The Devil on Her Tongue

by Linda Holeman

  I cannot take the chance on having it sent to me by sea. It is for you to place into my hands and my hands only. Upon leaving the quinta, I felt it best that it remain there. Now I am concerned it will either be lost, should the wardrobe not remain, or fall into the wrong hands. I hope I am clear on this.

  I apologize for the nature of this request. From knowing you the short time on the quinta, and our letters over these seven months—as well as the fact that you are the sister-in-law of the finest overseer Kipling’s has known—I believe you to be trustworthy, and must now put my faith in you.

  I will take this opportunity to wish you Feliz Natal.

  In appreciation,

  Dona Beatriz Duarte Kipling Perez

  Two weeks later, Bonifacio came in from work and said, “Senhor Perez arrived from Lisboa today. He’s staying in the estate house for a few days.”

  I stood, a book in my hand.

  “He asked about you, and said he hoped he would have a chance to speak to you about the quinta.”

  I turned, pressing the book against my chest. “I can’t see anyone like this, so close to my confinement. Tell him it’s impossible.”

  “All right,” he said, and went down to the kitchen for dinner.

  I went to my wardrobe and took out my travel bag. At the bottom, under my old shawl and my mother’s jewellery, lay the unsealed scroll I had taken from Dona Beatriz’s bedroom. I understood Dona Beatriz’s concern that it be kept safe. Now I read it again. It was the deed for all of Martyn Kipling’s holdings, in which he willed everything to Beatriz. It was dated ten years earlier. Inêz was named as second successor, should anything befall Beatriz. After their deaths, the dynasty would pass on to the offspring of Beatriz, or, should she not produce any, to those of Inêz. It could thus never be owned by a man marrying into the Kipling empire. Should both daughters die without progeny, the company and quinta were to be sold, and the profits donated to the Sé cathedral.

  After I rolled up the scroll and put it back into the travel bag, I went to bed, thinking about Abílio. Surely he wasn’t aware of this deed.

  That night, I woke with a gasp, thinking I heard him calling my name, remembering how he had drunkenly shouted for me down the beach on Porto Santo.

  I sat up in bed, my face and chest damp, and listened. But the night was quiet.

  For the next few days, I stayed in the cottage, telling Cristiano to ask Binta to bring me my meals from the kitchen, fearful of running into Abílio.

  A few days after Christmas, Raimundo knocked on the cottage door.

  “This was just brought up from Funchal for you,” he said, stepping inside and handing me a lumpy square of parchment, sealed with blue wax and tied with twine. “The messenger said it was sent by Espirito.”

  Cristiano came to stand beside me.

  Senhora Diamantina Rivaldo, was written in unfamiliar copperplate. Kipling’s Wine Merchants, Funchal, Madeira. The return address was São Paulo, Brazil. The letter was edged in black.

  “Cristiano,” Raimundo said, still looking at me, “do you want to come to the stable and take Chico for a slow walk around the yard? He needs some exercise.”

  “Can I go, Sister?”

  I looked down at him without seeing him.

  “Come, Cristiano,” Raimundo said, and as soon as the door shut behind them, I put one hand over my mouth, feeling behind me for the settee. I lowered myself onto it and slowly untied the twine and opened the seal. A small packet fell from the folds onto my lap. I ignored it and unfolded the page.

  São Paulo, Brazil

  Dear Senhora Rivaldo,

  My husband and I have been in your father’s employ for the last two years, and have cared for him with great respect. It is my sad duty to inform you that he passed to the arms of Our Maker on July 14 in the Year of Our Lord 1750. He was buried according to his wishes, in the cemetery of the Dutch Reformed Church in the colony of Vitória da Conquista. But before he drew his last breath, he received your letter, and wept with happiness.

  I am setting down your father’s words, spoken to me a week before his passing, and I have enclosed the package as he requested.

  I am respectfully yours, and in sympathy,

  Senhora Dores Horta de Melo

  I cried out, and fell from the settee to my knees, the letter pressed against my face.

