“A little wine, señor?” Don Carlos, head of the household and an older edition of his fifteen-year-old son, motioned for the servant to fill Brit’s glass.
“Thank you, but no.” Brit caught the amazed look that went between Carlos and Dolores and set his jaw in a fighting-Irish line. However, his host waved the servant away with an indolent movement of his fine hand. His long, tapered fingers ended in well-tended nails and contrasted strangely with Brit’s calloused hands.
“Inez,” Don Carlos appealed to his wife. “We owe great gratitude to our guest.”
The black-clad, slender figure who could easily have passed for her daughter’s sister proudly raised her head. Her dark hair caught little flames from the candlelight. Brit found himself staring at her as he’d like to do at Dolores but didn’t dare. Her voice carried the same liquid sound as Dolores’s when she said, “My bad Carlos will ride the devil horse Sol. I am glad you were there, Señor Brit.” Genuine thankfulness shone strong in her beautiful face.
“Mama, Sol is no devil horse,” Carlos protested hotly. Rich red sprang to his olive cheeks. “Why, even—”
A small disturbance cut short his revelations. “How clumsy of me!” Dolores apologetically sprang to her feet and mopped water from the fluffy white gown set off by a red rose at the neckline, another in her hair.
Keen-eyed Brit saw the warning glance she sent in her brother’s direction and bit his lip. So Señorita Montoya had also ridden the white stallion! He marveled that the slim hands could control Sol.
Gold motes twinkled in the girl’s dark hair and crept into her eyes when she caught Brit’s understanding gaze. An enchanting smile of conspiracy ensured his silence and made his heart thump. Was this why God had led him to California, Brit wondered. This innocent Spanish girl possessed beauty beyond compare. Could she be the mate God wished him to have? Deep color burned in his cheeks.
A startled look replaced the laughter in Dolores’s face, almost as if she had divined his thoughts. The next moment she murmured something inaudible and swept from the room, leaving Brit feeling he had been bold and rude. She didn’t reappear until the others were almost through the main course and came in so silently that Brit didn’t notice until she slid into her highly carved chair. Soft yellow had replaced the white gown. She had been gorgeous in white but was adorable in yellow—and more human. Only her flashing eyes and red roses had kept her from looking like an angel far above the reach of mortal man.
“Tell us about your country,” Don Carlos urged. Faultlessly groomed, eyes eager, he leaned forward. So did the others. A thirst for knowledge of the world beyond their own made the Montoyas an excellent audience.
Brit related something of his past, the struggle he and his family had gone through. Once he saw a diamond glisten in Dolores’s dark eyes. She hastily brushed it away with an incredibly fine handkerchief edged in lace.
Brit broke off his tale. “Why—”
“What is it, señor?” Carlos asked.
“May I?” He held his hand out to Dolores who drew herself up haughtily. Brit quickly explained, “The lace. It is so different from what we made in Ireland.”
“It is the finest Spanish lace,” Don Carlos said. “Inez and Dolores have continued the art of lacemaking.”
“It’s beautiful.” Brit examined the handkerchief Dolores handed to him. He went on to tell how the making of lace had saved many from poverty.
Dolores clapped her hands together. “The men? They, too, make lace?”
“Every man, woman, and child old enough to learn made lace. Not so much since we reached America. Father and the boys and I found other work.”
“Then you are not wealthy, Señor O’Donnell?” Strange, but coming from Don Carlos it seemed merely a statement rather than prying into a guest’s affairs.
Brit shook his head, then his Irish eyes crinkled at the corners. “I have no gold, yet God has blessed me with a strong body, a sound mind, and”—he paused and glanced around the table—“and with new friends. What more wealth could one ask?”
Was it a shade of disappointment that stole into Dolores’s eyes? Did Señora Montoya’s eyebrows raise just a trifle?
“Well said,” Don Carlos agreed and added, “what is it you do?”
A hearty laugh set the candle flames flickering even more. “I have been a stevedore—that is, I’ve loaded and unloaded merchandise on the docks. I’ve rounded up cattle and driven teams and trapped animals for their fur. I’ve—”
“Been the maker of lace,” Dolores audaciously added.
