West of the mountains at last, the Santa Fé Trail turned northward and began a gentle descent.  Laura leaned forward eagerly, trying for a glimpse of the city, but the country was hilly and still rural, scattered with adobe houses and patches of corn and beans.  The houses grew closer together, and at last the coach splashed through a stream running along a stone gutter, and rattled to a stop at the top of a hill.
      "Exchange Hotel," the shotgun shouted, and began hauling luggage off the roof of the coach.  Laura stepped down to the corner of a large, dirt square, sparsely shaded by young cottonwoods and inhabited by burros, a few Mexicans, and several sleeping dogs.
     "Welcome to Santa Fé," her uncle said proudly.
     Laura's arms tightened around her clock as she gazed in dismay at the flat-roofed adobe buildings surrounding the square.  Nearly all had long, covered portals.  Some seemed to be private residences, others housed merchants and wine shops, but none looked remotely like the shops she had expected.  There were no graceful houses, no green parks.  Except for the flag hanging limply from a pole in the square's center, it was a Mexican village, like every other they'd seen, if perhaps a bit larger.
     "This is the Plaza," her uncle said.  "Over there's the old Spanish governor's palace.  It's the military headquarters now."
     "Palace?" Laura repeated, unable to see any structure that came close to deserving the name.
     "There," her uncle said, pointing to the building that ran the length of the plaza on its north side.  To her it looked more like a stable.  A number of soldiers lounged near a doorway, where two mules and a horse stood tied to some of the wooden pillars of the portal.  A pair of dogs began to wrestle in the dirt, growling good-naturedly.  The entire image presented by the plaza of Santa Fé was that of a dusty, packed earth barnyard.
     "Come, my dear," Uncle Wallace said as the mail rumbled away toward the post office on the square's west side.  "You'd like to settle in, I expect."  Laura turned to see him poised in a wide, double doorway set at an angle into a building on the plaza's southeast corner, marked Fonda by one sign and Exchange Hotel by another.  Beyond, at the end of the street to the east, stood a large Spanish church with the blue mountains rising behind it.
     "We're staying here?" she asked.
     "Of course," her uncle said.  "It's the best place in town."
     "I--assumed you had a house," Laura said.
     "House?  Lord, no!  D'you know what it would cost to build a proper house out here?  Come along, now."
     Chastened, Laura followed him into the hotel's office, which besides a desk boasted a real Turkey carpet on the floor and two cushioned chairs.  An open doorway beyond led into a cantina; she could see the dark wood of a long bar.
     "Mr. Howland!"  A man in a white shirt, vest, and dusty trousers looked up from the desk.  "Good to see you back!"
     "Thank you, Phillips.  Where's Parker?"
     "Around somewhere.  Want your usual room?"
     "If it's free, yes, and one for my niece."
     "Yes, indeed!"  The clerk's gaze made Laura uncomfortable.  She looked away, only to find a couple of men in the doorway of the cantina staring at her as well.  She drew down her veil.
     "Number four," the clerk said, handing keys to her uncle.  "It's on the placita."  Laura thought she saw him wink.
     "This way, m'dear," Uncle Wallace said, starting toward a closed door.  "Fetch in her trunk, will you, Phillips?"
     "I surely will," the clerk said in a lazy tone, going through the double doors to the street.  Laura sighed as she followed her uncle.  So far, Santa Fé was a great disappointment.
     "Damned fool thing," her uncle muttered, fiddling with the door latch.  "Ah, there we are."
     The door swung open, and Laura was surprised to see that it led outside again, into a garden entirely surrounded by the hotel.  Portals were set back on all sides, shading doors.  The center, a rectangle perhaps ten feet by sixty, was filled with rose bushes just starting to bloom, raising a heady scent in the afternoon sunshine.  Beneath them hid pansies, oregano, and marjoram, and along the ground grew tendrils of thyme covered with tiny purple blooms.  Mockingbirds sang from wicker cages, and vines climbed the great tree-trunk pillars of the porch roof.
     "A glorieta," Laura whispered, enchanted.
     Uncle Wallace led her down the portal to the centermost door on the western side, which he unlocked and held open for her.  As she peered into the dim apartment Laura saw a small fireplace, an actual bed, pegs for clothes, and a rough-hewn table and chair.  A patch of the black and white wool rug that Monsieur Vallé had called jerga covered part of the floor.  How humble I've grown, Laura thought, smiling.  Back east she would have been insulted at being offered such a room--even her father's scant means could command decent lodgings--but compared to the accommodations she'd had along most of the Santa Fé Trail, it was palatial.
