by DiAnn Mills
Late in the morning, Marianne decided to visit Clay’s bride and welcome her to the hacienda. They had married at the San Juan Mission, and she had yet to visit the young bride.
The newly married couple lived in a small, thatched-roof hut set apart from where the other servants and the vaqueros lived. Marianne had learned her name was Angelina, a pretty name for a pretty young woman. Although Angelina’s father had forced Clay to marry his daughter when it became clear she carried his child, the couple appeared to be happy the evening when Don Lorenzo visited, and Clay competed with the vaqueros.
Gathering a bouquet of red flowers from the courtyard, Marianne walked toward the small hut where Clay and Angelina lived. She hesitated for a moment and wondered if she should have selected some food items from the kitchen as well, but fresh vegetables or bread could be brought on another occasion.
Chastising herself for not making the effort to call on Angelina sooner, Marianne suddenly realized how lonely the young woman must feel. She came to the hacienda not knowing anyone, and with the other servants busy with their duties, she most likely did not have much activity to fill her hours.
This is the type of pleasantry I shall need to do for the don.
As she neared the home, Marianne considered Clay. He normally left with the vaqueros at dawn, and she hoped his habit had not changed. Meeting up with him shook her resolve to be polite, and thinking about their last encounter made her shiver in disgust. Marianne still found Clay despicable. She prayed the marriage to Angelina and the prospect of fatherhood had changed him permanently.
She inwardly sighed when she saw no visible signs of Clay. She knocked on the wooden door and waited for Angelina to answer. When the girl did not appear, Marianne thought she must be resting or possibly enjoying a walk. Marianne studied the flat, dry land around her for the Spanish girl and saw nothing. Everything looked deserted.
I’ll simply come by another time. Glancing at the fresh flowers in her hand, Marianne contemplated what to do. She really wanted to leave them as a gesture of friendship, but not in the hot sun for them to wither and die.
“Angelina, are you there?” Marianne asked in Spanish. A peculiar sound reached her ears, as though a kitten had mewed in response to her question. “Angelina?” She leaned her ear against the door.
Silence met her ears and just when Marianne decided to leave, a slight whimper came from inside the Wharton hut. Curious, and feeling a twinge of apprehension, Marianne grasped the latch and lifted it. Slowly the door swung open, and her gaze swept across the dimly lit room. She blinked then gasped in horror at the sight before her.
Angelina lay in a heap on the bed; her body twisted and distorted atop a blood-soaked blanket. The young woman could not open her eyes, for they were swollen shut in a hideous mass of black, blue, and dried blood. A faint moan escaped her lips—what Marianne had originally thought was the sound of a kitten. Angelina’s face appeared to be one bruise upon another, and her upper lip seeped blood.
Instantly Marianne kneeled at her side. Compassion, then anger tore through her for the young girl.
“Angelina, can you talk?” She wanted to touch the young woman but was afraid of hurting her more. She saw huge, purplish-blue marks from her wrists to her shoulders, and one arm lay crooked across the bed, most likely broken. If all had not sickened Marianne before, the finger indentations across her throat gave a clue to what her assailant had attempted.
She instantly recoiled at the sight of blood caked through Angelina’s black, tangled tresses. At least she still breathed life. “I’ll get help,” Marianne uttered in Spanish then added, “And I must find Clay.”
Angelina stiffened at the words. With a limp hand she gripped Marianne’s arm and shook her head. Why wouldn’t she want Clay? Surely he hadn’t done this to her? Would he beat his pregnant wife and leave her alone to suffer? She bent close to the young woman’s ear. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll return shortly with someone to tend to you.”
Angelina tried to move her lips, but she was too weak. “Do not speak,” Marianne said and stood above her. The thought of leaving her seemed cruel, but Carmita would know how to treat her. And Papa…He hadn’t left the house today. Surely he would help with this tragedy.
With her hand on the door, she turned to gaze once more at Angelina. “Holy Dios, I pray for Your healing for this young woman.”
