The Vineyard

by Maria Duenas

  “Reverend Mother Constanza is waiting for you at the doorway to the garden behind the house.”

  As soon as they met at the spot indicated, the two of them began to walk quickly along together. Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, Mauro calculated she was more or less the same height as Soledad, but beneath her habit and wimple it was impossible for him to tell if there were any other similarities between them.

  “I beg you to forgive my rude manner, Reverend Mother, but unfortunately the situation is extremely urgent.”

  Contrary to Sol’s habitual readiness to talk, the former Inés Montalvo did not seem inclined to say a word to the irreverent miner. Even so, he thought it best to explain his own role in the matter. The fact that she said nothing did not necessarily mean she was not willing to listen.

  “Allow me to introduce myself as the new owner of your family’s properties. To cut a long story short, your cousin, Luis Montalvo, at his death in Cuba, bequeathed them to your other cousin, Gustavo, who has lived on that island for many years. And they passed from Gustavo to me.”

  He left out the details of exactly how this change of ownership had occurred. In fact, faced with the nun’s stubborn silence, he decided to say nothing more as they advanced through the night down dark streets still filled with puddles, their capes billowing as they strode along. When they finally reached the front entrance to the Claydon residence, she was the one who finally relieved the tension with an order.

  “I wish to see the sick person on my own. Kindly inform anyone concerned of this.”

  Mauro Larrea went on into the house in search of Soledad and the doctor. Mother Constanza stood waiting sternly in the darkness on the compass rose in the vestibule.

  “She refuses to see you both,” he told Soledad and Manuel straight out. “But she agreed: she’ll take him in.”

  Bewilderment was painted on their faces in gloomy shades. Then two tears slid down Soledad’s cheeks, enough to break Mauro’s heart. He turned to look at the doctor but could not see his face. Ysasi preferred to turn his back on him and what he had just heard.

  Despite this, they obeyed the instructions. They kept their mouths closed and made sure all the doors were shut. Palmer, the butler, was the only person to accompany the nun to Edward’s bedroom.

  She spent three-quarters of an hour on her own with the wine merchant, by the light from a single candle. Nobody knew if they talked or communicated in some other way. Perhaps Edward Claydon did not come around from sleep or madness for even a moment. Or possibly he did, and in this dark figure who appeared at his bedside in the middle of the night and knelt down to weep and pray, the tormented mind of the elderly Englishman fleetingly glimpsed the beautiful, slender-waisted young girl with long chestnut plaits that Inés Montalvo had once been, before she had shaved her head and withdrawn from the world. Back in the days when the mansion on Calle de la Tornería was full of friends, laughter, and hopes for the future that were to shrivel and disappear like paper burnt in a flame.

  Meanwhile, in the library, as the fire died in the hearth and none of them thought to replenish it, each struggled with his own phantoms as best he could. When at last they saw the imposing figure of Mother Constanza in the doorway, they rose to their feet as one.

  “In the name of our Lord and for the good of his soul, I agree to lodge him in a cell in our convent. We must leave at once; we need to have him installed before lauds.”

  Neither Soledad nor the doctor could find a word to say. They had both been struck dumb at the sight of this solemn, distant figure in her black habit. At first neither of them could mentally connect the beloved little girl of their memories and this daunting nun who was gazing at them with reddened, sorrowful eyes from beneath her forbidding wimple.

  Her first decision was that no one was to accompany them.

  “We are going to the house of God, not to an inn.”

  Her harsh tone immediately dampened any impulse the others might have had to try to approach her.

