Daughter of Fortune (47 page)

“I did. Only do not ask me.”

“I will not. There are worse fates than a martyr’s
cross. It would appear that some of us have been condemned to live
and remember.” He fingered the knotted cords at his waist. “But
enough of that. It will be with us forever. Diego tells me that he
wants to marry you. Now. ”

“I tried to talk him out of it last week.”

“Did you?” said Father Farfán with a smile. “You are
a strange woman, indeed.”

Diego spoke up. “She could not see how Diego
Masferrer, hacienda owner and master of Indians, could ever survive
the ignominy of marrying a
pobrecita
.” He put his arm around
Maria. “But a poor man is a different story, eh, Maria
chiquita
?”

She considered him seriously. “No, it isn’t, Diego.
I still should not. Someday you will have all this back again.
Don’t you think you might feel some regret that you did not marry
into land and wealth?”

Diego considered the question, running his hand down
Maria’s bare shoulder. “No.”

Maria sighed. “Well, perhaps we had better consider
it then. ”

“I will give you no cause for regret,
querida
mia
.” Diego smiled and squeezed her arm. “All that I have is
yours. It may not look like much at the moment, but it is more than
I could have given when I had everything, when I was master of the
earth. You have my heart, my life, my body—for whatever it is worth
these days.”

“It is the same with me, Diego,” Maria whispered.
“All that I have.”

Diego looked at the priest. “Do you see, Father? She
agrees. Now, when can you marry us?”

“You know this is irregular. There should be banns
for a month ....”

Diego interrupted. “We may not have even a day
together, Father, and you talk of a month.”

“I know, my son. Perhaps this once. This may be the
last cheerful thing that ever happens in Santa Fe. This
evening?”

“We will be here.” Diego stood and pulled Maria to
her feet. They leaned against each other, tired beyond words.
“
Querida
, we are so decrepit!” he exclaimed, supporting her
around the waist with his good arm. “At dusk?” he said to the
priest.

“Yes. Go with God, my children.”

They helped each other back across the courtyard.
“Look at it this way, Maria,” said Diego, talking loud to be heard
above the cries of children and bawling of thirsty animals, “if the
worst is behind us, we are more fortunate than most.”

“You called me
La Afortunada
, did you
not?”

“Indeed I did.”

They rejoined the Castellanos in the shade. Diego
shook his head when they offered him biscuits and jerky, but he
took a sip of wine, recorking the bottle carefully.

Pulling Maria down beside him, they curled up
together in the protection of each other’s arms and slept,
oblivious to the hard ground, the noise, the heat.

Maria woke up hours later. The sun was slanting
across the courtyard and the dust was thick in the air. She was
thirsty, but she said nothing. Luz and Catarina slept next to her,
but Diego was gone. She looked around quickly, and Señora
Castellano came to her.

“He will be right back. My Reynaldo took him to the
storehouses to try to find you a dress. And here, I have a brush
and comb. Let us see what we can do.”

Her hair was a hopeless tangle. “Should we cut it
off and start over?” Maria suggested, only half in jest.

“No, no. This is still your best feature. Hold still
now. This will take time.“

Obediently, Maria sat cross-legged in front of
Señora Castellano. She remembered the times when Erlinda had
brushed her hair, carefully removing every snarl, talking in her
gentle way about the Masferrers and their river kingdom. Tears
rolled down her cheeks, and Señora Castellano looked at her in
consternation.

“Do I pull too hard, Maria?”

“No. It is nothing,” she replied. “I was just
remembering.”

“Perhaps it is better not to,” La Señora replied,
gently tugging the comb through Maria’s hair. “Let us dwell on
tomorrow, instead.”

“Is that so much better?” Maria asked.

“There is no telling what tomorrow will bring, but
at least there is some strength in numbers.”

Neither woman said what she was thinking, how few
were the soldiers, how many the Indians. Outside the gates, pawing
through the still-smoldering villa, were more Indians than either
of them had ever seen.

“Have we hope of rescue?” Maria asked finally.

“Governor Otermin seems to think that his lieutenant
governor in the lower river kingdom of Rio Abajo will come to our
aid, but who is to say that they are not worse off than we
are?”

