The Sweet Blue Distance, page 13
As a three-year-old Nathan had set out on adventures without saying a word to anyone, eventually finding his way home to show them the treasures he had gathered. No scolding, no matter how sincere, could convince him to give up his wandering ways. Ma fretted, but Da saw things differently.
“It’s in the boy’s heart and bones, the urge to wander,” Da would say. “And it comes doon from your own Da, so he says his own self. Noo I ask, my sweet, why pretend otherwise?”
Before her mother could counter that argument, he went on. “And were no you and Daniel prone to disappearin when the weather was fine and the falls beckoned? Come to that, Lily my love, we’re due for a visit to the waterfalls ourselves.”
That made her mother laugh and blush, and it put an end to the discussion, which was his purpose, after all. It wasn’t until she was a few years older that Carrie understood a visit to the caves under the waterfalls at the far end of the glen was a tradition for married couples. And unmarried ones, on occasion.
All these memories made her almost weak with homesickness, but Carrie forced herself to go out to breakfast, where Mrs. Hamblin was sitting with the captain’s wife, their two heads bent together. Eva sat by herself staring into a mound of grits dripping butter, but Carrie’s appearance across the table seemed to wake her up.
“There you are,” she said. “Have you heard, we’ve made such good progress that we are expected to reach Westport this afternoon.”
“I did hear that,” Carrie said, turning to thank the steward who had appeared with her breakfast. “So now I will have to pack Nathan’s things as well as my own. Will you do the same for Eli?”
It occurred to her that just days ago she would have called him Mr. Ibarra. She was glad that Eva took no note of this change.
“Of course,” she said. “And won’t that please the gossips.”
She cast a glance in Mrs. Hamblin’s direction, shook her head, and sighed. In a studied, casual tone, she said, “Mrs. Hamblin has been talking without pause since your conversation the other day.”
“It was worth it if it means we don’t have to sit with her at meals,” Carrie said. “I find it curious, though, how sincerely she dislikes you. I don’t understand it. Beyond the fact that you turned down her son’s proposal.”
“Don’t look to me for an explanation,” Eva said. “She’s filled to the brim with hate for almost everyone. To imagine her as a mother-in-law . . .” She shuddered. “She has no regard for Catholics. Or Jews. Or Mexicans. Or Yankees. Will you please just ask me whatever it is sitting in your gullet? I know that look.”
And Carrie knew when a battle was lost.
“All right,” she said. “Was it Carlos Zavala she disapproved of, or would she have found reason to complain if you had married a St. Louis banker?”
Eva considered this for a moment. “You mean someone with no Indian blood. Criollo is the word used in the territory for someone of exclusively white ancestry, as he was. Mrs. Hamblin tolerated my husband because he was descended from the original Spaniards who invaded Mexico.”
Carrie, worried that Eva would tire of her questions, hesitated again. She was relieved when Eva went on, understanding where Carrie’s questions were headed.
She said, “What you need to understand is this. When the Spanish first came to the continent, the Peninsulares—those born in Spain—were ranked above everybody else. Then came Criollos, people of pure Spanish blood who were born here. Then came other Europeans, so long as they were white. Beyond those three, nobody else counted.”
“And that’s still the case?”
“Some people still see it that way, but not everyone. These days a Criollo is a Mexican—or New Mexican—who was born here, and whose bloodlines are purely European. Or at least, that’s the claim.”
“And the term Mestizo? I take it that refers to someone who is part European—”
“And part Indian,” Eva finished for her. “Mrs. Hamblin probably thinks of the word as a vile curse. According to her, Mestizos are an abomination. Which explains the way she looks at Eli.”
“She mentioned Eli’s Pueblo grandparents,” Carrie said. “She called Eli’s father a blackamoor.”
Eva’s jaw dropped and then closed with a click. “That ignorant hen.”
Carrie might have agreed, but the venom in Mrs. Hamblin’s tone made it difficult to see anything amusing at all in the stories she had told with such glee.
“I shouldn’t have told you that. She meant to be hurtful, and probably hoped I’d repeat her words to you. Which I have done, and I apologize.”
“You are not at fault,” Eva said. “Mrs. Hamblin is. She is telling anyone who will listen about your family, and as a result three people stopped me on the way here to ask questions. Intrusive questions that I couldn’t answer if I had been so inclined.” Her mouth tightened. “I promise you, they were sorry to have asked.”
Eva brushed invisible crumbs away, her tension almost visible. She said, “Even worse, she has raised questions about Eli’s interest in you.”
Carrie blinked, determined not to overreact. “She is spinning tall tales. Eli has been polite and friendly, but he has no interest in me.”
That might not be true, but Carrie had no evidence and was satisfied to be telling the truth, insofar as she knew it. Eva had a disconcerting habit of narrowing her eyes while she studied a person. As she did now with Carrie.
“You understand, I hope, that Eli is like a brother to me. There was never anything else between us.”
Carrie should, properly, respond with polite disinterest; it was none of her business, after all. Instead a sentence was spoken before she could stop herself.
“Because he is Mestizo?”
Eva’s smile disappeared before Carrie had finished saying the word.