Marianne lifted her skirts and raced back to the house. Her chest ached, and perspiration dripped down her face by the time she arrived home. She entered through the double front doors and hurried down the hallway to her father’s study. Without knocking, she turned the latch and burst inside.
“Angelina has been hurt,” she managed in between breaths. “I just came from there. She’s been beaten, bruises, blood everywhere, and I think her arm is broken.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. He pounded his fist on the walnut desk. “Is Clay there?”
She shook her head and took another quick breath to keep from accusing the foreman. “She couldn’t talk,” Marianne said. Later, when Angelina recovered sufficiently, she could relay who attacked her.
“Is the girl alive?”
“Yes, but I fear for her life.”
He stood from his desk and cursed. “I warned him. Her father will slice him in two for this.” He lifted his stormy gaze to her. “Go get Carmita, and I’ll go after Clay.”
So Papa suspected Clay too. God have mercy on a man who would do such a thing.
By the time Marianne and Carmita reached Angelina, the young woman lay still.
Chapter 21
Carmita stepped past Marianne and bent over the limp form of Angelina Wharton. The woman turned her ear to the young woman’s chest. “She’s alive,” Carmita said in English. “I hear her heart.”
“Thank You, God.” Marianne clasped her hand to her chest and fought the urge to cry with the wrenching sight of Angelina’s battered body. “What can I do to help?”
Already Carmita had stripped back the bloodstained blanket to see the extent of her injuries. “I have to see how badly she’s hurt before we can do anything.” She gently examined the loosely clad young woman.
With the movement, Angelina moaned, and Marianne sickened. Clay should be whipped for this. The upper part of her body bore the results of the hideous beating, but luckily her stomach area held no marks.
“She must have protected the baby,” Carmita said.
Some areas held faded bruises. Angelina must have received other beatings. Had Clay beaten her even before they were married?
Carmita turned to Marianne. “I need water, clean cloths, and one of my medicine plants. Josefa knows where to find everything. Ask her to come too.”
She once again ran back to the big house where Josefa had taken over Carmita’s duties in the kitchen. While Marianne fetched a wooden pail of water and gathered up clean cloths to bathe and bandage Angelina, Josefa hurried to the courtyard for a large pot containing an aloe plant.
“Mama says this will cure almost anything,” Josefa said as the two girls struggled with their burdens toward the Wharton hut.
Marianne merely nodded. She remembered when she’d fallen in the stable and scraped her hand on a pitchfork. Carmita had broken off one of the thick stalks of the plant, sliced it lengthwise, and coated the wound with the thick, clear liquid. Shortly afterward, her hand felt better and soon healed without infection.
When Marianne and Josefa reached the hut, Angelina cried out pitifully with the obvious pain raging through her body. Not since her mother suffered through childbirth had Marianne witnessed such agony.
“Who could do such a terrible thing?” the dark-eyed Josefa whispered to Marianne. She held her breath at the grotesque sight of the young woman. “Did you say Señor Phillips rode after her husband?”
“Yes, I’m sure Papa will find him soon.” Marianne didn’t want to say that Clay had most likely done this to his wife. Papa’s words had rooted her suspicions.
Marianne set the
water and cloths at Angelina’s bedside. She questioned how the young woman had endured the beating. She looked more dead than alive.
Carmita cleansed Angelina’s cuts and bruises while the young woman sobbed pitifully with the torment searing through her. She couldn’t bear Carmita’s touch and repeatedly cried out, as though she relived each excruciating moment of the beating.
The older woman began to sing a familiar song about the love of a mother for her child. As Carmita sang, she lightly dabbed the injuries with a damp cloth before applying the aloe. While the clear, low voice of Carmita echoed in sweet whispers around the room, Angelina bit her lower lip until the sores began to bleed again.
A feeling of helplessness swept over Marianne, and she prayed God would ease Angelina’s suffering and heal her body. Glancing at Josefa, Marianne saw her young friend had tears streaming down her brown cheeks.
“Josefa,” Carmita said. Her gaze never left Angelina. “Hurry back to our hut and bring back my pouch of herbs. And Marianne, start up the cooking fire to boil water. We need to make Angelina a tea with the herbs to lesson the pain.” She turned to the girls. “I will need pieces of wood to splint her arm.”
