The Devil on Her Tongue (42 page)

Espirito frowned. “What is your objection to them coming? It’s a beautiful place.”

“Fine, they can come,” Bonifacio said tersely, pushing his spoon back and forth in the soup. “My opinion counts for little anyway.”

“W
hy do you want to go to the quinta?” Olívia asked me the next morning, when she heard that Cristiano and I were accompanying the men.

“I looked through its gates as we came to Funchal. The house looked so wonderful. I think it will be interesting to visit such a place,” I said.

“You’re certainly welcome to join us, Olívia,” Espirito said.

“No, thank you,” she replied, and then touched her napkin to her lips, although she hadn’t yet begun to eat her breakfast.

We rode to Quinta Isabella in a bullock cart pulled by two oxen. The high, wide gates were opened by the same boy who had taken in Adão on our way to Funchal. The house—glowing white in the bright sun—stood high above the gardens on either side, graced by treetops moving softly in the breeze. Along one side of the drive was a vineyard, where men worked under the pergolas supporting the vines.

The house was tall and stately in what I took to be the English style, with a grand front entrance that included a fountain in a circular drive. Espirito directed the oxen along a lane that ran beside the house, and after we all climbed down, he left the cart in front of some stables.

Behind the big house were more gardens and a terrace with broad arches supporting the vine-twined trellis overhead. Portuguese as
well as black-skinned men were busy in the gardens, while women worked in a big kitchen set in a yard of well-brushed earth. Visible through another set of open doors were lines strung with clothing and linens; steam billowed from the unshuttered windows. Beyond the kitchen and wash house I could see a low, open-sided building housing a huge
lagar
for treading grapes, and behind that, backing onto a forest, were a number of simple, tidy houses—homes, perhaps, for the servants.

As a black-skinned woman carrying a huge basket of sweet potatoes on her head passed us, Espirito greeted her. “Good morning, Nini.” The woman smiled and continued towards the kitchen.

“Senhor Kipling and his deceased wife, like many Madeirans, don’t hold with slavery. When they purchased slaves from West Africa to work on Quinta Isabella, they immediately gave them their freedom papers in exchange for five years of work. But often, after the five years, they stay on, living as free men and women, working for a wage, given a pleasant house and enjoying the charms of the quinta.”

I thought of the many mulattos and quadroons I had seen on the streets of Funchal. Senhora da Silva had told me they were descendants of the slaves from North and West Africa brought to Madeira when it was still minimally populated. They had originally worked in the sugar industry, the island’s specialty before the grapes. Cristiano fit in on the streets of Funchal as he hadn’t in Curral das Freiras, where there were only island-born Portuguese.

“Diamantina, you and Cristiano should first go to the kitchen for something to drink while I take Bonifacio to meet Senhor Kipling’s son-in-law. And then you might enjoy walking through some of the gardens as well. Binta will take care of you,” Espirito said, smiling at another dark-skinned woman. Her thick, wiry hair was neatly bound in a red cloth, and her striped skirt and white embroidered blouse were clean and of a richer fabric than mine. She had a ring of keys on a belt around her waist.

Binta took us to the big kitchen, smelling of baking bread and grilling meat and boiling fruit, and offered us glasses of cool, sugared lemon water and a plate of biscuits. Cristiano and I ate and
drank, and then went out into the verdant gardens that surrounded the back of the big house.

We wandered among the flowers, and I touched the nodding heads of the blossoms. The air was rich with their perfume, and cool and fresh this high above the town, with breezes from the ocean. Wasps and bees were drawn to the flowers’ sweetness, and when I closed my eyes and breathed in all these scents, it was as if I had entered another life. As we wandered closer to the house, I picked a mint leaf and gave it to Cristiano to chew. A row of open floor-to-ceiling glass doors curved gracefully along the back of the house, and all the windows on the second floor were open as well. There was a wide door at the back of the house, through which servants came and went.

