Daughter of Fortune (10 page)

Maria eased herself onto the stool by the blind
woman’s knees. She felt tears rising in her eyes again. She could
not trust her voice.

“You need have no fear in the household of Diego
Masferrer. Our kindness extends to all who pass by. And those who
have need of it.” Maria was silent in the presence of such giving
hearts. She was ashamed for her own sister, who could not extend
even half so generous a heart to her own relative.

As if sensing what Maria was thinking, the woman
patted her hand again. “Your wounds will heal here,” she said
softly, so softly that even Erlinda could not hear. “We mean only
to help. Perhaps there are circumstances with your sister that you
and I know nothing about.”

“It may be so,” Maria managed to say.

La Señora patted her hand again, her fingers warm
and strong. “Of course it is, Maria,” she answered. “All of us do
the best we can.”

Erlinda’s voice was a whisper in the room. “We do
not wish to tire you, Mama. I will bring Maria back another day.
Perhaps she will read to you some afternoon.”

“Oh, yes,” said Maria, “I would like that.”

“Then you are welcome any time,” said La Señora,
releasing the young woman’s hands. “Erlinda always has a thousand
tasks, and Diego is seldom indoors.”

Erlinda sensed what Maria was thinking and spoke as
soon as she had closed the door behind her. “Mama has always been
blind, so please do not feel sorry for her. We would wish that she
could get around more, but her heart is not strong.” She smiled at
Maria. “Do not look so troubled! If Diego could see your face he
would say, ‘Do not pine over what you cannot remedy.’ And he would
be right, of course.”

“But Erlinda, such a burden on all of you, and I
only add to it!”

“No, not a burden. And not on me. Diego, perhaps,
but not on me.” She shook her head decisively then. “No, not even
on Diego.” She turned to look at the bright blue door. “Papa had
Mama’s door painted blue, as if he could make her see it somehow. I
remember him standing over Emiliano—and how our
santero
hates that kind of scrutiny—as he mixed the paint. Papa gladly
shouldered Mama’s burdens and did what he could to make things
brighter for all of us. He taught us to read. I remember how he
used to sit at the table and read to us for hours, teaching us in
turn. He did it for Mama, so we could read to her when he was busy.
Papa died when Diego was fifteen.”

“Indians?”

Erlinda shook her head. “We do not know what it was.
He grew thinner and thinner. He had our Indians build him a special
bed so he could be carried from room to room. I still remember the
hours he spent in the corral with Diego, instructing his riding,
making him rope fenceposts over and over until they were both
exhausted and in tears. Such urgency! Papa continued to oversee our
lives right up to his final breath.”

“And now the burden is Diego’s?” Maria asked.

“Diego has had to learn so much so fast. But
although he never speaks of it, he does not see his duties as a
burden. He rules us with his love, like Papa. He is generous of
heart. Diego does not ride his Indians like horses. Some say he is
too lenient with his people, that he allows them privileges not
within his power to grant. But we are happy here, no matter what
our neighbors think of us.”

They continued down the hall into the kitchen that
jutted out from the rear of the hacienda, breaking the symmetry of
the square adobe building. Maria looked about her in delight. The
colors leaped out at her from all sides. As in the other rooms, the
walls were whitewashed with gypsum, but here the powerful white was
met halfway up from the floor by blue tiles with windmills and
flowers. The walls were lined with copper pots that winked in the
morning light and rows of knives arranged from the biggest to the
smallest. Although the floor was earthen as in other parts of the
hacienda, it was immaculate.

The fireplace at one end of the room was big enough
to stand in, and hung with hooks for pots and spits for roasting.
An Indian woman squatted before it. Covering the opposite wall was
a cabinet that rose from the floor to the ceiling, with real panes
of glass showing off the silver and porcelain behind. A long table,
half the length of the room, was covered with a homespun cloth of
Indian design.

“Such a room!” Maria exclaimed, “With colors so
vivid! How did you get tiles from the Low Countries?”

“That was Papa’s doing, to create brightness that
Mama could feel, if not see. He went all the way to Mexico City for
those tiles, and for the glass in the windows. Our neighbors still
accuse us of putting on airs, but he did it for Mama.” Erlinda put
her hands on her hips and mimicked, “Those Masferrers with their
blue doors and Dutch tiles!’ But it pleases us.”