Marianne and Josefa did as Carmita instructed, leaving the older woman to resume her work and continue her soothing song. Neither of the pair spoke as they rushed to their destinations, but they both exchanged worried glances.
Mama must have discovered the house was empty, for she found Josefa with the herb pouch. When Josefa explained what happened to Angelina, Mama accompanied her to the Wharton hut. Together Mama and Carmita applied medicine, bandages, and set the broken arm. Marianne marveled at how Mama put aside her own need for rest to tend to the injured young woman.
Hours later, while Angelina rested in the late afternoon, Papa returned—without Clay. He strode into the open doorway of the Wharton hut in a dour mood.
His gaze fixed on the injured young woman. “Clay’s gone. Must have left sometime last night.”
“He did this,” Mama said. Never had Marianne heard such bitterness from her mother. “I’m sure of it.” She rose from a bench near the bed and stared at Papa.
Several long moments passed. “Looks that way to me. Is she going to live?”
Her mother used a cloth to dab her sweat-bathed face. In the hut, the temperatures soared. “Carmita has done all she can do.”
“Can she speak?” Papa asked.
“No, only moans like a hurt animal.” Mama touched his arm. “What are you going to do?”
He sputtered a curse. “Clay is going to bring down trouble on us for this. The governor is already unhappy with me, and Angelina’s father is a close friend of his. I need to send a rider after her father.”
Marianne swallowed an angry retort. Papa didn’t feel any compassion for Angelina. Instead he worried about upsetting the Spanish…and possibly losing his land.
“She should not stay alone,” Mama said.
“She can have my bed,” Marianne said, “and I’ll sit with her.”
Papa rubbed his whiskered jaw. His eyes narrowed revealing his irritation. “I suppose her father would appreciate knowing we were doing all we could. The governor would appreciate it too.” He expelled a curse so vile that Mama gasped.
The familiar uneasiness twisted in Marianne’s stomach. Why did Papa always have to think only of himself? Please, God, help me with him. I want to love him like You do, but it’s so difficult.
“We need to get her to the main house,” Mama said.
Papa took off his hat and wiped the sweat dripping from his forehead. His pants and shirt were coated in yesterday’s dirt. “I can carry her,” he said after a long pause.
Carmita immediately stood where she’d been kneeling at the bedside. “Moving Angelina will cause her much pain. Let me hold her arm where I’ve splinted it.”
Papa frowned and allowed Carmita to assist him. Angelina moaned and sobbed. The word “Papa” escaped her lips.
Papa’s lips pressed firmly together. General Enrique Guerra, an officer in the Spanish army, worked directly with the governor, and Papa no doubt feared what he might do. Once the news of what Clay had done spread among the Spanish nobles, Papa’s name could be ruined. Some of the influential noblemen already distrusted him and voiced their disapproval of Americans settling on their land.
Another thought occurred to Marianne. If Papa had given permission for Clay to marry her, she would be the one beaten. Had Papa considered this at all?
Flickers of sunrise filtered through a deep blue sky the next morning before Angelina stirred and her eyelids fluttered. Her once large, doe-like eyes had been reduced to mere slits surrounded by a swollen mound of black and purplish-blue. Carmita and Marianne had sat on opposite sides of her bed the entire night, praying and watching her by candlelight. The older woman feared the trauma to Angelina’s body threatened the life of her unborn child, but the baby seemed to have remained safe. At times when the pain reduced the young woman to feeble cries. Carmita sang. Her low voice seemed to comfort the young woman. Marianne’s heart filled with compassion. Angelina didn’t look much more than fourteen years old.
“When will we know if she’s going to be all right?” Marianne asked as dawn threaded its way across the sky.
“Soon, I think,” Carmita replied. “She survived the beating and the night. We must pray and be here when she awakens.”
Marianne sighed and studied Angelina’s face. “I never liked Clay, but I didn’t think him capable of such brutality.”