     "That opens on the street," her uncle said, pointing to a second door opposite the first.  "Keep it locked.  If you need anything ask Phillips, or come and find me.  I'm in number eight, on the far side of the cantina."
     "Thank you, Uncle."  Laura set her clock down on the table.
     "I've got a few things to see to," Uncle Wallace said, patting his pockets.  "I'll come back in an hour and we'll have some supper.  Oh, here's your key," he added.  He pressed it into her hand and withdrew, leaving the door open behind him.
     Laura sighed, untied the strings of her bonnet, and hung it on one of the pegs.  She drew out her small gold watch, which she had taken to wearing on a long chain inside her dress to protect it from the dust.  Monsieur Vallé had given her the correct time that morning.  She set the mantel clock, then pulled out its weight, which had been wrapped in cloth and tucked into the case, and carefully rehung it.  Winding the clock with the key, which she kept on her watch chain, she smiled as it began its gentle ticking.  It was almost the half hour.  Laura lay on her side on the bed, watching the minute hand slowly move toward the six, waiting for the musical chime.
     "Where d'you want it, miss?"
     Laura started, and got hastily to her feet.  The desk clerk stood in the door with her trunk, wearing a grin.
     "By the wall, please," she said, regaining her composure.  The clerk carried the trunk in and placed it near the foot of the bed.  "Could someone bring me water and a basin?" Laura asked.
     He straightened up and gave her a long, appreciative look, and the grin widened.  "Sure thing, missy," he said on his way out.  "If you need help with your bath, let me know."  He slipped out before Laura could reprove him, and she threw the door shut with a snap.
     This is not a civilized country, she thought in the resulting darkness.  She pulled back the window curtain to let in some light, then unlocked her trunk and took out a candle and matches.  With candlelight dispelling much of the gloom, she covered the window again and sat on the bed to remove her dusty half-boots.  The place might not be civilized, but she would remain so.  Her feet rejoiced at the freedom of slippers, and she knew that with a fresh gown draped over a proper hoop, she would feel more herself.
     A soft knock heralded the arrival of a Mexican maid with her wash basin.  "Thank you," Laura said, letting her in.  "Set it on the table, please."
     The girl looked apprehensive.  "No entiendo."
     "Here," said Laura, touching the table.
     "Ah, sí."  The girl brightened.  She set down the basin and a towel, bobbed her head, and turned to leave.
     "Thank you, thank you very much," Laura said smiling and nodding as she closed the door.  "I suppose I should learn Spanish," she added to herself.    She went to the table, removed her gloves, and splashed the cool water on her face.  Spanish didn't interest her, but it appeared she would need to know it if she remained in Santa Fé.
     The clock chimed once.  Laura straightened, wondering for the first time just how long she would be here.  She picked up the towel and dried her face, then undressed and began sponging her weary body.  Surely this dusty village in what was, to all purposes, a foreign country would not be her permanent home.  The idea that her uncle intended to stay in this dingy hotel astonished and worried her.  She had meant to keep house for him, as she had done for her father, and thereby earn her support, but it appeared that was not to be.
     How, she wondered as she dressed, did her uncle pay for his accommodations?  She had assumed he had some profession, but he had not described his business to her, and while he seemed to have money enough, she felt precarious all at once.  An ache came into her heart, an intense longing for green Massachusetts.  Suddenly she couldn't bear the dark, tiny room.   Snatching up her gloves and bonnet, she hurried out into the garden.
     Her hoops kept her from going out on the narrow path among the roses, but it was just as well, for the sun was intensely bright after the dimness of her room.  She strolled along the portal instead, gazing out at the flowers.  Their scent soothed her, and the warmth of the sun-baked walls made her drowsy.  She found herself at the end of the portal, facing a pair of doors that stood open to a dining room.
     "May I help you?" a man inside said, noticing her.  He came to the doors, smiling.  He wore a neat coat and waistcoat, and had dark hair, thinning a little, and bushy side whiskers.
     "No, thank you," Laura said.  "I'm just exploring.  Forgive me for disturbing you."
