The Devil on Her Tongue (71 page)

Again I tried to speak rationally. “I am her mother. She does not need to be in the orphanage.”

The woman’s expression was inscrutable. “Frankly, your presence is surprising. Your husband informed me that you were no longer in the child’s life.”

“Not in her life?”

“He informed us that you had left the child. For unsavoury reasons.”

“Unsavoury?” I couldn’t stop repeating her words.

“He said you had chosen another man over your marriage and child. After what she’d … experienced, he said, he felt this was the best place for her. He did not give the reason he felt incapable to raise her until she was ready to enter as a novice, and it was not my place to make this inquiry.”

I shook my head. “No, no, Madre. This is a complete fiction. No,” I said again. “I would never leave my daughter. He took her from me, Madre. He took her.” Although I spoke calmly, my heart leapt at the tiniest movement of the woman’s thick eyebrows.

“His was a most compelling case, senhora, and his sincerity touching. He wants the best for his child.”

I tried to breathe evenly and speak very slowly and carefully, knowing how important what I said next would be. “May I speak frankly, Madre? My husband is … he is unwell. He imagines things which are illusions. I’m afraid he suffers a malady, a form of brain fever. Did you not witness anything irrational in his behaviour?”

“He was very lucid,” she said. “Very convincing.”

“No,” I said firmly. “My husband has lost his way. I only ask that you consider that his words may have been affected by his inability to reason clearly.”

She studied me, her expression never altering. “You can understand my doubt over the best way to approach this situation, senhora. The child’s father came to me with one story and the child’s mother now comes with another.”

My blood thudded in my ears.

“As I have told you,” she said, “your husband presented a compelling story about what he described as your unacceptable behaviour. Have you some way to refute that story?”

I stood again, this time clutching my bag. “I am here, Madre. I did not leave my child. Bonifacio did not speak the truth about me no longer being in my daughter’s life.”

“Bonifacio?”

“Yes. My husband. The child’s father, Bonifacio.”

She expelled a long breath. “I’m further confused, senhora.” Her voice held the slightest edge of impatience. “The child was brought here by Senhor Abílio Perez, and the dowry paid by him.”

“I beg your pardon, but it was not Abílio Perez who brought her. My husband Bonifacio is about my height, with thinning dark hair threaded with grey. Is this not the man you refer to?”

She shook her head. “No. This man was quite tall, with thick dark hair. No grey.” She looked thoughtful. “He had a scar on his neck, just under his jaw.”

I tried to lick my lips, but had no saliva.

“Senhora, perhaps you should sit down. May I offer you some water? I can see that you’re very disturbed by all of this. Was the
man who brought your child here her father, or not?” When I didn’t answer, she said, “Senhora Rivaldo, surely you understand that with all this confusion I can’t release the girl to you.”

“Please, Madre. Tell me what to do, tell me …” As I heard my voice verging on hysteria, I stopped.

“I’m afraid I can only release her back to Senhor Perez. A father’s pledge of his child is not easily revoked.”

“But—”

She extended her hand towards the door. “That is all for today, Senhora Rivaldo. Perhaps the only thing for you to do now is speak to your husband.”

“Yes,” I said, fighting for composure. “I will bring her father back, and we can straighten this out. But first, Madre, please. Let me see my daughter.”

“It would not be prudent. Seeing you would only distress her. We have already begun her spiritual training. I’m certain you do not wish to confuse her.”

“But she has been taken from me.”

“By her father,” the Abbess said firmly.

I knew how she viewed me at this moment, and it was a time for caution. “I only want to assure myself that she is well. She must be frightened and bewildered, as she had no preparation for being removed from her home. Or from me. If I could talk to her for only a moment, Madre. Please.”

“As I told you, I don’t think it wise. But …” She glanced down, touching her rosary again, and that one word carried the strength to help me wait as she paused. “I do understand your concern,” she finally said, rising, and went to the door, opened it and spoke quietly.

