“Are you mad at me, Mama? Is it a sin because I’ve told you the secret?” She got back onto the bed. “Papa says I must talk to God before I do anything I think is wrong, and wait for His answer, but …” Now the tears spilled from her eyes.
“But what, darling?” I said, setting down the cards and wiping her face.
“He doesn’t answer me. Papa always says if I’m a very good girl with only good thoughts, I’ll hear God’s voice, but if I’m evil, I won’t. He keeps asking me what God has told me, and if God has a message for him. He said I am a messenger from God, and I must tell him whatever God tells me. But I don’t hear His voice, Mama, even though I listen hard with my eyes closed so tight that sometimes they hurt.” Her smooth little brow furrowed. “Does it mean I’m evil?”
My poor child. “No. You’re not evil at all. Not one bit. You’re a very, very good girl.” And then I couldn’t speak any further, my own throat too heavy with the struggle not to weep. “Lie down,” I said, and covered her. “I’ll ask Papa not to give you any more prayer cards, all right? You go to sleep now, and think of the nice time we had at Avó’s today.”
She nodded, and I stayed with her until she slept.
I went to the sitting room. Bonifacio was at the table, whittling. I had never seen him do this before. As I came nearer, I saw he was whittling a cross from a soft piece of wood, whispering a prayer along with the steady rasp of the blade.
“What are you doing to her?” I demanded, throwing the prayer cards onto the table in front of him. “You’re frightening her. She’s only four years old.”
He slowly set the knife and the half-carved cross on the table amongst the cards. “Do you think I can look at her without seeing her as the child of an evil union?” he said. “She carries your blood, the blood of a fallen woman. She has said things to me that indicate she is possessed. And I have taken it upon myself, as a man of God, to help her remain in a state of grace, and teach her to cast out sin with prayer.”
I stood in front of him, arms crossed. “She’s not possessed,” I whispered harshly, leaning towards him. “She’s clever. She’s just a clever little girl.”
In spite of my confident words, I had felt a chill when he spoke, wondering what Candelária had said, what unknowing comment—part of my mother’s legacy—she had made. But I would never admit that to Bonifacio.
“You should commit yourself to joining the inquisitors in Lisboa,” I said. “You would surely be the first to light the flame under the feet of those accused of heresy. You find great pleasure in feeling you are so far above others in your fervour. But I know better. Never forget that, Bonifacio. I know what happened in Tejuco, and what kind of man you really are. You strive to drive out what you see as evil around you, but we both know it was—is—inside you.”
His face flushed, and his eyes were too bright, as though he was fevered. “There is evil here, on the quinta, and in your daughter. And as I cannot carry out holy duties with the heathens of Brazil, I will carry them out here. I will cleanse this place of its evil.”
“What evil? What are you talking about?” I knew what he didn’t: that I had slept with Abílio here, that Abílio had killed Martyn Kipling, and had raped me. Those were evil doings, yes. But in spite of that, I felt the quinta to be a place of love. In spite of the pain Abílio Perez had caused here, I felt so much love: love for my daughter and for Cristiano, love for Espirito, love for the kind Binta and Nini and Raimundo, love for the beauty of the fields and forests and flowers.
“I will work with her as long as I can,” Bonifacio told me, “but there is a convent—Convento Teresa de Jesus—in Lisboa. It has a high reputation. They take very young girls, in order to start their religious training before they have seen and heard too much immorality.”
I blinked, staring at him. “My daughter? She’s not going to a convent, not at any age. So stop filling her head with any more thoughts that upset and confuse her. I won’t let you.”
In a sudden, unexpected move, he rose. As his chair tipped over, I backed away.
“Be very careful, Diamantina, about telling me what to do,” he said, picking up the half-formed cross. There was spittle on his lips. He made the sign of the cross in front of me with that rough piece of wood. “You tread a narrow path.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” He sat down and picked up the knife. “I think you do,” he repeated, and then bent his head over the wood and slowly, carefully, worked on it.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
A few days later, I left Candelária with Binta and met Luzia in Funchal, as we had planned. Together, we went to Catarina of the Cross.
