Once home, I changed into dry clothing. Bonifacio came in from work. We went down the path and ate dinner in the kitchen with the others. It appeared to be like every other night. Back in the cottage, I stayed with Cristiano in his room until he was asleep, fearing for him and his future as I feared for mine. I put my gutting knife into my waistband. And then I came back to the sitting room. It was still raining.
Bonifacio sat by the fire, staring into its flames.
“Bonifacio, I must speak to you.”
He glanced at me. “I’m weary, Diamantina. There was a problem with one of the shipments today, and all the paperwork had to be redone. Can it wait until morning?”
“No. It’s … it’s of utmost importance.” I sat across from him, my hands clasped to hide their trembling. Outside, the clouds roiled and churned, and I felt a dark cloud above us, one that would, within the next few moments, burst open and rain down all manner of despair.
Bonifacio looked from my face to my hands, then back to my face. “What’s wrong?”
He asked quietly, with a certain sense of concern, and in that instant I knew I would cry, even though I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t. That I would remain calm and focused, and speak in an ordinary voice, and accept Bonifacio’s reaction, however terrible. I deserved it fully. And yet somehow the tone of his voice, and the look on his face, softer in the firelight than in harsh sunlight, started a sob in my throat. I would cry because I was about to tell him that I was a low woman. I had betrayed and deceived him in the worst way, and had no excuse except that I’d done it to help myself.
I put my hands over my face and wept.
He reached out and touched my hands, and I lowered them and looked at him. “Are you ill in some way, Diamantina?”
I took a deep breath, and wiped my eyes with my arm, and looked into his face. “I am with child.” I had to say it in one quick breath, one four-word sentence, or I wouldn’t be able to speak at all.
It appeared, for those first few seconds, that Bonifacio hadn’t heard me, or was still waiting, patiently, for me to speak. And then, slowly, his expression changed. I didn’t blink or look away. I faced him, sitting in front of the dying fire. The flames cast light upon my husband’s features, and as I watched him, he aged.
And then he sighed, heavily and deeply. He placed his hands together, as if about to pray, lowering his gaze, and then touched his lips to his fingertips. It wasn’t the reaction I had expected, nor was what he said next. “You will leave me, then?”
“Leave you?”
“You wish to be with this man, so go to him.” He was still looking downwards. “Leave Cristiano, take your things, and go. I shouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps I’m not.”
I stood. It sounded as though Bonifacio was giving me a choice. “Bonifacio, I don’t want to leave. I … the man … it’s—he’s not what I want.”
At this, his body grew rigid. He spread his hands on his thighs, the fingers flexing and relaxing, flexing and relaxing in an odd rhythm. “But it’s clear you did want him. For the lips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb, and smoother than oil is her speech; but in the end she is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword,” he murmured.
“What?”
He looked up at me, his fury barely concealed now, and I drew in a deep breath, moving behind the settee. I had been waiting for this. He stood. “But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed. Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.”
I backed away, my hand on my knife as I glanced behind, measuring the distance to the door.
“Get out of here. Get out!” he shouted. “Sinner! Jezebel! Get out of my sight. You sicken me. Leave!” he shouted. Such was his look that I feared for my life.
I turned and fled, leaving the door swinging behind me.
I ran down the path, the wind lashing the trees. After a few minutes I had to stop, pressing a hand into the ache in my side. I looked behind me, but the wind in the trees made too much noise for me to hear whether Bonifacio was coming after me.
I envisioned running down to the yard and pounding on Binta’s door, or Nini’s or Raimundo’s. Surely they could shelter me from Bonifacio’s wrath. But as I approached the chapel, I was unable to run any more. I had not gone into it since the day Abílio had taken me on its floor. It could no longer be a place for comfort or contemplation. But now, gasping, my feet sliding on the wet gravel, I stumbled inside and shut the door, my back against it, trying to catch my breath.
After what felt like a long while, I slid down until I was sitting on the wooden floor. I was shaking violently with both cold and fear. Then I lay on my side, cradling my belly.
Bonifacio hadn’t come after me. I would wait here until morning’s first light, and then go down to the yard and tell Binta and Nini and Raimundo that my husband had cast me out. I would ask to stay with one of them just until I knew what to do.
I rose and went to the front and lit a candle with the flint always there. The Holy Mother’s face came into view. I went to my knees and clasped my hands.
“What have I done, Mother?” I whispered, looking up at her. “What have I done? Can you help me?”
With no warning, the door was flung open with a crash, and I leapt to my feet so quickly that for a dizzying second it was as though two Bonifacios stood there, soaking wet. I blinked, seeing the branches behind him swaying and bending in the wind as though wildly dancing to an unheard melody. He had the appearance of one truly mad, his hair plastered against his forehead and his eyes wild. I took my knife from my waistband as he stepped inside. He slammed the door with such force that the small building shook, and in that instant his eyes widened as he looked behind me.
“No!” he shouted, lunging forward, and I lifted my knife above my head. But there was a thud, and he stopped, his expression stricken.
As I followed his gaze, I realized he hadn’t been coming for me, but trying to catch Our Lady of the Grapes. The slamming of the door had shaken her from her niche. She lay on the floor, the hand holding the grapes broken at the wrist.
