by Jane Toombs
"No, it wasn't like that at all," Alitha said. "They never harmed me--they saved our lives, mine and Chia's." She rose on one elbow. "How is he? How is Chia? The boy with the broken leg."
"He is at the mission. The Indians there care for him."
Alitha sank back. Chia was safe. She gazed up at Senora Mendoza. "And Don Esteban?" she asked. "He is well?"
“Don Esteban is not at the rancho. He journeys north to the capital at Monterey to search for his sister and—"she paused—"for other reasons." Maria reached down and took Alitha's hand. "Don Esteban is not for you," she said.
"I don't understand what you mean." Alitha felt her face redden. She pulled her hand away.
Maria slid her fingers under the pillow and brought out a somewhat bedraggled red rose. Alitha reached for the flower and Maria gave it to her.
"You wouldn't rest until the rose was with you," Maria said.
Alitha thrust the rose back under her pillow, out of sight. "I—the scent ..." she began, then fell silent under the other woman's gaze. She pushed herself up in bed. "I left Boston to sail to the Sandwich Islands," she said. "I am betrothed to the Reverend Thomas Heath, a missionary there."
Maria watched her, waiting.
Alitha took a deep breath. "Reverend Heath and I planned to marry last year, but my mother fell ill and I took care of her until she died. Thomas—Reverend Heath—had to sail before we could be married." It was all true, and yet, Alitha thought, she couldn't bring Thomas's face to mind.
"I am happy to hear of your betrothal," Maria said. "All young women should marry. For ten years I was the wife of Don Tomas Mendoza, the brother of Don Esteban, until he was mortally wounded in the war against the tyrant Napolean. I loved Don Tomas." Maria lowered her face into her hands and began to sob.
Alitha threw aside the coverlet and sat up, reaching out to her.
"Madre de Dios," Maria Mendoza murmured. Removing the black lace handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at her eyes. "I beg your pardon," she said to Alitha. "I am such a worthless woman. The only man I could ever love is dead, a man I was not able to honor with children. All I have left is Don Esteban. Am I to be a Jonah followed by ill fortune the rest of my life?
My husband was killed. As if that wasn't enough, Don Esteban's father fell ill of a fever and, on the ship bringing us to this barbarous country, he died, Now my beloved sister-in-law, the sister of Don Esteban, has sailed away with an Americano, a man not yet her husband. What will become of us?"
"I find California even more strange than you do," Alitha said.
Maria returned the handkerchief to her sleeve. "A journey to one's beloved interrupted by shipwreck and savages—such misfortune! I am ashamed that I think only of myself and forget my duty. Before he left Don Esteban said, “Care for the senorita as though she were your own while I am in Monterey. If I did not know she was almost well,” he said, 'I would not leave her.''
Alitha smiled involuntarily, quickly raising her hand to her face to mask her pleasure. Esteban did care, she thought.
"Don Esteban and the others return in ten days' time," Maria went on, "and a feast is planned to celebrate their homecoming."
"Let me help you. I'll do whatever I can to repay you for your hospitality."
Maria shook her head. "We have many Indian servants to do the work. You are a guest, and we will treat you as a guest until your ship arrives."
"My ship? The Flying Yankee was wrecked."
"No, no, I meant the next ship bound for the Sandwich Islands. Many come here to Santa Barbara to be loaded with hides. There will be one soon, and you will be united with the one you love."
"Yes, of course," Alitha said.
"But, first, we must make you well again, find clothes for you. I want to show you our rancho, the mission, the village and something of this part of California. This is a beautiful country, though it is wild and uncivilized."
"You're very kind."
"Any Californio would do the same for a guest. Now, is there anything you want?"
"I'd like to read. Have you a book?"
"A book? The Mendozas have the largest library in all of California," Maria said, "but we have only one book written in English. I will bring it to you."
When she returned a short time later, Maria handed Alitha a thin, leather-bound volume with the title embossed in gold—Pilgrim's Progress.
Alitha leafed through the page--at home she had read and reread the tale of Christian's adventures in the Slough of Despond, Doubting Castle and the Valley of Humiliation as he journeyed in search of salvation.
