"I—I feel funny, Miz Marietta. It's stinging all through me. It itches—it itches in my blood."
"Try to relax, darling," I said. My voice was tight. I wasn't going to break down. I wasn't. "Here. Drink some water."
"I'se not thirsty. It's gettin' cold, isn't it?"
I nodded, afraid to speak again. I managed to smile down at her, and Corrie sighed, the delicate frown still creasing her brow. Her eyes were puzzled as she felt the sensations spreading through her. I prayed it would be quick. I prayed she wouldn't suffer too much. Chaos raged around us, rifles spitting their deadly fire with deafening, blasts, yellow-gray smoke swirling in the air in thick puffs. Em and Marshall worked furiously, grabbing the rifles, reloading them, tossing them to the men, and the men darted from side to side of the barricade, grim, determined, yelling to each other. It all seemed to be happening elsewhere, on a different plane, and nothing was real but the terrible anguish tearing me apart and the lovely, gentle child who was dying in my arms,
"I'se gettin' sleepy," she murmured.
"Go to sleep, darling. Just close your eyes and—sleep."
"It itches, Miz Marietta. It's gettin' so cold."
I held her tightly, folding her against me, and she sighed again and nestled her head on my shoulder, her soft, cloudy black hair brushing my neck. I felt her trembling. Her body jerked in a series of spasms, and then she raised her head to look up at me with velvety brown eyes that were worried now. Her pink lips quivered as she tried to speak. She jerked again, and then her body seemed to melt against mine as she relaxed.
"I'se so tired," she said, "I—I'se scared, too, Miz Marietta. I can't help it. It—it itches so, bad—in my blood, and it's so—so cold."
"Try to sleep, darling."
"It's going to be all right?"
"It's going to be all right," I assured her. "You're going to have your own shop in London. Mademoiselle Corrie's. It's going to be so grand, so elegant."
"Gold letters on the glass?"
"Big gold letters. All the fine ladies will come."
"And—and I'll do their hair and—and sell them my creams and perfume. Chris will be there, too."
"Chris will be there."
"He'll take care of things. I'm going to sell the perfume in pretty glass bottles with—with gold stoppers. Oh—" She stiffened again, her eyes wide. "Somethin'—somethin' stabbed me, Miz Marietta."
"Relax, darling. Close your eyes."
She obeyed, resting her head on my shoulder as I stroked her hair. The men weren't firing as often now. Arrows no longer thunked against the logs. Em looked at us, tears spilling down her ashen cheeks as she reloaded another rifle. She knew about the poison, too. She thrust the rifle to Hurley, sobbing as she grabbed up another. Corrie stirred in my arms, sighing once again.
"I can see it, Miz Marietta," she murmured. "I can see the gold letters on the shop window. My own shop. And Chris. Chris is there, smiling at me. He has such a pretty smile. He loves me."
"He loves you dearly. I—I love you, too, Corrie."
"I know you does."
Her eyes were still closed. Her voice was so faint I could hardly hear her. The men were firing infrequently now, almost idly, I could hear savage yells as the Indians retreated across the river. Corrie moaned and snuggled close, nestling against me like a kitten. I could no longer hold back my tears. I stroked her hair, blind with salty liquid, blinking.
"It's beautiful, Miz Marietta. I can—can see it so clear."
"Sleep, darling. Go to sleep."
"I've got you and—and I've got Chris. I'se so—so—" She looked up and smiled that lovely, gentle smile. "So happy," she whispered.
The firing stopped. The smoke began to lift. Corrie was limp and still against me, and Chris was standing over us, his handsome young face etched with grief. He gazed at the body in my arms with all that pain in his eyes. After a moment he turned away, unable to look any longer without breaking down completely. He moved over to the barricade and stared at the river without seeing it. Jeremy came over. Our eyes met. He was at a loss, wanting to comfort me and knowing it
was impossible.
"They've retreated," he said quietly.
"Will they be back?"
"Not until morning. We'll be gone by then. As soon as it's dark Hurley and I are going to slip down there and steal a couple of their canoes. She—she's gone?"
I nodded.
"Luv," Em cried. "Oh, luv—"
"She's gone, Em. Corrie's dead. Why—why couldn't it have been me?" My voice broke. "Oh dear God, why couldn't it have been me?"