The Sister who had brought me to her appeared. “Take Senhora Rivaldo to the south garden, Sister Matilde. There she can view her child. She is not to speak to her, and the child is not to see her.”

I stepped forward. “I’d only tell her—”

“I’m allowing you to see her,” the Abbess said. Her tone held a warning.

“Thank you,” I said then, knowing I must not do anything to tip the balance of this fragile moment.

C
andelária sat on a small bench at the far side of the rectangular courtyard, open to the sky and shadowed by high walls on all four sides. The rain had stopped, but the stone walls were weeping with damp. Surely the bench she sat on was also damp. Although the Abbess had called it the south garden, there were no trees, no flowers. It was a courtyard of grey stone: stone walls, stone floor, cold and surely echoing, should there be any sound.

I watched Candelária through a grille. Her head was down. She wore brown boots and a brown tunic over a white blouse. I had never seen her so still, so melancholy. I had never dressed her in brown. “Why is she all alone?” I asked. “Why isn’t she with other girls?” Sister Matilde put her finger to her lips. “Until she has been closely observed to make sure she will not influence the others negatively, she remains on her own for certain periods of each day. It is this way for all of the new girls. These intervals give her time to consider her spiritual learnings, as well as to grow used to silence.”

“Negatively influence the others? She’s not even five years old,” I said angrily. I leaned forward to call Candelária’s name, to have her come to the grille so that I could comfort her, and tell her that whatever lies her father—or Abílio Perez—had told her about me were not true. That I did not wish this for her, and that I was here to take her away. That I would never let her go.

Sister Matilde put her hand on my arm and shook her head. “I only want to bring her comfort,” I said. “To let her know her mother is here.”

“You heard the Abbess. You are not to speak to her. You must believe that the child’s Heavenly Father will bring her all the comfort she needs,” she whispered, and then pulled on my arm with surprising strength. I was wrenched from the grille, and the sight of my child. “You can see she is well cared for. You may take solace from that,” Sister Matilde said.

I stared at her in disbelief. Could she truly believe that any mother would be consoled at the sight of her child so alone and bereft? Then she led me back through the long, confusing passageways to the door. I emerged into a weak sun at the front of the convent.

Cristiano came to me. “She’s not here?”

“Yes,” I said, and he smiled with relief, saying, “Thanks to God.”

“They won’t let me take her yet. Not yet,” I repeated, and we went towards the waiting carriage, the two white horses shaking their heads to dispel the flies that had returned with the sun.

Cristiano held my arm as I climbed in. “Where will we go now?”

“Take us to Santa Maria de Belém,” I told the driver, giving him the name of the street I knew so well after corresponding with Beatriz these last five years. “And hurry,” I urged him, as if the next hour might make a difference in Candelária’s life.

As the horses trotted along the main
avenida
that ran beside the waterfront of Santa Maria de Belém, I wondered, over and over, what Abílio had to do with this. How had Candelária come into his life, and why had he taken her to the convent?

“Diamantina?” Cristiano said, and I turned to him. “You’re whispering. What are you saying?”

I shook my head. “Everything is so confusing. I don’t … I don’t understand what has happened.”

“To Candelária?”

“Everything. It’s everything,” I said.

The driver stopped at last outside a huge and elegant two-storey structure of white stone, gleaming in the sun. It was surrounded with formal gardens shaded by tall trees. There was a coach house on one
side, and through its open doors I saw carriages, chaises and carts.

We climbed down and I started towards the pathway.

“Diamantina,” Cristiano called. “You must pay the driver again.”

I fumbled for more réis and put them into the driver’s hand. Cristiano carried our cases as we walked along the pathway through flower beds and small fruit trees, now dropping their leaves in the autumn air. At the grand door I pulled the bell cord.

