Daughter of Fortune (6 page)

She leaned forward and shaded her eyes with her
hand. She could see nothing that resembled civilization. No
majestic cathedral, seat of a bishop. No
zocalo,
its
impressive space covered with the shops and stalls of merchants and
Indios engaged in the big and little commerce of Mexico. No elegant
homes fronting the streets with stark walls, opening into cool
interiors. No floating gardens as she remembered from Lake Texcoco.
There was nothing familiar, nothing of home here.

The horses and riders continued their gradual climb
over an empty land, dotted here and there with distant estancias
that she did not see until Diego tapped her shoulder and pointed to
them. The ground was dry and barren, but the air was cooler and the
land covered with
piñon
pines and scraggly juniper. Maria
sniffed the air. How sharp and pleasant was the smell of the trees,
how unlike the recent odors of death.

The steady climb continued, and then after hours of
seeking, she saw fields of corn and beans, newly planted and tended
by Indians, who looked up when the horsemen rode by, then turned
back, silent, to their stooping work. Maria noticed the veins of
irrigation ditches outlining each field. Then in the distance she
saw a church’s stubby spire made of wood, then another. She pointed
toward the nearer church.

“You have found San Miguel,” Diego replied. “In the
middle of Analco. It is the Indian parish, the church of the
Indians brought originally from Mexico by our grandfathers.” He
pointed toward the other spire. “And that is San Francisco, named
after our worthy patron saint. Our town is named
la villa real
de la Santa Fe de San Francisco.
A lot of name for something so
small, eh,
chiquita
?”

She did not answer. They rode slowly through Analco,
a collection of mud huts on narrow streets surrounding the church
of San Miguel. Maria craned her neck for a glimpse of something
better.

There was nothing better. The closer they rode to
Santa Fe, the lower her heart sank. Santa Fe,
la villa real de
la Santa Fe de San Francisco,
was a jumble of adobe houses, all
the color of the red earth around them. The streets were narrow and
dirty, the penetrating smell of
piñon
wood smoke everywhere.
It was so small.

Diego sensed her disappointment. “And what did you
expect?” he asked.

“I ... I ... don’t know, really,” she faltered.
“Something more.”

“I have never seen your Mexico City,” he said. “We
are an outpost, nothing more. A fort on the frontier. All the
grandness here is in the name. I suppose we have little to
recommend us.” He paused and chuckled. “Could you not have found
relatives somewhere else?”

The riders slowed their horses to a walk as they
passed the church of San Francisco and entered a plaza straggly
with weeds and empty of people.

“It is the dinner hour.”

Dinner. People sitting down at tables. Napkins.
Tablecloths. Food in plates and bowls, food that did not have to be
broken in small chunks and soaked to softness. Conversation. “It
has been so long,” Maria murmured. Her eyes filled with unexpected
tears. How long had it been since she had sat down to a meal with
family and friends?

Diego shifted in his saddle as he said his farewells
to the accompanying riders. “We will have to rouse the governor
from his table, Maria
chiquita
,” he said as he dismounted.
“Let us enter the courtyard of the palace.”

A palace? Maria scrubbed the tears from her eyes and
looked around. Surely there could be no palace in this place. With
an ache of homesickness, she remembered the tall buildings of
Mexico City, and the mighty Aztec temples, most of them torn down.
Mexico City was a town of plazas that welcomed with trees and
cooling fountains.

Diego laughed at the bewildered expression on her
face and pointed to the north. “Our palace,” he said.

Maria stared at the long, low building with stunted
towers on either end. The
zaguan
—vestibule—was open, brass
cannons pointing out on both sides of the massive gates. She shook
her head and Diego laughed again.

“What is that? You are not impressed?”

Diego was wrong. She was impressed, not by the
beauty of this building but by its solidity. There was none of the
grace of height and form she remembered from the city of her birth.
The walls here were thick and squat and solely functional, but they
had been whitewashed with gypsum—
yeso
—and the particles
sparkled in the afternoon sun. This primitive frontier outpost had
been built to last and she was impressed in spite of herself.

