When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  “Thank you, Miss—ah?”

  “Mrs. Braedon. Mrs. Neil Braedon,” she said, glancing down at the roll of paper and not seeing the start of surprise that crossed his face as he heard her name. “Follow me, please,” she requested in a cool voice.

  They were walking along the corridor when Guy stepped into the hall from the gardens. Leigh glanced over at Michael Sebastian, for she could have sworn he cursed beneath his breath. Unfriendly man, she thought, moving slightly away from him.

  “You’re up early, Guy,” Leigh said, thinking he looked pale.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d find Lys Helene. Have you seen her? She’s not in the garden.”

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t seen her. Oh, Guy, this is Michael Sebastian, Mr. Sebastian, my brother, Guy Travers,” Leigh made the introductions, startled to see a strange expression, almost one of anger, crossing Michael Sebastian’s thin face as he stepped forward, ready to shake hands with Guy.

  Guy turned at the sound of a heel scraping the floor, seeing a hazy shape moving toward him. “Mr. Sebastian, an honor, sir,” he said courteously, holding out his hand.

  Michael Sebastian looked shocked, for until that moment, he hadn’t realized Guy Travers was blind. He reached out quickly and grasped Guy’s hand, shaking it firmly. “Mr. Travers, a pleasure, sir,” he murmured.

  “Indeed it is, sir, for unless I’m mistaken, you’re a Virginian,” Guy commented, smiling. “My family and I are from Virginia. Travers Hill, perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  Leigh was still watching Michael Sebastian and she would have sworn he suddenly seemed incredibly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, you must be mistaken, I’m not a Virginian. I’m from North Carolina, although I am familiar, sir, with the name of Travers. Some of the finest Thoroughbreds came from your stables.”

  “Thank you, sir, that is certainly very kind of you.”

  “If you will excuse us, Guy, I’m taking Mr. Sebastian to the north pasture.”

  “Well, good luck. Hope you find what you’re looking for,” Guy said, holding out his hand again.

  “Thank you, Mr. Travers, I hope so too,” Michael Sebastian said, taking Guy’s hand.

  Guy stood for a moment listening to their footsteps fading along the corridor, a puzzled expression crossing his face. “Damn!” he muttered, straining to focus his eyes and put a face, perhaps a familiar face, to that voice—because he would have sworn the man was a Virginian. And he couldn’t help but wonder why the man had lied about it.

  Twenty-three

  The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,

  To the low last edge of the long lone land.

  If a step should sound or a word be spoken,

  Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest’s hand?

  Algernon Charles Swinburne

  Michael Sebastian pulled a pipe from his pocket as they walked along the corridor, politely holding the door open for Leigh to precede him, then following her as they entered the kitchens.

  “This is the quickest way through to the grounds,” Leigh explained almost apologetically, for despite the unflattering opinion she had of him, she didn’t want the man to feel he was being shown out of the house through the back door.

  A shadow of a smile touched Leigh’s lips, for she never stepped into the kitchens without thinking of Travers Hill. It wasn’t that the two kitchens were remarkably similar in appearance—for they were not—but the heart of a house was the kitchen, and this one beat with the same joyous intensity as had the kitchens at Travers Hill. The air was warm and redolent with steam rising from a dozen pots bubbling importantly over the coals in the big hearth. Lupe was busy scolding, her long black braid swinging as she scurried back and forth with unsolicited opinions concerning how thick to roll a tortilla, this chicken was too scrawny for the patrón’s table, there wasn’t enough parsley in the tomato sauce, and someone hadn’t ground the canela fine enough. The sound of knife blades chopping, dicing, and mincing, wooden spoons beating against the sides of bowls, the sizzling of deep-frying fats, and good-natured gossip was a constant, companionable hum in the room.

