by Jane Toombs
Angelica preferred brick. He'd do almost anything to please her but brick was too much like adobe to suit him. He encouraged her to plan how she wanted to furnish her music room and ignored her request for brick.
In the early morning, a week after the unfortunate meeting with Don Francisco, Diarmid was at the new house site supervising the digging for the foundation posts. He hadn't seen the don again but had heard from Manuelo that the old man had gone to visit his widowed sister-in-law, Anuncion, who'd moved to Los Angeles.
Since Diarmid knew the don had little use for Anuncion, the meeting could only be for one purpose. Don Francisco was going to try to break the agreement, to oust Diarmid in favor of Anuncion's grandson.
Just let him try, Diarmid thought grimly. I kept my part of the bargain and I mean to see he keeps his. I'll fight him through every court in the country if I have to. This is my land and my land it'll stay.
When he noticed the three riders approaching from the southeast, he thought at first they were workers hired to build the house. When they neared he saw they were Indians and he frowned. He wanted no lazy, undependable workers, his house must go up strong and true--and fast.
They rode to where he stood, halted their mounts--bony, ill-fed creatures--and stared down at him.
"What's your business with me?" he demanded, unsettled by their silent scrutiny.
"You build here," one said in Spanish--the oldest, judging by his weathered and wrinkled skin.
"This is my land," Diarmid affirmed. "I build here."
"Sacred land."
Diarmid shook his head. "I don't worship your gods."
"Our God is Jesus," the old one said, surprising Diarmid. "Is He not yours?"
"Yes. But what has He to do with these two hills?"
"An ancient spirit sleeps under them, he is part of the land. Jesus knows him, as we do. This spirit is best left undisturbed. We explained to Don Francisco and he understood."
"Don Francisco no longer owns this rancho. I do."
“Then you must understand. When the spirit is troubled, he wakes from his sleep. The ground shakes and trembles with his wrath. Rocks fall, great cracks open in the earth, men and animals die." The old Indian pointed to the trough between the two hills. "The last time he woke he split his hill into two. It is a sign he must be left in peace."
The old man was speaking of earthquakes, Diarmid realized. He'd experienced a few in San Francisco when goods had been knocked from the shelves in the store. Apparently the quakes occurred here in the south, as well. The Indians' belief a spirit in the earth caused the quakes was as good an explanation as others he'd heard. If an earthquake struck here, he was certain he'd be as safe in a house between these two hills as he would be anywhere else.
"If your spirit exists," he told the three Indians, "I'll take the chance that building my house on his roof won't disturb him."
The old man's glittering black eyes bored into Diarmid's for a long moment. Then, with an agility that belied his wrinkles, he slid from his horse. Diarmid stiffened, anticipating an attack, but the Indian didn't approach him. Pulling an object from his ornamented leather belt, he shook it as he began to circle the two hills, chanting in his own language. Diarmid followed him closely enough to see what he shook was a stick with the dried rattles from rattle snakes.
Four times the old Indian--probably one of their medicine men, Diarmid decided--circled the two hills. Then, without another word or so much as a look at Diarmid, he mounted his horse and the three men rode away toward the mountains.
Diarmid dismissed his unease as nonsense. No one, certainly not the don or some old Indian medicine man, was going to tell him where he could build his house. He'd chosen this site and here his house would stand. From the time he was seven until he left Scotland at sixteen, Father Campbell had drilled into him that superstitions were believed only by the foolish and the unlettered. A son of Charles Malcolm Burwash, legitimate or not, could be neither, any more than he could afford to speak like a peasant.
As a youth, many's the time he'd hated the priest who taught him. Only lately could he see the wisdom of what he'd had to learn or suffer a caning for failing. If he'd continued to speak as his friends did, in the broad Scots dialect, would Myron and Irv have made him a partner? Would the don have signed the agreement with him? And Angelica--such a refined young lass would never have agreed to marry someone who spoke of beans and logiest and swaths instead of hills and flatlands and river plains. Someone who ordered his life by how many crows--no, corbies 'twould be--he saw when he first set foot outside in the morning.
Someone who had fire dreams that showed what was to come, showed true. Second sight, right enough. That was his legacy. .
Diarmid shook his head. His mother, God rest her soul, had bequeathed the unwanted second sight to him. He hadn't had any fire dreams since he'd left San Francisco. If he had another--God grant he never did--he'd not admit it to anyone, least of all Angelica.
When the house was finished, the wedding date was set. Though Angelica was Episcopalian, not Catholic, she agreed to take instruction from Father Lugo, who rode from Los Angeles once a week to hold mass in the little chapel in El Doblez. By the second Saturday in September her lessons were completed and she and Diarmid were married by the priest in the chapel.
