Neither Tasmin nor Vicky was used to being overshadowed in the looks department, but the dazzling Julietta made them both feel old, dowdy, child-ridden, heavy, past their prime.
“I don’t know that I want a lover,” Vicky said, finally. “I haven’t the energy. I just resent being displaced by a sixteen-year-old.”
“Well, that’s a very natural resentment—you should just kill the old bastard,” Tasmin suggested. “You did once threaten to tear his throat out, I believe.”
They were on a balcony, watching Lord Berry-bender hold hands with his new love. He and she were in a buggy, about to set off for a jaunt—they merely waited for Signor Claricia, their driver, who had been poorly lately.
Julietta Olivaries had extremely fine features and a long, graceful neck. Both Tasmin and Vicky remembered being—or at least remembered feeling—that beautiful once. But they were no longer sixteen, at which age Tasmin had been seduced in a horse stall by Master Tobias Stiles, her father’s head groom. For more than a year they copulated frequently in that stall, a liaison that only ended when Master Stiles was killed at a jump.
“I so want to go back to England,” Vicky said, coloring—she looked tearful. “I miss it so. I think if I were in England I could accommodate myself to whatever regime Albany wants. I could have in my musical friends. There could be a proper nursery, with proper nannies. I know Little Onion does her best, but she doesn’t really speak the language and I can’t help feeling that that’s important.
“Do you miss it, Tassie?” Vicky asked, drying her eyes.
Tasmin’s thoughts were elsewhere. She was watching Little Onion help the ailing Signor Claricia into the buggy. Of late, thanks to the dust in the high capital, Signor Claricia had had difficult breathing, especially at night. Little Onion had gone round the stalls of old Indian women, seeking herbs to ease her friend’s respiration. In defense of Signor Claricia, Little Onion flinched at nothing. She even tried to persuade the startled Lord Berrybender that his old carriage maker was too sick to be going on jaunts.
“No should go!” she insisted, and Lord B. seemed inclined to agree, but Signor Claricia wouldn’t have it. Angrily, a male defending his prerogatives, he shook off all opposition, took the reins, and issued a command. Soon the buggy clattered out of the Plaza.
Little Onion stood watching, obviously worried. “When Jim Snow shows up again I intend to insist that he divorce that girl,” Tasmin vowed. “She loves that old Italian. They may make an odd couple, but then I’m half of an odd couple myself. Why shouldn’t she have a bit of happiness? Without her our children would be wild as beasts.”
“Your daughter is wild as a beast anyway,” Vicky pointed out. “She’s cowed all the boys—it’s not a good sign.”
No sooner had Tasmin mentioned Jim than she realized that she missed him. Almost two years had passed since Pomp Charbonneau’s death. Her pain was still keen at times, but it was no longer constant. On Jim’s last visit she had been stiff; she wanted no husband yet. If told that life must go on, she would have disagreed. And yet, despite her, it had gone on. Pomp’s memory had clung to her; he was a ghost that could not be quickly shaken off. But time had begun to wear away memory. Tasmin had become a little impatient. Where was Jim Snow? She was anxious for him to come.
“That girl’s fifty years younger than Albany—did you see them holding hands?” Vicky asked.
“Oh well, Spain—read the histories,” Tasmin told her. “In the high nobility the prettier little girls are made to marry when they are about ten. Dynastic reasons, of course. In that society our Julietta would be considered almost elderly.”
“I don’t care—I still don’t like them holding hands,” Vicky said.
14
He fanned his mouth with one hand, but the fanning did no good.
COOK HAD HER DOUBTS, and the Mexican girls who worked in the kitchen began to smile in an amused way when they saw the green chilis that Little Onion had procured in the market. Yanquis might sometimes consume red chilis with pleasure if the red chilis were well mixed with meat or corn; but for a Yanqui to consume green chilis, however disguised, was a thing unheard of in Santa Fe. But Little Onion was insistent. Signor Claricia was become more and more congested in his chest. He ate less and less. Little Onion pressed her two fingers alongside her nose, to show Cook where the problem was. She didn’t know the words, but she knew she needed to help her friend, before he weakened even more.
