The House of Hawthorne (4 page)

“Don Manuel
y
Don Fernando Layas:
Bienvenidas a señoritas
Mary
y
Sophia Peabody
de
Massachusetts.”

“
Encantada de conocerte
,” says Don Manuel.

“
Yo también
,” I say.

The brothers smile, and old Tekla leads the children in a round of applause. It is amusing how delightful they find my crude attempts at speaking Spanish. At my mother’s instruction, I am fluent in some of the romance languages, so I will catch on quickly. I cannot help but hold the gaze of the younger brother, Don Fernando, whose dark eyes are lashed more beautifully than any female’s, like black moons in a white night sky.

Madame Morrell has left us to welcome a neighboring family that has just arrived. Don Fernando and I continue to gaze at each other until Mary slides her arm around my waist and pulls me toward the dining room, where the cook, Tomás, has announced dinner.

The opium dream continues through the rest of the night.

While I am enchanted by these people, I am separate from them because I cannot understand all that is said. Madame Morrell is a patient and enthusiastic translator, and has done an admirable job weaving Mary and me into the conversations. I long for the day when I will be able to comprehend the words without
her intercession, and I am hopeful it will come soon, because I already feel as if I have a small grasp of some of their often used words and phrases. While this separation of culture and language clearly makes Mary ill at ease, I find a certain power in it. It is obvious from Manuel’s and especially Fernando’s many glances and smiles that I am a novelty to them, a new species of flower they would like to pluck and study.

For all of the language confusion at dinner, afterward the company is quiet, and would prefer to listen to music than converse. The guests take turns at the piano, with and without singing, and I am at ease in the language of music, which we can all understand. When Fernando performs, his diffidence captivates me so that I long to sketch him. I will ask his permission, of course, but we must be in closer acquaintance before I do so. For most of the song he does not look at me, but at the climax it seems he has worked up enough courage to capture my gaze. I am glad the room is dimly lit, or I would be embarrassed at the flush I know infuses my cheeks.

Louisa, the Morrells’ sixteen-year-old daughter, starts the dance while Madame Morrell plays, and Mary and I recline together to take in the spectacle. It is interesting that the Spanish decorum that prevents unmarried men and women from touching hands in public so delights in joining them in dancing. They waltz with the fluidity of ocean swells, and in spite of the sparest contact, great passion is conveyed in the motion. The noise of the piano and the dramatic atmosphere begin to destroy the peace in my head, however, so I retreat to a chair next to Dr. Morrell’s at the window. I cannot be more shocked when I see Mary join in
the dance at Manuel’s and Louisa’s urging, and I am both delighted and jealous to see her laughing, turning, and collecting their attention. Mary might not have a grasp of the language, but she certainly blooms to the music. If Mother knew she was dancing, and I was in proximity of such sound and exertion, she would faint. Finally, when Fernando escorts Mary in another waltz, I stand and walk outside to the gallery. I cannot endure the closeness of the room for another minute.

No one seems to notice I have left, and that is for the best. I have overexerted my good humors this evening, and will pay for it tomorrow. I stand at the railing and gaze out over the landscape, taking deep breaths from the flowers’ exhalations and making mental portraits of the moon-stained mountains. In almost no time, I am transported to my inner world—a place where all my life I have retreated from infirmity of body and circumstance—and exist alone in Cuba as a small creature in a plain of many. The earth seems to pulse up through the foundations of the house to my feet, removing my separation from nature’s soul and restoring me to balance. I am shaken when a deep voice in my ear breaks the spell.

“Ven conmigo.”

I turn my head to see Don Fernando, a marble figure glowing in the luminous night. He gestures with his head, indicating that I am to follow him, and we creep to the other end of the gallery, where a tall shrub, almost as big as a tree, has grown to meet the house. He points to a lime-size reddish knob, one of many that hang from the shrub, and I turn my attention to the strange growth. After a few moments, the knob stirs and begins to open.
The tightly clamped petals and coils of the flower begin to unroll, and it is as if she has thrown her arms and legs open wide to bathe in the moonlight. At her full bloom, the white flower is nearly as large as my face and emits a fragrance of delicate sweetness.

“Beautiful!” I say, tearing my eyes from it. Fernando is not looking at the flower, but at me. I step toward him, and seem to have frightened him, because he looks down at his boots.

“Sí.”

His shyness is endearing, and I would wrap my arms around him in gratitude and affection if I could for sharing this lovely spectacle of nature with me. All I can do, though, is offer, “
Gracias
, Don Fernando,” to which he bows and escorts me back to the salon, where the party has begun to disperse.

Later that night, alone in my room, I write to Mother, describing the good company and the music, and the new things I am learning about myself in this place.

T
he weeks have settled into a pattern of the utmost sweetness and industry. The days are spent studying Spanish and instructing the children, and even some of the slaves, in drawing. We take our benches and sketch papers around the plantation, capturing nature’s splendor and picnicking in the shade of the ceiba trees, which become my new fascination. God made the ceiba on a different scale from the rest of creation. Its grandeur begins at its roots, like thick horses’ necks that reach from the ground to my low height, where they connect with their massive trunk, at odds with the delicate canopy of leaves. I cannot keep my hands from the knobby bark, and imagine the trees are old men, great and grumpy, but with a softness that allows us to poke fun at their unusual forms.

