“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.”
“I’m certain he can,” I said after a moment.
She went back to brushing her hair.
I kept my face expressionless, watching her fingers on the handle of the brush. I imagined Abílio’s hands, his mouth, on her body as they had been on mine only the week before, and felt ill.
Dona Beatriz’s strokes grew ineffectual, her voice slow and heavy as she drifted into the dreaminess created by the powders. “I miss them so much. My mother and my sister. My mother was very beautiful. Leandro reminds me of her in the shape of his face, and his fine eyebrows. Her name was Isabella Sobrinho Duarte. Her family was descended from royalty …”
The brush fell from her hand, and now Dona Beatriz’s head bobbed as she fought sleep. “My father had no interest in fighting anymore, and gave in to our marriage.” She closed her eyes, and I took the brush from her lap. “And now everyone I loved is dead. It is God’s punishment for …” She was almost asleep. “For not listening to my father.”
“All of this will pass, Dona Beatriz. It will pass.” I quietly repeated the platitude as I stroked her arm.
Suddenly, she drowsily opened her eyes. “But I have my baby,” she whispered. “My baby is all I need.” Her eyes closed again, and she slept.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Martyn Kipling had been a well-known and respected figure in Funchal, and his funeral filled the huge Sé cathedral. I stood at the back with Bonifacio.
Two days after the funeral, Bonifacio and Cristiano and I moved to Quinta Isabella, my belongings—including my two new dresses—packed neatly in a fine tapestry travel bag I had bought with some of the réis Martyn Kipling had paid me for helping his daughter.
Raimundo brought our bags from the yard to the cottage on a low-wheeled cart.
We followed him up a shady footpath, past a small, elegant chapel nestled in a copse of cypress trees. Bonifacio made the sign of the cross in front of the painting beside the open door. It was of a sainted woman holding a child in one hand and grapes in the other. “Our Lady of the Grapes,” Raimundo said. Beside the chapel was a small cemetery with two headstones, the marble new, unmarked by time. Martyn Kipling was buried there too, his grave still a humped mound of earth. I knew Dona Beatriz would have a matching headstone carved for him.
As we came through a small stand of trees into the front yard of the cottage, I stopped for a moment. Cristiano stayed by my side while Bonifacio went ahead. I wanted to look at it for a moment, this beautiful little cottage. It welcomed me with its bowed front windows and green door and long veranda with furniture made from the island’s willow. In front of the veranda were rose bushes, their branches tipping with the weight of the flowers, white edged with pale pink. Behind the house was a stand of juniper and pine. The heat of the afternoon drew out their essence; it wafted from their blue-green needles and swirled around me. There was a sunny spot to one side of the house I knew would be perfect for a herb garden. Swallows flitted about in front of us, twittering and complaining.
“Come, Cristiano,” I said. “This is where we’ll live.”
Inside was a large sitting room with a gracious fireplace flanked by two long settees. Fine curtains hung on all the windows, and as I knew from what I’d seen of the big house, the furniture was in an English style, gleaming wood and soft stuffed upholstery. A polished table and four chairs sat in front of the bowed windows, and glass-doored cabinets held pretty painted china figures and dishes. Paintings of landscapes were on the walls. There was a separate room with a long, high tub, and another with the lavatory, as well as three bedrooms. Each bed had wooden posts and a canopy of fabric, and was wide enough for two people to sleep comfortably. T
here was also a small fireplace in every bedroom. We would take all our meals at the kitchen in the yard of the big house.
Raimundo carried in our belongings and set the cases of clothing in the largest, brightest bedroom. After he left, Bonifacio took his own case into one of the other bedrooms.
The only thing that spoiled the cottage was the fact that Abílio was so nearby.
I came face to face with him as I passed the chapel on my way to the kitchen with Cristiano for dinner that first evening.
“Good evening, Senhora Rivaldo,” he said. “And whose child is this?” he asked, nodding his head at Cristiano.
“My husband has taken him under his care. Cristiano, this is Senhor Perez.”
“Bom dia,” Cristiano said politely.
“Go down to the kitchen and have your dinner, Cristiano. I wish to speak to Senhora Rivaldo,” Abílio said.
“My husband will be coming along any moment.”
“And so? Do I not have a right to speak to my employee?”
I swallowed. “How is Dona Beatriz?”
“She’s in mourning. It’s a difficult time for us all,” he said, sounding sincere.
I glanced behind me. “Abílio,” I said, my voice low. “I know what you did.”
He looked startled. “What do you mean?”
“The symptoms of Senhor Kipling’s death were of fleabane poisoning.”
He took my arm and pulled me into the chapel, past the depiction of the Madonna with the Christ child in one arm, grapes in the other hand. “What are you talking about?”
I looked at the few flickering candles and the crucifix, and the small white marble statue of Our Lady with her child and the grapes in its niche. “Why must we talk in here if you have nothing to hide?”
“I’ll ask you again. Why do you mention fleabane?”
I looked into his face. “I think you know.”
