Daughter of Fortune (9 page)

She was lying in her chemise and tattered petticoat.
Her dress was nowhere in sight, but there was a muslin robe at the
foot of the bed.

She sat up and put it on. The sleeves hung over her
wrists. It must belong to Erlinda.

And then, as if the thought had summoned her, there
was a soft tapping on the door. Erlinda opened it and peered in. “I
was hoping you would be awake. God’s blessings on you and good
morning,” she said. Erlinda carried a tray of food, which she set
down on Maria’s lap. There was chocolate, frothy and hot in an
earthenware mug, several eggs and a small plate of tortillas, the
steam still rising from them. “I would have given you more food,”
said Erlinda in apology, “but Diego said that too much at once
would not be wise.”

Maria ate every bite, savoring the eggs and wiping
the plate clean with the last bit of tortilla. She drank the
chocolate slowly, relishing the smooth liquid as it traveled down
her throat. If Erlinda had not been standing there, her hands
folded in front of her, Maria would have run her finger around the
inside of the cup.

Erlinda took the tray when Maria finished. “I am
glad to see you smiling. Diego said you were restless last night,
calling out for Carmen. I thought your sister was Margarita.”

She could not remember the nightmare, but she
thought again of Diego sitting in the window. “No. No. Carmen was
just someone ... I knew,” she said, starting to get out of bed.

Erlinda paused at the door. “I will send servants in
with Mama’s tub. My sisters and I generally bathe in the
acequia
—the irrigation stream—but you will not be accustomed
to that yet, and besides, it is morning.”

“Your mother? Your sisters?” asked Maria.

Erlinda opened the door. “Oh, yes. You have not met
all of us yet. There are others.” Her voice trailed off and she
looked away, occupied for a moment with private thoughts. Then she
brightened again. “After you are bathed and dressed, I will take
you to Mama.”

Maria spoke up. “My dress is gone. ”

Erlinda put her hand to her mouth to hide a smile.
“For that, you must forgive my brother. When he left your room
early this morning, he had your dress. I think he tossed it on the
fire pit in the back. My sisters and I will find you something to
wear.”

Erlinda left then, closing the door quietly behind
her. Maria sat cross-legged on the bed until two Indian servants
brought in a large tin tub and filled it with steaming water from
copper kettles. They left a container of soft soap that Maria
picked up and sniffed. It smelled of yucca blossoms.

She stripped off her chemise and petticoat and
stepped into the water, standing on one foot, then the other, until
she was accustomed to the warmth. Her last real bath had been more
than a month ago in a small stream late at night by the side of the
wagons, long after everyone was sleeping. She sat in the tub
finally and leaned back, closing her eyes. As she sat there,
soaking in the heat and comfort, she concluded that this was as
close as she would ever get to heaven in this life. Then she picked
up a bar of rough brown soap and scrubbed herself until her skin
was raw. She washed her hair three times with the soft soap,
rinsing it with the pitcher of cool water next to the tub.

Erlinda knocked and came back into the room as Maria
was drying herself. “I have found you some clothing, but I cannot
find you any shoes that fit. Diego said he would do something about
it.”

Maria took the clean chemise and petticoat from
Erlinda and dressed quickly. The morning air was cool and she
shivered in the breeze from the window facing the interior
courtyard. Her new dress was simple homespun, much worn and washed
to a whiteness that contrasted with the brown of her skin. She was
grateful that the room had no mirror. She did not want to look at
her ruined complexion. Not even the lead-white powder that her
mother used to put on her face would lighten her brownness.

But there was no point in pining over what could not
be changed. She finished buttoning her dress, then sat with Erlinda
on the bed, taking the comb the woman offered her. They began to
untangle Maria’s long auburn hair.

“Such glorious color,” murmured Erlinda. “Wait,
Maria. Do not pull so hard.”

“But there are so many tangles!”

“And are you expecting a visit from the viceroy?
What is your hurry? Do it a strand at a time, like so.”

An hour later Maria’s hair hung down to her waist,
free of tangles and shining copper and gold in the morning sun.

Someone knocked on the door. Erlinda glanced up from
her contemplation of Maria’s hair. “
Pasa, hermano
,” she
said, recognizing the knock.

