The Devil on Her Tongue (45 page)

Once the estate was in darkness save for a white, cold moon, I crossed the deserted yard. The dogs knew me now, and although one rose, nose in the air, it immediately lay down again.

Abílio waited with his door open, a lantern dimly lit. An opened bottle of wine and two glasses were on the desk. “Sit with me, and have a drink, Diamantina,” he said as he shut and locked the door. “We will toast Porto Santo,” he said, pouring the rich amber liquid into the first glass. “To the past. To you, and to me, Diamantina, and to our secrets.”

“No,” I said, going directly to the settee and sitting on it. “This isn’t a visit between friends, Abílio.”

Abílio drained his glass. “Are we not friends?” He came to the settee. “I can think of nothing more friendly than you giving yourself to me so willingly.” As he put his arms around me and kissed me, I willed myself not to respond. But my will wasn’t strong enough.

Afterwards, as I was smoothing my hair in the mirror over the settee, Abílio stood behind me. He put his hands on my shoulders, then down around my breasts, and ran his fingers over my rib cage.

I pushed his hands away. “Bonifacio is coming to the quinta for me tomorrow morning. You will tell him he has the position then.”

“As we discussed,” he answered. “But for now, take off your clothes.”

I stared at his reflection in the mirror.

“I have never seen all of you. I want to, now.” He undid the lacings at the back of my blouse. I was watching his face in the mirror, and was pleased to see the look that came over it as he saw my shoulders and the top of my spine. He stepped away.

“What’s wrong, Abílio? Don’t you like what you see?” I undid my skirt and pushed it down, then pulled my arms out of my sleeves and dropped my blouse on the floor beside my skirt. I yanked my shift over my head in one swift movement and stood naked so that he could see my entire back. “You don’t like it?” I repeated, watching him in the mirror.

“Who did it?”

“My mother. She wrote my future on my back.” I let him stare for another moment, remembering how, long ago, I’d envisioned his fingers tracing the vines. “Do you see yourself there, Abílio?” He didn’t answer, meeting my eyes in the mirror, and after a moment I put my shift back on, then pulled on my skirt and blouse. “Lace it up, please,” I said, and he did as I asked. Then he moved away from me and poured himself a drink. I liked that the bottle shuddered against the wineglass with the smallest tinkle as he poured.

I turned from the mirror and arranged something like a smile on my face, opening the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, when you give my husband the good news.”

As I closed the door behind me, clouds moved across the moon, creating brief, shifting shafts of pale light. I looked back at the office. Abílio had turned up the lantern as if to dispel the shadows in the room, and the glow through the window was bright.

And then Espirito was in front of me, his own lantern held high. We both stopped. He glanced at the office behind me. Had he seen me coming down the steps? We stood for a moment. Crickets screeched.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I brought Senhor Kipling up from the bay. I’m just on my way back to Funchal.” He was studying me. “And you, Diamantina?”

“What?” I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders, moving my face from the light of his lantern.

He lowered it. “What are you doing out so late, away from Dona Beatriz?”

I cleared my throat. “I’ve been with her all day and evening. She’s sleeping, and I … felt the need of some air.”

“Ah,” Espirito said. He bowed slightly, and I couldn’t see his face in the shadows. “May I accompany you back to the house? It’s difficult walking without the benefit of a candle or lantern, and I see you’ve come out with neither.”

“Yes,” I said, annoyed at the faintness of my answer.

Espirito put his hand on my elbow to guide me, holding the lantern high to light our way. I was sure he could smell Abílio on me. We didn’t speak, and I felt such an awkwardness that I knew Espirito also felt it. At the back door of the house, he removed his hand.

“Sleep well, Diamantina,” he said, and such was my discomfort, my shame, threaded with the tiniest hope that he really hadn’t seen me coming from Abílio’s office, that I couldn’t even utter the words to wish him a good night.

“F
ather!” Dona Beatriz cried, sitting up. The early morning sunlight flooded Dona Beatriz’s bedroom as her father came to her. I stepped away from the bed as he leaned down to kiss her on both cheeks. “I just saw my grandson in the nursery,” he said in English. “What a fine boy, and the next owner of Kipling’s! You have made me proud, daughter.” He patted her hand. “You are well?”

She nodded, answering him in English, “I feel much better now.”

Senhor Kipling turned to me. “And this is …” He studied my face.

“This is Diamantina, Father,” Dona Beatriz said.

“Which family are you from? What is your surname, miss?” He was unthreatening, his face pleasant.

“I am new in Funchal,” I said slowly. “And I am not English.”

“Oh. Well, I thought … well,” he said, glancing at his daughter.

“I am a
curandeira
,” I said. “I helped Dona Beatriz with the birth, and afterwards.”

Senhor Kipling looked back at his daughter. “The physician I chose to attend wasn’t here?”

Dona Beatriz looked at the coverlet, picking at a loose thread. “Abílio didn’t wish him to come.”

Senhor Kipling shook his head, frowning, but in the next moment smiled again. “Well, it appears both you and Leandro are well, so there was no harm done.”

“Yes, Father,” Dona Beatriz said.

I excused myself and went to the nursery.

When I heard Senhor Kipling leave Dona Beatriz’s room, I returned to gather my things, accepting the purse of coins Senhor Kipling had left for me. I said goodbye to Dona Beatriz and wished her well.

“Thank you again, Diamantina,” she said.

