Chapter Four
August – September 1850
A fortnight after the fiesta, Tom surprised Marcy when he agreed to a proposition from Mr Lancer that Marcy teach Maria Lancer to cook her grandmother's Scottish recipes.
"I said I didn't see why not," he said, giving her a sideways look that she couldn't, at first, quite figure out. "He said he'd pay for your time, and the sooner we can get our stake together, the sooner we can get back to the claim."
Oh. That was it, was it. Tom was determined to go back north to the goldfields. Marcy put a hand on her belly. The child was starting to show, rounding her midriff enough for her to loosen her stays an inch or two. She couldn't take the little one back there, to the mud and the hut. She couldn't take Emmie.
"Tom—"
"No, Marcy. We need to earn money and this is as good a way as any for you to do some of it." He glanced around. "There's not enough here to keep you busy, surely?" Ignoring her gasp, he went on, sly and surly together, "You're friendly enough with Lancer. If you had an ounce of sense you'd make that work for you. For us."
She stared at him, heart thudding and her fingers trembling. Friendly enough? What did he mean? Of course she was polite and welcoming to their employer! She wanted Tom to do well on the farm, for his worth to be appreciated.
Tom just scowled when she stammered this out, cutting her short. "I don't want to be a farmer for ever, Marcy. I left that behind. No, you'll go to the big house and you'll teach that greaser woman to bake cakes, and every penny you earn we'll put toward our stake."
Oh, but he was hard. Wrong headed and hard. Marcy dropped into a chair at the table. Emmie ran to hide behind her knees, clutching at Marcy's skirts. She pushed her head into Marcy's lap and whimpered. Tom wouldn't look at them. Where had he gone, the old Tom? The Tom who'd kneel at her side and cajole and plead, who once charmed the heart right out of her, who she could manage? She didn't know this Tom, the Tom who was cold and angry.
He did look at her then, just once. He jammed his hat on his head and went to the door. He'd planned to spend the day walking the fields to check on the crop, and weeding between the rows of corn and alfalfa. His face was hard.
Marcy's hand went out in a wide arc, as if to gather in the little house and hold it. It was so different now. The stove was like new, the doors and grates black-leaded and polished until her hands ached, the brass shining so bright she could use it for a mirror. She'd begged beeswax from the gardener, Arturo, who kept his hives in the hacienda garden. A few drops of lavender oil from her own little patch of flowers added scent, and she polished the furniture from the Lancer storerooms until it glowed. The wood had been thirsty for it, coming to life under her polishing rags, the colours that had been hidden under the dust of years gleaming rich brown and dark red. The chairs and table scented the whole house now with the warm smell of wax and the peppery sharpness of the lavender. She'd cut the old sheets that had wrapped the furniture in the storeroom into curtains for the windows, trimming them with strips of pink gingham from an old dress of Emmie's. Marcy had pieced that gingham strip so carefully, she'd defy anybody but the most skilled seamstress to see the joins. Her wedding quilt made the big bed in the corner bright. She'd even put a jug of flowers on the table that day. It was all so pretty now.
This was a home. It was a real home, their home. Why couldn't Tom see that?
"Tom, please! Look! This is such a nice place, with good people, and this house is so well-built and comfortable. I've got it looking so nice now. And look at my garden—" She waved her hand to the door. Outside the new green of feathery carrot tops and potatoes speared the earth, and bean vines clutched at the fences, growing almost as she looked at them. "It's a home, Tom. Our home. We could be so happy here—"
"Home! It's not home!" Tom turned on her. His face was white with anger, eyes glinting. He curled his hand into fists and she shrank back, frightened. "It's not mine, Marcy. It's not our house or our chairs or our garden. It's not ours. I'm nothing but a hand here, a hired hand just like Walt Peters. Me! Tom Dane, a hired man! I won't stand for it!"