The old woman in the Plaza who sold her the green chilis seemed to understand when Little Onion pointed to her breathing passages; the old woman insisted that green chilis would help her friend breathe better.
When Cook cautiously cut one of the chilis the juice made her skin prickle and her eyes sting. She put a speck of the juice on the tip of her tongue and her tongue at once became numb. Cook’s suspicion of the green chilis was so deep that Little Onion took over the cooking of the chili stew herself, chopping the chilis fine, dicing the pork, adding corn and a few dry beans, and stirring and stirring until the stew was ready.
She was much relieved when she heard the buggy returning. Soon Signor Claricia came into the big kitchen. It had been a dusty ride. He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands and face in a basin one of the servant girls provided. Then Little Onion poured him a good glass of wine and set the steaming green chili stew before him, along with some tortillas.
Since steam rose from the stew Aldo Claricia judged it too hot just yet to eat. He sipped his wine. He was hungry; he blew on the stew to make it cool more quickly. It smelled delicious. After a short wait, during which Little Onion stood by anxiously, he picked up his spoon and took three large spoonfuls before stopping. He took a fourth spoonful and stopped. The heat of the green chilis had hit him; suddenly fire seemed to fill his head. It was as if he had eaten flame. He dropped the spoon and gulped down the rest of his wine, indicating, by a desperate gesture, that he needed more. Little Onion poured him some but Aldo Claricia promptly spilled it. He fanned his mouth with one hand, but the fanning did no good. His forehead was flushed; he began to sweat copiously—it seemed to Little Onion that even his eyeballs were sweating. Signor Claricia jumped up, grabbed the big water pitcher, and began to pour water down his throat. Soon his shirtfront was drenched.
“I am set afire!” he cried, just as Lord Berrybender entered the kitchen, hungry, as he always was, after a brisk ride.
“Hoping for a bit of something—a hen perhaps—something to last me till dinnertime,” he said.
Then he noticed Signor Claricia, his carriage master, very red, his shirtfront drenched—yet still the man was pouring water down his throat.
“Why, what’s made the man so thirsty?” he asked.
Cook pointed to the bowl of stew. “The stew’s a-burning him, I fear, my lord,” she said. “It’s made with the local peppers—too strong for civilized people.”
“Oh fiddle, not likely,” Lord Berrybender said. “I like peppers myself. It’s the reason English food is dull. Not enough peppers.”
He picked up Signor Claricia’s abandoned stew and sniffed it. Then he sniffed again, approvingly.
“Got any more?” he asked.
Little Onion was horrified; Cook no less so. Catastrophe loomed.
Cook rarely lied, but she thought she must lie this time.
“Just a bit for the local girls,” she said.
Signor Claricia noticed Lord Berrybender looking hungrily at his stew.
“No, no!” he said. “You’ll be scalded.” “To each his own,” Lord B. remarked. “Smells good to me. If it’s too peppery for Aldo I don’t see why I shouldn’t eat his. Do you suppose I can have a fresh spoon?”
Cook was about to protest that all the spoons were dirty, but before she could, Eliza, who had failed to note Signor Claricia’s agony, handed Lord Berrybender a soupspoon.
“Thanks, my girl,” he said, and dug into the stew.
Little Onion wondered if she ought to flee. She had only hoped to improve her
friend’s health a little, and now Lord Berrybender was about to have his mouth set on fire.
But to everyone’s astonishment, particularly Aldo Claricia’s, Lord Berrybender ate the stew as he would any other dish. In a moment the bowl was empty.
“Very tasty,” he said. “Best stew I ever had, in fact. Why not give the hen to the local girls—that way I can have a bit more of this good peppery stew.”
Signor Claricia could hardly believe what he was seeing.
“But isn’t it hot?” he inquired.
Lord Berrybender accepted a second large bowl from Cook, sniffing it as if it were a rare wine.
“Of course it’s hot—it’s supposed to be hot, signor,” he said. “That’s the whole point of the chilis.”
He ate the second bowl with relish. “Hope you’ll see that we always have a good supply of those tasty little chilis—the green ones,” he said, when he finished. “The red ones I find rather bland.”