“The Sister’s name is Amélia Rodrigues de Bragança,” Luzia said to the Madre Superiora, glancing at me, and I nodded. “She has been on Porto Santo for possibly ten years or more. She has done her penance, surely. We are here to see if there is a possibility of her being returned to her home convent.”
“I remember her,” the Madre said. She rose and pulled a rope that hung by the door. A young Sister appeared, and they spoke quietly. The Madre came back to the desk, sat and folded her hands on it. She appeared to be waiting, and we did the same.
The Sister returned with a thick book, set it on the desk and stood to one side. The Madre opened it in the middle. She turned the pages with great slowness, and the Sister leaned forward. I realized that the old Madre Superiora was no longer able to read the tiny script, and the young Sister acted as her eyes.
At a small sound from the Sister, the Madre lifted her hand from the page. The Sister ran her finger down it. I strained to see what was written, but the book was upside down for me, and the writing faded.
The young nun tapped her finger against a line, then spoke into the Madre’s ear, so low that again I couldn’t hear.
The older woman nodded, and the Sister left. “Yes. Sister Amélia is indeed on Porto Santo. At Nossa Senhora da Piedade,” she said.
I had to clamp my lips shut so I didn’t utter a sound of impatience. Hadn’t Luzia just told her that?
“There is no indication here,” the Madre said, touching the open page, “that the penance could be ended. She will remain there.”
I breathed in through my nose, deeply, and looked at Luzia.
“Madre,” she said, leaning forward. “Perhaps on the mainland, the decisions of the Church are irreversible. But here, on the islands, surely the rules can be loosened.”
The Madre Superiora frowned. “Rules are rules.”
Luzia smiled. “Is there any … offering that can be made? Something that could benefit the convent?”
In the hot, still air of the room, I waited. Finally, the Madre Superiora spoke. “Occasionally, very occasionally, we can reverse a decision if it would benefit the holy sisterhood.”
Luzia leaned back. Her face was slightly damp from the heat, as I knew mine was. “And is there something that would benefit your holy sisterhood?”
Another pause. The back of my dress was wet.
“We are always in need. We depend on the goodness of the parish to provide donations that allow us to make much-needed repairs to the convent. It is very old, one of the first on Madeira.”
“I see.” Luzia looked from the Madre to me, then back at the Madre. She raised her eyebrows slightly. “Perhaps Senhora Rivaldo and I could work together to provide a donation worthy of bringing Sister Amélia back to Funchal, and this holy place. Is this a possibility?”
The Madre laced her fingers together on the desk. “It would require an endowment worthy of such a breach of the rules. But should a wealthy patron provide us with a substantial donation, we might be able to consider your request.” She stood.
Luzia and I did the same. “Thank you, Madre,” she said, “for your time, and for your consideration.”
Once outside, Luzia turned to me. “So. There is a way. I can ask Eduardo—”
“No,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. “You’ve
done enough.”
“But surely you don’t have—”
Again I interrupted her. “You’ve done enough, Luzia. Thank you. I will manage the rest.”
“All right,” she said. “If you’re sure.” We walked down the street. “Espirito seems much happier,” she said unexpectedly. She stopped and looked at me. “You are different as well. Maybe, for the first time since I met you, you seem … happy with life. You smile a great deal now, a true smile, not one you think people want to see. Your whole face is alight.”
I looked down in a sudden panic.
“Diamantina,” she said, “look at me.” I raised my head. “I love you as a daughter, and I love Espirito as a son.” Her eyes were wet. “Sometimes, after great sadness, happiness pushes through in an unexpected way, like a flower between the stones of a city street. Some might say it doesn’t belong, and will step on it. I am not one to say this. I say it might survive, and I step around it.”
My face was burning, my chest rising and falling.
