The Bastard (14 page)

"Yes. But what has He to do with these two hills?"

"An ancient spirit sleeps under
them,
he is part of the land. Jesus knows him, as we do. This spirit
is best left
undisturbed. We explained to Don Francisco and he understood."

"Don Francisco no longer owns this rancho. I do."

“Then you must understand. When the spirit is troubled, he wakes from his sleep. The ground shakes and trembles with his wrath. Rocks fall, great cracks open in the earth, men and animals die." The old Indian pointed to the trough between the two hills. "The last time he woke he split his hill into two. It is a sign he must be left in peace."

The old man was speaking of earthquakes, Diarmid realized.
He'd
experienced a few in
San Francisco
when goods had been knocked from the shelves in the store.
Apparently
the quakes occurred here in the south, as well. The Indians' belief a spirit in the earth caused the quakes was as good an explanation as others
he'd
heard. If an earthquake struck here, he was certain
he'd
be as safe in a house between these two hills as he would be anywhere else.

"If your spirit exists," he told the three Indians, "I'll take the chance that building my house on his roof won't disturb him
."

The old man's glittering black eyes bored into Diarmid's for a long moment. Then, with an agility that belied his wrinkles, he slid from his horse. Diarmid stiffened, anticipating an attack, but the Indian
didn't
approach him. Pulling an object from his ornamented leather belt, he shook it as he began to circle the two hills, chanting in his own language. Diarmid followed him closely enough to see what he shook was a stick with the dried rattles from
rattle snakes
.

Four times the old Indian--probably one of their medicine men, Diarmid decided--circled the two hills. Then, without another word or so much as a look at Diarmid, he mounted his horse and the three men rode away toward the mountains.

Diarmid dismissed his unease as nonsense. No one, certainly not the don or some old Indian medicine man, was going to tell him where he could build his house.
He'd
chosen this site and here his house would stand. From the time he was seven until he left
Scotland
at sixteen, Father Campbell had drilled into him that superstitions
were believed
only by the foolish and the unlettered. A son of Charles Malcolm Burwash, legitimate or not, could be neither, any more than he could afford to speak like a peasant.

 
As a youth,
many's
the time he'd hated the priest who taught him. Only lately could he see the wisdom of what
he'd
had to learn or suffer a caning for failing. If
he'd
continued to speak as his friends did, in the broad Scots dialect, would Myron and Irv have made him a partner? Would the don have signed the agreement with him?
And
Angelica--such a refined young lass would never have agreed to marry someone who spoke of beans and logiest and swaths instead of hills and flatlands and river plains.
Someone who ordered his life by how many crows--no, corbies '
twould
be--he saw when he first set foot outside in the morning.

 
Someone who had fire dreams that showed what was to come, showed true.
Second sight, right enough.
That was his legacy. .

Diarmid shook his head. His mother, God rest her soul, had bequeathed the unwanted second sight to him. He
hadn't
had any fire dreams since he'd left
San Francisco
. If he had another--God grant he never did--
he'd
not admit it to anyone, least of all Angelica.

When the house was finished, the wedding date was set. Though Angelica was Episcopalian, not Catholic, she agreed to take instruction from Father Lugo, who rode from
Los Angeles
once a week to hold mass in the little chapel in El Doblez. By the second Saturday in
September
her lessons were completed and she and Diarmid were married by the priest in the chapel.

Diarmid never saw anyone so lovely as Angelica in her wedding gown, made of silk by a Mexican
seamstress
from
San Diego
who'd embroidered white flowers and tiny birds around the edges of the multiple flounces that made up the wide skirt. Lace filled in the low veer of the bodice and Angelica's veil
was attached
to a lace cap decorated with satin rosettes.

Angelica had requested a bouquet of white rosebuds to carry but Diarmid brought her orange blossoms instead and their sweet perfume filled the tiny chapel. He
wasn't
superstitious but, for him, white roses would forever be associated with
Concepcion
and he wanted no reminder of her at this wedding.

Manuelo stood up for him and Stella for Angelica. The wedding party was small but high-spirited, ten people in all, accompanying the bride and groom to their new house where wine and food
awaited
.

Everything inside is new, Diarmid told himself, from the gleaming floors to the silver-and-crystal chandeliers in the entry hall and dining room.
I'm
beginning afresh.
There's
nothing of the past in my house. Angelica's
mine
at last, I have everything I want.

While the wedding guests were still dancing to guitars, Diarmid led his bride up the curving staircase to the second floor.
She'd
seen their bedroom before, she'd even chosen the furniture, selecting a French style that Diarmid privately thought looked too delicate to be practical.

Though
he'd
looked forward to undoing the many tiny buttons on the back of her gown, Angelica called in her new maid, Cochiti, to help her undress. Diarmid, uncomfortable about stripping off his clothes in front of the young Mexican girl, retreated to the dressing room, muttering as he wrapped a blue silk robe--a gift from the bride--around his nakedness.

