Woman of Three Worlds (29 page)

“Whose clothes?” A chill traced its way down Brittany's spine.

“To hear Roque, you'd think she was the Virgin Mary.” Lisette's tone was venomous. “I am assured by others, though, that she was Francisca Rafaela Delores de Haro y Arana. Far from being a virgin, she died in childbirth.” Glancing at the stacked pillows, Lisette asked sweetly, “How did you rest in a dead woman's bed?”

“Don Roque's wife?”

Lisette nodded. “The only woman able to capture him. I wish I'd known her. She must have had a secret.”

The why of love was secret, but nothing to be learned.

Lisette prowled restlessly before halting near Brittany. “For that matter,
you
have a secret,” she accused. “Ten years I've lived here, arriving the year after her death, but he's never let me set foot in this room. I couldn't wear her clothes—she was a scrawny little nothing like you—but he might have given me some of her jewelry.”

Staring at Brittany, she demanded harshly, “What right have you to be petted and presented to his precious family when I can't enter a room where those overstuffed hens sit, and they tug their skirts aside when we pass on the plaza? I'll be bound my family's better than yours! My father was a general and our plantation was one of the largest in Georgia. If only he hadn't insisted on coming to Mexico and fighting for that fool Maximilian!”

“Don't you have relations back in the States?”

“I don't know who's left. They'd all be paupers, anyway.” The silver-haired woman eyed Brittany with detestation. “I was sixteen and a virgin when Roque brought me here. If you have a shred of decency, you know he owes me marriage.”

“Only you and he can judge that,” Brittany said, rising as Anita nervously worked the last hairpin into place. “You can be assured of one thing, Miss McDonald.
I
don't wish to marry Don Roque. I want to return to Arizona just as quickly as I can.”

The older woman's mouth dropped open in disbelief. Before she could launch another attack, Brittany picked up her bundle of buckskins and moved past her.

XXI

Roque, in
charro
garb, was speaking with Tomás when Brittany entered the salon, or
sala
. “Entrancing!” he said. “I thought you'd prefer to ride, though we can take the carriage.”

“I'd rather ride,” she confirmed.

Tomás escorted them to the courtyard, where Mateo had their horses ready. Brittany exclaimed at the beauty of a mare the shade of thickened honey with flaxen mane and tail. Roque lifted her onto the silver-mounted sidesaddle, quirked his mouth as he tied her Indian clothes behind, and swung up on his big black horse.

“La Dorada is from California,” he said. “I plan to breed a line from her. Unlike that tough-mouthed brute you rode here, she needs only a pressure of reins, a shifting weight. After a time, you will swear she reads your mind.”

As they rode out of town past the Alameda, Roque told her how the flood of nine years ago had snapped the trunks of giant poplars along the promenade. “We long since rebuilt the ruined houses,” he said. “But trees grow in God's good time.” He indicated young trees doing their best to shade stone benches. “I will be an old man before these are anything like the ones I remember.”

Not far beyond the city they left the Navajoa road and turned east. A cloud of brilliant green birds flew over, flashing blue from wings and rump, and Brittany saw a pair of what she thought were surely parrots, green with white on their faces. Before long, they forded a broad river at a crossing where water barely trickled over the rounded stones. Several fantastical black-tufted, long-tailed jay like birds flew over, scolding, and an eaglelike bird with a white head and black eye mask mounted into the sun.

“Caracara,” Roque said.

As they rode he told her that Los Caciques was named for five Yaqui war chiefs executed there during one of that people's numerous uprisings. “They accepted Christianity gladly,” he said with a grim laugh. “What they will not receive is Spanish government and taxation. According to them, Jesus Christ himself walked in their country and it was decreed to them by the singing of prophets inspired by God.”

“Can't they just be left alone?”

“When they occupy the richest deltas in western Mexico?” Roque asked incredulously. “You have seen for yourself that our mountains are useless for farming. Most of Mexico is mountainous. There is no way to keep Mexican farmers off such fertile soil.”

That sounded terribly familiar. “I thought the Yaquis were farmers.”

