The Seven Sisters

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘I saw the photograph in the newspaper the other day of you at Parque Lage, attending a charity gala hosted by the famous Gabriella Besanzoni,’ Bel commented morosely.

  ‘Yes, it seems I’m quite the toast of Rio presently. But you know it means nothing without you, chérie. Just as I hope your life is as empty without me.’

  ‘It is,’ she answered vehemently.

  ‘And your father? How is he?’

  ‘Broken,’ Bel shrugged sadly. ‘Part of the reason Mãe wants to go to the fazenda is to spare him the pain of watching her slowly die. He will visit when he can. If I were in her shoes, I would wish for the same. Men are not good with illness.’

  ‘Most men, I agree. But please don’t tar us all with the same brush,’ Laurent chided her. ‘If it were you dying, I’d like to think that I’d be there for you. Will I see you again before you leave?’

  ‘No, forgive me but I cannot, Laurent. I have many things I must do, including an appointment with my mother’s doctor so that he can give me the necessary pills and some morphine for her when the time comes.’

  ‘Then let us waste no more time, and spend the last few hours we have only thinking of each other.’ Laurent stood and pulled her up, then led her in the direction of the bedroom.

  41

  Bel felt a terrible air of finality as her father helped a weak Carla into the back of the Rolls-Royce. As Antonio climbed into the driver’s seat and Loen sat in front with him, Bel settled her mother next to her with pillows to support her fragile body. When Antonio started the engine and began to pull out of the drive, Bel watched her mother strain her neck to look back at her home. Bel understood Carla knew that this was the last time she would ever see it.

  On arrival at the fazenda, Fabiana struggled to drag a bright smile to her lips as she greeted her frail mistress. Exhausted after the journey, Carla staggered as Antonio helped her from the car. Immediately, he swept his wife into his arms and carried her inside.

  During the next few days, Bel felt redundant, as Antonio, knowing he must soon leave to attend to his worsening business situation in Rio, spent every waking moment with Carla. His devotion to her brought tears to both Fabiana’s and Bel’s eyes as they sat in the kitchen together, currently unwanted either by the patient or her unlikely nurse.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought your father had it in him,’ said Fabiana for the hundredth time as she mopped her eyes. ‘Such love for a woman . . . it breaks my heart.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Bel. ‘And mine too.’

  The only member of the household who was happy – but was doing her best to hide it given the circumstances – was Loen, who was reunited with Bruno. Bel had granted her maid an initial few days off, knowing there was little for her to do with Antonio so devoted to caring for his wife. But equally, how she would be needed as Carla’s time drew nearer.

  Bel watched again in envy as Loen and Bruno spent every hour they could together, their love prompting thoughts of how much had changed since she was last at the fazenda. At least the time she had gave her the chance to write long letters of love to Laurent, which she handed surreptitiously to Loen to post when she and Bruno took a walk into the nearby village. Laurent replied regularly, addressing his letters to Loen as they had discussed. Reading them over and over, Bel felt she had never missed him more.

  As for her husband, Bel thought about him as little as she could. Despite the dreadful circumstances, she was simply relieved to be away from the claustrophobic and miserable atmosphere of the Casa and the realisation that she was married to a man she now actively despised.

  Ten days after they’d arrived at the fazenda, Antonio, looking grey and drawn, took his leave. Clasping Bel to him and on the verge of tears, he kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘I will be back next Friday evening, but for God’s sake, Izabela, please call me every day to let me know how she is. And if I need to come sooner, you must let me know. No secrets any more, please?’

  ‘I will do as you ask, Pai, but Mãe at least seems settled for now.’

  With a nod of despair, Antonio climbed into the Rolls-Royce and drove off at a pace down the drive, sending a shower of dust and gravel into the air from beneath the tyres.

  Gustavo sat in his club reading the newspaper and noticed that the library was empty this afternoon. Apparently, President Washington Luís had called the major coffee producers together for an emergency meeting on the tumbling bean prices, and at lunchtime the restaurant had been deserted too.