Cook contemplated the stew, of which there was still plenty. She knew she had better learn to cook it. When His Lordship liked a dish he would soon be calling for it again.
When Aldo Claricia found out that Little Onion had provided the stew in hopes of improving his health he flew into a fine Mediterranean rage, which Little Onion weathered patiently. Later in the evening she had her reward. Signor Claricia, once asleep, was breathing normally. The chilis had cleared his head. The next morning he was feeling so good that he did something he had always wanted to do. He pinched Little Onion’s bottom and tried to give her a hearty kiss.
Little Onion was profoundly shocked. What was Mr. Aldo thinking? She fled to the nursery, trembling and confused. Buffum, Vicky, and Mary were all there, helping Tasmin watch the babies. When the women understood that all that had happened was a pinch and a kiss, they were much amused.
“That’s just how men are,” Mary assured her. “Particularly, it’s how Italians are,” Buffum added.
“Shut up, for her it’s important!” Tasmin insisted. “It’s one of those moments when life changes. I’m myself good friends with Kit Carson and George Catlin and Father Geoff. Doesn’t mean I want them kissing me, of a sudden.”
“Then they can kiss me!” Petal exclaimed, though she had not been following the conversation.
“But perhaps his intentions are serious,” Buffum suggested. “Perhaps he wants to marry our Onion. I do believe she loves him. What then?”
“Each of us has followed our hearts,” she added. “Why shouldn’t Little Onion have some happiness? Jim hardly needs two wives.”
“Mr. James Snow can have as many wives as he wants,” Kate Berrybender said.
Mopsy began to whine, as he often did at stressful moments.
“Be quiet, you puppy!” Petal ordered. “I will take this up with Jim when he comes back,” Tasmin promised. “Though I will say that being allowed to follow one’s heart is no guarantee of earthly bliss.”
Petal began to drag the dog around the room by the tail, which irritated Monty. He came over and tackled his sister. Mopsy escaped. Petal bumped her head on the tile floor.
“Bumped,” she cried, hoping for a broad show of sympathy. But her mother and her aunts remained unimpressed by her injury, so she flung herself into Little Onion’s arms.
“Shameless child,” Mary remarked. “I fear our Onion is too softhearted.”
“Go away, Mary,” Petal said.
15
. . . very staid, very severe.
DOÑA ELEANORA KNEW that lecturing her young niece on the scandalous impropriety of her liaison with Lord Berrybender was bound to be wasted breath. Julietta Olivaries, reckless to a fault, vain from birth, secure in her high position, would not listen. Yet the Governor’s wife herself had come especially to try and persuade Doña Eleanora to make some attempt to curb this wild girl, whose excesses were so blatant that they seemed to threaten civic order. Santa Fe was not Paris—it was a small place, and its handful of respectable families were very staid, very severe. The behavior of young señoritas was strictly chaperoned. Girls married whom they were expected to marry. The young officers might priss and preen a bit, flirting with their superiors’ wives and daughters; it was a way of livening up balls. Doña Eleanora, herself a renowned beauty in her youth, had had suggestions whispered in her ear by some of the bolder young officers. A few had even attempted to bestow kisses on her fine plump shoulders, but in Santa Fe, by and large, courtship was a game with strict rules. Doña Eleanora had made a good match—her husband ran the Treasury. With any luck he would be governor someday himself, besides which he was handsome, lively, and the best dancer in Santa Fe. He knew the rules and codes as well as she did. Once a charming young officer had been seated by Doña Eleanora at dinner. He let a hand rest on her knee, a gesture she tolerated. But when the hand attempted to move up, Doña Eleanora took it in both of hers and pushed it away. “Someday, perhaps,” she said. “Not now.” After all, why close off possibilities? Her handsome husband might die. Besides, just across the table, her husband was paying witty attentions to the Governor’s young niece. Life, after all, was to be lived. Her husband would soon have to make his biannual visit to the City of Mexico—a long and hazardous trip. The “someday” might come for the young officer, if it appeared that he was capable of playing by the rules.