As Diego led his horse through the gates of the
palace, his long spurs clunked on the hard-packed earth, sending up
clouds of dirt. Maria looked at him and smiled. He was covered with
the white dust of the trail, even as she was.

When Diego lifted Maria down, she looked around her.
The courtyard of the governor’s palace was a spacious plaza,
surrounded on all sides by government buildings. A small man-made
stream emptied itself into a tile-rimmed pool. Grass grew with more
success here than in the plaza outside and paths had been laid out
with gravel and rimmed with early spring flowers in orderly beds.
She could hear the tinkle of a wind chime.

Maria ached from her hours in the saddle. She wanted
to dip her dusty fingers in the tiled pool but was too sore to move
beyond the nearby bench. She hobbled to the low wooden seat and
sat, rising again quickly. “
Dios mio
!” she exclaimed.

Diego laughed again, taking off his black hat white
with gypsum dust and slapping it against his leg.

“It is well for you,
caballero
,” she snapped,
and then was instantly sorry for her bad humor. It would not do to
offend this man who had rescued her. Indeed, she did not want to,
but her backside was on fire.

“Oh,
chiquita
,” he said, ignoring her
outbursts. “Maria
chiquita
! Things will get better soon. Let
me rouse the governor from his table.” He smoothed the red silk
scarf pulled tight over his hair, brushed off his leather doublet
and entered the palace.

He returned in scarcely a minute with a look of
genuine frustration on his face. “I can’t even get in to see him. I
gave the message to his clerk, who tells me he will pass it on!” He
sat down heavily on the bench next to Maria. “Is it any wonder that
we flounder here?’’ Maria looked at him, and after a moment he
smiled. “I am sorry. I just wish ... well, I do not know what I
wish. I do know that Antonio de Otermin is not overly fond of us
rancheros
.”

They sat for a moment in silence. “I have sent a man
to your sister, La Viuda Doña Margarita.”

La Viuda
. The widow. Maria thought of the
missing cask of jewels, then of the glances the horsemen had
exchanged when she mentioned her sister’s name. But she refused to
worry. She had reached Santa Fe. Surely she was safe now.

She sighed and tried to run her fingers through her
tangled hair, but it was matted with dirt. All her hairpins were
gone and the auburn tresses hung dull and stringy around her face.
She was painfully aware that her dress was ripped in several
places, that she wore no stockings, that her petticoat was in
tatters. She brushed futilely at the brown serge of her skirt and
blinked back tears.

“Never mind,” said Diego, watching her. “At least
you are alive,” he added quietly. They sat together, shoulders
touching.

“Diego!” said a voice behind them. Maria turned to
see a man hurrying through the door of the palace, tugging off his
napkin as he approached. He was dressed in dark red velvet, the
doublet glittering with gold buttons and the sleeves slashed with
cloth of gold showing through. His high boots were of soft, crushed
leather and shone to a high polish. The man was altogether grand.
As Maria got to her feet, she was terribly conscious of her
disheveled state.

“My clerks have trouble sorting out what is news
from what is not news. Excuse my seeming reluctance. It was not
intentional. Now tell us of this which has come to pass.”

He spoke to Diego, but his eyes were on Maria. They
were kind eyes, worried eyes. Maria’s uneasiness increased. The
governor walked to her and took her hand in both of his, looking
deep into her troubled eyes. “You are ...”

“Maria Espinosa de la Garza,” she replied in a
whisper.

He patted her hand. “What can we say?”

Diego came closer. “Maria, this is His Excellency,
Don Antonio de Otermin, governor of our province of New Mexico.” He
turned to the governor. “And did your clerk tell you of the
massacre?”

“He told me, but not until the first course of my
dinner was finished,” said the governor drily. “We will begin an
immediate inquiry.”

“There is no need, Governor. All are dead except
Maria. Why waste reams and reams of paper and send a report to the
viceroy in Mexico who will probably not bother to read it anyway?”
Diego turned away and gazed out toward the open gates.

