by V. J. Banis
* * * * * * *
After so long in the makeshift costumes of her westward journey it was an odd experience for Claire to be donning conventional wear once again. The friars, having shown her to a room, had brought an old sea trunk; it had been given them, they explained, by a sea captain whose wife, traveling with him, had died at sea. In it she found everything she needed to make herself presentable.
When she was dressed Claire examined her reflection in the mirror. She scarcely recognized herself. Her skin had acquired a deep golden hue, her hair was almost yellow-white. Her months with the tribe had erased the gauntness of the weeks in the wilderness, though her cheekbones remained stark and prominent.
There was a tap at the door. “Come in,” she called. She heard the door open and close and turned to find herself facing Lone Feather. For a long moment he regarded her steadily, looking up and down the length of her borrowed finery. She realized with a faint reddening of her cheeks that this was the first time he had ever seen her dressed as a white woman.
“The Alcalde’s invited me to dine with him,” she said, fingering the faded lace at her throat.
“He has spoken to me,” Lone Feather said. “He has freed me and Shining Star to return to our village.”
“Yes,” Claire said. “He made the same offer to me. On condition that I not go with you.”
“I come to tell you we are going.”
For a moment Claire hesitated. Then she began to undo the bodice of her gown. “I’ll come with you,” she declared.
“No.” Lone Feather put a hand over hers, staying her action. “I promised we would go without you. I come to say goodbye.”
“But you can’t. My daughter—”
“—Is half-Indian, half-white,” he said. “With my people, she will be an Indian. I will treasure her, and she will grow to know the meaning of freedom. With you, she can know only pain and sorrow in a white man’s world. It is better this way. You where you belong, us where we belong.”
He smiled sadly at her. She felt the sting of tears at her eyes. It was the same argument the Alcalde had used, and its wisdom was undeniable. Still the tears came, and the heaviness in the heart.
“I’ll come to the village to see her,” she said. “I’ll do everything I can for her.”
He shook his head. “No. We will leave that place, move the tribe to another, where the mission will not find us. We are a dying people, but we will die in peace.”
“Can’t you tell me where you’re going?”
“You would bring the white man,” he said. “They would follow you and take more of our people until none were left. For my people’s sake, for my daughter’s sake, you must go from us, and forget.”
“I will go,” she said, speaking slowly. “But I will never forget.”
He took her in his arms with surprising gentleness. She remembered his first embrace, so long before.
“When you came with the white man,” Lone Feather whispered into her ear as he held her close, “I bought you from him, but you were never mine. Now I give you back to yourself. Go your way. If the old gods still hear our prayers, mine will keep you safe.”
She tried to find the right words to say, but none would come. He kissed her briefly, his lips but brushing her own. She saw him leave through a veil of tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Claire had imagined that the pueblo of Los Angeles—or El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles del Rio de Porciúncula, as it was officially named—would be more or less comparable to St. Louis. Decidedly primitive by eastern standards, it would nonetheless provide a measure of civilized comfort and culture.
The reality was a shock. The village was nothing but a dusty cow town. It sprawled without apparent plan or design over a shallow bowl of land formed by the low, encircling mountains. A gray mist from the ocean hung over everything like smoke. It softened the harsh realities of peeling whitewash and dusty streets where dogs lay lazily wagging their tails. Besides the guardhouse and the church, the town consisted of a handful of trading posts and a generous scattering of cantinas. A number of trails, most of them old Indian routes, led into the town. Along these various streets were scattered the homes of the residents: whitewashed adobe with low roofs covered in what she recognized as the same tar the Indians had used to waterproof their boats.
“How many people live here?” Claire asked the Don as the carriage swayed and jounced down what passed for a street.
“Somewhere between fourteen and fifteen hundred people,” he answered. “It varies with the season. Sometimes, actually, with the time of day.”
“Are all Spanish subjects?”
Don Hernando gave a little laugh. “On paper they’re subjects of the empire. In actuality most of them have long since come to think of themselves as Californios. The gente de razón, they call themselves.”
“Isn’t Spain rather careless with her provinces?”
“Spain’s empire is like a dying man,” he said, not without a certain bitterness. He gestured with his hand at the sleepy village outside the carriage windows. “This is but the last faint reflex of the giant that was. There’s less than four thousand non-Indians in the whole province, and a great many of those were born here. Perhaps three hundred soldiers to guard more than a thousand miles of coastline. If it weren’t for the missions, grown fat off the labor of the Indians, we’d be hard put to sustain ourselves. As it is the only real industry is the illegal trading with American and English ships.”
“You make it sound like a land with no future,” she said. From what she had seen of the pueblo, she was willing to accept that assessment.
“If it has one, it’s not as a Spanish province, nor a Mexican one either,” he said. The carriage slowed just then and he said with a cheerfulness that sounded forced to her, “Here we are. My wife will be delighted to see you, new faces are rare here.”
While the Alcalde was handing her down from the carriage, a woman appeared in the doorway of the modest adobe structure. Claire thought she did not look in the least bit glad to see her.
