Hers the Kingdom (22 page)

     The letter was published and the next issue carried six rebuttal letters, which the editor noted was only a small percentage of those received. Most agreed that cross-saddle was vulgar, showing a distinct lack of modesty. According to one English horsewoman, "Journalists short of 'copy' and women anxious for notoriety, periodically start the notion that ladies should adopt a man's saddle in preference to their own one. Anyone who takes
up this idea seriously must be either mad or wholly ignorant." And Nannie O'Donoghue, who has written a whole book on the subject of the sidesaddle, wrote another scathing reply: "Modesty is, in my opinion, a woman's most exquisite attribute; once this, or the semblance of it, is lost, her fairest charm is gone. Nothing could be more ungraceful or more unwomanly than for women to ride like men . . . I maintain that a lady who knows how to sit has a far safer and surer seat on a sidesaddle than a man can ever have, and that her grip of the pommels affords her infinitely greater security than a man's 'grip of the knees.'"

     Willa and I pored over the issue together, marveling at the tempest she had caused. "Such silliness," Willa said, "is hard for me to comprehend."

     Owen, in New York at the time, learned about Willa's letter in a novel way.

     "There I was," he told us when he returned on Tuesday, "sitting in the Olympic Club with John Bidwell—the Prohibitionist party's candidate for president, an old friend—and he hands me
Harper's Weekly
and says, wheezing, 'Now say there, Reade, you don't happen to know who this W.K. Reade woman is, do you?"

     Arcadia, who was visiting, widened her eyes and asked, "What did you say?"

     "I said, 'Indeed not!'" Owen shot back. "I told him that the female members of my family were far too refined to do anything so extraordinarily vulgar." He stressed extraordinarily.

     Willa looked at him fiercely. For a moment it looked as if she might fly into a rage. Then she saw the look of mock innocence in Owen's eyes, and we all had a good laugh.

     
May 1, 1893:
Pa is ill. We do not know just how ill, because the letters from home are conflicting. If we are to believe Val, Papa is on his deathbed. Bernie, writing to me, paints a far more tempered picture, detailing some of Pa's problems—a shortness of breath, poor color, sweat on the brow—but he also says that Pa continues to direct the work of the farm from his bed. Mama's letters were no
help at all, being, as they were, a curious mixture of recipes for the hearty soups she was making for Pa, complete with the medicinal qualities of each herb she used. She also gave us a detailed report on the weather for the past months, which she thinks has much to do with the course of the illness. Gib, whose letters are as spare as his words, said only that Pa was feeling "poorly," but the letter itself was an alarm.

     
May 15, 1893:
Trinidad's baby was born at 11:25 this morning. It is a girl, ten pounds, to be called Marcella. Mother and child are fine. We do not feel that both Willa and I can be away at the same time, leaving Trinidad responsible for Wen and Thad as well as her three young ones. I will stay here while Willa returns to Springfield, traveling with Owen as he returns to Massachusetts on business.

     
June 5, 1893:
Willa sends word that Pa is fully recovered and somewhat riled at what he calls "all the fuss" made over his illness. However, the doctors say that Pa has a weak heart and must not work so hard. "A man with so many sons shouldn't work at all," the doctor said, and Pa answered, "A man who does no work at all is not a man." When Willa told Owen what Pa had said, his eyes filled with tears.

     "We are in Chicago now," Willa writes. "We will return before the end of the month. I can scarcely stand being away from all of you—and the ocean and the sun and the cool sea breezes. After a month in the Midwestern summer, I have come to think of the Malibu as paradise."

     
September 11, 1893:
Aunt Emma and the Captain have finally come for a visit. I suppose we gave them little choice. On our last trip to Monterey we assured them that we could not come back until they came to see us on the Malibu. We are much excited, for they have not yet seen our little Thad. Being with Aunt Emma is strangely like visiting with both Mama and Pa.

     Aunt Emma is a small, quiet woman with the most peaceful eyes imaginable. There is something about the way she looks at you that makes you know she will try to understand anything you
might tell her. The Captain is bluff and hearty, a good-humored man who likes to play with the children. He was bouncing Thad on one knee when Pablito—a rousing, big boy—marched up and firmly deposited himself on the other knee, expecting to be bounced in exactly the same manner. The poor Captain! I must say he rallied, not letting us coax Pablito away, but doing his best to give the massive child a ride.

