by V. J. Banis
Why then hide behind the tattered shreds of her marriage now? Her situation, if not as desperate as it had been at times in the past, was hardly enviable. She could no longer depend even upon the protection and support of Lone Feather and his people. She was truly alone in this great wilderness, and she had just been offered the protection of an intelligent, cultured aristocrat. Nor was Don Hernando unattractive, if she would be honest with herself. She took him to be forty or thereabouts, but though he was older than she, he remained handsome and trim, and he was an undeniably pleasant companion.
Still she hesitated. Rising from the table she said, “I’m afraid some of that precious time will have to be squandered, after all. I shall use it to consider your offer.”
He rose too. Coming about the table, he took her hand and raised it gently to his lips. She found herself thinking of Peter’s proposal to her. He had fallen to his knees to pray. Summers had taken her without asking, as naturally as the sun takes its piece of the sky.
Morton had been a beast. Lone Feather she had had to teach to be tender.
And Don Hernando? Supposing she said yes to his offer. How would he differ from the other men she had known?
He released her hand to look into her eyes. She blushed, due to the course her thoughts had taken.
As if reading them, and wishing to reassure her, he suddenly smiled broadly, tenderly. “I shall be patient,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Don Hernando’s assessment that the few women in the settlement were all married was an entirely accurate one. Claire had quickly learned that she was the only woman of age who was without the company of a husband, and this had proven to be something of a problem, as the unattached males vied for her attention. For the most part these attentions were innocent, the lonely gestures of womanless men, but there were some among the Angelenos who pressed their suits more forcibly.
She understood then that when Don Hernando spoke of her needing a friend, he was offering his protection not only from the dangers common to the settlers, but from some of the settlers as well. This point was brought home to her on the day of the fiesta.
Don Hernando told her of it shortly after their frank conversation. “You have never been to a California fiesta?” he asked. Claire shook her head. “Then you are in for a special treat.” He grinned. “This fiesta is at the rancho of the Ramiérez family, and everyone comes.”
“But are you sure I’m invited?” Claire asked.
To her surprise Don Hernando laughed. “Invited? To a fiesta? My dear Claire, one does not send invitations to a fiesta, one only announces where and when. The Californios love a big party, any excuse will do. And,” he added, “they come from all parts of the province. It is possible you may hear news of your husband. Or even this other man, Summers, if he still lives, if he reached California. Much news is exchanged at a fiesta, and much gossip.”
The prospect of a party brightened Claire’s spirits considerably. Not since London in the days before Richard’s tragic accident had she been to a full-scale party, the sort that had once been like lifeblood to her. She supposed that the primitive society of the Californios would not afford a very grand affair, but at least it would be fun to be where there was music and laughter and gaiety.
She found a dress among those she had been given, and with the help of Doña María’s maid, Teresa, she was able to transform it into something suitable for a party. It was of a deep emerald-green velvet that set off her pale hair and her dark eyes. She wished that she had some of her old jewelry. Richard had given her a pendant that would go very nicely with the dress, but of course it was in Virginia, and for all she knew she might never see it again. She settled instead for the gold nugget that Lone Feather had given her, replacing the leather thong with a ribbon that matched the color of her dress. Though it was an unusual adornment, she was not displeased with the effect. Certainly it seemed appropriate to a California fiesta.
Doña María herself would not be attending the fiesta, Teresa informed her. “She never goes to the fiestas,” the maid said, her expression making it clear what she thought of such foolishness.
Don Hernando had announced that they would depart for the fiesta at midday, as it was several hours’ travel from the pueblo. As the time of departure approached, the entire household seemed to bustle with preparations. Claire had just finished dressing when Teresa knocked and came into her room.
“From Don Hernando,” Teresa said, handing her a small box.
“Thank you,” Claire said, ignoring Teresa’s curiosity and setting the package aside. Teresa’s face clouded with disappointment, but the ringing of a bell sent her scurrying elsewhere.
When she was alone Claire opened the box to find a stunning brooch of a large topaz in a setting of gold filigree. For a moment she hesitated; this was not the sort of gift one should accept from a gentleman, particularly one who had recently asked her to be his mistress.
She pinned the brooch to the bodice of her gown, just intending to see how it looked. The effect was so striking that she decided she would wear the piece to the fiesta at least. Later she could return it to Don Hernando with her thanks, and no real harm would be done.
Shortly before time to depart, Don Hernando himself came to her room. It was her intention to thank him at once for the brooch, and explain her plan to return it to him later, but he was so evidently preoccupied that he did not even seem to notice that she was wearing it.
“I’m afraid there’s been a change in plans,” he said without any greeting. “My wife has decided after all that she will attend the fiesta. She’s dressing now.”
“I see,” Claire said, wondering whether her presence had played any part in Doña María’s change of plans.
“I’ve taken the liberty of making arrangements for you,” he went on, his expression a wordless apology. “You will travel with the Delgados. They shall arrive for you soon.”
