Daughter of Fortune

by Carla Kelly

Erlinda transferred her gaze from the cross to a space past Maria’s head. “I have never spoken of this. All know except you, so there was never any need. But ... but ....” Her lips trembled. “I am compelled to speak of it finally. I must! You must understand!” She gasped and bent double, as if in physical pain.

  Maria put her arm around Erlinda. “My dear, my dear,” she whispered, “What is it?”

  “That was how Marco died,” she whispered. “Caught in the fields. He went back to pick up something I had dropped. I cannot now even recall what it was. I ran, because ever since we were small children here, Papa taught us thus. But Marco, growing up in Santa Fe, had not been trained so.”

  Her voice rose and fell as if the pain of remembering ebbed and flowed like waves on a shore. “Dios, Maria, the Apaches took him. There was nothing he—or we—could do. They stripped him and roasted him over a small fire while we watched from the walls.”

  “Dios mio, Erlinda,” said Maria, her own face white.

  “When I saw you run out of the gate ....” Erlinda’s voice faltered, and she clung to Maria’s hand. “I could think only of Marco. I am glad you were able to save the baby, but swear to me by the saints, Maria, that you will not disobey Diego again! Swear it!”

  Her voice rose, then she collapsed against Maria, the sobs wrenched from her very heart, choked and terrible.

  Maria’s instincts told her to cradle Erlinda in her arms and let her cry. She crooned to the young widow and rocked with her, as the Indian girl had caressed her baby in the kitchen gardens. She could think of nothing to say, and so was silent.

  Erlinda cried until the front of Maria’s dress was soaked through, the tears mingling with Diego’s blood and turning the rough fabric a tragic pink that soaked through to her skin, then deeper into her body. Dios, she thought, her arms weary with the burden of Erlinda. Is it possible to cry so many tears?

  She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Diego in the chapel doorway. He wore an old-fashioned armor breastplate of the last century that was Moorish in design. He walked down the aisle and knelt by her side.

  Diego crossed himself, bowed his head in prayer, crossed himself again, then rose and rested his gloved hand on Maria’s shoulder. “We go to Tesuque to see what we can do for the Pueblos. There are guards sufficient here.” He leaned over and spoke in her ear, his beard touching the side of her face. “She has never cried about Marco. It will be better now.” He sighed and patted her shoulder. “When I return, Maria, we will talk.”

  She looked at him then, noticing with shame that his eye was blackening from the blow she had struck his head. “Oh, Señor, forgive me!” she whispered.

  “Later, Maria chiquita. I must go now.”

  “Then go with God,” she said softly, and kissed his hand formally as it lay on her shoulder.

  “And thou, likewise,” he said. He reached over and touched Erlinda’s head, giving her a silent benediction, then hurried from the chapel, his spurs scraping on the hard-packed earth.

  Soon, through the thickness of the walls and Erlinda’s sobs, Maria heard mounted horsemen leaving Las Invernadas, riding east toward the Pueblo village.

  Erlinda cried until there were no tears left. Exhausted, she rested her head on Maria’s lap, her eyes closed. The morning was gone and the afternoon deep when she stirred again.

  Erlinda sat up. Her eyes were red but her voice peaceful. “And so I have kept you prisoner all day, Maria,” she said in apology, a rosy blush rising to stain her dead-white cheeks.

  “It is nothing, Erlinda,” Maria said.

  “How kind you are,” the widow replied, rising only to kneel at the altar, then rise again. “There is much to do, but I have not the energy for anything. Can you see to my duties this evening, Maria?”

  “I will, with pleasure. ”

  “Then take my arm, and let us leave here.”

  The two young women joined arms and left the room, Maria pausing to turn the key still in the lock. The gates were barred, the outside windows of the hacienda shuttered. Catarina and Luz sat silent on the patio with La Señora, sewing their samplers. Luz dropped her embroidery and ran to Erlinda, who hugged her, then sat next to her mother. La Señora felt her daughter’s face, touching the eyelids puffy from tears. “It is the will of God, Erlinda.”

