The Devil on Her Tongue

by Linda Holeman

  “Candelária,” I said after a strained silence. “Her name will be Candelária Rosemaria.” Through the long hours of labour, I had focused on the flame of the candle beside the bed. As my body rose and fell with the pain’s rhythms, I stared at the flame, willing it to hold still at the height of the pain, and then flicker as the grip of it weakened.

  “Candelária,” he repeated slowly.

  “And Rosemaria for my mother.”

  He hadn’t known my mother’s name, neither Estra, as she was called on Porto Santo, nor Shada, as she had been named at birth. Shada means sweet fragrance, she had said. And every time I smelled rosemary, I thought of her.

  Bonifacio took the baby from my arms, surprising me. In that instant I missed her comforting weight, her small, tired face. As he held her, I could see him as he must once have held infants over the baptismal font. He touched her cheek with his knuckle, as if tenderly nudging a sleeping ladybird, then made the sign of the cross on her forehead with his thumb. I saw the trembling beat on the top of her skull. When he looked up at me, his eyes were wet and filled with sorrow. In that moment I saw a shadow of what Olívia must have seen in him so long ago, when he was younger and softer, not yet so damaged.

  He drew a long, shaky breath, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “It’s all a mistake,” he said in a hushed voice.

  “The baby?”

  “Yes, her. Everything. Leaving the priesthood, taking Cristiano from his home and all he knew. Coming back and finding that my brother …” He stopped. “Marrying you. It’s all led to bewildering chaos for me, emotionally and spiritually. I will admit that I was wrong to leave you alone with my father during Lent. I have been wrong about many things.”

  I looked at the sleeping baby. Her lips stretched into something that could have been a smile, or perhaps a grimace, and a spasm crossed over her face. She stretched and yawned, putting one tiny hand against her ear.

  He set her back in my arms, then knelt and prayed. He prayed for the soul of the child, and for my soul, and that the evil surrounding us would be lifted. I closed my eyes and turned my face from him, not wanting to hear his pleas for mercy, not now, and not ever.

  When he was finally gone, I held my little girl close. She could not be assigned guilt for her being. I would have to find a way to feel something for her beyond responsibility. She had no one in the world but me, and I would have to find a way to love her.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  “Come, Cristiano,” I said when the boy came with Binta for the first time to see me. He approached the bed cautiously. I put my free arm around him and hugged him, but instead of looking at the baby, he looked at me.

  “I was afraid, Sister,” he said.

  “But it’s all right. You can see that everything is all right,” I said.

  The baby sneezed. He jumped at the unexpected sound, then smiled at her. “But Sister?” he said, his smile disappearing. “Don’t have another baby.”

  I remained in bed while my body healed, and Binta and Nini cared for me with gentleness and affection. Cristiano came to see me every day, although at night he stayed with Binta and Tiago.

  I could not find any joy in my child, since every time I looked at her, I saw Abílio. My thoughts swirled around me like heavy, dark clouds as Madeira’s winter sunshine flooded over my bed.

  I was inordinately weary, even though I slept too much. I tensed each time the baby cried, and during the dark of night felt guilty for being angry when her cries awoke me every few hours.

  “You should get up, Diamantina,” Binta said to me after ten days. “You’ll only grow weaker if you don’t move.”

  I looked away from her kind face, towards the window.

  “A number of women have come to the quinta’s gates to seek your help. You are needed.” She was holding Candelária as the baby fussed, hungry. “This little one needs you. I’m happy to keep Cristiano with me, but he needs you, too. This is his home. Here, with you and Bonifacio.”

  Bonifacio had come to my room every day to pray over us. Each morning, when I heard his door open and his footsteps in the hall, my stomach tightened, hating that he thought he had a right to pray for my innocent child’s soul.

  “Why do you cry?” Binta asked me now.

  “I’m crying?” I asked, and reached up to touch my face. My fingers came away wet.

  Candelária wailed lustily, her voice filling the room.

  “You know how this sadness comes to some women after childbirth,” Binta said above the baby’s howls, “but you can’t let it hold you. Would some of your own medicine help this afterbirth sadness?”

