Treasure of the Sun (2 page)

In a thoughtful voice, Don Lucian remembered, "Two years ago, he urged annexation on Senor Larkin."

Her mind elsewhere, Katherine asked, "Who?"

“The American consul. Damian urged annexation on anyone who would listen to him. Now an American threatens to take Damian’s land when it comes under the jurisdiction of the
United States
, and Damian fears for the rights of Californios under the new law."

She chewed her lip and frowned. "My uncle is a lawyer, my father was a lawyer, and I know a bit about the law. Land title transfers from one jurisdiction to another can be awkward, but I believe the
United States
will be fair in its decisions."

"Explain that to Mr. Emerson Smith. He's a vulture, waiting to pluck the heritage of my son from his grasp."

"Mr. Smith? Isn't he that tall man with the face like a gravestone?"

Don Lucian nodded. "The one who looks like he escaped from the circus."

The lack of kindness in the remark and the snap in his voice startled her. "Why is he here at this fiesta if Don Damian dislikes him?"

"We welcome everyone. It is our way."

"Yes," she said, stopping and facing him. "I've noticed and I'm indebted."

"I wasn't speaking of you." His face mellowed and his eyes warmed. "You're family."

"Thank you again." The words seemed inadequate, superficial, yet she didn’t know how to express the gratitude she felt. In
Boston
, she'd been taught she was a burden, a responsibility to be endured. These people, these Californios, had no sense of place and rank, taking friends and strangers to their bosom indiscriminately. And for her, the regard had been warmer sweeter, gentler. Stumbling to express herself, afraid she would offend, she said in a low voice, "You've behaved as if I were the prodigal daughter, returned from my travels."

Don Lucian moved closer and put his arm around her shoulders. "You are the daughter I've never had."

She looked up at him. "No one seems to realize I'm only the housekeeper. The other servants aid me with respect. The guests insist on treating me as if I were an honored friend."

"Then we're happy." He paused just inside the edge of shade, close to the trunk of the tree. "Let me take you to Dona Xaviera Medina. She'll surely have the implements to take care of your splinter, and you'll not have to leave the fiesta."

"I couldn't."

"Nonsense." She stepped back, but he turned to the matron who sat on a bench and fanned herself so negligently. "Dona Xaviera, could you help our little friend?"

The lady was dressed in a large black tent designed to conceal her ample contours and let the air cool her. She ruled the fiesta like a queen, or like the unofficial hostess, which she seemed to be. She took the hand Don Lucian thrust at her and examined it. In a smooth, languid move, she pulled a two-inch hat pin from behind her ear and flicked it beneath the skin of Katherine’s palm. The splinter disappeared with only a bit of pain, but the blood welled up and Katherine sat beside Dona Xaviera in a sudden display of weak knees.

"Our little friend is not as brave as she'd like you to think," Dona Xaviera observed, grasping Katherine's neck and shoving it down.

"It would seem not."

Don Lucian moved to block the view of her weakness from the other ladies, and Katherine concentrated on controlling her queasiness, turning her face sideways, gulping great breaths of air. She let her hands dangle beside her feet. The wind helped, and the massage of Dona Xaviera's beefy hand on her shoulders. When she felt well enough to sit up, she pushed against the hand and it fell away. She leaned back against the tree trunk with a sigh, and her hair tumbled around her arms. "Ah, Senora Medina," she complained. "Not you, too."

"You bind your hair so tightly, it must rob you of your circulation," the senora said in simulated reproof. "You should leave it down. It draws the eye like a river of gold."

Katherine tried not to show her exasperation. These darkhaired aristocrats were fascinated with her blond hair. No matter how diligently she pinned it, no matter how expansive the headgear that covered it, when she encountered a group of men or women, her hair always ended up around her arms and her pins disappeared onto the floor.

It had become a game, she suspected, one that began when her hair slipped loose and ended when she blushed. They'd found she blushed easily. They'd found that she was unused to compliments. They'd found it a combination too irresistible to ignore.

The women observed benevolently while the men complimented her on her eyes. The green of the sea at sunrise, one said. The still serenity of a mountain pool, said another.

They complimented her on her skin. Like the golden kiss of the sun, said one. Warmed by the sweet sprinkle of freckles, agreed another.

And everyone, men, women and children, commented with admiration on her figure. Of little more than average height in
Boston
, here she stood out among the shorter, plumper Spanish women. They made her feel as if her long arms and cockish legs were fluid as a ballet dancer's. It astonished her to find how avidly she had begun to listen to the plaudit5-and how much she wanted to believe them. Yet she found herself at a loss to deal with their informality. She couldn't understand how they could dismantle her coiffure and stroke it with their fingers while maintaining a civilized demeanor.

"Why don't you wear the lace mantilla I gave you?" Dona Xaviera asked. "It's black, but it's romantic and feminine."

In stern reproof, Katherine replied, "That's why I never wear it."

Her response brought nothing but a husky laugh and a kind pat on the cheek. "The time will come when you wish to flirt, to smile, to put off the worn black dresses. Your year of mourning is almost over."

"I'm aware of that, senora," Katherine agreed stiffly.

"The gentlemen who so admire your beauty will soon be released from the constraint of propriety and flock to your side." Senora Medina passed her fan in front of her face with lazy assurance. "Your creamy skin will glow from beneath the black lace. Keep the mantilla."

