Daughter of Fortune (15 page)

Maria left the ladies of Las Invernadas on the patio
and withdrew to the kitchen, where she supervised the preparations
for the evening meal. It was eaten quietly and quickly, everyone’s
hearts and minds on the men. Prayers in the chapel were also
subdued. La Señora led them in the Rosary, but there was no longer
prayer. That was Diego’s domain, and his absence was felt by all.
Maria wondered how one man, a man so young, could inspire so much
love and trust.

When La Señora was through, the Masferrer women and
the Mexican Christian Indians of the household remained in the
chapel for several moments of silent meditation. Maria had no claim
on any of the absent men, but she lifted her heart with the women
who waited and prayed for them all.

The hacienda settled itself for slumber, the guards
for a long vigil. All was shuttered and barred except the kitchen
door. Maria went to sleep, listening to the guards pacing slowly
back and forth on the roof over her head, speaking to one another
in low tones, ever moving, ever watchful.

Long after the hacienda was dark, Maria heard men’s
voices in the kitchen. The door was closed and bolted from inside.
Diego was home. After a moment, the guards on the roof resumed
their steady watch.

Maria sat up carefully in bed, moving slowly so as
not to disturb Luz, who had crept into her bed. She put Erlinda’s
long robe over her chemise and went down the hall on bare feet to
the kitchen, where the light of one lantern still shone.

Diego straddled one of the benches, his head on the
table, his eyes closed, as if trying to get up the energy to pick
up the bread and cheese. At the sound of her footsteps, he opened
his eyes and sat up.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, Señor.”

Diego took off the red scarf that covered his hair
and wiped his face with it. “Do not fear,” he said. “You are never
a disturbance, Maria. Come sit. We need to talk.”

She pitied his exhaustion and was suddenly aware of
how alone they were. “Perhaps we should talk in the morning,
Señor.”

“No, no,” he insisted. “I have discovered that
tomorrow never comes. I will be too busy then, and so will you. Let
it be now, Maria
chiquita
.”

He was a long way from the angry man of that
morning. As the lantern light played over his face, Maria
recognized that old look that the river colony etched on young
men’s faces. How peculiar, she thought as she watched him. At one
moment he is harder than diamonds. At another, he is even more
vulnerable than I am.

She sat next to him. His curly hair was damp with
sweat and she wanted to touch it, to trace the tousled curls from
top to root; the intricacy of the curls fascinated her. But she sat
motionless, her hands in her lap as she had been taught from
infancy.

“What of Tesuque, my lord?” she asked.

He broke the cheese into bits while he spoke, but
did not eat them. “The Apaches ran off some sheep, stole some women
and children, killed an old man at his loom. We beat them back and
chased them quite a distance, then they split up into thirty
different directions. It was the usual pattern.” He covered her
hand with his. “We did come upon the Indian you hoed. He bled to
death down by the river.”

They both sat silent then. Diego looked wearily at
the bread, but made no motion to reach for it.

“Where is Cristóbal?” she asked finally.

Diego would not look at her. “He is staying in
Tesuque. He is angry with me, so it is just as well.”

Maria stared at her hands and said in a low voice.
“I want to apologize for this morning, my lord. ”

He leaned toward her again. “I wish I could explain,
Maria,” he began.

“You needn’t,” she said quickly. “I was wrong.” She
made an impatient gesture with her hands. “And yet I wasn’t. I must
tell you why I went back to the field.”

She got up and poured Diego a cup of wine from the
cooler. He dipped the bread in it and ate, his eyes on her.

“You do not understand, Señor. It was a matter of
honor. I told the Indian girl that I would watch the baby. My honor
dictated that I return, no matter what the consequences.”

“Well, then, Maria
chiquita
,” he said,
drinking the wine, “we should not be at odds with each other. I
could never accuse you of being less worthy of honor than I.”

“No, you could not, Señor,” she replied proudly. “In
this respect, we are no different.”

“Indeed we are not,” he murmured, smiling, “Maria
La Formidable.
I will never again have the audacity to think
a woman’s honor to be of less value than a man’s.” His hand went to
his head. “But do promise me this. If you must strike me, do not
use a hoe again.”

