Hers the Kingdom (25 page)

     "Are you?" I asked, my voice shaking. "Are you really?"

     I turned my face to the wall again. When I awoke, she was gone.

     
March 11, 1895:
Ignacio's brother arrived from Mexico yesterday with sad news. Their mother is gravely ill, she wants to see her son before she dies. The brother rested a few hours, then returned—without Ignacio. The spring rodeo is to be held next week, we could not manage without him. Owen did not actually tell him he could not go. He shook his head in sorrow, but he did not say to Ignacio that he must leave, that somehow we would do the rodeo without him. (It has been so long since Owen took an active part in the ranch that I think he could not lead the rodeo, and Ignacio has trained no one to take his place.)

     Everything happens at once. For many months, now, Owen has planned to leave on the morning after the rodeo for a business trip which will keep him away for months. He must attend the board of directors' meetings for several companies, he must deliver a speech at his alma mater, he is to attend to family business in Massachusetts, where he has funded a school for the blind and another for orphans. At one of these, he will unveil a statue of himself. Then he is to go on to England where he will advise several companies with large holdings in the American West.

     This time Willa will not be crossing the Atlantic with him. This time, she did not want to go. There are good reasons why she should stay, of course. But I am not sure any of those reasons apply. I am not sure of very much, anymore.

EXCITEMENT WAS SEEPING through the house. You could feel it rising out of the floorboards. Something about it—the expectation, I suppose—was sensuous and sharp, so that it was not hard to come awake. The fragrance of wood burning in the big cook-stove drifted up from the kitchen. Ignacio would have started the fire even earlier than usual this morning—hoping that he and Trinidad could have a solitary morning meal together before the rest of the house was awake. But that was not going to happen this day. On rodeo day nothing was as usual. I dressed in the dark, pulling on my riding skirt and a sweater against the March chill.

     Willa was in the kitchen. Even the serving girls—sluggish on the best of days—were dressed and, amazingly, had splashed the matted sleep from their eyes.

     "You can see the stars," Willa said as I entered.

     "I know," I answered, "it's going to be beautiful and clear, just as soon as the sun reaches over the mountains."

     Willa had not yet pulled her hair back into its trim bun and it tumbled, long and softly curling, about her shoulders as she leaned
over the stove to retrieve a dish from the warmer. A few wispy curls fell forward and the heat flushed her face, giving it the color I had not, until that moment, realized was missing. She looked as pretty as ever I had seen her—Willa was prettier as a woman than she had been as a girl—and yet she was preoccupied. And there was that lateral frown line on her forehead.

     Ignacio was sitting at the oak table that looks onto the garden, morosely chewing as Trinidad busied herself in the kitchen. Her mind would be racing, calculating all there was to do, seeing that the breakfast was served and done with so she could get on with the serious arrangements for the big meal that would follow the rodeo.

     In the midst of all the bustle only Soo Lin seemed unperturbed. He stood at the stove, cooking. As I entered he bowed to me and when I bowed back, as I did each morning, he shook with what seemed to be repressed laughter.

     As I had known, there was not going to be time for Ignacio and Trinidad to be alone and Ignacio did not like it, especially now, in his time of
la tristeza
—the sadness. He grumbled and left and Trinidad sighed. Now and then I had come upon them as they sat together early in the morning. Those were the only times I had seen Trinidad in total quiet, her hands peaceful in her lap.

     As the rest of the house began to crowd into the kitchen, anxious to eat and get on with the day, Willa nodded for me to follow her into the family dining room. A noise from the landing stopped us. We stood in place, all of us, looking up at Owen at the top of the stairs, tall and studiously somber, all in black . . . black broadcloth suit, expertly tailored, white ruffled shirt, and on his head the wide-brimmed hat of a Spanish Don. (Nothing colorful, nothing gaudy; black and white and dramatic. Spanish. Perfect. The effect, as Owen knew well, was stunning.)

     The kitchen girls murmured what sounded to be an
Ave Maria.

     
"El Patrón,"
Willa said out loud, breaking the spell. There was affection in her tone and a hint of laughter, so the servants would
know they were not expected to be worshipful, and so Owen would know that she knew he was play-acting. Owen was magnificent at play-acting and he loved celebrations.

     The girls clapped their hands, delighted with the appearance of this elegant, beautiful-looking man who was so perfectly the
Patrón
, the protector. In bits of English and Spanish they said how
magnifico
was his dress, how
rumboso
.

     Owen lifted his hat, grinning impishly, and followed us into the dining room, padding along in his bare feet. Owen disliked boots as much as he loved hats.

     He bent to kiss Willa, running his fingers lightly up her arm. She shivered and pulled away.

     "Sorry about last night, sweet," Owen said in too offhand a manner, "I seem to have fallen asleep in my little aerie again, face down on a beautiful
Danaus plexippus
, small wonder I didn't chloroform myself into oblivion. You'd have had to pin me to a page in my collection."

     Willa did not smile.

     
Again
. . . he had said
fallen asleep again
. I wondered how many nights he had slept in the little attic room he had taken to calling his "office," going over his collections, his butterflies and antique books; I wondered how often Willa slept alone in their big bed.

     She brushed her hair back in a sudden, awkward gesture and asked him, "Must you leave tomorrow? Must you go?" Her hand was clenched into a fist and for an instant I expected her to slam it down on the lace that covered the table.

     Owen covered her hand with his, not letting her pull away, and finally he said, "Listen to me, Willa. I have to go. You know that. You know how long it's been planned for me to give the address at Princeton, and you know about the meeting of the board of directors, not to mention . . ."

     "Not to mention . . ." Willa said, resignation in her voice, "I know." She slumped back in her chair, her hands limp in her lap.

