‘Well’ – Alvero now rose slowly to his feet – ‘I don’t happen to be on trial, Matthew. I have told you how this incident came about; I can do no more. You must believe me or you must believe her.’
‘Why did you speak of it at all?’
‘Oh’ – the old man shook his head – ‘if I remember rightly it came up in the course of conversation. I am sorry if she has been troubled by it, but on the other hand if she has nothing to hide why should she be troubled? You said you have known her for many years?’
‘Yes that is what I said.’
‘And her husband was a coal owner?’
‘Yes.’ Matthew swallowed, jerked his chin upwards, then said, ‘Yes, he was a coal owner.’
‘Well then, that is all that can be said about it. My agent is wrong. I shall tell him so when next I write. In the meantime, let us forget about this trifling matter. What happened at Boonville?’
‘Nothing much. The stock was mixed and Pete thought not worth bargaining over, they were in very rough shape, even the mustangs.’
‘Oh. Well if Pete thought they were in bad shape, they were in bad shape. I’ll go and have a word with him. I’ll see you at dinner.’ He now lifted up his glass, drained it, replaced the glass on the table then walked slowly down the room; but he did not go through the main door, he went towards the end of the room where the dining table was set for the meal, and he paused and looked at it before reaching out his hand and moving a silver cruet further into the middle of the table; then slowly made his way out.
Matthew stood for a while looking towards the far door; then lifting his gaze, he looked about the room as if seeing it for the first time: the roughness of the wooden wall vying with the elegance of the china cabinet, the silver on the dining table, and these in turn looking incongruous against the array of animal skins, the heads dangling over the back of the couch as if gasping for breath.
There was a pain in his chest. It was just such that could be created either by a broken friendship or by the knowledge that one’s father was a liar. And there was the point. In a way he had come to look upon this old man not as an uncle but as a father, one to replace the man he had rejected in England, the man who had for a time created a hate in him because he had taken to himself a particular young girl. For a moment he thought as a woman might think: men were ruthless, all men were ruthless, and he now saw his uncle as Tilly saw him, and he shuddered. If the old man had failed in his attempt to divide them, then he was just as likely to try again . . . And what if he should divulge the other business, his own personal private business? Immediately he shut off his thinking and hurried from the room, and his body, from being cool, became hot with the thought that instead of saying to Tilly, ‘I believe you, he’s up to something,’ he must say, ‘You must go careful with him. If we mean to live with him we must placate him.’
God! he felt sick.
Four
It was June. The earth was like a volcano; so great was its heat Tilly would not have been surprised if it had erupted and burst into flames. There was no colour in the sky and no movement outside or inside the ranch. It was as if everyone else was asleep or dead. All that is except Luisa. Tilly was sitting beside her in the dog run. The open space did not create a breeze, nor could you say it was cool, it was only less hot than outside.
The constant motion of Luisa’s rocking-chair was getting on Tilly’s nerves, and her voice, rapid and moving from one subject to the other, told her that something was amiss; but it was no use asking for an explanation because Luisa rarely gave you a straightforward answer.
‘Think this is hot! You should have been here in ’49 when all that mad scum was rushing for gold, swarming across the country, all making for San Antonio; then from there across the Comanche Plains to the godforsaken outpost of El Paso, and dying in their hundreds. They buried them where they dropped. It wasn’t the Indians who killed them, you know. Oh no, it wasn’t the Indians. Smallpox and the cholera got them; and it got the Indians too. Pity it didn’t wipe the beggars off the map; had a good enough try at that, together with the measles and the goat’s disease.’
‘The goat’s disease?’ Tilly’s voice was a limp enquiry.
‘Yes, syphilis you know, syphilis. Men are no better than beasts. Beasts are better than men, any day. Funny but all the soldiery and the rangers and the Mexican troops, oh yes, the Mexican troops, they aimed to wipe the Indians off the face of the earth but ’twas the Spanish smallpox took over and nearly did it, nearly wiped them all off.’
‘The smallpox did?’
‘Aye, yes, the smallpox did; but that’s some time ago. I ask myself why anyone wants to come and live here, I keep asking myself that, I’ve been doing it for years.’
‘Couldn’t you have gone away, I mean years ago?’ Tilly’s question was quiet.