  “I know that now, Mama,” the widow said. She folded her hands in her lap and raised her eyes to Maria’s. There was peace in Erlinda’s eyes now, where before there had only been pain. Maria thought of her parents, dead of cholera, of the mission supply caravan, of her sister’s rejection, of the Masferrer brothers and their short, sharp confrontation. The will of God. How did anybody know what that was anymore?

  Maria left the ladies of Las Invernadas on the patio and withdrew to the kitchen, where she supervised the preparations for the evening meal. It was eaten quietly and quickly, everyone’s hearts and minds on the men. Prayers in the chapel were also subdued. La Señora led them in the Rosary, but there was no longer prayer. That was Diego’s domain, and his absence was felt by all. Maria wondered how one man, a man so young, could inspire so much love and trust.

  When La Señora was through, the Masferrer women and the Mexican Christian Indians of the household remained in the chapel for several moments of silent meditation. Maria had no claim on any of the absent men, but she lifted her heart with the women who waited and prayed for them all.

  The hacienda settled itself for slumber, the guards for a long vigil. All was shuttered and barred except the kitchen door. Maria went to sleep, listening to the guards pacing slowly back and forth on the roof over her head, speaking to one another in low tones, ever moving, ever watchful.

  Long after the hacienda was dark, Maria heard men’s voices in the kitchen. The door was closed and bolted from inside. Diego was home. After a moment, the guards on the roof resumed their steady watch.

  Maria sat up carefully in bed, moving slowly so as not to disturb Luz, who had crept into her bed. She put Erlinda’s long robe over her chemise and went down the hall on bare feet to the kitchen, where the light of one lantern still shone.

  Diego straddled one of the benches, his head on the table, his eyes closed, as if trying to get up the energy to pick up the bread and cheese. At the sound of her footsteps, he opened his eyes and sat up.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Señor.”

  Diego took off the red scarf that covered his hair and wiped his face with it. “Do not fear,” he said. “You are never a disturbance, Maria. Come sit. We need to talk.”

  She pitied his exhaustion and was suddenly aware of how alone they were. “Perhaps we should talk in the morning, Señor.”

  “No, no,” he insisted. “I have discovered that tomorrow never comes. I will be too busy then, and so will you. Let it be now, Maria chiquita.”

  He was a long way from the angry man of that morning. As the lantern light played over his face, Maria recognized that old look that the river colony etched on young men’s faces. How peculiar, she thought as she watched him. At one moment he is harder than diamonds. At another, he is even more vulnerable than I am.

  She sat next to him. His curly hair was damp with sweat and she wanted to touch it, to trace the tousled curls from top to root; the intricacy of the curls fascinated her. But she sat motionless, her hands in her lap as she had been taught from infancy.

  “What of Tesuque, my lord?” she asked.

  He broke the cheese into bits while he spoke, but did not eat them. “The Apaches ran off some sheep, stole some women and children, killed an old man at his loom. We beat them back and chased them quite a distance, then they split up into thirty different directions. It was the usual pattern.” He covered her hand with his. “We did come upon the Indian you hoed. He bled to death down by the river.”

  They both sat silent then. Diego looked wearily at the bread, but made no motion to reach for it.

  “Where is Cristóbal?” she asked finally.

  Diego would not look at her. �
�He is staying in Tesuque. He is angry with me, so it is just as well.”

  Maria stared at her hands and said in a low voice. “I want to apologize for this morning, my lord. ”

  He leaned toward her again. “I wish I could explain, Maria,” he began.

  “You needn’t,” she said quickly. “I was wrong.” She made an impatient gesture with her hands. “And yet I wasn’t. I must tell you why I went back to the field.”

  She got up and poured Diego a cup of wine from the cooler. He dipped the bread in it and ate, his eyes on her.

  “You do not understand, Señor. It was a matter of honor. I told the Indian girl that I would watch the baby. My honor dictated that I return, no matter what the consequences.”

  “Well, then, Maria chiquita,” he said, drinking the wine, “we should not be at odds with each other. I could never accuse you of being less worthy of honor than I.”