The kitchen opened onto a garden where Maria saw
Indian children weeding the young plants. Beyond the garden were
other outbuildings. In the distance she could see Catarina and Luz
bobbing around the beehives, staying just ahead of the old Indian
with them.

“Beyond them is the
acequia
for irrigation,”
said Erlinda, following Maria’s gaze. “Part of it runs under the
wall, so we always have water, even in times of siege.”

Maria continued gazing out the window. A tall man on
horseback opened the heavy gate and came into the hacienda’s
enclosure. He closed the gate behind him and sat there on his
horse, leaning forward in the saddle, his arms crossed on the
saddle horn. He seemed to be watching the girls and the bees, then
his glance shifted suddenly to the kitchen window where Maria stood
looking out. He was far enough away so that she could not discern
his features, but she drew back, unaccustomed to such scrutiny.

“Who is that man?” Maria asked Erlinda, who had
crossed to the fireplace and was stirring the contents of a pot
hanging on a firehook.

Erlinda put the spoon back in the pot and walked to
Maria, looking out. “Oh,” she remarked and turned back to the
fireplace with a studied coolness, “that is Cristóbal.”

When she said no more, Maria looked out the window
again. The horse and rider were gone.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“Diego will tell you about Cristóbal,” Erlinda said.
“He is the other one of us that I mentioned, the sixth. He, too, is
a child of my father.”

She said no more, and Maria did not press her. She
looked out the window again, wondering where he had gone, wondering
why he would bring out such unexpected sharpness in Erlinda.

“Let us go outside, Maria,” said Erlinda, swinging
the firehook back over the hot coals and admonishing the Indian
cook squatting on her heels by the fireplace to tend it well.

They went into the garden. After a quick look around
at the Indian children weeding and a nod to them, Erlinda led Maria
to the beehive-shaped ovens behind the tomato plants. Indian
servant women were removing the round loaves of bread, steam rising
from the sign of the cross on each loaf. Maria closed her eyes and
breathed deeply. The smell of baked bread was overpowering.

“Maria
chiquita
,” said Diego behind her, “you
like our bread?” She turned around. Diego was standing there, and
with him was Cristóbal. The man looked at her, a smile crossing his
face, then leaving it as quickly as it had come.

Maria spoke to Diego. “I think I will always be
hungry. After my six-months’ diet of
carne seca
and
biscoche,
I had forgotten that anyone still made bread.”

Cristóbal stepped forward and drew his sword. Maria
watched as he speared a loaf from the cooling shelf. He set the
loaf down on the stone ledge by Maria and with two rapid cuts,
sliced the bread in quarters. He called in an unfamiliar language
to old Martin by the beehives, who brought over a hunk of comb
honey, dripping and sweet. Cristóbal whacked off a corner of the
honey, put it on one section of bread and handed it to Maria, who
stood with her hands behind her.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Take it and eat.”

She took the bread from him, and he licked the honey
off his fingers as he stood watching her. Maria ate the bread, her
eyes on Cristóbal. Diego accepted the bread the man offered him and
sat with Maria on the stone ledge. He nodded his head in
Cristóbal’s direction.

“Maria, this is my brother, Cristóbal
Masferrer.”

Cristóbal nodded back at Maria and joined them on
the ledge.
So this is the sixth Masferrer
, thought Maria to
herself, and she understood Erlinda’s hesitation. He was a
magnificent man, a head and shoulder taller than Diego. He was
obviously part Indian, although Diego’s skin was tanned to the same
mahogany as his brother’s. But his features were Indian, although
he had the look of Erlinda about his eyes and mouth and in the
graceful way he held himself. His hair was longer than Diego’s and
drawn back with a rawhide thong. He was dressed like Diego, in
leather vest and knee-length breeches, with homespun shirt and high
boots, but he was Indian.

“Cristóbal is part Tewa, Maria,” said Diego,
watching her reaction. “We had the same father.” He paused and
glanced at his sister, who was looking at the three of them. “This
is his house and his land, too.” When he said this, Erlinda turned
away.