     For his part, Wen was happy to show off his prowess with the riata. He and some of the children of the ranch hands—Californios—spend much of their time practicing with the rope, swinging it over everything in sight, including each other.

     Aunt Emma came to my room yesterday at four, having observed that to be the hour each day that I rest, the only time I am alone.

     "I have promised your mother that I will speak with you," she said calmly. "She wants me to tell her how you are. I had not thought that I would need to ask, but I do."

     I could feel my face burn. I felt ashamed, why I do not know.

     "I have pain," I told her, "but less so than at home in Illinois. The heat and the dry climate help, I believe. Is that what you want to know?"

     "In part," she said thoughtfully. "I had guessed as much. I notice that when you are in Monterey, where it is damper, you seem to move with more difficulty than you have here, and I plan to tell your mama that. But the thing I wonder is—do you have full charge of the boys?"

     I was startled at the question. What could she be thinking?

     "No, of course not," I told her. "I do spend quite a lot of time with them. But Willa has a regular time each day with each of the boys. She makes a point of it. And Owen, well the children adore their father and he is, I think, the most loving man to his boys I've ever seen . . . when he is here."

     "When he is here," she repeated.

     "But that is a great deal of the time now. Owen has taken to ranching . . ."

     "Owen is a good man, yes indeed," she said in her kindly way, "I've always known that to be." When she looked at me, her gray eyes were full of light. "The children are lucky to have such an auntie," she said, patting my hand.

     "And I am lucky to have them," I answered, in a very small voice, knowing that she would know what I meant, this childless woman who had been banished to California before she could see any of her dear friend's children born.

     "Oh, yes, yes indeed," she answered. For a moment I thought she had something more to say, and I waited.

     When she said nothing, I told her, "Willa and Owen will be going East again in the spring. I plan to go with them as far as Chicago, and take the two boys to see their grandparents."

     I did not say that I was taking the boys so that I would have a reason to return. I did not tell her that I had not gone back to Illinois for fear that I would not be allowed to leave.

     
December 18, 1893:
Arcadia has come for a few days before Christmas, but she must return to spend Christmas Eve and Day with the Señora, much of it praying in the damp old Mission. Sara is here, too, with Charles, and they will stay through the holidays. The house is decorated with great boughs of evergreen and orange berry bushes. It has been perfectly clear, bright, bracing weather, sharp and cool in the early mornings.

     Willa and Arcadia take long rides into the hills. Willa is tracking a gyrfalcon, rare to this territory. She feels it must have been swept off course by the recent windstorms that have plagued the Southwest.

     We cannot walk on the beach without having asphaltum appear on the bottoms of our shoes. It lies under the sand so we cannot see it until it appears, a sticky black mess, on our feet and shoes. An oil well spurts from beneath the ocean off the coast north of us. When the petroleum evaporates the asphaltum is left. In some places, it is mixed with sand and applied to form a very smooth roadbed.

     Charles and Owen are as thick as thieves, having entered into some new oil leases in Ventura County. One day, they tell the rest of us, Western oil wells will prove as profitable as those in Pennsylvania. When I suggested they go into the business of harvesting the asphaltum from the beach, both men allowed as how there might be a "tidy" profit to be made there. I know full well that neither is interested in "tidy" profits.

     The two have become known as the "terrible twins" in Los Angeles business circles, Willa told me. Indeed, they do always seem to be two steps ahead of everyone. Lately they have been talking about water rights and electricity. Los Angeles is amply supplied with water by its artesian wells, so I am not sure why they are talking water. As for electricity, well . . . Los Angeles has had electric lights for a number of years, but I can't believe that it is anything more than a spectacle—and a dear one, at that.

     Charles is much involved in the municipal railway, which I must admit is proving to be a marvelous asset for Los Angeles and all the surrounding towns. You can, if you wish, play in the snow on Mt. Lowe in the morning and that same afternoon swim in the ocean—all because of the railway. Owen tells us that those big red cars have made Charles a rich man on his own, quite apart from Phineas' many millions. To which Willa answered, caustically, "That must give Charles a bit of room to breathe."