Maria began to feel the same uneasiness that had
gnawed at her earlier when Diego was out of her sight. She stirred
restlessly. “I really should find Diego, Señora.”

La Señora put a firm hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“No. Now, listen to me. He will be right back.”

Maria began to cry. The tears streamed down her
face, and Señora Castellano stopped in surprise, her hands
fluttering helplessly about Maria, uttering gentle crooning sounds.
“Maria, Maria, do not do this. I know he will be right back. Look
here at Luz and Catarina. They are not crying. Maria, please!” But
Maria wiped her face on her dirty chemise and sobbed into the
fabric, shaking off La Señora’s hands.

Finally, wiping her eyes, Maria looked up to see
Diego with Señor Castellano, coming toward her from the government
warehouses across the courtyard. Diego’s expression was anxious,
too, as if he had been gone past bearing from those he loved. He
came to her quickly, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.
It was a new shirt, one of coarser fabric than Diego Masferrer had
ever worn before.

He held her to him. “
Dios mio
, this is
strange, Maria, but I cannot bear to be away from you.”

Maria leaned her forehead against his chest. The
rhythm of his heart steadied her.

“And see what I have for you,
mi corazon,
a
dress.” He pressed the brown bundle into her hands. “It is really
quite ugly and much too large, but certainly more dignified than
that scrap you are wearing. Here, take it.”

She fingered the dress. The material was rough and
heavy. “I think three of me will fit in this.”

“Probably. Señor Castellano tells me that I should
search around for a woman who is more of an armful. He cannot
understand me when I insist that you will do.” His eyes were
laughing. “And you will do, Maria. I could even grow used to your
black eye.”

Maria kissed her fingers and touched Diego’s eye.
“You are no prize, either, Diego!”

“Pues bueno
, perhaps we will have much to be
joyful over in the coming days.” He turned from Maria to his
sisters, holding up the rest of the bundle he carried. “And look,
mis hermanas,
for you. One dress, two dresses. It is past
the hour of nightgowns. Maria will help you. I must go again.”

Maria put her hand on his arm, detaining him. She
felt the blood rushing from her face again. Diego held his hand to
her cheek. “No, Maria. I will not be long. The governor has asked
the men to meet in the chapel. I suppose he is assigning the
night’s watches. Now change your clothes and let Señora Castellano
finish your hair. You are only half done.”

He left quickly again before Maria could object.
Maria reached out for Luz and Catarina. “Let us dress. Señora, is
there any place for some privacy?”

“Alas, no. Every room is taken, every corner used.
My daughters and I will hold up blankets around you while you
change.”

Crouching down behind the blanket barricade, Maria
helped the sisters out of their nightgowns, her heart turning over
when she saw their thin bruised bodies.

When the girls were buttoned up the back, Maria
pulled her chemise over her head and reached for the brown dress.
Catarina touched her leg. “Oh, Maria, you have so many bruises!
Look, Luz,
mira
.”

“Hush, Catarina,” said Luz surprisingly. “Diego
would not like you teasing Maria. He told the governor so.”

“Sister,” said Catarina, “he would tease her too, if
he could see her.”

Maria blushed and buttoned up the dress quickly,
avoiding the glances the Castellano women exchanged with each
other. Her face was on fire, and she put her hands to her
cheeks.

“Well, he would!” insisted Catarina. “What is so
funny?” she demanded as the Castellanos began to giggle, in spite
of their rigorous upbringing.

Maria hugged Catarina. “Never mind, my sister. I am
sure you are right. I will let you know.” She stood up and shook
the dress down to her feet. The material hung on her, as Diego had
predicted.

“How strange, Maria,” said La Señora. “These clothes
are sent from Mexico for the servants and soldiers’ wives. Do they
imagine we are so well-fed here?”

“Ay, Luz,” said Maria as she gathered the brown
serge in with her hands. “This is one time even Diego would have to
admit that I cannot cut the cloak to fit the cloth!”

