The Devil on Her Tongue

by Linda Holeman

  I talked to old Jorge as he made the bungs for the casks, and watched the coopers at their work. During that year’s September harvest I often saw the borracheiros arrive in the courtyard, exhausted and filthy and sometimes slightly intoxicated from drinking from the goatskins of mosto they carried from the terraces to Funchal. I watched as Espirito weighed the contents of their goatskins as they emptied them into vats. The aroma of the pressed grapes was so heady that I felt as though I, along with those hard-working carriers, had been quenching my thirst.

  After harvest that year, I found two round stones approximately the same size in the field of wildflowers on the quinta. I asked Raimundo to bring them back in a cart, and whitewashed them and wrote Arie on one and Shada on the other. I chose not to purchase headstones with one of the gems my father had sent, as I had no wish to have to explain anything to Bonifacio.

  I chose a small sunny patch a distance from the graves of Beatriz’s parents, and Raimundo helped me work the stones into place. I dug up wild myrtle and lupines, and took cuttings from the cultivated hydrangea and heliotrope in the big estate garden, and created a tiny but beautiful garden around the stones.

  But that evening, when Bonifacio came into the cottage, his face was dark with anger. “How dare you desecrate the graveyard with the names of non-believers?”

  I stood and faced him. “Dona Beatriz allowed me to put markers to honour my parents in the cemetery. Besides, my father was a believer of his own faith.”

  “It’s blasphemy.” His look made me glad that Candelária was asleep and Cristiano reading on the veranda. “You will remove them tomorrow.”

  I stared into his face. “I won’t. I have permission, as I told you. The graveyard is not yours. You hold no authority over what is placed there.”

  He took a sudden step towards me, and I drew in my breath but didn’t move. He was close enough for me to see his pupils contract. “I have authority as your husband to tell you what you may and may not do.”

  “I will not remove them,” I said quietly, and at that, he closed his eyes for a moment, and then turned and walked into his bedroom.

  That night, a huge storm blew up, the trees contorted black shapes thrashing as though caught in a maelstrom.

  We had all slept poorly because of the thunder and lightning, and Bonifacio was later than usual rising that morning, so we left together to walk down to the kitchen for breakfast. The yard outside our cottage was littered with fallen branches, and my herb garden flooded. As we turned the curve of the path and saw the chapel, both Bonifacio and I stopped in shock. The roof had been crushed by a huge limb. Tiles lay scattered on the path, and there was an ominous feel in the heavy grey air, water dripping from the leaves through the ruined roof. I put Candelária into Cristiano’s arms and followed Bonifacio inside the chapel, stepping over more roof tiles and chunks of plaster from the destroyed wall. Shattered glass candle holders were scattered over the floor. Our Lady was tilted in her niche, her hand broken off along the repaired seam.

  “I’ll have to arrange to have a new roof built,” I said. “I’ll write to Dona Beatriz about this today.”

  Bonifacio didn’t appear to hear me. He straightened the small statue and picked up her hand, holding it as gently as though it were human. “It is a sign of God’s displeasure,” he said, but before I could open my mouth to argue, he looked from the statue’s hand to me. “God’s displeasure,” he repeated. “I tried once to repair the damage, but He has shown me I haven’t worked hard enough.” He laid down the hand and went into Funchal without breakfast.

  Dona Beatriz came for a visit in mid-November. Espirito drove her up from Funchal, and as he helped her out of the cart, I realized I had forgotten the warmth of her smile. Jacinta followed her, with Leandro struggling in her arms.

  At Dona Beatriz’s nod, Jacinta put Leandro down. He was a sturdy, red-cheeked boy, who gazed at us all with open curiosity. He immediately toddled towards Cristiano and Tiago. Cristiano was holding a small wooden cart Raimundo had carved, and Leandro held his hands out for it. Apart from the dark hair and eyes, I realized he bore no resemblance to Candelária. I had been holding my breath and now I let it out.

  Dona Beatriz had no reason to suspect that Leandro and Candelária were brother and sister. And she never could.