“Ah, there you are,” Don Hernando greeted the unsmiling woman. “May I present my wife, Doña María Isabella Marina Hernando. My love, this is Señora Denon. The Señora has found herself alone in our province through a lengthy chain of circumstances. I have offered her our hospitality until we can find suitable accommodations for her.”
“Señora.” Claire greeted her, dropping a curtsy.
Doña María did not return the greeting. She shot an angry look at Claire. Then wordlessly she turned on her heel and disappeared into the gloom of the house.
Looking only slightly ruffled, Don Hernando escorted Claire inside as though nothing untoward had happened. “Now, where’s one of those maids? Ah, Teresa, there you are, will you see about a room for our guest? And inform the cook we will be three for dinner.”
From the parlor off to their right Claire heard the clink of glass upon glass, as someone poured a drink. She thought of Doña María’s cold welcome and wondered briefly if after all she might not have been better advised to remain at the mission.
* * * * * * *
Dinner was an uncomfortable experience. Though the Don filled the role of host with elegance and ease, his wife made no secret of her lack of enthusiasm for their guest’s presence. She spoke only when asked a direct question, and then answered in the curtest, coolest terms.
Claire, several times looking up to find the Señora’s hostile gaze resting upon her, noticed too that the Señora was rather fond of her sherry, a glass of which was ever filled at her place. As the evening progressed, the Señora’s naturally florid complexion grew more ruddy and her black eyes glinted like polished stones.
Even Doña María’s speech began to show the effects of the sherry she consumed, the few words she spoke becoming heavily slurred. Toward the end of the meal, in reaching for a salt cellar, she managed to topple her wine glass, spilling the amber wine across the fine lace of the tablecloth. Don
Hernando rang for the maid, who appeared at once, cloth in hand.
“Let me be,” Doña María snapped, brushing away the woman’s efforts to wipe up the stain, and reaching instead to refill her glass.
“Perhaps, my dear, you should have some coffee,” Don Hernando suggested.
“I’ll drink what I like,” his wife replied sharply, adding as she got a bit unsteadily to her feet, “And where I like.”
With that she took her sherry and flounced from the room. A moment later they heard a door slam.
“I must apologize for my wife’s behavior,” Don Hernando said.
“I’m afraid my presence must be something of an inconvenience,” Claire said.
Don Hernando gave a rather mirthless laugh. “You needn’t trouble yourself on that account,” he said. “My wife has far better motives for her resentment than your presence here.”
He did not elaborate further and Claire thought it tactless to pursue the subject. They spent a rather desultory quarter of an hour sipping coffee and making idle conversation. She saw the Don’s eyes drift occasionally in the direction in which his wife had disappeared, but he made no further mention of her or her behavior.
“But how thoughtless of me,” he said at last. “You must be wanting to retire. I’ll have Teresa show you to your room. Tomorrow I’ll make inquiries and find you a place to live.”
“I’m grateful for all you’ve done,” Claire said as the dark-haired maid came in. “I’ve a little money left that I held on to throughout my trip, and I can get more from London, though how long that will take is anybody’s guess.”
For the first time since dinner had begun he gave her a truly genuine smile. “We won’t worry about that,” he said. “The Alcalde’s word should at least be worth some credit.”
* * * * * * *
The room that had been provided for her was small and modestly furnished. Still it was luxury indeed compared to what she had known since leaving Virginia, and despite the coolness of her hostess Claire slept pleasantly. She dreamed that she heard the sound of the surf gently thrumming upon the wide white beaches of the Malibu.
The next day passed, however, and the next, and still the Alcalde found no other living quarters for her, though she would have thought it possible to canvass all of the town’s inhabitants in less time than that. She began to wonder if perhaps in fact he was in no real hurry to move her out of his own home.
Truth to tell, had it not been for Doña María’s churlish behavior, she would have been in no hurry to leave, as she found Don Hernando most pleasant. His was the sort of intelligent, cultured company that she had missed for so long, and she enjoyed just sitting and chatting with him. It had been less than a year since he’d come from Paris where, she learned, he had been the Spanish king’s ambassador, and he was filled with news and anecdotes of life in the French capital.
Strolling out into the primitive pueblo that was the Alcalde’s current domain, Claire could not help but wonder what chain of circumstances had brought him from the glamour of Parisian life to this rustic station. Aside from the weather, which was nearly always warm and sunny, and the natural beauty of its location, she found that the town had little to recommend it.
As for Doña María, though she continued unfriendly, Claire actually saw very little of her. Only at dinner did she spend any time in the company of her husband and their guest, and this was invariably a repeat of the first evening’s performance. Though Doña María did not always manage to spill her wine, she did usually reach the end of the meal in a state approaching inebriation.
It was not until Claire’s fourth night there that the Señora’s sullen anger and the incessant sherry combined to produce an explosion.