  My darling Diamantina,

  You cannot imagine my joy at receiving your letter.

  I truly believed I would die without ever knowing if you continued to live, hating me or, maybe worse, simply forgetting me. So to receive your letter has given me the strength to die in peace.

  You were my blessing, Diamantina. The miracle of a child is like no other. I can only hope that one day you will know this truest gift from God. To hold your own child changes you forever. It is then that you understand you have a purpose greater than you ever imagined.

  I am sending you all that is left of my legacy. I am sorry it is not more, but I know you will use it for whatever your heart directs. And as you look upon these gems, think of me, and of our stargazing when you were the little girl I left behind. That’s how I still think of you, with your bright, shining hair and your wide eyes, flashing the glowing basalt of the island or the silver of the fish.

  Although I know that we will never again meet on this earth, I trust in God’s power to bring us together in His own way. I bid you farewell now, beloved daughter. Always, your loving father.

  I keened then, wailing in the empty room. On my knees I rocked, heavily, weeping for so long that when I finally pulled myself to my feet, needing one hand on the settee to support myself, my head throbbed and my throat ached, my eyes swollen and tender. I reached forward to pick up the package that had fallen from my lap.

  I lowered myself back onto the settee, the terrible weight of my father’s death pushing on my chest as if a load of stones sat on it. It was not only the grief of losing him forever, but the death of my dream. For the last five years it was all I had gone towards—my father, and his love.

  Now it was over. What did this mean? That I would stay forever trapped with Bonifacio, with a child I couldn’t even envision, sired by a man I hated?

  I dully tore open the paper, tightly sealed with wax all around, and looked down at the six small, sparkling diamonds on a square of dark blue velvet: the stars in the night sky. What good would they do me now?

  I went to my bedroom and lay on my bed, holding the letter and the folded velvet with its spray of diamonds. In my other hand I clutched the talisman I never removed from around my neck. These things were all I had to remember my father by.

  When the first pains came, a few weeks earlier than expected, I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t been able to prepare myself for the day I knew would come. Since receiving my father’s letter, I hadn’t left my bed, spending most of my time sleeping or staring at the sky through the window.

  Cristiano had been my constant companion, running up and down from the kitchen to bring me meals, although I had little interest in food. He was taller now, his adult teeth grown in. He read fluently, and a few months earlier, when both he and I were tired of the sentences I wrote for him to read and then copy, I had gone into the library in the estate house and chosen books I knew he would be able to comprehend. As Cristiano read each, I returned it. I too was reading books from the library. Now, as I lay so still, he sometimes sprawled at the foot of my bed, reading. Once, just once, he looked up from his book and said, “I don’t want you to die when the baby comes out.”

  I took a deep breath. “Why do you think I might die?”

  He looked down again. “I just don’t want you to die.”

  “I won’t die, Cristiano.” I said it with as much conviction as I could. Some days I thought that he was my only reason for waking up, my only reason for putting food I couldn’t taste into my mouth and chewing and swallowing. Who else would care if I lived or died? I knew my grief had dragged me into a mire of self-pity, and yet I felt powerless to ri
se from it.

  After lying awake since early morning as the mild pains gripped and then released, I waited until Bonifacio had gone to work and then called Cristiano into my room.

  “I want you to go and ask Binta to come. The baby is going to be born today, Cristiano. You stay with Tiago and Nini and Raimundo until Binta tells you to come home.”

  He stood beside me, then reached out and wiped my face with his palms. “Don’t cry, Sister,” he whispered.

  I didn’t realize I was crying. It wasn’t the pain; it was still the early stages. I caught his hands and held them in mine for a moment. “Get Binta,” I repeated, and he left.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  After all the children I had helped into the world, I didn’t expect that my lying-in would prove difficult. I rose, slowly, and made myself a herbal remedy to relax and open the mouth of my womb.

  Binta was a comfort, but as the day progressed, I spent too many hours in heavy labouring, and knew the child was not coming with the ease I had envisioned. I had Binta send Raimundo for Gracinha. She was beside me within the hour.

