“Would you care for one, Uncle Luís?” she asked politely before carefully taking a swallow of wine.
Don Luís raised his wineglass in a silent toast, a look of reluctant admiration on his face.
Brendan’s eyes twinkled wickedly at her over Paddy’s head, a hint of pride in his glance as he gazed triumphantly at Don Luís.
“I have lived here in California most of my life, having been brought out here by my father when only a child, and I still need to wash down their food with plenty of wine,” Jeremiah Davies told Mara with a laugh. “You have proven yourself one of them already, and I am still the outsider even after twenty years of living with them.” He complained good-naturedly, but his smile wasn’t quite as ready, nor his tone quite so friendly as before.
“Are some of your servants ill, Don Andres?” Don Luís inquired a little too politely as he waited for his empty plate to be removed.
Don Andres’s lips tightened and Mara caught a worried look cross Doña Ysidora’s usually serene face. “Sí. In a manner of speaking, one might say they are ill,” Don Andres answered enigmatically. “They have the gold fever.”
“We never know how many servants will be here when we awaken each morning. They do not care anymore that they displease us, or fear the patron’s wrath, for they believe they will become rich,” Doña Ysidora spoke angrily, a look of disgust on her patrician features.
“Already I’ve lost a thousand head of cattle because I’ve not enough vaqueros to guard them,” Don Andres spoke wearily.
“It is unbelievable that this could be happening,” a gray-haired Californian said harshly, his sun-darkened face weathered by years spent in the saddle. “One never had to worry about thieves in the old days. Our cattle grazed freely wherever they cared to roam. We needed no fences. We had no fears. I remember on our rancho in Santa Barbara, when I was but a child, how excited we were when we saw one of the foreigners’ ships come sailing into the harbor. It was late summer once, and all through the year we had raised many fine cattle that were now ready for the slaughter. The matanza was a favorite time for us, for there were many festivities that accompanied the hard work. On the hillsides I remember seeing the ramadas that shaded the workers as they cured the skins, then stretched the cueros in the sun where they were left to dry. We would stack them in the carretas with tallow and other goods to be taken to the ships and traded for so many wonderful things. The ships of the foreigners were like treasure chests, their holds full of satins and silks, tea, coffee, and wine and spices that the traders had brought from far across the seas,” the old ranchero reminisced sadly.
“We had so few things in that day. We traded for everything. Why, some of the furniture in this very room was brought around the Horn by one of those ships. We traded for china and cooking utensils, and even shoes.” He laughed, “And then there was so much singing and dancing that it seemed to last for weeks. To me, though, as a young boy, I enjoyed the rodeo best. Ah, how the vaqueros could ride back in that day. They were magnificent, dressed in their brightest jackets, with silk handkerchiefs tied across their foreheads; they would do the most dangerous riding tricks imaginable. We would have horse races and bullfights, and ride down to the seaside for a merienda, and with baskets full of food we would spend a leisurely afternoon until the ball in the evening, and then we would dance until dawn. And everyone would dance, not just the young, for it was the older and more experienced dancers who could best do the intricate steps of la jota. To see them line up in two rows, singing and waving their arms in rhythm to the guitar, then moving right and left, changing partners as they moved their feet in the fancy footwork…But I think my favorite has always been el jarabe, and I must admit that I was once quite famous for it. When the tecolero would announce that a couple would dance, a large crowd would form a circle around the patio as the caballero approached his señorita and escorted her to the center of the patio. After much fancy mudancias they would separate, and then the caballero would throw down his sombrero and the beautiful señorita would dance on the brim, much to the pleasure of the clapping onlookers; then, with the captured sombrero on her head, she would return to her seat.
“Sometimes we had cascarones filled with pieces of tinsel paper and cologne, and if you were not careful, it was broken over your head, or you might be fortunate enough to break it over the head of a favored señorita, and then she would have to pay the penalty of a beso, and it was quite an art to steal a kiss from the señorita under the watchful eye of her dueña.” Don Ignacio sighed in remembered pleasure, his eyes moist as he recalled the carefree days of his youth.