Maria looked from one brother to the other.
Cristóbal smiled at her again, his curious, fleeting smile. He
appeared oblivious to the angry glances exchanged by his brother
and sister. When he finished the bread, he wiped his hands on his
breeches and stood. “And now I must work,” he said. His voice was
deep, and his accent gave the words a pleasant musical lilt. He
turned to Maria. “You are welcome in our house,” he said. He spoke
to her but his eyes were on Erlinda, who stiffened as he spoke.
“Some would say I have no right to speak thus,” he continued, his
voice low.

With a slight wave in Diego’s direction, he was
gone. Erlinda turned to Diego, her eyes stormy. “You should not
encourage him!”

“I should throw him out like every other half-breed
of every other ranchero in these parts? You would ask me to treat a
son of my father that way, Erlinda? Would you?” he flashed back,
the veins in his neck standing out.

Erlinda looked down at her hands. “I do not know.
Papa insisted on raising him with the rest of us, and I suppose it
was the Christian thing to do,” she said. Her voice fell to a
whisper that made Maria shiver, despite the warming sun on her
back. “But Diego, I fear for you! For all of us! Someday ...”
She stopped, looking at Maria in distress.

Diego turned away with a short laugh that had no
humor in it. “Maria
chiquita
, you will think that we are at
each other like this all the time. Indeed, we are not.” He started
toward the
acequia
and the women followed. He did not look
back at his sister, but his words were for her. “I like to listen
to my sister, but on this I must be firm, Erlinda.” He stopped, his
back still to Erlinda. “He will be treated as my brother, if not
yours.”

“Very well, Diego, as you will,” said Erlinda. “I
will be in the kitchen, Maria.”

Maria and Diego continued on to the
acequia.
A sloping path led to the water’s edge. Diego stopped at the top of
the low bank. “Do not be afraid of Cristóbal, Maria,” he said.
“Though Erlinda’s biggest objection to him is not that he is the
bastard son, but that he is Indian.” He spread his hands
expressively. “As for me, I like Cristóbal. I hope you will,
too.”

Maria stood looking at the water. She noticed a
flash of petticoat against the bank further downstream.
“
Mira
. Look there,” she said pointing.

Diego looked where she pointed. “My sisters,” he
said. “They have dug a small tunnel in the side of the bank. The
water is so low this year. I suppose their tunnel will drop dirt on
them someday, but until it does, they play dolls in there.” He
waved at his sisters and blew them a kiss.

“Do you ride, Maria?” Diego asked. “Well, certainly
you do. Did we not already share a horse?”

“I do ride,” she answered, “but not well.”

“Someday I will take you with me around my land.” He
pointed to the tilled and newly planted fields beyond the
acequia
and the wall. “That is Masferrer land. And that. And
that. Look in all directions. We have taken a substantial
entitlement of Indians to work the place, but there is never enough
water. That is why much of my land is for grazing.”

He stood by her, looking out over his land and his
Indians working in the fields. A gentle smile played around his
lips and the sun wrinkles around his eyes were deep with squinting
into the sky. Maria touched his arm and he looked at her. “Yes,
Maria?”

“My lord,” she began, and stopped when he waved her
to silence.

“There will be none of that, Maria,” he said
quietly.

“But it must be,” she interrupted. “I did not walk
all the way from Santa Fe to become a parasite in your household. I
expect to work here, and I want to know what is expected of me. I
need to know.”

He held his hands out to her, palms up. “I cannot
put you to work like one of my
Indios,
Maria. You are of
gentle birth, carefully raised.”

“And now, I stand here before you, my feet bare,
clothed by the goodness of others. I will not be a hanger-on here,
and if that is what you would make me, then I will walk back to
Santa Fe and become a ward of the town after all.”

He was silent, looking at her.

“I have no dowry. No one will marry me. My own
sister has cast me off. I possess nothing. But I will work. I can
learn.”

“I do not like it,” he said finally.

“I do not ask you to like it,” she replied quickly.
“But it must be this way.”

“Why do I have the feeling that in spite of what I
say, you will follow your own mind?” he murmured, half to
himself.