Читать книгу An Obstinate Headstrong Girl - Abigail Bok - Страница 11

With so much to do, Valentine’s Day weekend and the Red and White Ball were soon upon them. When all her children appeared, arrayed in their finery, before her, Mrs. Bennet could not but be certain that their conquest of Lambtown was assured of success, for “I can’t imagine that a handsomer family will be seen anywhere! Nobody ever had better-looking children than ours.”

Mr. Bennet looked up from his book. “And you are as handsome as any of them,” he said. “Perhaps I should be going to this affair, to ensure that no manly rancher rides off with you across his saddle-bow.”

“You flatter me, my dear. I may have had my share of beauty in my time, but with five grown-up children I should give up thinking of such things.”

“In such a case, a woman rarely has much beauty to be thinking of.”

Mrs. Bennet bridled, and blushed, and herded the family out to their cars.

The ball was being held in the high school gymnasium, daringly transformed à la casbah with yards of pink tenting, fili-greed lanterns, and small café tables for intimate conversation. The Bennets were among the early, but not the first, arrivals, as the orchestra was playing a mix of sentimental and jazzy standards from the forties.

They were politely greeted by the president and board of the Hispanic Heritage Club, and then left to their own devices. Fortunately, Frank Carrillo was already present and, recognizing his young acquaintances from the Candlemas parade, came over with his wife to meet the rest of the family.

“I’m sorry to say that my son George hasn’t yet arrived,” said he, with a teasing glance at Lizzy; “but he’ll be here soon, I’m sure, to give himself the pleasure of meeting you properly. I hope you’ll save a dance for him.”

Lupe Carrillo made an instant hit with Mrs. Bennet by exclaiming over her good-looking family, and they were soon deep in conversation about the joys and trials of motherhood. Mrs. Carrillo, having only one child, was safely inferior to Mrs. Bennet in this regard, so the latter’s happiness with her new friend was complete.

John inquired of Mr. Carrillo about the Hispanic Heritage Club.

“Our group was formed in the 1880s, not so long after the first American families settled here, which happened in the 1870s when the stagecoach road went through, followed soon by a railway. Those arteries brought some trade to the area, and the Americans started sheep ranching—hence the name of Lambtown. Before then, all the land had been in the hands of a few Mexican families, who had held the property rights going back to when California was part of Mexico. Our rights to the land were confirmed by the U.S. government when California became a state, but in the 1870s some of the Mexican families started to sell or lose land to the Anglos.”

“Was your family here at the time?”

“My Carrillo ancestors held the largest cattle rancho, covering this entire section of the Santa Ynez Valley and up into the canyons to the east—the land that is now owned by the Darcy and de Bourgh families, who were among the first Americanos to arrive. My farmland west of town is all that remains of our original land grant.”

“So the club was founded in reaction to the changes taking place?” asked Lizzy.

“The original Spanish-speaking families saw the area becoming Americanized, and waves of immigrants from European countries were also settling here—Italian farmers, Basque sheepherders, later on the Danes at Solvang—and we wanted to band together to preserve some aspects of our traditions and way of life. Over time, the Hispanic Heritage Club became involved in preservation of the Spanish missions in the Santa Ynez, and other philanthropic work. We host the Rodeo Days over Fourth of July weekend, where we have a charreada, a display of traditional Mexican riding techniques. It’s kind of a relic now, so many of the ranches here have turned to raising thoroughbreds—the ones that haven’t converted to vineyard—that it’s hard to find local riders who know the old charreada style. We have to bring in riders from Mexico for the shows. My son, George, is one of the few local boys who rides in the Rodeo Days. I don’t know why more young men don’t learn charreada skills: it certainly makes George popular with the young ladies!”

“This area seems to have a lot of special events—balls, parades, rodeos,” said John. “I didn’t realize we’d moved to such a party town!”

