Daughter of Fortune (17 page)

“This is not right!” Maria said. “Let me return this
blanket. I cannot take what is theirs.” She made to climb the
ladder again, but Cristóbal stopped her.

“Keep the blanket. It will just go to Nuñez or
Gutierrez. We are helpless, Maria.”

As they walked past the Indians, Lorenzo Nuñez
swiveled around in his saddle to watch Maria. Cristóbal cursed
under his breath. “And that is what we live with. We used to be
masters of the earth, but now we are less than dust underfoot.
”

On the walk back to Las Invernadas, she saw nothing
but the thin children with their hollow eyes and men returning
discouraged from others’ fields. She understood now the agony in
the eyes of the
Cristo
in the saintmaker’s shop. Emiliano
had painted his own people.

They arrived at the hacienda just as Diego was
returning. “
Hola, amigos
," he called out. The front of his
shirt was stained with the blood of birthing ewes, and the lines on
his face were more pronounced than ever, but he was cheerful as he
wiped down his horse Diablo and turned him loose in the pasture by
the orchard.

Luz ran from the hacienda to meet Diego. He kissed
her and ruffled her hair, then reached into the wriggling sack on
the ground by his saddle. “Look what I have for you. A lamb to
mother.”

“How did it go, Diego?” Cristóbal asked as Luz took
the lamb carefully from her brother, holding it to her and looking
at Maria with delighted eyes.

“Well enough. A ewe decided that one child was
enough, so Luz will see what kind of a substitute she is. What have
you, Maria?” She held out the blanket and he fingered it, a smile
on his face. “Beautiful. Is it from the parents of the baby?”

Cristóbal answered. “Yes, my brother. They are
grateful to Maria, even if you were not.”

Diego made no comment. He turned, picked up his
saddle and carried it to the stable.

“Are you coming, Maria?” Cristóbal asked.

“No. I want to talk to Diego.” She stood where she
was, watching Luz nuzzle the little lamb that butted against her
stomach and made her squeal.

“Take it to the cook,” Diego told his sister when he
returned to them. “She will show you how to feed it with a rag
dipped in milk.”

Luz staggered toward the house with her burden.
Diego laughed. “Catarina got an orphaned lamb last year. It became
such a member of the family that it would follow her to evening
prayers.” He peered closely at her face. “But you have not stayed
behind to laugh about lambs, have you, Maria? I was afraid this
would happen if Cristóbal took you to Tesuque. Out with it. What
have I done now to add to my catalog of unforgivable sins?”

He walked with her slowly toward the house, crossing
the footbridge and standing at the top of the garden.

“There is so little to eat at Tesuque, Señor,” she
began, trying to fathom his emotions from his calm expression.
“Could you not, perhaps, release the Pueblos of Tesuque from the
allotment they must give you this year?”

“I cannot.”

“But, my lord,” she burst out, all control gone, “if
you could but see the children!”

“I have seen the children,” he shot back. “I see
their big bellies and their deep-set eyes. But Maria, Maria, to
stop the tribute they owe their
encomendero
would be a sign
of weakness I cannot afford!”

She said nothing. The tears welled up in her eyes
and Diego turned away.

“It was never so hard before you came, Maria
chiquita
,” he said quietly. “You must think I am a wretched
person. I cannot begin to express to you the personal agony I feel
when I see the children. Although I am their
encomendero
and
bound to exact tribute from them, I am also bound to defend them
and protect them. Of late, I have not been doing so well.”

“Forgive me, Señor,” she said softly. “I do not
understand this place.”

“No, you do not,” he agreed, turning to face her
again. “Do not judge me so harshly.”

He left her and went into the kitchen. She followed
a few minutes later. Several chickens roasted on the fireplace
spit, revolving slowly as the cook turned them. Maria watched the
juices drip onto the coals, hissing and steaming.

She went to her room, put the Indian blanket at the
foot of the bed and sat down next to it. If there were someplace
else she could have gone, she would have left Las Inveradas, not
out of unhappiness but out of confusion. She felt torn between two
rights, between Diego’s vision and Cristóbal’s. But she had no
place to go, so she sat where she was, touching the blanket and
thinking of Emiliano’s
Cristo
.