For Luzia, kindness was an instinct. “The happiness of those I love brings me comfort. Come, now. It’s been a good day.” She walked again, and I joined her, our footsteps ringing on the stones.
Candelária sang one of Binta’s songs as I weeded and trimmed the flowers around my parents’ gravestones. Her voice blended with the whir of the bees and the twittering of the birds as they caught the insects that emerged in abundance as the day cooled. She sat in the soft soil and drew with a small stick.
I hadn’t been able to stop thinking of Luzia. She had made it clear she knew about me and Espirito, and yet she had not condemned us. She had found a way for me to bring Sister Amélia back to Funchal; I knew that I would do it as soon as harvest was over.
“Look at my pretty picture,” Candelária said, and I brushed the dirt from my hands and went to her. As I stared down at her drawing, I felt as though the air had been taken from me.
It was a replica of one of the marks that had been repeated on my mother’s torso: a curling fishtail with wavy lines over it. Candelária had drawn it over and over, creating a pattern. It was unlike any I had on my own back. Candelária had often traced my marks with her fingers as I sat in my shift, brushing my hair.
“Did you see this drawing somewhere?”
“No. Just inside my eyes,” she said.
I smiled at her then, but knew it was time to teach her to hide her gift from Bonifacio.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
It was the last day of the grape pressing on the quinta, and I arranged for our usual Festa do Vinho. I wore my best muslin gown, with its silver bodice and pewter-coloured skirt.
When Espirito stepped into the warm dust of the yard, Candelária ran to him and threw her arms around his legs, and he made the silly face that always made her laugh. I smiled, happy as always just to be in his presence, to have him near.
Eduardo and Luzia had not come; they were visiting friends in nearby Câmara de Lobos.
After the last pressing, the teams of men who had trod the grapes, their families and those of us from the quinta enjoyed our celebratory meal at long tables in the yard. I had helped Binta and Nini in the kitchen, preparing cuts of beef and pork and mounds of vegetables from the garden and fresh, savoury breads. Sitting together over dinner, Cristiano spoke English to Espirito, and Candelária switched back and forth between Portuguese and English as she chattered. Bonifacio was the only one unable to understand the conversation fully, and I suspected this was carefully orchestrated on Cristiano’s part.
As the sun lowered and the shrieking of the cicadas intensified, the musicians strummed their cítaras. Cristiano and Tiago turned handstands, showing off for the girls who had come to watch their fathers and brothers work in the lagar. Candelária had attached herself to one of the visiting girls, and was sitting on her lap as the older girl wove flowers through her hair. I glanced at Espirito. He was watching the young people as well, but was clearly lost in thought.
Bonifacio, sitting beside me, accidentally knocked over a cup of burgundy wine, and it splattered my skirt, sticky and dark.
I jumped up, wiping it with a napkin. “I’ll have to soak this so it doesn’t stain,” I said, and left for the cottage. Partway there, I heard footsteps behind me.
It was Espirito. “Bonifacio’s gone to the pressing house with some of the men. I didn’t know when I’d next get the chance to be alone with you. Let’s go to the summer house.”
“Espirito,” I said, smiling, “you know we don’t have time to—”
“Please. I have something I want to tell you.”
My smile faded at his expression. “Is something wrong?”
“Come,” he said, and I followed him to the summer house.
Standing on the step, we looked out at the harbour. The flowering shrubs surrounding the open structure were especially strong in the evening, and I breathed in deeply, almost tasting their sweetness on my tongue.
“The water is merging with the horizon,” I said. “It must be raining heavily far out at sea.” I turned to him.
Instead of putting his arms around me as I expected, he picked up my hand. “I wanted to tell you first,” he said.
“Tell me …” I studied his face.
“I’m going to Brazil.”
I looked away from him, to the harbour, seeing the tiny twinkling lights of the anchored ships like stars upon the water in the falling darkness. “To make new contacts for Kipling’s? You’ll be away for more than a year, then?” I asked, trying to imagine not seeing him for so long.