  Beneath a long table of planked pine pushed against one of the walls, chayote, and various other squashes and pumpkins were piled high, along with sacks of rice and flour. On top of the table were neatly grouped tomatillos, avocados, pineapples, melons, mangos, lemons and limes, colorful fruits from the rancho orchards, freshly picked cilantro, mint, and oregano, and peppers and chiles in so many shades that Leigh began to lose count, from large dark green chiles, to small light green jalapeño peppers, to fiery tiny red chiles to brick-red ones with wrinkled skins. Big jars of dried beans, nuts and seeds, pieces of candied pumpkin and sweet potato, and pozole, hominy, were grouped together at one end. A couple of woven trays layered with straw and packed with rows of fresh eggs, and a variety of cheeses, a queso fresco made on the rancho, several dark yellow cheddars, and a white cheese from Chihuahua were crowded together at the other end. Hanging from the overhead beams were strings of onions and garlic, culinary herbs and flowery manzanilla, drying for a fine blend of tea, and a brace of turkeys waiting for the stew pot, where the meat would be poached until tender.

  A young girl was sitting beside a large basket of nopales, painstakingly removing the hard little eyes from the succulent cactus leaves with the sharp point of a knife, another was expertly placing tortillas on a red-hot comal, a greased cast-iron griddle, turning and lifting the flattened pancake-like pieces of dough one after another when puffed light and airy from the heat, while a third girl was bent over a molcajete, patiently grinding dried chile pods with a tejolote, the rough volcanic rock of the mortar and pestle making a fine-grained powder.

  The cupboards were stacked with earth-toned pottery dishes of different size and shape, cups and saucers, cutlery, casserole dishes, great platters, and pitchers, wooden bowls, and baskets, while through another door into the pantry and scullery, Leigh could see the fine china and crystal filling the tall cabinets against the walls.

  Leigh’s smile widened in response as Lupe, a short, ample-bosomed, broad-hipped Mexican woman, dressed in a colorful skirt that hardly reached her bare ankles and a white chemise blouse with a gathered neckline stretched taut, called out to her. Her dusky round face was wreathed in a smile as she held up a hand. “Meez Leigh! You come and taste this,” she said, turning around and grabbing a spoonful of green chile sauce. “That Holee, she say it not hot enough! Not enough cayenne in it. What is this cayenne when I have chile verde? Mi salsa, not hot enough!” she repeated in outrage, sampling the salsa herself with a delighted rolling of her eyes, then shaking the spoon at two giggling kitchen maids. The pretty black-haired girls, her nieces, were busy spreading corn husks with masa, a thick, moist cornmeal prepared from nixtamal, dried white field corn soaked in limewater and cooked before being ground. Then they spooned a spicy filling of minced meat and onions on top before rolling the husks and sealing them, placing them on a board until they could bury the tamales deep beneath the hot ashes in the fireplace.

  “Jolie was jesting, Lupe. You know she eats just about everything you cook,” Leigh said, trying to soothe the little Mexican woman’s quick temper, which was just as fast to fade—but she was afraid this time Lupe had met her match in Jolie. Lupe ran the kitchens with ironhanded single-mindedness, and even Jolie admitted she was a good cook, which was quite a compliment. Jolie, however, couldn’t resist meddling—it was part of her bossy nature—and she’d run a household, controlling the lives of family and servants, far too long to sit idly by now.

  “Hmmmph!” Lupe said, not realizing she mimicked Jolie to perfection, but a mischievous twinkle came into her black eyes when she picked up a long-handled flat wooden paddle, and it was fortunate Jolie wasn’t around, Leigh thought. “You hungry, Meez Leigh? That Meezter Neil, he sure eats a good meal this morning before he leaves the rancho. I’m so glad he’s home, and he’s lookin’ so happy too,” she said, shoving the paddle into a small oven, t
hen lifting it out with a tin of golden-brown corn bread sitting atop the wide board.

  Leigh’s eyes had widened slightly in surprise as she heard the news, thinking Neil had gone to the north pasture with his father. “Where did he go?”

  Lupe shrugged. “Oh, he was in the big hurry. Ate in here in the kitchens, says he likes bein’ ’round pretty girls,” she said, blushing, even though she had five children and eleven grandchildren. “He says he has someone special to see, and don’t expect him back for dinner. Took a couple of burritos and churros, ’cause he likes things that are sweet,” she said with a wide grin, then shushing her giggling nieces.