“I apologize,” Carrie said. “That was insensitive and harsh and, worse still, judgmental. I am usually not indiscreet or thoughtless, though it may take some time for you to see that.”
Eva drew in a noisy breath, touched her handkerchief to her throat, and nodded. “Apology accepted. It is a painful subject, but not for the reasons you’re thinking. I would like to claim that I am nothing like Mrs. Hamblin. I don’t want to be like her, and as a child, I wasn’t. None of us were. But—”
She broke off with a shake of the head.
“You needn’t explain to me,” Carrie said. “I was rude.”
“Don’t,” Eva said, a sharper edge in her tone. “I will decide for myself what I want you to know.”
That was fair, and Carrie inclined her head.
Finally, Eva said, “Eli never loved me in that way, but he did have feelings for my sister. Susan was just a year younger and we were often mistaken for twins. That’s what Mrs. Hamblin remembers, Eli offering for Susan and being refused. And yes, my sister did refuse him because he is Mestizo. And no, I would not have refused him for that reason.”
Now things began to make sense. “That must have been terribly difficult for you. Have you been able to stay on good terms with your sister?”
The regret and sorrow in Eva’s expression were answer enough, but she was clearly determined to tell the rest of the story.
“I believe that we would have come to an understanding eventually, but Susan was traveling with the wagon train Carlos was leading home to Santa Fe. So I lost them both.”
Without conscious thought Carrie reached out and put a hand on Eva’s wrist. For a long moment they sat just that way while Carrie thought of Eva’s son. Somehow Eva had managed to raise a bright, happy child despite disabling grief and regret, and that spoke to her character and strength.
“I have lost sisters,” Carrie said when she could trust her voice. “Maybe sometime, if you would like, we could talk about Susan.”
Eva smiled at her, and nodded. “And your sisters. Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”
* * *
—
The next time they sat down together to eat, Beto was so excited that his whole body trembled in anticipation.
“Tell her, Ma,” he said. “Won’t you tell her?”
“Roberto. Calm yourself.”
She was trying not to smile, and failing.
“Beto would like me to tell you that we met a gentleman from New Orleans. You will have noticed him, I’m sure.”
Carrie regarded the soup in front of her and realized that she did not have any appetite. Worry about her brother, she told herself. She put down her spoon and folded her napkin.
“How so?”
Eva put her own spoon aside, and Carrie saw that she was almost as excited as Beto.
“He’s very tall, and he wears his hair like Bonaparte, you know, combed forward over his brow? Except snow white. And an old-fashioned coat with a full skirt and puffed sleeves.”
“He’s always in the library, and he smokes a pipe,” Beto added.
Carrie did know who they meant, and said so. “And how exactly did he make an impression?”
“He knows your grandfather!” This burst out of Beto like a firecracker. Then he dropped his gaze. “Sorry, Ma.”
“You are putting the cart before the horse, Roberto. Please don’t interrupt.” She took a sip of tea and began again.
“This Mr. Belmont is from New Orleans. He was just a young boy when President Jackson came to save the city from the British, you understand. But he did meet your grandfather and an Indian he was traveling with.”
“Runs-from-Bears,” Carrie supplied. “A great-uncle. Yes, they were in New Orleans in the last weeks of the war. So were some aunts and uncles and cousins.”
“Was your grandfather famous?” Beto asked. “Did he know President Jackson? Did he fight in the war?”
There were so many stories to tell about her Bonner grandparents that she could keep Beto entertained for many weeks, but storytelling was a serious business, and she was too anxious to attempt it. She leaned closer to talk to the boy directly, her voice low so that he’d understand that she was sharing something important.
“You know, my brother is the very best storyteller. When he’s back with us and time permits, ask him about our Grandda Nathaniel. Be sure to ask him about the Pirate Stoker, who helped steal our Ma and her brother away to Scotland when they were just a few months old.”
She might have offered him gold by his expression.
“Then let’s go watch for him. Can we, Ma? Can we watch for Mr. Ballentyne and Uncle Eli?”
“We had best go now,” Eva agreed. “We’re less than an hour from Westport Landing, and the best places on the promenade will be taken up if we don’t hurry.”
* * *
—
The Missouri River at Westport Landing was not quite so overwhelming as the Mississippi at St. Louis, but Carrie counted a dozen steamers and a whole fleet of smaller boats. Most of the steamers were busy taking on cargo for the journey back to St. Louis, but some would go in the opposite direction.
She could imagine her brother giving in to his curiosity. How tempting, just to step onto another steamer, one headed upriver into the Northwest Territories. Better that, she reminded herself, than at the bottom of the river.
As the steamer waited to dock, Carrie scanned the sea of faces with her hands clamped on the rail. Eva stood next to her, and Beto was tucked in between them, his face pressed against a gap in the balustrade.
“They are here,” Beto said very calmly. “I know it.”
A child wanting assurance, and unwilling to imagine disappointment of a particular kind. Carrie knew just how he felt. She realized she was biting her lip and forced herself to stop, breathe deeply, and summon up all the dignity and calm she could.