“They are. They also make good miners and
vaqueros
. Those willing to live under Mexican law are citizens. But those who cleave to their old ways, resisting the government—” He shrugged. “They must sooner or later be forced into total submission. Only then will we have peace in Sonora.”

“There will still be Apaches.”

He sighed. “I think Apache raids will cease long before Yaqui revolts do.”

The narrow road ran through pastures, fields, and thorn forests, where vines and branches meshed into an impenetrable mass. Some trees had trunks studded with cruel thorns and ocotillo, which she'd seen growing as a many-stalked plant and became a tree here, tipped with the same red flowers. In Arizona it must be winter, but in this mild-weathered, semitropical region in the foothills of the Sierra Madre it was like spring.

They had been riding perhaps two hours when a pass opened on a broad green valley watered by a tree-bordered stream where a mill wheel turned. Cattle and horses ranged over lush meadows. Fertile fields and orchards were watered by irrigation ditches, and what looked like a village spread over the highest slopes.

“Los Caciques,” Roque said proudly. “It has been here almost as long as Alamos.”

As they rode through corrals and outbuildings, he pointed out the molasses mill, winery gardens, threshing grounds, and the wheelwright's and blacksmith's sheds, which buzzed with activity as wagons were repaired and several mules waited to be shod.

On a slope facing the walled core of the
hacienda
was a church. Small as it was, it boasted a cupola and bell, and beyond it was a graveyard, monuments surrounded by simple wooden crosses or mounded rocks.

As they passed through the wide gateway, Brittany gazed in wonderment at the structures built against the inner wall and what appeared to be the rear of the inner courtyard. Barns, storage sheds and shelters, a small corral near a place where a sheep was being slaughtered, pig styes and chicken coops, sheep sheds and pens.

“It's like a fortress!” Brittany said in awe.

“It has to be.”

Helping her down, Roque tossed their reins to Mateo, frowned impatiently as she untied her buckskin bundle, and led her through a vine-covered arch into a huge courtyard planted with fruit trees, herbs, and flowers. A well was in the middle, and women chatted and laughed as they filled their jars or buckets and returned to the great house or their own quarters among the adobes that formed the sides of the court. Near the well were four domed adobe ovens. All were in use, and the smell of baking bread was as delicious in its way as that of gardenias and roses.

“My people live here,” said Roque with a sweep of his hand. “And there are more storerooms, an infirmary, and a building for weaving and spinning. Blankets and serapes made from Los Caciques wool have a high reputation.”

They passed through an arch into an inner court where a triple-headed lion fountain sent brilliant sprays of water showering into a marble basin. Marble benches and tables gleamed among trees and flowering shrubs. A bell tower rose above the wall separating the courtyards and Brittany saw a man's face at one of the windows circling it.

“It's been ten years since we were attacked,” said Roque reassuringly. “Still, it's best to be vigilant. Every now and then I have the bell rung to give herdsmen and workers practice at taking refuge inside the walls.”

Pillars of hewn wood supported the roof of the gallery running along the three sides of the house. Vines spread out from many of the pillars, and carved stone basins and troughs held flowers and ferns of a dazzling variety. Taking her along the walk of colored pebbles arranged in a mosaic, Roque laughed as two children hurtled out of the house and, disregarding a chiding female voice, threw their arms violently about his neck as he stooped to hug them.

Exchanging a few quick sentences with them, he hefted one to each shoulder. From this perch they stared curiously down at Brittany.

“This is Jesús, better known as Chuey,” Roque said, squeezing the plump little boy with proud affection. “Don't let those angelic brown eyes fool you. He's a demon! But this one—”

He laughed with doting affection as the girl, perhaps three, maybe a year older than the boy, squirmed with delight and peered at Brittany from warm hazel eyes fringed with golden lashes. “This one,” repeated Roque, “is my angel child. We call her Trini, which is short for Trinidad.”

Depositing them on a stone bench, he reached into his jacket. Trini embraced an exquisite china-headed little doll and Chuey boisterously threw his red ball at a pillar. Filling their hands with pralines, Roque smiled at the pretty young woman coming from the left wing of the house.