And then, from one of the upstairs windows, came a sound I knew well: low notes of despair rising to a crescendo, and then the wavering, quieting sound as the pain loosened its grip. I listened to the pattern of cries three more times, in quick succession. A stout middle-aged woman, her bodice soaked with sweat and her face flushed and wet, came out of the back door. She lifted her apron and fanned her face, then beckoned. “Are you a servant here?”

“No.”

“I need more linens. And hot water. I don’t know where the Dona’s servant has got to.”

“You’re the midwife?”

“Gracinha,” she said, nodding. As the cries began again, she shook her head.

“She sounds near,” I said. “Who is it?”

“Dona Beatriz, the daughter of Senhor Kipling. Far too old to be a mother for the first time—close to thirty.” She lifted her apron again and mopped her face. “She’s wearing me out. This has been going on since the middle of the night, and it should have been over long ago.” A young dark-skinned girl came around the side of the house. “Jacinta,” Gracinha said. “There you are. Hurry and fetch more linens, and another kettle of hot water from the kitchen.”

“Can I be of help? I’m a
curandeira
, and have delivered many times.”

As the girl ran off for the water and linens, Gracinha wiped away the sweat that ran down the side of one plump cheek. “You may as well come take a look at her. It can’t hurt.”

I sent Cristiano back to the kitchen to wait for me, then followed Gracinha through the back door, along hallways and up a flight of stairs into a bright, spacious bedroom.

Dona Beatriz lay on her back, her long dark hair tangled over her shoulders. Small diamonds twinkled in her earlobes. She gripped a corded rope tied to one of the bedposts. The room had the heavy, salted smell of sweat and fear.

“Here is someone else to help us, Dona Beatriz,” Gracinha said as she bustled towards the bed. “Another
parteira
.”

I poured the last of the warm water in a kettle into a basin, and washed my hands as I smiled at the woman. “
Bom dia
, Dona Beatriz,” I said.

“Inglêsa?”

“No. But I can speak it a little.”

“But your hair …”

“I’m a Dutchman’s daughter,” I said, going to the foot of the bed. “May I see how close your baby is?”

She nodded, and I pulled away the sheet and knelt, feeling for the baby. “Yes. The head is there,” I said, standing again.

Her panting groan began again.

Gracinha whispered, “She doesn’t work hard enough. She should have been able to push the child out hours ago.”

I looked at the woman’s face, contorted with pain as she pulled on the rope. “Have you tried other positions?”

Gracinha shook her head and spoke quietly. “I’m afraid to suggest she squat like a peasant. The husband keeps coming by the door and he wouldn’t like it.” The groans grew louder. “The Dona told me that her father wished to bring up an English physician from Funchal when her time came. The baby is a few weeks early, and the father is away. All the wealthy English use one of their physicians for childbirth. But the husband is a true Portuguese: he didn’t want another man to see his wife in this situation. So they called for me. It’s my first time to deliver a child on an English
quinta. I’m afraid if something goes wrong I’ll be blamed. I’m just trying to keep her calm and praying to the Holy Mother that she delivers safely.”

Jacinta came in with an armload of linens, a kettle swinging from one hand, and set everything down and stood in the doorway.

The woman’s voice rose in a warbling cry, then she fell back, panting, still holding the rope, her eyes wild.

“All right, all right,” Gracinha said soothingly. “Just keep pushing. It will be over soon.”

It was clear that Dona Beatriz panicked each time the pain came, and that fear made her body clench and close, the pushing ineffectual. I thought of my medicine bag in my room at Olívia’s; I could have made Dona Beatriz any number of calming tisanes to drink, and applied salves to allow her to open more easily.

“You’re so young to be a midwife,” she said as I wiped her forehead.

“I learned from my mother,” I said. “Dona Beatriz, it will be over soon if you listen to me.”

She nodded, gripping my hand.

I looked over my shoulder at Gracinha. “I’ll stay with her now. Go and get something to eat.”

She didn’t argue. “Good luck with her,” she said under her breath.