  “Are you hungry, Mr. Sebastian?” Leigh asked abruptly. “You’ve obviously had a long ride to reach Royal Rivers. There’s always a pot of puchero on the hearth, and Lupe does make the best burritos north of the Pecos. They’re far more practical than sandwiches, especially when someone is in a great hurry,” Leigh offered, schooling her tone into politeness as she controlled her dismay at the news that Neil had ridden off in a hurry to visit someone very special.

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I’ll eat after I do a day’s work. I don’t accept charity,” he said, chewing on the stem of his corncob pipe, which was still unlit and which he held cupped in his hand as if he liked the familiar feel of its shape.

  Leigh bit her lip to keep from saying something she would probably regret. But too much pride—like Travers pride—had led them too easily into a war that had taken everything from them, except that pride—and a new sense of humility.

  “As you wish, Mr. Sebastian,” Leigh said, pointing toward the far door with the rolled-up sketch. “If you’ll please follow me, we won’t delay any longer,” she requested, unaware of how haughty that Travers pride now made her voice sound. “No thank you, Lupe, Mr. Sebastian is anxious to see the patrón about work,” she said, leading Michael Sebastian without any further delay toward the door.

  “You come back through here, Meez Leigh, and I’ll make you my best torta de huevos. Holee tells me you don’t eat your dinner last night and I know you don’t eat nothing for breakfast, so you come back. Don’t want to get skinny as a jackrabbit, like when I first saw you, pequeña. Won’t be able to keep a man like Meezter Neil in your bed if you don’t have nothing for him to warm himself against. Never get the little ones that way, and you should have half a dozen by now. But Meezter Neil, he’ll make up for lost time,” she told Leigh with embarrassing bluntness, saying something in Spanish to her nieces, which had them giggling again and eyeing Leigh speculatively until Lupe got their attention by rapping a spoon on the edge of the table. With the deftness of long practice, even while she spoke over her shoulder to her nieces, she began to slice the corn bread into thick chunks, and Leigh knew the promised potato omelette would be waiting for her when she returned, and accompanied by further personal comments.

  Leigh had avoided meeting Michael Sebastian’s eyes, her cheeks a flaming rose, until she thought she heard a low chuckle from him, and she turned to give him a disdainful glance for being so discourteous, but he was looking quite innocent as he coughed, as if he’d been clearing his throat all along.

  Once they left the kitchens, Michael Sebastian pulled his tobacco pouch from his pocket and began to fill the bowl of his pipe. Then he pulled the strings tight with strong-looking teeth and put the pouch back in his coat pocket. He searched the pockets for a couple of seconds before he finally found the matches. Striking one on the heel of his boot, he lit his pipe. The smoke, from an aromatic blend of tobacco sweetly scented with just a touch of rum, swirled upward above his head.

  “The north pasture is just beyond that row of low sheds and the last fenced-in yards. Those long sheds are where they’ll be doing the shearing and dipping in a couple of days. And if you’re hired on, you’ll find a bed in one of those houses,” Leigh told him, pointing out several small, but well-built adobe buildings. “You’ll have no difficulty finding Nathaniel Braedon,” Leigh said, nodding a dismissive good day to the boorish man.

  “Why, thank you, ma’am, you’re too kind,” he said, sounding overly obsequious as he put his hat back on with an almost insulting show of courtesy, and Leigh got the distinct impression he was laughing at her.

  She stood for a moment watching as he walked off. He was limping slightly. Leigh’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she noticed his trousers. They were an indeterminate color now, but at one time they’d been a beautiful shade of violet blue. She could see the darker color along the outer seam of his trouser leg, where the yellow braid had been removed, apparently in an effort to make use of an old uniform now that he’d returned to civilian life. He’d also removed the double-breasted row of gold buttons from his full-skirted smoky gray frock coat, sewing on plain ones instead, and discarding the broad black belt he’d once worn, and to which his sword had been strapped. The fancy gold braid frogging had been pulled from the sleeves, leaving a curling outline, and a darker gray collar had replaced the military-stiff yellow one that had been stamped with his rank. However, his coat branded him a cavalry officer as surely as if his insignia remained—and, in Leigh’s eyes, so did the color of his trousers.