  At that moment, Leandro fell to his hands and knees on the soft dirt in front of Cristiano, and Jacinta sprang forward to help him up. But Cristiano put his hands under Leandro’s arms and set him on his feet again. When Leandro pulled at the little cart, Cristiano graciously relinquished it. Jacinta bent down to brush the dust from the knees of Leandro’s velvet breeches and polished the toes of his little boots with the edge of her apron.

  Dona Beatriz greeted Binta and Nini and Raimundo, then turned to me. “This is your little one,” she stated, studying Candelária.

  “Not quite ten months,” I said.

  I could see Espirito out of the corner of my eye, standing beside the cart.

  “Please come to the house in an hour,” she said to me.

  “Certainly, Dona Beatriz,” I said, and she left, Jacinta slowly walking behind her, holding Leandro’s hand.

  I asked Binta to look after Candelária and went to the cottage, where I took the deed from my travel bag and waited until the hands of the clock struck the appointed hour.

  Dona Beatriz opened the scroll and ran her eyes over it.

  When she’d finished reading, she rolled it up and set it on the desk. “Thank you again for keeping this this for me, and for your discretion.” She went to the sideboard. “Would you care for a glass of sweet lemon?”

  I accepted the glass, noticing the tick at the corner of her mouth.

  She saw me looking at it. “Something I’ve developed from living with Abílio,” she said, putting her fingers to it as if to hold the frenzied ticking in place.

  “I’m sorry, Dona Beatriz, I didn’t mean to—”

  She waved her hand in the air. “It comes and goes. When he’s not around, it stills, and as soon as he’s in my presence for more than a few days, my nerves put on a display. It should disappear now that I’m here.” She smiled. “The quinta appears to be in excellent order. I’m pleased how you’ve kept an eye on everything.”

  “Binta and Nini and Raimundo do all the work.”

  “Yes, and I’m very grateful to them as well. But it’s a comfort to have someone here who can read and write and converse in both Portuguese and English. I’ll go down to the wine lodge tomorrow to talk to Espirito. How is his wife? Is she still suffering badly from her asthma?”

  “Asthma.” I repeated the strange English word. “I didn’t know its name, but have seen the disease before.”

  “It’s how the English refer to it. From the Greek word for panting.”

  “Olívia is never truly well, although at times a little stronger.” Dona Beatriz touched the tick again. “It makes my small condition of the nerves seem trivial.”

  Over the next week, Dona Beatriz invited me to visit her every day in the big house.

  I lost my stiffness with her and we laughed together as we shared funny stories about our children’s antics. Although noble-born, she had a very easy air, and wasn’t overbearing or arrogant. On the day before she was due to sail back to Lisboa, she arrived at the cottage, leading Leandro by the hand and carrying a basket.

  Surprised to see her, I glanced around the sitting room, relieved it was tidy.

  “I gave Jacinta the day to visit some of her friends in Funchal, and thought Leandro and Candelária could play together while we visit here for a change.”

  “Yes, of course. Please come in,” I said, feeling odd inviting her into the house she owned.

  “I always liked this cottage,” she said. “It feels even more pleasant now, a real home with the children’s things. Where is Cristiano?”

  “With Tiago. They’re probably down in the stable with Raimundo. They love the horses.”

  Beatriz took a flask with a si
lver cap from her bag and set it on the table.

  I fetched glasses from the cupboard and poured the wine. As we sipped, I made a sound of pleasure as the liquid went down my throat. “Round and soft,” I said. “A wonderful Malvasia velhissimo.”

  Beatriz looked at the unmarked flask. “How do you know what it is?”

  “It’s the smoothness, combined with a slight bitterness of flavour underneath. It has to be at least twenty years old.”

  She tilted her head. “What is your connection with wines?”

  “When I was growing up on Porto Santo, my father often took me to a friend’s inn, where they discussed and tasted wine.” There were many ways to carve the truth; my story sounded almost respectable. I suddenly thought of Bonifacio in Curral das Freiras, telling me I had the devil on my tongue.

  “Not many women are interested in the making of wine. Drinking, yes,” she added with a smile, “but the production and blending, no. We are alike in this, it appears. I’m so glad I have you here. You are like the overseer of my property,” she added with a small laugh. The wine was loosening her; her face looked warm. “As my father did not have a son, he took me into the business with him, teaching me all aspects of it. What did your father do?”