“It’s not my idea of a party town,” said Lydon, “with no nightclubs, no bars, not even a cineplex! Have you checked out Mattei’s Tavern, over in Los Olivos? Not exactly a happening crowd.”

“I’m not sure why you are checking out taverns, Lydon, since you’re not old enough to drink,” said John. Lydon hunched his shoulder.

Mr. Carrillo smiled politely. “Lydon is very right, of course. For younger people’s entertainments, you need to go to Lompoc or UC Santa Barbara. Perhaps that’s why we have so many special events throughout the year—because everyday life here is so dull.”

“Oh, come on, Lydon, I want to dance,” said Jenny, and dragged her husband off. Kitty trailed along in their wake, hoping to win a partner from among the scattering of military men present.

“Miss Elizabeth, I understand you have met Father Austen,” said Mr. Carrillo.

“Yes, I think he’s a dear.”

Mr. Carrillo chuckled. “He would hate to hear you say so.”

As they talked, Lizzy was taking great pleasure in looking about her at the variety of people and dresses, from dowdy to daring. It mattered little to her that none of the young men present had yet approached her for an introduction or a dance. Nevertheless, it was clear that the Bennet family was attracting a good deal of attention and curiosity; she saw various clusters of people glancing their way as they chatted, and amused herself with imagining the drift of their speculations.

But soon enough the interesting subject of the newcomers gave way to a greater stir of excitement. There was a bustle at the door and everyone turned to gape as a resplendent group of young men and women made their appearance.

“It’s those people we saw at the parade, Lizzy,” whispered John. Lizzy saw that he was right: the man who had admired John was there, in company with the same group of friends.

“Well, who would ever have thought,” cried Mrs. Carrillo, “that Fitzwilliam Darcy himself would grace our ball with his presence!”

“Who is he?” Mrs. Bennet wanted to know.

“See, over there—the tall one,” said Mrs. Carrillo, pointing to one of the men in the cluster around John’s admirer. “He’s our most eligible bachelor, owns half the land in the area, but he doesn’t mix much with the locals. Every year he buys tickets to the ball, but he’s never attended before. When his parents were alive, it was different. They could be counted on to show up for community events. But young Mr. Darcy is always going around with his prep school and college friends.”

“And who are the people with him?” asked John.

“I don’t know all of them, but the handsome blond man is Charles Bingley, and the woman in the flapper dress is his sister, Caroline. Bingley is Darcy’s best friend from school, and he recently settled here and is opening a business in town. He seems to have quite a lot of money, too, though not as much as Darcy—I hear his father ran a chain of department stores in Oregon or someplace—but he’s a lot friendlier than Darcy. Oh, look! They’re coming over!”

Mrs. Bennet scarce had time to wreathe her face in smiles for such exalted company before the group was greeting the Carrillos. Charles Bingley, the one who had appeared to take an interest in John, was seen to have an easygoing, open courtesy while the others stood back, prepared to be bored with their surroundings. On Mr. Carrillo’s presenting the Bennets, Bingley exclaimed, “Oh, good! New arrivals! I’m glad to be replaced as the new face in town; let the world be inquisitive about someone else for a change. I’m a city boy, and not used to being such a center of attention.” Smiling on John, Lizzy, and Mary, he added, “Now that my sister and I are old-timers in Lambtown, maybe we can show you around the way Darcy did for us when we first got here—what do you say, Caroline?”

Caroline gave a faint smile and concurred without noticeable enthusiasm. Undeterred, he turned to Lizzy and suggested, “Why don’t we get started by finding our way around the dance floor?”

With a resigned shrug for John, Lizzy assented. Bingley proved to be an excellent dancer and charming companion, with a cheerful line of banter that was amusing without being too personal. Lizzy enjoyed dancing with him, but didn’t take his compliments seriously; and he asked enough questions about her brother that she was happy to lead him back to John at the end of their dance. She left them chatting and strolled around to keep an eye on her younger siblings.