  “I have no more,” I whispered. I had plundered my medicines to assuage my grief over my father for those weeks before Candelária’s birth. I’d drunk my diluted powders to let myself drift above the bed with a sense of both weight and weightlessness, eventually falling into deep, dreamless sleeps. I had eaten all the opium, floating in a cloudy stream of colours and images that didn’t let in thoughts of my father’s death, or of the coming child. Oh, the child.

  “It’s time to feed your baby,” Binta said, and put Candelária into my arms.

  I held her loosely, watching her as she nursed, and wanted, with all my heart, to feel more than sorrow.

  The next day, I heard voices outside the cottage. Candelária lay in her padded basket beside me on the bed.

  I sat up at a quiet knock on the bedroom door. It opened, and Senhora da Silva looked in at me, smiling. “Diamantina? We have come to see the baby. May we come in?” She entered the bedroom without waiting for me to reply. Espirito followed, carrying Olívia, whose elegant face had withered further. He gently set her on the chair near the bed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her, and she nodded.

  The bedroom, although spacious, felt too crowded. I struggled to breathe evenly.

  Senhora da Silva took my hands and kissed me on either cheek. “Bonifacio only informed us of the birth yesterday, when Espirito asked about you. When we learned she was almost two weeks old … well, we didn’t want you to think we weren’t pleased for you.” When she brushed back my hair, I realized what a dishevelled state I was in, but didn’t care. “You’re very pale,” she said. “And your eyes … do your eyes pain you?”

  I nodded; they were sore from weeping.

  “The birth was difficult?” she asked, compassion in her voice.

  I turned my face, not wanting to see how Espirito and Olívia looked at me.

  “We’re sorry, aren’t we, Olívia, that we weren’t told sooner,” Senhora da Silva said, and I heard Olívia’s quiet “Yes.”

  I looked at her again. She was so much weaker since I’d seen her last. Espirito stood beside her, his hand on the back of the chair.

  “May I hold her?” Senhora da Silva asked and, once more without waiting for my permission, reached into the basket and picked up the baby. “What name have you and Bonifacio chosen?”

  Bonifacio hadn’t even told them what I’d named her. “Candelária.”

  “She’s a beautiful child,” Senhora da Silva said. “She doesn’t have your colouring, but there’s something of you about the mouth and chin. Come and see her, Espirito. Does she look anything like your mother?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” he said, coming to stand beside his mother-in-law.

  “I don’t see anything of Bonifacio at all,” Senhora da Silva continued, studying her. She pulled away the warm blanket to look at the soft little wool gown Nini had made for her. Candelária stretched her legs, waving her bare feet in the air. “Oh, meu bebê, such long legs,” Senhora da Silva cooed, and Espirito took a step back.

  “Excuse me,” he said abruptly, and left the room.

  I stared after him, then glanced at Olívia.

  “He wanted a child as much as I did,” she said. “And some days, under some circumstances, even …” She touched her lips with her gloved fingers. “Even on such a happy occasion as this, his grief surfaces unexpectedly.” Her fac
e was white and damp, like plaster on a humid day.

  “I’m sorry, Olívia.” I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for.

  She looked towards the door, then back at me. “You needn’t apologize for having a child,” she said, and I dully watched as she held out her arms and Senhora da Silva placed Candelária in them.

  As Olívia looked down at Candelária, she said, “A child is always a blessing. I will only see this little girl as a blessing.”

  Senhora da Silva sat beside me and patted my hand. “It’s all right to cry, Diamantina. Cry for the wonder of God’s will and His mysterious ways.”

  To my horror, my quiet crying turned to sobs. “My father died,” I said, too loudly, the words somehow shocking in the quiet room where the talk was of the baby and new life. I had no warning I would speak of my father. I covered my face with my hands.

  Senhora da Silva cried out, “No!” and put her arms around me and rocked me. She made soft sounds of comfort, and I leaned against her and wept as if I had received the letter announcing my father’s death that very day.