“Are you accusing me?” he asked after a moment.
“Yes.”
He wiped perspiration from his upper lip. “Do you have proof?”
“I could speak to the English physician. Would he believe me? I don’t know. I have nothing more than my knowledge to offer as evidence.”
“If you were going to talk to him, you would have done it before the funeral.”
I stared at him. “I considered it. But I wondered what good it would do. Senhor Kipling was already dead. I could say I wanted to see you brought to justice. But who would investigate, and what would they look for? What would my husband think? What would your wife think?”
His face relaxed. “Then there’s no reason to speak of what goes through your head.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I? Of course, Martyn Kipling knew why you wanted to marry his daughter. Surely it’s clear to everyone.”
He crossed his arms over his chest.
“And now you are in sole charge of the illustrious Kipling’s Wine Merchants.”
“You’ve figured it all out, have you?”
“Haven’t I? I know you killed him, Abílio.” I looked at him a bit longer, remembering his bruised knuckles after his own father died. “As you killed your father,” I said, and held my breath.
He sat down on a wooden bench along one wall, his legs stretched in front of him. He lost his cockiness sitting there, staring at his boots. “My father was an ignorant brute. He wore my mother down with his fists, and eventually she gave up. He only got what he deserved. As for Martyn, in my defence, it wasn’t the plan that he die.”
“The plan? You admit it then?”
“As I said, it wasn’t the plan.”
“What did you plan?”
“I only wanted to make him ill for a while. Just weaken him so I had control for a few weeks, a month. He was going into a partnership. It was a mistake—he was about to throw half of the business away.”
I remembered the overheard conversation with Henry Duncan. “I couldn’t let that happen. Once Martyn recovered, he’d see that what I was doing for Kipling’s was right. I used too much of the oil,
that’s all.”
I studied him. “Where did you get it? It wasn’t mine, was it?” I wanted him to say no. Since Senhor Kipling’s death, I had tried to remember if I’d left my medicine bag unattended in Dona Beatriz’s room for any length of time. It would make Senhor Kipling’s death all the worse if I had provided not only the information but the poison itself.
He put his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. “There’s nothing more to be said about this. Kipling is dead. I’m sorry. But now I will make all decisions. For the business, and for the quinta. It’s all mine now.”
A candle on the altar sizzled and then went out. “What’s made you the way you are, Abílio? You are willing to do anything to get what you want. Wasn’t it enough to be married to Dona Beatriz, and work with her father? Isn’t this beautiful home and more money than you can spend enough?”
He stood now, straightening his shoulders. “Diamantina, I’m in charge of everything and everyone. I suggest you run along to dinner now, and never speak of this to me again. If you insist on making some kind of scene, you will only appear a fool. I can’t have a fool working for me on the quinta. I would have to dismiss you, and your husband. All your work”—he smiled lazily—“to make sure your husband got the job would be for nothing.”
I turned my face from him.
“Besides, I could retaliate further.”
I looked back. “What do you mean?”
“You’re forgetting that I have certain proof—proof that I know you intimately. The pictures on your back are certainly not something I would know about without having seen you undressed. It would be an easy matter to mention to your husband that you were responsible for him securing the position. I have no doubt that would make the rest of your life with him much less comfortable.”
I walked to the front of the nave and studied the serene, gentle face of Our Lady of the Grapes. Then I went back to Abílio. “You will pay me for my silence.”
He smiled, the first real smile I had seen since our conversation started. “Ah yes, the Diamantina I know so well. You are so much like me.”
“I’m nothing like you.” I’d known all along that I had no credibility in Funchal. If I accused Abílio, I would sound like a madwoman. “I want money so I can take Cristiano and go to my father, as I’ve wanted to do since he left Porto Santo. You know how important this is for me. Give me the passage money and I’ll be gone from here, and with me will go your ugly secret.”
He nodded slowly. “I need time to think about it,” he said.
Footsteps sounded on the gravel path outside the chapel. I moved to the shadowed wall. The footsteps stopped for a moment, and I knew it was Bonifacio, crossing himself as he passed the chapel. The footsteps moved on.
“I’ll let you know my decision,” Abílio said then, and left.
I was relieved that Abílio did not call on me for the next week, although I waited to hear his decision.
I found beneficial herbs and plants growing in the big gardens, and made more medicines. I worked with the women in the kitchen and dealt with the minor health issues some spoke to me about. Bonifacio went to his new job in Funchal every day. At night he said little to me about it. Cristiano made friends with Binta’s son Tiago, and each morning ran down to the yard to play with him.
Dona Beatriz sent for me two weeks after her father’s funeral, as I was eating my midday meal in the kitchen. I left my plate and went back to the cottage to fetch my medicine bag, thinking Dona Beatriz wanted a tonic. But instead of leading me to the Dona’s bedroom, Jacinta took me to a room lined with shelves holding hundreds of books. I stood in the doorway for a moment, letting my eyes rest on the books.
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 announceme
nt 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.”
The Devil on Her Tongue Page 31