  As he drained his third whisky, Gustavo thought about his wife and her pale, drawn features when she had said goodbye to him three weeks ago. Since she’d been away, he’d missed her terribly. The household seemed to have contracted without her presence, reverting to how it had been before Izabela had married him.

  The fact that his mother continued to treat him as a naughty little boy, patronising him constantly, seemed even more obvious with his wife missing from his side. And his father still assumed he was equally inept on the financial side of things, brushing away his tentative enquiries into the running of the family coffers as if he was an irritating fly.

  Ordering another whisky, Gustavo grimaced at the thought of his initial cold response to his wife’s news about her mother. He’d always prided himself on his sympathetic nature, which his mother had sniffed at when he’d been a child, if he’d cried over a dead bird in the garden or a beating from his father.

  ‘You’re far too sensitive,’ his mother would say. ‘You are a boy, Gustavo, and you must not show your emotions.’

  And certainly, he confessed to himself, when he drank, he found it far easier not to feel as sensitive. Since his marriage to Izabela – a change that he’d believed would make him feel so much more worthy – if anything, his self-esteem had dissipated, not grown. Which had subsequently made him turn to drink even more regularly.

  Gustavo sighed heavily. Even though he’d known Izabela didn’t love him as he loved her, he had hoped that her affection for him would grow once they were married. But he’d felt her reticence towards him – especially when they made love – from the start. And these days, every time she glanced at him, he saw something akin to pity in her eyes, which turned occasionally to blatant dislike. The thought that he might be a disappointment to his wife, as well as his parents, had added to his self-loathing.

  And the fact that Izabela had not yet conceived a child exacerbated his feeling of failure. The look in his mother’s eyes told him that he’d not even been able to perform his duties as a man. And even though since his marriage he was the official master of their household, and Izabela its mistress, Gustavo knew he had done little to stamp his authority on it, or curb his mother’s need to control it.

  The waiter passed with a tray and picked up his empty glass. ‘The same again, sir?’ he asked automatically, and expecting the usual nod, was almost walking away before Gustavo said with effort, ‘No, thank you. Can you bring me a coffee?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  As he drank the hot, bitter liquid, Gustavo mused on the short time he and Izabela had been married, and, for the first time, confessed to himself honestly how their relationship had deteriorated. It had reached the point where he felt that, only six months on, they led separate lives. He also admitted brutally to himself that much of this was to do with him and the fact that he’d been spending too much time here at the club, drowning his feelings of inadequacy in alcohol.

  Gustavo could suddenly see clearly how it was that he had failed his wife.

  No wonder she seemed so unhappy. Between the coldness of his mother and his own descent into drunkenness and self-pity, Izabela must feel as though she had made a dreadful mistake.

  ‘But I love her,’ Gustavo whispered desperately into the bottom of the coffee cup.

  Surely, he thought, it wasn’t too late to mend their relationship? To return to the level of affection and communication they had shared before they’d married? Gustavo remembered that at least Izabela had seemed t
o like him back then.

  I will take control, he vowed, as he signed his bill and went outside to his waiting car, determined to speak to his parents on his arrival back at the Casa. For he knew if he did not, he was bound to lose his wife for good.

  In the last two weeks of Carla’s life, Fabiana, Bel and Loen took it in turns to sit with her so that she was never alone. One evening, in a rare lucid moment, Carla had reached weakly for her daughter’s hand.

  ‘Querida, there is something I must say to you while I still can,’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, so that Bel had to lean in close to hear her words. ‘I understand that married life has not been easy for you so far and I feel it is my duty to offer some guidance—’

  ‘Mãe, please,’ Bel interrupted desperately. ‘Gustavo and I have had our problems, like all married couples, but really, there is nothing for you to concern yourself with now.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Carla continued doggedly. ‘But you are my daughter and I know you better than you can imagine. It has not been lost on me that you may have developed an . . . attachment to a certain person who is not your husband. I saw it that night at the Casa when he came to unveil his sculpture.’