     I only wish that Sara's fortune were not controlled by Phineas Emory. But Sara brought wonderful news—the best Christmas gift I could hope for. She is moving to Los Angeles. She will take up residence in the Palms, a hotel only a short distance from Charles' home in Pasadena. She has told me often enough how much she longs to live in our southland, closer to those she cares most about in this world: Me, Willa, and Owen, and, of course, Charles.

     Sara seldom speaks of Helen. I do know that Helen has not come to visit for some months, because I have asked Sara. She is vague and says she doesn't know why, but that it is perfectly
agreeable to her that Helen stay at home and keep Phineas Emory company. I say "amen" to that.

     
April 9, 1894, Porter Farm, Springfield, Illinois:
With Willa and Owen in Europe, the boys and I are visiting Mama and Pa and my brothers. We came as far as Chicago with Willa and Owen. Gib met us, and brought us to the farm. Thad and Wen are having a wonderful time with their uncles. The puppet show last evening had a grand finale which featured two new puppets—Wen and Thad. They were beside themselves with joy, and their pealing children's laughter more than repaid their uncles for the trouble.

     Mama and Pa are well. Everything is changed and nothing changes. Mama scarcely leaves the house, but I have discovered that in time of real need, she can.

     Soon after we arrived Thad chased a ball into the barnyard. I was in the smokehouse at the time, but Mama was watching from the kitchen window. She saw three mules break loose from Persia and gallop full out toward the barnyard, and Thad. I came out of the smokehouse in time to see Mama race through the gate, snatch up Thad, and wave off the mules with a towel she was carrying. My heart was pumping madly. Even so, I remember thinking that I could hardly believe such a heavy woman could move as fast as Mama had moved.

     Holding a bawling Thad out to me she said, "Go to your Mama." She makes that mistake often, I suppose because she has never seen Thad and Wen with Willa.

     
April 23, 1894:
Willa writes from London: "The winter crossing on the
Kaiser Wilhelm Der Grosse
was not the most felicitous. Owen, for some profane reason, was not at all troubled by
malaise de mer
, as the French so euphoniously refer to what must be the world's most wretched condition. Even when half the crew were turning a bizarre shade of green, Owen could still eat tins of oysters, for which I am having a great deal of trouble forgiving him. I quite thought I would die and at one point made preparations for just such an event. (You will
be pleased to learn that you are to have that exquisite single strand of pearls Grandmother left me.)

     "After three miserable days the seas calmed and I was able to consider the possibility of surviving. (I refuse, however, to consider the return journey and I am trying to devise some other way of returning to my native shores.)

     "We are staying as guests in the home of Mr. Thomas Bayard and his wife, Mary. (He is our ambassador to England.) You can rest assured that our accommodations are elegant, indeed. We have also been entertained by Mr. and Mrs. Henry White. Mr. White is with our embassy, and is a long-time friend of Owen's. Mrs. White is an
impressive-looking
lady. Recently she was painted by an American artist who has chosen to spend his life in the rare social circles of Paris and London. His name is John Singer Sargent. He has become quite in demand as a portraitist, and nothing would do but that Owen should commission Mr. Sargent to paint my picture.

     "When Owen said this to Mrs. White she lowered her eyes and murmured something to the effect that she was sure that, once the artist had seen Owen, he would want to paint him. I said I thought that a thumping good idea. Can't you see a portrait of Owen over the breakfront in the dining room? It is the perfect place for a dramatic oil painting in the style of Velazquez. Wouldn't Owen have fun playing the Spanish Don?

     "At any rate, it was arranged that Mr. Sargent should come to tea at the Whites', clearly to have a look at me. The talk is that Sargent is able to paint not just one's likeness, but one's
character
—hence one must have a certain amount of courage to sit for the man.

     "For quite a long while the artist said nothing. He studied me quite openly, as a seamstress might have, had she been commissioned to create a gown. I decided that either I could blush and feel foolish, or I could look at him directly in order to make his assessment of my physiognomy as brief as possible. This I did.