Nan Ryan (24 page)

Dawson took her hand and sat her on the edge of the bed. “Dear, young ladies are supposed to sleep alone. I thought you’d be pleased to have a room all to yourself.”

“I am,” she said, clutching his hand, “but I am afraid. I am with my brothers and sisters all my life and it is strange to sleep alone. I want to come into your bed, please.”

“No! Maria, one of the first things you must learn is that you do not sleep with men!”

She dropped her head, hurt. “You do not like me, Dawson. If you did, you would want me in your bed, you would make love to me.”

Dawson put a finger under her chin and raised her face to look at him, “Listen to me. I like you very much, but I do not love you. If I made love to you, it would mean nothing so it would be wrong. You are lovely, Maria and I could easily be persuaded to take you to my bed, but I’m not going to do it. I want to be your friend, dear. You need a good friend as you obviously have never had one. Now, I want you to go back to your room and I don’t want you coming in here ever again. If you are frightened, you may leave my door open and yours. I’ll be right here, so you needn’t be afraid. All right?”

“I guess so,” she looked at him, disappointed.

“Good! Now go back to bed and sleep well, my little Maria. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She rose and smiled, leaned down to kiss his cheek, “If you should change your mind …”

“Go!” he commanded and she left.

The months that followed were pleasant for Dawson as he watched the dirty, little urchin he’d brought home from the cantina turn into a well-mannered, polished young woman. She proved to be an apt pupil and spent long hours with Dawson, listening and learning. They were together constantly and Delores noticed that Maria was not the only one benefiting from the mentor-protégée relationship. Dawson became less moody, laughed more, and drank less. He started eating all the fine foods Delores prepared and complimented her on her cooking skills. He dressed for dinner each evening and insisted Maria do the same. The evening meal turned into a pleasant, formal affair and Delores was delighted. She placed silver candelabra on the dinner table along with fresh cut flowers from the garden Pedro tended. She served the meals in courses in a grand manner and smiled to herself when Dawson escorted an immaculately groomed Maria into the dining room on his arm, pulled out her chair, then took his own place. Maria watched him intently and parroted his gestures, learning for the first time which fork to use. She sat in her chair with her back straight and rigid, no longer slumping or grabbing food off the platters as she had done when she first arrived.

After dinner, Maria would take Dawson’s arm and go into the library with him for coffee and a glass of brandy. Dawson would light a cigar and sit talking to her about art and music, sometimes quizzing her on past conversations on the subjects. She would sit primly on the chair, a lace fan stirring the air, and sip her brandy slowly, listening with interest to what he was saying. Delores would come in to pour more coffee from a silver pot and was amazed by the intelligent conversation. Smiling, she would leave the room and go to bed thinking what a fine man Dawson Blakely had turned out to be.

After Pedro and Delores retired each night, the formal scene they witnessed in the library turned into one more warm and intimate. “Dawson, I can stand these corsets no longer,” Maria would say, “I cannot breathe and I don’t care if it does give me an eighteen-inch waist. I’m miserable! Sitting on these crinolines and hoops is not easy, either.”

Dawson would laugh and say, “Dear, no more torture for today. Run put on your nightgown and we’ll read some.”

“Thanks, Dawson,” and Maria disappeared to her room. Dawson would rise, take off his jacket, cast aside his cravat, and unbutton his white ruffled shirt. Then Maria would sit on a footstool at his feet, reading aloud, being corrected by him when she mispronounced a word, while he gingerly brushed her long, dark hair. Her beautiful hair fascinated Dawson and he never tired of brushing it, touching it, feeling its silky loveliness.

On nights that were especially warm, the two would stroll hand in hand down the beach, Maria’s white nightgown whipping around her body, her feet bare, Dawson, shirtless, his lean brown chest gleaming in the moonlight, while he pointed out stars and their names to his wide-eyed little friend. Or they would sit in the sand, looking out at the endless ocean, Maria leaning her head on Dawson’s shoulder while he smoked his cigar and told her about America and the rest of the world, making her geography lessons interesting and exciting.

