“Some people saw you—some peasants,” the Governor told him.
“Doesn’t surprise me—I told Julietta there were bound to be people around,” Lord Berrybender replied. “Annoyed her that I bothered to mention it. Called me provincial. Me! High and mighty folk, the Olivarieses. Of course I didn’t want to look a prude. Suspected there might be a peasant or two, peeking at us. But there’s no restraining a girl like Julietta, not when she’s bent on her pleasure.”
“A man in your position, a great nobleman, should be careful,” the Governor mumbled.
“Now, now, Governor, you’ve got it backward,” Lord B. said pleasantly. “It’s the peasant folk who have to be careful. A man in my position doesn’t have to be careful. That’s the whole point of being a man in my position—you can do as you damn please, and the devil take the hindmost.”
The Governor made no answer. He looked unhappy.
Lord Berrybender felt a little bored. What the devil did the man want? To chide him over a little tupping? Julietta would be much amused, once he reported.
“How’s your wife?” he asked. “Didn’t see her at the dance last night. Missed her, in fact. I always enjoy a dance or two with Margareta. Crippled as I am, I still like to hobble around with the pretty ladies.”
Since discovering his wife in the storeroom, whipping Tomas, the Governor had become a silent man. His secretaries and scribes didn’t know what to make of it. Sometimes he sat silently at his desk most of the day, staring out the window. He was the Governor, a man who wielded great power, and yet now he felt powerless. It seemed to him that the peasants, even the barefoot Indians, were luckier than he. He could not get the thought of his sweaty wife out of his mind. He didn’t like even to walk past that storeroom. There were other handsome boys in his employ; lately several of them had looked down in embarrassment when he approached them. Perhaps they too had been led to the storeroom, stripped, and whipped. A governor could not stop work. Already more than one hundred documents awaited his signature. And yet he sat; he looked. At home Margareta ignored him. When she did look at him it was with defiance.
Lord Berrybender saw that the Governor seemed to be preoccupied—at mention of his wife he had seemed to flinch. Mildly curious, Lord Berrybender tried again.
“Doña Margareta is well, isn’t she? No trouble, I hope.”
“She likes to whip boys,” the Governor blurted out.
“What’s that?” Lord B. thought he must have misheard.
“She whips boys,” the Governor said, tonelessly, ashamed of speaking and yet unable to stop.
Lord Berrybender supposed that to be a small matter. Servants often needed disciplining.
“Good for her,” he said. “Doesn’t do to be soft with servants. I’ve had plenty whipped myself.”
But the Governor, now that he had launched into his revelation, wanted the matter made clear.
“They are good boys, all of them,” he said. “She whips them because it gives her pleasure.”
Lord Berrybender, about to take his leave, sat back down in his chair.
“Oh, I see—that kind of whipping,” he said. “Do the boys enjoy it?”
It occurred to him that he had been rather attracted to Doña Margareta when he first got to town. There was scorn in her look—he found that rather interesting. A man only needed to know how to put such feelings to good use.
“The boys are ashamed,” the Governor assured him. “Some of them may even leave the service.”
“Oh now, that’s surely unnecessary,” Lord Berry-bender replied. “Women will play their games—no wilder I suppose than what Julietta and I did in the buggy—though if it’s only a one-way game that’s rather different.
“Wouldn’t have supposed it to be a Latin flourish,” he added. “Far more of an English thing—or German—or Dutch. My daughter Mary used to flagellate her little botanist, you know, and he’s as Dutch as they come.”
Lord Berrybender felt rather wistful—he wished he had made a point to get to know Doña Margareta better.
“You might try taking her to England, Governor,” he said. “There’s a different attitude toward rustication there. Doña Margareta could easily find plenty of English lads who’d let her whip them. Some have even been known to pay for it.”
The Governor was nonplussed. “Pay to be whipped?” he asked.
