The Devil on Her Tongue (76 page)

I sat across from her and leaned close. “You suspected Abílio, Dona Beatriz?”

She frowned. “Suspected what? I knew I caused my father distress marrying Abílio against his wishes. Not only because my father knew Abílio wouldn’t be a good husband to me, but because he didn’t want to take him into the business. I put so much strain on him so soon after the deaths of my mother and sister. Surely that contributed to his untimely death.”

“Ah,” I said, sitting back.

“What do you mean about suspecting Abílio?”

I hesitated, deliberating whether to tell her the secret I’d carried, and then said, for what harm could it do now, “He poisoned your father with fleabane oil, the fleabane I used to help you after Leandro’s birth.”

She sat straighter. “What? Are you certain?”

“Yes. As soon as I heard of your father’s symptoms, I accused Abílio. He didn’t deny it, except to say he didn’t wish to kill your father, only incapacitate him so that he had more control of the business.”

“But … why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you speak of this before? I’ve known you for over five years. Why haven’t you told me?” She was wringing her hands.

“Dona Beatriz, I had no real proof. It was only my word against Abílio’s. I was a stranger to the quinta and all those on it—including you—at that time. I thought if I spoke of my suspicions, it might only bring you more pain, and … and then what? You might have completely disbelieved me, but I would have planted a seed of doubt in your mind that caused you consternation every time you looked at your husband, and thought of—”

“Enough!” she said loudly, and stared at me, her hands still now. “I want to hate you, Diamantina, but I can’t.” Her voice lowered. “We have both suffered because of Abílio’s twisted desires.” After a moment of silence she said, “All right. This plan of his to sell my business: tell me what you know.”

“The buyer is the wine merchant Plácido Fernandez Lajes. I found him, through Henry, in Lisboa the night before the earthquake. He thinks he’s bought the business and the quinta and this house. I believe it’s done. He said the papers were signed, so he surely paid Abílio.”

“What papers?”

“I don’t know. Abílio must have created false documents, something that made it appear he was outright owner of all your father’s holdings.” I paused. “You still have the original deed?”

“Of course.”

“There’s something else. Senhor Lajes told me that a woman was present at the signing of the papers, putting her signature to them. Your signature. He called her Dona Beatriz, and thought she was Abílio’s wife.”

“Ah—Sofia.” A sound, perhaps an attempt at a laugh, came from Dona Beatriz’s throat. “Abílio will do anything to have his way, as we have discussed. Sofia is the other life in Lisboa. He bought her a house, and he lives with her when he’s there. I’ve known about her for the last few years.”

“I’m sorry, Dona Beatriz.”

“At least they have no children. That would further complicate the already sordid situation. What will happen now, Diamantina?”

We sat in silence for a long moment. I took her hand and held it. “I will do whatever I can to help you, Dona Beatriz. Please accept my apology for what happened with Abílio.” She didn’t speak, but also didn’t pull her hand from mine. “At first, when I knew I carried Abílio’s child, I wanted rid of … of her.” Loving Candelária from my soul, it was difficult to speak of that bleak time. “And yet you can see that she’s what I live for, as Leandro is for you.”

She shivered suddenly, as though a spirit had passed by, and took her hand from mine.

“It could be that neither Abílio nor Senhor Lajes survived the earthquake,” I said. “All of Abílio’s planning and scheming may not matter at all. You may not need my help with anything.”

“And if Lajes lives?”

“If he meets you and sees you are Abílio’s lawful wife, and you show him the deed, he could have it confirmed. I’m sure officials studying it would attest to its truth, and could also determine that the papers Abílio created—and the other woman’s signature—were forgeries.”

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.

D
ona 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?