I helped Dona Beatriz control her wild, ragged panting with each rise of pain by breathing with her to show her a soothing rhythm, and holding up her head and shoulders so she could push with more strength as she pulled on the rope. I kneaded her lower back between the pains, which brought her some relief.

Suddenly Dona Beatriz squeezed her eyes shut, deep guttural noises coming from her throat. I knelt at the foot of the bed, and Gracinha returned just as I guided the child, choking and then squalling, into the light.

“A boy, and healthy, God be praised,” Gracinha said, taking the infant from my hands after I’d cut the cord. She rubbed the baby briskly, then stopped to cross herself. I knew she was as relieved for herself as she was for the mother.

“You did well, Dona Beatriz. You were very brave,” I said, smiling at her and brushing the damp hair from her forehead with a wet cloth. She lay back, exhausted.

Her large dark eyes sloped downwards at the outer corners, giving her a slightly melancholic appearance. “Let me see him,” she said, and when Gracinha held the alert baby towards her, Dona Beatriz smiled. Her nose was too long and her mouth too wide for beauty, but her cheekbones were high and fine, and her smile brought a pleasing warmth to her face. Gracinha handed the baby to me and I washed it and swaddled it as Gracinha attended to the afterbirth and changing the bedding and helping Dona Beatriz into a fresh nightgown. She called over her shoulder for Jacinta to find the husband.

As Dona Beatriz lay quietly, smiling at her baby in my arms, Gracinha bustled about, restoring the bedroom to order. A shadow filled the doorway. “Your husband, Dona Beatriz,” Gracinha said, “here to meet his son.”

I glanced at the door, but the light falling from the bright hallway behind the man was dazzling, shadowing his face. “A son, Beatriz. You have indeed given me the son you promised.”

At the familiar voice, my hands were suddenly numb, although I held the child tightly against my chest.

“Yes, your boy is here,” Dona Beatriz said.

As the man walked towards me, all sound fell away. I willed myself to stand strong in the deafening silence, and look into the face of Abílio Perez.

A
bílio opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it abruptly. “See how beautiful he is, Abílio,” Dona Beatriz said. “Yes, let me hold my son.” Abílio’s voice was flannelled. He had to clear his throat: a normal reaction for a man seeing his first-born. “Give him to me,” he said in the demanding tone I remembered so well. He looked even more handsome and confident than when I had last seen him on Porto Santo, and now wore fine English clothing.

As I passed the swaddled newborn to him, his knuckles grazed my breast. I drew in a breath at his touch.

“This woman is Gracinha’s helper, although she came almost too late. What is your name?” Dona Beatriz asked. She spoke with the authority of someone used to giving commands, and of having her demands met.

I let two heartbeats pass. When Abílio remained silent, I understood how it was to be, and felt a surge of relief. “I am Senhora Rivaldo. Diamantina Rivaldo. And … I don’t work with Gracinha, Dona Beatriz. I came to the quinta with my husband. He was meeting with … your husband,” I said, knowing now that Abílio was the son-in-law Espirito had spoken of. “I heard your cries, and …” I stopped. Feeling Abílio’s gaze on me, my heart thumped so loudly I thought they would hear.

He sat on the edge of the bed with the baby, and Dona Beatriz reached out and stroked her husband’s shoulder. He stared down at the child in his arms, then unwrapped the blanket. The baby stretched his legs and yawned.

Abílio picked up one little hand, and then the other, studying them. He did the same with the feet. Then he looked at his wife. “He is a fine child, perfect in every way. Thank you, Beatriz,” he said with a soft smile, and Dona Beatriz returned it.

I stood as if stone, wanting to be away from Abílio, from Dona Beatriz and their baby and this moment of intimacy. Watching him with this woman—his wife—as he looked at her with tenderness and thanked her, in a voice of wonder, filled me with a terrible rawness.

“I will go now,” I said briskly.

“I want you to stay,” Dona Beatriz said. She looked at Gracinha, standing in the doorway. “Gracinha, you will be well paid, but you can leave. Summon the wet nurse as you go.”