Diarmid never saw anyone so lovely as Angelica in her wedding gown, made of silk by a Mexican seamstress from San Diego who'd embroidered white flowers and tiny birds around the edges of the multiple flounces that made up the wide skirt. Lace filled in the low veer of the bodice and Angelica's veil was attached to a lace cap decorated with satin rosettes.
Angelica had requested a bouquet of white rosebuds to carry but Diarmid brought her orange blossoms instead and their sweet perfume filled the tiny chapel. He wasn't superstitious but, for him, white roses would forever be associated with Concepcion and he wanted no reminder of her at this wedding.
Manuelo stood up for him and Stella for Angelica. The wedding party was small but high-spirited, ten people in all, accompanying the bride and groom to their new house where wine and food awaited.
Everything inside is new, Diarmid told himself, from the gleaming floors to the silver-and-crystal chandeliers in the entry hall and dining room. I'm beginning afresh. There's nothing of the past in my house. Angelica's mine at last, I have everything I want.
While the wedding guests were still dancing to guitars, Diarmid led his bride up the curving staircase to the second floor. She'd seen their bedroom before, she'd even chosen the furniture, selecting a French style that Diarmid privately thought looked too delicate to be practical.
Though he'd looked forward to undoing the many tiny buttons on the back of her gown, Angelica called in her new maid, Cochiti, to help her undress. Diarmid, uncomfortable about stripping off his clothes in front of the young Mexican girl, retreated to the dressing room, muttering as he wrapped a blue silk robe--a gift from the bride--around his nakedness.
He'd given her a sapphire brooch Tio Tomas had purchased for him in Los Angeles from a Californio family fallen on hard times. "It's not new," Tomas had said, "but the stone is beautiful, no?"
Angelica's piano had come from the same family, along with the mahogany dining room furniture. But it was new to him so it didn't matter that others had used it before.
After Angelica dismissed Cochiti, she sat in a pale pink robe in front of the gilt mirror at her dressing table and brushed her hair. Diarmid, already in bed, his silk robe on the floor, waited for what seemed hours for her to finish.
Come to bed!" he ordered finally, his patience at an end.
"When I've counted to one hundred," she said, not missing a stroke.
He fumed, stifling an urge to jump up, grab her and toss her onto the bed. She's young, he warned himself. Don't rush her.
An eternity later, she set the brush on the table and rose languidly. "Please try not to crush me," she cautioned as she climbed into the bed. "You know how I hate that."
His ardour somewhat cooled by her admonition, Diarmid pulled her gently into his arms.
"You haven't blown out the lamp," she said, resisting him.
“I like to look at you. You're so beautiful."
"I don't want the lamp left burning. I'd rather have it dark."
Holding onto his temper, he rose and snuffed the lamp next to the bed. Beside her once again, he felt for the ribbons holding her nightgown closed.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, pushing his hands away and sitting up.
"Untying your gown."
"No!"
Diarmid took a deep breath. "Angelica, we're married now and a husband has certain rights."
"I don't care what your rights are, I refuse to be undressed. It's not decent."
He persuaded her to lie down again and began gently caressing her breasts through the gown. She tried to cringe away from him and gasped in outrage when he tried to stroke between her thighs.
"Don't you know anything about men and women?" he asked in frustrated annoyance.
"Stella started to tell me but I covered my ears."
He sighed. "You're my wife, Angelica. I love you and the last thing in the world I wish to do is hurt you. If you'd just relax and let me touch you--"
"But I don't like being touched like that."
"Show me how you would like it, then."
"I'd rather you didn't touch me at all."
"Damn it, I'm your husband and I mean to make love to you, one way or another."
"I guess I can't stop you."
Diarmid propped himself against the headboard with his pillow. "Why did you marry me, Angelica?"
"Because you asked me. You said you'd be lost if I didn't."
"Don't you love me at all?"
"Well, I like you most of the time."
It wasn't the answer he wanted to hear. Still, she'd get used to him and to lovemaking if he could hang onto his patience. "Haven't you ever been kissed before by a man?" he demanded.
Angelica hesitated. "Yes, I have been," she admitted finally. "Three times."
Unreasonable jealousy flared hot in his guts. "Who was he?"
"You don't have to shout. He was a man I knew in Philadelphia, my gentleman friend. He didn't crush me like you do."
"So now I'm no gentleman." He reached and gripped her by the shoulders, pulling her into a sitting position. "Is that what you're telling me? That you prefer a gentleman's kisses to mine?" She tried to squirm free but he held her fast. "Answer me!"
Angelica began to whimper but he was too angry to let her go, he'd gone past reasoning. He shook her. "Listen to me. No matter how many fine Philadelphia gentlemen kissed you, I'm your husband and, whether you like it or not, I'm damn well going to show you what that means.”