  “No, you could not, Señor,” she replied proudly. “In this respect, we are no different.”

  “Indeed we are not,” he murmured, smiling, “Maria La Formidable. I will never again have the audacity to think a woman’s honor to be of less value than a man’s.” His hand went to his head. “But do promise me this. If you must strike me, do not use a hoe again.”

  Maria blushed and did not look at Diego, but he went on, his tone changing. “I wish I could make Cristóbal understand. He thinks I am a heartless one—an ogre who would sacrifice an Indian child. He cannot see that I must think of everyone here.”

  Diego was sitting so close that she could smell his sweat, mingled with the sage he stored his clothing in. He was seeking consolation from her. On impulse she leaned against his shoulder and rested her head on his arm.

  He sighed. “I am glad you saved the baby. But such actions could lead to fearful consequences for all of us. We are lucky the Apaches were no closer. ”

  He closed his eyes in weariness. They sat close together for another minute, then Maria stirred and he opened his eyes. “I am sorry, Maria,” he said, rising and brushing the dust off his leather doublet. “See now, your hair is dirty.”

  “It is nothing,” she said, pulling Erlinda’s robe tighter around her. “But I should be going to bed.”

  “We both should.”

  Diego checked the bolts on the kitchen door, then blew out the lamp. He led her to the door and walked with her into the dark hall. She could not see, but she heard him brush his hand along one of the saints painted on leather, hanging on the wall.

  “Things will be better, Señor,” she said, touching his arm.

  “No, I fear they will not,” he answered. “I cannot share your optimism.” He paused at her doorway. “But I like to hear it anyway. Goodnight, Maria.”

  “Goodnight, Señor,” she said and went quickly inside, shy again.

  Chapter 6

  Tesuque

  In the morning, Maria hoped to see Cristóbal back in his proper place in the kitchen, laughing with Diego as the brothers sat at the table, planning their day. She dressed quickly, after taking a look at her skinned knees and elbows. When her dress was buttoned, she shook Luz awake, watching in amusement as she twisted and turned like a puppy, then settled back into sleep. She patted her again and made sure the child’s eyes were open before she went into the hall.

  As she passed Erlinda’s door, Maria heard humming inside. She knocked. Erlinda opened the door, her pillow in her hand. “Dios bendiga, Erlinda,” she said, noting that Erlinda’s eyes were clear, her smile genuine.

  “And God’s blessing on you, Maria,” she replied, turning back to making her bed.

  Diego was alone in the kitchen, leaning on the sink looking out the window he had unbarred and opened. Cristóbal was nowhere in sight.

  “Another day, Maria,” he said without turning around. “Perhaps this will be a better one.”

  “Dios bendiga, Vuestra Merced," she said formally, her eyes downcast. “How did you know it was I?”

  He turned around with a smile. “Your step is so light. It’s almost as though you skim the hall as you come into the kitchen. Erlinda plods in the morning, Mama is naturally more hesitant, and Luz and Catarina usually stomp. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “No,” she said. “You’re more observant than I.”

  “Only about some things. And Cristóbal, I can never even hear him when he comes.”

  “He is not back yet?”

  “No. And I don’t expect him. I fear the burden of work is mine for the next few days, or at least until he is through being angry with me.”

  He picked up his scarf from the table, folded it into a triangle and wound it around his head, tying it tight in the back. Then he settled his flat black hat on his head and pulled the string under his chin, tipping it so that the crown did not rest on his cut.

  “Will you not have breakfast?” she asked.

  “I haven’t time. There is too much to do. We still have yesterday’s beans to plant. And my shepherd came in early to tell me that the ewes have started lambing. Spring has come with a vengeance.”

  He smiled, watching her as she checked the level of the water barrel. “When I was young, it puzzled me that lambs were born in the spring, and Masferrers in the fall. Every one of us.” He sat down to pull on his boots. “I asked Papa about that once. At first he would not say, but then he told me—quite solemnly mind you—that December is the farmer’s only chance for love. In November he is finishing up the harvest and butchering the hogs, and by January he is already worrying about the spring rains.” He opened the door. “I did not understand him then, of course, but I do now.”