Maria could never put her finger on the moment when
she began to love Diego Masferrer. Her feeling was as natural and
necessary as the water flowing in the
acequia
or the moon
rising full and gleaming over calm fields. Her love for Diego
Masferrer was as much a part of her as her very breath. As she had
never known a time when she did not breathe, so now she could not
imagine a moment not loving Diego.

He had none of the handsomeness of his brother
Cristóbal. He did not go out of his way to help her with small
tasks, to see that she was happy, as Cristóbal did. Diego teased
her as he teased his sisters. He touched her as he touched them,
his hands sure and firm on her shoulders. He did not realize that
his careless arm around her became almost painful to Maria, because
she knew that he did not love her as a woman, only cared for her as
a sister.

He liked and admired her, calling her Maria
La
Formidable
when she stood up to him, or Maria
chiquita
in moments of fondness, but nothing about him indicated that the
well of his soul was filled to overflowing, as hers was. When she
knelt to kiss his hand each night after evening prayers, she longed
to hold his hand against her cheek, then place it between her
breasts, where he could feel the beating of her heart. But she did
nothing.

She tried not to think of it, even to herself. She
would have continued ignoring her own emotions if Cristóbal had not
come courting.

Maria sat in the sewing room one summer afternoon,
looking out the window at Luz and Catarina, who sat in the pepper
tree playing with their dolls. Cristóbal had hammered a crude
platform for them in the tree, over Erlinda’s objections. Maria
could watch them from the window, and it gave her pleasure to look
up from the darning of endless socks to see them sitting there,
their legs dangling over the edge companionably.

Cristóbal knocked and she looked around.

“You seemed to be elsewhere.”

“Just in that pepper tree.”

He came to the window and leaned over her, watching
his little sisters at play. “Diego and I had a tree like that. Over
by the corral. I could always beat him into it, because his legs
are short. But he had more staying power.” He chuckled, resting his
hand on the back of the chair. “I would tire long before he was
ready to come down. It became a matter of pride to outlast him in
the tree, but I never could.” His face was close to hers. “Are your
eyes blue or green, Maria?” he asked. “They have the most amazing
depth to them.”

She leaned back. He was too close. “They are blue,”
she said firmly, “only blue.”

He was holding a shirt. She took it from him,
anxious to take his mind off her eyes. “What have you for me?” she
asked.

“A shirt. I have pulled off two buttons and it is my
best shirt. Can you fix it for me before tonight?”

“Are you going courting?” she teased.

He looked at her quickly. “Yes, I am,” he said with
a dignity that made her wish she had not made a joke of him. “It is
an important thing I do tonight.”

She was oddly touched by his manner. “You are a
lucky man then, sir. Do I know the young woman?”

He hesitated before answering. “Yes, perhaps. But
possibly not as well as you think you do.”

“You speak in tongues,” she said.

“It is no matter. If you do not have any buttons,
take two off another of my shirts. I must help Diego shoe a horse
now. Will you put the shirt in my room when you are through?”

“Yes, of course,’’ she replied, a little awed by his
serious manner.

After another look out the window, he left her. She
could not find any buttons to match, so she rearranged the
remaining buttons to put the two odd ones at the bottom where he
tucked the shirt into his breeches. In her mind’s eye, Maria could
see Cristóbal sitting in the sala, speaking his heart and mind to
the father of the woman he loved. She smiled and lined the buttons
up carefully, pleased in some small way to further the prosperity
of his cause, which surely in his position must be a different one.
He was a Masferrer, but he was also an Indian.

When she was done, she smoothed the shirt with her
hands and folded it, carrying it down the hall to Cristóbal’s room.
It was even smaller and more sparse than the other bedrooms, with
only a bed and chest in it. There was no altar, and only a bare
nail over the head of the bed where a crucifix should have been.
Maria sighed. Perhaps when Cristóbal had a wife and children of his
own, he would come to understand the abundance God had given
him.