Dawson bought Maria a gentle horse and she squealed with delight when she saw the beautiful palomino, promptly naming it Golden Glitter. She wanted to ride it immediately and Dawson told her to go inside and put on the pretty new riding habit he’d bought her while he put the new silver-studded saddle on Golden Glitter’s back. Maria was soon back, lovely in the black wool habit, the bolero jacket reaching just to her midriff, the ruffled white blouse buttoned to her chin, the red silk tie flying in the wind, the black felt hat set jauntily at an angle on her head, held in place with a red drawstring under her chin. Dawson lifted her astride the palomino, mounted his own black colt, and together they rode down the beach. Within weeks, Maria had learned to ride, spent every spare moment atop her beloved horse’s back and challenged Dawson to races through the rocky countryside. He often let her win so he could hear her joyous laughter as she turned victoriously, her horse rearing up, waiting for him to catch up, her face a vision of happiness, health and youth.

She would jump down from her horse, breathless, and drop to the ground on her back, casting aside her hat, tears of laughter in her bright brown eyes. Dawson would drop down beside her, laughing too, while the horses grazed peacefully, glad to have the spirited riders off their backs. The sun warming their faces, Dawson and Maria would lazily lie on the grass, talking of the things she would learn tomorrow, and next week, and next year. Dawson would ask her what her dreams were.

Maria leaned up on an elbow to look at him, a long blade of grass in her fingers, tickling his face, “Well, I’ll tell you my secret dream, Dawson.” She laughed, looking at his closed eyes, “I want to marry a handsome matador!”

Dawson opened his eyes, “Sweetheart, matadors are not exactly the aristocracy of Spain. Most of them come from very humble beginnings, much like you and me.”

“I do not care! They are brave and handsome and they are rich. They have very good lives. Besides, that’s my second choice, really,” she looked at him coyly.

“What’s the first?” he said, smiling up at her.

“You.”

“Now, Maria.”

“I mean it. I would like to marry you, Dawson. Have I not learned to be a lady just as you wanted? Am I not beautiful and polished as you taught me to be?”

“Yes, dear, you are, but I cannot marry you.”

“Why not? I will make you happy if you let me.”

“Maria,” he said and his eyes clouded, “I’m already in love with a woman.”

“Then why are you not married to her?”

Dawson closed his eyes and said, “She is already married to another.”

“She married another when she could have had you? She must not be very smart.”

Dawson opened his eyes and reached up to touch a long, dark curl. “No, Maria, it is I who is not very smart. But, I’ll tell you what, I am smart enough to see that you get to marry your handsome, brave matador.”

“Really, Dawson?” She was excited, “How? How will you do it?”

“In two or three weeks, I’ll take you to Madrid. We will go to the finest restaurants and you will wear beautiful new gowns. We will find out which places the matadors frequent and I’ll take you to them. You’re incredibly beautiful, Maria, and when they see you, I guarantee they will fall in love with you.”

“Oh, thank you, Dawson,” and she threw herself down on him, kissing his face happily.

At least once a week, Dawson took Maria home to visit her family. Delores would bake cakes and pies, hams and roast beef for Maria’s many brothers and sisters. All the children would run happily to meet Dawson and their beautiful, well-dressed sister. Dawson enjoyed the visits and found the hugs and kisses from all the little brown children welcome and his affection for them grew with each visit.

He brought them clothes and books and toys and food. He held them on his lap and wrestled with them on the floor, laughing and frolicking as though he were their age. He scolded and spanked them when they were naughty, he praised and hugged them when they were deserving, he worried and walked the floor when they were sick. He was their playmate, teacher, father, brother and loved them as much as they loved him.

He gave their mother money. He hired the older boys to help Pedro tend the gardens at his own villa. He had Delores teach the older girls to cook and paid them each time they turned out another chocolate cake or apple pie which were his favorites. He told Pedro to start looking around in the village for a bigger, nicer home for the large family. Pedro wasn’t long in finding the ideal place and Dawson, Maria, Pedro, and Delores helped the happy family move into their new home while Maria’s mother wrung her hands and cried in happy gratitude.