Diego walked in, holding a piece of paper and a
pointed lump of charcoal. He set the paper on the floor and
motioned to Maria to stand on it while he traced the outline of her
feet, his hand on her ankle. “My sister is tall,” he said as he
worked. “She has a beautiful face, it is true, but her feet are
large. Like boats, almost.”

Erlinda pushed him, and he nearly fell. He laughed,
finishing the outline. “The truth hurts, Erlinda,” he said,
stepping out of her way before she could push him again.

Maria laughed. How different Diego was this morning
from the angry man of last night.

Diego stood with the piece of paper in his hand.
“Such small feet!” he marveled. “Erlinda, when Pablo gets through
with Maria’s slippers, he might have enough leather left to make
you one shoe. ”

Erlinda rolled her eyes. “Do you see what we have to
bear here, Maria? Are you sure that you would wish to join our
household?”

Maria was silent, thinking of her own sister.
Erlinda put her hand on her arm. “I am sorry. It was thoughtless of
me to remind you of your situation.”

Maria shook her head. “I am grateful to be in this
household.” She paused, then glanced shyly at Diego. “That is, if
it is agreeable to everyone.”

Diego smiled but made no reply. His eyes were on her
hair. He lifted a handful of it and let it fall, cascading to her
shoulders. “See the different colors in it, Erlinda,” he said, then
left the room with his drawing of Maria’s feet.

“Pablo, our cobbler, will make you slippers,” said
Erlinda. “He is not as proficient as the cobblers who come up from
Santa Fe in the winter, but it will do for now. Here, let me braid
your hair, then I will take you to my mother.”

Maria sat quietly while Erlinda plaited her hair and
talked of her family. “There are five of us. No, there are six,”
she amended. “Diego would say six. Diego, me, Francisco, who is
studying in a seminary in Mexico City, and our two younger
sisters.” She finished one braid, tied the end with a rawhide
strip, and rested it on Maria’s breast. As she began the second,
Maria ran the tally in her head. Erlinda had said there were six in
the family but had only named five. “I am Erlinda Masferrer de
Castellano. My husband Marco died two years ago and I have returned
home. I am seventeen years old.”

“I am sorry for your misfortune,” said Maria,
holding her head still while Erlinda braided.

“He was a fine man, my husband,” said Erlinda. “You
are not the only one to have suffered because of the Apaches. We
have all suffered here in this kingdom, one way or another.” She
finished Maria’s hair in silence, then made a visible effort to
smile. “And now, let me take you to Mama. And my sisters, if we can
find them.”

She led the way down the hall, Maria following. The
hall was cool, even chilly in the morning air. Portions of it
opened onto a patio bright with early flowers and a small fountain.
Two young girls were seated close together on a bench by the
fountain, their heads bent over the samplers they held in their
laps.

Erlinda whispered to Maria. “And here they are. In
truth, I did not expect to see them thus engaged. Old Martin is
harvesting honeycomb and I was sure they would be bothering him.
”

Maria nodded. She remembered all the samplers she
had labored and cried over when she was their age. The slightest
distraction was always sufficient excuse to leave tangled threads
behind. But Mama had insisted. “I tell you, daughter,” she had
scolded, “no man will ever approach your father for your hand if
you cannot even sew.” And so Maria had learned, little good would
it do her these days without a dowry. Maria sighed, watching the
girls at their work.

Erlinda clapped her hands. “Sisters,” she began, and
both girls looked up quickly, their eyes eager for diversion, even
of the smallest sort. “Come forward and make yourselves known to
Maria Espinosa.”

The girls put down their embroidery and came to the
edge of the patio. They were dressed alike in sober green gowns,
embroidered around the hem and sleeves with floral designs. The
sisters were as different as Diego and Erlinda, the older child
blond and bidding to be tall like Maria’s companion, and the other
short and dark like Diego, with curly black hair.