The governor looked at Diego’s back. “The paperwork
would choke you, Masferrer. But the viceroy sends me no troops and
the garrison’s horses are plugs. And so I have to commandeer you
reluctant rancheros to double as militia.” His voice rose. “But I
will do the paperwork, too, Masferrer, because it is the law ...
something you New Mexicans prefer to avoid.”

Diego turned around quickly, his face brick red. He
started to speak, glanced at Maria’s white face, and was silent.
The men regarded each other until the governor finally turned back
to Maria. He spread his hands expressively, “There are no words to
express my distress, Señorita.”

There was silence again, except for the sound of the
water dribbling into the tile pool. Maria closed her eyes in
exhaustion. All she wanted to do was go to her sister’s home, have
a bath and sleep. Diego cleared his throat and she opened her
eyes.

“I must go now, Maria. I have to ride another three
leagues to Tesuque or Erlinda will worry.” He paused, reluctant to
leave. “Your sister will be here soon.”

Maria held out her hand and Diego took it. Her hand
was trembling, but he held it firmly.

“I ... do not ... words are not sufficient,” she
began. How could she ever express to Diego Masferrer what she
really felt? He had saved her life. She knew that she was in his
debt, but she also knew that to state such a fact would only
embarrass them both. She looked at the ground, then started in
surprise when he put a finger under her chin and raised her
head.

“I know,
chiquita
,” he said, “I know. But had
our places been reversed, you would have done the same, Maria
La
Afortunada
.”

It was a compliment of vast proportions, probably
difficult for a man to say. Maria smiled , then turned when she
heard a rustle of silk behind her.

It could be no one but Margarita, her sister.

Margarita stopped suddenly and stared at her sister.
Once again Maria became conscious of the tatters she wore. She
brushed nervously at her rags, unable to interpret the expression
on her sister’s composed face. Maria turned to Diego for
reassurance, but he and the governor, bristling at each other only
moments ago, were now exchanging glances.

So there they were again, those looks. Maria moved
closer to Diego, a motion that was not lost on the widow. She
looked from Diego to Maria, not a flicker of feeling showing on her
face.

“Well, Masferrer, have I you to thank for this
unexpected blessing?”

Her words were not at all kind. Diego opened his
mouth to speak, but the governor interrupted. “Come, Diego,” he
began, his voice jarringly loud in the quiet courtyard. “You must
reach your holdings before nightfall, and I am facing an unpleasant
task with Hidalgo de Sosa. Perhaps Señora Guzman would appreciate a
moment alone with her sister. ”

Diego’s glance flickered back to Maria, the same
disquiet in his eyes that had been in his voice when he spoke of
Margarita’s dead husband. Maria fought the urge to grab his arm and
plead with him to stay. What would Margarita think? Her own sister
stood before her, but as Diego tipped his hat to her, turned back
to his horse and swung into the saddle, Maria felt her strength
leaving with him.

The governor patted her arm, then hurried toward his
palace, calling for his clerk. She was alone with her sister, La
Viuda Guzman.

Margarita took a step closer, then stopped. “So you
are here,” she said.

“I had no place to stay, and could not wait for a
reply before setting out. The journey, as you know, is
interminable.”

This interview was not going as Maria had hoped.
There was no welcome in her sister’s eyes, no soft expression of
sisterhood. Maria was acutely aware of her own dirt and rags. If
the situation were reversed, she knew that she would have flung out
her arms and held Margarita close, but her sister made no move. She
stood there fingering the rosary that dangled from her belt, her
eyes raking Maria, appraising what stood before her like the
disappointed assayer of precious metal.

“You have not grown tall,” she commented.

“No, Señora,” Maria replied.

“Well, where is it?”

Maria frowned and shook her head. What did she mean?
“Where is what,
hermana mia
—my sister?” she asked, twining
her fingers together.

“The cask of jewels. Your letter mentioned some
jewels of our mother’s. As older sister, they are rightfully mine,”
she said impatiently, her fingers clicking the beads in her
hand.

Maria slowly sank down on the bench. “They are
lost,” she whispered.
And so am I
, she thought.

“Come now, Maria, do not mumble,” her sister
demanded, coming a step closer.