  Mauro Larrea watched the three of them from a discreet position in the most dimly lit corner of the library, smoking his cigar as he leaned against an alabaster pedestal. When finally he was able to make out the nun’s features in the half-light, it was hard for him to make any comparison between the two sisters: it was almost impossible to separate their features from everything that enveloped them. Soledad was framed by her lustrous head of hair, drawn up in a tight chignon, and by the sumptuous midnight-blue ball gown she was still wearing, which left her shoulders, neckline, collarbones, arms, and back bare: tempting areas of firm flesh and seductive skin. Around Inés, by contrast, there were only yards of rough black wool and a few patches of white cloth covering her throat and forehead. On the one hand, all the care and attention of a woman of the world; on the other, the indelible marks of years of reclusion and meditation. This was all that he was able to gather, because the encounter lasted barely a minute.

  Soledad was unable to retrain herself.

  “Inés, I beg you, wait: Let’s talk for a moment at least . . .”

  Unbending, the nun turned on her heel and walked away.

  The house then came to life as preparations were made. Now that he had succeeded in his task of convincing Mother Constanza, Mauro Larrea remained on the sidelines, standing swathed in the smoke from his cigar while the others quickly resolved all the essential practical matters. He felt like an intruder in these intimate comings and goings, the instructions and silences of this foreign clan, and yet he knew he could not leave. There were still important questions to be answered.

  At length, the sounds of horses and the wheels of the family coach could be heard rending the silence of the deserted square. Shortly afterward, Soledad and Manuel came back into the library. The weight of desolation hung heavily on them. Sol could barely hold back her tears, and raised her clenched hand to her mouth in an attempt to recover her composure. The doctor looked as tense and tormented as a starving wolf on a windy, dust-filled night.

  “We have to decide what to do about the vice-consul.”

  Mauro Larrea’s words sounded stern and tactless—insolent, even—given the delicate situation the other two found themselves in. But they produced the desired effect: it helped bring them back to reality, to finish swallowing the bitter taste that had stuck in their throats at seeing Soledad’s vulnerable husband and Manuel’s friend being handed over in the early hours to the care of a severe servant of the Church, someone in whom they had been unable to glimpse even the slightest sign of the young girl who had once been so close to them.

  “If Claydon’s son is determined to return to Jerez, he’s bound to be here soon,” Mauro added. “Let’s say he gets here by ten o’clock and then spends an hour desperately trying to find someone who half understands what he’s saying, and tells him who his compatriot the vice-consul is, where he lives, and makes his way there. By then it will be eleven or half past eleven at most. So that is all the time we have.”

  “I’ll have talked to the vice-consul by then. Manuel has told me who he is: Charles Peter Gordon, a Scotsman who lives in Plaza del Mercado. He’s a member of the Gordon clan and must have known my family. He might even have been a friend of my grandfather or my father . . .”

  “I’ve also told you that it’s not a good idea.”

  Manuel Ysasi interrupted her with this note of caution, but Sol paid no heed.

  “I’ll go early and explain everything to him. I’ll tell him Edward is in Seville or . . . or in Madrid, or for all I know that he’s gone to the spa at Gigonza. Or, better still, that he had to go back to London on urgent business. I’ll warn him what to expect from Alan and trust that he’ll have more faith in me than in him.”

  “Excusatio non petita, accusatio manifiesta, I insist,” the doctor said. “It makes no sense to defend yourself from something no one has yet accused you of. I think it’s unwise, Sol.”
>
  Like a beautiful animal at bay, she turned her eyes to Mauro. Help me; don’t let me be caught, she was pleading silently. Yet again.

  “I’m sorry, Soledad, but I think it’s time to put a stop to this nonsense.”

  Don’t betray me, Mauro. Not you.

  The look she gave him burnt deep inside like a pair of the red-hot pincers that his grandfather had taught him to use in the old smithy where he grew up. Yet he had to counter this somehow, and to do so he was left with only one weapon: to appear as cold as ice.

  “The doctor is right.”

  The appearance of Palmer distracted their attention. Mauro was infinitely relieved when Soledad’s eyes ceased desperately begging him for help. Coward, he reproached himself.