  Guy had been wearing a pair of the extraordinary violet-blue trousers when he’d been wounded. He had been so proud of those trousers, Leigh remembered, for only his troop and one other in the regiment had received them—luck of the draw, he was to explain later. The dyers, having to make do as best they could under wartime conditions, had mixed the last batch of indigo they had, but they hadn’t had quite enough and had added red to complete the order. Too much red, as it turned out, for the wool had come out a glorious color, but far more appropriate a shade for a silk pansy in a lady’s bonnet. Jolie claimed they’d gotten the shade from mixing too much madder or bloodroot into the vats, since synthetic dyes were hard to come by, and the natural plant dyes were less predictable. At first the color had been cause for ribald comment by their comrades in arms, since most Confederate soldiers wore dull blue or light gray trousers. Guy’s troop, however, always returned victorious from any engagement, suffering very few casualties. Wearing their violet-blue trousers like a badge of courage, they had effectively silenced any talk. And as the war had progressed and fine woolens and dyes had become even scarcer, coarse trousers of butternut had been even more common. And the violet-blue trousers of two troops of Virginia cavalry had stood out all the more—as they did now. Leigh wondered how the North Carolinian had gotten a pair unless he’d served in the Virginia cavalry, and those particular two troops had been made up almost exclusively of wealthy Virginians, the landed gentry, their horses some of the finest bloods the South had to offer.

  Leigh was about to return to the house when something caught her eye. Bending down, she picked up the small packet of matches that Michael Sebastian had dropped in the dust. He was too far away now to call his attention to it. She’d leave the matches with Nathaniel, Leigh was thinking as she turned around. Glancing down at the matches, she frowned as she read the label on the paper packet:

  FRICTION MATCHES

  Manufactured by

  LEWIS & CO.

  For sale by

  L. OLDHAM & CO.

  RICHMOND, VA.

  So, Michael Sebastian had been in Richmond too. Perhaps Guy had been right, and the man was a Virginian. But why lie about it? she speculated idly as she returned to the house, her steps dragging slightly as she finally allowed herself to wonder where Neil had gone. If the special person he apparently couldn’t wait to see was Diosa, then he was in for a big disappointment, Leigh thought with little pleasure, for the lovely Spaniard had left Santa Fe some four months ago, traveling to Mexico City with her brother, Luis Angel, and Courtney Boyce. And they were not expected back for another week.

  It was nearly half an hour later, after eating a meal that would have pleased Jolie had she been in the kitchens, and which Leigh had consumed beneath Lupe’s watchful eye, that Leigh was finally walking back along the corridor, intending to
leave the matches in Nathaniel’s study—which gave her a good excuse to look at the portrait again—when she saw Lys Helene in the courtyard.

  “Lys Helene, did Guy find you? He was looking for you earlier,” Leigh called out as she crossed the courtyard.

  “Guy? Looking for me?” Lys Helene repeated in her soft voice, a bland expression on her lovely features. “No, I haven’t seen him this morning,” she said with a shrug, sounding disinterested as she turned over a small clay pot, dumping the loamy dirt into a pile on a sheet of oilskin spread out before her.

  Leigh stood uncomfortably for a moment, wondering what to say, because she suspected the reason behind Lys Helene’s coolness. Thinking it best not to say anything, Leigh started to turn away when Lys Helene’s voice stopped her.

  “We missed you and Neil at breakfast,” she said, glancing up beneath the wide brim of her straw gardening hat, her light gray eyes warm with humor, but her attempt at bridging the constraint that had widened between them only added to it.

  “Neil was already gone from the rancho when I awoke. I don’t know where he is. He was apparently in a great hurry to see someone special. I had to see Solange about something. I know she never has anything but coffee for breakfast, so I went to her studio. Then a stranger, looking for work, had to be shown to the north pasture,” Leigh responded, trying to ease the stiffness from her voice.

  “Oh,” Lys Helene said, frowning as she stared up at Leigh’s flushed face. “A stranger? What is his name?”

  “Michael Sebastian. I have a feeling he is only the first of many. Now that the war is over, I think we’re going to be seeing a lot of strangers, men like this Michael Sebastian. There is nothing left for them in the South. They no longer have anything to fight for, some don’t even have homes or families left to return to. They’re just drifting. But after the first day of shearing, I imagine we won’t see any more of Michael Sebastian either. He’ll ride out before sunrise.”