“That’s very kind of you,” she said. The two exchanged a long look, neither of them putting into words what both were thinking. If she accepted the Alcalde’s proposal, this would always be her lot. She would be “the other woman” in his life. His wife must ever come first.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “I’ve met the Delgados, they’re a charming couple, and I mean to enjoy the fiesta to the fullest, as I hope you do too.”
“Thank you,” he said, briefly kissing her hand.
“And I think it’s a good thing that your wife is going,” she added. “It may be just what she needs to lift her spirits.”
“Perhaps,” he said, but his eyes held no confidence.
* * * * * * *
The Delgados were among the few families in the pueblo who owned carriages. Claire rode in comfort with Señora Delgado, a round-faced creature only slightly older than herself and already the mother of five children. The younger children traveled with their mother inside the carriage, while the oldest boy, already nearly a man at twelve, rode with his father alongside.
Many of the pueblo’s residents rode horseback, horses as richly caparisoned as their riders. Others traveled in oxen-drawn carretas, crude farm carts on wooden wheels, decorated for the occasion with gaily colored ribbons.
They traveled in a steady stream over the gently rolling hills, often shouting or laughing as they passed one another. Those who had traveled the greatest distances had stopped at other ranchos along the way. Many were gaily dressed, but some had come in everyday clothes, planning to change on arrival.
A bright and colorful scene awaited them at the Ramiérez rancho. The first guests had arrived just after dawn, bringing some rabbits they had caught along the way to add to the food supply. Already there was a line of carretas on the outskirts of the rancho and a dozen or so horses at the hitching rails. Some vaqueros with guitars were playing and singing with more enthusiasm than skill, and the women bustled to and fro with excited cries and much happy laughter.
Señora Delgado informed
Claire as they alighted from the carriage that soon the dancing would start, and then she would see something special: the fandango of the Californios.
“How excited the young girls look,” Claire said. It was the first time Claire had seen the gracious life of the California ranchos up close. She had to admit it was quite different from the impressions she had formed beforehand. The men were as colorful as the women in their velvet suits with wide-bottomed slashed pants, or tanned suits of white buckskin.
The food was astonishing in its diversity and quantity. There was fresh game and fish and mountains of the thin, flat pancakes the Californios called tortillas. A huge table was laden with fresh fruits, and pots of beans steamed temptingly. Whole sides of beef turned on spits over great open fires, their juices spitting and sizzling as they fell onto the coals. And everywhere wine flowed. It was the tart, faintly bitter wine made by the missions, and no doubt commandeered by Don Hernando himself, in the name of the King, Claire thought with wry amusement.
It was far from what she had known in England, but not so different from the parties thrown on the Virginia plantations, with dozens of guests traveling from afar.
She could not help noticing that an army of servants toiled to provide this pleasure for the others. Only here the servants were Indians and not Negroes. She found herself thinking of the people she had lived with at the Malibu. They had been reduced to just such servitude. She had come close to such a life herself.
Soon the dancing began, the milling crowd forming a rough circle about the first couples. A couple, whom she later learned were the Ramiérez, danced first. Claire found the dance a disappointment. The gentleman was lithe and graceful, but his partner could scarcely have been seen to dance at all. Her skirt touched the ground so that not a hint of her feet could be seen, and she glided soundlessly about with her hands straight at her sides and her eyes down. She might have been taking part in some sacred ritual.
Soon, however, they were joined by other couples, spirited young men and women who danced with elegance and verve. Though the dances were unfamiliar to her, Claire found herself tapping her heels in time to the incessant beat, and humming one or two airs that sounded familiar.
She saw Don Hernando at a distance throughout the afternoon, his wife at his side. To Claire’s surprise Doña María, who was usually so dour, seemed actually to be making an effort to be gracious. It was the first time Claire had seen the Señora out of the confines of her own home, and certainly the first time she had seen the woman smiling. It only added to her uneasiness over the Alcalde’s proposal, seeing the two together looking like any married couple.
While she was watching, Claire saw Don Hernando turn from his wife to speak to another gentleman. At almost the same moment a passing vaquero, another of the Ramiérez, Claire thought, handed Doña María a glass. For a moment the Señora seemed about to refuse the glass. Then, with an almost furtive glance in her husband’s direction, she lifted the glass to her lips and took a first, tentative sip.
Frowning, Claire turned away from the scene. She did not like to tend to another’s business. Still she had seen the effect that drinking spirits had on Doña María. She could only hope the Alcalde’s wife would not be an embarrassment to him. Such a fine, kindly, sympathetic man deserved.... With a start Claire realized that her attitude toward Don Hernando was becoming possessive. It was as if—but she did not let herself finish that thought.
A handsome young man in buckskin asked her to dance. Though she was unfamiliar with the dance, she nodded anyway and moved with him into the crowd, forcing a smile to her lips.
Foreign though it was to her, the dance was not difficult. She had learned from the Indians something of giving oneself to rhythm and movement and could follow the lead of her partner easily enough. It was evening already, the day having sped by, and bright lanterns had been strung about the patio, holding the darkness at bay. For a few minutes Claire forgot herself, forgot all that had happened in the past two years. For a brief span of time she was young and carefree again, with nothing more serious to worry about than music and dancing and a handsome man smiling at her in a flirtatious manner.