A black-skinned man in a fine set of rich brown velvet breeches and jacket, the wide ribbons of his white shirt tied in an elaborate bow at his neck, opened the door to us. He had a swollen eye and badly bruised cheekbone. I gave my name. He looked surprised, and then frowned. “Senhora Rivaldo?” he repeated, and I nodded.

“I am a good friend of Dona Beatriz,” I said.

He glanced at Cristiano and the travel cases he carried, and then ushered us into a wide receiving hall with a two-storey ceiling. The walls were lined with silk hangings and huge canvases of countryside and nautical scenes. The servant indicated satin-covered chairs, but I was too agitated to sit, and Cristiano stood by my side, our bags at his feet.

The servant bowed his head and disappeared down a long hallway. In a moment there was the sound of a door slamming once, twice, and then Beatriz hurried into the receiving hall.

“Diamantina!” she said, delighted surprise on her face. “When Samuel gave your name, I couldn’t believe it. Hello, Cristiano. You’re so grown up! But Diamantina, why didn’t you write that you were coming to Lisboa? And you didn’t bring Candelária? She and Leandro could have— Diamantina? What is it?” she asked as I clutched her hands.

“You haven’t seen Candelária?” I asked. “Or Bonifacio?”

Her smile faded. “What?”

“Abílio put Candelária into a convent. He has to get her out for me.”

“Abílio? What are you talking about, Diamantina? You’re trembling. Come with me.” She looked at the servant, who had silently reappeared and now stood to one side. “Samuel, take Cristiano into the small receiving room and give him something to drink.”

She led me into a huge, bright salon. I was vaguely aware of crowded excess, decorative pieces of porcelain and lacquer and ivory,
chairs and chaises upholstered in damask and silk. Tall glass doors opened to sculpted greenery. “Sit down,” she said, lightly pressing on my shoulders until I sat on one of the chairs.

She went to a high side table along one wall and poured two small glasses of ruby cordial. As she brought one to me, I pulled off my gloves. She sat down in a matching chair across from me. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“I was away from Funchal when Bonifacio took Candelária,” I said, holding my glass. Bright droplets bloomed on my skirt; I couldn’t hold the glass still, and set it on a small table beside me. “He took her, Dona Beatriz, to the orphanage of Convento Teresa de Jesus in Alcántara. I’ve seen her there. I wasn’t allowed to speak to her. She doesn’t know what’s happened to her. He took her,” I repeated.

Dona Beatriz put down her own glass. “Why did Bonifacio take her from you?”

“It’s too long a story. He’s … he’s gone mad. I do believe he’s mad. That’s the only reason I can give right now. But it’s Abílio I need.” When she shook her head, frowning in consternation, I said, “Abílio took her to the convent. That’s what the Abbess told me: that it was Abílio, not Bonifacio, who took her there and paid her dowry to be admitted. I don’t know how it came to be, or why. And the Abbess will relinquish Candelária only to him. To Abílio.”

“Nothing about this makes sense, Diamantina. When did this happen?”

“In the last two weeks—I can’t be sure of the exact day.”

“I’ve been in Estoril with my aunt for the summer. I waited until the weather here cooled to return. I came home only two days ago.” She went to the door, calling for Samuel.

Although not young, Samuel was tall and had a straight bearing, with a gentle face and a shock of tightly curled white hair. “Samuel. Do you know anything about a child being here while I was away? A girl, a little younger than Leandro?”

He didn’t speak, although his eyes widened just the slightest.

“Samuel. Answer me.”

“Yes, Dona Beatriz,” he finally said. “There was a little girl.” He spoke slowly, his voice deep and refined. I stood.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dona Beatriz demanded.

“Dom Abílio … he told me I wasn’t to speak of it.”

Dom Abílio. My lips tightened. So Abílio demanded that he be addressed as though born of nobility.

“I’m asking you to tell me what happened, Samuel,” Dona Beatriz said.

He clasped his hands. “Father Bonifacio brought the girl here, and when—”