Conquistadora (56 page)

Ana knew Eugenio and Leonor were liberals, so it was to be expected that Miguel would come under the influence of abolitionists like Betances, the person under scrutiny Mr. Worthy was alluding to. Rather than going to live with artists, bohemians, and anarchists in Europe, he should have come to Hacienda los Gemelos. Here he could witness the other side of slavery. She’d show him how well she cared for her people, how they were housed, clothed, and fed, given important work, and provided for in every respect. The living conditions of
libertos
and freed slaves, like the ones she saw in San Juan, hadn’t improved in the eighteen years she’d lived in the
campo
. In fact, from all she’d read, they were much worse, with
libertos
and freed slaves settling in ever larger shantytowns around cities where they could find work. Her people ate well, dressed well, were housed better than
libertos
or
gente libre
. Her workers, she believed, were better off under the protection and guidance of good masters like herself and Severo. She brushed aside that they were locked in barracks at night, that they worked to exhaustion, that they could be whipped, that family members could be sold away from one another.

She filed Miguel’s letter in the folio where she kept his correspondence, planning to answer it later. In the middle of her desk were stacks of business letters to write, bills to pay, reports to be filed with the
cabildo
and customs. The paperwork for the business was more onerous every day, especially the correspondence to and from
the United States, which was in English. She answered queries and concerns in Spanish, then sent the drafts to Mr. Worthy, where the correspondence was translated and posted. It took longer to get anything done, as the civil war in
el norte
seemed to have no end and communication was harder.

Ana rested her head on her hands. Lately she’d felt tired. Conciencia had formulated strengthening teas, and Paula and Gloria offered her broths made from organ meats to increase her strength, but nothing helped.

“Some cool tea for you,
señora
,” Conciencia interrupted Ana’s musings. “Mint and lavender to soothe your nerves.”

“Do I seem nervous to you?”

“You do,
señora
,” Conciencia said, not at all intimidated. “You’ll have news for
el patrón
.”

“What news?”

“You’ve been so weak,
señora
, and irritable.”

Ana frowned. “No impudence.”

“
Disculpe, señora
. I meant no offense.”

“What am I to tell
el patrón
?”

“I should’ve noticed sooner,” Conciencia said. “Your moods, your fatigue, the thickness around your waist.”

“No. Don’t say it.”

“
Sí, señora
, you’re pregnant. A boy.”

Years of herbs and douches had come to this, a child born around her thirty-eighth birthday. It was indecent.

When she saw Ana’s horrified expression, Conciencia blamed herself.

“A woman’s body wants to conceive,” she explained. “I should have changed the balance of the herbs as you entered
la edad crítica
.”

That she was at a crucial stage was as unexpected as her pregnancy. Well versed in animal husbandry, she nevertheless hadn’t transferred that knowledge to the processes in her own body. With no women of her class to consult about intimate matters, she ignored them, as if the natural laws that troubled other females didn’t apply to her.

Ana sent Conciencia away and sat in her study, trying to make sense of the latest crisis. Whether through neglect, or
la edad crítica
, or the female’s need to conceive, everything would now change.

Over the last eighteen years she and Severo had built Hacienda los Gemelos, but half of its canebrakes, pastures, and forests belonged to Severo Fuentes. She knew that, as with her conquistador ancestors, much of his wealth went to Spain. On the other hand, he’d also assured her that he had no intention of ever going back. She guessed that he was a more important man in Boca de Gato by his absence and largesse than if he walked among them, in their eyes still the cobbler’s son in fancier clothes.

He appeared to be content to be whom he’d set out to be so many years ago: a man of fame and fortune. Married to her, an illustrious
española
, he was also the stepfather of a Spanish military hero’s grandson. By all accounts he’d risen in a way impossible to do on the Peninsula. The only thing he hadn’t achieved was producing a legitimate son to carry his name into the future. The name Fuentes was officially linked only to the slaves he owned.

Now he’d have an
hijo de sangre pura
. If the boy also inherited his father’s ability and intelligence, it might be this child, not Miguel, who’d continue their work and carry their names into generations.