  “Something’s wrong,” I told her, surprised at how relieved I was to see her. “It feels as though the baby has dropped, but hasn’t moved far enough to push.”

  Gracinha walked around and around the cottage with me. I kept drinking my potion, and to relieve the pain went to all fours and swayed as the beasts do. Every hour Gracinha felt inside me for the baby’s head.

  “Ahhh,” she said finally, and I knew that her tone indicated some danger. “Diamantina, I feel the feet. The feet,” she repeated, wiping her hands on her apron. “The child is coming out the wrong way. I wouldn’t usually tell a woman this, but you know about these things. What do you want me to do? You could go on all night like this, Diamantina. It’s not good for you, or the child.”

  Now it appeared my wish might come true. The baby might die. And I might die too, after another day of exhausting labour, if it couldn’t be extracted. I kept the flat stick wrapped in cotton between my teeth at all times, not only to bite on during the rise and peak of the pain, but also so that I would not utter something Gracinha was not meant to hear. In my head, I cursed Abílio Perez. If I died, it would be because of him.

  “Diamantina,” Gracinha said again an hour later, “what do you want me to do?”

  When the last pain subsided, I spat out the wood. “Cut me to make more room for the baby to come out.”

  “No. No, I’ve never cut.”

  “I don’t care. Cut me open as much as you have to, and reach in. Reach in and pull down on the feet, carefully. See if you can feel the cord. Hopefully it isn’t around the neck. And then when the legs are out, wrap a cloth around them and work out the rest of the body. The head should follow. Get it out, Gracinha,” I cried, my voice rising as the next wave came so soon upon the heels of the last.

  “I’ve never done it,” she said again, when the rise of the pain had ended. “My other mothers do not ask me to cut them. They rely on God to make the decision as to whether they and the child will live or die.”

  “Do it,” I panted. “I am making the decision.” I lifted my head to stare at her.

  Gracinha was pale as she bent over me with a knife she’d first held to a flame. The agony of the trapped child was so severe that the pain of the blade blended with it. I screamed as Gracinha worked on me, screamed until everything behind my eyes was red, and suddenly I was back on the beach on my belly, blood in my eye, the sailor forcing his way into me, and I was screaming, No, stop, no more, no more.

  And then all was quiet save soft whimpering. I thought it was the baby, but as I opened my eyes I realized the sounds came from my own lips. I fell silent. The pain was different now, huge and almost unbearable, but not the same pain as the labour. Gracinha had turned away and set the baby on a sheet on the low cupboard. I watched her arms working rhythmically, and heard light slapping sounds.

  She glanced over her shoulder at me, then left the baby and took a thick pad of cotton folded over fleece and pressed it between my legs. “We have to stop the bleeding right away, Diamantina,” she said, turning back to the child.

  “Is it alive?” I whispered.

  “Yes. You have a daughter. But her colour isn’t good, and she’s having trouble breathing. God will decide whether to take her or leave her with us,” she said, and at that moment there was a snuffling sound, and then a thin wail.

  Gracinha crossed herself with one bloody hand. “Listen, Diamantina. God has shown us His compassion.”

  “A daughter,” I repeated.

  The child cried more lustily, and after Gracinha had put her into the padded basket, she threaded a needle and came to me. She put the wood between my teeth again. “I will do what I can to repair the damage. Courage,” she said, “and pray, Diamantina. Pray to God to keep you on earth.”

  I went in and out of consciousness as she stitched. Finally I was aware that Gracinha was holding a cup to my lips. “Drink this, Diamantina,” she urged. “You’ve lost so much blood, and will be weak for some time. And your body underwent great trauma. I can’t say with certainty, but I suspect you won’t carry another child.” I stared at her in the lamplight. “It appears it is not your time to leave the earth yet, thank the Father and the Blessed Virgin.” She crossed herself.

  I wanted to thank her, for it was she who had saved the baby and me, but was too weak to speak.

