by Paula Scott
Years later, Father Santiago had said the burial mass for his father after the Indian raid left his father lanced to the ground in the pasture. Many Californios attended the elaborate funeral. His father was a respected and revered leader of the gente de razón, the son of a blue-blooded solider of Spain. After Mass at the Royal Presidio Chapel, the body of Roman’s father was returned to Rancho de los Robles and buried in the Vasquez cemetery alongside Roman’s mother and grandparents and several infants his parents had lost. Since then, servants and friends alike had been buried in that cemetery. Death was no stranger in California.
“I will say the rosary for your novia.” Lupe’s raspy voice stopped Roman’s careening thoughts. The old woman motioned for the girls to deposit the water beside the bed, along with the towels. “She must be cooled. Her body is far too hot.”
The servant girl returned with Rachel’s Bible, handing it to Lupe, who handed it to Roman. Lupe patted his cheek with her gnarled hand. “Dios has the power to heal. Pray to him, mi hijo.”
“I will bathe her,” Roman said as he knelt beside the bed.
Lupe frowned.
“I will not let her die.” He placed the Bible on the bedside table and then took up a cloth and dipped it in the bucket of cold water.
“Her life is not in your hands, mi hijo. God alone holds the living in his hands.”
“Go and say your rosary, then, for her. Take the girls with you. Leave me alone with Rachel and God.” He swore under his breath. Fear more than anger drove him now.
After the servants departed, he pulled Rachel’s nightgown up to her thighs and began to bathe her burning legs with towels soaked in the buckets of cool water. Then he drenched her forehead and flushed face. Eventually, he took out his knife and cut the nightgown off most of her body, removing the gown’s sleeves and neck and nearly all of the skirt. He did not feel an ounce of desire as her pale skin was exposed, only a growing fear that she would die the way his mother had died.
For hours, she remained gripped by the fever. He agonized over her, soaking what was left of her thin white nightgown in the cold water and constantly bathing her body, trying to cool her. The towels quickly warmed on her burning flesh as she lay unresponsive on the sheets. Her eyelashes fanned on her cheeks as if she slept the sleep of death.
When Lupe returned to the room, Roman had covered her chastely with wet towels, which he changed frequently as they grew warm against her fevered flesh.
Lupe nodded in approval at this practice. She felt Rachel’s forehead and smiled. “Her fever has lessened, but you have ruined her gown.” Lupe stroked Roman’s disheveled hair, her lips moving in a silent prayer, and then she departed.
Several hours later, Rachel’s fever spiked again. Roman refused to leave her. Lupe finally gave up trying to persuade him to turn her care over to the female servants. The next morning, Lupe discovered he’d gone all night without sleep. “You must rest, mi hijo. I will sit with her,” Lupe told him.
“No,” he said, and that was that. He was not about to watch Rachel die as he had his mother. When she seemed aware of him, he spoke softly to her, commanding her to live. He told her stories of California. The building of the missions. The rise of the great ranchos. His own family’s proud history in this pastoral land. And he read to her out of her Bible.
She calmed when he read the Bible, even slept peacefully for hours at a stretch.
At other times, she spoke in her delirium. She talked about her grandparents, the pain of her parting with them. And she spoke of someone else. Steven. The fiancé she’d left behind in New England. She also mumbled about her father. That he had never loved her and only brought her to California to marry her off for his gain.
A storm blew in that afternoon, and Roman realized his family would not return until the weather cleared. He prayed the storm would last for many days.
That night, he bathed Rachel with one hand and read to her by candlelight, holding her Bible in his palm. He came across a story in the book of Zechariah that spoke of an angel of the Lord coming on a red horse. The story so intrigued him, he reread the chapters several times.
After the angel of the Lord appeared on the red horse, more angels on horses patrolled the land, reporting that all the earth was peaceful and quiet. There was a call to repentance, and God granted forgiveness to his people.
Around midnight, Rachel’s fever finally broke for good. Grateful beyond belief, he held her as she slept peacefully in his arms. Finally, regretfully, he crawled away from the sweetness of her cool body and stretched out on top of the covers that she slept beneath. He picked up her Bible, marveling he could hold her nearly naked in his arms and not have lust overtake him. The words of the Bible bounced around his head, tangling his thoughts until he read again from Zechariah, searching for answers to his questions, bewildered as to why this story so intrigued him. Finally, worn out, he slept, holding Rachel’s Bible on his chest.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
She woke to find Roman lying beside her. She stared at his sleeping face in confusion and amazement. He looked so peaceful. And so handsome. Why on earth was he in bed with her? Moving her legs, it dawned on her she wore very little beneath the soft bedding. The realization shocked her. She peeked under the covers and saw what was left of her nightgown—next to nothing. She yanked the covers tightly up to her chin. She felt weak as a newborn babe and naked as one too. Glancing around, she recognized she wasn’t in the crucified saint’s room. The great battle painting hung on the wall, Michael with his foot on the devil’s head. She couldn’t remember a thing from the time she’d began praying beside her bed when her room had grown cold and she began to feel so sick.