  ‘Mãe, really, it is nothing. He is . . . was only a friend,’ Bel said, shocked to the core that her mother had noticed.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Carla replied with a grim smile. ‘Remember that I also saw the look that passed between you that day on Corcovado Mountain. You pretended you did not know him, but I could see you did, very well indeed. And I should warn you that following that path can only result in heartache for all concerned. I beg you, Izabela, you have been married for such a short time. Give Gustavo a chance to make you happy.’

  Not wishing to distress her mother further, Bel nodded her acquiescence. ‘I will, I promise.’

  Two days later, Fabiana came to Bel’s room at sunrise.

  ‘Senhora, I think it is time to call for your father.’

  Antonio came immediately, and for the last hours of his wife’s life, barely left her side. The end came peacefully and Antonio and Bel stood together at the end of the bed, their arms around each other, weeping silently.

  They travelled back to Rio together after the funeral – Carla had insisted on being buried in the small cemetery in Paty do Alferes – both of them desolate.

  ‘Pai, please,’ Bel said as they arrived at Mansão da Princesa and she prepared to return to the Casa. ‘Anything you need, you must tell me. Shall I come and visit you here tomorrow? See how you are? I’m sure Gustavo wouldn’t mind if I stayed with you for the next few days.’

  ‘No, no, querida. You have your own life to lead. Me?’ Antonio looked around the drawing room in which he’d spent so many hours with his wife. ‘I have nothing left.’

  ‘Pai, please don’t say that. You know Mãe’s last wish was for you to try to find some happiness in the rest of the time you have here on earth.’

  ‘I know, my princesa, and I promise I will try. But forgive me; at this moment, arriving here to this emptiness, it is impossible.’

  Seeing that Jorge had just pulled the car up into the drive to collect her, Bel went to her father and hugged him tightly to her. ‘Try to remember that you still have me. I love you, Pai.’

  As she left the drawing room and walked into the hall, she saw Loen and Gabriela whispering together.

  ‘Jorge is here, Loen, and we must leave,’ she said, then turned to Gabriela. ‘You can see how my father is,’ she said helplessly.

  ‘Senhora, I will do my best to comfort him. And perhaps, with God’s blessing, he will recover. Please remember that time is a great healer.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be back to see him tomorrow. Come, Loen.’

  Bel watched as mother and daughter said a fond goodbye, which only served to underline her own terrible loss.

  On the short drive to the Casa, Bel wondered what she would encounter when she arrived. She’d ignored Gustavo’s frequent telephone calls as often as she dared, asking Fabiana to tell him she was with her mother, and only speaking to him when she had to. Although to her surprise, when she’d told him of her mother’s death, his response had been unusually sympathetic. And he’d sounded sober. When she’d assured him there was no need to attend the funeral, which Carla had requested to be for close family only, Gustavo had said that he understood and would look forward very much to seeing her on her return.

  In the strange hinterland of approaching death, Bel had spent little time contemplating her future, but as they neared her marital home, she realised she must begin to face it. Especially one particular part of it, which she’d discussed with Loen only last week, who’d reassured her that these things could be brought on by stress. She’d allowed herself to be comforted by her maid’s theory, unable to begin to contemplate the complexity of the alternative while her heart was so full of grief.

  Bel entered the house, noticing as she always did the change from the warmth of the air outside to the chilly atmosphere within. She shivered involuntarily as Loen helped her remove her hat, wondering if she should simply climb the stairs straight up to her bedroom, or go in search of her husband or his parents. There was certainly no sympathetic welcome committee waiting for her here.

  ‘I will take your suitcase upstairs to your room, unpack and draw you a bath, Senhora Bel,’ said Loen, sensing her discomfort and giving her shoulder a light pat of understanding as she moved to walk upstairs.

  ‘Hello?’ Bel called into the empty hallway.

  There was no reply. She called again, to no response, and finally decided to follow Loen up the stairs.

  Suddenly, a figure emerged from the drawing room. ‘I see you are home at last.’

  ‘Yes, Luiza.’