"Tom—"
"You're bound and determined to hold me back, Marcy Dane, and I won't have it. I wish to God I hadn't brought you. I wish to God I hadn't brought you here just so you can drag me down. I won't let you do it." He stopped, his mouth working. He thrust his hands into his pants pockets. His fists strained against the thick denim. "But since you're here, you will do as you're bid. Go and teach her, and I want to see every cent Lancer pays for it. You hear me, Marcy? I won't take any arguments. You get to the big house and you work, for once. Earn your damn keep."
The door slammed shut behind him so hard, the little house rattled. Emmie squealed. Marcy stared at the door and dropped her hand onto Emmie's head to soothe her. Her fingers trembled. Her eyes prickled too, but she blinked that back.
So. She'd always known that the only way to hold Tom Dane was to let him go. She'd always known that Tom with his wings clipped would flail and flail, and break whatever he could reach in his fury. He couldn't bear being thwarted. If he thought she was trying to hold him back, to mould him, then he'd fight all the more to get his own way.
She would thwart him, though, as much as she was able. Because it wasn't that she couldn't go back north, but that she wouldn't. She wouldn't take the little one there, and she wouldn't take Emmie.
Tom could go by himself and let the cards fall whichever way they will. It was what he wanted, anyway.
And maybe what she wanted, too.
.
.
She couldn't say very much to Murdoch Lancer about her troubles, of course. She certainly wouldn't open up the conversation. She showed a cheerful face when she hitched up the wagon and drove herself and Emmie to the hacienda.
Mr Lancer met her when she drew up at the loggia at the front of the house and helped her down. Emmie was still subdued and clinging to Marcy's skirt. She wouldn't look at Mr Lancer or answer when he greeted her, but pulled the plain brown twill of the skirt out straight to make a flap to hide behind and wrap herself in.
Flattening the fullness of the skirt like that made the rounding of Marcy's stomach more obvious. Mr Lancer's eyes widened and her face burned.
He was very gracious. "Thank you for coming."
"It's a pleasure. I'll be pleased to give any aid I can to Mrs Lancer."
Marcy wasn't lying. She wasn't. If she could make herself necessary at the hacienda, make herself indispensable, then maybe she could turn this to her own advantage. Tom might get the money, but she might earn something more valuable. She might earn sanctuary.
"Well, I'm grateful." Murdoch Lancer hesitated, grimacing. "I'll be frank with you, Marcy. I would like very much for you to be a friend to Maria. She doesn't really know the ladies in town, you ken. We're no' members of their church to begin with—we had to convert to get the land, the first Mrs Lancer and me, and, well, that made it easier when I wed Maria so I haven't gone back to the Protestants. Maybe I should have... but then, her church means a lot to her. Trouble is, it cuts her out of a lot of things."
He'd called her by name. By her name. She hoped her face wasn't red. "Like the Ladies' Aid, you mean?"
"Aye. And anything else that's happening in Green River. When she goes to town, she goes to Morro Coyo. Of course, she knows some of the wives through the Cattlegrowers—Aggie Conway, and Jane Reagh for two. I'd like her to know them better, to get on better." Murdoch flushed. "For her sake, of course, but it will be better for John and any other bairns we have. I don't fool myself there."
She nodded. Tom wasn't the only one to sneer about the Mexicans or call them greasers.
His smile looked forced. "I'm asking you to befriend Maria as long as you're here yourself, Marcy. Dane tells me he hopes to have his stake by the end of the year. I'm sorry, because I can see he's a good farmer and I could use someone like him, but I can't hold a man to the land if he's of the mind to be gone."
Marcy swallowed. "Yes," she said with careful emphasis. "Tom wants to try his luck again in the goldfields."
He caught the hint at once. His gaze dropped briefly to where her belly was swelling under the concealing skirts. "Going north with young ones will be quite an undertaking."
"Yes." She allowed her mouth to turn down.
He nodded, with another grimace. "Well. We'll have to see how things work out. In the meantime, I must get to the Conway ranch for a meeting to talk about water rights. Henry Reagh and Estoban Santee are almost at daggers drawn over it." He offered her his hand, her own disappearing inside his large one. "We'll see how things work out, Marcy."
