Читать книгу An Obstinate Headstrong Girl - Abigail Bok - Страница 12

The dance provided rich fodder for discussion in the Bennet household the next day, when all their new acquaintances and all they had heard and learned were thoroughly canvassed at lunch after church. The Bingleys and their friends were naturally the focus of Mrs. Bennet’s attentions, and more attention was paid to Charles Bingley and speculation over his presumed inclinations than was entirely comfortable for Mary, who held Old Testament views on the subject. Once she had left the room, however, the rest of the family was free to suppose whatever they wished.

“He did dance with a lot of girls,” allowed Mrs. Bennet, “but he always came back to stand by John.”

John, blushing a little, said he had found Bingley good-humored and able to talk sensibly about a variety of subjects.

Impatient with this evasion, Mrs. Bennet tried another tack. “What do you think, Lizzy? You danced with him: did you get the impression he was gay?”

Mr. Bennet rolled his eyes and said to his elder son, “You’ll live to be sorry you took your mother to those meetings—what was that group’s name?”

“PFLAG—Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays,” Lizzy answered for him. “Mama, we’re all glad you’re now so supportive of your son’s sexual orientation, but John can take care of himself in the romance department! And think how embarrassing it would be if you assumed Charles Bingley was gay and he turned out not to be. He didn’t give out any hints one way or the other when we were dancing.”

“Maybe he isn’t sure himself,” suggested John. “Sometimes people aren’t, you know, especially if they haven’t had the opportunity to be around a lot of other gay people. I imagine it might not be too comfortable to be out in a community like this. What do you say we just enjoy making friends with him?”

This was too much to ask of Mrs. Bennet, who had little interest in anyone on whom she could not pin romantic expectations. So she turned her attention to Lizzy, describing to her husband in immoderate terms Darcy’s rudeness. “What a proud, unpleasant man! Why did he even attend if all he was going to do was walk here, and walk there, thinking he was better than everybody and too good to dance with Lizzy? I don’t care if he is the richest bachelor in the neighborhood, I detest him. But at least she was admired by the Carrillo boy—and very handsome he is, too, and a lot nicer! It won’t be long before he’s calling here, I’m sure.”

As if to support her parental authority, the phone rang; but it proved to be Morris Collins. “I was concerned that since you’re new in town,” he told Lizzy, “you might have no one to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day.”

“That would be a great pity, wouldn’t it?” she replied, mindful that her family was listening.

“The honor of Lambtown must be upheld, and, as mayor, it is my honor to uphold it. It’s important that we pay heed to the demands of society and not neglect such occasions as this to pay the kinds of compliments as may be appealing to ladies.”

Lizzy made a noncommittal reply, reflecting inwardly that his explanation robbed the compliment of much of its value.

“Of course,” persisted Mr. Collins, “when the ladies in question are as charming as you—and all the females of your family, I need not add—one’s duty and one’s pleasure coincide. So—”

Alarmed at the direction in which his remarks seemed to be tending, Lizzy cut in. “I’m certain all of my family will be grateful to you for your kind thought, Mr. Collins,” she said. “I’ll be sure to pass your good wishes along to them. Good-bye now.”

Jorge waited the standard three days before calling, but call he did, and met with a warmer reception. His happy notion was that Lizzy, as a gardener, might like to see more of the native plants in the area, so he proposed a drive up into Los Padres National Forest the following Saturday. To this she agreed, reflecting that after a long week closeted with the carpenter, laying plans for the transformation of Aunt Evelyn’s house, a day spent out of doors would be exactly what she needed.

It proved to be one of those perfect winter days for which California is justly famous: the sun shone through just a hint of chill in a sky of deepest blue, against which the mountains to the east of the valley were sharply etched. It was too early in the year for most wildflowers and the oaks in the cattle pastures were still leafless, but the effects of the rainy season could be seen in a green haze spread over the rounded foothills. They drove through vineyards, bare at this time of year, and climbed gradually into more rugged, mountainous terrain. Perched high above the road in the cab of Jorge’s pickup, Lizzy felt that life held few greater pleasures.

As they reached the elevation where pines began to mingle with the oaks, the shrubbery was covered with clusters of white flowers like veils cast over the heads of the slopes, their scent heavy on the air. Jorge called this buckthorn and said there were blue varieties that came out later, when the California poppies were in bloom. When Lizzy remarked on the brilliant green stone formations along the way, Jorge beguiled her ear with tales of nineteenth-century plunderers of serpentine and cinnabar.