Ana hadn’t thought about her father in years. What would the arrogant don Gustavo think if his illustrious line devolved into this: the son of his unwanted daughter and the son of a village cobbler?

Ana would be watching the sun go down, as usual, from her rocker. Conciencia was fanning her, but as soon as she heard his step, she disappeared into the house.

“Buenas tardes, mi reina.”

There was a sadness about her that wasn’t there before. Teo brought the sherry, and they waited until they were alone.

“I’m pregnant, Severo,” she said with no preamble.

He wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “I beg your pardon?”

“Pregnant.”

He knelt at her feet and looked into her face. She was doing everything possible to avoid his gaze.

“Ana, is it true? You’re carrying my child?” He placed his hand over her belly, which through the layers of cloth felt no different today than two days ago, two weeks ago, two years.

“I know this news makes you happy.”

“Of course.”

“It complicates everything!”

He sought her eyes and she didn’t look away.

“You’re worried about two heirs fighting over our inheritance.”

“It’s inevitable.”

Hard, hard, hard Ana, he thought. Even the poorest, most miserable
campesina
allowed herself a moment of joy upon learning she was pregnant, but not Ana.

“We’ve faced greater complications,” he said.

“I’m too old!”

He pulled her off the rocker into his arms. “No,
mi cielo
, you’re not. You’re just the right age. Our early years were so difficult. You were wise to send Miguel away to ensure his survival. But our child will grow up in our beautiful home and will have the best of everything. We’ll be able to enjoy being parents. Do you not see that,
mi amor
?”

She held on to him as if she’d fall if he let her go. He kissed her hair, waited for her to agree that, yes, a baby at this stage in their lives was a gift. But she just buried her face in his chest. Ana might never be the mother their son deserved, but with this child, he’d be the father he’d never been.

“Let me see,” he said, walking her inside the house.

“See what?”

“Where the baby is growing. Show me.”

“There’s nothing to see,” she said, horrified and aroused at the same time. “It all happens inside.”

He picked her up and carried her through the
sala
, past the study and the dining room where Teo and Gloria were setting up for supper, beyond the guest rooms, to their suite at the end of the hall.

“Set me down,” she laughed loud enough for him to hear but not so loud that the servants would. But she didn’t fight him as he carried her into the room and placed her on the bed. She didn’t complain as he unbuttoned her dress, unlaced her camisole and
naguas
, untied the muslin pantalets, removed her shoes, and unrolled her stockings until she was naked.

She was angular, with small rounded breasts and pointed nipples. He was so moved by the sight of her, bare and vulnerable against the white sheets, that he couldn’t speak. Severo Fuentes kissed the hollow between her breasts, then pressed his ear to her chest and listened
to the heart that beat within, the hard heart their child would have to conquer.

Ana didn’t want to let her condition change her routines, but her body wouldn’t ignore that almost nineteen years had passed since her last pregnancy. With Miguel she’d been strong and vigorous, resolved to work as hard as the men she’d lured to Puerto Rico. She hardly remembered being pregnant. This time, aches she’d never experienced disturbed her sleep and forced her to move more slowly than she liked. It was difficult to concentrate on the paperwork that consumed most of her mornings, and she lacked the stamina to manage her day-to-day activities.

“Conciencia,” Ana said one night as the girl was helping her get ready for bed. “Why didn’t the fire show me there would be another child?”

“No le sé decir, señora.”

“Because you didn’t know, or because you didn’t want to tell me?”

Conciencia finished braiding Ana’s hair and deftly tied ribbons into bows at the ends. “When I see something, I tell you,
señora
, but the fire never shows what people want to know. It shows what they need to know.”

“I need to know everything about Hacienda los Gemelos, about
el patrón
, about the future of this baby.”

“Maybe,
señora
, they don’t need as much of your attention right now.”

“Is that what you think?”

“
Señora
, it’s not my place to advise you about these things. I can only tell you what I see, and you decide.”

