Hers the Kingdom (39 page)

     From the bed, Willa said with a bitter laugh, "My wild Irish Rose?" She began to cough then, which sent blood coursing onto the newly changed sheets.

     "Quiet," Trinidad admonished her, pushing a roll of flannel hard between her legs to absorb the flow of blood, "do not cough, be quiet!"

     When Trinidad had finished, I put the baby, swathed now in soft cotton blankets, into her arms and went to my sister. I could feel the tears sliding down my face. I took her hand and leaned close to her. "Willa," I said softly, "she is a beautiful baby, it does not matter you cannot . . ."

     She gripped my hand so hard that her fingernails cut into my flesh. "You promised," she said with fury, "you promised."

     "Yes," I said, patting her hand, "yes I did, and I will keep my promise. Shall I call Owen now? Can you see him?"

     She looked hard at me to see if I meant what I had said. What she saw on my countenance must have convinced her, because she told me yes, to call him.

     The door to their bedroom was open. Owen was sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to me, head down and his shoulders in an attitude of dejection, I paused a moment before rapping, softly.
It was too soon
, I kept thinking.

     Owen started, turned, his dark eyes troubled.

     "It's over," I said, "it is a girl. Willa wants to see you now."

     "Willa?" he asked timidly.

     "Willa is fine," I smiled, trying to assure him. I was surprised to see him sink back on the bed and cover his face with his hands. I started to move toward him, but he waved me frantically away.

     I closed the door to give him time to recover. It was the first time I had glimpsed the chaos that was inside him, and it frightened me. I leaned against the hall wall to catch my breath. In no more than a few minutes, Owen appeared, fully composed.

     When we entered the room, Trinidad came at him with the baby. I pulled her away with me, into the adjoining room, in spite of her sputters.

     Owen pulled a chair close to the bed, sat down, and took her hand in his. He smiled into her eyes, and with great tenderness said, "It's all over, dear."

     Willa looked at him, and her gaze was steady in spite of her great weariness. "It came sooner than you had expected," she said.

     Owen's answer was ready: "The baby arrived early, yes. She is premature. I am only glad that it was over quickly. I had worried that it might be like last time . . ."

     She smiled at him then, and raised his hand to her lips.

     "It is over," he said once more. It sounded like an oath.

I kept my promise. Trinidad handed me the baby in the room where Wen had once slept. It was then that a feeling came over me, slow and even and powerful . . . I looked into the unseeing eyes of the child and I knew she was mine. I
was
her mother.

     I cannot remember when Owen first saw the child, or what he said about her. I know that he never questioned her taking Wen's old room, or my being in charge of her. For my part, I was happy that the baby was a girl. I think it would have been far harder for Owen, had it been a son. As it was, Rose was mine to love and protect, and I never doubted that I could give her all that she would ever need.

     It was a beautiful spring, full to bursting. Owen was busy with the planting, the rodeo, the ranch. He consulted Willa about everything, so that often enough much of their day was spent together, absorbed in work. Owen regained his strength, the old elasticity. Now and again I would look at him and try to remember the gaunt Owen of scarcely a year before, and could not. Willa recovered from the birth with amazing rapidity. Often now, she and Owen would take Thad and ride off together on some errand. My spirits lifted to see the three of them together, with Willa on Princess once more. Thad was getting the attention that Wen had looked for; his attachment to his father grew stronger each day. Often I thought of the sequence of events that had brought them together, and wondered at the capriciousness of life. I let myself hope that the bad times were behind us, that the worst was over, that we were entering a season of peace and calm.

     The only discordant note was Wen. Owen's prediction— that the boy would soon enough prefer school to home—had proved correct. For the first few months he took solace in food— growing soft and sullen. When he discovered the playing field, the bulk grew into muscle. His stubbornness found form in the regimentation and competition promoted by the kinds of schools where the wealthy send their children. Soon, Wen was bringing his chums to the ranch with him. To a boy they were noisy and combative, whatever manners they had were learned rather than natural. I suspected they came for the riding and fishing and swimming for which the ranch was famous. More than once I detected an attitude of superiority in their dealings with their young host. At the same time that my heart ached for Wen, I was helpless to change the course his life was taking. Some days, I felt guilty about him—as if I had deserted him for Rose, but his own lack of interest in either of us soon released me.

     That I should be so much with the new baby surprised no one. Owen's lack of enthusiasm went unmarked, perhaps because he had his sons. Willa had never been a doting mother, and the
household did not expect her to change for this child. Soon after Rose's birth, Willa's interest in hawks was renewed, though she had not as yet taken to wandering over the ranch as in the old days. As for me, I determined to keep Rose as much out of their paths as I could. It did not prove to be difficult.

I watched Arcadia and Willa walk across the greensward, their heads together, talking as they moved to the arbor where I was sitting beside Rose. I felt an uncommon worry. Arcadia knew us well, she was bright and quick. I could not help wondering if she would detect anything out of the ordinary.

     "I've come to see the darling girl child," she called to me, "Willa's been keeping me away. I know she thinks I'm going to steal the baby right out of the crib." She pulled the netting back, leaned close, and I could hear her catching her breath.

     "Oh," Arcadia said, "she
is
exquisite."

     I breathed more easily. "Isn't she just?" I said, not trying to keep the pride from my voice.

