Free Daughter of Fortune by Carla Kelly Page A

chiquita . I was not
thinking.” He picked up the candle from the table by the door and
led her to the low outcropping that lined the wall. She sank down
gratefully and leaned against the cool adobe wall.
    Diego lit a branch of candles on another table
nearby and walked to an inside door. “Erlinda! Erlinda!” he called.
“Come, my dear!” He turned back to Maria, who sat with her eyes
closed. “And what did Doña Margarita say, or may I guess?”
    Maria opened her eyes. Diego was standing close to
her, hands on his hips, looking down at her. She straightened her
tattered, filthy dress and patted it carefully around her legs. Her
feet were bare—she had lost her other shoe—and bleeding, her hair a
mess, and her dress in ruins, but she sat there, back straight,
ankles together, a lady. Maybe the contrast of her present life to
her former expectations brought the hard light glittering into his
eyes again. She looked away. “She said there was no room for me.
She has five daughters.” She paused, the humiliation making her
voice scarcely audible. “She was so disappointed when I arrived
with no jewels and—”
    “I’ll wager she was,” interrupted Diego bitterly. He
sat beside Maria, put the candle next to him on the bench and
looked across the dim hall to the deerhide painting hanging there,
moving slowly in the cool breeze. “I was born here. I have lived
here all my life. I do not claim to be very observant, or nearly as
smart as my brother Cristóbal, but I have noticed one thing. This
country changes those who come into it, Maria chiquita .
Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. In Margarita
Espinosa de Guzman’s instance, it has made her harder than
obsidian.”
    “But why?” she asked, her voice soft.
    “Indeed, I cannot say.” She shifted and their
shoulders touched. “She was not married to a good man. Whatever
kindness there may have been in her is gone.”
    They sat in silence until Maria saw a woman standing
in the doorway. She was taller than Diego and fairer, with blond
hair and pale skin. Maria sighed with the same pleasure that an
artist feels when seeing a lovely portrait. This must be Diego’s
wife. She was beautiful. Maria could scarcely bear to think of her
own dishevelment in the same room with such a pretty one as this.
The woman held her candle high and peered at them. “Diego?” she
asked uncertainly.
    “Over here, Erlinda. I want you to meet
someone.”
    He stood, tucking his robe closer around him. Maria
got to her feet slowly, wishing that the room would stop moving.
She wanted to sit down again, but Diego was holding her hand.
    “Yes. You see, my sister got all the height and
looks in the family.”
    “Oh, Diego!” said Erlinda gently, taking Maria’s
other hand.
    He laughed. “It is not a matter of great concern to
me.”
    Erlinda smiled. Maria tried to smile, but suddenly
her knees buckled under her. Diego grabbed her and picked her up in
one motion.
    “Diego,” said Erlinda in her gentle voice. “What
kind of host are you? Our company is worn with fatigue and you
stand there talking. Follow me.”
    She picked up the larger branch of candles and led
the way down the hall. Maria tried to speak, to tell Diego to put
her down, but the words were not there. I will tell him to put
me down , she thought, after I close my eyes for just a few
seconds .
     

Chapter 4
The
Masferrers
    The sun was high, and the light fell across
Maria’s pillow. She tried to sit up, but she ached all over. She
propped herself up on one elbow and looked around her.
    It was a small, plain room, with white walls and no
ornamentation save for a deerskin painting of Santa Ana on the
wall. Maria leaned back against her pillow and regarded the
painting. It was the work of Emiliano the saintmaker. The figure
was tall and blond, and reminded her of Erlinda. Beside the
painting was a small altar. Compared to her bedroom at the family
estate in Mexico City, the room was bare. And yet somehow