The Devil on Her Tongue (46 page)

When Espirito came to the table for dinner, he smiled at Bonifacio. “I’m happy it’s worked out. And that you were offered the cottage to live in … Bonifacio, this is very unexpected.”

“It’s because Senhor Perez wants her as
curandeira
for the quinta,” Bonifacio said. “It’s not my doing.” I fussed with my napkin, not wanting to meet Espirito’s eyes. I was afraid if I looked into his face, he would guess why I had been near Abílio’s office.

By the time we had finished the meal, I uncovered another truth: what disturbed me most about my sinful and adulterous behaviour was the thought of Espirito suspecting me of it. And thinking less of me.

The next day, Bonifacio and Espirito were to return to Curral das Freiras to fetch all of our belongings from the house, and would be gone three to four days.

As Bonifacio went ahead down the stairs, I touched Espirito’s arm.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

I cleared my throat. “For offering Bonifacio—us—this opportunity.”

“Bonifacio is my brother. I have made it my duty to do what I can to help him. Protect him, if necessary.”

Although his words were said in a completely natural manner, I drew in a breath as if rebuked. But he didn’t say anything more, and then disappeared down the stairs.

On the afternoon of the third day after the men left, Ana was polishing furniture and Cristiano playing with his wooden animals while Olívia and I sat reading in the salon. I was wearing my new green gown, and kept smoothing it down over my thighs, unable to stop touching it. There was a sudden knocking on the front door. Olívia and I jumped.

“I’m not expecting anyone,” she said, and sent Ana downstairs to see who it was.

“Could it be Bonifacio and Espirito back early?” I asked.

“Espirito would use his key.”

Ana reappeared, followed by a man I didn’t recognize. He turned his hat in his hand. “I must speak to you, Senhora Rivaldo,” he said, and I put my hand to my chest. My first, unreasonable thought was that Abílio had sent for me.

“Yes?” I said.

“No. The other Senhora Rivaldo,” he said. “Is your husband here? He’s not in the
adega
.”

“He had to go away for a few days, Raimundo. He should return tonight or tomorrow,” Olívia said, standing. “What’s happened?”

“I was sent to tell him the news.” Raimundo was turning and turning his hat. “It’s very bad, senhora. Very bad.”

Olívia felt for the chair and sat down.

“It’s Senhor Kipling, senhora. He is dead.”

The clock ticked on the mantel. Outside, a child cried, its voice echoing against the tall stone buildings. I looked at Olívia. She was
ashen, her chest rising and falling in trembling breaths, her mouth open. I went to her and put my hand on her shoulder.

“What happened?” I asked Raimundo.

“I don’t know, senhora. He was found early this morning. The estate is in great shock. And Senhor Perez also told me to bring you back.”

Here it was. I swallowed. “Me? Why?”

“I am the messenger, senhora. I am here to bring the terrible news, and to take you back to the quinta.”

I looked at Olívia. “Should I go?”

She took a long, ragged breath. “You must. You work for them now.”

“I don’t like to leave you like this.” It was clear the shock of the news had affected her deeply.

“Ana will fetch my mother. It’s all right. Go.” She sat in her chair, her chin up as she struggled for breath.

“You stay here, Cristiano,” I said to the little boy, who had moved to Olívia’s side. I ran up to my bedroom for my medicine bag and shawl, and then left with Raimundo.

There was a hushed air about the whole quinta. In the yard, the servants were gathered and talking in low voices, some of the women weeping quietly.

Jacinta came to me, telling me that Dona Beatriz had sent for me, and I closed my eyes in relief that it hadn’t been Abílio. The wet nurse sat on a cane chair outside the door. Jacinta knocked and, when there was no answer, opened the door and stepped aside for me to enter.

Dona Beatriz lay in the wide bed, almost disappearing into the white bed linens, apart from her hair. It was undone, hanging over her shoulders. The baby was in her arms. She looked at me, her cheeks wet and her eyes swollen.

“Dona Beatriz. I’m so sorry about your father,” I told her, coming close and putting my hand on Leandro’s head. He was alert, and
I was pleased to see his colour pink and healthy now. He was a handsome child, with his mother’s down-turned eyes and his father’s full lips.

Dona Beatriz drew in a stuttering breath, and a sob erupted from her throat. “I need you to make me something to calm me. My grief … I don’t feel I can bear it.”

“Of course.” I opened my medicine bag and took out two vials.

“I don’t know what to do. I can’t …” She was trembling as she picked up one of Leandro’s tiny curled hands, gently caressing it as if for strength. “My mother and my sister. Now my father.” She wept. “Stay with me. I can’t be alone.”

“Where is your husband?”

“He went into Funchal,” she said through her sobs, “to speak to the priest about the funeral. I told him not to go until tomorrow. I wanted him here with me, but …”

I poured water from a jug into a glass and stirred in the powders. I brought the glass to her. “Drink this, Dona Beatriz. Was your father ill?” I asked as she took a few sips. He had seemed full of good health when I’d met him four days earlier. She handed me the glass and I put it on the table beside the bed.