Chapter Seven
Everything Diarmid put his hand to was a success. The sheep throve and multiplied, the fruit trees produced, the hay and barley crops were bountiful. Manuelo argued against the sugar beets but Diarmid planted a field of them anyway and invested some of his money in the stock of the new refinery that bought the crop. The sugar refinery expanded and the worth of his stock doubled. After two years of hard work, the ranch was prospering, there was no doubt about that. With enough money to waste some, if he wished, Diarmid began to experiment with irrigation, using, as his source, the several creeks that crossed his land.
Two days before the second anniversary of his marriage, Diarmid sat in what Angelica referred to as "the library" and stared moodily at the shelves of gilt-inscribed leather bound volumes. God knows he wasn't unlettered--Father Campbell had made sure of that in his youth--but he hadn't the time nor the inclination to read the books.
Angelica always seemed to be trying to make him into something he wasn't. He wished his marriage was doing as well as the ranch. He'd tried everything he could think of to introduce his wife to the joys of lovemaking but she couldn't be cozened into passion. He was sure she tolerated him in her bed solely because she believed it to be her duty. Though she tried to hide her reluctance, every time he took her into his arms she stiffened in what he recognized as unhappy anticipation.
In every other way, she was an ideal wife. She managed the servants better than he did, meals were as he liked them, she entertained his friends in style. She enjoyed fine clothes but wasn't extravagant, she rarely complained and was always ready to listen if he cared to talk.
Los Angeles was still Californio rather than Anglo but more and more Anglos--Gringos the Mexicans called them--were moving into Los Angeles. There was a new section of town west of the plaza with frame houses instead of the usual adobe and even talk of a circulating library in Hellman's general store. Angelica had made new friends, men and women interested in music and art. Diarmid didn't have much in common with them but neither did he dislike them. Not that he saw too much of them--the long trip between the ranch and Los Angeles over the rough roads was no joy ride, even in the new carriage he'd bought for Angelica.
El Doblez, much closer, had hardly grown at all--it was still a sleepy, mostly Mexican, fishing village. Thinking of El Doblez reminded him of Stella and he wondered why Angelica hadn't asked her to visit them lately. Perhaps she had and Stella had been too busy. In the morning, he planned to make a trip to Los Angeles to buy Angelica an anniversary present, he'd stop at El Doblez on his way and talk to Stella.
"No, I haven't been especially busy," Stella told him when he tracked her down on the back porch of her house on the hill. She waved him to a chair. "Why do you ask?"
"I never see you at the ranch."
"Invite me and I'll come." Her tone was dry. Mocking?
"Did you have a disagreement with Angelica?"
Stella shook her head.
He looked at her, wondering if she was telling the truth. He could usually count on her honesty.
"You must be hot after riding here in this weather," she said, rising. "Let me pour you some lemonade."
A Santa Ana wind was blowing, the day would get hotter, he should be on his way. But he sat, waiting for the lemonade, reluctant to move. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed Stella's company.
"I've missed you," he admitted as he accepted the drink.
She smiled down at him. "Those are always pleasant words to hear."
He could smell her scent, spicy and sweet, and he seemed to breathe in desire with the scent. As she started to move away from his chair, he grasped her hand.
Stella's smile faded. "I swore I'd laugh at you when you came to me like this."
Diarmid, hardly aware of his own intentions until she spoke, rose to his feet and pulled her close to him. "I don't hear any laughter," he murmured into her ear.
She tasted of lemon and sugar as her lips opened in response to his kiss. Her body pressed eagerly against his, she wore no multitude of stiffened petticoats under her bright pink gown, and the feel of her soft warmth heightened his need. The knowledge she wanted him was like throwing fuel onto an already blazing fire.
He would have taken her on the floor of the porch if she hadn't pulled away and led him along a corridor to her bedroom. When he found she wore nothing under the dress, he flung off his clothes in a wild frenzy, grabbing her and falling onto the bed. They came together in a frantic joining, hot and violent.
Afterward, when he could think again, he turned to Stella, lying curled on her side, facing him. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her flesh, her spicy scent was mixed with his smell. She edged closer, raised up and blew gently in his ear, then smiled at him.
He looked admiringly at her ample curves, reached out and ran his thumb slowly over her pink nipple, feeling it harden under his caress. The urgency over, he had time to enjoy all of her and he meant to make the most of it.
He didn't remember he was on his way to Los Angeles and why until he woke late in the afternoon. Stella was gone, he was alone in her bed. Diarmid yawned and stretched. Despite the heat, he felt better than he had in months. He had no qualms about what he and Stella had done. He loved
his wife but a man needed a woman like Stella in bed.
In Los Angeles, he bought a pearl necklace for Angelica. Before he left the shop, he noticed a gold butterfly pin with tiny rubies for eyes. Recalling how Manuelo had once compared Stella to a butterfly, he bought the pin for her.
When he gave the necklace to Angelica two days later, she accepted it with enthusiasm, kissing him on the cheek. He made no attempt to take her in his arms as he usually did when she showed him the slightest sign of affection.