Kitty, Lydon, and Jenny had found a congenial group of young airmen and neighborhood youths, and were having some noisy but apparently harmless fun. The music was shifting into higher gear with banda and norteño numbers, and Kitty was laughing immoderately at her own attempts to master an unfamiliar dance style under the tutelage of a heavily tattooed young man. At that moment another ripple of excitement moved through the assemblage—or at least the more youthful and female portion of it—as all eyes turned once more to gaze upon a new arrival.

Spurning the de rigueur white tie uniform for the evening, Frank Carrillo’s son, George, was posed in the doorway, clad in the formal dress of a Mexican cowboy, tight black pants and short jacket adorned with silver, above fancy decorated cowboy boots. A sigh of female ecstasy gusted around the room, and much as she was amused by his skill at drawing attention to himself, Lizzy was not proof against the allure of the picture he presented. He was easily the handsomest man present, even better looking than John, and carried himself with an air of confident athleticism that was not lost on any of the women present. He savored for a moment the happiness of being the man on whom every female eye was trained, and then Lizzy had the happiness of being the woman on whom his attention finally came to rest. He walked straight from the door to her side.

“It is a sin for such a beautiful woman to be standing by the wall while others are dancing,” he said.

“I’m loath to shock the neighborhood by sinning in a public place,” she replied, smiling.

“Allow me to rescue you from degradation, then. My name is Jorge Carrillo, and I am at your service, Jezebel.”

“If you’re certain I won’t drag you into my depravity . . .” said Lizzy, as he led her onto the dance floor. Not wishing to carry the line too far, she added, “But I have met your parents, and your father said your name was George?”

He smiled. “So you have been asking about me? My father has taken on American ways, it’s true, but I’m more traditional.”

“Jorge it is, then,” she agreed, and turned her attention to keeping up with his steps in the cumbia. Unlike many of the other youthful dancers, he moved with grace but did not cross the line of propriety; she liked his demeanor, and suddenly found herself enjoying the evening more than she had anticipated.

The dance ended and was succeeded by a slower number, but Jorge exhibited no inclination to lead her to the sidelines. He struck up an easy conversation on neutral subjects, and in speaking of the climate of California versus that of Ohio, the differences between big cities and small towns, and the like proved that the most commonplace topics may be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker. He was charming and lightly flattering, always turning the conversation to humor before it became too personal.

While attending to her own pleasure, Lizzy still had an eye for her brother’s, and she observed that although Charles Bingley danced with a variety of ladies in the room he favored none with special attention, and between each round of dancing he could be seen chatting with John. She asked Jorge about him.

“Charley Bingley? I don’t really know him, but everybody seems to like him—even though he hangs out with Darcy.”

“Darcy is less popular? I have to admit he looks conceited to me, but I would think his position in the neighborhood would have rescued him from disapproval.” They looked across to the refreshments table, where Fitzwilliam Darcy and Caroline Bingley were standing in an uncompanionable silence of shared ennui.

“Oh, the Anglo ranching families think they’re superior to everybody—especially their brown neighbors. Some of the cattle and sheep ranchers aren’t so bad; they’re at least marginally in touch with the real world. But the thoroughbred breeders are totally snooty—they think pursuing the sport of kings makes them royalty. And the Darcys and their cousins the de Bourghs are the worst! I’m amazed Darcy even showed up here; Bingley must have dragged him. Bingley is the social type, and likes mingling. For Darcy an event like this must be torture—how will he ever wash off the stain of rubbing shoulders with dirt like us!”

“But I thought your family was among the original settlers in the neighborhood,” said Lizzy, considerably surprised. “Wouldn’t that count for something with a snob like Darcy?”

Jorge laughed. “Hardly. The old Anglo families act like history began when they settled here. They’ve convinced themselves that my father is nothing but an immigrant row-crop farmer.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s dangerous for them to acknowledge the truth: that they seized half our land illegally. They’re nothing more than robber barons, no matter how much they pretend to be the local aristocrats.”