‘No, I couldn’t.’ Luisa turned on her as if she were answering a condemnation. ‘I haven’t a penny, I haven’t any clothes but what I stand up in and my winter serge and skin coat.’
‘But . . . but,’ Tilly now pulled herself upward in her chair and looked round at Luisa as she said, ‘You mean you haven’t got anything at all? Doesn’t your father give . . . ?’
‘No, he doesn’t; but he would if I asked for it. He’s just waiting for me to ask, but I wouldn’t let him provide me even with a shroud, I’ve got that set aside, a white nightgown, and embroidered. Yet every penny, everything he has should belong to me, because it belonged to my mother. He has only his looks and his tongue and his so-called ancestry, but as soon as he got her he fastened up every penny. Then he murdered her. Yes, he did, he murdered her.’
‘Oh no! No!’ Tilly was shaking her head, her face screwed up in protest.
‘Oh yes, he did. If you pull someone in front of you to save your own skin, that’s murder. Oh, I could tell you things. He stops at nothing to get what he wants. You know, he’s as mad as an Indian on the warpath ’cos your house is going up. And it’s just as well it is, you’re going to need it. Oh yes, you’re going to need it.’
Tilly pulled herself to her feet, then rubbed her sweating palms down the sides of her print dress as she said, ‘What is it, Luisa, what’s troubling you? There’s something on your mind?’
Luisa bowed her head and muttered, ‘Can’t tell you. Can’t tell you.’
‘Is it to do with me?’
‘Sort of, yes; sort of, in a way.’
‘Matthew!’
‘Yes, yes, Matthew.’ Now Luisa rose from the chair and, standing close to Tilly, she looked into her face as she said, ‘It’ll be up to you.’
‘What will be up to me? I must know, Luisa.’
‘Can’t say.’ Luisa turned her head away now. ‘’Tisn’t for me to say, but I just want to put you on your guard, he’s up to something. The thing is, he’s dangerous. He’s lost me, and the thought that he’s lost Matthew an’ all must be unbearable to him. That’s why he’s done it.’
‘Please, Luisa’ – Tilly’s voice was low, with a pleading note in it now – ‘tell me what’s facing us. Please.’
‘You’ll know soon enough, this time tomorrow when the wagon comes in.’
‘Whose wagon? You don’t mean something’s going to happen to Matthew? Has he sent him and the others on a raid or something?’ Her voice was rising high in her head now and Luisa was quick to answer.
‘No, no; nothing like that, Matthew will be all right, he’s with the others, and they’ll all be back in the morning. But tonight I’d ask yourself how much your feeling for Matthew is worth.’
Tilly stood staring down at the shabby-looking little woman and she shook her head slowly but didn’t ask any further questions because she knew that it would be useless. She had come to know Luisa’s ways, and the more one probed the less likely one was to find out anything. She turned from her and took up a large straw hat from a hook on the wall and, putting it on, she went slowly out into the white light, and as slowly she walked past the cook-house and towards the back door and into her room.<
br />
The child and Katie were upstairs and she knew that both were asleep. It had become the pattern of the day now to sleep if possible through the high heat. She went into the adjoining room and sluiced her face with tepid water, then sat down in front of the little dressing table in the corner of the room and stared at herself. Her face was tanned, yet looked ashen; her eyes were red-rimmed; her hair, wet at the front, was sticking to her brow. She slanted her eyes towards the mirror as if not recognising the reflection in it. She knew there was hardly any resemblance to the woman who had left England just eleven months previously. She had hardened in lots of ways, both physically and mentally: she could ride and she could shoot; she had withstood the cold nights and now she was coping with intense heat; these had brought about physical change in her. The mental change went deeper and had come about through Alvero Portes’ attitude towards her and her consequent fear of him, her acknowledged fear of him because she recognised he was a man it would be foolish not to fear, and fear made one wary, even sly.
Since she was sixteen she had known fear, the fear of the villagers, the fear of McGrath and his family; but the fear of Matthew’s uncle put the other fears in the shade, yet at the same time created in her the strength with which to face it. It seemed to her that both she and the old man were fighting for a prize, the prize of Matthew. Yet he was already hers, avowedly hers; hardly a night passed but he made fresh vows. Once they were in that bed together the world was forgotten, their love and loving was something that could not be defined in words; yet with morning and the breakfast table there was the man, the tall Spanish-looking man, who was like a sword waiting to cleave them apart.
