The Devil on Her Tongue (48 page)

Dona Beatriz was standing by a wide desk. She had a straight posture that commanded attention; her close-fitting gown was of rich-looking satin, her body already returning to shape after the birth. Her face was flushed, her jaw tight. “My husband hasn’t made the announcement yet, but by tomorrow everyone will know.”

I set my bag on the floor, trying to cover my terrible sense of foreboding. Had she found out about Abílio and me? I took a deep breath.

“I wanted to inform you that my husband has decided that we will move to the mainland, and live in a house my family owns just outside Lisboa, in Santa Maria de Belém,” she said.

I let my breath out, perhaps too loudly. My first thought was of the liberation I would feel with Abílio gone. I could live without fear that he would call upon me again, continuing to coerce me so that Bonifacio would retain the job. Then I thought of the passage money, and whether or not he would give it to me before he left.

After a polite moment had passed, I asked, carefully, “Is this decision to your liking, Dona Beatriz?”

“No. My father wouldn’t want me to leave Quinta Isabella.” Her voice was loud. “This is my home. He wouldn’t have ever given permission for me to be taken so far from home. And from him. He made that clear to Abílio before we wed.”

Again I wondered why she had called me here.

Her eyes were bright with angry tears and her mouth trembled as she fought for composure. “And now, my father barely …” She stopped and took a shaky breath. “And now Abílio is insisting we leave. He says he wants more than island life.”

I remembered Abílio saying those words on Porto Santo.

“I’m leaving Binta and Nini and Raimundo to keep the house and property in order,” she said. “I’ve already spoken to them about their duties. The wine lodge will operate as usual, with your brother-in-law remaining as overseer. I have always been involved with my father’s business, and will be kept informed of our sales through Espirito. You and your husband will remain in the guest cottage.” Her mouth was firm now. “Neither Binta nor Nini nor Raimundo are literate, so I would like you to be in charge of the ordering of supplies for the estate: food and linens basic to the needs of all of you, what the horses require, and necessary repairs to any of the buildings. You will sign the receipts, and everything will be paid for through the Counting House. Those receipts will be sent to me so I can stay aware of the estate’s expenses.”

“Of course,” I said.

“And I would also like you to write to me regularly about Quinta Isabella: the gardens and the grapes and horses and the state of the house. Send the letters to me at this address in Santa Maria de Belém. I want to be assured that everything is running smoothly here.” She held out a paper, and I took it.

“That’s all,” she said, dismissing me. I picked up my medicine bag and left.

I didn’t like to think of disappointing Dona Beatriz should Abílio give me the money to leave, but she would find someone else to do her bidding once I was gone.

I was in the cottage with Cristiano when a note was delivered to the door by Raimundo a few hours later.

I opened it.

I tried to find a way to pass the rest of the afternoon. As the dinner hour approached, I prepared my sponge. I never knew what Abílio might do, and had to be prepared.

Bonifacio came home and changed his clothing.

“Please take Cristiano with you for dinner. I’m not hungry tonight,” I told him, trying to appear normal. He nodded and they left.

I hurried down the path some minutes later. As I passed the chapel, I saw Abílio waiting for me in the doorway.

“I watched your husband and the boy go by.”

“Why aren’t you in your office, as you told me?”

He shrugged.

“You have the money then, as you said in your note,” I said.

“Come inside.”

I went into the cool, shaded room. He shut the door, then stepped close to me and put his hands on the laces of my blouse. “I want to see your back one more time.”

“Abílio. Not here. The chapel …”

“You know I’ll be leaving Madeira. I couldn’t go without a last farewell.” He already had my blouse undone.

I glanced at the statue. The Holy Mother’s eyes watched.

“No, Abílio,” I said, pushing away from him. “Stop. I won’t do this. I said stop!”

But he yanked me closer and forced me to the floor. I had to close my eyes tightly so as not to look into the face of Our Lady of the Grapes as Abílio took me with a brutality that made me cry out in pain as I struggled against him.

He covered my mouth with his hand and did not stop.

When I was dressed, my back to him as I wiped away my tears with shaking fingers, I said, “Where is it?”

“The money?”

I turned to face him. “Of course, the money.”

“It’s better if I buy the passages for you and the boy. If you try on your own, they’ll turn you away. And I’ll find someone for you to travel with. When do you want to leave?”

