She frowned. “Maybe yes, and maybe no. And what of Abílio? What if he’s still alive?”
“I doubt he’ll show his face again. He has the money he wanted. Maybe that will be enough for him.”
“Enough for him? Abílio never has enough. He has to be stopped once and for all, Diamantina. You said you would do whatever you could to help me. And so, if Abílio lives, what I am going to ask you to do must be done.” She rose and paced in front of me before facing me again. “Should Abílio return, I want him to suffer the same fate as my father. I will leave it up to you to ensure that it happens. And when it does, I will put all else behind us. No matter what happens with the business and quinta, I will make sure your future is protected. Do you understand? Kill Abílio, and your life on Madeira will be one of security.”
“When can we go home?” Candelária asked as we lay in bed together the next morning.
“Soon, minha querida. We must wait for the ships to sail again.”
“Why did Papa bring me here? Where is he?” Her face was thinner, with a hardness not right in a child. “Leandro said maybe his papa died in the earthquake.”
“Your papa was very unhappy. He decided that it was better that he didn’t live at Quinta Isabella anymore. That it would be better if he went away.”
“He didn’t want to live with us?”
I stroked her hair. “He cared about you, Candelária. But he thought he should help other people who live far away.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Brazil.”
“Like Tio Espirito?”
“Yes.”
“Will they live together?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “I asked him over and over, on the ship, why he dressed like a Father, but he only said it was God’s wish. That he had to do as God wanted him to do. When is he coming back from Brazil?”
I stopped stroking her hair. “I don’t believe he will come back, Candelária.”
She pulled away from me. “He didn’t even say goodbye to me. Maybe Tio Abílio didn’t let him. I heard him and Papa shouting.”
“Papa was shouting?”
She nodded. “I was in the garden with Neves and I heard them. And then Tio Abílio came to get me. I said I wanted my Papa, but Tio was angry, and shouted at me as well, and told me I couldn’t see Papa. I was afraid of him. He took me away, to the convent. I kept crying and calling out for Papa, because I knew he wouldn’t let Tio Abílio put me there. But Papa didn’t come.” She pressed against me, and I felt her trembling ever so slightly. “I hated that day, and I hated the day of the terremoto. Except that was the day you came for me.”
In spite of Bonifacio’s unpredictable and zealous behaviour, I couldn’t believe he would let Abílio take Candelária away without saying goodbye to her or without any final words of comfort.
“Papa didn’t come to the convent with you and Tio Abílio?”
She shook her head.
“And you never saw Papa again, after you were in the garden with Neves?” I said into her hair.
“Never,” she said, her voice muffled against my shoulder.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Dona Beatriz and I sat in the salon. Cristiano read in his room, and Leandro and Candelária played in the garden. The door opened in a sudden rush of air.
It was Abílio. His face altered slightly when he saw me, but he immediately regained his confident expression. He walked across the room with the same swagger as always. “What are you doing here, Diamantina?”
He didn’t even greet Dona Beatriz.
“I came for my daughter,” I said. “And I have her.”
“She’s here?”
“Yes,” I told him.
He smiled and looked at Dona Beatriz. I knew he was thinking of a way to fully savour having her and me together for the first time. “What do you think of Candelária, my dear?” He was clearly enjoying himself. “Charming little thing, isn’t she?”
“I know the whole distasteful story,” she said, and a flicker of annoyance crossed Abílio’s face. “Do you think there’s anything you could do that would shock me after these last seven years with you?” She looked at him, from his polished boots to his carefully groomed hair. “What good fortune you had not to be harmed in the earthquake.” The last sentence held clear sarcasm.
“I was able to keep myself safe,” he said.
“At least you can tell us what information you bring from Lisboa. What of the rest of Portugal?” she asked. “There is no official news, and we’ve heard only rumours. Do you know if Madeira was affected?”