But what was this new thing hanging over them? Luisa had said, ‘Ask yourself how much your feeling for Matthew is worth . . . ’ So it was something to do with Matthew, something he had done when he was out here before. But what? What could he have done that would make Luisa think it would have any effect on her feeling for him? She now bent her head deeply on to her chest and what she said was, ‘Please God, don’t let it be something that I couldn’t countenance.’
Five
The men returned around noon, dirty, sweaty, but, as usual, entering the ranch in a flurry, their faces and their shouting expressing their pleasure at being back.
For once Tilly was not in the compound waiting to meet Matthew but was up under the eaves looking out from the low window. She had sent Katie and the child over to the dog run; Luisa was always pleased to see them, in fact she seemed to unbend more with Katie than with herself.
She had been up here for the past two hours and now her chest was heaving with the heat from the roof.
An hour ago, from the side window, she had seen a small wagon train appear from out of the last hillocks and make its way towards Diego’s and Emilio’s house. The lead wagon was canvas-covered, barrel-shaped and fully flapped at the front; as for the man driving it, she could not tell from this distance if he were old or young, nor if the small woman by his side was old or young. The second wagon was covered too but more rudely; the third looked like the open carts used on the farms back home, with high wooden sides which were keeping in place a jumble of what looked like household furniture and utensils. She saw Emilio’s children and Diego’s boy come out and greet them. The children were jumping up and down by the side of the wagon. Mack McNeill had come into her view. He had stood in the open for a time, staring towards the wagons, before striding across to meet them.
She noticed what seemed to be an altercation going on between him and the man who had been driving the first wagon.
And now here were the men back, and Matthew was standing in the yard looking about him, looking for her. That he was perplexed, she had no doubt, for not only was she not in the yard but his uncle too was missing.
She watched Mack again coming into view. Because of his limp his tread was usually slow but now he was moving towards Matthew almost on the point of a hopping run. She watched him talking eagerly: and whatever he said made Matthew hunch his shoulders, then take off his soft felt hat and dash it against his legs before turning round and looking in the direction of the wagons now stationary in the distance; then slowly turning back towards Mack he put up his hand tightly against the side of his face and leant his head to one side. It seemed to be akin to the action of someone suffering severe earache. Almost immediately he swung round and looked towards the house, and as he seemed about to spring forward she saw Mack catch him by the arm and swing him about. It said something for the strength of those wiry arms that he could do this, for Matthew’s body, always solid, had now toughened to a strength that could match that of any man on the ranch.
The cowhands had not moved from the compound and were joined now by Two, Three and Four, their black faces straight, their eyes wide.
Tilly now watched Mack gently guiding Matthew towards the ranch house, and when they had disappeared inside, those in the yard, after a pause, resumed their normal business.
She rose stiffly from her cramped position on the floor and as she had been wont to do as a child, or even as a young girl, when upset or worried, she now pinned her hands under her oxters and rocked herself backward and forward, while asking herself, What was it? What had he done? But search as she might her mind gave her no answer; and she was afraid to know the answer, but she knew that once she met Matthew she would have the answer for he was bound to tell her what this all meant.
How long she walked up and down the room she didn’t know, but she was brought to a stop by the muted sound of voices coming from below. Instantly she was out of the room and down the shallow stairs; but she came to a halt at the foot of them as she heard Matthew’s voice saying, ‘Why did you do this?’
‘I tell you it is not of my making, my doing.’
‘You’re lying. Weeks ago you sent a message to Josè Cardenas through McCulloch’s Indian scout.’
There was a pause before Alvero Portes’ voice came to Tilly, saying now, ‘Whoever informed you of that is possessed of a vivid imagination.’
‘It is no imagination; how other are they here?’
‘Apparently they decided on their own to return. Likely the longing of Leonilde to see you once more.’
‘Don’t say that. You know as well as I do it was by your order that they left never to return. What do you hope to gain by this? You’re out to destroy my life, aren’t you?’
‘No, no, Matthew; never yours, never yours.’ The words were uttered with deep feeling; and Matthew’s voice, slow and bitter, now replied, ‘If you spoil Matilda’s you spoil mine; whatever hurts her hurts me doubly.’