When Maria left, Alitha reached beneath her pillow, bringing the rose from its hiding place and pressing the flower between the pages of the book. She sighed as she held the book in her hands. She herself, Alitha thought, was as much a pilgrim as Christian, traveling to foreign lands in search of--what? Happiness? Love? What did she seek?
Alitha recovered quickly, and Maria was as good as her word—Don Esteban's house became Alitha's house as well. Dresses were lengthened for her, petticoats displayed for her selection. Maria led her through the kitchen garden, naming the herbs, and into the vegetable garden with its tomatoes, green and red peppers, cabbages, white onions, peas, watermelons and beans on high poles. They strolled in the orchards among the fig trees, oranges, limes and olives.
As they climbed hillsides painted a springtime yellow and gold by poppies, Alitha watched cottontails dart through patches of wild oats, listened to the cries of jays, the coo of turtledoves, and the echoing calls of the mockingbirds.
Wherever she went she heard the tolling mission bells calling the Indians to work or to prayer.
They walked along the beach collecting shells, sat on the sand looking out over the Pacific.
"Soon," Maria told her "the ship bound for the islands will come for you."
At the Mendoza casa, the preparations for the banquet quickened. Bread was baked in the huge ovens, grain was pounded, coffee beans roasted and ground in the kitchen courtyard, chickens plucked and dressed. The Indian women scoured bathtubs, scrubbed floors, made soap and tallow candles.
Despite the preparations for the coming feast, the day-to-day chores of the casa went on. The cleaning and cooking seemed never ending. The meals were elaborate. For breakfast Alitha might be served stewed beef and beans, tongue cooked with hot peppers and garlic, rice, pumpkin, cabbage, chicken and eggs, oranges and tortillas.
She was constantly reminded of Esteban's expected return. "When Don Esteban comes," Maria said five or six times each day.
"When Don Esteban comes," Alitha echoed.
On the day before the feast, Esteban had still not returned from the north.
'He will be here," Maria said. "Esteban instructed me to hold the feast tomorrow night Already our guests are arriving. Surely he will be here.
Alitha looked from her window at the wooded mountains behind the house. What if something had happened to Esteban? Monterey was many miles away. What if he and his party had met hostile Indians? What if they had been stricken with the cholera? Or met with an accident on the trail?
The weather changed on the morning of the feast as a dry, hot wind from the inland deserts blew the fog out to sea and the sun beat down with an intensity Alitha had felt only while the Flying Yankee sailed in the tropics. When she walked to the mission, the breeze hot on her face, she thought that all of life seemed to have come almost to a stop--even the Indians laboring in the fields worked more slowly than she had ever seen them work before.
Chia smiled up at her from his pallet in one of the Indian adobe huts, his leg encased in dried mud and bound by reeds.
They talked in halting Spanish, for both had learned a few words of the language. Chia was impatient, eager to walk again.
“Will you stay at the mission?” she asked him.
Chia shook his head. He would go to his rancheria or to the mountains, he told her, wherever he could find his people. He made her understand, more with sign language than with
his meager Spanish, that he saw the Indians of the mission as people who had traded their freedom for bread and shelter and received the worst of the bargain.
As they talked, the mission bells tolled. Chia hated the bells, for they spoke of his people's bondage as they called the Indians from their sleep, ordered them to make the sign of the cross, to begin work in the fields, to recite the benediction, to return to the mission for a supper of barley and porridge, to sing the alabado at sunset and to go to bed at night.
As Alitha left the mission, pensive and brooding, she walked past the stone fountain shaped like a bear in front of the church. A bear much like the one Esteban had fought. Esteban. What would her life be like if she were married to a don, she wondered.
Would she be as enslaved as the Indians, not by the padres but by children, by the never-ending tasks of her casa and by the customs of this alien land?
While she walked, she was vaguely aware of horsemen riding by and of shouts From the village. At first, lost in her reverie, she paid no attentions, but when she did look about her, she saw men hastening in the direction of the beach. Gazing out to sea, she drew in her breath as she saw the white sails of a square-rigger a few cable lengths offshore. This must be the long-awaited ship bound for the Sandwich Islands, the ship that would carry her to Thomas.