“Why not?” Lord B. said. “I suppose it reminds them of school. Canings and such. I never liked it particularly, but it’s surely no reason to leave the service. All part of the great sport of love. Julietta bouncing up and down in a buggy, while Doña Margareta would rather be whipping a boy. Whatever it takes, I say. Whatever it takes.”
17
Below them in the Plaza, the grandees of Santa Fe . . .
JULIETTA’S WORSE THAN I ever was,” Tasmin remarked to Father Geoff.
Below them in the Plaza, the grandees of Santa Fe were enjoying their evening promenade. Old widows, dressed in black, strolled hand in hand. Vicky stood watching too, with angry eyes. Her husband, Lord Berrybender, was hobbling along with his young mistress, whose beauty was evident even in the dusk.
“Oh, you weren’t so bad—you’ve only had one affair, unless I missed something. Perhaps a rather limited one at that.”
“Very limited—it hardly counts,” Tasmin said. “I was prepared to be faithful to Pomp forever, and yet now I can hardly remember him.”
“When I married Albany I supposed I’d be happy,” Vicky said. “I supposed I’d have someone to promenade with, in the evenings.”
“Now, now . . . no self-pity,” Tasmin told her. “We’ve all made our beds. There’s no reason to suppose they’d be easy beds.”
“And also no reason to think a little slut from Spain would show up and steal Albany,” Vicky said. She could barely control her bitterness.
Lately Tasmin had had a talk or two with Julietta Olivaries and had to admit that she rather liked her. She was determined to escape the inevitable arrangements that were made for highborn girls in the old country. Tasmin had begun to suspect that she and Julietta were a good deal alike. Of course, the girl was willful—but so had she been.
“If you married Papa expecting fidelity, then you were a very great fool,” Tasmin told Vicky.
But Vicky, larger now, was staring at Lord B. and his slim mistress. Hatred kept her rooted.
“I must seem a cow beside her,” she remarked. Then she burst into tears and left the balcony.
“Julietta won’t be slim either, if she lets Papa start giving her babies,” Tasmin said.
Father Geoff did not seem interested. “I suppose life is inevitably coarsening,” Tasmin declared, poking him with her elbow to see if he might stir. “One’s choice is to be coarse or be dead. I’ll take coarse, myself.”
“I miss Bobbety,” Father Geoff admitted suddenly. “It’s all very well to read poetry and novels, but it doesn’t compare to having a true friend.”
“Ain’t I a true friend?” Tasmin asked. “Yes, but you’re strong—Bobbety wasn’t,” Geoff told her. “I was the person he turned to when he was sad. I admit I liked that.”
Tasmin heard a squeal from the nursery—the squeal was coming from Petey, the softer of her twins. What if Petey, like Bobbety, grew up to be sad? The likelihood of Petey beating Petal at much of anything was remote—it made Tasmin love him the more. She went in to discover Petey in tears and Petal, the picture of innocence, playing with some blocks.
“Did you hurt your brother?” Tasmin asked. “Petey had the blocks first and she knocked him down,” Monty reported. Petal looked at him sullenly—Monty never took her side.
“Petey doesn’t know how to stack,” Petal said coolly. “He was going to make the blocks all fall down.”
“That’s hardly a reason to knock him down,” Tasmin said. “Sharing is a virtue, you know.”
“She never shares, and besides that she steals,” Monty said. “She stole my big marble.”
Petal had in fact h
idden the marble in one of her mother’s pouches—for good measure she shoved the pouch under her mother’s bed, where it would never be found.
“Your father’s coming soon,” Tasmin told her. “We’ll see what he makes of this behavior.”
With a sweep of her hand Petal knocked down the tower of blocks. This was not welcome news— Petal was not sure she liked her father.
“His beard’s too scratchy,” Petal said. “I don’t want him to come.”
“Then he’ll merely have that much more time with Monty and Petey, which I’m sure he’ll enjoy,” her mother told her.
Petal, kicking out wildly, scattered the blocks all over the room.
18
. . . the bearded stranger was first brought into the nursery . . .