     "Not at all," the gentleman replied.  "If I can be--"
     "Parker!" her uncle called, coming up beside Laura.  "Been looking all over for you!"
     "Mr. Howland!  Welcome back," said the gentleman.
     "This is Mr. Parker, my dear," Uncle Wallace informed her.  "He owns the hotel.  My niece, Miss Howland."
     "How do you do?" Mr. Parker's smile widened.  "I trust you've been given everything you need?"
     As Laura began to reply a great ringing of bells commenced from nearby.  Mr. Parker beckoned her and her uncle into the dining room, and shut the doors against the din.
     "It's the parroquia," he said, gesturing eastward.
     "The Spanish church down the street?" Laura asked.
     "Yes.  There are others, too, which you'll hear if you walk about the town at all.  Would you care for some dinner?  I was just about to sit down, and I'd be honored if you would join me."
     "Delighted," Uncle Wallace said.  He and Laura followed Mr. Parker to a table near the kitchen, where they were served a lavish dinner of roast beef and potatoes, peas, scalloped onions, rice with tomatoes, and fresh bread.  There was also a dish of pork in bright red sauce, called cárne adobada, just the smell of which made Laura's eyes water.  She declined to taste it, but the rest of the meal was delicious, and she ate hungrily while listening to her uncle catch up on gossip.  He seemed mostly to be inquiring which of his numerous acquaintance were presently in town.  He must be reasonably prosperous, she decided, to know so many people.
     The cook brought out individual dishes of caramelized custard for dessert, and Mr. Parker poured the coffee.      "You will find very pleasant society in Santa Fé, Miss Howland," he said.  "There are a number of Americans in town, and some of the better Spanish families are quite cultivated.  There are also some good people with the military, though they're all at odd's ends just now.  I heard Captain Sibley resigned."
     "Yes," Laura said.  "We saw him leaving Fort Union."
     "Did you?  He laid out that depot, you know.  Knows every box of biscuits in it."
     "He appeared to be taking a number of them along," Laura said dryly.
     Mr. Parker shook his head.  "It's a bad business.  Most of the West-Pointers are going south.  Captain Ewell, Captain Wilcox, Major Longstreet.  And I understand Colonel Loring's resigned."
     Uncle Wallace's brows went up.  "I thought Loring was the departmental commander," he said.
     "He is.  Was.  He's packing up to head for El Paso right now.  Wanted to take the Fort Marcy troops with him, but Canby's blocked it."
     Laura raised her head.  "Major Canby?" she asked.
     "Yes.  You know him?"
     "I met him at Fort Union."
     "He's about the only loyal officer in New Mexico," Mr. Parker said.  He glanced at Laura, and seemed to decide the topic was too grim for her tender ears, for he smiled and changed the subject.  "Do you enjoy dancing, Miss Howland?"
     "Yes," Laura said, laying down her spoon, "though I have not been dancing of late."
     "Oh, of course not.  Forgive me.  I was just going to mention that we have little bailes here occasionally.  This room has the best floor in town, you see," he added with pride, gesturing toward the long expanse of wood.
     Laura smiled.  "I'm sure it makes an excellent ballroom."
     "They have concerts, too," Uncle Wallace said.  "There's a bang-up band at Fort Marcy Post."
     "I shall look forward to hearing them," Laura said, rising from her chair.  "Thank you for the excellent dinner, Mr. Parker.  Will you pardon me if I retire early?"
     "That's right, you rest up," her uncle said.  "Tomorrow I'll come round and show you the town."
     The gentlemen rose, and Laura left them to seek the quiet of her room.  The dinner had done much to restore her spirits, and as she went out into the garden she sighed.  It would be impossible, of course, for this place to compare with home, but it was not so very unpleasant, after all.  Mr. Parker was certainly a gentleman, and he had said there were other good people in Santa Fé.  If she could find intelligent company, who perhaps even shared her views, she thought she would do very well.
      She glanced past the garden at the opposite portal, where sunlight was beginning to slant in beneath the roof.  No guest rooms on that side--only a door into the kitchen and another, standing open now, which appeared to lead into the cantina.  A form moved inside, and the hotel clerk came out to lounge in the doorway.  Laura quickened her step, feeling the clerk's gaze on her as she hurried to her room and locked the door. 

Next stop:  San Antonio

Copyright © 1998 by P.G. Nagle. All rights reserved.