“Nothing was wrong with him. He had dinner with us last night—with Abílio and me. It was the first time I’d left my bed since I had Leandro. We were all happy and laughing. My father entertained us with stories from Lisboa. He ate a full meal, and enjoyed his usual glass of Verdelho. But he did say that his hands felt numb.”

“A sign of the heart failing, perhaps,” I said, drawing a chair close to the bed and sitting near her.

“He decided to go to bed early. When he stood, I saw that he was dizzy. Abílio gave him another glass of Verdelho to take to his bedchamber, telling him it would help him sleep.”

Something grew cold in my chest, and my arms felt prickly.

“Early this morning, when the maid went in …” Dona Beatriz wept harder, holding the baby against her with one hand while pressing the delicate embroidered bed linen to her face with the other, her shoulders shaking. She lowered her head, and her scalp looked pale
and tender. When she again looked at me, I saw tiny broken blood vessels around her eyes from crying.

Leandro’s mouth opened, searching, and he made small sounds of distress. I lifted him from Dona Beatriz’s arm and took him out to the wet nurse.

When I came back, I stood at the foot of the bed, and she continued. “The maid said that when she’d gone in to ask if my father wanted anything last night, he’d spoken to her in an odd way, as if he was seeing something that wasn’t there. He also seemed unable to walk. I asked her why she didn’t come and tell me, but she said my father frightened her, and threatened her. She thought perhaps it was intoxication. But my father would never behave like that, ever.

“When the physician came this morning and looked at … at my father, he said he suspected he’d suffered a number of seizures through the night. He said we might never know what it was—perhaps he had caught some unknown disease in Lisboa, or on the ship, and … Diamantina? What’s wrong?”

I gripped the post of the bed, a loud buzzing in my ears as the room took on the whiteness of the bed linens and pulsed with a bright light. I heard Dona Beatriz’s voice as if from far away and, without permission, lowered myself onto the end of the bed.

“I apologize,” I said, blinking as my vision cleared. “Perhaps it’s heat …” She had described poisoning by the oil of fleabane: the dizziness and numbness in the extremities, the hallucinations and seizures leading to death. I remembered talking about fleabane’s toxicity in front of Abílio.

Dona Beatriz lifted the glass again, drinking until it was empty. I watched her, and wanted to leave. I couldn’t stay here, thinking about Abílio poisoning Martyn Kipling. Poisoning him because I’d talked about the fleabane.

“Please. Stay with me for a while,” Dona Beatriz said, curling on her side. “Stay until the potion begins to work.”

I rose from the end of the bed, going to the chair beside her again.

“Talk to me about something,” she said. “Anything. Anything so I don’t think about it all. It scares me. I’m so afraid.”

I couldn’t think of one comforting thing to say. Finally I said,
quietly, “I’m going to live on the quinta with my family. Your husband has asked that I be the
curandeira
here.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s a good idea.” She drew a deep, jagged breath. “I don’t know what I’ll do without Father.” She sat up and took my hand. Her fingers were cold, and so pale in comparison with mine, sun-darkened and hardened.

“You have your son. And of course your husband,” I murmured, unable to shake the terrible vision of Abílio putting fleabane into Senhor Kipling’s wine. “You have Abíl—You have your husband,” I repeated.

We sat in silence for a few moments, and when she next spoke, her voice was less agitated. The powders were working. “My husband,” she said, and I didn’t understand the strange tone. “I had given up the hope of ever marrying,” she said then. “The suitable time had long passed. My sister Inêz despaired of waiting for me to marry first. Finally my father gave her permission to marry. It was wrong, the younger sister marrying before the elder, but, as I said, it appeared I had lost my chance. There had been men when I was younger, but it was clear their interest was in the Kipling name.” She let go of my hand. “Please. Give me my hairbrush.”

I handed it to her. She brushed her hair with long, slow strokes.

“It was through Inêz’s husband that I met Abílio at a ball in Funchal. He was very attentive. I was flattered. He was younger and, as you’ve seen, so handsome. He courted me with great insistence. And charm. After a few months, Abílio was bold enough to ask my father for my hand. My father said no.”

Her strokes were slow and even. “My father knew, and I knew. Abílio was like the others, wasn’t he, interested in marrying into my family. Not interested in me.” She sighed, her eyelids heavy now. “But I no longer cared. I spoke honestly to my father. I told him it was my last chance to marry and have children. I begged him to allow Abílio to marry me, and take him into the business. I wanted to be a wife, and a mother. I didn’t want to grow old alone.” The brush fell to her lap. “Still my father wouldn’t relent. He didn’t want me to be hurt.

“And then the black pox came, taking first my mother and in another week Inês. It was so fast. We were in shock, and in mourning. Inêz’s husband left in sorrow. But Abílio came and helped in so many ways. My father seemed unable to think or act clearly, and it was Abílio who made many of the necessary arrangements. And then afterwards, he just … stayed.”

I could picture it all so clearly.

“My father barely left his room for a few months. He allowed Abílio to look after everything, the business and the quinta. Abílio seemed very good at managing things.” She stared at me as if not really seeing me. “I’d lost my mother and my sister, and my father had become little more than a ghost. Abílio …” She stopped. Her lips were dry. “Abílio looked after me. You don’t know my husband, but he can be very charming. Very persuasive.”