Fortune is a Woman (6 page)

"Well... yes, I suppose so. Just a little bit, anyway." Dolores smiled again to make it seem unimportant. "But it's not too dreadful, you know, it's just like having a really bad cold. And you know how weak and silly that makes you feel."

"Oh, good." Francie sighed with relief. "Then you'll soon be better and we can go to the ranch again."

"Of course we can, Francie."

"When, Mama? When?" she asked, bouncing on the bed in excitement.

"Oh, someday..." Dolores replied, with that familiar half-promise given to children that meant "maybe never."

***

Two more years passed before Francie went to the ranch again, and then it was because her mother was dying.

The doctors never told her, but Dolores could see the truth in their eyes as she became weaker each month. And every night as she lay awake, soaked in sweat and struggling for breath, her thoughts would turn to the months spent on the ranch with her baby daughter, and she knew they had been the happiest times of her married life.

One afternoon Harmon came to visit her. He had gained weight over the past few years and with his commanding height, his striped vest buttoned over his solid stomach, his dark blond beard and side whiskers and the two enormous dogs by his side, he was an intimidating figure. Dolores looked worriedly at him. She was still afraid of his anger and she had to screw up all her courage to tell him that she wanted to return to the ranch.

She stared at him, astonished, when he agreed immediately. But then he added, "It will be better for the boy. It is not good for him having a sick woman in the house—"

"But Harry's only three," she protested, tears stinging her eyes at his uncaring cruelty. "Besides, he's too young to mind that I'm always here, in bed—"

"Of course he minds. No boy wants to linger in a sick room. Anyway, you are not dying, Dolores. The doctors say you just need to keep taking the new medicine. Go to the ranch, the fresh air will do you good. Your nurse can go with you and I'll send Dr. Benson out once a week to check on you. I'll tell Maitland to arrange the move."

"I'd like to take Harry with me," she said, meeting his eyes defiantly. "The fresh air at the ranch will be good for him, too, and besides, it may not be for long—"

"Take my boy?" He was astounded that she had even suggested such a thing. "Of course you cannot. The girl can keep you company. Harry stays here with me."

"Harmon, please, I'm begging you." She took his hand in her cold ones. "Please, oh, please let me have my son, just for a little while."

"I'll bring him to visit you," he promised hurriedly. "Later, when you're settled. Yes, that's right, later." He pulled the heavy gold half-hunter quickly from the fob-pocket of his vest and checked the time. "I have an appointment. I won't be home till late, so don't expect me. I'll tell Maitland to instruct the maids to pack your things."

***

Francie had the best time at the ranch. Away from the overstuffed mansion her mother seemed instantly better; there was a bloom of bright color on her cheeks, her blue eyes sparkled, and her black hair regained its luster.

Francie had promised she would look after her. She was six years old now, tall for her age and too thin because at home she never got enough to eat. The Harrison's chef had cooked elaborate meals for her father and his guests and he had prepared delicate dishes to tempt her mother's appetite; the nurserymaids fixed her three-year-old brother's food and the servants had their own cook who prepared meals for the staff dining room. But Francie didn't fit into any of those categories. She was an in-between, a nowhere child in a busy household that ran on oiled wheels without her. The chef shooed her out of his kitchen, thinking she was fed in the nursery, and the nursery banned her from their meals because her father said she was supposed to eat downstairs. So often, after a miserly supper of bread and milk, she was so hungry she would sneak into the kitchen and just steal whatever she could.

It was different at the ranch. The cook made a fuss over her and fixed her favorite—chicken and ice cream, the nurse bathed her and washed her hair and let it dry in the sun so that it shone like blond satin, and she was free to take off her tight boots and run barefoot in the grass, and shout and holler just as loudly as she liked instead of having to behave like a quiet little mouse. Because she just wasn't cut out to be a mouse, not even if she tried forever and ever.

She pushed her mother around the grassy paths in her cumbersome wheelchair, chatting nonstop about the rabbits dashing away from under their feet and the flock of starlings in the hedgerow and the tall leafy poplars rustling in the breeze with a sound like a rushing mountain brook. And in the evening after supper she would take the heavy silver brush from the dresser and stand behind her mother's chair. She would unpin her long black hair and brush it gently with long, even strokes until it shone like a raven's wing and the furrow of pain between her mother's brows disappeared.