“I’m asking for your opinion.”

“Ay, señora.”
Conciencia thought a moment, seemed about to say something, changed her mind, then spoke. “You need to pray for your other son, the one across the ocean.”

“You’re humoring me, Conciencia.”

“No! You asked for my opinion, just like everyone who comes to me. But my answer doesn’t satisfy you.”

“Because it disturbs me”—Ana climbed into bed—“that slaves and
campesinos
get more from their consultations with you than I do.”

“I’m very sorry about that,
señora.
”

“Why do you think that is?”

Conciencia assumed unexpected power when seen in lamplight through the haze of mosquito netting. Ana had the impression that what separated them was not sheer fabric but shifting ripples of smoke. Leaning to one side, her too-close eyes peering into Ana, Conciencia seemed to be reading her. Although they’d been looking at each other, Ana was startled when Conciencia spoke.

“Slaves and
campesinos
need me more,
señora
. But they ask for less.”

The statement was insolent and deserved a reprimand, but rather than affronted, Ana felt ashamed. Conciencia’s crooked figure, the hump that became more pronounced as she grew older, was a rebuke. “You can go,” she said, and the girl backed away as if Ana were a potentate on a jeweled throne.

Conciencia was the only slave Ana owned. She’d claimed her, raised her as if she were a daughter, not a servant, but Conciencia was neither of those things. Ana had assumed that the baby who appeared on her door the day Miguel was taken to San Juan belonged to her, not like a child belongs to a mother but like an object to be used. Conciencia had not been, in her mind, a distinct being with her own will and intelligence. She’d been her shadow, her maid, her assistant, her prescient, if unreliable, companion. Now Ana saw a young woman, gifted beyond her age and experience, dependent on her, yes, but old enough and smart enough to pass judgment on her behavior and actions.

Ana recalled herself at that age, seeing her parents through her own resentment and prejudices, implacable, unwilling, unable to forgive them for real or imaginary transgressions. Conciencia, named so that she’d remind Ana of the compromises in her life, was becoming the conscience Ana had imagined she would be. But now Ana didn’t want to examine her scruples. No, it was too late; a conscience at this stage in her life was too great a burden.

On the early morning of April 7, 1864, after a twelve-hour labor, Ana awoke to the hush of women. She kept her eyes closed, mentally surveying the soreness in her body. She had a vague memory of Conciencia placing the squirming, slippery infant on her throbbing
belly, and of Paula wiping the child clean once Conciencia cut and tied the umbilical cord.

“A son,
señora.
”

Gloria helped Paula wash and swaddle the baby, and then the old woman brought him to Ana and pressed his face to her chest. Paula pinched Ana’s nipple and guided the baby’s mouth to it. Ana lay back and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of his hungry mouth and the release that came as the milk dropped.

She must have fallen asleep because, next thing, Severo was kissing her on the forehead, the baby in his arms.

“He’ll be named after your great ancestor,” he said, “to honor you.”

He presented the swaddled child as if the infant were another of the packages with rare goods he brought her from time to time. The next moment, Paula was at her side, squeezing her nipple into the baby’s mouth, and Ana had the sensation that everything she was or would ever be was flowing through her breast into her child’s body. Again she fell asleep as he nursed.

“You’re awake,
mi señora.
”

“
Sí
, Conciencia.” Ana opened her eyes to daylight. The shutters were half closed to keep the room shadowed and cool.

“
El niño
needs to suck again.” Conciencia helped Ana to sit. Behind her, Paula held the baby, her wrinkled face alight with the miracle of an infant in her arms.

“I just fed him,” Ana said.

“No,
mi señora
, that was some hours ago. You’ve been sleeping.”

Again his hot mouth released the milk, but this time, Ana didn’t sleep. She looked at her son.

Around the bed the women of her house—Conciencia, Paula, and Gloria—were smiling proudly, as if Ana were the first mother and he the first child ever born and nursed.

“Can he see me?” she asked Conciencia.

“He knows you’re his mother,” she said.