THE TWINS HAD BEEN almost eight months old when Jim came to Santa Fe a second time. He had meant to be back sooner, but the trip east with the goods train was a trip where everything went wrong. The Bents had insisted that he use mules—faster than oxen—but the party had been repeatedly harassed by Indians and some of the mules were stolen. It was unusually wet; several more mules got foot rot. A drover was killed in an ambush. Jim was forced to go east and secure replacement mules before he could bring the goods to the river. Once delivery was complete, he hurried back as quickly as he could.
On that visit, when the bearded stranger was first brought into the nursery, Petal, not yet speaking, set out to charm him, only to discover that he seemed to be more interested in Monty, who was ecstatic to see his father; Monty clung so tight that Petal had few openings. Also, it was on that visit that the really bad thing happened: her father and mother went into the bedroom together and the door was firmly locked. Petal’s efforts to push it open only made it rattle. When she cried out in protest, Little Onion, not her mother, came and carried her away to a place where she could not interfere with what was going on behind the door.
Petey soon forgot the episode of the closed door, but Petal didn’t. The first rule of her life was that she must always come first with her mother. That a stranger with a beard should preempt this right was intolerable. Every time she found her mother’s door locked she kicked it and screeched with anger until Little Onion came and carried her away. For the rest of that visit Petal ignored her father completely. She wanted him to go away, so that things could be as before. But he didn’t go quickly—her mother’s door continued to be locked, a source of deep bitterness to Petal.
In her months of grief Tasmin had feared that she might never want any man again, but this time, when Jim kissed her she did not put him off. She was soon a wife again. On the day before his next departure the bedroom door stayed locked all day. Petal, wiser, did not rattle it; but she listened: she heard scufflings, little cries. In time Tasmin developed suspicions. Holding a shawl in front of her, she got up and suddenly opened the door. Petal crawled away as fast as she could go. Tasmin, naked behind her shawl, did not pursue. She got back in bed and put her hand on her husband—she liked it that she could still make him hard with a touch. She had now borne three children—she felt that she must be aging rapidly, but Jim seemed not to want her less, which was reassuring. Yet their lovemaking didn’t lessen the complexity of life. The Berrybenders had been in Santa Fe for a year; Tasmin was for staying another year, for the sake of the babies—but Jim didn’t like the town, or any town. What would he do?
“Guide for the Bents, I guess,” Jim said. “They never get enough. Now they’re wanting me and Kit to lay out a route to California. They think it’s the coming place.”
Jim, she was reluctant to relinquish him to the prairies, even though she knew he would never tolerate city life for long.
“Half a year, maybe more,” Jim said. “I’m not anxious to take Kit. He can’t travel ten yards without complaining.”
“I wish I could go with you, but I’d be afraid for Petey—he’s not strong,” she said. “How quickly children alter the way of things.”
Jim was a little surprised that Tasmin wanted to come—but then she had never shied from adventure. But he judged the situation too uncertain, the water scarce, the Indians most likely hostile. With three young children it made no sense to take her.
Then his eye caught a movement—the little girl had crept back to the doorway. As soon as she saw that her father had seen her, she scuttled away again. After that she ceased to have anything to do with Jim. He was a serious interloper. A man that caused her mother to lock her out was bad.
One day Kit showed up—were they going to California, or not? To Kit’s shock Tasmin flew into him as violently as she had the day he descended into camp in the hot-air balloon.
“Don’t you rush us, Kit Carson!” she raged. “If the Bents are in such a hurry, let them go themselves.”
Kit wondered why, in Tasmin’s eyes, he could never do anything right. All he was asking was that Jim make up his mind.
That night Tasmin and Jim visited the nursery— all the children were asleep. Seeing them sleeping, the two little boys and the little girl, Jim had an odd feeling, half proud, half sad. Tasmin clung to his arm—she felt distressed.
“It’s no more dangerous to try for California than it is on the Santa Fe Trail,” Jim reminded her.