The days were long and the sun hot and life was carefree and easy, but the best thing of all was when Dr. Benson arrived one morning with the Great Dane puppy.

"It's one of Prince's pups," he told Dolores. "His mate had a litter of six. This was the only female and Mr. Harrison said she's damaged—something about a crooked ear. He thought she should live out here on the ranch, keep you company."

He placed the big puppy on the wooden floor of the porch and Francie exclaimed excitedly. "Oh, she's not crooked at all. She's just beautiful." Then she stepped shyly back, putting her hands behind her back.

"Don't you want to pick her up?" Dr. Benson asked, puzzled.

She stared down at the floor, trailing her bare toe along the line where two wooden planks met. "She's Mama's dog," she explained quietly. "Papa said it was for her."

"Then I give her to you, Francie," Dolores said quickly. "Now she's your dog."

"Really? Can I really have her, Mama?"

Her face was alive with happiness, and Dolores felt suddenly sad. She thought that poor little Francie never had anything, and she wondered, whatever would happen to her when she was gone. "Of course she's yours, darling. And now a dog must have a name, so what are you going to call her?"

"Why, Princess, of course," Francie said proudly. "After all, she's the daughter of a prince." And they all laughed.

She had never had anyone of her own to love before and Princess fulfilled all her needs. She was a big, shambling, sand-colored puppy with huge paws, intelligent amber eyes, and a very large wet tongue that she used lavishly on Francie's face every morning when she awoke. She slept on Francie's bed, made pools on her floor and sometimes, when no one was looking, ate from the same bowl. It was a mutual love affair; Francie adored her and Princess adored Francie and they were inseparable.

The De Soto Ranch was not really a working one; it was just forty acres with a few cattle, the Jersey cows and a dozen chickens scratching in the sandy backyard. Each morning Francie would take her basket and search eagerly for the eggs they laid in odd places, behind the rain barrel or in the hedgerows, and carry them triumphantly back for breakfast. There were geese by the pond that cackled and flapped their wings ferociously at them whenever she and Princess came near, and there were half a dozen horses in the paddock which she would eye longingly, leaning on the rough post fence, her chin on her arms, watching Zocco and Pepe, the Mexican ranch-hands, as they saddled up and galloped off toward the distant hills to fix fences and clear the scrub and check for stray cattle in the arroyos.

Then one day Zocco lifted her onto the bare back of the small chestnut mare called Blaize. Francie just sat there, her legs sticking out, her hands resting on the animal's neck. She felt the mare quiver in anticipation and the warm smoothness of her coat under her bare thighs and when Zocco guided her forward a few steps, she laughed in delight.

"You learn ride bareback," the Mexican told her. "Is better this way. Then you never fall off, ever."

Zocco held the mare on a leading rein and for fifteen wonderful minutes they paced slowly around the paddock, the big puppy ambling at their heels. Francie thought it was the best thing that had ever happened in her whole life, except for Princess, of course. She made Zocco promise he would teach her every day and then she ran excitedly back to the ranch house to tell her mother and to fetch a piece of sugar for the mare.

In a few weeks she could control Blaize herself, and holding the reins loosely so she wouldn't damage the little mare's tender mouth, she trotted proudly around and around the paddock for her mother to see.

"Wonderful, darling," Dolores called from her chair. "I learned the same way when I was a child."

Francie reined in her horse.
"When you were a child,
Mama?" she said, amazed at the very idea. "Were you like me then?"

Dolores shook her head and laughed. "I was a well-brought-up girl in a dozen petticoats and starched pinafores and high-button boots. And you are a ragged little tomboy, running around barefoot with not even a governess to teach you your lessons." She sighed. "I must speak to your father about that."

"Oh, Mama,
don't. Please."
Francie slid from the horse and through the fence and flung her arms around her mother. "It's so lovely here, just the two of us together.
Please, please,
Mama, let's not spoil it with silly governesses."

