“Yes, señorita.”
“How old are you Maria?”
“I have been alive fourteen summers.”
“Does your mother live here?”
“Yes, she is a seamstress.”
“Do you want to be a seamstress, like your mother?”
The girl hung her head and didn’t answer.
Sorina had been home for more than a year and had not yet chosen a personal lady’s maid. She made a quick decision and walked over to the girl, gently taking the broom from her hand. “Why don’t we sit down. I would like to ask you a few questions.”
The girl looked up with wide, frightened eyes. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, of course not.” Sorina patted her arm. “Please.” She gestured to one of the two wooden chairs in her room. “Sit down and I shall sit here.”
The girl perched on the edge of the chair, her hands folded in her lap.
“If you could choose what you did in your time on earth, Maria, what would you choose to do?”
She seemed genuinely puzzled by the question, but answered without hesitation. “I would enter a convent and devote my life to God.”
It was not the answer Sorina expected. Most of the ranch women aspired to be married and have children. There were no vocations open to them, except for the work associated with the ranchos. Those with Indian blood had no education. They were not even counted in the census. Maria, like many others, was the product of a mixed coupling. She knew her mother, but probably would never know who her father was. And yet most of the mestizos, like Maria, were deeply religious.
“To serve God is a worthy goal,” Sorina said. “But I know of no convents in Alta California. They might exist, but in my limited world, they do not.”
“I know, señorita. I am pleased to have food and shelter and work to do. But you asked about a dream.”
“Yes, I did.” Sorina watched the girl for a few moments. Her brown face was smooth and her long black hair wove neatly into two long braids. “I know not if you will ever realize your dream, Maria, but if it would help, I would be willing to teach you to read.”
“You would?”
Maria’s response was restrained to the point of disbelief. Here was a child who had known deprivation. She would not give her trust easily, but Sorina needed allies in the house and was willing to earn her trust.
“Yes. You would be able to write your name and read a Bible.”
“Truly?”
“But”—and this was the hard part—“I will need something in return. Small favors, but important ones to me.”
“Anything, señorita.”
“There is a bundle under the bed that needs laundering. I do not want prying eyes and worse, tattling mouths, to know it is mine. Can you wash the garments and return them to me without taking them to the main laundry?”
“Yes, señorita. I shall take the garments to the pond and wash them there instead in the large heated pots of water in the lavandería.”
“Thank you. We shall begin the lessons tomorrow. I shall say you are my new maid and I am training you. Be here when the others are taking their siesta.”
“Yes, señorita.” Maria rose, fished the clothing and blankets out from under the bed, wrapped them in a shawl, and left the room.
Sorina smiled and opened the trunk at the end of her bed, searching for the children’s books she’d pilfered from the schoolroom in her English aunt’s country home. She’d fished them out of the fireplace where they were to be burned, as they were no longer needed.
The books would be used in her new school, the one she would start, once her property became hers.
If the war does not interfere.
A very big if indeed.
Chapter 6
The next day
At first light, Grainger and two other vaqueros headed south toward Rancho Niguel to bring back a dozen stray cattle that had roamed into Juan Avila’s herd. With no fencing, cattle owners relied on brands to identify strays that didn’t belong. When on good terms, the rancheros notified their neighbors and the steers were brought back to their own range. Grainger thought it a good system, and today it worked to his advantage.
He would have a chance to seek out Mitchell before he returned.
Juan Avila’s ranch complex overlooked rolling hills. Unlike Vega’s spread, the place was not totally self-contained. His retainers grew food, made household items, and tended his cattle. But Avila liked to spend time in town at his hacienda south of the mission. Known for his hospitality, government dignitaries, including Governor Pio Pico, sometimes stayed with him when they were in the pueblo. Mitchell commented once that Avila never seemed to lack money and there was an old local tale about him having a substantial amount of gold hidden somewhere on his town property.
Hope he’s not spending it on cannons.
Halting in front of the outbuildings, Grainger surveyed the premises. Now that it was summer, the hills were already brown. Rainfall was sparse and drought was always a concern. Vega’s ranch buildings were close to the ocean, but Avila’s were about three miles off the coast. The dryness of the air made Grainger uncomfortable. All they needed was a stray ember or dry lightning and the brown grass would become an inferno.
He found the cattle in a separate corral. While his compadres rested after the strenuous ride, Grainger wandered off, telling them he wanted to see Avila’s famous racehorse.
“See somethin’ ye like, laddie?” Mitchell came up behind him and clapped him on the shoulder.
Grainger scanned the barn, nodded toward an empty stall, and ambled inside. “Is it safe to talk here?”
“Horses ain’t tattlers. What do you have?”
Grainger reached into a special pocket sewn on the underside of his leather vest and handed Mitchell two thin packets.
“One message is to be delivered to San Diego, but the other one is for us,” he said.
Mitchell squinted at the paper and handed it back. “Here, laddie, read this aloud.”