  He waved at her and closed the door on her embarrassment. She watched him go down the garden path and pause by the acequia, looking-at the water flowing in the ditch. After a moment’s reflection, he turned toward the corral, calling to his vaqueros.

  By then the Mexican cook was in the kitchen waiting for Maria to come with the corn meal so she could prepare the breakfast mush. As she hurried, Maria remembered how Mama had once, in a burst of confidentiality, told her that men were as clear as water. Mama, you did not know Diego Masferrer, she thought, measuring the corn meal into the boiling water, or Cristóbal.

  Breakfast and prayers were quickly over with. Luz and Catarina escaped to their play tunnel by the acequia before Erlinda could think of something for them to do. Maria dried the last of the dishes and turned to the widow, who was finishing her hot chocolate.

  “What would you have me do today, Erlinda?” she asked.

  Erlinda considered. “If you do not object to a task which I loathe, there is much mending. My brothers get more threadbare every day. Diego has assured me that he will never get a wife if he cannot go courting in a shirt without holes. Not that he has any plans. Still, if I mend some of his clothes, his prospects might improve. Yes, the mending today.”

  Maria thought of Diego courting with a flash of pain. “I will do the mending. Does Diego have plans for marriage?”

  “Oh, yes, as long as I keep reminding him. He promised me last week that this winter he would consider the matter. After all, he will be twenty this fall. He must find someone who strikes his fancy.” Erlinda went into the sewing room off the kitchen and Maria followed. “And we must consider you, Maria,” she said, tugging the mending basket over to the chair by the window. “I hope you will not be like Diego. ‘This one is too tall. I will look like her child.’ Or ‘This one is too homely. How can I face that every morning?’ Or ‘She has a moustache darker than mine,’ or ‘That one has no conversation. We cannot make love all the time.’ And on and on.” Erlinda pulled out several shirts. “He is too demanding,” she sighed. “And too busy.”

  “Do you think I could find someone here?” Maria sat down and took the shirts from Erlinda.

  “I think so,” she said, looking at her with a critical eye. “You have no fortune, but you’re such a pleasant person.” She sighed again. “It might have to be a widower with several children half-grown. It would be easi
er if we were not such a poor kingdom. How I am rattling on! I haven’t talked so much since,” She stopped, twisting her wedding ring, “in a long time. Let me get the needle. We keep it locked up with the silver.”

  Maria sorted the shirts, holding Diego’s to her face for the pleasant smell of sage. She fingered Catarina’s dress, torn at the knee, and the thought of her own childhood, spent in perpetual evasion of Mama and her homilies. They’ve freedom to climb trees here, she thought, and play in ditches.

  Erlinda returned with the needle and thimble made of silver. “Do not leave these lying around. If you need me, I will be in the chicken yard. It is time we had something besides mutton for dinner.”

  Maria settled in the high-backed chair and threaded the precious needle. The room was warm with the sun of early spring, the walls brilliant white. She heard the soft slap-slap of hands molding tortillas in the kitchen and the outraged squawk of the rooster as his domain was plundered. The terrors of yesterday might never have happened, except that Cristóbal was not there and her scraped knees ached. She darned a patch under a torn buttonhole with dainty stitches, remembering how Cristóbal had placed himself, lance ready, between her and the Apaches.

  And I never even thanked him, she thought, picking up another shirt. She quickly made her way down the pile of shirts, taking extra care on a fine white linen shirt with the underarm seam ripped out. So Diego could go courting this winter. “In December,” she said out loud, laughing to herself as she twisted a knot in the thread.

  A shadow moved in the doorway and she looked up. Cristóbal stood leaning against the doorframe, watching her. She jabbed her finger with the needle, staining the shirt.

  “You startled me!’’ she said.

  “I have been standing here for five minutes. How could I startle you?’’

  “Then you are too silent, Señor,” she said, sucking her finger, vexed with herself for bleeding on Diego’s best shirt.

  Maria set the shirt aside and stood. Cristóbal stepped into the room. “Come with me,” he said, holding out his hand.