When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  But Leigh had been most surprised when Nathaniel had taken an excited Steward up in front of him on the big bay he rode. He’d ridden ahead for a short distance with his talkative, squirming grandnephew, his brother’s and Stuart Travers’s grandson, held protectively in his arms—the next generation of two families whose way of life was no more. And perhaps he, too, realized that. Leigh, watching them together, had worried about Nathaniel’s gruffness, but he had shown an incredible amount of patience and tenderness with the little boy who had a thousand questions to ask and couldn’t keep still for an instant.

  Across Rio Mora, and nearly seven hundred miles from the beginning of the trail, they rumbled past sleepy settlements, Las Vegas, San Miguel, and Tecolote, the adobe ruins of the old mission church and pueblo in Pecos, then wound through the Glorieta Pass where, at the foot of the towering mountains, with a rolling plateau stretching to the valley of the Rio Grande and the distant peaks west of the river, was Santa Fe.

  From the low-lying, pine-darkened hills, the adobe-walled town, with its narrow, rambling streets and central plaza, had seemed golden. Most of the buildings were flat-roofed and square, many, as Leigh came to learn later, built around central courtyards. The governor’s palacio, with its porticoed front overlooking the square, and the presidio, a high-walled compound with barracks, prison, and parade ground, and part of the governmental complex, were the most important buildings in the town. And the cottonwoods growing along the acequias, the ditches that irrigated the plaza, seemed the only shade to be found. Just off the plaza the spires of the Chapel of Our Lady of Guadalupe were bathed in sunlight above the surrounding neighborhood of government offices, small businesses, parish churches, and the homes of the wealthiest citizens. Farther from the plaza, and across the Santa Fe River, which was little more than a creek, was the barrio de Analco. Most of the Indian residents of Santa Fe lived there in more humble abodes, with hard-packed earth floors and ladders propped up against the walls of their homes, the only access to the rooftop entrances.

  Down the calle de San Francisco, just off the plaza, they passed a noisy old inn, La Fonda, that welcomed many a weary traveler who had reached the end of the trail. But they had not stopped there; instead they stayed overnight in the quiet, elegantly furnished home of one of Nathaniel’s Spanish friends, where every hospitality was offered them, and where the following morning she first tasted cinnamon-flavored chocolate accompanied by bunuelos, sweetened fritters, Leigh remembered as she finished her chocolate and handed Jolie the last bunuelo on the plate.

  “Have to admit, that Lupe can cook,” Jolie said, dusting her hands of sugar. “Taught her a few things too, ’bout cookin’ an’ proper seasonin’,” she said with a superior sniff and tilt of her nose. “My, my, what that Miss Effie an’ your Aunt Maribel Lu would’ve thought of those red chile peppers we’ve been eatin’. Always thought your mama used too much cayenne pepper, they did. Bet Lupe’s sauces could lift one of those fancy bonnets right off Miss Maribel Lu’s head. Never felt better myself,” Jolie declared, and glancing over her shoulder as Leigh got out of bed, she added, “an’ I’m pleased to see you got some flesh on those bones, honey. Was awful worried you were goin’ to blow away, you got so skinny, those bones stickin’ out at every angle. ’Course, figure that’s why you took to wearin’ these baggy high-water breeches. Don’t know what your mama would’ve said if she could see you dressin’ yourself in these clothes. It’s not ladylike, missy, showin’ your ankles. Should never have let you sweet-talk Althea an’ me into makin’ them for you. Never thought you’d wear them. Thought I was goin’ to have to fetch the salts for the Misses Simone an’ Clarice, so upset were those sweet ladies, when you come sashayin’ into the parlor wearin’ those breeches an’ that lil’ short jacket,” Jolie said as she held up the offending articles of clothing she’d pulled from the big wardrobe.

  “It’s a skirt, Jolie. And my chaqueta is quite proper,” Leigh said in defense of the chamois leather jacket that was a feminine version of those worn by the vaqueros; but the only adornment was the delicate gold braid on the collar and cuffs.

  “I’ve never seen a skirt split up the center. Baggy breeches, missy. An’ mighty short ones at that.”