Abílio waved his hand with an air of indifference. “I’m weary of all the talk of destruction and divine retribution.” He went to the side table and poured himself a glass of wine. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”
Dona Beatriz stood, shaking her head in disbelief. “What have you come back for?”
He took a drink. “This is my home. I have every right to be here. Oh—that’s not quite right. It’s not my home any longer. Nor yours. We shall have to vacate, my dear. I’ve sold this house, as well as the wine lodge and quinta. But don’t worry, I’ve secured a lovely home for us in Oporto. I’m going on ahead. You can pack up what you wish to bring, and come with Leandro when you’re ready. It must be soon. The new owner is coming within the next few days to take possession.”
Dona Beatriz still maintained her calm, although I could only imagine with what difficulty. “What are you talking about?”
“As I just said, I sold this house and bought us a new home in Oporto. Kipling’s, Beatriz, is no more.” He said the last sentence slowly, watching her closely. He was enjoying the game of trying to destroy her. It was another version of how his father had beaten down his mother.
She slowly sat again. “Why? Why did you sell everything my father worked so hard to create for his family? It was all to be Leandro’s. He wanted it to be Leandro’s.”
“I’m starting my own business in Oporto. My own business,” he repeated, “with my name on the signboard. And I will run it as I please, without your interference. You will have no say in anything I do, and I will tell you what money you can spend, not the other way around. In the last few days I’ve been able to confirm that, although there was also destruction in Oporto, it was not of the severity of Lisboa. The properties I’ve been accruing there were undamaged.”
“At this apocalyptic time, with such death and terrible, terrible losses, you talk of gain,” Dona Beatriz said, her face pale.
He drank. “There’s no profit in speaking of loss.” He looked around the room. “Just be thankful the house and everything in it was spared, so that Plácido Lajes won’t be able to complain.”
“Everything? Don’t you mean everyone, Abílio? You haven’t even asked about your son. Hourly I thank God for His mercy in letting us all survive.”
He drained his glass. “Sofia will come to Oporto later, when everything is in readiness. I have bought her a pleasing home there as well.”
We watched Abílio pour another large glass of wine. He drank with a sound of appreciation, then poured a third glass and smiled benignly at his wife. He hadn’t glanced at me after his first moment in the room, as if I were only a spectre, a grey mist beside the fireplace. I watched the scene unfolding as though I were in a theatre, and Abílio and Dona Beatriz upon the stage before me.
“I’m going to have Samuel start packing my belongings.” He set down his empty glass. “I look forward to dining with you both tonight.”
We sat in silence for the first moments after he left.
“So they both lived. Abílio and Senhor Lajes,” Dona Beatriz finally said, staring at me. “It appears that it must be tonight, Diamantina. You will carry out my wishes tonight.”
I went to my room with the bottle of wine Dona Beatriz had given me. Opening my medicine case, I untied the twist of paper containing four yew seeds, and put them onto a small marble dish. Using the end of my hairbrush, I crushed and ground them into a fine powder. I took
the stopper from the bottle of wine, but then backed away and sat on the bed.
I hadn’t known of yew on Porto Santo. It was Rafaela, the curandeira in Curral das Freiras, who had introduced it to my medicine bag. She had instructed me to use it with high caution, as all parts of the yew tree, apart from the fleshy crimson arils surrounding the seeds, were highly lethal. A few flakes of a seed were useful as a laxative, and in urging on a woman’s courses, or as an ingredient in an abortive mixture. Hadn’t I added a tiny pinch of it to the rue and tansy tea I had once drunk, trying to abort my daughter?
Even one whole seed, if ingested, would almost immediately, Rafaela had said, cause difficulty breathing, followed by muscle tremors and convulsions, culminating in the heart stopping. It would be a rapid, ugly and painful death.
I could tell myself it was Dona Beatriz I was helping, that she depended on me to ensure Abílio would never again be a threat to her in any way. But I also knew that with this help she would forgive me, and so I would be doing it for myself, for the security she promised.
Unbidden came the image of Abílio as a young man, his smile true and tender as he held out the ribbons he’d bought for my hair.