Maria blushed and did not look at Diego, but he went
on, his tone changing. “I wish I could make Cristóbal understand.
He thinks I am a heartless one—an ogre who would sacrifice an
Indian child. He cannot see that I must think of everyone
here.”

Diego was sitting so close that she could smell his
sweat, mingled with the sage he stored his clothing in. He was
seeking consolation from her. On impulse she leaned against his
shoulder and rested her head on his arm.

He sighed. “I am glad you saved the baby. But such
actions could lead to fearful consequences for all of us. We are
lucky the Apaches were no closer. ”

He closed his eyes in weariness. They sat close
together for another minute, then Maria stirred and he opened his
eyes. “I am sorry, Maria,” he said, rising and brushing the dust
off his leather doublet. “See now, your hair is dirty.”

“It is nothing,” she said, pulling Erlinda’s robe
tighter around her. “But I should be going to bed.”

“We both should.”

Diego checked the bolts on the kitchen door, then
blew out the lamp. He led her to the door and walked with her into
the dark hall. She could not see, but she heard him brush his hand
along one of the saints painted on leather, hanging on the
wall.

“Things will be better, Señor,” she said, touching
his arm.

“No, I fear they will not,” he answered. “I cannot
share your optimism.” He paused at her doorway. “But I like to hear
it anyway. Goodnight, Maria.”

“Goodnight, Señor,” she said and went quickly
inside, shy again.

In the morning, Maria hoped to see Cristóbal back in
his proper place in the kitchen, laughing with Diego as the
brothers sat at the table, planning their day. She dressed quickly,
after taking a look at her skinned knees and elbows. When her dress
was buttoned, she shook Luz awake, watching in amusement as she
twisted and turned like a puppy, then settled back into sleep. She
patted her again and made sure the child’s eyes were open before
she went into the hall.

As she passed Erlinda’s door, Maria heard humming
inside. She knocked. Erlinda opened the door, her pillow in her
hand. “
Dios bendiga
, Erlinda,” she said, noting that
Erlinda’s eyes were clear, her smile genuine.

“And God’s blessing on you, Maria,” she replied,
turning back to making her bed.

Diego was alone in the kitchen, leaning on the sink
looking out the window he had unbarred and opened. Cristóbal was
nowhere in sight.

“Another day, Maria,” he said without turning
around. “Perhaps this will be a better one.”

“Dios bendiga, Vuestra Merced
," she said
formally, her eyes downcast. “How did you know it was I?”

He turned around with a smile. “Your step is so
light. It’s almost as though you skim the hall as you come into the
kitchen. Erlinda plods in the morning, Mama is naturally more
hesitant, and Luz and Catarina usually stomp. Haven’t you
noticed?”

“No,” she said. “You’re more observant than I.”

“Only about some things. And Cristóbal, I can never
even hear him when he comes.”

“He is not back yet?”

“No. And I don’t expect him. I fear the burden of
work is mine for the next few days, or at least until he is through
being angry with me.”

He picked up his scarf from the table, folded it
into a triangle and wound it around his head, tying it tight in the
back. Then he settled his flat black hat on his head and pulled the
string under his chin, tipping it so that the crown did not rest on
his cut.

“Will you not have breakfast?” she asked.

“I haven’t time. There is too much to do. We still
have yesterday’s beans to plant. And my shepherd came in early to
tell me that the ewes have started lambing. Spring has come with a
vengeance.”

He smiled, watching her as she checked the level of
the water barrel. “When I was young, it puzzled me that lambs were
born in the spring, and Masferrers in the fall. Every one of us.”
He sat down to pull on his boots. “I asked Papa about that once. At
first he would not say, but then he told me—quite solemnly mind
you—that December is the farmer’s only chance for love. In November
he is finishing up the harvest and butchering the hogs, and by
January he is already worrying about the spring rains.” He opened
the door. “I did not understand him then, of course, but I do
now.”