  She stood up suddenly and rushed over to the butler, questioning him in English. Palmer gave brief replies, and although he remained as phlegmatic as ever, his exhaustion was plain to see. Everything is fine. The master arrived safely and is now within the convent walls. Still anguished, Sol told him in an almost unintelligible whisper that he could go. To wish him good night at this ungodly hour would have seemed like a joke in poor taste.

  “Come to my house early in the morning, Mauro, to see how Gustavo’s wife has fared overnight. I’ll leave at first light to find Edward’s son before she gets up,” Ysasi concluded. “I’ll try to explain the truth to him, and we’ll see what he decides to do. I would only ask you, for your own good, to stay out of this: things are poisonous enough as it is. And now I believe it’s time for all of us to try to get some rest. Let’s see if sleep can bring a little calm to our poor minds.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  When Mauro Larrea emerged into Plaza del Cabildo Viejo, another gray day was dawning. The nearby doorways were just starting to open, and the first morning smells were wafting from the kitchens. A few early risers were already in the streets: a milkman with his old mule loaded down with clay pitchers; a priest in his cassock, biretta, and cape on his way to first Mass; young domestic maids, little more than girls, heading sleepy-eyed for the wealthy mansions to start their day’s toil. Almost all of them turned to look at him: it was an uncommon sight to see such a man in evening dress at the hour when the cocks had grown tired of crowing and the city was beginning to wake up. He quickened his step in response, and because urgency was snapping at his heels.

  Upon reaching his house, he washed up with cold water out in the yard and proceeded to shave. After smoothing down his hair, unkempt from the intense, emotion-filled night, he donned his town clothes: twill trousers, spotless white shirt with an impeccably tied cravat, a nut-colored frock coat. By the time he came down, there was a heavenly smell wafting from the kitchen.

  “As soon as I arrived I realized the master had got up early,” said Angustias by way of a greeting. “So I’ve prepared breakfast in case you have to leave in a hurry.”

  He was on the point of seizing her face in his hands and bestowing a kiss on her dark brow, weathered by the sun in the fields, the passage of the years, and her sorrows. Instead, all he said was: “God bless you, woman.” He was as hungry as a wolf, but had not even stopped to think he would do well to line his stomach before he set out again.

  “I’ll bring it up straightaway, Don Mauro.”

  “By no means.”

  He ate in the kitchen, hardly bothering to sit down, devouring three fried eggs with bacon, several generous slices of still-warm bread, and two huge bowls of milk with a splash of coffee. His mouth still half-full, he grunted a farewell and started off again without even replying to her inquiry as to whether he would be back at lunchtime.

  I only hope so, he thought as he crossed the court. If only by then everything had been settled, the doctor had come to an arrangement with Claydon’s son, and everything had returned to some semblance of normality. Perhaps not, he reflected. Nothing would return to normal in his life, because it had never been normal since he arrived in Jerez. Not since Soledad Montalvo had crossed his path, not since he had agreed to enter her world, each of them with his own motives. She, out of the demands of necessity, and he . . . He preferred not to label his feelings: What good would it do? He decided to shake off these thoughts in the same way as half an hour earlier he had shaken off the cold water to dry himself: without thinking about it, almost brusquely. Better for him to concentrate on matters at hand; the morning was advancing rapidly and there were urgent questions to resolve.

  The door to the house on Calle Francos was ajar. So, too, was the wrought-iron gate separating the entrance from the courtyard. Mauro stepped cautiously inside. As he did so, he heard it. A commotion, noises, shouting. A sharp cry, then further confused screams.

  He ran up the steps three at a time, then strode along the gallery. It was a chaotic but eloquent scene. Two disheveled females screaming at each other. Neither of them saw him coming: it was his loud voice that made them both turn their heads toward him.

  The old woman, Sagrario, took a step backward, revealing the slave, Trinidad, bathed in tears. Panic and astonishment mingled in their faces when they saw him approach.

  Behind them was an open door. The door to Carola Gorostiza’s room, wide-open.