“It says General Zachary Taylor is on his way to Texas and will invade Mexican territory. Congress should declare war soon after, probably by May.”
Mitchell took a red handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his brow. “Are troops on their way here then? It’s already June. What’s the date on the dispatch? Too bad it takes three months to get news from Washington.”
“The one from Buchanan is dated early March, but his projections are usually pretty reliable. He says Colonel Stephen Kearny is on his way to San Diego, but he has a long march.” He unfolded a second document. “There’s also a letter from Larkin. Apparently, some boys up north have a beef with Mariano Vallejo, Mexico’s commander in the North. Larkin’s worried they’ll spook him. So far, he’s been open to American interests.” Grainger refolded the papers. “I swear Larkin’s got eyes everywhere.”
Mitchell nodded. “Eyes and ears. This bit of information probably came from one of his informants in the town of Sonoma who owns a saloon there. It’s a place where some of the hotheads drink and play cards.”
“Will Larkin interfere?”
“Who knows?”
Grainger stuck a blade of hay into his mouth and chewed on the end. Taking it out he wrinkled his brow. “Too bad he doesn’t have an army anywhere near California to send to Sonoma.”
“Ah, but he does,” Mitchell said. “John C. Fremont is in Oregon.”
“Those aren’t soldiers. They’re cartographers and surveyors.”
“They’ll do if no one else is available.”
“Won’t this undermine Larkin’s work with Vallejo?”
“The general has a lot of property at stake and relatives who depend on him,” Mitchell said. “He won’t reveal where he stands until he’s sure of the w
inner. Vallejo is a smart man. He’ll do the right thing for Mexico, but he also wants to remain in power. He’ll want to stay on the good side of the winners to keep his land and his money. He’ll fare better with the army than the hotheads.”
“I know Commodore Sloat and the navy are off the Coast, waiting for word to land in Monterey. Should we be moving north?”
Mitchell shook his head. “Not yet, laddie. It’s important for us to stay here and gather all the intelligence we can. Have you found out any more about Santoro?”
Grainger leaned against the stall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Vega hosted a dinner for neighboring landowners who witnessed the boundary survey. Most stayed the night. I heard Santoro and Vega spent a good two hours closed up in Vega’s study last night.”
“What was that about?”
“My informant couldn’t get close enough to hear. Adobe walls are thick and the windows face the interior courtyard.”
“What about you? What kind of spy are you?”
“A wet, cold one. I had a little assignment last night. Remember?”
Mitchell snorted, then looked around furtively. A horse had neighed in a nearby stall.
“You’d better be off. I’ll send the other packet to those who need it in San Diego.”
Grainger shoved the brim of his hat down over his forehead, assumed a slow gait, and slouched out into the courtyard. Reaching his horse, he checked his riata and swung up into the saddle. The other two vaqueros were ready to go. The gate opened and two dozen cattle streamed out. Whistling, with rope in hand, they herded the steers homeward.
The trip south had been fast, but cattle move at their own pace and it would be nightfall before they reached Vega’s high plateau inland. Cattle needed grass to feed. They wouldn’t find much on the dry lower coastal plain.
The tête-à-tête between Vega and Santoro bothered him.
What was the snake planning?
Was Santoro trying to get a loan to pay his debts or was he engaging Vega to support his plot to resist the coming war? Santoro pretended to be a model citizen, but surely Vega knew about his character flaws.
There were stories—disturbing ones—about a little camp Santoro had up in the hills that had nothing to do with training an army or branding cattle. It was a place he took unruly female servants to teach them discipline. Grainger shuddered. The sexual proclivities of his enemies weren’t his problem. Their politics were. But he couldn’t help thinking about Sorina and how Santoro watched her, like a hungry man eyeing his next meal.
You looked at her once like that, too.
He frowned, spurred his horse, and galloped off. The sooner he could get back to the ranch, the better he’d feel.
Except for naval activity, ground skirmishes were likely a month or two off.
Whatever it was that Santoro was planning, he probably wouldn’t make a move until then.
~ ~ ~
Sorina bent over her writing desk, catching up on correspondence. She’d spent the last two hours with her new lady’s maid and had neglected her own obligations.
Maria was proving to be an eager pupil. Her mornings were spent with the other servants, preparing food for the main meal at noon, making beds, changing candles, and emptying chamber pots. But now she came to Sorina’s sleeping chamber each afternoon.
While others took their afternoon siesta, she and Sorina sat on the large trunk at the foot of the bed and began lessons, first studying the shape of letters and learning their sounds. By the second day she could recognize her name. Sorina was sure Maria would be able to write her full name by the end of the week. It was an important skill.
The second hour had focused on the abacus. But in this, Maria was less sure. Counting on the device was simple, but translating the concepts to written numbers baffled her. Sorina assured her she would learn, but agreed to focus on reading and writing first. They would take up numbers later.
