Hers the Kingdom (23 page)

     "Finally, he announced that he would paint me in a green gown, that I would need to wear my hair pulled up and back in a Grecian mode, and that he would start in one week. I must, of course, agree to stay so long as he felt necessary. He did not mention the fee, but I know it to be enormous.'

     "I do honestly believe Mrs. White was shocked and mortified when I told Mr. Sargent I had no intention of agreeing to any of his conditions. 'I look bilious in green,' I said. 'It is my least favorite color, except as it appears in nature. And I choose to wear my hair in this style. I haven't the slightest plan to alter it, ever, certainly not for what might prove to be a record for future generations.' I was then quick to add that both those matters were trivial when put next to the time. I explained that I have two small boys to return to—and some soft sea sounds, and the hazy winter sun of the Malibu.

     "I have been told that Mr. Sargent is difficult to converse with, that during sittings he goes for hours without murmuring a word. And yet, when I began to describe the Malibu to him, he listened with the most thoughtful attention, which I feel certain was not feigned. I tried to explain to him how bright the California light can be, how at certain hours a dark expanse of clouds can seem a perfect gray, and then a flock of sea birds will wheel in unison, flashing in a sudden burst of light. I told him how, as the birds wheel and turn, they glitter against the darkened sky, seeming to disappear only to flash silver, once more.

     "To which the artist said, 'I should very much like to paint those strange lavender flecks in your eyes when you speak of California.' Truly! That is what he said. Can you imagine—lavender flecks of light? Artists do say peculiar things. Though in fact, Mrs. White tells me that Mr. Sargent has an absolutely shocking picture of a woman in his studio, and her whole upper torso is tinted lavender. I should love to see it.

     "I am talking on so about Mr. Sargent, when there is so much else to tell you about London and Paris and Rome. Why do I find
myself thinking so about California? Why do I find it so much more . . . what? Healthy, perhaps. The light, the sun and the sky, the air, riding horseback through a canyon, steep walls on both sides. Oh, I am so very homesick for you all.

     "Owen, while at first much annoyed with me—not only for not agreeing to Mr. Sargent's outrageous terms, but for not agreeing in what Owen (and the Whites) considered an outrageous way—changed his mind when the chill and cold of London sent him to bed with fever and cramps. Tomorrow we return to Italy, where the weather is much more agreeable. Oh but how I wish we were leaving for home . . . but it will be yet another month until my Grand Tour is complete. I hope that it is enough to earn me a reputation as being 'adequately traveled,' as Owen puts it, and that I can come home and stay there. The only advantage to travel, as I see it, is that I have my husband very much to myself between stops."

     
May 21, 1894:
Owen and Willa returned on Sunday, four months almost to the day since their departure. We stood on the veranda to meet them. When Owen sounded his whistle, I gave the boys a push and told them to run and meet their mama and papa. They stayed frozen to me, Thad even hiding behind my skirts. Wen greeted his parents as if they were distant relatives to whom he should be polite. I felt so terrible for Owen, who obviously had been looking forward to the hugs and kisses and wild yelps he always gets. But he has never been gone so long before.

     
June 11, 1894:
Willa lost the baby, a girl, almost before she had become accustomed to the idea of having another child. Owen has given her the most beautiful chestnut mare, which she calls Princess. With it came a special Mexican saddle, wonderfully worked by an old man in Redondo. It is a cross-saddle. "Sitting astride is safer," Owen told Willa, "I cannot have anything happen to you, not ever." He treats her with such tenderness; it is good to see.

     Arcadia arrived with news to cheer us all. She came only days after the loss of the baby, when Willa was still too weak to leave
her bed. Arcadia bounced in, breathless. Learning of Willa's loss, she quickly rearranged her face, but it was impossible for Arcadia to suppress her happiness.

     "Tell me," Willa said, squeezing her friend's hand.

     "I feel wonderful, Willa," she answered, and Willa said to that:

     "You have met a young man."

     "However did you guess?" Arcadia laughed, leaning over to hug Willa.

