The Devil on Her Tongue (20 page)

I carefully tore a blank page from the back of one of my books. I sharpened a quill and mixed some charcoal with water, and I wrote.

I folded the page. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the name of the Funchal wine merchant Senhor Rivaldo had written in the letter I threw away, but couldn’t.

I went to Nossa Senhora da Piedade and waited impatiently for Father da Chagos to come to the door. He drew back at my appearance, but I ignored his expression and held out the tightly folded paper. “It’s for Senhor Rivaldo in Funchal,” I told him.

He stared at my badly stitched eyebrow, then at the paper. He took it and started to unfold it.

“Don’t,” I said, but he had already scanned the few lines.

And then he nodded, and looked … what did he look? Was it pleased?

I stared at him. “Do you know what Senhor Rivaldo wrote in the letter you delivered to me?” I asked.

“I do.”

“Why did he speak to me about caring for a child? There must be any number of women—women who live close by, and not on another island, like me—he could hire.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, as if debating with himself. “I suggested to him he should consider you.”

I stared at him. “You suggested it?”

“I want you gone from Porto Santo, Diamantina, although I didn’t tell him why.” He didn’t have the courtesy to look even slightly apologetic. “I suggested it would be good for him and you.”

Heat and anger pulsed in my temples. “I’m that much of an embarrassment to your parish that you would ask a stranger to offer me a position?”

He tilted his head. “He’s not a stranger to me.”

“Give me the letter.” I reached for it. “I refuse to be pushed away from my home on
your
whim, Father.”

He held the paper out of my reach. “How do you imagine you will feed and clothe yourself? I’ve heard Rooi will not take you back. No one will give you any work, nor will you receive any charity. It seems you’ve already had your first taste of what lies in store for you.” He lifted his chin at my face, looking at my eyebrow again. “Yes, you can live off the island’s wildlife when it is abundant. And when it’s not …”

I swallowed. “My mother survived when she first came here.”

“And a life of survival is what you want? Is that what she wanted for you?”

I remembered my mother telling me it was time to leave. To follow the flaming sun. I dropped my outstretched hand.

As I did, Father da Chagos said, “I can attest to Bonifacio’s character. I taught him at the seminary in Funchal.”

“The seminary?”

“He recently left the priesthood, after ten years of serving God.”

I leaned against the door frame, my hands at my sides. “Why did he leave the priesthood?” My voice was low. Was I shocked that Senhor Rivaldo had been a priest? Not entirely.

“That is for him to explain.”

“And the child he spoke of—is it his?”

“It is not. The child is his penance.”

“Penance for what?”

He refolded the letter. “I will send this to Bonifacio at Kipling’s on tomorrow’s packet,” he said, and closed the door.

I had to step back so the heavy wood didn’t graze my toes.

I
was grinding seeds in my mortar when I heard the creak of wooden wheels. I put down the pestle and went out into the late afternoon sunshine.

“Good day, Senhorita Diamantina,” Senhor Rivaldo said, coming down the sandy rise. He studied me, frowning, as he drew closer.

The deep bruises on my face had faded, but there was still a faint ring of muddy saffron around my neck, and a slight mauve swelling in my left eyelid. My eyebrow was growing back, short and spiky around the heavy black stitches. It was past time that I snip out the thread.

“I’m very sorry to hear of the passing of your mother.” He stopped in front of me. “What happened to you?”

I wasn’t pleased to see him, and yet I had reached out to him. I had no one else. I ignored his question. “May I offer you a drink of water? Would you care for something to eat?”

“Only the water, please.”

I went inside and stood in the dim coolness for a moment, then returned with a flagon and two cups.

Senhor Rivaldo was standing where I’d left him.

“Please. Sit down,” I said.

He sat on the rock facing the sea, and I sat beside him. I poured water into his cup. He emptied it in one long draft, then brushed his hands down over his thighs in a quick, practised, almost womanly motion. Suddenly I could see him arranging his cassock in the same
fashion. I envisioned him as Father da Chagos, in a black robe and cincture, the cross and rosary.