Bonifacio dropped to his knees in front of her, praying in Latin. He murmured the same sentences over and over; I didn’t recognize them from the prayers during Mass.
I watched him as I stepped back towards the door.
But before I reached it, Bonifacio raised his head and got to his feet and tenderly lifted the small statue, setting it back in its niche. He picked up the hand with the grapes.
“It can be repaired,” he said quietly. He kissed the hand and set it beside the statue. “I will repair it tomorrow.”
He looked at me then, his face contorted with grief. “It is a sign,” he said. “The Lord has not yet forgiven me. Again he has set an obstacle in my path. I thought marrying you might help me in my quest for redemption. And maybe someday I will find it. But this”—he waved in the direction of Our Lady of the Grapes—“this is evidence of the work—the repairing of my soul—that still lies ahead. I understand that the work must involve allowing you to bear this bastard child.” He put his face into his hands. “And me accepting it.” His voice was muffled.
I stood without moving, my back against the door.
“Go back to the house,” he said, lifting his face and looking at me. “And put away your knife. You don’t have to fear me.”
I realized I still held the knife aloft, ready to strike. Would I have driven it into him, maimed or even killed him in order to protect myself? I remembered my promise on the cliffs of Porto Santo.
I put it back into my waistband. I went out in the dark night and slowly walked back to the cottage.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
I awoke to the sun high through the bedroom window, thinking, for an instant, that I was glad the storm had passed.
And then I sat straight up, shocked that I had fallen asleep. My sodden clothes lay on the floor beside the bed, and I put my hand under the pill
ow, feeling for my gutting knife. What good would it have done me had Bonifacio come into my room, his fury restored? I had slept as though an innocent child. For the last month, as soon as I lay down, the infant began to move. The movements through the night sometimes woke me. But last night he or she was still, as if waiting to know our future.
I rose and dressed. When I walked into the sitting room, Bonifacio was sitting in front of the fireplace, although no fire burned. I stopped, my heart thudding.
He looked at me, his mouth twisted and his eyes shot with blood. “I’ve sent Cristiano down for his breakfast, and told him to stay with Tiago this morning.”
I nodded.
“Sit down,” he said.
I did as he said, pulling my shawl more closely about me, used to trying to cover my growing bulk. Then I realized it didn’t matter, and let it fall open.
Bonifacio studied my belly. “When will it be born?”
“The end of January or beginning of February.”
“It’s Espirito,” he said, and my mouth opened. “It’s my brother, isn’t it? My own brother!” he said, his voice low but his face dark, pinched with suspicion.
“No! No, Bonifacio. It’s not Espirito. How can you even think that? Bonifacio, no.” My words ran together. I took a breath and spoke more slowly. “Of course it’s not Espirito. That’s a ridiculous assumption. He’s like my own brother,” I said, although I did not think of him that way.
“Give me a name,” Bonifacio demanded.
I couldn’t name Abílio, for then Bonifacio would leave, refusing to work for him. I would be forced to go back to Curral das Freiras with him.
“I will never speak his name, Bonifacio. Never,” I said, wiping my eyes.
He studied the cold fireplace.
After a long while, I asked, “Will you still allow me to stay, as you said last night?”
“Yes.”
I exhaled, a long, slow breath.
“But I don’t do this for you,” he said. “As I said last night, it is part of God’s plan, another test He has put in front of me. The child is a test.”
I nodded, and we sat in silence. Finally I said, “Others will think … they will think it’s your child.”
“You imagine I care what others think?” He stared at me for a long moment, then left for work.
I stayed in front of the cold fireplace, my hands on my belly.
4th November, 1750
Dear Dona Beatriz,
I was pleased to receive your letter, and hear that Leandro brings you so much happiness.
All is well on Quinta Isabella. Fortunately everyone has been in good health throughout the autumn. The roan Chico had an abscess inside the hoof from a badly placed shoeing nail, but Raimundo was able to treat it quickly and effectively.
The harvest, as you would have heard from Espirito, was a success, and with the advent of cooler weather, the grapevines are glorious in their reds and golds.
We attended the All Saints’ Day service at Sé cathedral, and, the day following, I put fresh flowers on your family’s graves for All Souls’ Day. I have taken it upon myself to maintain the chapel and cemetery, and you may rest assured both are treated with my utmost respect.
I await the birth of my own child; it is due by February.
I remain,
Yours faithfully,
Diamantina Rivaldo
I did not go into Kipling’s to post the letter, as I did not want to run into Espirito. For the first few days after Bonifacio learned of my pregnancy, I had worried that he would confront Espirito. I knew that there was already so much tension between them; now I couldn’t imagine the situation as they worked together at Kipling’s.
As each day passed, I lost some of my anxiety, but I remained very quiet around Bonifacio, cautious of saying or doing anything that might give him reason to grow angry with me. And so I gave the letter to Raimundo to take to Kipling’s to post.
I was sitting on the veranda reading. Cristiano played in front of the cottage with a wooden stick, brandishing it as if it were a sword, swiping at low-hanging branches. Bonifacio was inside the house with his Bible.