Don Carlos frowned at her before he turned back to Brit. “You need work now?”
Brit nodded.
Don Carlos tapped his long fingers on the table. “I am in need of a good man,” he said slowly. “One who will see that my lazy peons and vaqueros work instead of taking siestas while my hacienda is neglected.”
Brit wondered why the man didn’t see to it himself. His host’s next comment answered him.
“I still fight to regain my lands,” Don Carlos said. He shrugged. “Even though it is hopeless, I must try. My brother Ramon has been ill. Much of my time has been needed in helping him.” With an impatient gesture and a spasm of pain that crossed his features, he rose and shoved back his chair. “Señor O’Donnell, will you do me the honor of becoming my good right hand?”
Brit disciplined a smile at the misquoting of the expression “right hand man,” stood and held out his hand. “I will be proud.”
Later that night, when he restlessly stood at the deep window in the luxurious room he had been given, Brit looked into the velvety indigo heavens ashine with stars. “Father, I thank Thee for giving me this work. May I do it to Thy glory.” A rush of homesickness cut off his low voice. He quickly added, “And if it be that Thou permit, may my family one day find it in their hearts to come to this fertile portion of Thy creation. For Jesus’ sake and in His name, Amen.”
❧
Life on a Spanish hacienda was not the lazy life some believed, Brit thought one afternoon while overseeing work at the stables. Always the fine horses needed care. Buildings demanded attention. Gardens had to be cared for, flowers cut and distributed throughout the sprawling house. Dolores did most of the arranging, and exquisite bouquets adorned the spacious rooms. Although she was not allowed to enter “Señor Brit’s” room, he came in weary each day to the delicate fragrance of blossoms. Carlos said Dolores had a maid deliver them. He winked and added, “Remember what I told you,”
Brit ruefully had reason to never forget it! Literally swarms of men and boys haunted the hacienda for a glimpse of the tiny girl-woman. Brit kept his distance. An employee wasn’t in the same social strata as those who called, although continued gratefulness on the part of the family kept him from feeling the caste system to any annoying degree. Yet, as fall drifted into a winter unlike any he had ever experienced, Brit knew that no matter how far away he stayed from Dolores, his heart lay in her small, deceptively frail hand. . .the same hand that could pull Sol and the other horses into obedience.
When had it happened? The moment he discovered the smaller rider was a girl? The sight of a red rose against her snowy gown? The laughter in her eyes, often peeking at him from beneath the wide brim of her sombrero or through a veil when she dressed modestly for an excursion with her mother into nearby Monterey? Surely the look in her eyes could be only for him, he reasoned. Yet, with the next breath, he admitted he knew even less about Spanish señoritas than about sturdy Irish colleens.
At times he longed to confess his love and take his chances. Yet, he held aloof as more weeks faded into the Pacific Ocean at the ending of sunset-glory days.
On the other hand, Brit and Carlos had soon become companions. The restless young caballero dogged Brit’s heels. He begged to ride Shamrock and goaded him into a race with Sol, who had learned the mastery of an Irishman’s touch. He even absorbed some of his new friend’s philosophy, although it sorely went against his upbringing.
�
�But they are only peons!” he protested, when Brit insisted the hacienda workers be treated respectfully and not be spoken to as stable dogs.
“They are men, created in the image of our loving Father,” Brit reminded.
Carlos muttered something in Spanish then changed the subject. Yet he, as well as his father, soon noticed how much more willingly their employees followed Brit’s direction when the tall man gave it. Neither did they grovel or scarcely lift their gaze upward. Brit knew each of them personally. He inquired for the health of their wives and muchachos. In turn, they gave him loyalty and good work.
On one point, Brit remained adamant. No matter how often the Montoyas offered wine, he refused. He loved the pure, unfermented grape juice the hacienda afforded but would not touch wine.