As I walked around the broad upper landing, I heard voices from the open hallway below and looked over the railing. It was Senhor Kipling and another man. As the man congratulated the senhor on his new grandson, I realized it was Henry Duncan.

I drew back a little as Abílio came in and shook Mr. Duncan’s hand and was congratulated about the baby.

“Have you found the right man for the Counting House, Abílio?” Senhor Kipling asked, continuing to speak English.

“I don’t … what did you say?” Abílio asked in halting English.

“The Counting House. Did you find a man for the position?” Senhor Kipling’s voice held an edge of impatience.

“The Counting House. Yes.” Abílio said, struggling with each word.

“Good.” Senhor Kipling turned to Mr. Duncan. “Let’s discuss our partnership further over breakfast, Henry. Combining our resources will double our power and export each year.”

“In Oporto, is …” Abílio started, then stopped. Both men looked at him. “In Oporto is good. We sell port to America … more good than wine to Brazil.”

Martyn Kipling’s voice rose. “Damn it, Abílio, your English has to improve. How can you be influential if you can’t converse confidently? You’ll be dealing with more English than Portuguese. And the nonsense about port … I’m sorry, Henry. And not just for his English. My son-in-law, after less than a year in the business, has his own ideas.”

I saw Abílio’s hands fisted at his sides, and could imagine his expression.

“We can speak Portuguese if it makes it easier,” Mr. Duncan said as the men moved towards one of the open doorways.

Martyn Kipling shook his head. “I’ve told him it was part of his responsibility to speak English fluently if he expects to play a major role.”

Mr. Duncan cleared his throat awkwardly as the three men disappeared into what I assumed was the dining room.

I went to the kitchen and sat with my bags at my feet. Eventually Bonifacio appeared.

“How is Cristiano?” I asked, but before he could answer, Abílio stood in the doorway.

“I was watching for you, Bonifacio,” he said.

My empty stomach churned. Would Abílio do as he had promised, or would he smile the smile I hated and tell Bonifacio that I had come to him, twice? Would he tell him it was my old habit—that I was simply repeating my sins from Porto Santo?

But he bowed low to me, the very picture of good breeding and respect. “Good morning, Senhora Rivaldo. I’m sorry to see you’re looking a little tired. Did my wife make many demands on you through the night?” He was a brilliant liar. I was not. I kept my hands clasped in my lap to hide their trembling. “I don’t know if you’re aware, Bonifacio, how very helpful your wife was during my wife’s lying-in, and in these last few days.”

“I was glad to be of comfort to Dona Beatriz,” I said after a moment.

“And were you treated well during your brief stay?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of the quinta, senhora?” Abílio asked. He was enjoying this little game.

“It’s beautiful.”

“And you, Bonifacio? What do you think of the grounds and the glorious view from our prominent position on this hill?”

“Very peaceful, Senhor Perez. And, as my wife says, very beautiful.”

“Does it compare to your home in Curral das Freiras?”

My breath was ragged in my ears. Was he making fun of us? Forcing us to compliment him on his wealth and stature?

“It’s a different part of Madeira, as you know,” Bonifacio said.

“So you would admit that it’s a better life here, high above Funchal, with our glorious view of the sea, than in the belly of the mountains?”

Bonifacio frowned slightly.

Abílio clapped his hands together, once. “Well, I’m taking too long to get to the point. I just wanted to make sure that you were impressed by our quinta,” he said, stepping closer to Bonifacio, “because I’m offering the position to you, Senhor Rivaldo. I would like you to take on the title of manager of the Counting House of Kipling’s Wine Merchants.”

A small sound came from my throat. Relief, but I hoped it passed as pleasure.

Bonifacio’s eyes widened as if he hadn’t really expected to hear this news.

“That’s not all. I’m also offering your good wife the role of
curandeira
for the quinta. There are a number of servants and slaves, as you’ve seen, and there’s always need for some medicinal assistance. Although Senhor Kipling himself likes to enlist the help of an English physician from Funchal, the islanders are more comfortable with one of their own. Especially the females.” He looked at me. “Your wife is such a competent woman, from what Dona Beatriz has told me. I’m sure Senhora Rivaldo’s many talents will serve her well here on Quinta Isabella.” He extended his hand to Bonifacio. “I would like to offer our guest cottage to you and your family. Living here will ensure that Senhora Rivaldo is always close at hand for those who might need her.”

A tick beat under my left eye. So Abílio assumed that I would continue playing his whore?

“In case I haven’t made myself clear, the cottage will be yours to live in, with no payment necessary, as long as you both work for Kipling’s in the capacities I have offered.”

Bonifacio took Abílio’s hand then and shook it. “Thank you, Senhor Perez. We are, of course, very pleased. Both of us,” he said, glancing at me.

“It’s done, then,” Abílio said. “We wish you to begin at the Counting House at the start of next week.”

“Certainly,” Bonifacio said.

“If you’d like to come to my office, we can sign the necessary papers.”

As he and Bonifacio went towards the door, he looked back at
me. “Your wife, Bonifacio, has arrived as if an angel from above. I don’t know how my Beatriz would have fared without her gentle touch.” His eyelids lowered just the slightest. “Welcome to Quinta Isabella, Senhora Rivaldo.”

B
onifacio and I rode back to Funchal in a bullock cart. Both of us were silent. I didn’t know whether he was pleased at all, or simply accepting, about his new life. My own thoughts circled dangerously. Abílio would be able to call on me at any time, threatening to dismiss Bonifacio if I didn’t submit to his wishes.