The Devil on Her Tongue (49 page)

“How is Olívia keeping?” I asked.

“She’s had good health this last while.”

“I’m glad. Please say hello to her for me.”

“I will.” He gazed at me. “It seems life on the quinta suits you.” I had worn my silvery green dress, which complemented my eyes. I had taken special pains with my hair. I told myself it was because I was going to Funchal. I told myself it was only because of that.

“The quinta does suit me. Thank you.”

“And Cristiano is happy there?”

“Yes. He—”

“Espirito,” Bonifacio interrupted. “We’re waiting on you.”

“Goodbye, then,” I said, and turned to leave. But the door opened, and Henry Duncan came in.

“Carry on without me, Bonifacio,” Espirito said, going to shake Mr. Duncan’s hand. “Hello, Henry,” he said, smiling broadly.

“Espirito,” Mr. Duncan said, then smiled at me in a delighted fashion. “Well, the Dutchman’s daughter,” he said in English. “Diamantina, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. Duncan. Diamantina Rivaldo,” I replied in English.

“It’s been at least three years since I last saw you. You’ve left the inn and your dominoes behind, then?” he asked, still smiling. “As well as your father?”

“Rooi wasn’t my father,” I said.

“You’re not the Dutchman’s daughter?”

“I’m a Dutchman’s daughter, yes. But not Rooi’s. He was a family
friend. I haven’t played for a while. I can’t find anyone who dares to take me on,” I said with a small smile.

“Ah. I see. But you said Diamantina Rivaldo. I never knew your surname. So you’re related to Espirito?”

Espirito cleared his throat, and there was a brief, odd moment when neither he nor I spoke. What caused our discomfort?

“She’s my sister-in-law,” he said. “Married to my brother.” He gestured at Bonifacio, who still conferred with the other merchant.

“Ah. I’m sure she’s a treat to have in the family.”

“She is,” Espirito said, and I was surprised at how his natural response to Mr. Duncan’s statement filled me with warmth. “How can I help you, Henry?”

Mr. Duncan set a leather case on the table. “I have a proposition. I know I should be dealing with Abílio Perez on this, but he’s not here. And frankly, I’ve never liked the man. Martyn Kipling and I had a good, competitive relationship, but Perez is bad for business of any sort. There’s already talk from Lisbon that he’s meeting with some wine sellers in Oporto. They’ve signed on to sell port to the American colonies. It’s a quickly growing enterprise.”

“Selling port? Not our wine?” Espirito asked.

“You and I both know Perez shows little genuine interest in Kipling’s. He wouldn’t even meet with me to discuss the partnership Martyn and I were working on.” He glanced at me. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be speaking so openly.”

“Diamantina knows Perez,” Espirito said, and I was suddenly cold. Was his glance at me suspicious in some way? Surely it was just my guilt; I had tried to forget that he had seen me coming out of Abílio’s office that dark night. “She and her husband now live on Quinta Isabella.”

Mr. Duncan opened his case and took out a bottle. “I have a new client in England. One of the biggest—the Church of England. They’ve hired me to supply much of their sacramental wine. Perhaps all, one day.”

Espirito made a low sound of approval.

“Would you like me to leave?” I asked.

When Espirito didn’t respond, Mr. Duncan smiled again. “Not on my account.” He set the bottle on the table. “I took on the job because it’s one of the most lucrative I’ll ever know. It will change my business, and put Madeira’s fine reputation as wine producers on an even higher level.” He pushed the bottle towards Espirito.

Espirito took the cork from it and breathed deeply. “It smells fine.”

“It
is
fine. That’s the altar wine they’ve always used. Their wine merchant is in the Douro valley, but because of bad crops due to the last two wet winters in that area of the mainland, the merchant has raised his prices to a level the Church isn’t willing to pay. They heard of my company’s reputation, and approached me.”

Espirito handed me the bottle. I felt a sudden rush of pleasure at being included, and put it to my nose.

“What’s the proposition, then, Henry?” Espirito asked.

“That altar wine is blended from a crop similar to Madeira’s Sercial. But many of my grape suppliers in the higher regions were down on their production this year, and I haven’t got enough of the Sercial
mosto
. Kipling’s always has the greatest abundance of Sercial on the island. I want to buy all of your
mosto
—I’ll take whatever you have. Don’t worry about the barrels—I’ll supply them, of course.”