“Why?” Carlos produced one afternoon when they lazed beneath a giant pine whose gnarled trunk offered a good backrest. Brit had learned that no amount of persuasion could entice his men to forgo the afternoon siesta. He had come to anticipate and enjoy a time of rest before the hacienda again stirred to duty. “Why do you not drink our wine? It is the best in California.”
“I would not be for knowing about that,” Brit teased.
Carlos snorted and his nostrils pinched.
“It’s because I made a vow to God to live soberly and according to His word,” Brit told his young friend.
“But our Savior drank wine!” Carlos never dropped an argument until he ran out of plausible ammunition to fuel the disagreement.
Brit sat up straight, clasped his hands around his knees, and stared at the boy he had come to love. “Carlos, I saw those in my country whose children went hungry when their disheartened fathers turned to drink. I’m not saying it was wine, such as you make,” he forestalled the other’s protest. “But I swore never to touch strong drink. Suppose I did, and one of my brothers saw me, thought it was all right, and followed in my steps? What if he became a drunkard?” Brit shuddered and even Carlos looked sympathetic.
“God once asked a man in the Bible named Cain where his brother was. Cain demanded, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ I believe that everyone who enlists in the army of the Lord is their brother’s keeper.”
Temporarily silenced by Brit’s eloquence, the irrepressible Carlos hushed. But after a few minutes couldn’t resist firing a parting shot. “Your brother would never know.”
A quiet smile lit up Brit’s rugged face. “My friend, God would know and so would I.” He stretched, relaxed against the tree, and wordlessly petitioned heaven that he might witness to the rebellious boy and his family.
❧
Christmas as celebrated by the Montoyas and much of Monterey little resembled the modest way the O’Donnells remembered the birth of Christ. Lavish parties and parades with merrymakers in bright costumes, religious icons and statues of the saints blended with the continuing good weather. During that winter of 1858–1859, Brit never saw one snowflake. He liked the bright flowers that bloomed unceasingly yet now and then nostalgically thought of home and how he and the lads and Katie bundled up in old clothes and slid down nearby snowy slopes. He could not join in many of the activities for he did not worship the Montoya way. He learned to stifle the pangs of jealousy that assailed him when Dolores held court for her suitors. Yet seldom did her coquettish face slip from his memory.
Christmas also brought visitors, relatives, and friends who crowded the hacienda to the bursting point. Brit had already met Ramon, a paler, less robust edition of Don Carlos. He gaped open-mouthed when he met Ramon’s wife, Mary, with her sad blue eyes and black garb. Every wisp of hair was covered by a mantilla, but her light brows betrayed her heritage.
“Mary Jones, she was,” Carlos confided, resplendent in a white suit with gold braid, waiting for yet another festivity to begin. “Uncle Ramon grieved his papa and mama very much by marrying the daughter of a ship owner.”
“Then sometimes Castilians do marry outside their own level?” Brit asked.
“Not often.” Pity softened the boy’s eyes, but a moment later a mischievous look replaced it. “Of course, it does happen—if one can get away from the long nose of the chaperone.” With the chameleon-like mood changes that added to his charm, Carlos added, “She always wears black, since the tragedy.”
“What tragedy?” Brit noted again the sad light in the blue eyes so unlike the Montoyas.
Carlos shrugged. “It happened before my birth. Their only child. Mama and Papa say they thought Ramon and his wife would go mad. Such a pity.”
Even a mysterious tragedy couldn’t hold Brit’s attention when a soft hand slipped under his arm, a soft voice whispered, “Do you like me. . .my gown, Señor Brit?”
He looked down at Dolores. Her uplifted face and red lips that matched a flower in her hair invited admiration. His heart thudded and gave him courage. “Walk with me in the courtyard and I’ll be for telling you if I like you. . .your gown, señorita.”
Something in his unusual daring brought a flare of color to her white skin. She furtively glanced both ways and nodded. Her full, cream skirt swished when they walked toward the open door.
Brit wasted no time. Leaving Carlos standing open-mouthed, he maneuvered Dolores into the courtyard and across to where giant vines and bushes cast deep shadows.
“Well, señor?” She peered up at him. Moonlight sifted through tree branches and dappled her face, leaving her eyes deep, unreadable pools.