“Would you like more?” I asked, holding up the flagon.

“No, thank you. It appears you’ve been hurt in some way.” He touched his own eye, looking at mine.

“Yes,” I said, setting the flagon and my cup in the sand at my feet. “A clumsy accident, trying to help a neighbour push out his boat. It was deeply moored in the sand. My feet slipped out from under me and I fell forward, hitting my face.” I cleared my throat.

Now he glanced at the marks on my neck. “Why did you contact me, senhorita?” He set his own cup down. It was clear he had no further interest in small talk.

I looked at the sea. Ragged clouds scudded over the waves. “My mother died, and I thought to inform you.”

I could see him watching me out of the corner of his eye.

“You indicated you would like to see me. You mentioned my … offer.”

As he reached into his jacket pocket, I looked back at him. He pulled out my letter. It was very creased and slightly darkened, as if he had handled it many times. His face offered nothing. “Your penmanship is flawless. A very careful hand.”

I took a deep breath. “You’re a wine merchant now? Since you left the priesthood? Father da Chagos informed me of your past.”

“Yes, I was a priest. I am not a wine merchant.”

“But the letter was sent to Kipling’s.”

“That is where I receive mail,” he said.

After an uncomfortable silence, I said, “The child. He’s not yours?”

His mouth was a firm line. “You know I was a priest. Why would you ask me this?”

“How old is he?”

“I’m not certain. Perhaps five. And I have an ailing father as well.”

“You don’t know the boy’s exact age?”

“No.”

“Is he a relation? A nephew?” I asked, not really caring but feeling I needed to show interest.

He rubbed his hands together as if they were cold, glancing at
me, and as I returned his look, his eyes flitted away with an uncertainty I hadn’t seen before. “No. The boy is …” He stopped. “He was alone. I am committed to seeing to his welfare. His mother died, and his father … There is no father worth mentioning. I wished to save him—Cristiano—and so I took him from an uncertain future.”

A thin film of perspiration beaded under his eyes and on his upper lip in spite of the cooling breeze from the sea. The way he was watching me suddenly made me uneasy. I thought, at that moment, that he was regretting his offer.

“No child should be uncared for,” I said, too quickly. I thought of this man and Father da Chagos discussing me, and straightened my shoulders. “Senhor Rivaldo,” I said carefully, “it is difficult for me to find work on Porto Santo. It’s such a small island.” I took a deep breath. “And since my mother died, I am quite alone. I have decided that I’m willing to cook and clean and care for the child. And your father.”

Still he was looking at me in a studied way. He cleared his throat. “Knowing your mother was no longer here, I asked Father da Chagos if he knew of someone who might chaperone my visit. But he assured me it wouldn’t be necessary. That you are an honourable young woman.”

I ground my back teeth. Was he mocking me? He was so difficult to read. Father da Chagos had asked him to take me away from Porto Santo, but hadn’t he told him the truth about me—that I was a fallen woman, and viewed by most of the island with trepidation and disgust?

“You trust Father da Chagos to speak the truth to you?” I asked.

“Of course.” He frowned. “Why wouldn’t he?” Suddenly he stood, and I realized I might have said the wrong thing. Making him doubt Father da Chagos would not benefit me. Now that I had made my own decision about leaving Porto Santo with Bonifacio Rivaldo, I didn’t want him to change his mind. Before I could say something to amend the situation, he paced down to the sea, and then back.

Standing in front of me, he said, “And you, senhorita? Do you speak the truth as well?”

I waited, perhaps a second too long, before answering. “What are you asking me?”

“You commit to come to Madeira with me?”

I took a deep breath and stood to face him. My eyes were level with his, in spite of the fact that he wore boots and I was barefoot. I tried to read something in his eyes, but couldn’t. As well as incense and his faint smell of perspiration, I knew he’d recently eaten a dish with both garlic and parsley. I could discern no more. “I will come with you. As I said, I would work for you as your housekeeper, and look after—”

He held up one hand. “Work? You said you would work for me?”