She made her way down the slope from the village to the beach to stand at the edge of the sand, staring at the ship flying the stars and stripes. As she watched, the anchor was lowered and the crew launched a boat, rowed through the surf and beached the boat in the sand.
The Spanish villagers clustered around the crewmen, but Alitha hung back, not understanding the Spanish until the word Islands was said in English.
Gathering her courage, she approached the young seaman who was standing guard at the prow of the boat.
"Where are you bound?" she asked
"To San Diego." He smiled at her, frankly staring.
"And then?"
"Around the Horn to Boston."
"You're not bound for the Sandwich Islands?"
"No, miss, we're bound from the Islands.”
She thanked him and ran along the beach, her heart beating a thanksgiving. She did not have to leave the Mendoza rancho after all. She didn't have to sail to the islands. At least not on this ship. Her pace quickened. This was only a reprieve, not a pardon, she realized. Another ship might drop anchor anytime, possibly as soon as tomorrow or the next day.
She climbed the steps from the courtyard to the gallery and went to her room. She sat in a chair looking from the open window. Finally she took Pilgrim's Progress from the table next to the bed. The book opened to the rose, which, though faded, was still red. Smiling, she stared down at the flower.
Has he bewitched you, Alitha Braford? She asked herself. Be honest—admit the truth. How can you lose your heart to a man you scarcely know? A man who embraces a different faith, a man with a way of life alien to yours. Esteban can bring you nothing but pain and unhappiness. How could she ever think she might love Esteban?
She loved Thomas, of course she did. Her feeling for Thomas was enduring, based on a shared life. How could she possibly describe this fascination as love?
What was it then, if not love? Why did she toss and turn in bed at night, unable to sleep, her thoughts returning continually to Esteban—the way he looked at her, the inflection of his voice, the flash of his smile, the dark mystery of his eyes? She hated his arrogance, laughed at his grandiose figures of speech and was annoyed by his profuse flattery. She suspected she could never be happy with him.
At the same time, she couldn't imagine life without him. If she couldn't see him again, if for some reason he never returned from Monterey, her life would be empty. Useless. Not worth living. Was that love? If so, then she loved him. But, of course, she was promised to Thomas.
That evening she laid the gown she would wear to the banquet on her bed. She stood looking at the figured white satin. She'd learned from Maria that the gown had been intended for Margarita but hadn't been finished before her elopement. Now, altered to fit Alitha's body, it would be worn by another woman waiting to be a bride.
The fabric was lovely, with the figured roses woven into the satin so they seemed transparent.
Alitha took a chemise from the wardrobe, then hesitated. No, it was too hot, she wouldn't wear a chemise. She fastened her petticoats, slipped on her dress and buttoned it over her bare breasts. Surely the dress was modest enough, with its high neckline and the outline of her breasts concealed by a flounce of lace on the bodice.
She stepped to the mirror and adjusted a white mantilla on her head. She was dressed completely in white except for a silver pin in the shape of a rose fastened to an ornamental comb in the front of her hair, Her skin, browned by the sun, seemed to glow. The golden tan of her face, neck and arms contrasting with the white of the gown.
Maria knocked and opened the door. She was dressed in her customary black. She smiled and said, "You look enchanting."
"Thank you. Is Esteban here yet?"
"No, but he will be soon," Maria assured her.
They descended arm in arm to the high-ceilinged dining room where crystal glasses glistened and the silver table setting gleamed in the candlelight. The few women were elegant in their long gowns and mantillas, the men dashing in black and silver.
Alitha felt their eyes on her, heard murmurs of curiosity from the women and saw smiles of admiration from the men. And still Esteban had not come.
The platters of food were passed from hand to hand—turkey, chicken, veal, tomatoes, oranges, pomegranates. Alitha ate little. As she sipped the white wine, her gaze returned time and again to the doorway. Her ears were attuned not to the talk and laughter in the room, but to the sounds from outside.
Hoofbeats! Alitha caught her breath. The talk in the room stilled and there was an expectant hush. Alitha turned in her chair as Senor Huerta entered, smiling and bowing. Two other men followed. Then Don Esteban was there, moving easily from one guest to another.