He shook his grizzled head in disbelief, “I never thought it would change so much. Most of my daughters and sons live in Santa Barbara or Monterey and seldom see a cow. And never did I expect to see so many foreigners! Or that Yerba Buena would become a busy seaport called San Francisco. Have you seen the ships in the harbor?” he asked incredulously, looking around.
Sitting close to Jeremiah Davies, Mara was the only one to hear his smothered snort of derision as he listened to the aged ranchero’s reminiscences of the old way of life in California. There was a crafty look in his wide blue eyes as he gazed at the Californians, but it was quickly veiled as his eyes caught her stare, and was replaced with his usual expression of amiable innocence.
“Yes, much has changed, Don Ignacio, and just in the last year or two,” Don Andres agreed grimly, a disheartened expression on his face as he gazed on the festive table and his laughing, gossiping guests.
“I was surprised to find the Macias adobe abandoned,” Don Luís said curiously. “Where did they go? The place had almost fallen into ruin. Beams and wood were missing; part of the roof had fallen in; it was as though it had been looted.”
“You cannot believe it, Don Luís?” Don Andres remarked cynically. “That is one of the many changes that have occurred since your absence. Juan Macias had no vaqueros to ride for him; his servants, the few he had, ran off to the mines, and then, even worse, he had to fight off the squatters. In the end it was too much for him to overcome, and so he moved to Sonora, I hear, and now owns a store. He will do all right there, for his customers will mostly be South Americans or Mexicans, and not too many North Americans there, although they seem to be everywhere else.
“Since you have been gone there has been a continuous horde of los americanos swarming into our hills and valleys with a gold lust in their eye. They have no respect for another’s land or home. At first I give them a welcome, let them into my home,” Don Andres told them, his face mirroring remembered bitterness and anger, “and what do I receive in exchange? A word of thanks? No, only disrespect and contempt.”
A hushed silence had fallen over the carefree group as they listened intently in incredulous skepticism and unease to Don Andres’s words of bitter truth.
“Did any of you ever believe that one day a Californian would be considered a foreigner in his own land of birth?” Don Andres asked. “You smile, Don José, but I speak the truth. My right, my father’s right to own this land, this very hacienda in which we sit now, is being questioned. Why do I have to prove that this is my land? The fact that it was granted to my grandfather by the king of Spain seems not to be of consequence. I have no rights anymore in this new California. I am a greaser.”
Mara looked in dismay at the shocked faces around her at Don Andres’s derisory word.
“You are surprised? Did you not know that is what they call us? Once the name Villareale was a name spoken with pride, a name looked up to. But to the gringo there is no difference between a Californian, a Chilean, a Sonoran, or a Mexican. A man of dark skin, who speaks with an accent, is an inferior.
“And so how do our runaway servants fare in the mines? Many have returned here to me, beaten men, and I mean that literally. They had been beaten and whipped, degraded and treated like dogs.”
“Please, Andres, my son,” Doña Ysidora said distressfully, “do not continue. You upset the ladies,” she pleaded. She han
ded a glass of wine to Doña Jacinta who raised it shakily to her trembling lips.
“You will forgive me, my friends, if I have offended any of you,” Don Andres apologized, “but I find it hard to swallow my pride and sit quietly by while my land is stolen from me.”
“He speaks the truth,” Don Ignacio said belligerently. “Have you already forgotten the murder of José de los Reyes Berreyesa and his nephews, Francisco and Ramon de Haro? The rebels shot them on Suisun Bay, and what were they doing but defending their land? And during the war with Mexico, were not Don Maríano Vallejo and his brother, Salvador, unjustly arrested and kept in jail for months while the rebels looted our homes and confiscated our horses and cattle?” Don Ignacio reminded them. “Well, it could happen again.”