Twenty-Seven
Soap and warm water were a luxury I couldn't seem to get enough of, and Juanita patiently indulged my eccentricity, shaking her head in dismay when I asked tor yet another tub of water. Plump, amiable, her warm brown eyes full of pretended exasperation, she lugged the pails of water up the stairs of the inn without complaint. She filled the small tin tub and set out a large fluffy towel and a thick bar of the verbena-scented soap she made herself every Saturday after she finished the laundry. Juanita's father owned the large, rambling inn which dominated one side of the square, its dusty abobe walls a dark golden tan, and the girl worked from dawn to dusk, chattering merrily and displaying an absorbing interest in the guests.
"Zeehs ess zhe last pail," she exclaimed, dumping the water into the tub with much splashing. Steam rose in misty clouds. "You'd better let eet cool a while before you climb in, Mees Danver. It'd scald you now!"
"Thank you, Juanita."
"You are going out?"
"Yes. I thought I'd take a short walk."
"Ess good!" she declared, nodding her head emphatically. "Ess not good you staying here in your room all zhis time, nev-air going out, brooding, taking all your meals on zhe trays I bring up. You've hardly left zhis room since you got here a week ago."
"I know, Juanita."
"Zhc oth-air one, zhis Mees Em, she ess rarely in her room. She and zhat Mees-stair Randolph gallivant all over ? he place, visiting zhe ranchos outside of town, taking long rides over zhe countryside. I know a secret."
"Oh?"
"This morning, zhey visit zhe padre."
I removed my dress and spread it over the bed. "Indeed?" I said.
"I see zhem go into zhe mission togeth-air," the girl replied. "Mees Em, she looks real dreamy. Mees-stair Randolph, he looks nervous as can be. When zhey come out, zhe padre is with zhem, and Mees-stair Randolph says something to him and zhe padre nods."
Juanita smiled. She was wearing a white cotton blouse and a bright pink cotton skirt embroidered with red and blue and yellow flowers. Earrings made from golden coins dangled from her ears, and a long black braid was draped over one shoulder. Pleasantly overweight, not more than seventeen years old, she was a bustling, vivacious, gossipy creature abounding in good humor. During this past week my comfort and well being had been her major concern, and it worried her that I spent so much time in my room, that I didn't eat every bite of the enormous meals she brought up on trays.
"I think zhey have plans," she observed. "Mees Em, zhat red silk gown she has, she gave it to me."
"That was very sweet of her."
"I'll have to let it out, quite a lot, but when Manuel sees me in it, he's going to give me another pair of earrings. Mees Em, she tells me she won't be needing zhe dress any longer. "My red silk days are over, luv," she tells me, and she begins to brush zhat lovely white gown she has, such a look in her eyes as she examines it."
Another smile played on her small, cherry-red mouth, and her brown eyes twinkled merrily. She stuck her finger in the tub of water, made a face and informed me that it was still too hot,
"All zhese baths, and in the middle of zhe afternoon, too. Crazy. I think maybe she wears zhe white dress real soon. Mees-stair Randolph won't let her out of his sight, and when another man looks at her—all. zhe men look at her, zhere aren't zhat many white women in zhese parts, and most of zhem middle-aged and married—when another man looks a
t her, Mees-stair Randolph growls and looks real menacing. Mees Em grins."
"They're very much in love, Juanita."
"I know. It's wonder-ful to be in love. I've been several times, Mees Danver. I may be plump and may talk too much, everyone says I talk too much, but I have—what you say in English? Person—personality. Yes, zhat's it, Zhe men all want to cuddle with me. Manuel, too. He gives me earrings and tries to get me to meet him in zhe garden out back when everyone is asleep. I tell him I'm a good girl."
"That's very wise," I said.
"I tell him as soon as zhe padre joins us together he can cuddle me all he wants. Manuel's very handsome. His father owns a big rancho, many horses, but he spends most of his time here at the inn, mooning over me. It's great fun. My girl friend Chita says I've got him bewitched."
Juanita sighed, thinking of her Manuel with a thoughtful look in her eyes. She tested the water again and then stepped over to the heavy wardrobe to examine the contents. The heavy blue silk and the golden yellow brocade I had brought from the island hung in solitary splendor beside the petticoats that went with them. Juanita had taken charge of them, too, brushing them, pressing them, mending a tear on one of the hems. For the past week I had been wearing two cotton frocks Juanita had provided, the one I had just removed and a pale tan sprigged with tiny rust-brown and orange flowers. Freshly laundered, it was spread over a chair now with a clean white cotton petticoat.