“I’ll have to confirm the amounts,” Espirito said. “And talk to my brother about the price we would require. And of course we’ll take a percentage of your profit.”

“That’s only fair,” Mr. Duncan said, raising his chin at the other merchant, who was leaving after shaking Bonifacio’s hand. “I see Rutherford is doing business with you. He likes to buy your Sercial as well, so I want to make sure this can happen quickly.”

“I can let you know by tomorrow,” Espirito said.

“Good. When you approve this transaction, we will need to address the blending. My winemaker has just left me—decided he wanted to live out the rest of his life at home and went back to Scotland a few months ago. I’ve been looking for another good man, but haven’t found anyone to my liking. Who’s the best blender in Funchal?” He held his hand, palm up, towards Espirito. “It’s you, Rivaldo. I know you can match this wine better than anyone.”

Espirito ran a hand up and down the open bottle.

“What do you say? One old friend helping another?”

“Come back tomorrow afternoon, Henry, around three, once I’ve thought this through.”

“All right.” He shook Espirito’s hand. “Good day, Diamantina,” Mr. Duncan said. “It was wonderful to see you. I trust I’ll see you more, now that your marriage has brought you into the Kipling empire.” He smiled with the same charisma I remembered as he encouraged me to speak English and agreeably accepted my every victory with the tiles.

As the door closed behind him, Espirito called across the room, “Bonifacio, I’ll need you to check on our supplies of Sercial
mosto
.”

Bonifacio came to us. “You’re not doing business with him, are you?”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t he a rival? Why should we help him?”

“It would be beneficial for Kipling’s. He’ll buy all our Sercial
mosto
and pay us a percentage of his profit. I’ve told you that Senhor Kipling wanted to partner with him before his death.”

“But Senhor Perez is in charge now.”

“Senhor Perez has chosen to spend his time in Lisboa, doing as he pleases. This will be highly advantageous, as I’ve said. Besides, Duncan is highly trustworthy, and an old friend.”

“It appeared that you’re all old friends,” Bonifacio said now, looking at me. “It sounded as though you were talking more than business. Did you speak English on purpose, so I was unable to understand you?”

“You should try to learn English, Bonifacio,” Espirito said with strained patience. “Henry Duncan wants to buy all our Sercial
mosto
,” he repeated. “He’ll pay well, I guarantee. So please, check on how many barrels of the
mosto
we have.”

Bonifacio’s lips pursed as he turned and went back to his desk.

“I’ll get home, then,” I said. “Goodbye, Espirito. I’ll see you at dinner, Bonifacio,” I called, but he didn’t answer.

I had only taken a few steps up Rua São Batista when Espirito came up behind me. “Could you stay another moment?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’d like you to come into the blending room with me.”

I nodded and followed him through the lane and across the courtyard into the warm room.

“Please. Sit down,” he said, taking two small glasses from a shelf.

“You’ve known Henry Duncan a long time?” I asked him, sitting on one of the stools at the table.

“After I was apprenticed to Eduardo and before I married Olívia, Henry Duncan offered me a job. I took it, and learned what I know about blending from his former winemaker. When that man took a job on the mainland, I became the blender for Duncan’s. After a few years Martyn Kipling came along. He offered me higher pay, and the home above the Counting House. Henry couldn’t match Martyn’s offer, so I took it. I was sorry to leave him, but he accepted it as the gentleman he is, and we’ve remained friends.” He held the open bottle to me. “What do you smell?”

I breathed it in. “It’s not Madeiran Sercial, but close, as Mr. Duncan said.”

He poured a mouthful into each glass. “Try it. Please.”

I held up my glass. “A little cloudy,” I said, looking at the warm amber with greenish highlights. I drank. “A bit acidic at the finish. Surely blended with an older
tinta
.” I licked my lips. “If you decide to blend for him, we should suggest that newer barrels would be a wiser choice.”

Espirito let the wine sit in his mouth. Finally he swallowed, and said, “I agree.” He set the glass down. “Let me explain why I asked you to try this. I’ve been ill for the last few weeks.”

“I thought you didn’t look quite as usual.”