Lizzy was shocked. “How could they get away with that?”

“It’s not as if California was a civilized place back in the 1870s. It hadn’t been a state for long, and American lawmen were few and far between, while the Mexican governors had been chased out. Basically, land ownership was determined by who commanded the most gunfighters.”

“Much the way the Spanish and Mexican settlers took land from the Indians, I expect,” observed Lizzy.

“Not exactly. The Hispanic settlers here lived side by side with the local tribe, the Chumash: they shared skills and technologies, and farmed and hunted together. That’s why most of the remaining Chumash descendants have Spanish surnames—they intermarried and blended into one people. My mother is of Chumash descent; so you could say that we’re more of an original family on her side than on my father’s.”

“But if your land was taken illegally, can’t you get it back? Like Jewish families recovering works of art that were stolen from them by the Germans in World War II.”

Jorge smiled ruefully. “You know the expression, ‘To the victors go the spoils’? The Darcys have all the old land grant papers and other legal documents in their archives, and they don’t let anyone have access. That’s why Darcy hates me, of course. He thinks everyone should bow down and adore him—and he hangs out only with the people who do! But I call a spade a spade, and he can’t stand it.”

“What about the de Bourgh family? Are they here tonight?”

Jorge laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding! Darcy’s bad enough, but Catherine de Bourgh is the worst. She’s his aunt, you know, and luckily the last of the de Bourgh line. She’s old-school—she’d rather hunt varmints like us than dance and drink punch with us. She thinks she’s the queen of the valley, and everyone calls her Catherine the Great behind her back.”

“I hope she’s not as fond of her horses as her namesake,” remarked Lizzy.

“Who knows what goes on in that huge, fancy barn of hers? Actually, though, we’re lucky she thinks herself too high-and-mighty to mingle with us. The people she does see, she likes to boss around and direct their lives. She’s always getting in everyone’s business.”

They were interrupted in this interesting conversation by Mrs. Carrillo, who, thinking her son had paid enough attention to one girl, called him over to dance attendance on the daughter of a friend. Lizzy, intrigued by all she had heard, moved toward the refreshments table to observe Fitzwilliam Darcy more closely.

He proved an unrewarding subject, as he scarcely opened his lips for ten minutes at a stretch. He was a good-looking man, tall and well-built and looking remarkably fine in white tie and tails, but nothing to Jorge Carrillo in her estimation. Lizzy’s head was full of Jorge; his gallant manners, the flattering distinction of his singling her out, when it was apparent that he could easily claim the notice of any young lady in the room. As she was thus pleasantly engaged, she observed Charles Bingley accosting Darcy, and made no scruple about listening to their conversation.

“Darcy, why are you standing around like a statue? It’s called a dance for a reason: you’re supposed to dance.”

“Do you really expect me to make a spectacle of myself gyrating to this stuff, Charley? It sounds like a polka, for heaven’s sake. Besides, who would I dance with? Your sister already has a partner, and there is not another woman in the room who could tempt me out on the floor.”

“Oh, come on, Darcy, there are lots of promising girls here. What about one of those Bennets? They’re new in town, and very pretty. The elder one, Elizabeth, seems nice, too. She’s right over there; let me introduce you.”

“Who?” Darcy turned around and met Lizzy’s eye before she could turn away. He studied her for a moment and then turned back to Bingley. “You call that ‘very pretty’? Besides, I saw her earlier dancing with George Carrillo; if that’s the kind of company she prefers, she’s welcome to it. You’d better get back to it, Charley; you’re wasting your time with me.”

Lizzy was left to enjoy the just reward of eavesdropping, but told herself that the source of the slight robbed it of much of its sting. The exchange had confirmed her observations of the man, as well as Jorge’s description; and she moved away with no very cordial feelings about him. She told the story with great wit to her mother and John, however, and recovered her good humor in the enjoyment of the ridiculous.