"Yes, senora." Katherine didn't trust herself to move, to reach up and bind her hair without another fainting spell, so she looked at Dona Xaviera without turning her head. "Thank you for helping me," she said. "I can't stand the sight of blood."

"Poor child." Dona Xaviera touched her arm. "No wonder." Wanting to change the subject, not wanting to dwell on the memory of her grief, Katherine offered, "I have never seen anything like this before."

"This?”

"This fiesta. I would think half of
California
has come.”

"The other half sent their regrets," Dona Xaviera agreed. "In
Boston
," Katherine waved an arm, "we have nothing to compare to this."

"How boring you Americans are, Dona Xaviera said with indulgent humor.

Katherine gave it some thought. A melange of parties and games and displays, the fiesta celebrated Damian's feast y. The tradition of celebrating the eldest son's feast day was a custom brought from the old world. The feeling of tradition, of an unbroken chain that reached back into the mists of time thrilled her, and she agreed, "Yes, I suppose we are dull. At my uncle's table, there were only Americans. Here there are the Spaniards whose families settled
California
seventy five years ago. There are Americans, who come to
California
to trade. There are Russians, Germans, and Englishmen."

With a calm authority, Dona Xaviera claimed, You like it here."

"Very much."

"Good. That will make your life so much easier."

Dona Xaviera chuckled, a deep, soft sound, and Katherine raised an eyebrow. She hadn't meant to amuse, yet her inbred reserve made it impossible for her to question such a venerable lady. Instead, she asked, "All the other men who fought bulls did so on horseback. Why did Don Damian dismount?”

Don Lucian shook his head. "To give this old man some grey hairs."

Senora Medina protested, "Not you, Lucian. Your hair is a distinguished silver."

He smiled at her but spoke to Katherine. "In
Spain
and
Mexico
, they fight the bull on foot, and in the end, when the bull is wise—“

"Wise?" Katherine raised the other eyebrow.

"The bull improved. Couldn't you tell?"

"I thought so, but how could a stupid animal know?"

Appalled, Don Lucian raised a finger to stop her. "Bulls are not stupid. They're powerful and wily and courageous, an opponent worthy of a man. A bull is only fought once. Only once, for they realize the cape is illusion and they never make the mistake of attacking it again. In
Spain
, in
Mexico
, when this happens the torero takes a sword and kills the bull. Here in
California
, we're not so foolish. Our cattle are our lives, our most precious resource. We fight the bull on horseback, to give our men some small advantage against the dynamic, clever beast."

Dona Xaviera sighed "Your son had to make a show."

"His woman was watching." Startled, Katherine looked around, expecting to see this woman, but Don Lucian continued. "He acts like a peacock faced with a chance to display himself.”

"Where did he learn to jump the bull?" the older woman asked. “I tell you, Lucian, my heart stopped when he stood while the bull rushed him."

"I taught him." Lucian shrugged at her horrified moue. "My family has practiced it time out of mind. But only in the dark of night, for fear our wives would catch us."

Xaviera nodded with serene amusement.

"And with heifers. God knows, they're tricky enough. When he faced that bull and I realized . . ." He shoved his hands in the pockets of his short jacket. "I hope he lives through the courting.”

"Ah, he will." The lady opened her fan and began a languid waving before her face. "I believe he has his dear one's attention at last."

"Absolutely. I'll be interested to observe the courtship ritual. It promises to be unusual."

Katherine felt rather like a china doll: on display but easily ignored. She took the time to look around, to see if she could discover this woman Damian courted with such intensity.

Only one senorita was a stranger. A tall girl, young and shy, hovered behind Dona Xaviera, and Katherine felt sure this must be the candidate for Damian's hand. Masses of blue-black hair streamed down her back, seeming to be too great a weight for the delicate neck. Her shoulders were rounded, like the shoulders of a girl who'd outgrown her contemporaries and slumped to make up the difference. Her pale skin was untouched by the blazing
California
sun. Her eyelids quivered shyly as Katherine surveyed her with a forthright gaze, and her birdlike hands fluttered.

"Vietta." Dona Xaviera noticed her and called her forth.

"How good to see you here. Are you over your illness?"

The girl Vietta limped over, listing to one side in obvious distress. Katherine felt a great compassion, and an admiration for Damian. What a noble man, to love a girl so handicapped by birth or misfortune!

"Dona Xaviera." Vietta acknowledged her greeting, and when she spoke her voice chimed like mission bells. "I'm feeling better, gracias, and I couldn't stay away from Damian ... from his celebration one more day."

Dona Xaviera slid to one side of the bench in invitation, but Vietta ignored her, moving closer to Katherine. She wasn't as young as she appeared from a distance, Katherine realized. Her eyes burned with some kind of fervor, and tiny lines emphasized her frown. Her turned-down mouth gave her a pinched look of petulance, but there was, too, such an obvious intelligence that Katherine felt an immediate kinship.

Katherine waited until Dona Xaviera performed the courtesies. "Katherine, this is Vietta Gregorio, the daughter of one of our oldest and most noble families. Until her family moved to
Monterey
, she was a neighbor of the de la Solas. Remember, Lucian, how she used to trail around after Damian and Julio and try to do whatever they did?"

"Indeed I do," he said.

Katherine gave a little seated bow, murmuring, "Tengo mucho gusto en conocerla."

Dona Xaviera continued, "Vietta, this is Katherine Maxwell."