It was a promise and Marcy knew it. She went into the hacienda smiling, with a lighter heart. If she decided Tom would go alone, she thought she had a refuge here. Murdoch Lancer would find some way to help her, she knew it. And he'd called her by name. Three times now.
The housekeeper, a young girl also called Maria—some days it seemed to Marcy that every woman in Mexico was called Maria—showed her into the great room where Mrs Lancer sat in her chair at one side of a fireplace filled with red peonies in the place of flames, a sewing table pulled close while she embroidered. She glanced up as Marcy entered, and her expression grew cold.
"Murdoch?" she questioned, looking beyond Marcy for a moment.
"Gone to the Conway ranch, I believe. How are you, Mrs Lancer?"
Maria Lancer nodded then. "Well enough." Her tone was stiff. She gestured to the chair opposite and put down her work, folding it with careful hands. A shirt for Johnny, made from fine white linen. Her fingers reshaped the collar and smoothed down the shirt front. She had worked the embroidery on the front placket, winding flowering vines around the buttonholes with dainty, exquisite stitches. "And you?"
"Very well, thank you." Marcy looked around. "Johnny?"
"He's with the Roldàns today." Maria glanced at Emmie. "I thought he was better if he was not... how should I say this? Debajo de los pies. Under my feet so I trip over him."
"Underfoot," said Marcy. "We'd say 'underfoot'."
A queer sort of smile twisted Maria Lancer's mouth. "Si. As you'd say."
She sat back, her forearms resting along the padded upholstery and her hands grasping the polished walnut scrolls decorating the ends of the chair arms. The toes of her shoes, polished red leather, flickered into view and out again as they tap-tap-tapped on the wooden floor, making the hem of her skirt flounce. Brown eyes were normally thought to be soft and alluring, but hers, so dark a brown they were almost black, were hard and unfriendly.
"So." Maria put her feet down flat, and her grip on the chair arms tightened. "So. You are here to teach me how to be what Murdoch wants. You're here to teach me to be a gringa. To be like her, like the ghost that walks."
Marcy blinked. Her? What ghost?
"She's dead and gone, and still she has him." Maria's tone, cold until then, deepened. "He wants me to be like her."
Marcy felt that her face must be draining of colour. Her heart gave a couple of uncomfortable thumps and her breath caught in her throat. She rubbed her damp palms down her skirts. Dear Lord. This was a mistake. Marcy should have defied Tom, refused Murdoch Lancer. This was such a mistake. She moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue and wondered how she could bring this to an end. Maria Lancer wanted nothing of it, she was sure.
"Mr Lancer asked me to come and show you how to make shortbread. I know it can be difficult to—"
"Shortbread!" she said with such scorn that Marcy started. "What he wants you to teach me is to be a pale gringa like you, to be like those brujas in that gringa town, to be like one of you. To be like her."
"I—"
"What will you teach me, Señora Dane? What? Let me see..."
"Mrs Lancer... Maria..."
Her voice took on a mincing tone. "This is how you should speak, to be one of us. We won the war and it is all Inglés now. We've taken your land away from you and now we'll steal your tongue. No more Spanish for you! This is how you should dress, to be one of us. Wear dark, dull dresses buttoned right up to the neck. No more pretty things for you! This is what you should cook, to be one of us. This is how you should run your house, to be one of us. This is how you should raise your child, to be one of us." Maria's passionate voice rang out. "¡Yo no soy como usted! ¡Nunca, jamás será uno de ustedes!"
Marcy bit back tears. She raised a helpless hand, made some sort of gesture, while pulling Emmie closer with the other. Poor Emmie trembled. Too many raised voices today.
"I am not one of you. I am not like you. I will not become like you. ¿Entiendes?" Her foot started tapping again, setting the hem of her bright skirt bouncing. "Do you understand me?"
Marcy nodded, her cheeks flaming.
"I am no pale ghost. I will not stand in the shade of Catherine Lancer." Maria straightened proudly. "I most certainly will not stand in the shade of Marcy Dane. ¿Entiendes?"