Tucked into her bodice was a list of steps she would have to take if she didn’t find Nathan in Westport. First she would seek out the sheriff, and then she would hire trackers to go out in search of the two missing men. The newspaper office—she hoped there was one—was the place to write out a description to be posted in all the towns between Westport and Arrow Rock.
Writing out the list had seemed like the reasonable thing to do, but in the end it only gave her more to worry about. She had put together a summary of everything that might have gone wrong, or could still go wrong.
The steamer bumped against the pier, and the process of securing ropes began, but not before the captain began to wave his arms and shout at a clerk who stood on the dock. The man might have been deaf, for all the attention he paid. He stood there, scratching his jaw and looking around himself, at ease in the tumult.
“It’s always like this,” Eva said, almost too brightly. “It will all be sorted out in an hour, and then we can go onshore.”
“A whole hour.” The boy was the very picture of dejection. Carrie felt exactly the same way, but felt obliged to model calm certainty.
“Roberto,” his mother said. “Do you remember what we talked about this morning?”
A frightful frown was the only answer he produced.
“Roberto?”
He crossed his arms. “Patience is a virtue. And I will need a lot of it because it will be four weeks before we reach home.”
“Four weeks at a minimum,” his mother said.
“A minimum,” came the mournful echo.
She glanced now at Carrie. “I have assumed that you and Nathan will be traveling with Mr. Petit, too, but I never asked.”
It took an effort to dislodge the idea of four weeks—at the very least—in an overheated box jouncing its way across prairie and desert, but Carrie straightened her shoulders. “I don’t know, to be honest. Dr. Markham wrote that instructions would be waiting for us at the hotel. But I do agree with Beto, it’s difficult to comprehend that this journey will go on for another month.”
“I don’t suppose the idea cheers many people,” Eva said, but with an encouraging smile. “We will make the most of it, all of us.”
There was still no sign of her brother or of Eli Ibarra, but Carrie was too anxious to stay in one spot and watch.
“Come,” she said to Beto. “Let’s sit down and read a bit of Mr. Gregg’s travels while we wait.”
Eva said, “What an excellent notion.”
Which Carrie took to mean that she was nervous, too, and would rather be nervous alone.
As was becoming her habit, Carrie opened her book at a random page and let her eyes scan the text for something interesting—and appropriate for a young boy—to read aloud. At this moment she doubted much could distract her, but found that she was wrong.
“Beto,” she said. “Mr. Gregg writes here about something called a fandango. Are you familiar with that word?”
His expression was a curious combination of surprise and concern for her cluelessness.
“Everybody knows what a fandango is,” he said. “What does Mr. Gregg say?”
Carrie sat up straight and read.
Respecting fandangos, I will observe that this term, as it is used in New Mexico, is never applied to any particular dance, but is the usual designation for those ordinary assemblies where dancing and frolicking are carried on; baile (or ball) being generally applied to those of a higher grade. The former especially are very frequent; for nothing is more general, throughout the country, and with all classes than dancing. From the gravest priest to the buffoon—from the richest nabob to the beggar—from the governor to the ranchero—from the soberest matron to the flippant belle—from the grandest señora to the cocinera—all partake of this exhilarating amusement.
“Yes!” Beto jumped up to demonstrate by twirling in place. “Everybody dances and not just at the fandango. All the time there’s dancing. Can you dance?”
She had to laugh at his high energy. “Yes. I like dancing.”
His whole face split into a grin. “You should ask Uncle Eli, he knows all about fandangos.”
There was a prickling at the nape of her neck. Carrie lifted her head and saw two familiar figures in the grand saloon’s open double doors.
“Go on,” Beto crowed. “Ask!”
Nathan was walking toward her, grinning, arms outstretched as if to hug her, but fully knowing that she would protest; he was covered in muck from head to toe. And beyond that, she was having a difficult time looking away from Eli Ibarra.
He stayed where he was in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded high on his chest, one leg crossed in front of the other, his gaze fixed on her. And winked.
13
Reservations had been made for the Ballentynes at the Gilbert Hotel, and Carrie intended to walk there, setting off as soon as she stepped onto dry land. When Nathan came back from washing and changing into less frightful clothes—once again, unpacking and repacking—she told him so. They argued the point until another passenger waiting to disembark interrupted them.
“Ma’am,” he said, unable to look her in the eye. “Pardon my temerity, but did you know that it’s four miles or more from Westport Landing to Westport, where the Gilbert is? That’s a long walk.”
Carrie managed to thank him for this information. Then she left the baggage to Nathan and asked a steward to find her a cab or carriage into Westport.
According to the last letter from Dr. Markham, two rooms had been reserved for them, with full board. If you run into any difficulties, he had written, speak to Miss Herlinde and mention my name.
Carrie took some reassurance from this last detail. Miss Herlinde would be the owner or the owner’s wife, calm and competent, someone who would answer questions. Because she had many, many questions and would not be able to depend on Eva for answers, as she would be staying a few miles outside town with a friend of her mother’s.
The Gilbert Hotel was in the center of Westport. Carrie paid the driver, nodded to the other passengers, and marched up the stairs and through the door. Stopping short, because the lobby was crowded by at least a dozen men with luggage, all of them scowling and muttering dissatisfaction.