She had forgotten Doña María too, and was unaware that the Señora had spotted her dancing and had moved closer through the crowd, her dark brows drawing together in a disapproving scowl. Her bearing was as stiff as ever, her chin held high. Only a brightness to the eyes and a faint tremor in the hand holding the wine glass might have indicated to the observer that she was less than sober.
“Thief!”
The sudden cry startled Claire from her reverie, though it was not until she saw heads turning in her direction that she realized it had been directed at her. She looked around and saw Doña María standing only a few feet from her, her face contorted with jealousy and rage.
“Thief!” Doña María cried again, pointing an unsteady finger. “That’s my brooch. You’ve stolen it.”
Claire felt her cheeks burning crimson. Worst of all, she could think of nothing to say in her defense. No doubt when Don Hernando had given her the brooch he had been expecting his wife to remain at home for the day and later he had been too preoccupied to notice; but that would hardly satisfy the ring of Californios quickly forming around them.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I had nothing to wear. Don Hernando graciously loaned me this. I’m sure he meant no....”
“Liar!” Doña María cried. “Liar and thief!”
With relief Claire saw Don Hernando approaching through the crowd. Her relief was short lived, however, for in the next moment Doña María had flung a glass of wine at her, the red liquid splashing across her face and her bosom. Stunned, Claire stood motionless as the Señora dashed forward and seized the brooch in her bony fingers, literally tearing it from the dress.
“Stop this outrage at once,” Don Hernando demanded, stepping between the two women.
Claire did not wait to see what might happen next. Covering her face with her hands, she turned and pushed her way through the crowd, tears of humiliation streaming down her cheeks. Once through the throng, she hitched up her skirt and began to run, paying little attention to where she was going. It mattered only that she hide herself in the surrounding darkness from all those staring eyes.
She ran past the spits where the sides of beef were still roasting, past the hitching rails where horses and oxen alike stood patiently waiting. Gradually the noise of the fiesta faded in the distance. She slowed to a walk, the cool night air helping to restore some order to the turmoil of her thoughts.
The fiesta, which she had been enjoying immensely, had been ruined for her. Worse than that, she knew that Doña María’s drunken accusations would brand her forever among the arrogant Californios of the pueblo. They would believe that she had truly attempted to steal Doña María’s brooch. Either that, or they would take it for granted that Don Hernando was her lover. Why else would a man give another woman his wife’s jewelry? Either way her reputation was bound to suffer in the close-knit community of the pueblo.
So intent was she on her own thoughts that she was unaware for some minutes that she was being followed. She had come into the open fields beyond the rancho’s buildings. Before her a wide valley lay shrouded in darkness. The fiesta was but a vague murmur of sound in the distance. She found herself thinking of the Malibu, where the music was the wash of the surf upon the beach, and the incessant rhythm of mortar and pestle as the women pounded acorns into flour. How peculiar life was, that among her own people she should find herself longing for the simplicity of life in an Indian village.
A twig snapped somewhere nearby. She paused, glancing around, and saw someone approaching. She waited, not truly frightened, her first thought that Don Hernando might have followed her.
The moon, tangled briefly in the branches of an elm, floated free, its pale light showing her the face of the approaching cowboy. She recognized him. Though she did not recall his name, she had seen him about the pueblo, usually going in or o
ut one of the many saloons. Once or twice he had spoken to her. She had returned his greetings, while pointedly not encouraging his interest.
She waited now in silence for him to walk up, noticing as she did so that drink had made his gait unsteady. He hesitated a few feet from her; then, with an ingratiating smile, he came up to where she was standing.
“Evening, ma’am,” he greeted her.
“Good evening.” She did not return the smile. “Is there something you wanted?”
“Ugly business back there,” he said, shrugging his head in the direction of the fiesta. “Doña María looked fit to be tied. And those other old biddies, well, their tongues won’t stop wagging for a month of Sundays....”
“Please, I wanted to be alone,” Claire said.
He took a step closer. In the moonlight she could see that a bead of spittle had run from one corner of his mouth. She found her gaze drawn to its gleam.
“It’s not good for a woman to be alone,” he said.
She remembered then. He was one of the womanless men. His wife had died a year or more ago. Some said from one of the many beatings he had inflicted upon her.
“Woman needs someone with her,” he said, coming yet another step closer. “Needs a man to look after her.”
“I think I’ll go back now,” Claire said, attempting to step around him. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He reached out and caught her wrist. “No need to run off,” he said. “I thought maybe we could get better acquainted. Ain’t no one going to see what we do clear out here ’cept maybe one of those young couples already sneaked off for the same thing.”
“I’m afraid there will be nothing for anyone to see. I really must be getting back.”
He pulled her close. “Now don’t go getting grand on me,” he said.
“Stop it.”
“A woman that’s had a buck for a lover’s got no call to go getting grand with a real man. There’s lots of men wouldn’t even look at a woman’s been laying with an Indian, you ought to be grateful.”