Señora Castellano dropped her end of the blanket and
tore off a narrow strip from her light cloak hanging nearby. She
wrapped the material several times around Maria’s waist and tied it
firmly in back. “This will do, until something better comes along.
God alone knows when that will be. Sit now, and I will finish your
hair.”

Maria’s hair was brushed, combed and carefully
arranged on top of her head before the men returned from the
chapel. The chill of night was in the air, and Maria heard Indians
moving in great numbers in the plaza as they surrounded the
governor’s palace and the walled government houses. Luz and
Catarina drew close to her and they sat together in silence.

The Indians hooted and beat against the adobe walls
with their spears. The words sounded familiar. Maria looked at
Señora Castellano. “What is it they say, my lady?”

“They have murdered Christ and his mother Maria. And
soon they will start reciting the Mass. They do it every night.”
The woman leaned back, her hands clenched in her lap. “Do they hate
us so much, Maria? Was what we did to them so wrong?”

Maria thought of her San Francisco lying broken in
the bloody gypsum at Tesuque. “No, it was not wrong for us. But did
anyone ever ask them?” she said, gesturing toward the outside
wall.

She sat in silence, thinking of Cristóbal. Then she
saw Diego and the Castellaños leave the chapel and cross the
courtyard, picking their way among the survivors, stopping here and
there for a word, a touch. Diego spoke to several of the women, who
covered their faces with their shawls at his words and rocked back
and forth lamenting, adding his agony to their own. Diego’s face
was a mask of pain as he approached Maria. He sank down beside
her.

Wordlessly she took his hand and held it to her. He
leaned against her and closed his eyes.

“What did the governor speak of?” she asked.

“Nothing that will not keep,
querida.
Let me
rest, then we will go find Father Farfán.”

He rested his head in her lap and was asleep in a
moment. Maria settled herself against the wall. Her hands went to
Diego’s hair, and she began to twist his curls around her fingers.
His hair was dull and matted with blood and dirt. She remembered
how fastidious he was normally. But that was before.

Before. Would she always reckon time as
before
and
now
? She rested her hand lightly on
Diego’s head in the gesture of a blessing.
Will we ever be the
same again?

The sound in the courtyard was deafening—animals
restless and loud in their hunger and thirst, and children crying
for food, water, comfort, their own beds, long since destroyed.
Always there was the ceaseless wail of women mourning their losses.
As one woman would stop her crying, exhausted, another would pick
up the lament.

The Indians outside increased their dance of death,
beating against the massive gates, lobbing stones over the wall.
Children shrieked and cried in terror.

Diego opened his eyes and looked up at Maria. “We
are at the gates of hell, Maria,” he whispered, the strain showing
on his face again. “Forgive me.”

She held his face in her hands, brushing back the
hair from his forehead and running her fingers over the deep
wrinkle between his eyes. “Forgive you for what, my love?” she
asked softly. “If all we have is this night, then it is more than I
ever had before.”

“Let us find Father Farfán, Maria.”

She got to her feet and straightened her dress,
patting down the too-large folds. She took Luz by one hand,
Catarina by the other, and they crossed the noisy, dirty courtyard
with the Castellanos, La Señora fretting aloud that it could not be
a proper wedding party, and Señor Castellano smiling at some secret
pleasure of his own.

“We amuse you?” asked Diego.

“You do,” replied Don Reynaldo. “I think your father
would be pleased, and I know that I am. Maria will always do her
best to help you resist that strain of stuffiness in all
Masferrers.
You
can make it your life’s calling to keep
shoes on her feet and a dress on her back, something you have not
done so well, heretofore.”

Diego laughed. “
Bueno,
Señor! I notice that
you did not tell me to expect much obedience.”

Father Farfán was waiting for them at the chapel.
Diego and the Castellaños went inside, but Maria hung back. Diego
returned to her, all amusement gone from his face. “This is a
serious thing we do, my heart. I do not wonder at your
reluctance.”

She stared back at him, but did not move.

“Can it be that you do not love me enough?” he
asked, holding out his hand to her.

She shook her head, but did not touch him. “Not
that, never that, Diego. It’s just that ...” She stopped. “I
am afraid.”