“It’s nothing serious, just a stomach disorder that Dr. McManus assures me I’ll recover from soon, but right now my palate is not as it was. I thought another opinion couldn’t hurt. I’ll work on the blend the rest of the afternoon. Thank you.”

I didn’t want to leave, but I knew I must. As I rose, he said, “Could you … would you be willing to stop by tomorrow to try the blends I come up with? To assure me you’re tasting what I am, before Henry returns?” He smiled, but it was somewhat awkward.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

T
he next afternoon, as I walked down Rua São Batista again, I told myself not to appear overeager. Over dinner the previous night, I hadn’t said anything to Bonifacio about helping Espirito. Everything between Bonifacio and me was as always: we never shared anything of our days, or our thoughts.

I tried the two blends Espirito had worked on, and we agreed on which one matched the Anglican blend the best. When Henry Duncan arrived, he didn’t seem surprised to find me in the blending room.

“Well, Espirito?” he asked. “What news have you for me?”

“I’d like you to try this first. I think you’ll be happy with it.” Espirito offered Mr. Duncan samples from the original bottle and from the new blend. “Of course, it will alter upon maturing and further fermenting, but it’s as close as possible for now.”

Mr. Duncan swirled a mouthful of the sample bottle first, then spat it into a little pitcher. He next took Espirito’s blend, gave it a brief sniff, then repeated the process. He sat for a moment. “Yes. It will be a good match in another year,” he said, smiling broadly.

“Diamantina agreed on the blend. My sister-in-law has a fine palate.”

“I know. Even when I met her in that dingy inn in Vila Baleira,” Mr. Duncan responded, “it was obvious that her knowledge of the grapes and their varietals surpassed many already initiated in the wine business. I take it you have the
mosto
to sell me, and you will do the blending?”

“Yes. There’s just the cost to decide on.”

“You set the price, Espirito. I’ve made it clear I need you. I don’t see us having to bargain over this.”

Espirito extended his hand. Mr. Duncan shook it firmly. “How I wish you’d decided to make your future with me. Even though Perez has ruined the hopes of Kipling’s and Duncan’s merging, maybe one day I’ll find a way to buy him out, and you’ll be my blender again.” He smiled. “For now, we have cause for celebration.” He looked around at the bottles on the shelves. “What can you offer me of my competitor’s wines?” he asked with a laugh.

Espirito poured us each a large glass of a rich old Malvasia. And then another. I should have left then, but maybe because I was pleased to be part of this friendly exchange, I stayed. By the time I’d emptied the third glass, I felt light and happy, smiling as I watched Espirito’s lips on the rim of his own glass.

“Diamantina? Do you ever go back to Porto Santo?”

I turned from Espirito to meet Mr. Duncan’s gaze. Without warning, the last mouthful of wine rose back up my throat, and I felt horribly ill.

“No. Excuse me, please,” I said to them both, standing. I had to steady myself for a moment with my fingertips on the tabletop. I went out into the courtyard, concentrating on walking slowly and deliberately. I took deep breaths, then drank two cupfuls of water from the cistern. I splashed my face and drank another cup of water. I had to sit on a step and close my eyes, willing the nausea to lessen.

At the sound of voices, I patted my damp forehead with my sleeve and stood. “I’ll say goodbye for now, Diamantina,” Mr. Duncan said, coming towards me. “I spend more of my time in Lisbon than I do in Funchal these days, but I’m sure our paths will cross again before too long.”

I tried to swallow my queasiness. “The barrels you bring us should be of newer wood,” I told him, and again he smiled.

Once he’d left the courtyard, Espirito asked, “Are you all right, Diamantina?”

“I didn’t eat much today, and shouldn’t have accepted the third glass. My own fault,” I said, and had to sit down again.

“I’ll get a cart to take you home,” he said. “Wait here.”

I had made a fool of myself. By the time Espirito came back, I was walking in the courtyard, attempting to appear as though all was well. He helped me into the cart.

“Thank you again. I hope you feel all right. I shouldn’t have—”

“Oh no. It’s entirely my fault,” I repeated. “I’ll be fine once I get home.”

He nodded, and the cart jolted forward. I concentrated on staring straight ahead, over the plodding ox, as the driver took me back up the hill to Quinta Isabella.