Free Daughter of Fortune by Carla Kelly Page B

it was as
friendly as the people who inhabited the hacienda. Las
Invernadas , Emiliano had called it. Maria remembered little of
last night, except that Diego had set her down on the bed and
covered her. She had awakened once before morning and saw him
sitting in the window alcove, the moonlight outlining his curly
hair. She had gone back to sleep then, comforted, peaceful.
    She took a deep breath and stirred. The whole house
smelled of piñon wood and the faint aroma of chocolate and
cinnamon. Her mouth watered. When had she last eaten? She could not
remember.
    She was lying in her chemise and tattered petticoat.
Her dress was nowhere in sight, but there was a muslin robe at the
foot of the bed.
    She sat up and put it on. The sleeves hung over her
wrists. It must belong to Erlinda.
    And then, as if the thought had summoned her, there
was a soft tapping on the door. Erlinda opened it and peered in. “I
was hoping you would be awake. God’s blessings on you and good
morning,” she said. Erlinda carried a tray of food, which she set
down on Maria’s lap. There was chocolate, frothy and hot in an
earthenware mug, several eggs and a small plate of tortillas, the
steam still rising from them. “I would have given you more food,”
said Erlinda in apology, “but Diego said that too much at once
would not be wise.”
    Maria ate every bite, savoring the eggs and wiping
the plate clean with the last bit of tortilla. She drank the
chocolate slowly, relishing the smooth liquid as it traveled down
her throat. If Erlinda had not been standing there, her hands
folded in front of her, Maria would have run her finger around the
inside of the cup.
    Erlinda took the tray when Maria finished. “I am
glad to see you smiling. Diego said you were restless last night,
calling out for Carmen. I thought your sister was Margarita.”
    She could not remember the nightmare, but she
thought again of Diego sitting in the window. “No. No. Carmen was
just someone ... I knew,” she said, starting to get out of bed.
    Erlinda paused at the door. “I will send servants in
with Mama’s tub. My sisters and I generally bathe in the acequia —the irrigation stream—but you will not be accustomed
to that yet, and besides, it is morning.”
    “Your mother? Your sisters?” asked Maria.
    Erlinda opened the door. “Oh, yes. You have not met
all of us yet. There are others.” Her voice trailed off and she
looked away, occupied for a moment with private thoughts. Then she
brightened again. “After you are bathed and dressed, I will take
you to Mama.”
    Maria spoke up. “My dress is gone. ”
    Erlinda put her hand to her mouth to hide a smile.
“For that, you must forgive my brother. When he left your room
early this morning, he had your dress. I think he tossed it on the
fire pit in the back. My sisters and I will find you something to
wear.”
    Erlinda left then, closing the door quietly behind
her. Maria sat cross-legged on the bed until two Indian servants
brought in a large tin tub and filled it with steaming water from
copper kettles. They left a container of soft soap that Maria
picked up and sniffed. It smelled of yucca blossoms.
    She stripped off her chemise and petticoat and
stepped into the water, standing on one foot, then the other, until
she was accustomed to the warmth. Her last real bath had been more
than a month ago in a small stream late at night by the side of the
wagons, long after everyone was sleeping. She sat in the tub
finally and leaned back, closing her eyes. As she sat there,
soaking in the heat and comfort, she concluded that this was as
close as she would ever get to heaven in this life. Then she picked
up a bar of rough brown soap and scrubbed herself until her skin
was raw. She washed her hair three times with the soft soap,
rinsing it with the pitcher of cool water next to the tub.
    Erlinda knocked and came back into the room as Maria
was drying herself. “I have found you some clothing, but I cannot
find you any shoes