The road topped a high ridge and descended steeply into a canyon, where they stopped at a picnic table shaded by sycamores to eat lunch. As they ate, grosbeaks and warblers sang out melodious territorial admonitions around them, and a cold running stream gurgled past their feet. Lizzy was entranced by all the unfamiliar plants and birds, and no less so by her companion, who spoke knowledgeably about the natural and human history of the area, from the geology to the medicinal uses the local Chumash Indians had found for the plants they encountered, and how she could avoid hazards like poison oak. She felt all the envy that a descendant of immigrants might be expected to feel for someone whose roots were planted far deeper in their homeland, who seemed to her more authentically American than she could ever aspire to be. He had a true history with the place he inhabited, and she liked him for taking pride in his heritage.

They descended the mountains by another road into a beautiful little valley of well-tended cattle and horse pastures. Lizzy admired the tidy white fences, the sprawling meadows beside cottonwood-lined streambeds, and entertained romantic visions of a life lived in harmony with surroundings such as these.

They stopped to watch some heavily pregnant mares that were cropping eagerly at the lush grass. Jorge’s mood turned melancholy. “This canyon is one of my favorite places on earth,” he said. “Every time I come here I wonder how my ancestors could have forfeited this land to the Darcys and de Bourghs.”

“Oh! Is this their land?”

“Yes, this is part of Pemberley Ranch. Darcy owns most of the canyon, and the hills on both sides, and the watershed. His ancestors managed to secure both appropriative and pueblo water rights over the stream, and nobody around gets water for their fields without his permission. His life might have been mine, as it was my ancestors’. It’s very painful to see this land, which was the heart of my family’s life going back centuries, millennia even, in someone else’s hands—especially in the hands of that jerk Darcy.”

“He seems to take good care of it.”

“Oh, I think he does, in his way. His pride would demand that he follow good stewardship practices, so his neighbors would have nothing to despise him for. But it doesn’t come from his heart. It isn’t part of who he is, the way it is for me. For him it’s a matter of his reputation, and of good business. I’ve heard he’s thinking of switching from ranching to planting vineyards, because he could make more money.”

Remembering the vineyards they had driven through—artificially sculpted hillsides stripped of all trees, with trellis poles marching up the slopes in precisely spaced rows—Lizzy was distressed. “I know the vineyards are supposed to be beautiful, and I like wine as much as the next person, but it would ruin this canyon if they did that!”

Jorge agreed. “The vineyards always look to me like military graveyards; they’re so depressing. And to cultivate the grapes you have to keep out the birds, the raccoons—none of the wildlife can thrive in a controlled monoculture environment like that. Ranching has always found a way to coexist with the chaparral, but winegrowing is more lucrative, so what do the landowners care? As long as they make their buck.”

“It would be terrible to destroy this beautiful place just to extract more profit from it!”

“I feel exactly as you do, and I don’t come here very often because I dread what I might see,” said Jorge. “I used to work here in the summers when I was a teenager and old Mr. Darcy was alive; he was okay. But now I’m not welcome, and I haven’t set foot on the land for several years.”

“What was it like, having to be just an employee on land that should have been your own?”

“Oh, in those days I didn’t care, I just wanted to earn a little money, and have the chance to be here. The stories my mother told me when I was little, the traditional tales of her people—you can recognize some of the landmarks described in them out here. For instance, there’s one story that talks about an ancient manzanita that has arched over itself and formed a tunnel; one day, while I was hunting for a lost calf, I found it, just up and over that ridge there. Those old tales—where they took place is like a character in the story, you know? And so when I wandered on this land, it was like the stories were coming back to life, like no time had passed, and everything the Anglos have done could just disappear. Like my people were still here, and free.”

“It doesn’t seem fair that people who want land only to extract monetary value from it should have property rights that supersede those of people whose souls are all intertwined with it. In a just world, the opposite would be true. But why aren’t you welcome here anymore?”

“Old Mr. Darcy never treated me like an inferior. He was the salt of the earth, not a snooty preppy like his son. Old Mr. Darcy would pick up a shovel and work right alongside you. He liked me, which his son couldn’t stand. So after he died, his son found an excuse to fire me.”

“Darcy has lost both his parents, hasn’t he? Were they older people?” asked Lizzy.

“No, they both died in a car crash. They were hit by a drunk driver on San Marcos Pass one night, when they were coming home from a concert in Ojai. Practically the whole valley came to the funeral; everybody liked them. But Darcy wouldn’t speak at the memorial, and didn’t talk to any of his neighbors. He just sat there like nothing had happened.”

Their date gave Lizzy much to ponder, about her adopted community and about how different two young men from the same place could be. She ended the day even more pleased with Jorge Carrillo than before. She had never met anyone like him. It seemed to her that he combined a lively charm with very proper feelings on things that mattered. They agreed on everything. And the injustice he and his family had suffered at the hands of the Darcys made him particularly interesting to her affectionate heart. Her passion for justice was aroused, and she longed to find a way to recoup what he had lost and bring the current Darcy low.