  ‘I am sorry for your loss, and so is my husband.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Dinner is at the usual time.’

  ‘Then I will go upstairs and prepare for it.’

  Receiving only a brusque nod in response, Bel walked up the stairs, her feet treading automatically, one after the other. Entering her bedroom, she thought that at least Loen was a comforting, familiar presence. Bel let her maid help her undress, a task she hadn’t asked her to perform at the fazenda as the usual rituals had been forgotten amidst the need to focus entirely on Carla. But now she watched Loen’s surprised expression as she stood naked in front of her.

  ‘What is it?’

  Loen’s eyes had moved to her stomach. ‘Nothing, I . . . nothing, Senhora Bel. The bath is run. Why don’t you get in while the water is warm?’

  Bel did as she was told, and lay in the bath. And as she gazed down at herself, she became fully aware of the change in the familiar contours of her body. There were no baths at the fazenda, only pails of water warmed by the sun and thrown over oneself, and she’d barely glanced at herself in the mirror for weeks.

  ‘Meu Deus!’ said Bel as her fingers tentatively touched the barely visible but newly rounded shape of her normally flat belly, which now appeared like a half-risen soufflé from the water that surrounded it. Her breasts too seemed fuller and heavier.

  ‘I am with child,’ she whispered, her heart beginning to pound.

  There was no further time to contemplate what she had just seen, or berate herself for taking Loen’s advice on the ‘monthly’ she’d missed being merely due to stress as gospel, for she heard Gustavo’s reedy voice talking to Loen next door. Washing herself quickly, she stepped out of the bath, donned her robe, making sure that she tied it loosely in case her husband noticed the subtle change in her shape, and walked into the bedroom.

  Gustavo stood there, his expression wary and a little shy.

  ‘Thank you, Loen. You may go,’ he said.

  Loen left the room and Bel stayed where she was, waiting for Gustavo to speak first.

  ‘I am so sorry for your loss, Izabela,’ he said, parroting the words of his mother.

  ‘Thank you. I admit it has not been easy.’

  ‘Nor has it be
en easy here without you.’

  ‘No, I am sorry,’ she offered.

  ‘Please, don’t apologise,’ he said hastily. ‘I am very happy you are back.’ He smiled tentatively. ‘I have missed you, Izabela.’

  ‘Thank you, Gustavo. Now, I must get ready for dinner, and so must you.’

  He nodded at her, and made his way towards the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  Bel walked to the window, observing that the qualities of the light had subtly altered since the seasons had changed. It was past seven o’clock in the evening, but the sun was only just starting to descend to the earth. Bel realised it was mid-October and the height of spring in Rio. Turning back towards the bed, still dazed by her realisation in the bath, she saw that Loen had laid out a dress that she rarely wore, due to its flowing design – Gustavo preferred his wife to wear clothes which defined her comely figure – and her eyes filled with tears at her maid’s thoughtfulness. Once dressed, she left Gustavo upstairs and walked down the stairs to the drawing room, preferring that option to facing her husband alone. As she reached the bottom, she eyed the front door, wishing with all her heart that she could open it and run now to Laurent. For there was no doubt in her mind that the child she carried inside her was his.

  Over dinner that night, Bel realised that little had changed here since she’d been away. Luiza was still cold and patronising, hardly offering a word of sympathy for her loss. Maurício was a little more forthcoming, but spent most of the evening discussing the financial intricacies of Wall Street and something called the Dow Jones Index with Gustavo, which had apparently seen a mass selling of stocks last Thursday.

  ‘I thank God I decided to sell the stocks I held last month. I hope your father did the same,’ said Maurício. ‘Luckily, I didn’t have many to begin with. Never did trust those Yankees. They’re trying to shore up the market at the moment, hoping it will have settled over the weekend, but I doubt we’ve seen the worst yet. Long term, however, if the market does crash, it will have a devastating effect on our coffee industry. The demand from America, which accounts for most of our produce, is sure to fall like a stone. Especially with the mass overproduction Brazil has seen in the past few years,’ he added gloomily.