  “Olívia,” she said quietly, “take the baby to the sitting room.”

  After a long while, listening to the slow beat of her heart against my face, my breathing calmed, and I could cry no more. Senhora da Silva wiped my face with her own lacy handkerchief, smelling of lavender. “Now,” she said softly, giving me the handkerchief. “We will mourn the loss of your father, but as we also celebrate the birth of your child, you must remember that he lives on through her.”

  I hadn’t even thought of that simple, comforting notion, and nodded.

  “What was your father’s name?”

  “Arie. Arie ten Brink,” I said, his name stuttering in my throat.

  “A Dutchman? Ah. Yes, of course. The hair and eyes. And yet your skin … it’s such a rich colour—from your mother?”

  I nodded.

  “And you loved your father very much,” she stated. “Is he buried on Porto Santo?”

  “He sailed to Brazil a number of years ago. I was to go to him there, one day. But he died before …” I tried to take a deep breath, my chest heaving, and again Senhora da Silva held me.

  “How will we mourn him, buried so far from here?” she asked. We sat in silence for a few moments. Then she said, “Perhaps you could inquire of Senhor Perez if you could put a marker in the graveyard at the chapel of Nossa Senhora das Uvas here on the quinta. It would be a place for you to pray and remember him, and find comfort, as we do when we visit the graves of our loved ones.”

  I thought of the three stone markers—Dona Beatriz’s family—in the shady, fenced cemetery at the side of the pretty little chapel.

  “And your mother? She is buried on Porto Santo?”

  I thought of my mother floating away from me.

  “You could put up a marker for her as well,” Senhora da Silva said.

  I nodded.

  “Does your little girl look like your mother? There’s a lovely shape to her eyes.”

  I had forgotten the beautiful almond contour of my mother’s eyes. “Yes. Candelária’s eyes are shaped like my mother’s. Her eyes were green. Dark green.”

  “We can’t always tell with a newborn. Perhaps Candelária’s eyes will be green too.”

  I knew Senhora da Silva was trying to keep me talking, trying to keep me from falling back into my near-hysterical weeping.

  “We will plan the baptism. I assume you and Bonifacio will wish Espirito and Olívia to be the godparents?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “And if you will allow it, I would like to be known as Avó to the baby.”

  I stared at her, her damp handkerchief balled in my hand. “You wish Candelária to call you grandmother?”

  “The poor child has no living grandparents. She isn’t our blood, but she is our son-in-law’s blood, and this is as close as we will come to being grandparents. I have already asked Olívia and Espirito their opinion, and they do not disapprove. Would you speak to Bonifacio about it, and ask his permission?”

  Poor Senhora. I was deceiving her as well. “Of course you shall be Avó. Bonifacio won’t care,” I said truthfully.

  “And I wish you to call me by my given name, Luzia. It would bring us all closer, don’t you think?” she asked wistfully. “I’m not going to allow you to lie here alone, grieving. It’s terrible that you’ve had to bear this news with only Bonifacio to comfort you, and he’s …” She stopped, then straightened, smoothing her bodice over her ample bosom. “Well. Certainly he’s been some comfort.”

  I hadn’t told Bonifacio about my father’s death.

  “I’m going to visit you every day, until you are weary of me and tell me to stay away,” she said, smiling. “And I am going to spoil that sweet child, and maybe, if you’ll allow me, I’ll spoil you a little, as I spoil my own daughter. Every young woman needs a mother at the time she becomes a mother herself. You’ll see. Soon you’ll feel better,” she announced, with complete authority.

  The next day, Luzia came, as promised, and took charge. She asked Binta to send Cristiano home, and I was surprised at how his presence helped to prod me from my darkness.

  A few days later, Luzia brought Candelária a beautiful baptism gown of finest linen, gathered with bows and ribbons, and a handsome suit of clothes for Cristiano. The week following, I rose from my bed, and sat on the sofa while Luzia played cards with Cristiano as Candelária, bathed and fed, slept deeply in her basket beside me. I felt as though I were recovering from a terrible illness, one that had ravaged not just my body but also my spirit. Some days I still wept, but more and more time went by without morbid thoughts. Each day, Luzia stayed until Bonifacio returned from Funchal, and then she walked down to the yard, where Eduardo waited for her with a cart and ox to take her home.