  “But very practical for riding,” Leigh said, her voice muffled as she pulled her boots from the wardrobe. “Besides, who is there to see, or care?”

  “Not practical if you’re ridin’ proper, missy,” Jolie reminded her. “Surprised you haven’t split yourself in two ridin’ like a man does. Not decent. An’ I don’t like those boots any better. Never seen a lady wearin’ boots up to her knees. You look like a real pretty little man, that’s what Mister Nathaniel says. An’ I heard him chuckle when he said it.”

  “Jolie…” Leigh began, her hand smoothing the soft leather of the buckskin riding boots one of the vaqueros had fashioned for her, and similar in style to the botas, the fancily embroidered, embossed leather leggings most of them wore. The boots had sturdy, slightly curved heels, and gold-tasseled garters enclosed the tops at the knee and matched the gold thread delicately stitched along the seams.

  “An’ I’ll tell you just who there is here to care—me! I know what’s right, an’ what’s wrong, missy. Just ’cause we’re out here in this wilderness doesn’t mean you can forget proper upbringin’, ’cause I’m goin’ to keep remindin’ you. Owe it to Miss Beatrice Amelia. An’ you’re never goin’ outside this room wearin’ hardly more than a chemise and petticoat, an’ no pantalettes nor corset beneath. I’ve seen those women. Figure that husband of yours would set you straight fast enough if he was here,” Jolie had to admit, remembering how Neil Braedon always seemed to get what he wanted, even where Miss Leigh was concerned.

  “It was Althea who made the pattern for my skirt. She was very clever. I can open this fold of leather and button it across the front, and another fold in the back, and no one would even know I’m wearing breeches when I’m walking. It’s almost like having on an apron. Solange thought I looked quite fashionable,” Leigh said, reminding her of Camilla’s widowed sister’s opinion.

  But Jolie wasn’t impressed. “Hmmmph, that one! She’s tetched in the head. That’s what comes of marryin’ one of those foreign fellas.”

  “He was French. My mother had French blood.”

  “Not the same, honey child, ’cause he wasn’t from Charleston nor New Orleans.”

  “He was a Parisian.”

  “Don’t know about that. Sounds fishy to me, but Miss Solange’s got a bee in her bonnet. Figure she’s been out in the sun too long. Always holed up in that shed paintin’, or standin’ starin’ at the mountains, or walkin’ out an’ pickin’ wildflowers. Smells of turpentine half the time. An’ wears that plain ol’ gown stained with paint. Not natural. Can’t even sew a straight stitch.”

  Leigh glanced at the painting over the bed, the name “Solange” signed in the bottom corner. Jolie didn’t like it, nor did Althea, but Leigh was drawn to the stark landscape with its shadings of blue fading across the canvas, paling into gold above a lone butte silhouetted against the twilight sky. When she’d selected the furnishings for her bedchamber, Solange had offered her a wide choice of the paintings she’d stored in the shed. Leigh could still see Solange’s surprised, pleased expression when she’d chosen this particular painting.

  “No, she can’t sew very well at all,” Leigh said, admiring the painting. “Solange is an artist, Jolie.”

  “Never heard of a woman bein’ an artist. A lil’ sketching with watercolors is just fine. Miss Althea had a nice little book full of them when she was young. But you can’t be a lady an’ have paint-stained, work-roughened hands. An’ if you’re goin’ out ridin’, then you better take your hat,” she said, tossing the wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat onto the bed. “An’ this. It’ll protect you, honey,” she told Leigh as she pulled open one of the drawers in the wardrobe. “Just got this feelin’. The spirits are restless. Reckon you was meant to have it, although, I’m wonderin’ what kin
d of luck Mister Neil’s havin’ now. He must sure love you, honey, to give this to you. It’s mighty important to him. Keeps him safe from evildoin’,” Jolie said, carefully picking up the leather pouch that they both had seen at Travers Hill that summer so long ago, and which had worried Jolie so when Leigh had opened it.