"And you, Mees Danver?" she asked. "Are you in love?"
I shook my head, suddenly uncomfortable under her close scrutiny.
"Mees-stair Jeremy, he ees always asking me about you. Are you feeling better? Are you going to come down tozhe taproom for dinner? Are you eating all zhe food I bring you? Do you need anyzhing? He looks worried all zhe time when he asks about you, and at night he paces his room, back and forth."
"He's concerned, Juanita. I—something happened that— that upset me very much. I've needed time to get over it,"
Juanita nodded, brown eyes sad now, her mouth drooping. "Mees Em, she told me about zhe Indians and zhat sweet little nigra girl who got killed. She said you loved her very much, and it broke your heart to leave her buried there beside zhe river."
"I don't want to talk about it, Juanita."
"I understand," the girl said quietly. "But— taying in zhis room all zhe time, it doesn't help, Mees Danver. You need to see people arid get fresh air and try to go on. I"m glad you decide to take a walk. Ess beautiful day today, but hot. Ess siesta time for everyone but ?.he gringos."
She tested the water again and then sprinkled a bottle of fragrant-smelling bath salts into it. I removed the cotton petticoat and, naked, slipped into the water. It was wonderfully warm. As I reached for the bar of soap, Juanita took the clothes I had removed and draped them across her arm.
"I launder zhese for you, bring zhem back in zhe morning all clean and crisp. I bring a tray up zhis evening?"
"I think not, Juanita. I think I'll eat with the others tonight."
The girl beamed, nodding happily. "Ess good!" she declared. "Mis-stair Jeremy will be most glad. He keeps busy, selling zhat bracelet you gave him and buying supplies and a wagon and horses, but he mopes, too. He wants to hold you in his arms and comfort you."
"Thank you, Juanita," I said in what I hoped was a tone of dismissal. "If I need anything else, I'll pull the cord and ring for you."
Juanita grinned and bustled out of the room, pink skirt rustling, earrings tinkling brightly. I sighed as she closed the
door and sank deeper into the water, savoring its warmth and the silky softness the bath salts created. I closed my eyes for a moment, arching my back, relaxing. Then I began to lather myself thoroughly, squeezing the sponge, making floating heaps of suds. It had been two and a half weeks since Corrie's death, sinee that dreadful night when we buried her and then slipped away in the canoes Jeremy and Hurley had stolen from the Karankawas. It seemed a lifetime ago. That night and the week and a half of travel that followed was like a half-remembered nightmare. I seemed to have been in a trance, so crushed with grief I could barely function. Em had watched over me like a mother hen, her concern for me helping her bear her own grief.
I remembered few details of that journey, and once we reached this small Spanish town I had been ill and so exhausted I had wanted to sleep forever. Juanita had watched over me, and Em had come to my room every day, trying her best to cheer me up. I had seen Jeremy only twice, when I had given him the bracelet to sell and when he had returned with the money, a surprisingly large amount of money. I had turned it all over to him and told him to purchase anything we needed. Then I had slipped back into rny lethargy. I had remained here in this cool, comfortable room with its gigantic brass bed and bright rag rugs and whitewashed walls, nourishing my grief, reluctant to let it go, completely uninterested in anything going on around me.
It was over now. This morning, when I awakened, I had realized that the time had come to let go, to make peace with myself. Corrie was gone, and no amount of grief could bring her back. The world was still revolving, and I could no longer hide from it. I had to go on. I had to face reality. Staying closed up in this room solved nothing. The grief was still there inside of me, it would always be there, but I had come to terms with it at last. I was ready to go on now, difficult as it might be. I was physically rested for the first time in weeks and, surprisingly, eager to be up and out. When Em had come by the room shortly before noon, I had promised to meet her in the square, and I found myself looking forward to it.