The Spanish residents of the town kept to that country’s custom of sleeping through the warmest part of the afternoon. Claire, unaccustomed to the afternoon siesta, had taken to spending that time exploring, usually on foot, though Don Hernando had given her his generous permission to borrow a mount whenever she wished. She had taken advantage of that offer to visit one of the area’s curiosities, a bubbling tar pit from which came the pitch that both Indians and settlers made use of. The black, shiny substance seemed to ooze up from the ground itself, not unlike some hellish mockery of a freshwater spring.
At dinner Don Hernando asked her impression of the pueblo, now that she had spent a few days there.
“I’m afraid it will never appeal to the idle traveler,” she said frankly. “Though to be honest, I’ve been in worse places over the past year or two.” She hesitated and then added, “But what of you? Surely this must seem a bit primitive to you after Paris and Madrid?”
Doña María made one of her few contributions to the conversation. “A refuse heap,” she grumbled, draining her glass. “No decent person would set foot here unless forced to.”
Don Hernando, ignoring the remark, said quietly, “In a month’s time I’m to take over the duties of provincial governor, in Monterey, the capital. They say it’s a lovely town and that life there is most pleasant.”
“A provincial backwater,” Doña María snapped. “To think that I, Doña María Isabella Marina Hernando, daughter of Spanish dons—wife of a Spanish don—” here she shot her husband a furious glance “should be reduced to living in this—this Indian village.”
With an unexpectedly violent gesture, she seized her wine glass and flung it at a portrait of the Spanish king that hung over the mantel. The glass shattered, the wine running in bloodlike rivulets down the monarch’s scowling countenance. Leaping up, Doña María fled from the room.
Claire expected Don Hernando to go after his wife, but he only sat staring sadly after her. He did not even seem concerned with repairing the damage to the painting, though it had the look of a valuable piece.
“Once again I’m sorry that I seem to be an additional burden for your wife,” Claire said.
“You needn’t be,” Don Hernando replied. “Her behavior is no different from what it would have been. My wife is not a happy woman, as you no doubt have observed for yourself.”
“It must have been a difficult change for her, coming here from the places you’ve been,” Claire offered, wanting to be charitable.
“Difficult indeed,” he said. Rather abruptly he added, “I suppose you’ve wondered how we came to be here?”
“Don Hernando, I—I wouldn’t wish to intrude.”
He ignored her reply. “You must have noticed my wife is rather fond of her sherry,” he went on. “She has been for many years, though less conspicuously than now. We were in Paris. I believe I told you, I was ambassador there. One time one of the King’s chief ministers came on a visit. He told me that there had been some talk regarding my wife. The king was embarrassed.”
“How awkward for you,” Claire murmured, uncertain why she was being told these things.
Don Hernando scowled at her from under lowered brows. “It was more than awkward,” he said. “The man insisted that my services were valuable to his majesty, particularly as the two governments were trying to conclude some difficult negotiations in which I had figured prominently. On the other hand, there was this embarrassment. Oh, let me not spare myself, there were some outside activities on my part that they were aware of. I’m not the sort for celibacy, I’m afraid, and my wife long ago ceased to be interested in certain aspects of a marriage. I hope this is not distasteful for you?”
“I lived for a long time without many of the social niceties,” Claire replied.
“Yes, of course.” He was thoughtful for a moment before continuing. “He told me—the king had nothing in this, you understand, it was the minister’s own idea—he said there was an easy solution. If my wife were to have an accident I could pursue my interests without hindrance. I could serve the king without embarrassment for myself or him.”
Claire was shocked and could think of no suitable reply.
“I threw the man out bodily,” Don Hernando concluded. “After that, well, less than a month lat
er, we’d been assigned here. I believe I explained, this is only temporary, until I take over as provincial governor in Monterey.” He took a long sip of his wine, regarding her over the rim.
“Don Hernando, why are you telling me these things?” Claire asked.
“Because I want you to come to Monterey with me,” he said.
“But to be frank, I hardly think your wife would welcome my company,” she said.
“I wasn’t thinking of my wife.”
“Indeed, I’m certain you were not.”
“In Paris, in other places we’ve lived, it was easy to make outside arrangements. People don’t much mind a man having a mistress as well as a wife, assuming everything is managed discreetly. But here in this primitive settlement even if it were possible to arrange, the few women here are married. I would not choose to sully another man’s marriage.”
“But I am married too,” she said.
“Yes, of course.” He looked away. “I’m afraid I’ve offended you.”
“Well, I—I’m flattered, certainly, but this is so sudden.”
“My dear, you are a beautiful woman who at the moment is rather in need of a friend, and I—let me be blunt—I am a lonely man. Forgive me if I have been hasty in making my offer, but I did not feel that time was a commodity I could afford to squander.”
“Yes, I see your point.” Claire hesitated. Though she had protested that she was a married woman, she could see that her marriage, if such it still was, had long since been sullied. She had gladly taken Summers for a lover and learned to love him. Morton had taken her by force. Lone Feather had purchased her from the trapper, but he had not had to force her, and if she had never come to love him, she had regarded him affectionately as a friend and had come to give herself to him gladly enough.
