When the gray dawn came, the Desire pitched on an angry and lonely ocean. The wind had shifted to the northwest; the waves still washed over the decks as the Desire slowly and laboriously mastered the troughs and the crests, and her great mainmast still towered over her, bare and empty of sail.
Chapter XXXV
On the morning of the TWENTY-FOURTH OF AUGUST, CATHERINE woke in pain. She stirred, stretched her legs, raised herself on her elbow. In the faint gray of morning light she saw Lola.
Lola was sound asleep. She had placed her mat on the floor, near the window, and Catherine didn't want to wake her, so she settled back, pushed the sheet down with her feet.
Gradually the room became lighter. On the table was her sewing basket, with the almost-made linen blouse for Lola spilling over it. In the corner was her easel. The seascape on it was not done; indeed it was scarcely begun, for though she walked every day at sundown on the beaches of Vera Cruz, she had no will to paint. It was quite enough to walk the beaches, lazily, at the very edge of the water, where the sand was damp, gray and hard from the outgoing tides. Then the sand was cool under her bare feet, and the murmur of the sea was in her ears, the smell of it in her nostrils, and the sketch of the narrow harbor she had begun was unfinished.
The pain was not bad. Twenty minutes passed before it came again, warningly, and she thrust the thought of it away after it had passed. Lola's clothes were almost done. Lola had needed clothes so badly; she had almost nothing when she had come to live here with Catherine. For soon would come the time when they would set sail for Spain.
August had passed slowly. Catherine and Lola and the Señora Antonia sewed in the mornings. In the afternoons they slept away the heat of the midday, and at night, when the Alcalde was away, they gathered in Catherine's room, shut away from prying eyes, and drank the heady wine and talked about the clothes they were making, for themselves and the new baby, about the men they loved or had loved.
Time stood still in August. They waited for it to pass, hour after hour, night after night. The summer was very hot. Night brought
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scant relief, unless the wind from the sea blew gently and coolly across the gulf.
David never came. There was no need to take chances. Even aboardship he and Lola would never speak. He and Sebastian had stayed on the island until the Concepcion had put into port again. Then they had circled the town at night, and come into Vera Cruz from the south two days later to sign on as crew. The master of the Concepcion had been glad to get two seamen.
It was hard to wait. Restlessness gripped the three women, and at night, the wine or ale offered the only surcease. This morning Catherine's mouth was dry. She started to get up to get water, when the pain came again.
This time it had come more quickly, and she said, softly, "Lola."
Lola wakened instantly. She sat up, pushing back her long black hair; in the gray dawn her face looked very white.
"Please call Tina," Catherine said.
"It has come?" Lola whispered. She picked up a shawl to wrap around her nakedness. In a few seconds she was back in the room; she began to dress with hasty fingers.
"There is plenty of time," Catherine said. "I am so thirsty, Lola."
Lola fastened her skirt. "I'll fetch water," she said.
She ran out of the room and into the long narrow kitchen with the stove at one end. She put some light wood on the fire, and set a pot of broth over it to heat. She poured cool water into a jug and carried it back to Catherine's room.
Catherine drank gratefully. Lola arranged the pillows, and Tina came into the room.
"I'll fetch Señora Antonia," Lola said.
Antonia was already awake. "I heard you in the kitchen," she said. She was combing her hair; she didn't bother with her busk, but slipped a dress over her shift. "It is hot already," she said. "A plague on this weather, Lola; it will make it hard on her."
"I know," Lola said.
The broth would be hot by now. She went again into the kitchen and poured a cup of the liquid.
Tina was bathing Catherine. She had braided her hair and fastened it on top of her head like a heavy crown. Catherine got out of bed.
Lola gasped, to see her stand. "You should not!"
"I want to," said Catherine.
"You should drink this," Lola said. "You need the strength."
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"I'll take it," Catherine said.
Tina stripped the sheets off the bed. Deftly she tucked the clean ones in. Catherine finished the broth and sat down on the bed again. Lola picked up the cup. The sun was coming up. From the kitchen came the smell of cooking.
Antonia was making an omelette for Catherine, but when she brought it in, Catherine could not eat it. An hour passed.
The room was bright with light. Little Kate was dressed and having her breakfast with the Indian cook, and the three women sat quietly with Catherine, watching her as she moved restlessly in the big bed. They had tidied the room, and everything was ready. There was nothing more to do. Antonia went over and shut the blinds. The room was dim.
Tina mopped the sweat off Catherine's forehead. Suddenly Catherine opened her eyes. She saw Antonia sit down, and she said, "I want the sunlight! And please leave me! Please go away!"
Tina wrung out the wet cloth and put it on Catherine's brow. Antonia and Lola looked at her for advice.
Tina said, "The señora wants to try and sleep, I think."
She motioned to the door, and they obeyed her unwillingly. Lola left the door open a little. Tina went back to the bed.
"I didn't want them watching me," Catherine whispered. Now that they were gone she made no effort to conceal her pain. Her face twisted, she rolled her head from side to side, drawing her legs up, turning on the bed.
"Ah, Dios" she said. "I had forgotten. I had forgotten how bad it was!"
The sun moved higher across the burning blue of the sky above the sand of Vera Cruz. The sun was coming to the windows, and Tina lowered the blinds against it. This time Catherine did not protest. She pushed the pillows onto the floor.
"Can you drink something, can you, señora?" Tina asked.
"No wine," she whispered. "It made me sick this morning. Don't you remember?"
Tina replied, "I'll get fresh water."
Outside the room Lola and Antonia waited, sitting on the floor. Tina shook her head when she saw them. "Not yet," she said. "I am afraid, Lola."
Lola searched her face. Tina moved down the little square hall, and Lola went after her. "Does she call for me?"
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"No, señorira," Tina said. "She calls for no one, not even him. She is bleeding badly."
Tina's eyes were hooded by the heavy lids. She turned. "Do not weep yet," she said.
"If only he were here!" Lola cried.
Tina's wrinkled face was set. "He cannot be here; she knows that. She knows she is alone. She will not call for him. For you, maybe, later. I go back to her now."
She found Catherine out of bed. She took her back. Catherine whispered. "I wanted to see my portrait of him," she said. "I thought of it, and I wanted it."
Lola, who had followed Tina with Antonia, brought the portrait to Catherine.
"Hold it thus," Catherine said impatiently. The canvas started to roll up, and Antonia caught it. She and Lola held the picture.
"It's the best thing I've ever done," Catherine said, her breath coming swift, pride in her voice. "He will be on the Atlantic now, Lola, across the ocean." She raised herself to look at it. "I feel so dizzy," she said. "And, Tina, I'm bleeding so much." She lay back and closed her eyes.