“I wonder what we can do. Nothing, I think,” Don Andres spoke softly, a note of defeat in his quiet voice. “I am only thankful that my father is not alive to see his world destroyed.”
“Silencio, Andres, you go too far,” Doña Ysidora said angrily.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room for a moment until Doña Ysidora signaled to several men who’d just entered. Grouping together in the corner, they started to play the musical instruments they had carried in with them. The sounds of a violin and guitars filled the silence as the people around the table gradually continued eating, but it seemed to Mara it was with a marked lack of appetite.
Brendan and Mara exchanged glances, their expressions curiously perplexed. They were out of their depth here, for they couldn’t fully comprehend all of the undercurrents affecting the Californians. Brendan shrugged, his gesture signifying that it wasn’t their problem anyway, and turned his full attention to Doña Jacinta, who could not hide her admiration for the handsome young Irishman.
Most of the guests had finished dining and were sipping their wine when Raoul pulled out a cigar and, lighting it, blew a haze of smoke over the table as he expelled the strong tobacco.
“Raoul. You ask no permission to smoke?” Don Luís reprimanded him, a look of stunned surprise on his haughty face.
“Raoul, do this, Raoul, do that—always some order. Well, I will ask permission of no one if I want to smoke or drink. Madre de Dios, I am a man, padre, not a little boy to be continually chastised,” he spoke in a raised voice, his face flushed with anger and drink.
“Then act like one, for you bring disgrace on the name Quintero. You still have a few lessons to learn, my boy, and you will show proper respect to your elders or you will leave this table at once,” Don Luís promised, a cutting edge to his voice.
Raoul jumped to his feet and, with an angry glance around the room, stalked out, cigar smoke lingering in the air.
Doña Jacinta sighed dispiritedly, biting her lip nervously as she glanced at the empty seat and then at the brooding Don Luís.
“I do not understand what has come over the boy. Never in the past would a son of mine have spoken so disrespectfully to his father. Why have you allowed your son to behave this way, Jacinta?” Don Luís demanded, placing the blame on his dismayed wife.
“The boy is yet young. He will learn patience and his place,” Doña Ysidora said soothingly as Doña Jacinta sniffed with threatening tears. “Now we go to the salon, and we laugh and dance, and forget all this nonsense which does not concern us. Sí.”
By the time the evening had been called to an end it was after midnight and Paddy had long ago fallen asleep in Mara’s arms. With a carefree, whistling Brendan walking beside her, Mara tiredly carried a drowsy Paddy across the courtyard to his room and a disapproving Jamie.
Later, in the darkness of her own room, Mara stood silently contemplating a full, silver moon riding high in the sky above the dim outline of the rolling hills. Mara watched as a few wraithlike wisps of cloud floated across its face. She shivered and pulled the edges of her robe closer together across her bare throat. She felt a prickling fear quiver along her spine. Something was wrong—but what? She felt uneasy about the whole harebrained scheme, but what could she warn Brendan about? He’d only laugh at her for letting childish fears panic her. But she couldn’t rid herself of this feeling of doom. Mara leaned her forehead against the coolness of the adobe wall, hoping it would soothe her.
With a smile of self-derision on her lips, Mara turned away from the window and the revealing light of the moon. What did she have to worry about? This was merely another acting job for Brendan and her, and nothing more than that. Already everyone believed her to be Amaya Vaughan. It had been so easy, for they had been so unsuspecting, and after all, she and Brendan were professionals and would not make any mistakes. What could possibly go wrong?
The wheel is come full circle.
—Shakespeare
Chapter 3
The days of early summer passed slowly in the golden valley of the Rancho Villareale. The pastoral simplicity of the California lifestyle was easy to adapt to as Mara and Brendan played their parts and waited for the falling of the curtain on Don Luís’s plans. But it seemed that Don Luís was in no hurry to terminate their contract, and was content to let the somnolent days slide past with no change. But Brendan was not so patient, nor content, as he gazed longingly at the hills to the east, knowing the gold he dreamed of was no farther away, and no closer, than the sun rising above the distant hills each morning.