“Dolores, mavourneen, my heart is filled with love for you. Could you ever care for an Irish lad like me?”
He held his breath and slowly released it when, with a trill of laughter, she asked, “What does mavourneen mean?
“My darling.”
“O-oh.” Dolores put one hand to her mouth.
He took her free hand and clasped it tightly. “I’ve never loved a colleen before. You are the first, and no heart has ever been for holding love as mine does.”
She didn’t pull away even when she said, “Papa and Mama would be angry to find me here with you without a chaperone.”
He laughed exultantly. “That’s why I spoke as I did. There may not be a chance again.”
“Señor Brit, I. . .I like you very much, but I must do what Papa says, and he will arrange a marriage for me, with one who has lands and gold.”
Chagrin and determination mixed in equal parts. “Your Uncle Ramon followed his heart, Carlos says.”
“Y–yes, but—”
“Dolores, it is wrong for you to marry unless you love that man with all the love you can give.”
“It is the way we live.”
Passionate defense rose to his lips, the feeling this night would tell whether he had won or lost in his quest for love. “I have to know. Do you care? I’ll not be for asking more than the right to know if I have a chance.”
Her proud dark head drooped. “I, too, have not felt this way before.”
He gathered the slight form in his arms, raised her chin with one finger, and tenderly kissed her, the first time his lips had touched those of a woman except his mother and sister.
She gasped and pulled away. “Oh, what have I done? I must marry one who will restore the Montoya fortunes. Señor Brit, you must forget this moment,” she panted. She stepped into a bright patch of moonlight. “Papa will drive you away if he discovers you. . .I. . .he might even kill you!”
Masterful because of her halting words, Brit stepped into the light, feeling he had truly walked into a light of glory. “Don’t you know I will never let you wed another? Dolores, I am young and strong. God will help me. One day I will be rich, rich enough to honorably come to your father and ask for your hand.”
A strange look touched her eyes before she said, “Do you vow to become rich?”
Brit hesitated, reality forcing him to be honest. “I cannot promise great wealth but I believe I can earn enough to make you happy—if you love me as I do you.” He added in a burst of impatience, “Can you think that one who has your face before him will not move mountains
?”
His impassioned plea hung in the flower-scented air. Dolores slowly gathered up her long skirts with one hand, looked straight into Brit’s eyes, and said, “When you do all you have said, return to me.”
“Will you be waiting?” he felt compelled to ask.
An incomprehensible smile lifted the corner of her lips. One slender eyebrow raised and she daintily lifted a shoulder. “Quien sabe?” 2 She moved toward the hacienda. “Perhaps. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Brit stood alone in the courtyard, torn between joy and an unreasoning fear of the future.
2 Who knows?
four
Before he confessed his love to Dolores, Brit had known jealousy. Afterward, it grew worse. Sometimes he ground his teeth when he saw her flirting behind the great fan she wielded like an empress. Even the softening of her dark eyes when she saw him watching couldn’t erase his doubts. At times he despaired of ever capturing this Spanish butterfly. He also soberly considered every possible way to keep his promise and bring her riches. So long as he remained on the hacienda, he must stay Señor O’Donnell or Señor Brit, employee, and helplessly stand by while the woman he loved continued her coquettish wiles.
As 1859 wore on, Brit came to a decision. If he were ever to be anything more in the eyes of the Montoyas than friend and right hand to Don Carlos, he must leave and seek his fortune elsewhere. Between tasks and at night, he earnestly prayed.
The answer came in a completely unexpected way with Carlos bursting into the great dining hall one evening, late to dinner and crying, “News, I have great news. Again we can be rich!” He scarcely paused for breath but raked his long fingers through his hair until it wildly stood on end. His dark eyes glistened.
“What is it you are saying?” Don Carlos scowled disapproval of his son’s disheveled appearance and half rose.
“Silver! Ledges of silver. . .in the Carson County of western Utah Territory.” He spread his arms in an impossibly wide description. “Papa, we must go.”
Veiled Joy Page 4