He changed the subject. "I see you wear the bracelet.”
Unconsciously her fingers slipped up to touch the silver band at her wrist. "’Tis a lovely piece of work.”
"My grandfather works in the silver, and he taught me. You will meet him today. And my mother and sister. My brothers are higher up in the greener pastures watching our sheep.”
The buckboard followed the green-gold thread of cottonwood trees that traced the river’s course southward toward Texas and Old Mexico, until the green-gold along the banks shaded off into olive and silver and the cottonwoods shrank to juniper, rabbit brush, and wild pumpkin on a floor of bleached sand.
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