  Dropping it back in the drawer as if it’d stung her, Jolie continued gravely, “Reckon that’s why we be here now. I warned you, missy. Told you, I did, not to mock the spirits. They’re always watchin’ an’ listenin’. Just waitin’ to catch you. An’ they’ve got you just where they want you now. Only wish I knew if us bein’ here was good or bad,” she said, risking a glance at the mountains, then turned her shiver into a shrug when another thought struck her. “But what I still don’t understand is how that blue stocking showed up in this drawer with Mister Neil’s clothes,” Jolie muttered, not happy when things weren’t in their proper place; whether it be mysterious spirits, recalcitrant people, or blue stockings.

  “It must have been placed in there by mistake when we first came,” Leigh lied, for she knew the truth, even if Jolie just suspected it. She remembered only too well where she’d lost that stocking—and who had apparently found it. “Things were such a jumble in here, with clothing all over the place.”

  “Hmmmph, still say this is the very same stocking I couldn’t find nearly five years ago. Can’t figure out where it’s been all this time. Never yet, missy, have I lost a piece of clothing that belonged to this family. Why’d you think I had Miss Beatrice Amelia teach me those letters? So I could sew into every piece of clothing each person’s mark. Always that careful with my countin’ so I’ve always known where every stocking, chemise, an’ hankie was, an’ what mendin’ chores needed to be done. First, I thought it must have been Mister Neil’s first wife’s stocking, but then I just happened to check it, an’ what did I see, but your mark embroidered so sweet-like on it. Just knew that one day, your stockin’ might end up in Miss Althea’s drawer, or little Miss Blythe’s, but I never thought I’d find it in a gentleman’s drawer. Now, I asked myself, how did Miss Leigh’s stockin’ get in this drawer? Didn’t like the answer none at all, no, sirree, even if he is your husband now, ’cause he wasn’t then. I seem to remember a certain lil’ honey who came sneakin’ up to the big house with that same gentleman’s breeches. An’ I also remember you tellin’ me you’d been swimmin’ in the stream, that’s why you were barefootin’ it into the house, your pantalettes soakin’ wet. Did you tell me everything that happened that day, missy?” she demanded with an accusatory huff, glancing slyly at a silent Leigh. “’Cause I want to know how he got his hands on your stocking.”

  But Leigh was remembering her own surprise when coming across the stocking tucked beneath a couple of clean shirts in Neil’s wardrobe. She, too, had thought at first it had been Serena’s stocking, but then, her curiosity forcing her to examine it more closely, she had seen the unmistakable mark of identification; the neatly embroidered L. Her stocking, Leigh had realized, her heart beating too fast. Neil had found her stocking by the stream that summer’s afternoon, and he had kept it these many years. But why? Unless he really did care for her…

  “It doesn’t really matter, because he is my husband now,” Leigh said. “And I did tell you everything that happened that day,” Leigh said truthfully, for Jolie had known about the buckskins, and why she’d had them in her possession, but she’d never explained about the next day when Neil had come to Travers Hill.

  “Well, if you’re still plannin’ on ridin’ this mornin’, then I’m goin’ to bring you some more breakfast, an’ get that slowpoke girl to fetch the bath water,” Jolie said, her lower lip jutting out with displeasure as her questions went unanswered when she knew something was going on that she didn’t know about—but Miss Leigh did.

  When the door closed behind Jolie’s stiff-backed figure, Leigh went to the wardrobe and pulled open the drawer. For a moment she stared down at the leather pouch, then picked it up. The warm, rough feel of the leather was familiar to her now, for it had been in her possession since the morning after her wedding night, when she had awakened to find Neil had left—and that he’d also left the pouch filled with his good-luck charms and mementos. It had been grasped tightly in her hand, which had been tucked beneath her cheek as she slept.

  Leigh walked over to the window and stared up at the mountain peaks, tinted golden now as the sun spread its warmth across the skies. Was Jolie right? Had Neil left the pouch with her on purpose—or had he forgotten it? And if he truly believed in its protective powers, then what had been his fate now that he no longer possessed it?

  Perhaps he had been wounded, or had died during one of his raids behind enemy lines? No one at Royal Rivers had heard from him in over six months.

  Leigh sighed, resting her cheek against the coolness of the adobe wall, her eyes closed against the brightness as she wondered if she would ever see Neil again. And if he was still alive, when?