I bathed and washed my hair and then, getting out of the tub, dried myself thoroughly and slipped into the freshly laundered white petticoat. It was very snug at the waist, and the bodice barely covered my breasts, but Juanita had done the best she could. The clothes, I knew, had belonged to her mother who, bored with the town and weary of working all day at the inn, had run off with a handsome gringo, leaving the girl in care of her father. Juanita was quite philosophical about it. She had been eight years old at the time, yet she had kept her mother's things in perfect condition, I was extremely grateful for the garments, ill-fitting though they might be.
I toweled my hair dry and then sat down in front of the window to let the bright afternoon sunlight finish the job, gazing out at the square. The cottonwood trees spread pale blue-gray shadows over the grass, and sunlight bathed golden-tan adobe walls and the few frame buildings. The enormous, majestic mission dominated everything, much older than any of the other structures. It had once squatted alone against the sky, a sanctuary in the wilderness, and the town had gradually grown up around it. The thick adobe had weathered to a dark reddish-brown, and although the ornate molding had begun to crumble, the three exquisite stained-glass windows over the portico retained their full glory, circular in shape, spilling colored patterns over the wide steps.
The town was very small, surely no more than two hundred inhabitants, most of them Spanish. The Mexican government constantly encouraged white settlers, luring them with lavish spreads of land and promises of wealth, but few of the settlers lived in the town itself. A handful of hardy pioneers had established farms and ranches in the area, and more had come after the Indian threat had diminished. The Karankawas never left the coastal marshes, and after several fierce skirmishes with the determined settlers, the Comanches had moved farther west, where fewer rifles spit fire and picked off their warriors. More and more white people were coming to Texas, and already they were grumbling about the restrictions the government forced upon them. Mexico wanted settlers, yes, wanted them to clear the land and develop it and establish new settlements, but it wanted to keep very tight control.
My hair dry, I moved over to the dressing table and sat down in front of the mirror in its ornately carved wooden frame. I brushed the long copper-red waves until they gleamed with rich, fiery highlights, and then, putting down the brush, I examined my face in the glass. My skin seemed drawn, slight hollows under my cheekbones, and there were faint mauve shadows about my eyelids, making
my eyes seem a deeper, darker blue. There was sadness in them still, and the corners of my mouth had a subtle, sad droop. Would I ever be able to smile again? I left the dressing table and put on the pale tan dress sprigged with tiny rust brown and orange flowers. It, too, was snug at the waist, and the square-cut neckline was lower than I would have liked, but the full skirt belled out over the petticoat, rustling crisply as I stepped into my shoes.
I hesitated just a moment and then left the room, moving quietly down the narrow, shadowy stairway and across the large lobby crowded with heavy, ornately carved Spanish furniture. Brightly colored rugs hung on the whitewashed walls, and there were plants in profusion, dark green and dusty. The enormous taproom was a shadowy cavern to my right, shuttered and empty at this time of day. The town seemed deserted as I stepped outside, windows shuttered, not a person in sight. Strolling across the narrow dirt street to the square, I sat down on one of the benches beneath the cotton wood trees.
The sky was vast, a pale, endless blue mottled with soft white clouds that met and bunched together, changing shapes, floating on. It was very warm, true, but not nearly as warm as it had been nearer the coast. Here the heat was dry, with none of the muggy humidity, not at all oppressive. I spread my skirts out and watched a squirrel darting among the branches of a tree, scurrying nimbly as a bluejay swooped, fussing at him. Leaves rustled quietly overhead, shadow and sunlight dancing at my feet in shifting patterns. After my week of seclusion it was lovely to smell the grass and earth, to savor the fresh air and to watch the clouds skimming slowly across the sky.
I wondered where Jeremy was. At one of the ranches, perhaps, arranging to buy horses and a wagon for our return to New Orleans. The journey would not be arduous, but we would need many supplies. Jeremy had sold the bracelet to one of the Spanish landowners, and the money it had fetched would more than pay for all we needed. His manner had been grave, polite, deferential when he had come to my room, and although he had limited our talk to matters of business, I had felt that there was much more he wanted to say. He had managed to purchase new clothes for himself, had been dressed like a Spanish vaquero, wonderfully handsome in the slim tobacco-brown pants with a band of tiny silver studs and blue embroidery running up the sides and the short, form-fitting tobacco-brown jacket adorned with bands of similar design. His white shirt had been open at the throat, and a vivid blue scarf had been knotted carelessly around his neck. I wondered if he had purchased a sombrero, too.
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