The leisurely pattern of each day began at sunrise, Mara had discovered upon awakening one morning with a headache; and while relaxing on a stone bench in the patio, she had seen Don Andres striding through the courtyard, his broad-brimmed, flat-crowned sombrero pulled low over his brow. Deerskin leggings protected his calves, and attached to the heels of his shoes were spurs with sharp-pointed rowels that jingled against the tiles with each step.
Mara had followed him silently to the iron-grilled gate and watched unnoticed as Don Andres gave his orders of the day to the workers lined up before him; then, with a vaquero at his side, he mounted the horse saddled for him and rode through the wide gates of the stable yard. Doña Ysidora had also risen before sunrise, and dressed somberly in a plain black gown with a black lace rebozo covering her head, she had left the hacienda accompanied by a servant carrying a mat and attended an early Mass in the small chapel on the rancho grounds. On her return she had gathered the household staff together in the courtyard and set them to work sweeping and cleaning the sala and dining room, while others began preparing the day’s meals, for soon the fragrant aromas began to drift from the kitchen ovens in the outer courtyard.
Each morning Mara was served hot chocolate in her room while she dressed, and then, later in the morning, on the return of Don Andres, the family would gather together for breakfast and an opportunity to discuss the day’s events, or, for some, to continue the gossip of the evening before. As there was a never-ending change of faces at the table with the advent of a new arrival, the Californians were kept in touch with the current affairs concerning the entire length of the state. From as far south as San Diego they heard news of the death of a fellow ranchero; of the marriage of a beauty in Santa Barbara; or of government and political activities in Monterey, the old Spanish capital of California.
This morning was to be no exception, Mara thought in resignation as she sipped her coffee and listened inattentively to the conversation around the table. The nagging aftereffects of her headache still lingered as she toyed with her egg and without much appetite took a bite of a tortilla cake of flour and water beaten wafer-thin. Mara pressed her temple with her cool fingers, trying to soothe the dull ache that throbbed beneath the skin. She seemed to be continually bothered by headaches since arriving at the Rancho Villareale, Mara thought in puzzlement, blaming their frequency on her nerves and the tension of the present situation. Mara stopped drumming her fingertips on the table; it was another sign of the unsettling effect these headaches were having on her as she became more irritable and short-tempered from restless nights of disturbed sleep. Don Andres looked up from his plate, a forkful of beefsteak smothered in a rich gravy on its
way to his mouth, when Doña Ysidora questioned him about his daily dawn ride across the rancho.
Don Andres shrugged as he thoughtfully chewed his meat. “Another hundred head of cattle are missing, and another family of squatters has settled between here and Casa Quintero,” he answered casually.
Doña Ysidora sighed impatiently, a look of exasperation crossing her features at his reply. “And what do you do about it, Andres?” she demanded angrily. “You sit here and calmly eat your breakfast.”
“And what would you have me do, Madre?” he asked tiredly. “The cattle are gone. Many slaughtered on the spot and half-eaten, their carcasses left for the scavengers to pick clean. And do I take my army of two or three vaqueros and run the squatters off my land? Do I shoot the wife and children, Madre? They will leave under no less a threat. To whom do I take my complaints? The American judges? You think they will listen to me against their countrymen?” He scoffed incredulously.
“You don’t seem overly concerned, Don Luís,” Brendan commented curiously, continuing despite the cool look he was receiving from the Californian. “I’d be thinking you’d be hotfooting it over there right now to see if the Casa Quintero was still there and hadn’t been torn down and stripped bare.”
“But it does not—” Doña Jacinta began, only to let her words hang in midair at the gesture for silence from Don Luís.
“As a matter of fact, I was planning to ride over there this very morning. Perhaps, Don Andres, you would keep my niece and Señor O’Fl—Sullivan amused while I am away?” Don Luís asked, correcting his near slip of the tongue without any outward sign of discomfiture.
Laurie McBain Page 10