  “He was a sailor, but then worked in the diamond trade in Brazil.” I took another drink. “He taught me to read and write in both Dutch and Portuguese.”

  “It seems our fathers influenced us greatly, and made us into the women we are today. And your mother?”

  “She influenced me as well. As I have told you, she taught me the skills of curandeira and midwife. She …” I saw her floating in a pale sky, her body undulating, beautiful in its design. “She taught me about strength. About what we must do to survive.”

  “In contrast, my mother was very gentle, and perhaps too accommodating. My sister Inêz resembled her in both appearance and nature. But I am my father’s daughter.” She looked at the children on the carpet near our feet. They ignored each other but were both busy with the scattered playthings. “I hope to impart the strengths I have learned to my son. And your husband, Diamantina?” She poured us each another glass.

  “What of him?”

  “You don’t speak of him. When I visited the Counting House this week, I had a conversation with him. He seems … efficient.”

  I nodded. “He is. Efficient and single-minded.”

  Dona Beatriz tilted her head. “It’s not my place to say. But you seem unsuited.” She smiled. “As I’m sure people say of me and Abílio.”

  I didn’t return the smile. “We marry for different reasons, don’t we, Dona Beatriz?”

  Now Candelária cried out as Leandro snatched a small cloth dolly from her. She looked at me and howled in protest. I laughed and went to her, picking her up. “It’s not that bad, little one,” I said, pressing my nose against her sweet-smelling hair. Then I sat again, with her on my lap, caressing her little white leather boots with my fingertips.

  “Do you hope for more children?” Dona Beatriz asked.

  “No,” Bonifacio said, standing in the doorway.

  I gasped, shocked at his unseen presence. How long had he stood there? It was early; he usually didn’t arrive home from work until later in the day.

  “Hello, Bonifacio,” Dona Beatriz said, looking from him to me and back to him.

  He didn’t return the greeting. “No,” he repeated, coming into the sitting room. “Candelária will be Diamantina’s only child.” He stared at me.

  I took a deep breath, feeling the need to respond. “Her birth was damaging.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Dona Beatriz said. There was a moment’s silence, and then she said, “Do you care to sit with us, Bonifacio?”

  “No, thank you. I will go to the chapel. There is much to pray about on this quinta.” He still looked pointedly at me. Candelária slid off my lap and crawled back to the toys.

  I was embarrassed by his comment, but Dona Beatriz only said, “Good day, then,” as Bonifacio left without another word.

  “Dona Beatriz, I apologize for my husband’s behaviour. He … he is often distracted after work,” I said, unable to come up with a better excuse for his rudeness.

  “Never mind,” Dona Beatriz said.

  We watched the children again. After what felt like a long, uncomfortable time, Bonifacio’s presence still lingering in the room, she said, “Leandro will be my only child as well.”

  “Why is that, Dona?”

  She looked at her son. “Abílio is wandering. I knew he would, as my father warned me. He has a woman in Lisboa, and I suspect another in Oporto. There are few secrets in the world I live in.” She looked back at me. “He is rarely with me, and it’s clear we feel no attraction any longer. I don’t mind. I like my life in Belém. When we’re together, we do little but argue over the business. He’s not interested in it, not the way he should be.” She raised her eyebrows. “But I got what I wished. I have a child, and I have a new and unexpectedly happy life in Belém. I have nothing to complain about.”

  I waited a moment. “Nor do I,” I said, attempting a smile, sure that in Dona Beatriz’s eyes I had nothing to complain about apart from a husband with a lack of manners.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  In late May of 1752, I sat in the salon with Olívia and Luzia, Candelária toddling about our feet. At sixteen months, she was stringing her first words together and making us laugh with some of her attempts at conversation.

  Ana ushered in Bonifacio.

  “What is it, Bonifacio?” Olívia asked.

  “I am here to escort my wife to the adega.”

  I rose in alarm at his expression. “Why? Why am I wanted?”

  “We will speak of it downstairs,” he said.

  “Could you watch Candelária for a few moments?” I asked Luzia and Olívia, picking up my cloak.