  Because the war was over.

  Twenty-one

  Thy way is long to the sun and the south;

  But I, fulfilled of my heart’s desire…

  Feed the heart of the night with fire.

  Algernon Charles Swinburne

  Leigh hurried along the narrow corridor that opened onto the courtyard, her steps quickening as she heard the last echoing notes of the chapel bell ringing across the rancho grounds. She’d promised to meet Gil in the stables by now. He’d warned her they would have to start early if they were to reach the high country and return to Royal Rivers by sundown. Through one of the low windows she glanced out on the sunny courtyard, where a profusion of colorful blooms in carefully tended beds, terra-cotta pots, and stone planters, exotic flowering vines creeping along the veranda roof, and citrus trees created a lush, almost tropical garden within the confines of the rancho. It was a beautiful garden, where solitude could be found on a bench hidden in a rose bower, or the family could gather on a warm afternoon in the cool shade of a wisteria-covered, trellised arbor. On those afternoons, when the air was heavy with the fragrance of orange blossoms—and memories were carried on the gentle breeze whispering through the leaves—Leigh remembered the Carolina yellow jessamine growing wild along the white, split-railed fence bordering the green meadows of Travers Hill. And she couldn’t keep her thoughts from lingering there as she wondered if the daylilies had blossomed across the blue-green pasturelands, and if the old damask rose in her mother’s garden had survived to bloom again. But the memories always faded into sadness, because there would be no one at Travers Hill to breathe of the sweet, clove-scented air wafting in through the opened windows.

  Leigh’s step slowed as she passed the French doors that led to the courtyard. They were standing open, and her gaze searched the garden for the familiar sight of a slight figure bent over a freshly potted plant, or disappearing into a tangle of shrubbery, or almost hidden behind an armful of flowers. The garden was where one could usually find Lys Helene tending to her beloved plants and flowers. The garden was Lys Helene’s domain. Leigh was surprised she couldn’t find her. Lys Helene preferred to work in the cool morning hours, and her gloves, pruning shears, and the big woven basket—always at hand to hold the bounty from her garden—were sitting on one of the benches in the arbor.

  Suddenly the cloying scent of an exotic bloom that had opened its petals at first light floated to Leigh across the garden. It was overpowering even this early in the morning, and it reminded her of Diosa—and Leigh suspected Diosa was well aware of that. Leigh stared at the odd-shaped tree with its branches raised to the heavens as if in prayer to the ancient gods. And perhaps there was some truth to that imagery. The tree was from Mexico, and according to Diosa, who’d given it as a gift to Serena, it had been sacred to the Aztecs. They had called the tree yoloxochitl. Diosa, plucking a fragrant blossom and placing it caressingly against the warmth of her breasts, brazenly revealed by the low-cut bodice of her gown, called it the heartflower.

  Le
igh slapped her leather riding gloves against her thigh in vexation as she remembered Diosa’s dark eyes becoming slumberous with remembered pleasure as she spoke of the passion the flower could induce. One delicate petal, placed beneath a pillow while lovers were lost in an embrace, could cast a spell they would never be free of—the lovers would be bound forever by that night. Touching the flower, Diosa had smiled pityingly at her, as if Diosa and her lover had shared a night such as that—and would again.

  Leigh wrinkled her nose with distaste. Stepping outside the door, she broke a small sprig of orange blossom from a low-hanging bough, the light fragrance banishing the unpleasant thoughts of Diosa from her mind. Unable to resist, as if drawn by its magic, Leigh touched the small leather bag hanging from the rawhide strap around her neck—Jolie’s superstitious exhortations ringing now in her ears as she thought of the talismans and wondered if they would protect her. But that wasn’t why she was comforted by its feel against her breast—it reminded her of Neil. And sometimes when she wore it, she found herself hoping Jolie was right, and its magic was powerful enough to protect Neil—wherever he was.

  She straightened the neckerchief of India cotton she’d tied around her throat, the wide, folded square of cloth easily hiding the pouch beneath. Putting on her hat and tipping it at a low angle over her forehead, Leigh wondered if the good luck charms the little leather pouch possessed were strong enough to protect her from witchcraft.