“On the next possible ship.” I never wanted to see him again.

“All right.” He pulled open the door, and the early evening sunshine flooded in. “I’ll look after everything for you.”

Three days later, as I walked down to the yard for breakfast, I saw carts full of travelling cases. Jacinta and the wet nurse, holding Leandro, sat in a carriage. Five more servants were in another cart.

“Jacinta,” I said, running to her. “Are you leaving this morning?”

“Yes,” she said, and looked over my head.

Abílio, holding Dona Beatriz’s arm, was coming our way.

“Senhor Perez,” I said, staring at him. “And Dona Beatriz. I didn’t realize you were leaving so soon.”

“Goodbye, Diamantina,” Dona Beatriz said. “I’ll wait to hear from you, as we discussed.”

As Abílio helped her into the carriage, I cleared my throat. He turned from his wife and looked at me.

“I know you and the rest of our trusted servants will keep Quinta Isabella well. Thank you,” he said.

“But …”

He climbed in and sat beside his wife. He looked over his shoulder at me as the carriage pulled away, and touched the brim of his hat.

A
s I read her letter, I thought, for the thousandth time, of how Abílio had once more made a fool of me. I had been tricked into trusting him because he’d given Bonifacio the position as he had promised. I had fallen prey to his story of buying me the passages to Brazil in the same way I had believed he would take me with him from Porto Santo. I was filled with self-loathing, remembering how I had submitted to him so easily in his office. The last time, in the chapel, was not submission.

Now I had nothing but hatred for him. As long as I lived at Quinta Isabella, I would not be free of him; he could arrive any time, coming back to Funchal to inspect the winery and the quinta. But, I vowed, I would ask him for nothing, and give him nothing. I would never again let him touch me.

I had sent the letter to my father in December. It was now the beginning of June. He would have received it by now, surely. I could expect his reply between November and December. I had waited this long; I could wait another six months.

With Bonifacio away at work all day, I found pleasure and companionship with Binta and Nini. I loved the gardens, and had started my own herbs growing on the sunny side of the cottage. The women from nearby villages had heard about me through Gracinha, and came to the gate asking for my help. Raimundo allowed them in, and I sat with them outside the kitchen, listening to their symptoms and giving them what cures I could. I felt useful and fulfilled in a way I hadn’t since the days of helping my mother at Ponta da Calheta.

As much as I enjoyed living in the pretty cottage, I loved the summer house best. I discovered it while exploring the estate, coming upon an almost-hidden, mossy path through a small forest of lofty pines. It was an eight-sided structure open on all sides, and the surrounding foliage gave it a sense of privacy. It was built on the highest point of the property, and caught the breezes blowing from the sea. Visible from three of its sides were the harbour and the ocean beyond. The flowers growing wild around it perfumed the air. I brought cloths to dust the soft cane sofas and chairs, and beat the cushions until they were fresh and plump. It was a small, hidden jewel, an unexpected little open-air villa that I felt was my own private retreat.

At one time it had been used for entertaining guests on hot summer nights, Binta told me when I asked her about it, but it had fallen into disuse since Dona Beatriz’s mother died. Every day and many evenings, sometimes with Cristiano and sometimes alone, I went to the summer house to watch the ocean and its moods. On sunny days the water turned from blue to green and back to blue; sometimes the sun glazed its surface a bright slate. When rains came and clouds scudded low, the winds stirred and ruffled the water into dark grey. In the darkness of night I admired the cast of the moon, its long, wavering shaft of light on the sea’s blackness.

The day after I received her letter, I wrote to Dona Beatriz. I left Cristiano playing with Tiago and walked into Funchal to take the letter to Kipling’s so it could be mailed.

As I came into the Counting House, Espirito and a merchant stood beside Bonifacio at his desk, looking over a bill of lading. “
Bom dia
, Bonifacio,” I said, the respectable wife. “I’ve brought a letter to be sent to Dona Beatriz, at her bidding.”

Bonifacio nodded, but Espirito smiled at me. I hadn’t seen him since Bonifacio and Cristiano and I had moved to the cottage after Senhor Kipling’s funeral. He looked slightly drawn, his skin tone unhealthy, and I wondered if Olívia’s health was worse.

“You can leave the letter in that basket with the rest of the post,” he said.