Dolores stroked her blond hair thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose there will be plenty of time for lessons later," she said quietly. "And I confess I like having you all to myself, Francie."

They beamed at each other and Francie slid back through the fence. Dragging over a wooden crate, she stepped up on it to unfasten the bridle. Then she slid the bit from the mare's mouth and slapped her on the rump the way she saw Zocco do, laughing as Blaize whinnied and kicked up her heels, galloping madly across the paddock to join the other horses under a shady stand of oaks.

They were a quiet little group at the ranch, just the three women: Dolores, her nurse, the cook-housekeeper, the child, and the dog. The months passed and still Harmon did not bring her son to visit her. Dolores's energy waned, she no longer rode in her wheelchair and instead lay on a rattan chaise longue on the porch, watching Francie in the distant paddock putting Blaize through her paces, sadly counting the final sun-filled days of her last summer.

As fall approached the days grew misty and there was a sharp tang of winter in the cold wind. The nurse wrapped warmer blankets around her and kept her on the porch in the hope that the crisp weather would do her good. And all the time Dolores was waiting, her eyes fixed anxiously on the curve of the sandy drive where one day Harmon would bring her son to visit her, just as he had promised.

Fall moved quickly into winter. The rains came, turning the sunbleached clapboard ranch to a damp gray. The leafless poplars no longer rustled in the icy wind and Dolores took to her bed. Dr. Benson still came once a week, bringing with him hampers of special foods and bottles of port wine with messages from her husband saying he was too busy to come to see her personally, but that he hoped she would enjoy the California hothouse fruits, the plump chickens, and the port wine that would enrich her blood and make her stronger.

The doctor knew better; his patient was dying not only of tuberculosis but of a broken heart. "Did you see my son Harry?" she would ask each time he came, her eyes sparkling with fever and her cheeks burning red. "Tell me, is he well? He must be growing taller, stronger. He's almost four now, you know. Maybe Harmon will find time to bring him to see me on his birthday."

Dr. Benson answered all her questions about the boy except the one she really wanted to know... when was Harmon bringing the child to see her?

Just before Christmas she said to him, "There's not much time left, Doctor. Please,
please
tell my husband I
beg
him to let me see my boy. Just once. That's all I ask."

Replacing his stethoscope, the doctor quickly snapped his black leather bag shut. "I'll tell him, my dear," he promised, trying not to show his contempt for Harmon Harrison. The man was a monster, leaving his wife to die alone in the middle of nowhere, in a place that was little more than a wooden shack, while he lived like a lord in his mansion, giving dinners and attending the theater and parties as though nothing were wrong. If it were not for the Hippocratic oath that forbade a doctor to discuss his patients, he would have made sure that San Francisco knew of his conduct, and sure, too, that poor Dolores Harrison saw her little boy for the last time.

Raging at his own helplessness he said good-bye to Dolores and almost fell over Francie and Princess, who were waiting outside her door.

"Is Mama better?" Francie asked, clutching anxiously at his hand. "She looks so pretty now, her eyes are sparkly and her cheeks are pinker than mine. That means she's better, doesn't it?"

Dr. Benson sighed. He looked at her thoughtfully. It had been ten months since they had come to live at the ranch and Francie had grown. Her simple cambric smock was clean, but it was way too small. She wore no stockings despite the cold and her clumsy boots must have been purchased at the local store and were more nails than leather. But Francie had bloomed at the ranch while her mother lay dying. She had a sort of golden glow of health about her and she brimmed with vitality. And she was surely pretty, with her heart-shaped face and eager expression, her shiny pale-blond hair and those deep sapphire eyes, so like her poor mother's.

Patting her head, he said gently, "Your mother's just fine, little one. Now, you just have a happy Christmas together and I'll come to see you again next week."

She fixed him with those round blue eyes. "Papa is never going to come, is he? He'll never bring my brother Harry."

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings always came the truth, the doctor thought. "Mr. Harrison's a very busy man," he lied, "and it's a long journey for the little boy."

"Harry's almost four now. I came here when I was only three."