Marcy's lips were dry again. She rose to her feet, taking Emmie's hand. "Perfectly. My only thought was to oblige Mr Lancer—"
"Oh, si," said Maria Lancer, and her mouth twisted again into a sneer. "Of that I am sure."
Marcy tightened her mouth into a line so the words couldn't escape them. "I don't think there is anything I can teach you, Mrs Lancer."
Maria Lancer released her hold on the walnut endcaps of her chair arms. She picked up the little shirt, turning it to the light and giving it all her critical attention. She spared Marcy a swift glance, her smile shot through with malice. "I am sure of that also, Señora."
Marcy tried to walk away with head held high, but she was crushed by the weight of the day. Tom was going away from her, somewhere she couldn't reach him if she wanted to, and the safety of Lancer, it appeared, was a mirage.
.
.
She didn't see Murdoch Lancer for a few days, and when she did he shuffled his feet in sheepish fashion, and barely spoke of his wife and what he'd asked of Marcy in that regard. They talked of general things, but despite Maria Lancer's sneers, Marcy did offer Murdoch some fruit slice with his coffee. She wouldn't be frightened away from doing that much.
He brightened and poked at a raisin. "Flies cemetery! That's what we called this when I was a lad." Two bites and it was gone. "This is braw, Marcy."
Marcy felt a little better. The power of sweet things to comfort the soul was proven, she supposed. But still, Marcy copied no more receipts for the Lancer kitchen.
.
.
The first child on the ranch to show signs of the sickness was the Señora's eldest boy, Eduardo.
He went daily to the mission school in Morro Coyo to be taught by the nuns and priests attached to the big white church. It wasn't a big school, but it was the only one in the district. Green River was still catching up in that regard. Green River might have the doctor, the blacksmith and the Anglo church, but its school was still an empty lot behind Main Street.
Eduardo was eight, a strong, sturdy boy who took after his strong, sturdy father. In early September he came home from school complaining that his head ached and his legs ached, his throat hurt and he was too hot. When Walt told Marcy about it, two days later, the little Isabella had already caught the sickness before the Señora could send her away somewhere safe, although Jaime was at the big house with Johnny and the Lancers and showed no sign of fever.
"We've no idea what it is yet," said Walt. His gaze followed Marcy's to where Emmie played in the corner with her rag doll.
"Has Doctor Jenkins seen them?"
Walt shook his head. "Eduardo is already better, and I don't think the Señora and Cip will send for the doc just yet."
Marcy understood that. People relied on the old remedies and only sought a doctor when there was something beyond their ken. She did herself. Her medicine box had been replenished as soon as Tom had a little money put aside from his wages. When Walt had gone again, she went to check it. Ipecac, spirits of ammonia, cascara, syrup of squills... all there. Even a little laudanum.
There was no reason to think she'd need it. Still, it was almost as much a comfort as the sweetest of sweet things to know it was there.
.
.
She went over to the Roldàn house the next morning. She left Emmie with Tom, just in case.
"I don't know why you're going running over there," grumbled Tom. "Didn't you get enough the last time you went sniffing around those greasers at the hacienda?"
The unfairness of this had Marcy gasping aloud, but Tom was very far away from her these days and he only grinned, as malicious as Maria Lancer.
"The Señora has been very good to me," was all Marcy said in response to that jab. She went to the Roldàns, prepared to repay some of that, to offer comfort and work. She could help Elena clean floors, or cook, or wash dishes. Anything to lighten the Señora's burden.
But the door was barred to her. Elena blocked the way, her young face drawn and wet, her voice choked with tears. Cipriano Roldàn stood inside the main room, at the fireplace, leaning his head on his hand, his elbow propped on the mantelpiece. He stared down at the empty grate, his very stillness shrieking of grief and shock. He didn't know Marcy was there. From somewhere deeper in the house came a high, keening wail that couldn't possibly be the dignified Señora.
The little Isabella had died in the night.