Hers the Kingdom (14 page)

     She took my breath away, demolishing what little was left of my fortitude. All of the fear that had been gathering, kept curbed before strangers, broke loose now. I burst into tears and, once started, could not stop. Sara Hunt put her arms about me, she rocked and comforted me, and never once did she tell me not to cry.

     Sara knew that her words had not caused my tears. She had addressed me as one cripple would another, without pity. Her understanding was complete. I could not believe that anyone else could know, but she did. I would come to know that the only difference between us was that my deformity was visible.

     Settled in the red parlor of the Emory mansion that evening, next to a fire set to ward off the chill, Sara spoke in the voice I would come to know well—without reservation, as if we had made a pact, as if trust was already there.

     "Your sister looks radiant," she told me. "I was in Santa Monica not long ago to see the new baby and the new house."

     "Motherhood, I suspect," I said.

     "More likely fatherhood," Sara answered.

     I raised my eyebrows in question.

     "Fatherhood has made Owen the happiest man on earth," she answered. "And since Willa had quite a lot to do with that, she is radiant." Sara's frankness amazed me.

     "How old are you, Lena?"she asked suddenly.

     "Seventeen," I answered.

     "A baby!" she laughed.

     "And you? How old are you, then, Miss Sara Hunt?" I shot back, nettled at being called a baby.

     "Somewhat more than seventeen, though not much more," she laughed at me. "I am richer in experience than in years, however," she added mockingly.

     "I see," I said, not seeing at all, "I am a mere girl, but you are a woman of the world, is that right?"

     "I only wish it were!" she said, grinning, "I don't have any experience at all, but I do see quite a lot. Father Emory offers me a good vantage point. Shall I share it with you, Lena?"

     "I would like that," I answered, politely, being confused about what she meant.

     "I am serious," Sara responded, "I should very much like to have a true friend. I have never had one, you see. There has never been one in whom I could confide. We can be important to each other. Perhaps we are but girls, without experience, crippled girls. My life is as twisted as your back. I am
plain
, as they say. Ugly."

     "Don't . . ." I started, but she stopped me.

     "No Lena, no lies between us, not even kind lies. I need to accept my plainness, and if you are to be my friend, you must accept it too. Neither of us, I think, will marry—so there will be no husbands to complicate our friendship."

     I nodded, miserably, remembering my thoughts as I first glimpsed Sara.

     "I need a friend, Lena," she said. "I know you have Willa, but I hope there will be room for me in your life, too."

     I touched her hand lightly. "I've never truly had any friend but Willa. I should like to spend more time with you, to know you better. But I will be living in Santa Monica. It is far, isn't it?"

     "You forget," Sara said, "Father Emory is a railroad magnate. A trip to Los Angeles is nothing, not for a robber baron's daughter. Besides which, my cousin Charles lives there, and he is one of the few people I do care about."

     "Robber baron?" I asked, "Is that what you said?"

     "Of course," she answered, "Father Emory and his crowd, which by now includes your illustrious brother-in-law. All those men who are out to possess the great and golden West. We can have seats front row center, you and I, for that grand show."

     "Owen?" I said, "a robber baron?" I was giggling now; the image of Owen roaming the countryside, holding up strangers, was too wicked.

     "Well," Sara said, laughing too, "he hasn't quite reached that exalted level, perhaps . . . but he is making magnificent progress."

     "I don't understand," I said, serious now. "Is Owen doing something improper?"

     "Owen is doing nothing more than any of the other ambitious men of money are doing. He sees himself as a man with a mission, that mission being to guide the destiny of this new land. He needs power to do that, and money is power. It's a wonderful game they play, these men. Making money is the major effort. The goal is to be a millionaire before the age of thirty. Owen, of course, has managed to do much more than that."

     "How do you know?" I asked.

     "That Owen is a millionaire four times over?" she said.

     I gasped, and Sara smiled at my astonishment.

     "Father Emory makes it a point to know such things, and I make it a point to listen. So few people do that it is easy to learn whatever you want to know."

     I studied her. "Why did you want to know about Owen?"

     She did not hesitate. "Because of Willa, in the beginning. Because I care for her, and for Owen too. And then because I hoped that I could be friends with you, which would make me, in some ways, a part of the family. All very selfish, you see."

     "I don't think you are," I said, "but you do seem to be, well . . ."

     "Contemptuous?"

     "Yes," I answered uncertainly, "I suppose."

     "Perhaps I am, yes. Too much. I must watch myself."

     I smiled at her willingness to criticize herself, at her habit of looking at all things with an objectivity I could never manage. I thought: You will be a fascinating friend, Sara Hunt.

     "But to return to the subject of Owen," I said. "Tell me how he and Willa are being received?"

     She thought for a long while; I watched her in profile, her face further reddened by the glow of the firelight. "Well," she finally said, "Owen, of course, is both handsome and charming, which is more than most men, so he was a great favorite at once. His good Yankee business sense, his old family ties to the East, the thrill he gets from making money—all those things assured his success in what is called society in San Francisco." A smile flickered, was extinguished, "Willa, on the other hand, is another story. Willa caused quite a stir. Because she is taller than most men, and she has that wonderful, glacial set to her face. In fact, I heard someone call her 'The Ice Queen,' though not to her face, of course. There is something regal about her."

     "Willa?" I said in disbelief, "in her old brown corduroys?"

     "Oh, but you haven't seen Willa since Owen decided to dress her. I assure you, in French silks she is stunning," Sara countered, "but I do believe the quality that bothers most people is Willa's tendency not to chatter simply to fill empty conversational spaces. It makes them suppose she is thinking, and that is fearsome. Only plain women have leave to think, and they shouldn't let anyone notice."