"Margarita?" they asked him.
Esteban shook his head. There'd been no word of Margarita at Monterey.
Alitha's breath quickened as Esteban looked down the long table and saw her, his eyes holding hers. He walked directly to her, ignoring all others, took her hand and brought it to his lips.
"You are the most beautiful woman in the world," he said.
Then Maria was at his side and he was gone.
After the banquet, after the signing to the music of violins and Spanish guitars, after the dancing, Esteban came to her, taking her by the hand and leading her from the house. He lifted her to his horse, mounted behind her and, with his arm about her waist, they rode to a knoll where a single pine leaned as though in flight from the ocean. The night was hot, though the wind had died with the setting of the sun.
Below them the American ship lay at anchor and the moonlight shimmered like a silvery ribbon on the sea. There they dismounted.
Esteban took her in his arms and kissed her, his lips to hers, his hand to the nape of her neck. As she surrendered herself to his kiss, the world seemed to dissolve around her. As the kiss went on and on, she felt a warmth grow in her.
"You are my life and my love," Esteban whispered in her ear. "My hearts of hearts, my beloved. I want you more than I can tell you."
"I missed you so much," she said.
"I want you with me always, Alitha, Ride with me. In two weeks’ time I must go to Mexico Will you come with me?
She drew away. "To Mexico?"
"I go to Mexico City to convince the Spanish viceroy to send help to California."
"How long will you be gone?"
"The journey is one of many miles. Perhaps I will be gone for six months, perhaps a year,"
A year. A lifetime, she thought. I won't be here a year from now. I'll never see him again.
"Oh, Esteban," she cried, burying her face against his chest.
He kissed her, a long and lingering kiss
, and when his lips left hers, she felt his hand unbutton the top buttons of her dress. He kissed her neck and she leaned back against his arm. His hand cupped her breast, then fumbled at the buttons of her dress.
She pulled away from him and ran down the hill to the beach and across the sand to the water's edge. She heard his footsteps following her.
I'll go with him," she told herself. We'll be married and I’ll go with Esteban to Mexico City as his wife.
Her skin, her entire body was afire. Thomas's face flashed before her, but she shook her head, Thomas didn't understand her, Thomas thought there was something wrong with her. Would Esteban feel the same?
Suddenly she felt she could no longer stand the weight of the heavy satin gown. She remembered the freedom of being on the island with Chia. She reached for the buttons of her dress, hesitated, then unbuttoned her gown, shrugged it from her shoulders, removed the dress and her petticoats, laying them on the sand. She stepped out of her satin slippers and stood naked in the moonlight for a moment, facing the Pacific, then ran into the sea, the water cold on her legs. She felt it rise on her body, to her thighs, higher, to her hips and to her breasts. She waded to the line of the surf, plunged into the oncoming waves as she had on the island, letting the breakers sweep her toward shore.
She stood up with the water to her waist. Esteban was a dark shadow on the sand. Around her the waves pounded the shore with their never-ending rhythm. The water had cooled her skin but the fire still flared within her. There was no one else in the world except herself and Esteban.
She walked toward him with the moon behind her, shadowing her body. He did not move. When she was a few feet from him he opened his arms and she ran to him, feeling the loops of his jacket press on her breasts and his breeches rub harshly against her legs.
He kissed her and, still kissing her, lifted her into his arms and carried her up the beach to where three rocks jutted up, and there he stopped, setting her down. He removed his own clothing until he was as naked as she.
He stood in front of her, taking her hand and urging her from the shadow of the rocks. She realized he wanted to see her in the moonlight, so she let him pull her along as she followed his glance to the swell of her breasts gleaming whitely below her tanned arms and neck. He lowered his head to her breasts, kissing each nipple in turn, and she took him in her arms. Moments later he pressed her onto the sand, his body half over hers. She clung to him but he pulled back and gently spread her legs with his hands. Still kissing her breasts, his tongue going from one to the other, he slid his hand between her legs, touching her, caressing her, and she felt the warmth grow in her until it became a swelling need, a frightening, ecstatic rush of joy building in her legs and sweeping through her body.