I looked up as Cristiano gave a cry, dropping his make-believe sword. He ran down the path, where Espirito and Olívia very slowly walked towards the cottage. Espirito supported Olívia with an arm around her waist, and held a large basket in his other hand.
I wrapped my heavy shawl closely around myself as I went to the top step. Cristiano was walking beside Espirito with a cheery, marching step.
“Hello, Diamantina,” Espirito called out, and I lifted my hand in a half wave. “We have come with cakes for Bonifacio’s birthday,” he said, and I swallowed. I hadn’t known it was Bonifacio’s birthday.
“How kind of you.”
Olívia was gasping, one hand on her chest as she bent forward with each slow step.
“Since he said you weren’t feeling well the last few times we’ve invited you all for dinner, and when he also declined our invitation to celebrate his birthday, we took it upon ourselves to come to you,” he added as they stopped at the bottom of the step.
“I see,” I said, holding my shawl tighter. Bonifacio had never mentioned these invitations. “Olívia, you must come in and sit down.” I stepped aside, pulling open the door.
“Henry Duncan sends his regards,” Espirito said. “We have begun the production of his altar wine.”
I nodded. Cristiano ran into the cottage ahead of us. Bonifacio was standing, his Bible on the settee. A fire roared behind him.
“Espirito and Olívia have brought cakes for your birthday,” I said, certain he’d already heard what Espirito had said. I stared at him, willing him to be polite.
“Thank you,” he said to the two of them, though his eyes were on Olívia.
I took the basket from Olívia and set it on the table, then went to the cupboard and took out the fancy plates we never used. With my back to the room, I wiped them with my shawl, then turned, holding them in front of me.
Olívia had taken off her woollen cloak and was holding it out, waiting for Bonifacio to take it. He hadn’t moved. The room was very warm. I set down the plates and reached for her cloak. As I did, my shawl fell open.
Olívia stared at me, then turned to Espirito. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
It took Espirito too long to respond. “I wasn’t aware either,” he finally said. And then he looked into my face. I was trembling with the strain of trying to smile naturally, as though my condition were a blessed event. But I imagined I resembled a horrible spectre, a skull with bared teeth. Bonifacio stood straight and unmoving. We were both so rigid it was as though we would crack if we moved too quickly.
“When is it due?” Olívia asked.
“The beginning of February.”
“You’re that far along and haven’t told us?”
I looked at her, unsure of how to respond.
“Oh. Now I understand. Surely my mother told you … If you were trying to spare me, I thank you. But there’s no need. You have every right to the happiness of your own child. You and Bonifacio.” She looked at Bonifacio then.
I remembered Espirito’s face in Curral das Freiras after his father’s death, when it was clear Bonifacio and I didn’t share a bed. I thought of Espirito coming upon me as I left Abílio’s office in the dark of night. But he didn’t know of Bonifacio’s mutilation. Or did he? I suddenly thought back to the night, seven months ago, when he brought Bonifacio home after finding him unable to go any farther on the road into Funchal. How he had sent for the physician. The way his hand shook as he drank when I asked him what was wrong with Bonifacio.
He knew. Surely he knew it would be impossible for Bonifacio to father a child.
All of these thoughts passed through me in less than thirty seconds. I lowered myself onto the settee, my legs weak.
By the hard look in Bonifacio’s eyes, I understood that he still believed this child was his brother’s. As Espirito had wed the woman h
e had once loved, he now believed Espirito had also had possession of his wife. Would Bonifacio confront Espirito here and now? It would be humiliating to announce that he suspected his brother of sinning with his wife, but even worse would be the disclosure that his wife was a whore.
I felt so small and ugly and filled with self-hatred that tears filled my eyes.
Olívia straightened her shoulders and opened the basket and lifted out the small cakes, setting two on a plate. “Feliz aniversário, Bonifacio,” she said, handing him the plate, then looked at me. “Could you direct me to the latrina?”
I led her to the hall and pointed at the door.
A few minutes later, when she hadn’t returned, Espirito went down the hall. Bonifacio and I remained in the sitting room, the cakes untouched. Finally I gave Cristiano a cake, and he ate it quickly and looked at the basket. “Have another,” I said, and he smiled with delight, unaware of the strain in the room.
I went to the hallway. Outside the latrina, Espirito stood with Olívia drawn against his chest, one arm around her thin back. With his other hand he slowly stroked her hair. I silently turned and went back to the sitting room, not wanting them to know I’d witnessed their shared moment of grief.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
1st December, 1750
Dear Diamantina,
I trust you are well, and that your confinement is progressing with ease.
My husband has informed me that he will be sailing to Funchal shortly, and will stay in the estate house. He intends to have repairs to the house carried out, and possibly replace some of the furniture. I have also begun a large restoration of this Belém house, and because of those responsibilities cannot leave at this time.
I write to ask a favour. Please go to my bedroom and open the second left-hand drawer of the larger wardrobe. Feel for a small latch at the very back of this drawer. Press it and the back of the drawer will fold down, revealing a small compartment. Inside is a piece of paper of great importance to me. I ask that you keep it for me and not disclose its whereabouts to anyone.
The Devil on Her Tongue Page 34