Hers the Kingdom (52 page)

Often, when Willa was happy, she would write a letter. I received the first scarcely a week after their departure. Her long, loose hand looped over the paper. She was writing quickly, as if to transfer her exuberance to the paper: "Aunt Emma is looking remarkably well and the Captain is as charming as ever, if a bit forgetful in his age. Even so, he has found the most devoted listener in Thad, whom he regales for hours with tales of his early days, sailing and soldiering. (Some of these tales, Owen wickedly suggests, are remarkably similar to stories he has read in
Harper's Monthly
, but we agree that it is eminently forgivable, if the Captain wishes to borrow some experiences.)

     "We are having, as you may have surmised, a glorious time together. I do believe that Thad grows more like his father each day, which of course endears him even more to me. The boy hopes to be able to convince his father that he should remain in the West, to finish his schooling here. He would, he tells me, even find San Francisco preferable to the East. When Sara came to see us a few days ago, the little rascal enlisted her in his campaign. She promised to look out for him, should we decide to send him to the Tucker School there. Dear, sweet Sara. But I fear their plotting will have little effect on Owen. He seems certain the Eastern 'connections' are necessary for the sons who will one day run his empire. ('Empire' is my word!)

     "I have been thinking about my first night in San Francisco, at the Lick House. Perhaps the room Aunt Emma gave us is responsible
for that warm memory. Owen and I have the same sort of heavily carved bedstead, and our room looks out over the hills to the sea. The other morning Aunt Emma and the Captain took Thad off on a fishing expedition before dawn, planning to be gone most of the day. Left alone in our lovely big bed, we lolled shamelessly most of the morning. Such luxury! I feel very like that girl who fell into her wedding bed in San Francisco, sixteen long years ago.

     "Owen leaves tomorrow for Arcata—actually, a little town called Freshwater nearby. He will be gone only a few days, but I miss him already! (You are thinking that I sound like a silly girl, and of course you are right. But this
is
a kind of honeymoon.) I shall use the time to track a Cooper's hawk I have noticed in the pines. Thad wants to come hawking with me. He says it will make a good paper for his class in the natural sciences, which makes me think that he is prepared to return to St. Paul's.

     "I hope you are getting on well with Wen and his pompous friend. Be sure to make them mind the mark. I have some doubts about that young man—and I do wish Wen weren't such a sheep. But I am too happy, just now, to worry over my eldest, and I won't. I will write again after Owen leaves. Just now, I am going to join him on the beach for a lovely, leisurely walk."

Willa's doubts were prophetic. With Owen and Willa gone, Wen assumed the attitude of lord of the manor. I had not thought him capable of such vulgar arrogance. He tolerated me, but just. What was worse, the two made demands of the servants that were, at best, capricious, and more often insulting. I found myself sending Aleja to do chores away from the house, so that she would not have to be subjected to the barrage of orders the boys could generate.

     Finally I could stand it no longer, and called Wen to task. At first, I tried to explain that addressing Aleja as "girl" when he had
grown up with her, had known her all her life, was a very rude thing to do. I explained that his parents treated the staff politely, that the Spanish were very sensitive to slights. In answer, he made a short, cold speech to the effect that his father had not intended for me to act as his nanny, that he was quite old enough to be responsible for himself and for his friend.

     Stung, I tried not to feel the revulsion that was rising within me. He was, I reminded myself, only fifteen, and big for his age. He was really still very young; perhaps it would be well to give him some latitude.

     Scarcely a day went by without some complaint being lodged against the two. I would have put it down to schoolboy pranks, had not some of their "pranks" been so cruel. Aleja came to tell me they had taken Marcella's little kitten, a fluffy bit of ginger fur, and thrown it into the pen where the cowboys were keeping two wild dogs they had found running loose in the hills. The dogs tore the little kitten to pieces in minutes.

     "Oh, Aleja, they couldn't," I said.

     She bit her lip and nodded, to tell me they could.

     "Pablito saw it," she said, "Ned had to hold him, so he wouldn't attack Wen."

     I wished that Willa and Owen would return quickly. Their presence would supply the control the boys would recognize. I considered asking Willa to cut short their trip, but they were having such a good time that I was loath to end it. I felt I could manage, a few more days.

I was sitting in the front parlor, studying the calendar. Owen was to return to Monterey today, Trinidad and Ignacio would be back tomorrow . . . Marcella appeared at the door, eyes wide and dark. She was gulping for breath.

     "What is it," I asked, rising. Marcella's very presence signaled
something urgent. Trinidad's children almost never ventured beyond the kitchen.

     "
Por favor
," she said, crying now, "Aleja . . ." She took my hand and pulled me, making small gasping noises. I followed her across the lawn, limping as fast as I could.

     Soong was at the edge of the garden, pitchfork in hand.

     He came running, then raced ahead of us to the barn, where Marcella pointed. I stumbled and paused to steady myself, but Marcella urged me on, into the barn's dim recesses.