I shook my head to push away the old memories, then rose and went to the table, and added the ground seeds to the wine.
Cristiano and the younger children had already had their dinner when Abílio entered the dining room that evening with Samuel behind him. Dona Beatriz and I were waiting for him, seated across from each other at the table. It was decked with a damask tablecloth and glowing candelabra.
“This is a comfortable scene,” he said. “It appears you two share many secrets.” He sat as Samuel pulled out his chair. “Do you discuss me, and compare your experiences?” He leaned back as Samuel placed a heavy napkin on his lap.
“You may bring the first course, Samuel,” Dona Beatriz said. Then she asked Abílio, “You said you leave for Oporto tomorrow?”
“Yes,” he said, looking at the sideboard. “Why is there no wine?”
“Samuel will bring it. I plan to stay here for now,” she said. “Until I can get passage to Funchal. I am thinking of moving back to Quinta Isabella with Leandro.”
“Beatriz. Did you not understand what I told you earlier today?” He shook his head and glanced at me with a wry expression, as if we shared some measure of mirth at his wife’s expense. “It’s all gone, Beatriz. This house, the business, the quinta. I’ve been paid in full.”
“It’s not gone,” Dona Beatriz said calmly.
“I think Plácido Lajes would disagree with you, my dear.”
“You had all the papers drawn up?”
“Of course. I am owner of everything Martyn Kipling once owned. We both have always known that was the reason I married you.”
“And killed my father,” Dona Beatriz said.
I counted two heartbeats, and then Abílio lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “And who would believe you about that long-ago event?” he asked. “Another secret disclosed, I see, Diamantina.” He looked at me, then back to Dona Beatriz. “My dealings with Lajes were completed at exactly the right moment. The papers were all signed and the money in my hand the day before the earthquake. God was on my side. Who knows how the land is damaged on Madeira, and how long it will be before the vines are again fruitful?” He picked up the bell beside his plate and rang it. “Where is Samuel with the wine? Come now, Beatriz. You’ll be able to make a good life in Oporto. All you need is your finery, and the church. That’s all your life is about.”
“And Leandro,” she added. “My life is about my son. No, Abílio. I will not come to Oporto. I will return to the quinta, and run Kipling’s.”
Abílio put his head back and laughed as if delighted. “How do you propose to do that?”
“I have the deed.”
Abílio stopped laughing. He blinked, and then frowned. “Deed?” he said, for the first time losing a modicum of his cockiness. His pupils grew in the candlelight, but he immediately covered his discomfort by standing and ringing the bell loudly. He set it down and looked at Beatriz. “Use caution, Beatriz. The wife of a man with power should not become hungry for power of her own. Are you truly imagining you can intimidate me with such a lie?”
“It isn’t a lie. My father had the deed drawn up long ago, foreseeing this circumstance. I hold the deed to Kipling’s. To the quinta and this house, which belonged to my mother’s family. My father’s deed states that no one has the right to sell any of it. It will all go to Leandro.”
“You expect me to believe this? Produce this deed, and let me see it.” His face darkened.
“Do you really think I would put it in your possession? I’m keeping it to show Senhor Lajes.”
“You’ll give it to me now,” Abílio said, his tone threatening. I glanced at the row of knives laid out to the right of my plate.
Samuel entered with a gleaming tray. Abílio sat down. Samuel lowered the tray onto a side table, and then set a covered dish in front of each of us.
He stood behind Dona Beatriz and removed her silver cover with a slight flourish. “As you requested, Dona Beatriz. Waterfowl stewed with quinces, as well as pastries filled with marrow, to start. Fish will be the main course.” He uncovered my plate, and then Abílio’s.
“The wine, Samuel,” Abílio demanded. “Why have you kept me waiting?”
As Samuel reached for the opened bottle on the tray, my heart thudded. No, I thought. No.