  When Candelária was five weeks old, we had a family baptism, held in Our Lady of the Grapes with a priest from Funchal officiating. I knew that Bonifacio hadn’t given up the notion that Espirito was Candelária’s father, and he watched me more closely than ever whenever Espirito’s name was mentioned, or when he was in our presence.

  Bonifacio stared at Espirito while he held Candelária, and a small thump of danger beat in my throat, standing in the chapel near the spot where Candelária had been conceived. Then Bonifacio studied Candelária as the priest anointed her. I saw only her small, tidy nose, the pursed pink lips, the smooth little eyebrows. He couldn’t see something I didn’t, could he? I didn’t like how he looked at her. I was surprised at the sudden wave of fierce protectiveness I felt for this tiny new being, something I’d never expected to feel.

  Later, between Cristiano’s excitement at the sweets Luzia had brought for him, and the passing around of Candelária so everyone could admire her gown and the tiny gold cross Espirito and Olívia had given her as a baptism gift, I hoped that no one noticed that Bonifacio was the only person who did not hold Candelária.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  1st March, 1751

  Dear Diamantina,

  I am so sorry to hear of the passing of your father, but hope the birth of your daughter softens that terrible blow. I give you my permission to place markers for your parents in the cemetery of Nossa Senhora das Uvas.

  Thank you for assuring me that you have carried out my wishes with regards to my request in my earlier letter. I hope to come to Funchal when I can leave my duties.

  I am surprised to be enjoying living in Santa Maria de Belém as much as I do. It is a parish a league and a half outside the heart of Lisboa, established in the previous century by the monarchy and nobility hoping to escape the sometimes fetid confines of the city. It’s an area of wealth surrounded by countryside; the Palace of Belém is nearby, on a hill overlooking the parish, where King José and his family usually reside in the summer months.

  I am also enjoying the rebuilding of the house in which my mother grew up. It has fallen into some disrepair, and while contemplating its renewal, I decided to add a new wing
. It is time-consuming but a pleasure to help with the design and plan the new gardens and furnishings. It will be some time before it is even near to completion.

  Another very unexpected pleasure for me here lies in the company of my mother’s family. Her two sisters live in the parish, while another lives in Estoril. My aunts and their families have opened their arms to us, and we have gathered for a number of large and joyous family celebrations. I’m sure my mother missed her family when she moved to Funchal to marry my father, yet she never complained.

  My husband spends more time in Oporto than in Belém, as business takes him there.

  With regards,

  Dona Beatriz

  During the spring and summer following Candelária’s birth, I sometimes went into Funchal, to the house on São Rua Batista, mainly at Luzia’s request. While Cristiano played happily with the growing collection of wooden toys kept in a chest in the salon for our visits, Olívia and Luzia and I made a fuss over Candelária. In spite of Olívia’s own grief at her childlessness, she grew slightly warmer to me through the baby.

  We celebrated when Candelária first reached for a plaything, when she rolled over, and clapped at her comical attempts to sit up unaided. At times I left the children with Olívia and Luzia while I ran errands.

  And on my way back with my baskets, I often crossed the courtyard behind the Counting House. Sometimes I stopped in the adega and looked at the huge kegs of wines made from Madeira’s grapes: the large, pale green Verdelho and sweet Terrantez, the heavy Boal and smaller, compact Sercial, the sturdy red tinta used mainly for blending. I breathed in the aromas of wines so full-bodied and sweet they were fantasized about by the English on their own damp, cool island, according to what Henry Duncan had once told me. I tried to imagine the statesmen in the American colonies recently enamoured of our wines, and those in the West Indies who had long known of Madeira’s elixirs. I thought of the dark, broiling hold of a caravel with its casks of Kipling’s wine pitching and tossing below deck, the heat turning the wines sweeter by the day.