  She patted my hand. “You must treasure this child. She may be your only one.”

  I was so tired, so spent, that tears rolled down towards my ears.

  “Now, now, I spoke too quickly. You may heal after all. One never knows God’s will. He may reward you generously. You and Bonifacio may have seven or eight more. Perhaps all boys.” She smiled encouragingly, but I turned my head on the pillow.

  I wasn’t crying over what she’d said. I was crying from sheer exhaustion, from the pain in my body, and, listening to the baby’s wails, from the knowledge that for the rest of my life, every time I looked into the face of my child, she would remind me of the man who’d made me hate myself.

  A weak morning sun filled the room. I was in a fresh nightdress, and the bedding was clean, smelling of the wind. Gracinha had piled pillows behind me, and helped me lean against them.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I would never have believed I would have had such difficulty.”

  “Every birth is different, and we can never predict,” she said. The baby had been silent for a while, but now was making small mewling sounds. Gracinha brought her to me and set her in my arms.

  I stared down at her. Her skin was pale and looked rich, like pearl. Her head was downy with dark hair. Her eyes, murky and dark, were open. She looked somehow weary, or worried. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to her—sorry for her gruelling journey, and sorry for how she had come to be. Sorry that I didn’t love her, and for what lay ahead for both of us.

  Gracinha folded back the end of the blanket. “Look, Diamantina. A tiny imperfection. An extra toe, attached to the fifth on her right foot.”

  I stared down at the six tiny toes. Each had a minuscule nail, no bigger than a sliver of almond.

  “Thank the Lord it is such a small defect. Nothing that will affect her life,” she said, and I quietly echoed, Yes, nothing that will affect her life.

  “A pretty baby, is she not?” Gracinha said, as if trying to make up for the extra toe. “Her colour has calmed, and she is delicate, like her mother. Nice full lips.”

  I thought of Leandro. Had he looked anything like this? I suddenly remembered his long eyelashes. His lips. Other than that, I couldn’t tell if he and my daughter would resemble each other.

  “I’ll fetch the father now,” she said, smiling. I looked from the baby to Gracinha, but said nothing.

  She came back alone. “Your husband went to Funchal, Binta told me. To work.” She frowned, shaking her head. “I have never known a new father to leave before knowing the outcome. Before even knowing if his wife �
��”

  “It’s all right,” I said, perhaps too quickly.

  Gracinha stayed with me for the day. I slept on and off, and fed the baby when she wailed. “You can’t rise for at least a week,” Gracinha told me as she prepared to leave that night. She lit the candle on the small table beside my bed. “I’ll tell Binta and Nini to care for you, and I’ll come by every day until I know you are recovering as you should.”

  Bonifacio’s footsteps sounded in the sitting room.

  “Here he is,” Gracinha said. “The proud papa.” She went to the bedroom door. “Come and see your beautiful daughter.”

  He stood in the doorway.

  “Thank you, Gracinha, for everything,” I said. “Please, go home to your own family. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  When she’d left, Bonifacio came into the room. All day I’d been trying to ready myself for whatever he would say to me.

  He stood beside the bed and looked down at me. “Is she normal?”

  Did he think the child would be a gargoyle, a two-headed monster, something inhuman that announced my sin to whoever looked upon her? Punishment for my immoral behaviour?

  “Yes,” I said. “She’s normal.” I couldn’t be bothered to speak of the tiny extra toe. I looked up at him. “Would you like to have Telma as one of her names?” I had thought of this as I lay waiting for him. Perhaps it would soften his feelings towards the child.

  He flinched. “After my mother? She was a good, God-fearing woman. Do you think I would put a curse on her memory by calling this abomination after her?”

  “Abomination, Bonifacio?” I said in the same quiet voice, and pulled back the cover so he could see the child, with her tender skin and tiny curled fingers. “She’s not to be blamed. Don’t denigrate her because of my sin.”

  He sat in the chair beside my bed. “Choose any name to your liking. But not my mother’s,” he said, still looking at her.