     The sounds were strange—not so much voices as growlings, rife with fear. In the dim light I saw Soong struggling with Pablito, trying to get control of the knife the boy was wielding. Wallace Sayre was thrown against the wall, his pants open revealing white, exposed flesh. On the ground at his feet, Wen's knees were pinning down a girl's arms. It was Aleja. Her dress had been pulled up and her underclothes torn away, so that she lay naked, the dark triangle of hair exposed between open legs.

     "Dear God!" I screamed, and the words seemed to trigger an explosion. Wen jumped up. I ran to the girl, who lay quiet, her eyes glazed and dull.

     Soong had dropped the pitchfork, and Wallace was moving for it when I found my voice. "Stop right there if you expect to get out of this alive."

     Pablito struggled in Soong's firm grasp, rage fueled his young body, it radiated from him. He would, he snarled in Spanish, cut out their hearts . . . he would, he said more slowly in broken English, perform the
castrado . . .

     I covered Aleja's nakedness and held her, at the same time pulling Marcella close.

     "Auntie," Wen began to whine . . .

     "Stop it," I all but shouted, "be quiet and listen. If Wing Soong will help me, I'll try to get you out of here alive. Your other choice is to be horsewhipped or have your throats slit." I held young Sayre's gaze and I did not try to hide my contempt.

     "They will not get away alive," Pablito said, and none of us doubted he could carry out his threat. It was all Soong could do to hold him. The epithets that came from the child's mouth amazed me; it was rage beyond anything I had ever witnessed.

     "Listen to me, Wen," I said over the noise, "what you have done is bestial, unforgivable, but there is no time for that now. Soong will take you to town. Put Wallace on the first train East. Go to Joseph Brennan in Santa Monica, tell him I have directed you to withdraw whatever money is needed for the ticket. Then you stay with Joseph until your parents return. Wing Soong, tell Joseph what happened, and tell him to keep Wen safe."

     Soong locked Pablito in the tack room, and they were away in a matter of minutes, leaving me with Trinidad's children—the girls sobbing quietly, Pablito cursing in rage and pounding against the door.

     I felt a terrible weariness. I had saved the lives of two stupid boys. What they had done was barbaric, but I could not see them punished as the
vaqueros
would surely punish them. I put my arms around Aleja and rocked her quietly, sick with worry for her, for what their brutish attack would do to her.

     If only, I thought, I had called Willa and Owen home. Poor Willa, I thought, to have her lovely summer shattered.

     I could not know that Willa's world had already been shattered.

Early the next morning, Joseph and Arcadia appeared at the ranch, their faces grave and Arcadia's eyes red-rimmed. I was not entirely surprised; they would want to know, for themselves, what had happened at the ranch, Soong would not have gone into any detail. The grim look on Joseph's face was disquieting. Joseph had, always, been able to see the favorable side of things, he was always encouraging. What more, I wondered, could the boys have done?

     "Lena, my dear," Joseph said, and his voice chilled me, "prepare yourself for some bad news, very bad."

     "Ignacio," I whispered, "Did he . . . Wen . . .?"

     "No, no, Wen is safe," he said, handing me a telegram.

     It was to Joseph, it was from Willa and it said:
My darling Owen died this morning. We are bringing him home on evening train August 4. Please tell Wen, Lena and make necessary arrangements for funeral.

     They helped me into the house and sat with me in silence. The only sounds in the still of the summer's day was Arcadia's soft weeping. I sat, holding a letter that Joseph had given me with the telegram, a letter from Willa, written only a few days ago, but in another lifetime. Distractedly, I opened it, let my eyes wander over the pages of happy, open loops that had been written in haste. My eyes caught a line, stopped. My heart fluttered, I felt faint.

     "I have such wonderful news," Willa wrote, "I cannot wait to tell Owen that I am about to make him a papa again, at age forty-three. A whole new life! He will be so delighted . . ."

     Owen was dead, Willa was with child.

     And so, too, was I.

The Malibu: Women and Children,
1908-1912

WE HAD BEEN waiting on the verandah for more than an hour. Willa had never been good at waiting, her impatience was giving way to anger. She paced the length of the verandah and paused for a long moment to consider a hawk wheeling at the top of the ridge. It dipped over and under, was out of sight and then back again, circling in low, lazy arcs.

     "I think my mind must be slipping," she said, "I cannot seem to remember names . . . the young woman Sara wants to bring out from Philadelphia to tutor the twins . . ."

     "Sally Fairleigh," I told her.

     "Yes, Sally, of course."

     "Sara tells me that she is wonderfully witty, and quite accomplished for her age."

     "What is her age?" Willa wanted to know.

     "Almost eighteen," I said quietly, knowing that it was too young.

     "She's scarcely older than Thad, then," Willa put my own thoughts into words, "but I do trust Sara's judgment, and if Sara
feels the young woman would be good, then I feel we must give her a try. What do you think?"