Rules, however, meant nothing to Julietta Oli-varies, a young woman bitterly discontent in her exile and determined to do exactly as she pleased. When her aunt suggested that she might be a little more discreet in her liaison with Lord Berrybender, Julietta arched her lovely neck and practically spat with fury.
“Some peasants saw you naked in a buggy, doing something ugly with that old Englishman,” Doña Eleanora told her. “You’ll bring disgrace on us. At least you could go inside, if you want to do these nasty things.
“Besides, it must be awkward,” she added—she tried to picture herself doing the nasty things in a buggy and concluded that it wouldn’t work. But Julietta, of course, was young and lithe. Acrobatic love would come easier for her.
“I like doing things in a buggy,” Julietta told her aunt. “I don’t care if the peasants see me.”
“But he’s so old!” Doña Eleanora remarked, trying to think of some argument that would register with this defiant little bitch.
Julietta gave her an icy smile. “You forget my history,” she said. “That old French banker they married me to was nearly eighty. He even had a wart on his prick. Then they put me in a convent and the nuns beat me. When I ran away they caught me and sent me to Mexico, where I was expected to marry an old hidalgo, whose bad sons raped me. I bit one of them, so they sent me here, to the end of the world. I can behave any way I want. There are no more places they can send me, unless they give me to a wild Indian or something. Lord Berrybender is a great noble. He does as he pleases. If we want to play games in a buggy no one can stop us!”
“His wife is a fine musician,” Doña Eleanora remarked.
“She was only a servant,” Julietta replied, with a look of scorn. “She bores him and I don’t.”
Doña Eleanora gave up. No one could control this girl—there was no one in either the New or the Old World who could make her behave. She took her pleasures where she found them. The Olivarieses had always been that way.
Later, when Julietta flounced out, Doña Eleanora tried again to picture what had gone on in the buggy. Would she, a woman of mature dimensions, be able to do it? She had to admit that it was an exciting thought.
16
A troublemaker, that one—a great beauty . . .
THE GOVERNOR didn’t quite know how to begin. All Santa Fe was talking about Lord Berrybender and the Olivaries girl. A troublemaker, that one— a great beauty with an absolute absence of morals. The old families who supported his governorship were outraged. Some of them wanted the English people sent away. Pressure was mounting on the Governor to do something. And yet, in financial respects, the old lord had been liberality itself. His wife and daughters spe
nt lavishly in the Plaza, on jewelry mostly. His cook bought pigs and sheep and goats for the table. Lord Berrybender even had no objection to ransoming himself, when the time came to leave. He was a genial, agreeable man of the world who much enlivened Santa Fe’s staid society. If the Oli-varies girl hadn’t shown up, there would have been no trouble—perhaps a wife or two would have been seduced, but wives were always being seduced, if not by Lord Berrybender, then by someone else. It was this wild highborn girl who upset everything.
So the Governor had invited Lord Berrybender to the Palace, to talk about the situation, and Lord Berrybender, as genial as ever, had come.
Still, the Governor didn’t know quite how to begin.
“Julietta is very beautiful, yes?” he offered. “She certainly is,” Lord Berrybender agreed. “I met her father at Salamanca—he was on the other side, of course. The whole family’s beautiful. Julietta’s a top-grade beauty. She’s got that long Oli-varies neck.”
“And your lovely wife?” the Governor inquired. He felt in a heavy quandary. Who was he to tell this English lord what to do? He might be the Governor of Nuevo México, and yet, facing Lord Berrybender, he felt like a provincial clerk.
“Haven’t seen much of Vicky lately,” Lord Berry-bender admitted. “Got my hands full with Julietta— vexing little wench she can be. No inclination to stint, when it comes to fornication.”
“There was something about a buggy,” the Governor said, awkwardly. “The people are talking, a bit.”
Lord Berrybender looked puzzled. Something about a buggy. What about a buggy?
Then he remembered—it had been Julietta’s idea. She was always looking for ways to spice up the tupping—had little interest in just the common old grind. It had been touch and go, he had to admit. Of course, Julietta was nimble as a cat. No problem for her to skip around. A little harder for himself, of course, but the occasion had been on the whole a success. Julietta got quite stirred up. But how the devil had the Governor learned about it?
The Berrybender Narratives Page 94