He waved at her and closed the door on her
embarrassment. She watched him go down the garden path and pause by
the
acequia,
looking-at the water flowing in the ditch.
After a moment’s reflection, he turned toward the corral, calling
to his
vaqueros.

By then the Mexican cook was in the kitchen waiting
for Maria to come with the corn meal so she could prepare the
breakfast mush. As she hurried, Maria remembered how Mama had once,
in a burst of confidentiality, told her that men were as clear as
water.
Mama, you did not know Diego Masferrer
, she thought,
measuring the corn meal into the boiling water,
or
Cristóbal
.

Breakfast and prayers were quickly over with. Luz
and Catarina escaped to their play tunnel by the
acequia
before Erlinda could think of something for them to do. Maria dried
the last of the dishes and turned to the widow, who was finishing
her hot chocolate.

“What would you have me do today, Erlinda?” she
asked.

Erlinda considered. “If you do not object to a task
which I loathe, there is much mending. My brothers get more
threadbare every day. Diego has assured me that he will never get a
wife if he cannot go courting in a shirt without holes. Not that he
has any plans. Still, if I mend some of his clothes, his prospects
might improve. Yes, the mending today.”

Maria thought of Diego courting with a flash of
pain. “I will do the mending. Does Diego have plans for
marriage?”

“Oh, yes, as long as I keep reminding him. He
promised me last week that this winter he would consider the
matter. After all, he will be twenty this fall. He must find
someone who strikes his fancy.” Erlinda went into the sewing room
off the kitchen and Maria followed. “And we must consider you,
Maria,” she said, tugging the mending basket over to the chair by
the window. “I hope you will not be like Diego. ‘This one is too
tall. I will look like her child.’ Or ‘This one is too homely. How
can I face that every morning?’ Or ‘She has a moustache darker than
mine,’ or ‘That one has no conversation. We cannot make love all
the time.’ And on and on.” Erlinda pulled out several shirts. “He
is too demanding,” she sighed. “And too busy.”

“Do you think I could find someone here?” Maria sat
down and took the shirts from Erlinda.

“I think so,” she said, looking at her with a
critical eye. “You have no fortune, but you’re such a pleasant
person.” She sighed again. “It might have to be a widower with
several children half-grown. It would be easier if we were not such
a poor kingdom. How I am rattling on! I haven’t talked so much
since,” She stopped, twisting her wedding ring, “in a long time.
Let me get the needle. We keep it locked up with the silver.”

Maria sorted the shirts, holding Diego’s to her face
for the pleasant smell of sage. She fingered Catarina’s dress, torn
at the knee, and the thought of her own childhood, spent in
perpetual evasion of Mama and her homilies.
They’ve freedom to
climb trees here
, she thought,
and play in ditches
.

Erlinda returned with the needle and thimble made of
silver. “Do not leave these lying around. If you need me, I will be
in the chicken yard. It is time we had something besides mutton for
dinner.”

Maria settled in the high-backed chair and threaded
the precious needle. The room was warm with the sun of early
spring, the walls brilliant white. She heard the soft slap-slap of
hands molding tortillas in the kitchen and the outraged squawk of
the rooster as his domain was plundered. The terrors of yesterday
might never have happened, except that Cristóbal was not there and
her scraped knees ached. She darned a patch under a torn buttonhole
with dainty stitches, remembering how Cristóbal had placed himself,
lance ready, between her and the Apaches.

And I never even thanked him
, she thought,
picking up another shirt. She quickly made her way down the pile of
shirts, taking extra care on a fine white linen shirt with the
underarm seam ripped out. So Diego could go courting this winter.
“In December,” she said out loud, laughing to herself as she
twisted a knot in the thread.

A shadow moved in the doorway and she looked up.
Cristóbal stood leaning against the doorframe, watching her. She
jabbed her finger with the needle, staining the shirt.

“You startled me!’’ she said.

“I have been standing here for five minutes. How
could I startle you?’’

“Then you are too silent, Señor,” she said, sucking
her finger, vexed with herself for bleeding on Diego’s best
shirt.

Maria set the shirt aside and stood. Cristóbal
stepped into the room. “Come with me,” he said, holding out his
hand.