Dark stubble covered Roman’s face. Apparently, he hadn’t shaved in days. His chest was bare except for the Bible he held there. No boots or socks covered his feet; he only had on pants. Where the sun hadn’t touched his skin, it was much lighter. His arms and chest were sculptured with taut muscle. In sleep, he still appeared incredibly strong and beautiful, but frighteningly so. Like a dangerous animal that looked magnificent right before it ate you.
The door cracked open, and Lupe strode silently into the room. The old woman carried a new nightgown and an armful of towels and fresh sheets, everything laundered and smelling of soap. When she saw Rachel awake, the old servant smiled. Without words, Rachel indicated she wanted the nightgown. The servant handed her the gown, careful not to wake Roman sleeping on the other side of the bed. Then the Indian woman left the room as quietly as she’d come, closing the door without a sound.
Rachel did her best to escape what was left of her ruined nightdress and put on the new gown under the covers. Her arms felt unbelievably heavy, and she ached all over. In the midst of her dressing ordeal, Roman awoke.
“You’re alive,” he said joyfully.
She stilled under the covers. “What happened to my dress?” She had finally worked what was left of the gown over her hips and now had nothing on. The process had worn her out. “Who has been taking care of me?”
His smile disappeared at her questions.
“How long have I been sick?” She clutched the covers under her chin.
“Several days.” He carefully placed her Bible on the table beside the bed as he rose from the mattress.
“Days?” She glanced around the room in distress. Rain and wind pelted the window. The storm surprised her. Outside, it looked like winter again. “Where is your family?”
“I don’t expect them till the storm abates.” Without looking at her, he donned his shirt and stepped into his boots.
She noticed the buckets of water in the room. “What is that water for?”
Again, he didn’t answer.
Several small towels floated in one of the pails. “Was my fever very bad?”
“You were out of your mind.” He sounded so humble, so unlike the proud, authoritative man she’d grown accustomed to. Never had his face appeared so gentle, his manner with her so tender. “Who took care of
me?”
He picked up the buckets and walked to the door. “I will send for Lupe. She will attend you now,” he said before shutting the door in his wake.
She struggled into the fresh gown, tossing the destroyed one onto the floor in a huff of sudden indignation. Did her modesty mean nothing to that insufferable man? Lupe indeed!
# # #
Roman slept in the crucified saint’s room, and Lupe attended Rachel in his chambers. Since recovering from the fever, Rachel saw very little of him. All day, he stayed away from the hacienda. Even in the storm, the vaqueros worked in the fields with the livestock. Roman rode with the Indians, tending to the cattle, horses, and sheep. The only time he appeared at the hacienda was in the evenings, usually just before bedtime.
He would knock softly upon the bedroom door while she was reading her Bible. He wouldn’t come into the room, just inquire from the doorway if he could be of any service to her. The first few nights after her sickness, she tersely answered no further assistance from him was needed. In truth, she was beyond embarrassed he’d cared for her, bathed her, and nursed her through the fever. He probably knew every inch of her body now. The thought horrified her.
And now, stopping by her room, he acted like they hardly knew each other. Like he was a servant required to wait on her. After a few days, he stopped coming altogether. Her outrage soon cooled, and she began to actually long for his company, though she wouldn’t admit it, even to herself. Lupe spoke not a lick of English, and neither did the other house servants, though they were much friendlier than her father’s servants had been. These house servants smiled often and appeared happy and content as they carried on with their chores. By the end of the week, when Roman finally stopped by again to look in on her on his way down the hall, she asked him to stay.
“It’s probably better I don’t,” he said from the doorway. His hair was wet from the rain and black as midnight. His damp shirt clung to his chest, reminding her of their time by the stream after she’d seen the wolf and he’d rolled her to the ground, pinning her beneath him. His passion had frightened her then, but she knew his other side now as well. This gentle, uncertain side of him standing in the doorway longing for her kindness.
“Please come in. Just for a short while. When do you think the rain will stop?” She smiled at him as he slowly walked into the room.
“Soon. Winter is playing herself out. Spring is just around the bend.”
“Is the weather always like this here?”
“Unpredictable?”
“Yes. I thought it was spring.”
“It is spring. Winter just wanted to say good-bye.” He finally smiled, sensing her goodwill, she supposed. “Lupe tells me you are feeling much better.” He ran a hand through his wet hair, almost as if he were nervous. Could he really be nervous with her after all that had passed between them?
“How would Lupe know? She speaks only Spanish.” Rachel tried not to let him see how cooped up she felt by her sickness and the storm and her betrothal to him.
“Actually, Lupe speaks several languages. Her native Indian language, Spanish, and she also speaks Russian.”
“Russian?” Rachel closed her Bible beside her on the bed. She sat up straighter, intrigued by this. “Where did Lupe learn Russian?”
“After she left Mission Dolores to marry her husband, she worked for a time for the Russians at Fort Ross on the north coast. Later, after her husband died, she and her children returned to Mission Dolores. That is where my father acquired them and brought the entire family down here to Rancho de los Robles.”
“The Russians have a fort in California?”