     "His name is Joseph Brennan, he is a lawyer, a graduate of Fordham. He is from a family known to the Señora." (Here, Arcadia raised her eyebrows.) "He is handsome, and he has a very bright future. Not only that," Arcadia spilled out, "he has wonderful, great brown eyes, quite as beautiful as Owen's, and he makes my spine tingle."

     "Tingle?" Willa teased, smiling for the first time in days.

     Arcadia's answer was a rippling laugh that washed over us all.

     She had met Joseph Brennan in Rochester, New York, while visiting there with the Señora. They had stayed in his grandaunt's home. He had walked into the room that first time, Arcadia told us, and bowed to his grandaunt; then he had bowed low to the Señora, then he had turned to her.

     "And he never turned away?" I asked.

     "Not really," Arcadia said, "I quite took him by surprise. The Señora scolded him for staring at me."

     "This does sound serious," Willa told her, "can we expect a wedding?"

     "Ah," Arcadia answered, "La Señora says it would be best if we become better acquainted."

     "But how can you, with him in Rochester?" Willa wanted to know.

     "Didn't I mention?" Arcadia answered triumphantly, "he is moving to Los Angeles!"

     
July 9, 1894:
We had a great celebration on the beach for the Fourth of July. We cooked a pig and a lamb in open pits,
we had flags and fireworks over the water. One of our guests, a businessman named Philpott, brought along several bottles of wine—not knowing Owen's aversion to spirits of any kind. Willa managed to purloin a bottle which she, Arcadia, Sara, and I took to a cave we had discovered. It made us all feel quite naughty. Sara even suggested that we have a secret society, and on the Fourth of July each year we steal a bottle of wine and drink it all down, just as we had on this day. We all said "Hear, hear," and toasted each other. What good friends we are!

     
August 6, 1894:
It has been hot and close all week; even the children lie about in the heat, it saps our energy. Sara has come for a visit. I felt that she was withholding something on her last visit. Now I know. She came alone this time, without even the usual servant to keep her company on the long ride. Owen is away, and Willa has been hawking every day for almost a week, heat or no. No one was about, but still Sara insisted we should go to the artist's shack to talk.

     From her saddlebag she took a flask of wine. "Warm and travel-weary," she said, "but good enough for a toast."

     "Your news requires a toast?" I asked.

     She smiled wearily. "I hope so," she said.

     I waited as she poured two large tumblers of wine.

     "Here's to me," she said, "and to Charles."

     I waited while she drank.

     "We are to be married," she said.

     For a moment I could think of nothing to say; words whirled around in my head; it did not make sense.

     "How?" I asked, stupefied, "When . . . how did . . ."

     "How did this happen?" she finished for me.

     She rubbed the back of her neck as if it were sore, as if it hurt. Then she moved her head in a small circle, as if trying to make it more limber, as if trying to make it sit easier on her neck.

     "Let me start from the beginning," she finally said. "I have told you, I believe, that my father was in his sixties when he married
my mother. He was a widower, childless. My birth was, then, evidence that he was not impotent. Of course it killed my mother, but Father was left with his living proof. Sad to say he didn't enjoy it very long. When Father died, Phineas became my guardian so that Father's part of the business, which was substantial, should not slip from his grasp. Now I am to become Charles' wife, to insure that he will be Phineas' heir. Once again, my physical presence is important to various others in various ways."

     I could feel the anger rising. I took a drink of the wine and felt like spitting it at her.

     "So. Is the marriage Charles' idea? Phineas' idea? Or your idea? Or do you ever allow yourself an idea?"

     She ignored my insult. "All three," she said, "the idea belongs to all of us, for three very different reasons."

     "You've told me their reasons," I said, my voice harsh. "Now I should like to hear yours."

     She looked at me with her wide, dark eyes and she said, "It's my only chance to live a normal life."

     I caught my breath. "Normal," I all but shouted, "how can you possibly call it 'normal'?" I was amazed, aghast, horrified.

     "By 'normal' I mean I would be marrying someone I care for—although I understand that he does not care about me in the same way. I would be, in the eyes of society at least, the wife of a substantial man in the community. But most of all, I would have a chance to have a child, and also a chance to be secure."

     "A child?" I said, trying to understand. "Secure?"