Dona Beatriz stood and took the bottle from him. “That’s all for now, Samuel. I will pour my husband’s wine.” She wanted to do this herself. She did not have the capability to poison the wine, but she would pour it, and watch Abílio drink it.
As Samuel left, Abílio looked up at her. “This behaviour is not becoming, Beatriz. All these lies about a phantom deed are making you even more unravelled than usual.”
I saw that her hands trembled, and I tensed. Dona Beatriz tipped the bottle forward and poured, but the ruby liquid ran over the side of the glass and onto the white tablecloth.
“Give it to me,” Abílio said crossly, and reached for the bottle.
In that instant, I knew what I must do. I rose and wrenched the bottle from Dona Beatriz’s hand before Abílio could take it. I stepped backwards, lifting the bottle, and I smashed it against the edge of the marble side table. Dona Beatriz cried out as Abílio jumped up, looking at the rich burgundy liquid running down my skirt and pooling on the floor at my feet, and then at the jagged neck of the bottle I still held.
There was a moment of silence. “One of Kipling’s better blends,” Abílio said then, but his voice held the smallest note of alarm. “What a waste.”
“You’re not worth it,” I said.
Dona Beatriz’s mouth was open, shock and puzzlement on her face.
“Do you suppose I can’t call for another bottle?” Abílio said. “This is simply a disgusting display of your true character, Diamantina.”
I aimed the sharp edge of the broken bottle at the scar on his neck. “Just get out. Go to Oporto.”
He shook his head, disbelieving. “You? Ordering me out of my own home?” He laughed, a strange, coarse sound. “You love to threaten, don’t you, Diamantina? More proof of your low beginnings.” He threw his napkin onto his plate. “I will leave the table, but not because of your ridiculous attempt at intimidation. I’ve lost my appetite. And so I bid you both good evening, ladies,” he said, with an exaggerated bow first at me, then at Beatriz. “I will go to Oporto in the morning, and you will follow, as I told you, Beatriz.”
“I’m not coming to Oporto, Abílio,” Dona Beatriz said, her whole body shaking. “I’m going to Madeira.”
“Fine. But you have nothing there.”
When the door closed behind him, Dona Beatriz turned to me. “Why did you break the bottle?” she cried. “If you’d let me pour him the wine, he would have been out of my life—our lives—forever, Diamantina. We agreed. We want him dead. With all the good people w
ho lost their lives in the terremoto, he should not have been spared.” She sat down, staring at me. “You said you would help me. You said you would do as I asked.”
I set the jagged bottle top on the table. I couldn’t speak for a moment, and then I managed to say, “What you say about Abílio is true. But as you started to pour the wine, I thought of your father, and how Abílio had so easily ended his life with no thought but to further his own. And I … I don’t want to think of myself as being of the same calibre. I would like to think I am a better person than Abílio.”
The door swung open, and we both jumped. “There’s just one more thing, Beatriz,” Abílio said. “I really don’t care what you do, but I will be coming back for my son. You won’t know when it will happen, but I will take him.” Then he came towards me, and leaned close. “And my daughter. I may decide to take my daughter as well.”
When he had left again, I picked up a sharp knife from the table. “Take Leandro to your bedroom,” I said. “I’ll bring Candelária there, and we’ll spend the night together.” I put the knife to my waist, only to realize, as I did, that my silk frock did not have a waistband, but a delicate lilac ribbon.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
The night was long and restless. Even with Dona Beatriz’s bedroom door firmly bolted, we both sat up at each small noise. Candelária and I shared layers of feather-filled comforters on the thick carpet, and Leandro slept under a heavy satin cover beside his mother on the large and elegant bed. A golden rosary was draped on the headboard, and Dona Beatriz’s embroidered silk slippers sat on the step that assisted in climbing onto the tall bed.
With weary relief, I watched the first weak light come through the long windows, festooned with curtains of crimson damask trimmed with rich lace. As I rose on one elbow, Candelária stirred, and Dona Beatriz roused Leandro.
The Devil on Her Tongue Page 50