Erlinda placed a hand on each head and smiled when
the girls put their arms around her. “This is Luz and this is
Catarina,” she said, her voice vibrant with affection. “Luz has
five years, and Catarina six. ”

Luz was silent, staring at Maria, hut Catarina
dropped a small curtsy and then darted behind Erlinda, who laughed
and drew her out in front of her own full skirts again. “Maria is
from Mexico City,” she said, and both little girls regarded Maria
with the same kind of awe that she remembered reserving for the
viceroy himself. She smiled as the little girls looked at each
other and giggled.

Catarina took a step forward. “You have come all the
way from Mexico City to stay with us?” she asked, and then turned
to her sister. “Imagine such a thing, Luz!”

Luz only nodded and drew closer to Erlinda, who
absently straightened the collar on the child’s dress and patted
her head.

“I suppose I have come all that way to stay with
you,” Maria said. “It would seem that way.”

Catarina looked at her older sister. “Was this
Diego’s idea?” she asked.

Erlinda smiled, her face lit with an inner repose
that Maria was already coming to recognize. “I suppose it was,” she
replied gently, her hand still on Luz’s head but her eyes on
Maria.

Catarina advanced again. “Diego brings things home,”
she confided, then retreated in earnest behind Erlinda’s skirts
when Maria laughed and clapped her hands.

“He probably surprised even you this time,” Maria
said.

“Maria, you will come to know my brother better,’’
exclaimed Erlinda, torn between embarrassment at Catarina’s words
and amusement over her brother. “I suppose the other rancheros
laugh at him, but he is the son of his father, and we would wish
nothing different.”

Luz looked at her older sister and tugged at her
sleeve. Erlinda leaned down and listened to her little sister
whispering in her ear. She straightened and patted both girls. “By
all means, you may go. I imagine Martin el Viejo is wondering how
he can possibly get the honey from the hives without the two of you
to tell him how to go on.”

The girls scampered away, samplers forgotten. Maria
watched them. “They are charming,” she said to Erlinda, who had
walked over to the bench and was examining the morning’s work.

She held up Catarina’s effort and made a face.

“Do you remember your first sampler?” Erlinda asked,
holding up the grubby cloth with thumb and forefinger.

“Indeed,” answered Maria, “Mama kept it in her ...”
She stopped. The sampler must have been discarded with all the
other useless rubbish by the solicitors. Everything she owned was
gone, all treasures large and small. She stood in someone else’s
dress now on someone else’s patio, her feet bare. She tugged at one
of her braids, unable to meet Erlinda’s eyes.

Erlinda put down the embroidery, her voice smooth as
she gently glided over the awkward moment. “Sometimes I think of my
sisters as my own children. Luz was born after Papa’s death. It
seems they have always been in my charge.”

Maria made an effort to carry her thoughts away from
Mexico City. “But what of your mother?”

“I will take you to her, and you will understand us
better.”

They left the patio and continued down the hall
together. Erlinda paused at a bright blue door, knocked and
entered. Maria followed.

The room was dark. Erlinda crossed to the window
that opened onto the hallway by the patio and pulled back the heavy
curtain. “Mother, I have a guest for you to greet.”

Even with the curtain open the room was deep in
morning shadows. A woman sat in a straight-backed chair by the
altar, a little woman with curly black hair drawn back in a chignon
low on her neck, the shorter hair curling around her face. As she
turned, Maria saw that she was blind.

Erlinda led Maria closer, took her hand and put it
on her mother’s. The woman grasped Maria’s hand with a firm
grip.

“Mama,” said Erlinda, bending close to the small
woman. “This is Maria, she of whom Diego spoke.”

Maria leaned closer to the woman. Diego resembled
her, with the same black hair and brown eyes. But while his eyes
seemed to be a window on his soul, Señora Masferrer’s eyes were
without depth, mirroring no emotion.

She reached up and patted Maria’s face gently.
Lightly she ran her hand over the contours of the young woman’s
face, pausing on the chin and jawline. “I feel considerable force
of will.”

“You can tell that from my face?” asked Maria,
kneeling by the woman’s chair.

The blind woman smiled, her smile reaching
everywhere on her delicate face except her dead eyes. “And I am
seldom wrong, child. But now, are you sitting by me? Good. Diego
told me about you this morning. How pleased we are that you have
chosen to honor our hacienda with your presence.”