She met Erlinda in the hall. “I think Cristóbal is
going courting tonight,” she said, and told the young widow about
the shirt and the buttons.

“It would be a fine thing, Maria,” she said. “The
hacienda seems too small these days for both Cristóbal and Diego.
They remind me of two stallions, squaring off at each other.”

“Erlinda!”

“Well, they do. They intrude on each other’s
territory more and more, and I confess it does not make me easy.
And I am happy for Cristóbal—despite our differences.”

She touched Maria’s arm. “You will understand what I
mean someday. It was that way with Marco. We had spent time in each
other’s company, but suddenly something changed.”

Erlinda pulled Maria out to the patio. “This is not
a subject one should talk about, but Maria, I can understand
Cristóbal in this matter.” They sat on the sun-warmed bench by the
tile fountain. “You can know somebody for years and then one day,
instead of seeing Marco Castellano, you see a husband, the father
of your children.” She paused in embarrassment. “I can understand
Cristóbal. He has reached that moment in his life, and it is a
special feeling.”

Maria looked away.
I already know that
feeling
, she thought.

But Erlinda was speaking. “He has not said anything,
but I think Diego could be persuaded to see that you are provided
for.”

“I cannot expect that,” said Maria, her voice
low.

“I do think he will always have your interests at
heart,” insisted Erlinda, “for you are one of us now.”

Maria could say nothing. Struggling with tears, she
rose and left the patio. She spent the afternoon in the calm of La
Señora’s room, reading to her from the book of the saints. As she
read the words on the page, her mind traveled in circles. She read
of Santa Catarina de Alexandria spurning an earthly crown because
she aspired to a heavenly one.
Oh, Catarina, you foolish
woman
, Maria thought.
The things of this earth are precious,
too
.

She was beginning the chapter on Santa Clara when La
Señora put her hand over the page. Maria looked up. “Child, your
mind is not on what you are reading today,” said the woman. “Are
you unhappy?”

Maria shook her head, closing the book. “No, not
really. I feel at odds with myself, and I do not know why.” To her
horror, she burst into tears.

La Señora patted her knee while she cried and
protested through her tears that she did not understand her
turmoil. Through her stormy tears she heard the door open. “Not
now,
hijo
,” said La Señora quietly, and the door closed.
Maria dried her tears on her dress and blew her nose on the
handkerchief La Señora gave her.

As she rose to leave, La Señora rose with her,
tucking her arm through Maria’s. “My husband Tomas used to tell me
that this time of year is hard on tender young things. I always
thought he meant plants and small animals. Perhaps I was wrong.
Maria, we love you here. If you wish to talk to me, I am always
ready to listen.”

Maria hugged her. “How kind you are, Señora. It must
be the weather, or the time of the month. It is nothing that will
not pass.”

La Señora smiled. “Are you so sure? Well, never
mind. Just remember what I said.”

“I will.” Maria kissed her forehead and left the
room.

Cristóbal ate dinner in his usual clothes, then
excused himself before everyone was finished. Erlinda leaned toward
her brother.

“Maria sewed two buttons on his best shirt this
afternoon.”

“And?” asked Diego, holding his fork between the
bowl and his mouth.

“He is going courting.”

Diego smiled to himself. He shook his head and
continued eating.

Erlinda picked up the dishes and headed for the
sink. “Some men know nothing of the heart,” she said over her
shoulder.

Diego laughed and threw his napkin at her.

Maria washed the dishes while Erlinda visited with
her mother. Diego still sat in the kitchen, his head resting on his
arm, his eyes closed. But Cristóbal came into the kitchen as she
swirled the dishwater at the sink.

“Diego, wake up.”

Diego opened his eyes and looked at his brother.
“Cristóbal,
que guapo!
How elegant you look tonight.”

Cristóbal had laid aside his usual leather breeches
and was resplendent in black wool. His doublet was black, too, with
silver and turquoise beads down the front that winked in the
firelight. He wore his best boots pulled high on his legs and
polished to a gloss in which Maria could see her face. She noted
with satisfaction that the two odd buttons on his shirt did not
show.