     "But Willa
is
thoughtful," I argued.

     "Indeed she is, and the only man around who seems not to mind is Owen."

     "Praise be," I murmured. "Do people resent Willa, then?"

     "I suppose," Sara said, "the Reades are seen as the
real
aristocracy—Boston and Virginia—it drives the shopkeepers of Nob Hill wild. It makes them feel like toads in the presence of the prince and princess. But they are invited everywhere, here and down south, and Owen accepts all of the invitations."

     "Only Owen?" I asked.

     "Oh, Willa goes too, but I think she would much prefer to sit alone with Owen all day and all night long. She is mad for the man, as you must surely know." She paused, and then said, "They don't want the same things, you know."

     I thought about that for a time. I answered, "I
don't
know. I have seen Owen for seven days only, at the end of which he married my sister and left with her. I have only Willa's letters, but I must admit to being puzzled by some of what she tells me."

     Sara stared at me until I began to feel prickly. I realized that she was not so much staring as thinking. She shook her head.

     "I don't know either, I just have some thoughts. Those forbidden things. When I am about Owen I get the feeling that he is always thinking of what there is to do—and there is always something that needs to be done. He excises the superfluous parts of his life. He does not seem to believe in detours, but he wants to travel the straight line between points."

     "And Willa? What does she want?" I asked.

     Sara sat up as if weary. She stretched and rubbed her back.

     "Only Owen, I think," she answered, and then, switching subjects, added, "did you know she was up and about only one week after the baby's birth? The neighbors saw her riding her horse, and I gather they were scandalized. Owen was away, or I'm sure he would have kept her in bed."

     "From what I gather," I said, my face flushing in spite of myself, "Owen has no trouble at all accomplishing that."

     Sara clapped her hand over her mouth in feigned shock. "That makes me absolutely hungry," she said, "let's go steal something from the kitchen."

     We made our way, giggling, down a back passageway that was so narrow I assumed it to be for the servants. In the kitchen we found the cold cupboard and, stifling our laughter, helped ourselves to four macaroons wrapped in gold paper. We took a different route back to our rooms, this time stealing past the library door. Peeking
in, I saw a large man, his bulk overflowing the chair. We happened past at the very moment he let loose an enormous belch, an event which threatened to send us into spasms of uncontrolled laughter. Gasping, we fled up the stairway.

     I was seventeen, Sara nineteen. We were young women who had never truly been girls. Now, for the first time, I felt the joy of being as foolish as any well-brought-up, pretty young woman might be. Together, Sara and I could pretend to be normal. We need not hide from each other. Never, before or since, have I trusted anyone as quickly and as completely as I did Sara Hunt; and that trust would not, in all our lives, be broken.

The journey by rail from San Francisco to Los Angeles was tame, even dull, after having crossed the Sierra. As we drew close to Los Angeles, I began to feel as if I had entered a new, exotic land. Orchards, some of them new-planted, stretched in the distances—orange and lemon groves, and what I was told were olive and guava trees. The wheat and barley fields I recognized, and was glad for because they made me feel more connected to this bright, dry land. The train slowed to an exasperating crawl as we neared the new Arcade Station. My palms grew sticky, my heart began to palpitate. I closed my eyes and willed myself not to faint, not when I had come so far.

     I opened my eyes and saw Willa. She was sitting on the driver's seat of an open carriage, the better to look for me. She was squinting, her hand cupped over her eyes, searching for my face, a study in concentration. A small, excited sound escaped from me . . .
ooof.
And then she caught sight of me. Her face was transformed, she began to wave wildly. I wanted to cry, I was so happy.

     We sat close together on the ride to Santa Monica, Willa's hand in mine, Owen across from us, smiling too. I was too overcome to say anything at all, and Willa kept repeating, "You're here, you're here."

     When at last I was aware of where we were—in the open carriage traveling to Santa Monica—I began to look beyond the boundaries of the carriage, to the city of Los Angeles. It was like no other I had ever imagined. A peppertree threw its delicate shadow tracery onto a whitewashed adobe wall, next to a wooden structure newly built, upright and Yankee.

     Owen, watching me, said, "Notice the trees—a sure sign the Yankees have come to stay. We always plant trees."

     "Yet, some of the trees they plant seem out of place in this arid country," Willa put in.

     "Can a tree ever be out of place, my dear?" Owen answered mildly, and Willa smiled in return.

     When last I saw them together, they had been newly married strangers. Now, I realized with a certain jolt, they were intimates, having shared day-to-day concerns, having produced a child. There was a new ease between them, born of familiarity. They spoke in the abbreviated language of those who are accustomed to each other. It was as it should be, exactly. Willa and Owen were a unit, their lives enmeshed. I knew, even as I knew it could not be the same between Willa and me, loyalties had shifted.

     "You got on well with Sara, then?" Willa interrupted my thoughts. Her question could not have been asked at a more propitious time.

     "Oh, yes, you were right about Sara, Willa. I couldn't imagine I could become so fond of anyone in so short a time."

     "Sara is not just anyone," Owen put in, "all sorts of amazing thoughts are bounding around in that little head."

     "I discovered that exactly," I told him, smiling to myself and thinking that Owen would be startled to know some of Sara's thoughts.

     Owen pointed out to me the points of interest in this burgeoning new southern city, once no more than pastureland for great herds, now a dusty metropolis fast burying its Spanish origins.

     "Last year there was an enormous boom, everybody was buying and selling land, whole townships were being plotted out in the desert lands, it was amazing . . ." Owen began, and Willa took over.