     We ate in silence.

     More and more often of late our meals were eaten in silence.

     A year ago Willa would not have dreamed of asking Owen to cancel one of his business trips, not even a long trip as this one would surely be. He would have to travel to the East Coast, a full week's journey in itself. Even when Willa had been heavy with child she had not asked Owen to stay with her. Why would she ask him now?

     "Shall I ask Ignacio to delay . . ." Owen began.

     "No!" Willa cut him short, "you cannot. His mother is dying, she may be dead already. Ignacio and Trinidad must leave tomorrow." She hesitated, then added accusingly, "You have already asked them to delay once, for the rodeo."

     That was part of the puzzle, I guessed—Willa had not thought Owen would ask Ignacio to stay for so clearly commercial a reason. The spring rodeo was the most important day of the year on the ranch—all the cattle would be gathered in from the far reaches of range to be counted. New calves would be branded, ears cut in the distinctive pattern of the ranch, inferior bulls would be castrated. On a ranch as large as Malibu y Sequit, it was a grueling job. It was Ignacio who could accomplish it most efficiently—he knew the men, knew who was capable of what job, knew how to get the best work out of them. Ignacio ran the ranch. Owen was the Yankee businessman, dedicated to making a profit.

     "We'll need to ship some heifers in a few weeks, do you feel confident that I can manage a crew?" Willa asked.

     Owen broke a large piece of bread, buttered it painstakingly, took a mouthful, and chewed thoughtfully. Finally he said, "I think you can, of course . . . but you won't have to. I've hired a temporary foreman."

     She looked at him a long moment, not troubling to conceal a cold anger. I quickly excused myself and left, annoyed that whatever was between them should affect me, wanting to be free of the weight of it, free to enjoy the rodeo. Still, I could not help
but wonder why Owen would not have told her sooner, would not have discussed so important a matter with her.

     Before I could escape to my room a girl was sent to bring me back. "Sorry, Lena," Owen said, "but I wanted to be sure you understood that you are to continue handling the bookkeeping. I'll be straight with you, I waited too long to find this new man. I guess I thought something would come up . . ."

     Willa broke in, "You thought Ignacio's mother would cooperate and die, so he wouldn't have to leave."

     Owen ignored her. "I don't know what I was thinking," he said to me, "but I will feel more comfortable knowing you are in charge of the books. I haven't even met the man myself. He's been working on Judge Steven's place in the San Joaquin and he couldn't get away. He sent word he'll be here as early as he can be today. He comes well recommended for his work, but I'm sorry that I haven't met him myself, to make my own judgment. I'm told the man is restless—sound, but restless."

     "Restless?" Willa asked, "Do you count that a flaw in character, Owen?"

     I was surprised at the edge of bitterness in her voice. Owen, it seemed, was not. Before he could answer, she asked, "Will he—this Irishman O'Connor—will he answer to me?"

     Owen's jaw was set, but his answer was even. "His name is McCord. Connor McCord. And yes, I'll tell him to see you each morning for instructions, if you like." Owen was anxious to set things right, I could sense—he would be leaving tomorrow, and he did not want to leave with anger between them.

     Thad ran into the room, his two-year-old legs churning, and flung himself into his father's arms. Owen caught the child and hugged him, giving him a noisy smack on the lips which made both of them laugh.

     Willa rose and bent to blow out the lamp. In the first gray light of day I saw the pain in my sister's face and a shimmer of tears held back.

     "Ignacio may be back sooner than expected," Owen said, nestling the child against him, stroking his back.

     "Ignacio's mother is dying," Willa answered dully, "sometimes it takes a long time to die."

     For a long moment Owen was silent. Then he said, "The
vaqueros
will be here soon. I need to get my boots." As he rose, holding Thad still, he knocked over a tumbler of water. He seemed not to notice.

We stood on the verandah of the ranch house, all of us in a kind of order, a tableau. Owen, as tall and imposing a
Patrón
as Malibu y Sequit had ever seen, I had no doubt; to his left, Ignacio, the
mayordomo
; to his right,
La Patróna
, her hair loose about her shoulders still. The rest of us formed groups behind them, and all watched to the west for the first sign of the
vaqueros.
The whole of the household was there, waiting—some standing in clusters in the farmyard. Our own
vaqueros
waited in the shadows to join those who migrated from ranch to ranch for these roundups.

     We knew they were coming when the dogs at the gatehouse began to bark, the St. Bernard's low tones echoing up the canyon. As the first long shafts of light slanted over the mountains we saw them, first a glitter of silver on their saddles, then the dark figures riding slowly toward us. There were more than a dozen of them, measuring the light, riding to a rhythm dictated by the sea, by the surf which you could hear pounding against the beach, all the while moving inexorably closer. It was strangely stirring.

     As the dawn light reached a luminous shade of pearl gray, the
vaqueros
arrived and silently moved their horses to form a single line in front of Owen. Our own men joined them silently, not calling out
hola
, not yet. Ned and Joe Lattimore, our two raw-boned Kentucky boys, the only American cowboys on the ranch, kicked their horses into the back row. In their brown work clothes
the brothers looked awkward and out of place. The
vaqueros
were dressed in black, each with a white shirt. Many of their saddles were magnificently tooled and inlaid with silver. They sat their horses like centaurs, these men, these relics of another age in California. Before the Yankees came, the rodeo was a great occasion. Families would gather from miles around to gossip and eat and dance. The men would show their skills at riding and roping. Romances would happen, marriages be arranged. Now all that was left were the black suits, which the Spanish cowboys carried in their saddlebags, and the chance to display their skills at roping and riding, branding and cutting . . . The Yankees had cleverly kept those parts of the ritual that added to the profit margin.