A hibiscus plant, with blossoms as red as a ruby, beckons me. I lean in to inhale, allowing its breath to fill my lungs. “My dear sister,” I say. “Forgive me for plucking you for my amusement, and know you will be cherished while you perish tucked behind my ear.”

The laughter of my companions calls my attention back to them.

“Mees Sofeea,” says Carlito, “I fink ju make me waf.” And he does “waf” and “waf” at every little thing I say, especially when I address the plants. Then he kisses me from one side of my face to the other, and laughs some more.

I hope Carlito never loses his joy, but I see how his father and mother are so plagued by their exploitation of the slaves, and my heart aches that this child will inherit such a legacy. I pray that even if he grows up in poverty, he never owns a single slave. I am certain slavery is what has made his father so ill.

It is ironic that Dr. Morrell has pledged to make me well when he so withers. He sits watching over us with his green eyes, his gaunt and erudite features a mask of intelligence and gallantry overlaid with such sadness that I cannot look on him for long. It is clear to me that to die in poverty away from this corrupt Eden would be better than to perish in wealth amid its contradictions. But how can I judge him? The moment I turn my back from a slave to the botanical abundance and luxurious bosom of La Recompensa,
I find myself justifying my time here, indulging in its richness, philosophizing about the divine justice the slaves will eventually enjoy. Yet even as I turn from it, I feel
the cold cloud of the institution shadowing every avenue and gallery.

In this place of my rehabilitation, these horrors can never allow full rest. Mother begs it of me in her letters, but she cannot understand what we see. I promise her that I will try. After all, I have poisoned every inch of my body in an effort to eradicate my headaches: I have endured leeches and bloodletting; I have prayed until my knees bled; and I have traveled thousands of miles away from my home to a foreign land in search of a cure. I owe it to her to maintain my health.

Distractions help, and I am finding Fernando a welcome one.

Early one morning he asks whether Mary and I would like to ride with him. Mary is not the horsewoman that I am, and declines, but I accept with enthusiasm. I ride Rosillo every day, and having a companion more my age than little Eduardo will be pleasing. Eduardo will still accompany us, of course—Madame Morrell would not think it proper for Fernando and me to ride alone—and he will translate for us.

The slaves commend us to God as we pass on our mounts, and I feel sadness at their kindness. They are surely angels to endure the suffering they do, while always ready to offer us blessings in such heartfelt voices. I return their commendations and offer my thanks, and they too seem affected by my attention. Perhaps this small interaction can offer the slightest balm to their weary souls.

“
Muy amable
,” says Fernando, gesturing from me to the slaves.

“
Amable
,” I say, searching my mind for the translation.

Eduardo calls back to me. “Very kind.”

I smile, and bow my head to Fernando in thanks.

We have reached a vista—one of many along the border of La Recompensa—that offers views grander than any I have seen on earth, and which I intend to commit to canvas in the future. I long to allow my heart to soar to the elevations of the mountains of San Marcos, but the slaves I saw on our way will not allow me a full appreciation of the moment. Fernando glances back at the slaves nearest us, toiling amid the coffee plants, and then back at me.

“¿Es triste, no?”
he says with a furrowed brow.

I know
triste
in French is “sad,” and I can see that is what he means by his face. I am surprised that the son of a planter would speak such a thing.

“
Triste
, sad.”

“Sad,” he says.

“
Sí
,” I say.

“No me gusta.”

“He does not like it,” says Eduardo, in a voice mature beyond his years. “I do not like it either. I want to go to America with you, Miss Sophia.”

“I wish I could take you both with me,” I say.

Eduardo translates, and Fernando gives me such a look of longing, I must turn away.

We ride to the trail nearest us and look back over La Recompensa like kings and queens, with the rising sun at our backs. A tiny bird slips from the foliage leading to the forest and looks as if she has been born of the palm leaves. I am transfixed by such an arrangement of greens, and she shows off by coming to rest on a flower of the most brilliant purple. Mr. Allston would be
fixated by this rare shade of indigo in nature, and I commit it to memory to note it in my journal.

I hear Fernando ask Eduardo a question in Spanish, followed by his careful pronunciation. Then Fernando turns to me.

“You draw bird,” Fernando says.

I delight in hearing my language in his voice, and the fact that he knows of my sketching talents.

“I draw Fernando,” I say.

He laughs and shakes his head, waving me off.

I raise my eyebrow and nod. “
Sí
, Fernando. I draw you. After dinner tonight.”

He looks at Eduardo.
“Cena?”

“
Sí
, you will dine with us,” I say to him. “And I will draw you.”

Fernando picks a flower for my hair. On the way back from our ride, a fresh morning shower mists over us, turning the air alive with diamond droplets. Fernando worries that I will be upset to get wet, but to his delight I laugh and turn Rosillo in circles in the rain.