As he spoke rapidly to her, Brittany thought her glowing pleasure dimmed. The soft dark eyes that rested briefly on her as she inclined her head weren't angry, but they held alarm.

“This is Panchita,” Roque explained. “She sees to my comfort and will see to yours.”

Even if the children hadn't been impatiently whispering, “Mamá!” tugging at her skirts as they exhibited their new treasures, Brittany would have known they were hers and Roque's, from their light skins and Trim's eyes and soft brown hair.

As if reading her thoughts, Roque said, “The children are mine. I love them and will educate Chuey for some profession while Trini shall have dowry enough to marry well.”

“But—”
You love them yet you let them be known as bastards?

“Aristocrats do not marry Indians,” he said. “At least not since the first
conquistadores
, who, lacking Spanish women, wed the daughters of Aztec nobles and left respected lines. It's accepted and expected that a man enjoy the flowers of his
hacienda
. The joke on Nacho's place is that one can't throw a
reata
without roping one of his offspring. He had forty at last count.”

Such use of women sent angry disgust searing through Brittany. “And Doña Elena, who's born him fifteen children, I wonder how she feels about that!”

Roque stared in amazement before he burst out laughing. “She doubtless burns candles in thanksgiving. Forgive my plain language, but if he's with another woman, he's not adding to Elena's brood.”

“Among Apaches,” she retorted icily, “a man who cannot deny himself till his wife has weaned their child is considered selfish and a bad father.”

“Apaches? You dare hold them up as an example to me?” Indulgent amusement vanished from his face. For a moment, they glared at each other. “You don't understand,” he said in a snubbing yet less angry tone. “In any country, men who can afford it have women besides their wives. One of my Oxford classmates was the illegitimate son of an earl. In the United States, of course, I gather it is more the custom to visit prostitutes or seduce poor girls and then treat them and their children as outcasts.”

Biting her lip at this unpalatable truth, Brittany flashed, “All you're proving is that men everywhere use women badly!”

“Except your noble Apaches?” he gibed. “Strange that I've seen not a few squaws who've had the tips of their noses cut off by jealous husbands.”

Evidently feeling he had the best of the encounter, he opened the door. Except for white walls, red-brown tiled floor, and high ceiling supported by massive beams, this
sala
bore no resemblance to the elegantly furnished one in his town mansion, but Brittany liked it better.

Heavy, hand-hewn oak chairs and settees had leather seats and backs. Long adobe benches flowed from the round corner fireplace along the wall on either side, spread with blankets in muted earth tones. A niche in the wall held a dark-skinned madonna in heaven-blue robes who stood on a crescent moon. Chests and a few tables, each with a silver vase or bowl of flowers, completed the furnishings except for a shelf of old leatherbound books. From the
sala
she could see into the dining room.

A great trestle table was scarred with use but lovingly polished, as were the carved leather-seated chairs drawn up to it. An open cupboard displayed stacks of silver plates, bowls, and platters, rows of goblets, pitchers, and serving dishes.

An enticing odor floated from the tiled archway where the kitchen must be and Brittany realized that she was ravenous. Panchita tinkled a little silver hand bell.

A barefooted girl about Pretty Eyes's age padded in, long braids swaying as she ducked her head to Roque and Brittany. “Concha will be your maid,” Roque said. “If you can't make her understand your needs, come to me.” He sniffed with appreciation. “Panchita has my favorite
mole
cooking. As soon as you're ready, we must do it justice.”

Nodding at instructions from Panchita, Concha led the way along the outside colonnade, passing several doors till she reached the last one. Holding it open for Brittany to pass in, she took the pitcher of water from a boy who had hurried after them and sent him off with some quick directions before she put the pitcher on the washstand, looking at Brittany with a questioning smile that showed saucy dimples and perfect white teeth.

To see a girl of Pretty Eyes's age always stabbed Brittany into wondering what had happened to her young friend. Brittany thanked Concha and motioned that she could go.

Concha pointed at the trunk Mateo's horse had carried. It rested on a bench beside the fireplace. Opening it, Concha unfolded six dresses, which she hung up in an armoire, took out underthings, slippers, shawls, and put them neatly away.