Signing her letter, Sorina rose from her writing desk and stretched. Her back ached from hunching over the delicate piece of furniture her father had brought her from England when she was a child. It was too low. Perhaps Grandfather would allow a new one to be made. She glanced at her basket of goose-quill pens. It was nearly empty. Not a patient correspondent, she bore down too hard and broke the tips.
I must write with greater care, if only to respect the goose.
Her latest missive, now drying on her desk, was a letter to her friend Isabella Fuentes. Isabella was older and could advise her on the best course of study for Maria. Uneducated when, at the age of eighteen, she had married forty-seven-year-old Tomas Fuentes, Isabella had begged her besotted husband to teach her to read and write and to run their ranch. She told Sorina she’d quickly learned and had also been taught the finer points of bartering. The knowledge helped her run her husband’s business when he suddenly died a year ago.
A knock on her door intruded on her thoughts. “Come in.”
“Señorita Sorina, look what arrived for you.” Maria entered carrying a large bundle wrapped in coarse brown cloth, tied with cowhide strips. She set it down on the bed and stepped back, her hands twisting the apron she wore as she looked expectantly at her mistress. “Shall you open it now?”
“Who sent it?”
“I know not, señorita. Your grandfather put it in my hands and sent me to find you.”
Sorina had never been one who craved gifts and having one arrive without a reason raised her suspicions. Grandfather was a generous man, but he confined his gifts to one’s date of birth or the birth of the Christ child. The package was not from him, she was sure. Who then?
“Unwrap it, señorita. Please.” Maria’s excited voice was insistent, and Sorina remembered the girl was still little more than a child. She moved to the bed and prodded the bundle. The cloth was rough under her fingertips. Untying the rawhide strings, she unfolded the cloth and drew out the garment underneath. It was a silk shawl, white in color, with delicate embroidered flowers edging the fringed border. The fabric was cool and smooth to the touch and the workmanship flawless.
“It is beautiful, señorita, like the petals of the roses in your garden. It is like a bride’s shawl. Do you wish to put it on?”
Sorina placed the garment back in its wrappings, a tremor of unease teasing the back of her neck. A note lay on the bed. It must have fallen out of the folds. Picking it up, she read the words scrawled on the page.
“No!” She dropped the paper and covered her mouth with both hands, backing away.
“Señorita, what is wrong?” Maria’s eyes widened in fear, her hands clutching the edges of her skirt.
“Take it away.”
“The shawl?”
“Take it anywhere . . . somewhere . . . out of my sight . . . now.”
“As you wish.” The maid scooped up the garment and left the room.
Sorina backed toward the wall and slid to the floor, her breath loud in her ears. Tears filled her eyes, but she could not give in to weakness. She must control her emotions and find Grandfather immediately.
My birthday is so close. Why would he do this to me now?
Wiping errant tears on her skirt, she focused on the bedpost, held her breath, then let it out slowly, willing herself to be calm. It was a trick Uncle Gabriel had taught her.
Stare at something in the room. Clear your head. Think of a pleasant memory. Slow your breathing. And when you are feeling better, allow yourself to think again. But think strategically, without emotion.
Getting up from the floor, she brushed her skirts, squared her shoulders and sat back down at her writing desk. She took out a paper and dipped yet another goose quill into her inkwell. Her hand shook, but writing her arguments on paper would help her organize her thoughts. When she finished, she read them over.
Grandfather is a f
air man. He will listen.
Rising from the stool, she turned, stiffened her spine and went off in search of him.
Chapter 7
Sorina glided calmly into Grandfather’s domain without knocking, her only sign of agitation the rapid heartbeat she hoped he couldn’t hear.
“Abuelo, I must speak with you.” She was surprised at how calm she sounded, like a woman asking if turnips were preferred to carrots as an accompaniment to the midday meal.
Grandfather looked up from his thick leather ledger, his white brows curved in curiosity. When he closeted himself in his study to review bills of lading for the hides and tallow he traded to merchant ships, no one dared to bother him. Grandfather struggled with numbers and had to concentrate to get the sums added correctly. Occasionally he asked her to check his figures, a great concession from a proud man.
“What is so important that you interrupt me today of all days? You know a ship is due tomorrow. We discussed it last week.”
“I know, Grandfather, but I must ask you a question.”
And I shall slit my throat if your answer is what I think it will be.
He pushed away from his desk in the tall leather chair and steepled his hands. Sorina stood near the desk, hoping her erect posture would keep her knees from wobbling under her skirts, and her voice would not belie the constriction in her chest.
“A gift arrived. A lavish one. From Antoine Santoro.”
Grandfather’s lips curved into a smile, the same smile he gave her as a child when she’d come into his office. He’d reach into a drawer and pull out a dulce, a sweet made from cactus found in the hills.
“So soon? The man must be more eager than I thought.”
“Then you know? You know what it means? Tell me you did not do this without consulting me. Tell me.”
He frowned and moved his chair back up to his desk, picked up a quill and ran his fingers up and down the feather. “Sit down, Sorina. And do not shout.”
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