“No,” he said, and I looked away from the distant lights, to his face.
“No to what?”
He hesitated. “I’m not coming back, Diamantina.”
“Not coming back?” I echoed. I hated the sound of my voice, accusatory and yet somehow desperate.
“It’s best if I start a new life.” He took a deep breath and pulled a paper from inside his jacket. “Abílio Perez has written. He sold Kipling’s to a Portuguese merchant in Oporto—Plácido Fernandez Lajes. He’ll take it over in the next few months.” He held the letter out to me.
“He can’t,” I said after I’d read what Abílio had written. “Abílio can’t do this to Dona Beatriz. The winery and the quinta are hers forever. It’s written in the deed her father gave to her. Leandro will inherit everything. It can’t be sold.”
“Perez must have had her sign the deed over to him.”
“She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t, Espirito.” As I spoke, I realized I hadn’t had a letter from Dona Beatriz for the last few months. How long had it been? I’d been so caught up with Espirito that I’d thought of little else.
He shook his head. “I don’t know how Perez has done it, but it’s obvious Lajes is under the impression he’s bought everything. And this means life will change, Diamantina. Lajes will bring his own people into the winery. And … well, you can guess that Lajes won’t keep you on either. It’s because of Dona Beatriz—and Henry—that you were there. This man will never agree to a woman in his adega. The quinta is part of the sale …” He stopped. “I’ll speak to Henry about this. Perhaps he can find work for Bonifacio and you in his business. But that’s up to Henry—I can’t promise anything.”
My home. My work in the adega.
“I spoke to Henry only last week, while he was in Funchal. He’s as shocked as I am. He says Perez told him that Lajes isn’t interested in partnering with the altar wine operation. It will be over, and Henry’s business will suffer.”
“And so you … you’re going to work for him? For Henry?”
“I’ll start up a branch of his business in Rio de Janeiro.”
“But why can’t you stay here and work for him?”
“It’s not just the work, Diamantina. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be with you in this half-life, knowing we can never truly be together. You’re my brother’s wife. There’s no future for us.”
“But …” I stared into his face, willing h
im to say, Come with me. Bring the children and come with me and we’ll live together in Rio de Janeiro, where nobody knows us, or about Bonifacio.
“You are married to my brother,” is what he said. “That will never change.” He looked over my head, towards the darkening sea.
My legs felt watery, and I sat on the nearest chair.
“The one good thing that will come out of this sale is that you will be done with Abílio Perez.”
I waited a few seconds. “What do you mean?”
“Won’t you be glad he’s out of your life?”
My mouth was suddenly dry.
“Any time Abílio Perez is mentioned, your face turns to stone. I understand your distaste—perhaps that’s too mild a word for it—for Perez.” He took the letter from me and put it back into his jacket.
I swallowed. “You understand my … What are you talking about?”
“I see the joy Candelária has brought you, though, and have thought that perhaps it was an unexpected blessing.”
“Candelária?” My voice faltered as I spoke my daughter’s name. “Why are you talking about Candelária?”
Espirito finally sat down across from me. “I always knew that Bonifacio couldn’t have fathered Candelária. That day when we came from Curral das Freiras, and I went out to look for him …” He stopped, raking back his hair with his fingers as if the memory still disturbed him. “When I found him … he told me why he was so ill. He told me what he’d done, and why he’d done it.”
I looked down at my fingers, spread on my stained skirt.
“And then, when I saw Candelária for the first time after she was born, saw her toes, I knew. I’d seen Perez’s feet at the harvest festival here before you came to Funchal. He was drunk and making a fool of himself in the lagar.”
I couldn’t look at him for a long time. Finally I raised my head. “Do you want to know how it happened?” I asked him, a challenge in my voice. “Do you want to know why I … why I did what I did?”
“At first I imagined that he’d forced himself on you. But the more I thought about it, I couldn’t believe that.”
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