The Devil on Her Tongue

by Linda Holeman

  “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 have what you requested. Wait until the others are at dinner and then meet me in my office.

  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.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Dear Diamantina,

  I have received the first receipts for the estate’s expenses. It’s been five weeks, and I await a letter from you with the news of Quinta Isabella.

  Respectfully,

  Dona Beatriz Duarte Kipling Perez

  As 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.

  “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 q
uinta 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 w
as 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.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The 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.