  “Dr. McManus is coming later,” Olívia said peevishly.

  Luzia waved her hand at me. “Go, go, it’s all right.”

  I followed my silent husband out into the street. “What’s happened, Bonifacio?”

  He stopped and looked at me. “The Englishman Duncan is meeting with Espirito. He expressed a desire for your opinion. Your opinion,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Espirito told him you were visiting upstairs. Duncan sent me to fetch you, as if I were his messenger.” His jaw tightened, and then he grabbed my hand and hurried me along after him, down the alley that led to the adega.

  I tried to pull my hand free, but he held it too tightly as we went to the blending room together. I was embarrassed to stand in front of Espirito and Mr. Duncan like this, Bonifacio gripping my hand as if I were a child or a lover.

  “I’m glad you were nearby, Diamantina,” Mr. Duncan said, and nodded at Bonifacio.

  “Hello, Mr. Duncan,” I said, hiding my hand in the folds of my skirt, trying to untangle my fingers from Bonifacio’s. My face was hot. I didn’t look at Espirito.

  “Please. Call me Henry,” Mr. Duncan said. “We’re sampling the altar wine from that first harvest two years ago. I’m considering sending it to England.” He lifted a tasting glass. “Espirito and I are debating whether it’s ready for us to ship it now, or should we wait until fall to let it ferment further.” He spoke English, and I knew Bonifacio couldn’t understand him.

  Bonifacio finally let go of my hand and stepped forward, taking the glass. He sniffed it, looked at Henry, then handed it to Espirito.

  There was an awkward silence as Espirito held the glass. Then he took a sip and let it sit in his mouth. He spat it into a small dish.

  “Well, Espirito?” Henry said. “What are your—”

  Bonifacio interrupted. “I have to return to my desk.”

  We all looked at him.

  “All right, Bonifacio,” Henry said, in Portuguese. “Thank you for bringing Diamantina.” He looked at me as Bonifacio left. “Your husband seemed offended. It was not my intention.”

  I shook my head and cleared my throat, f
urther embarrassed.

  “Perhaps it was discomfort,” Henry said. “It appears he’s not at ease in the adega. Well. What are your thoughts on the wine, Espirito?”

  “I think we should wait. It would benefit from another few months.”

  “And you, Diamantina?” Henry said. “Try it, and see if your opinion is the same as Espirito’s.”

  I tasted it and spat it out, trying to push aside my discomfort over Bonifacio’s behaviour. “It’s important, isn’t it, Mr. Duncan—Henry—that this first vintage is perfect? You want to show them that your altar wine stands apart, in the hopes they offer another contract. Am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I agree with Espirito. It’s full-bodied, and perfectly acceptable as it is, but another few months in the warmth would benefit it.”

  “As I feel too,” Henry said. “Those in my adega are saying we should be sending it now, though. They’re anxious to get it into the pipes to be shipped because they want to start a new vintage in the barrels with the fall’s harvest.”

  I looked at Espirito. “Surely we can have more barrels made. Our cooperage is bigger than yours, isn’t it, Henry?”

  Henry crossed his arms. “I can see why Dona Beatriz is so trusting of your judgment, Diamantina.” I smiled, and he added, “Sit down, please. Both of you.” As Espirito and I sat, he continued, “I’ve returned from Lisbon recently, and while there visited with Dona Beatriz and Perez. I have little regard for either the palate or business acumen of Perez, but I’ve known Dona Beatriz since she was younger than you, Diamantina, and I consider us friends. Dona Beatriz was very happy about this new arrangement I have with Kipling’s to make the altar wine.

  “As you and I originally discussed, Espirito, after the sale I was prepared to give Dona Beatriz twenty-five percent of the profits.” He laughed. “But she’s a good negotiator, and knows the business. At her suggestion, we will partner on the altar wine contract, with the split at sixty percent to me and forty to her. It will provide sufficient monies to keep the winery going as Martyn wished, but also give her more funds for her pursuits in Belém. Her husband isn’t overly concerned about the Madeira operations, and had pulled me aside to broach the subject of selling Kipling’s to me. He’d rather have a great deal of money outright than depend on a yearly income.”