‘That you will be hurt more than she will be by this remains to be seen. The question is, will she be big enough to accept your little mistress and your child?’
The last words brought Tilly’s mouth agape and her head drooping slowly; in fact, her whole body drooped with a sudden weakness, and she was about to slump on the stairs when she stiffened and remained poised for a moment. Then softly she made her way along the passage towards the back door.
There was no-one in the back compound and she leant against the rough wood and plaster wall. So that was it, he’d had a mistress, a Mexican girl, and they’d had a child. Yet he had professed over and over again that he loved no-one in his life but her, that she had been in him from when he could remember and would be there and be part of him until he died . . . But he’d had a little, which she took to mean young, Mexican mistress and a child.
What about Mark and her? She had been his mistress for twelve years. Was it so different?
Yes, because Matthew had known about it, he had known everything about her, whereas she knew nothing of the life he had led until he returned to the Manor last year.
What was she going to do? His mistress and the child were on the doorstep so to speak, brought there by that old devil who was determined to wreck their marriage.
She brought herself from the wall and asked herself a question that had been prompted by Luisa: Would thi
s make any difference to her feelings for Matthew?
The answer didn’t come immediately, but when it came it was a definite no. But having said that she knew she was filled with jealousy of this other person, this girl who had been in his life before her. Yet again that wasn’t true; she was the one who had always been in his life, and if she hadn’t become his father’s mistress he would likely have shown his hand much sooner; perhaps years ago she would have become Mrs Matthew Sopwith. Even if not his wife, then his mistress, for who could tell how she would have reacted under his pressing charm.
She turned her head to the side to see Luisa coming towards her, and it was with an effort she pulled herself from the support of the wall. Luisa didn’t speak but, taking her hand, she hurried her past the cookhouse and into the dog run, and when the sitting room door was closed on them she faced Tilly and said, ‘Well now, I can see you know. They’re still at it in there. What are you going to do?’
It was some seconds before Tilly answered, ‘I don’t know, I . . . I still can’t believe it somehow.’
‘What can’t you believe?’ Luisa’s voice was harsh. ‘You’re a grown woman; you’ve been married twice. You show me the man who says he went to a woman as she to him and I’ll tell him he’s a confounded liar. Look.’ She pushed Tilly towards a chair, then seating herself in front of her, she placed her hands on her knees and leant forward. It was a manly gesture and her voice had almost the roughness of a man’s as she said, ‘When Matthew first came out here over four years gone he was dour and unhappy. Something had soured him, I don’t know what. Leonilde was seventeen years old. She was working in the house.’ She jerked her head sideways. ‘She was a little thing, and bonny; hardly spoke a word of English, just Spanish. She was nearly all Spanish, hardly a trace of Indian. The Indian shows in her father José, and her brother Miguel. Well, it was summer and Matthew saw Leonilde flitting about and, the nights being hot, he flitted after her. But let me tell you this, he wasn’t the only one. There was Emilio. He and his wife rowed over her. Then there was Andy O’Brien. You know’ – she again jerked her head but towards the bunkhouse this time – ‘he isn’t permanent, he comes and goes, hot feet. She was seen with him more than once and with a dirty Mexican who was here but a short time, but mainly her eyes were on Matthew. And, of course, her father, who had an eye to the pesos, he pushed her, he could even hear wedding bells and see a nice little set-up for himself and his no-good son. Well, the top and bottom of it was she had a child, Josefina. But once that appeared Father saw what Cardenas was up to, and so he packs them off, and undoubtedly paying them well. Now in the ordinary way their coming back wouldn’t mean much because this kind of thing goes on all the time. Who bothers about Mexican Indians, they’re there to be used, all women are there to be used. The Indians rape their captives, and that’s the only merciful thing they do to them. The Mexicans rape their captives. And don’t say the white man is any better. God no! The things I’ve seen. I tell you they’re all alike where their wants are concerned, it is only their skins that are different. Language is no deterrent to that part of the business. Well—’ She now straightened her back, joined her hands together on top of her white apron and asked, ‘What do you mean to do?’ But without giving Tilly time to answer, she was again bending forward, her finger wagging now as she said, ‘Do you know what I would do if I were in your place? But then you don’t hate my father as much as I do.’
Tilly Trotter Wed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 25