Fernando sits in profile against the whitewashed wall, fidgeting and uncomfortable in the humid room, while I begin to sketch him. After a short time, he covers his head with a napkin. Silly man—what is he doing?

Eduardo tells me that Fernando is embarrassed and does not wish to sit for a portrait any longer. I am about to protest when Louisa announces it is time for dancing. I am forced to abandon
the dark eyes I have drawn—black orbs with lashes floating on the paper. I leave my sketch on the table and join the company. Fernando comes to my side and gives me a little nudge that sends me off balance and into a fit of giggles while he rights me. I pretend to chastise him.

I have grown fond of Fernando. I think of him when I wake, when I ride, and when I go to bed at night, and must admit that I feel lost in the hours between his visits. Mary often becomes frustrated with me because she must ever call me out of my fantasies while she attempts to speak to me of plantation matters. I offer my apologies—I am as surprised as she at what is awakening in me—but I cannot stop the wanderings of my imagination.

I feel the weight of someone’s gaze and turn to see that Mary stares at me from across the room. Her brow is furrowed and her arms are crossed. She must have seen my flirtation with Fernando and disapproves. My impulse is to go and stand next to her, but something in me rebels. I am twenty-four years old and have every right to further my acquaintance with this man. I know it will never lead anywhere, so I might as well enjoy myself. I have nearly worked myself up to join the dancing when a low and ominous rumbling of thunder beckons us to the piazza. Over the mountain the sickle moon is obscured by clouds, and a sound begins—a rushing so distinct and terrifying, it seems as if biblical floodwaters will consume us. When she sees my fear, Madame Morrell tells me not to worry.

“Listen,” she says. “The storm will not reach us. We can enjoy it from here.”

“Pardon,” says Manuel, who has joined Fernando tonight. He speaks to Dr. Morrell in Spanish, and when he and his brother separate to retrieve their hats and gloves, I see that they will go home to be safe. I am low in spirits now that Fernando is leaving. He sees and comes to me, bowing before me.

“
Buenas noches
, Sophia,” he says, placing his hand over his heart.

He looks so distraught at departing that I hurry to where the withering hibiscus he plucked earlier adorns the mantel. I bring it to him and place it in his hands, allowing my fingers to caress the soft leather of his gloves. He pulls in his breath and hurries away, after his brother. When I turn back to the room, Mary’s dark look chills my warmth. I stand straight, pick up my sketch papers, and retire to my chamber.

Without Fernando, I am unable to complete his sketch, so I attempt to record the bird we saw earlier. I want to show how it seemed born from the leaves, but with only the light of a candle, my eyes become weary, and my head begins to throb. I know I should stop drawing, but I am possessed, and do not sleep until the bird sketch is complete.

In the ensuing days, I am plagued with such headaches that I fear Madame Morrell will have to send a letter announcing my tragic death to Mother after all. My pain keeps me in my room, so that I am not able to take my morning ride, or speak with Manuel and Fernando on their now daily visits.

On a fresh morning without mist—the first in nearly a week
when I have not woken with a headache—I think I will stay in my room and try to paint the bird using some of the oils Elizabeth sent, accompanied by a note from Mother with a thousand cautions about overexerting myself. It is a foolish venture, however, because the moment my hand touches the green to the canvas, my vision seems to explode, and I see only searing red everywhere I look.

Josepha becomes flustered when I am ill. She is like a doting mother, and in my delirium, I often mistake her for Mother until I note her slender form and her soft brown skin. Tekla abuses poor Josepha for her stupidity, but Josepha must be exhausted from caring for me and the house all day, and her son all night. The poor creature never gets a moment’s peace. I try to give her rests, but this seems to upset her as much as Tekla’s admonitions.

I wish I could rouse myself when I hear Fernando’s voice in the hall. I think he elevates its usual quiet for my benefit, and I send Josepha to him with apologies for my ill health, and the hope to see him soon. She is back shortly with Louisa.

“Fernando wishes you to know,” says Louisa, “that he has been practicing a song on the piano to play for your pleasure as soon as the noise does not vex you.”

I am touched that he would do such a thing.

“Please send him my thanks and promises to rest so I am able to hear it as soon as possible.”

Louisa leaves, and I think of Fernando with a growing thrill until I remember that I was about to write Mother a letter. When I see that I have no more writing paper, I creep into Mary’s room to borrow a page. Her room is tidy and smells like fresh linen.
Her dresses hang ordered and straight in the wardrobe, which has been left open to allow the air to flow. When I reach Mary’s desk, I see that she must have had to abandon her own letter this morning in a hurry. The ink is not capped and the papers fan over the wood in disarray. I see a letter in another’s hand peeking out, and after a quick glance over my shoulder to see that no one is nearby, I scan it to ascertain that Horace Mann—the widower who won Mary’s heart back in Massachusetts, but who is taking agonizingly long to recognize it—has written her a letter as sterile as one would to a sister. I feel for Mary, who must endure this treatment. It is no wonder she seems suspicious and even jealous of the attentions Fernando pays me. I resolve to embrace Mary to comfort her the moment I see her.