     "If I were married to Charles I would never have to worry about being left without funds. I do have to worry about that now. Father Emory controls my father's monies and he refuses, even, to speak to me about my inheritance. If he dies without specifying what I am to inherit, my fate will be in Helen's hands. I cannot allow that."

     I started to weep, I couldn't help it.

     "Don't," Sara said, her arms around me, "please, don't. I need you now, more than ever. I worried about telling you the truth, for fear you would have nothing more to do with me. But I need you, I don't think I can do it without you . . . please, Lena . . ."

     I hugged her to me and told her that perhaps she was wrong, perhaps Charles has loved her all along and she hasn't known it. I told her that I was sure Charles had been more attentive to her of late, I reminded her of all the times I had seen him look at her with affection. She patted my hand and said, "perhaps," in a way that made me know she didn't believe what I was saying, but would allow me to believe it.

     
August 27, 1894:
I have not spoken to Willa about Sara other than to tell her—at Sara's direction—that she and Charles are to be married. Neither Willa nor Owen seemed particularly surprised at the news—but then, they do not know all that I know. I long to confide in Willa, to get from her some idea of the course of action I should take. Sara did not exact a pledge of silence from me, but I know that she takes my confidence for granted, and I must not fail her. (But am I failing her by not speaking out?)

     I do not think it can be a coincidence, yet it must be. The most remarkable thing has happened . . . On Wednesday last, before Owen left for Los Angeles, he perched himself on the corner of the desk where I was working and cleared his throat in the manner of someone who has something important to say.

     "I want you to know about something I am doing today, at my solicitors' in Los Angeles," he began.

     I looked up, waiting, only mildly curious.

     "You well know that I have a substantial income . . . I have been lucky, fortunate in that. And I feel that since you are a part of this family, you should share in that good fortune."

     I wondered what in the world he was talking about, my sharing in his good fortune.

     "So," he said, clasping his hands on his knee, "I am putting aside trust funds for the boys and for you. I will administer the
boys' trusts, but I have no control whatsoever over yours and neither will Willa nor anyone else."

     "Owen, no . . ." I began, but he cut me off.

     "Lena, you have earned it already, I'm not giving you anything. The children, well . . . I don't know what they would do without you. But I mean to make you financially independent. That way, you will always be secure—no matter what turn my fortunes may take."

     I received the papers by mail. Owen has deposited, in my name, in the form of stocks and bonds, the sum of 70,000 dollars. When I got those papers, when I held them in my hands, I understood for the first time what Sara was talking about. Now I know what it means to be financially independent.

     I should, of course, have realized that it was Willa's idea. When I confronted her she would only grin at me and say, "I think Owen is absolutely correct. Now I will know you are with us because you want to be. It frees me, don't you see?"

     I could not help but think that Sara's impending marriage may have, in some subtle way, caused this new turn of events. Perhaps Willa has guessed: I cannot know without revealing what I will not reveal.

     
September 10, 1894:
On Wednesday last I was at the far end of the orchard, at the small clearing near the houses where the
vaqueros
who have families live, watching Wen work the riata. The children were roping everything in sight: the dogs, Wen's pony Jack, our goat, the whole menagerie of pets Willa has assembled—even, sometimes, the family of pheasants who stay about the house, waiting for crumbs from the table.

     The children were roping each other, whirling the riata over their heads, neatly swinging it so that the loop ranged wide, swinging and swinging and then, at the perfect moment, looping and pulling tight. It is wonderful to watch. And it is no wonder at all that the Californios grow up to be such fine
vaqueros
—very few Yankee cowboys can match their prowess on a horse, or with a
rope. Wen, I think, may be the exception. He is not so graceful as his dark-skinned friends, but he is the most determined of the lot.

     Standing there, watching, I caught sight of the covey of Chinese gardeners hurrying into the orchard, all but running with that funny little fast step. Owen says the Chinese are wizards in the orchard, and I am inclined to agree. This morning I had to blink my eyes: Towering above the rest of them by several heads was the biggest Celestial I have ever in my life seen. He must have been hired recently. Surely I would have noticed him had he been here very long.