Carmita nodded. “He drinks too much, and it makes him loco and mean. We should ask Dios to heal Angelina’s body and soften Clay’s heart.” In the candlelight, Marianne believed the older woman looked like an angel, one with black hair and smooth brown skin. When she bowed her head to pray, her entire face glowed in the certainty of God. Surely her friend had been God’s messenger to Angelina.
“El Dios santo, many times I have asked You to mend this poor girl and to protect her unborn child. Now I also ask You to stop this demon in Clay. Help me to nurse this dear girl who is in so much pain…and quickly bring her padre.”
Marianne raised her head. Heavy thoughts pressed against her mind. “Why are some men born wicked and cruel, while others are good and God-fearing?” She peered into the dear face of Carmita.
“If we knew the answers to that, the world would be a better place to live,” Carmita said. “I hope,” and she paused as her voice rang with emotion, “Angelina’s mind does not suffer from this. She is so young and with a little one to care for.”
Marianne studied the young woman who barely held onto life and recalled her beauty before the beating. Carmita had said that ever since Angelina had come to the hacienda, she had laughed and smiled all the time. Now everything had changed, and only God could heal her.
“Madre Santa,” Angelina moaned in Spanish. “Help me.”
Carmita stroked the young woman’s head. “La Madre Santa hears your prayers, little one, and we are here to take care of you. Rest and let your body heal.”
“I hurt,” she said through a ragged breath. “Leave me alone. I want to die.”
“You must fight for your bebé,” Carmita said.
“I…I don’t care.” A tear slipped from Angelina’s eye. She attempted to raise herself slightly from the bed, only to fall back on the pillow.
“El Dios loves you,” Carmita continued, “and so do we.”
Angelina stiffened with the pain. “Not Clay,” she finally said.
“Did he do this to you?” Marianne asked. All the while fury caused her to tremble, but she had to be sure.
“Si. He doesn’t love me. Mi padre…he spoke the truth…Clay is evil.”
“Save your strength.” Marianne hoped her voice relayed comfort. “Sleep if you can.” Angelina closed her eyes. “Papa warned me. I should have listened.”
“Hush,” Carmita said. She lifted a mug of lukewarm tea to the young woman’s lips. “Here, little one, try to drink this. It
will make you feel better.”
Marianne watched Carmita coax Angelina into taking a few sips of the herbal brew. The tea would make her sleep and allow her body time to heal without the unrelenting pain.
Glancing at the ascending light creeping across the sky, Marianne recalled Papa had sent a rider for Angelina’s father at daybreak. If anyone had doubted Clay’s hand in Angelina’s beating, they would no longer. Suddenly she felt Papa needed to know the young girl had revealed her attacker.
“I will tell my father about Angelina’s condition, and who did this,” Marianne said to Carmita. “I know the rider may have already left, but I believe Papa should be informed of everything.”
Carmita wordlessly agreed and continued to administer the herbed potion. Marianne slipped from the room toward Papa’s study. She met him in the hall and relayed the news about Angelina.
“So she shall live.” He stroked his long, gray-streaked mustache. “Good. The situation is bad enough without her dying.”
“No word from Clay?” Marianne knew full well Papa disapproved of women questioning the affairs of men.
He frowned. “He’s gone, and if he’s smart he’ll keep riding until he’s out of Texas.”
Marianne chose not to reply, although she wanted to know if Papa had encouraged Clay to leave. The two men had been friends for as long as Marianne could remember. Papa treated Clay like a son and overlooked his crude mannerisms. How did he feel about Clay now?
“Aren’t there things you should be doing?” he asked in a manner clearly indicating his dismissal of her. He set his sights on the door leading to the courtyard. “I have work to do.” He left her standing in the reception room hallway.
Alone, Marianne peered around the study. Its familiar surroundings in the shadows of early morning looked foreign. Heavy, ornate wooden chairs with leather seats and backs, a small shelf of books written in English and Spanish, a display of Spanish swords and daggers given to him by Don Lorenzo. Those things represented home. But this was Papa’s house, not really Mama’s or hers, and the contents reflected his life.