“Not anymore. A few years ago, with the fur trade dwindling, the Russians gave up on their settlement and returned home.”
“Tell me more.” Rachel had never heard of Russians in California.
Roman walked to the window that overlooked the vineyard and the creek beyond. The windowpane was wet from the rain, no stars in the sky from the clouds overhead. “How about a Russian love story?” He didn’t look at her, just kept staring out the window.
“Yes, tell me.”
“My father’s fair cousin, Concepción, lived with her parents at the presidio in Yerba Buena forty years ago. There, when she was but a girl, she fell in love with the dashing Rezanov, but Rezanov had to return to Russia. They became engaged before he departed, and the fair Concepciόn waited for her Russian fiancé to return for her. He never did. Nor did she hear news of what had happened to him for a long time. Finally, Concepción discovered Rezanov had died during his return to Russia before he could come back to California for her. The beautiful Concepción was only fifteen. Rezanov was a widower of forty-two when they fell in love. To this day, Concha, as she is called by her family, has never married. She remains true to her Rezanov even now.”
“Such a sad tale. Waiting for a love who would never return.” Rachel was fascinated by the story.
“Concha decided to become a nun. No other man could replace her Russian lover. I’m sure you understand this better than I do.” He prowled the room now, appearing upset about something.
“Why would I understand this better than you?” His behavior confused her.
“You have chosen to devote yourself to God.” He motioned to her Bible beside her on the bed. “Can God’s love really replace that of a man’s?”
“Some women and men are called to devote themselves wholly to God rather than marry. I do not think this is the path the Lord has chosen for me, but I am not married yet, so we shall see.”
“Is there a man you love more than God? Perhaps a man from the east?”
“I love no man more than God.”
“Then why do you marry? Why not become a nun like Concha?”
“This is not my decision to make. My father has decided that I marry. The Lord’s command is to honor one’s father.”
Roman stepped up to the bed. His intensity took her aback. “But before you came to California, your father did not command you to marry, yet you were about to wed anyway.”
“Who told you I was about to wed?”
“Why marry if you love God so much? Is your love for this man back east so great? Greater than the love you hold for God?” He scooped up her Bible, whisking it away as he walked back to the window.
Rachel bristled. “I told you, there is no man I love more than God. Who told you about Steven?”
He cradled her Bible in his hands. “You did.”
“What?”
“During your fever, you talked of many things.”
“What things?”
“Your grandparents. Your childhood. Your mother and father. And Steven. On and on about this Steven from the east.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. She felt exposed. And angry. Not only had he seen her nearly naked, he knew her naked heart as well. “So you know all about me.” She wanted to speak harshly but kept her voice soft and even as her grandparents had taught her to do.
“Yes, I know all about you.” He smiled, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. “From head to toe I know you, pequeña.” He crossed his arms over her Bible against his chest.
“Give me back my Bible,” she demanded.
“I would like to read it tonight.”
Was he toying with her? “Do you not have a Bible of your own?”
“No.” He looked out the window into the darkness.
“Does your family not own a Bible?”
He turned back to her. “My mother may have owned one. If she did, it’s probably buried with her.”
Rachel softened toward him. “I’m sorry.”
Quietly, he came back to her bed. “That was a long time ago.” His voice held no emotion now, but he clutched her Bible tighter.
She motioned to her book in his grasp. “God comforts us through his word,” she offered, feeling a prick in her conscious for growing angry with him. He’d probably saved her life during the fever. She should thank him, but she just couldn’t get over how he’d taken
ownership of her body, and now her memories of Steven.
He glanced down at the Bible and then back up at her. His gaze revealed his confusion. “I do not long for comfort from a God I cannot see or feel. Nor can I hear God as you hear God.” He seemed grieved as he tossed the Bible onto the bed and walked to the door.
“You do not hear God because you do not listen.” She picked up the Bible, placing it gently upon her lap. “How can you live on this earth and not see the Creator’s hand in all things?”
“Did God create the wolf to devour the sheep? The bear to slaughter the calves? Did God create war and famine and drought and fever and death? Did God create the ship that brought you to California? The ship that brought you to me?”
“We live in a fallen world. Man is sinful, and the devil is real. This is why Jesus came and died and rose again. The Savior offers hope to mankind, a way for us to be rescued from the devil and our sinfulness and so we can know God.”
Roman opened the door, pausing at the threshold. “If you had your choice, would you marry Steven or me?”
“I thought we were talking about God?”
“You were talking about God. I want to know if you had your choice, would you choose Steven or me?”
“You are here, and you are my father’s choice. Steven is in New England.”
“But if you could choose for yourself, who would you choose?”
She stared at him for a long, sad moment. “I would choose Steven.”
Pain flashed across his face before he quietly closed the door behind him.
# # #
The next morning when Lupe came into the room, she found Rachel dressed and the bed made up. A bundle of her things—Roman’s mother’s things, really—waited beside the door.
“I’m moving to another room,” she informed Lupe, though she knew the old woman did not understand English. Rachel motioned to her things. “I must have my own quarters.” Picking up her pile of goods, she headed out into the tiled hallway.