Of all the children, three-year-old Arto was Dawson’s favorite. A beautiful little boy, he smiled constantly, showing his perfect white teeth. When Dawson was around, Arto was never far away from him. If Dawson wasn’t carrying him, which he usually was, Arto was by his side, following him, holding on to Dawson’s trouser leg. He clearly worshiped the tall, dark man who gave him pretty presents. Dawson often looked down into the adorable brown face, the black eyes flashing, and silently wished the lad were his son. Or that he had a boy like Arto. Dawson looked at the trusting face and felt a sadness weighing down on his chest. He had no heir. He would never have a son of his own and that knowledge made him melancholy and lonely. It made him long for the life he could have had with his lost love, Kathleen Beauregard. As man and wife, they would have produced handsome, dark sons and lovely, blond daughters. But it was not to be.

Dawson found it impossible to sleep one night after a visit to Maria’s family. He rose from his bed, pulled on a pair of trousers, and tiptoed past Maria’s open bedroom door, down the hall, and outside. He walked the beach, dropped his trousers, and waded out into the ocean. The water was cold and chilling, its iciness invigorating. He swam easily through the pounding waves. Fifty yards from shore, he turned over on his back and saw her. Maria saw Dawson and waved happily, then unashamedly pulled her nightgown over her head and threw it to the ground. Dawson watched her splash naked into the water, her beautiful brown body gleaming in the bright moonlight. He decided not to scold her, but knew it was time to take her to Madrid and get her safely married to her handsome bullfighter. She was much too young and lovely, he was weakening. If he were to remain only her friend and teacher, the close relationship must end before he himself violated all his own moral teachings.

She was swimming to him, laughing, gliding through the water as easily as he had. “I didn’t know you knew how to swim,” he called to her.

“I decided that, although you’ve taught me everything else, you never intended to teach me to swim. So I teach myself. I come down here every night after you are asleep and I swim and swim.” She reached him and threw her arms around his neck, “I love to swim, but it is more fun with you here.”

Her bare body was close to his own and Dawson shuddered, pulled away, and said, “I’ll race you to the pilings,” swimming away. She took up his challenge and sliced through the waves beside him. Forgetting their nakedness, they were fish and mermaid and played freely in the water. She pushed his head under, laughing wildly, the smile disappearing when he failed to surface. She looked around, shouting his name in fear, when he came up under her, tugged on a leg, pulling her down with him. Together they emerged, laughing and gasping for air, before continuing farther and farther from shore.

They clasped their tired arms around the splintery, white pilings, breathing heavily and pushing wet hair from their eyes. The full moon over them beamed down as bright as daylight on their bodies that were exactly the same color.

“I think I’ll leave you here,” Dawson teased and swam a few feet away.

“It’s you who’ll be left behind,” she retorted and swam past him. He laughed and came after her, passing her easily. He turned to wait for her, grabbed her waist, held her high up over his head while she laughed and screamed, then tossed her backwards into the water. Dawson tread water and waited for her to emerge. She came up behind him and climbed onto his back, wrapping her legs around his waist. She laughed and pulled on his thick black hair until his head came back and they both fell over into the water.

When they came up again, Dawson said, “We’re pretty far out, Maria, we’d better get back.”

“Yes, Dawson,” she laughed and together they headed for shore. Halfway there, Maria tired. She grew panicky, felt herself slipping under the current. She emerged briefly and cried, “Dawson, Dawson,” and he turned and swam to her. He reached her just as she was slipping below the surface again, her eyes frightened, her mouth full of water. His arms came around her and easily pulled her up. She clung to him frightened and coughing. She gasped, “I’ll drown, I …”

“No you won’t, darling,” he said and pushed the thick wet hair from her face.

“I can’t make it back, I’m too tired, I’m afraid,” and her arms tightened around his neck.

“I’ll take you in, Maria. Now relax, lay on your back, you’re safe with me.”

She did as Dawson commanded, trusting him completely. Dawson put a long arm across her chest and easily swam back to shore as she lay against him.

“Thank you, Dawson,” she said when they reached waist-deep water. They stood together and she put her hands to his shoulders.

“
De nada
,” he said and dropped his arms away from her. “Now, Maria, I want you to get out of the water, put your nightgown back on, and go into the house and to bed.”