“Jimmy, just don’t talk about danger anymore,” Tasmin pled. “I was there when the Utes came, and the Pawnees. I drank that awful froth from the horse’s belly. I can imagine the dangers all too well.
“Just come back,” she added, grimly. “Just see that you come back.”
Jim felt so much tension that night that he got up and began to get his few things together. Thinking about going was too miserable. Better just to go. But Tasmin wouldn’t have it.
“I’ll just have you one more night, thank you,” she said. But tension even overrode passion. Neither could sleep. Both lay awake, staring. Tasmin contented herself with a few timid kisses.
“This is awful, you’re right, go,” she finally said, just before dawn.
When Petal woke up she immediately crawled to her mother’s room—to her delight the door was wide open and the bearded stranger gone. The old order was restored. Petal went back to the nursery and began to hide some of Petey’s toys.
19
. . . there he was again, kissing her mother . . .
PETAL HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN the bearded stranger when she came round the corner and there he was again, kissing her mother, who clung to him happily. It shocked Petal so that she walked into the nursery and pressed her face into a corner—her new way of showing extreme displeasure. When people refused to do what she wanted them to she hid her face in a corner until Monty or some big person pulled her out and offered compromise. The only person who didn’t seem to care when Petal removed herself to her corner was her mother, who proposed no compromises.
“You can stand there a week, if you want to be stubborn,” Tasmin said. “Why should one care?”
Jim thought Petal the very image of Tasmin, with high similarity of disposition too. She looked daggers at him when he tried to play with her a little: it was the same look Tasmin gave him, when she was angry. He not only had a forceful wife, he now had a forceful daughter too.
After enduring another day in which her mother’s door was firmly locked, much of which she spent with her face pressed bitterly in a corner, Petal decided to take her concerns directly to the intruder—the man had gained a power over her mother that was not acceptable.
The next day, catching her father alone, she made a blunt demand.
“You go away from here,” she said. “And you go quick.”
Jim was amused. The child’s tone of voice was exactly like Tasmin’s, if she happened to be giving Kit Carson an order.
“I been gone so long you nearly got grown on me,” Jim told her. “Why do I have to go away?”
“You bother my mother too much,” Petal said. “That’s why.”
I bother her.”
Petal didn’t like this equivocation. Why wouldn’t the tall man j
ust go?
“When you go away I can take my nap with Mommy,” Petal explained.
“Well, you’re welcome to take your nap with both of us, I guess,” Jim said. “You and Petey too, and Monty.”
The last thing Petal was prepared to tolerate was having her brothers around at nap time. Nap time meant her and her mother—no strangers.
“You bother my mother too much, that’s why you have to go away,” Petal insisted, returning to her original charge.
A few hours later, clutching the blue rooster, Petal wandered into her mother’s bedroom, only to find the tall stranger there beside her mother.
“I told him to go away, he bothers you too much,” Petal insisted.
“In fact he doesn’t bother me at all, little girl,” Tasmin said. “He bothers you!”
Exasperated that her mother would take such a tack, Petal went immediately to a corner and pressed her face into it. Her mother and the tall man took no notice. If she threw a tantrum Little Onion would come and carry her away. After a bit she left the corner and approached the bed. She gave the tall man a bit of a smile.
“Lift me up,” she said—and he did. “Now she’s going to pile on the charm,” Tasmin warned.
Petal tried to put her hand over her mother’s bad mouth.
“I have a blue rooster,” she remarked, holding it up so Jim could inspect it.
“Here comes the charm,” Tasmin said.
Petal ignored her mother. “His name is Cock-adoodle,” she said.
“I eat roosters,” Jim said, deadpan.
Petal was taken aback. She studied her opponent.
“Blue roosters make mighty good eating,” Jim said.
Petal put the rooster behind her. “It was Petey’s rooster but he gave it to me,” she said.
“What an outrageous lie!” Tasmin said. “You stole that rooster.”
The Berrybender Narratives Page 95