  “Don Mauro, it wasn’t me—” the servant began.

  He cut her short.

  “Where is she?”

  Their two mouths seemed to be saying something, but neither of them dared utter it out loud.

  “Where is she?” Although he tried not to sound too harsh, he could not help it.

  At length the old servant spoke again, in a frightened whisper.

  “We don’t know.”

  “What about my servant?”

  He turned to the slave.

  “Where has your mistress gone, girl?” he growled.

  She was still crying, her hair in disarray and her arms flailing. But she did not reply. Seizing her by the shoulders, he repeated the question increasingly harshly until she was more terrified than distressed.

  “I don’t know, sir. How would I know that?”

  Stay calm, brother, he told himself. You need to know what happened and you’re not going to get anywhere by scaring this poor child and the old woman. Think of your own children and calm down. He gulped in what seemed like all the air in the entire corridor, then breathed it all out once more. The most important thing, he reminded himself, was that Carola Gorostiza had escaped. And that, if Santos Huesos had not managed to find her yet, most likely by now she was roaming the streets, creating even more problems for him.

  “Let’s see if we can all cool down so that I can figure out what happened.”

  The two heads nodded respectfully.

  “Trinidad, please calm down. Nothing is going to happen. We’ll find her, and in a few days’ time the two of you will be heading back to Havana, going home. And in four or five weeks you’ll be strolling around Plaza Vieja again. But first you have to help me, all right?”

  Her only reply was a jumble of unintelligible sounds.

  “I don’t understand you, my girl.”

  She was still sobbing and gasping for breath, which made it impossible for him to make out her words. In the end it was the old servant Sagrario who explained.

  “She doesn’t want to go back with her mistress, Don Mauro. She says she won’t be dragged back to Cuba with her. That what she wants is to stay here with Santos Huesos.”

  A thought flashed through Mauro’s mind. Santos Huesos, you rogue, what have you been putting into this poor creature’s head?

  “We can discuss that all in good time,” he said, making a supreme effort not to lose his temper again. “But now I need to know exactly what happened. When and how she managed to get out of the room, what she took with her, if anyone has the remotest idea of where she could have gone.”

  The old maidservant limped forward.

  “This is how it was, sir. Don Manuel left
at first light without even sleeping in his bed; he must have had some medical emergency. The fact is that when I got up I went straight to the kitchen and then stepped out to get some coals for the fire. When I came back, I saw the street door was open, but I thought that the doctor must have been in such haste he didn’t close it properly. So then I made breakfast for our guest, but when I went to take it up to her, I saw she had flown away like a bird.”

  “And you, Trinidad, where were you while all this was going on?”

  Her sobs, which by now had abated to some extent, returned with renewed force.

  “Where were you, Trinidad?” he repeated.

  None of them had realized that Santos Huesos, as stealthy as ever, had come back and was walking along the corridor toward them. When he reached the far end, he was the one who answered.

  “In the room next door, patrón,” he said, almost out of breath.

  And Trinidad finally said something comprehensible: “With him, in bed.”

  Scandalized at hearing that she had been in the room with Santos Huesos, the old woman crossed herself. Mauro Larrea’s furious glance conveyed everything he would have said to his servant if he had been able to freely unburden himself. God’s blood, you villain, you two spent the night rolling around between the sheets like mad things while that Gorostiza woman escaped at the worst possible moment.

  “At midnight I took the key to my mistress’s bedroom from his pocket and when he wasn’t looking I opened the bedroom door,” Trinidad blurted out. “Then I put it back without him noticing. As soon as she heard the doctor leave this morning, she waited awhile and then went after him.”

  Santos Huesos’s unexpected arrival appeared to have calmed her. Having the man with whom she had shared her body, whispers, and secrets had renewed her courage.

  “Don’t blame him, sir, because I’m the only guilty one.”

  Tears came into her eyes again, but this time they were different.