     Arcadia was taken with Rose. The blonde curls and blue eyes with their dark fringe of lashes had not raised any suspicions. "I've just never seen such a perfect baby," she said, "she's just almost too beautiful."

     "Cadie," Willa reprimanded her fondly, "you are a caution when it comes to babies." Willa wanted to be off, I could see, but Arcadia was not to be rushed.

     "What I mean is, there is something ethereal about her—she looks just like an angel, with that curly hair and those great eyes." At that moment Rose began to move her hands and feet in the air, gurgling as if in response, and gave Arcadia one of her first smiles.

     Seeing that her friend was in danger of settling down to play with the baby, Willa quickly took her by the elbow and said, "Come now, you'll have your own baby soon enough . . . Joseph will take you to the altar this summer and . . ."

     Arcadia's face told her that she should not continue. A shadow fell across the usually vibrant features. She turned away from us, but not before we saw that something was troubling her.

     When she said nothing, Willa finally asked, "What is it, Cadie? Can you tell us?"

     She turned back biting her lower lip. "You will have to know," she said in a voice so flat, so unlike her own, that I felt chilled.

     Willa caught my worried glance.

     "Joseph and I had planned to be married this summer, as you know," she started. "There is a very good chance that it won't happen now, I think."

     "Cadie, what . . . ?" I blurted, but Willa's hand on my shoulder stopped me.

     "The Señora has asked that I not marry while she lives," Arcadia went on. "If I agree, I am to be her sole heir."

     I looked from Willa to Arcadia, not knowing what to say, distressed and disbelieving.

     Willa was looking at her, but Arcadia did not return the look, rather she continued to gaze down on Rose, though I think her vision was blurred by tears.

     "What does Joseph say?" Willa asked quietly.

     Arcadia pushed a strand of hair back from her forehead in a gesture that seemed at once languid and poignant.

     "Joseph says that he will always want to marry me, this summer or next . . . whenever I say," she answered.

     "But it could be . . ." I started, when once again Willa interrupted me. "It is a difficult decision," she said to Arcadia, "truly difficult."

     I could not believe Willa meant what she was saying. It was not a difficult decision at all. It was unthinkable that Arcadia should consider delaying her marriage. Joseph Brennan was her perfect match; she loved him and he, her. The old woman, moreover, could live for years. Willa knew I was about to say so, and pressed her fingers hard into my shoulder to stop me.

     Suddenly, Arcadia moved to leave. "I do envy you this beautiful baby," she sighed. I could feel her eyes on me, but I would not look at her. I could not.

     Joseph and Arcadia did not stay the night, but left late in the afternoon to be in Santa Monica by nightfall, allowing Willa and Owen time that night to talk over the revelation.

     They took supper together in their rooms, a habit recently formed. Owen opened the discussion by saying, "Joseph claims it is Arcadia's decision totally."

     "Do you believe it?" Willa wanted to know.

     Owen considered. "No," he said, "no, I think he wants Cadie to wait. I think he is as tempted as she."

     "I can't believe that she would consider it unless Joseph agreed," Willa said.

     "It is a great deal of money, no doubt. Old Abel Stearns lost a fortune, but he regained quite a lot of it before he died, and certainly the Señora hasn't wasted any of it," Owen added.

     Willa winced. "Poor Arcadia has had to scrape all these years. I believe that Joseph must give her pocket money now—the Señora never has."

     "Still," Owen said, not willing to be deflected from the original point, "I think it would be wrong to assume that Joseph was most responsible for the decision. We know him well enough by now to know that if Arcadia had turned the old woman down at the first mention of delaying the wedding, Joseph would have accepted that happily. Perhaps it was because she didn't . . ."

     Willa nodded. "It is what I was thinking, exactly. Even to have asked Joseph his opinion was, perhaps, stating her own wishes." She was curled up on the settee sipping hot lemon tea, one hand propped against the side of her head, so that she looked unusually thoughtful. "I had to stop Lena from telling Cadie that she should have rejected the notion immediately . . ."

     Owen grinned. "Dear, honorable Lena."

     Willa was not thinking of dear, honorable Lena at that moment,
however. "The most troublesome idea is that the Señora could live another ten years, even. She must be well into her seventies, but the Californios have a reputation for being long-lived. Cadie is twenty-seven now; in ten years it might be difficult for her to have the family she so wants."

     Owen nodded, soberly. "Joseph and Arcadia could well be forfeiting a family of their own. That is a terrible price to pay for an inheritance," he said, adding, ". . . any inheritance."

     Willa looked at him for a long moment. "Is it?" she finally said.

     "Of course," was his answer, as if it were obvious. "A family, children of one's own, is everything. It is, quite simply, the future. Nothing is more important."

     "Nothing?" she questioned again.

     "Nothing at all. Can you imagine life without the boys?" He paused, then added, "And the baby, of course."

     "Rose," she said.

     "Rose," he repeated, as if learning the child's name.

     Willa sighed.

     Owen rubbed her knee. "Has Cadie disappointed you so?" he wanted to know.

     "I'm not certain," she answered. "I mean, I'm not sure if it is disappointment I feel, or simply concern. I must say, I do feel that Cadie is making a mistake even to consider the Señora's preposterous suggestion. It's as if she is willing to delay living. And I think it is cruel of the Señora to suggest such an arrangement."