He'd
given her a sapphire brooch
Tio
Tomas had purchased for him in
Los Angeles
from a
Californio
family fallen on hard times. "It's not new," Tomas had said, "but the stone is beautiful, no?"

 
Angelica's piano had come from the same family, along with the mahogany dining room furniture.
But
it was new to him so it didn't matter that others had used it before.

After Angelica dismissed Cochiti, she sat in a pale pink robe in front of the gilt mirror at her dressing table and brushed her hair. Diarmid, already in bed, his silk robe on the floor, waited for what seemed hours for her to finish.

Come to bed!" he ordered finally, his patience at an end.

"When I've counted to one hundred," she said, not missing a stroke.

He fumed, stifling an urge to jump up, grab her and toss her onto the bed.
She's
young, he warned himself.
Don't
rush her.

An eternity later, she set the brush on the table and rose languidly. "Please try not to crush me," she cautioned as she climbed into the bed. "You know how I hate that."

His ardour somewhat cooled by her admonition, Diarmid pulled her gently into his arms.

"You haven't blown out the lamp," she said, resisting him.

“I like to look at you. You're so beautiful."

"I don't want the lamp left burning. I'd rather have it dark."

Holding onto his temper, he rose and snuffed the lamp next to the bed. Beside her once again, he felt for the ribbons holding her nightgown closed.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, pushing his hands away and sitting up.

"Untying your gown."

"No!"

Diarmid took a deep breath. "Angelica, we're married now and a husband has certain rights."

"I don't care what your rights are, I refuse to be undressed. It's not decent."

He persuaded her to lie down again and began gently caressing her breasts through the gown. She tried to cringe away from him and gasped in outrage when he tried to stroke between her thighs.

"Don't you know anything about men and women?" he asked in frustrated annoyance.

"Stella started to tell me but I covered my ears."

He sighed. "You're my wife, Angelica.
I
love you and the last thing in the world I wish to do is hurt you. If you'd just relax and let me touch you--"

"But I don't like being touched like that."

"Show me how you would like it, then."

 
"I'd rather you didn't touch me at all."

 
"Damn it, I'm your husband and I mean to make love
to
 
you
, one way or another."

 
"I guess I can't stop you."

 
Diarmid propped himself against the headboard with his pillow. "Why did you marry me, Angelica?"

 
"Because you asked me.
You said you'd be lost if I didn't."

 
"Don't you love me at all?"

 
"Well, I like you most of the time."

 
It
wasn't
the answer he wanted to hear. Still,
she'd
get used to him and to lovemaking if he could hang onto his patience. "Haven't you ever been kissed before by a man?" he demanded.

 
Angelica hesitated. "Yes, I have been
,"
she admitted finally.
"Three times."

 
Unreasonable jealousy flared hot in his guts. "Who was he?"

 
"You don't have to shout. He was a man I knew in
Philadelphia
, my
gentleman
friend. He didn't crush me like you do."

 
"So now I'm no gentleman." He reached and gripped her by the shoulders, pulling her into a sitting position. "Is that what you're telling me? That you prefer a gentleman's kisses to mine?" She tried to squirm free but he held her fast. "Answer me!"

Angelica began to whimper but he was too angry to let her go,
he'd
gone past reasoning. He shook her. "Listen to me. No matter how many fine
Philadelphia
gentlemen kissed you, I'm your husband and, whether you like it or not, I'm damn well going to show you what that means.”

Chapter Seven

 
Everything
Diarmid
put his hand to
was
a success. The sheep throve and multiplied, the fruit trees produced, the hay and barley crops were bountiful. Manuelo argued against the sugar beets but Diarmid planted a field of them anyway and invested some of his money in the stock of the new refinery that bought the crop. The sugar refinery expanded and the worth of his stock doubled. After two years of hard work, the ranch was
prospering,
there was no doubt about that. With enough money to waste some, if he wished, Diarmid began to experiment with irrigation, using, as his source, the several creeks that crossed his land.

Two days before the second anniversary of his marriage, Diarmid sat in what Angelica referred to as "the library" and stared moodily at the shelves of gilt-inscribed leather bound volumes. God knows he
wasn't
unlettered--Father Campbell had made sure of that in his youth--but he hadn't the time nor the inclination to read the books.

Angelica always seemed to be trying to make him into something he
wasn't
. He wished his marriage
was
doing as well as the ranch.
He'd
tried everything he could think of to introduce his wife to the joys of lovemaking but she couldn't be cozened into passion. He was sure she tolerated him in her bed solely because she believed it to be her duty. Though she tried to hide her reluctance, every time he took her into his
arms
she stiffened in what he recognized as unhappy anticipation.