“Yes. Isn’t that what you’re offering?”

He shook his head. “No. I thought … I assumed you knew I meant … as my wife.”

I sat down, my mind racing. “Well then. Well then,” I repeated in shock, unable to think of anything more to say.

He sat beside me. His knees, under his wool breeches, were bony and pointed. He turned his head at a sudden rustling in the grassy dunes behind us as if relieved to have an interruption.

When the small creature in the long seagrass quieted, I said, “I’m sorry I brought you all the way back to Porto Santo for nothing. To offer marriage is very kind.” As I uttered the words, it crossed my mind that I did not view him as particularly kind. I looked down at my hands. My nails were ragged and broken; a fine line of dirt rimmed each one. “You know of my unholy state. My parents were not Catholic, and unmarried. I have not been baptized. So I will not be able to marry.” And even if I could, I could never imagine marrying this man, this former priest with his dark look and smell of incense and anxiety.

He attempted a smile, the first I had seen. It lightened his face, and made him look younger. “I believe God does not punish one for ignorance of His ways. I’m sure that in spite of your limited knowledge, you could learn to embrace God. The sins of the parents pass to their offspring, and although you are seen as a sinner in the eyes of the Church, this type of sin is not of your doing, nor your wish.”

His voice changed as he spoke, growing softer. I understood this was the voice he had used with parishioners. It was his forgiving, understanding voice. It was an improvement.

“You are no worse than the heathens of many countries. You simply need to be shown the path to righteousness. The mission of the Jesuits is to bring every heathen to God. I would baptize you myself if I still had that authority. Instead, I will have Father da Chagos baptize you, and then we can marry.”

I didn’t wish to marry him. I wanted to work for him, and receive payment. I studied the wool of his jacket, the linen of his shirt.

“For you to be my wife is the only way I can take you with me,” he said. “As a former priest, I cannot bring a woman into my home … for my father’s sake, and … and how my parish views me. I left a priest, and returned a fallen man,” he said, taking a deep breath, looking away. “I will not fall further in their eyes.” He looked back at me and attempted another smile. “We don’t always know what God plans for us. And I am willing to accept this as His wish. I don’t understand it, but I do believe it is His wish. And perhaps, once you understand the ways of God, you will see it was His plan for you as well.”

No. It is my mother’s plan I am following
.

“I have already spoken to Father da Chagos about this,” he said. “He is willing to baptize you, and marry us.”

I blinked. “He would marry us?” I repeated. How desperate the Father was to have me gone. But I did not want to be baptized, nor did I want to marry Bonifacio Rivaldo.

Your life will truly begin when you follow the flaming sun
, my mother had told me.

“I know you will need time to think about this,” he said, interrupting my thoughts. “But there is one more thing I must make clear before you make your decision.”

I waited.

“We will be married, but will not live as man and wife.” Before I could react, he continued, “Although I have left the priesthood, I still hold the major tenets of my former life: poverty, chastity, and obedience to Christ. Chastity,” he repeated, the slightest flush rising in his cheeks.

“I see,” I said, although I didn’t. But I felt a rush of relief. If I did agree to marry him, at least I would not have to share a bed with him before I could procure enough réis to buy a passage to Brazil.

“This means there will be no children, other than the boy. Do you understand the seriousness of this?” Before I could respond, he stood. “I know it’s something you must have time to consider. I’ll wait for you in the square at noon tomorrow. You can tell me your decision then.” His voice left no room for discussion. He climbed back up the dune and into the cart, slapping the reins against the donkey’s back.

I watched him drive away. He had been a priest—a Jesuit. He had been trained in a seminary, and lived a holy life; he could not be too unsavoury a character. I tried to push away the image of him weeping on the stone floor of the church, and the viciousness of the blows to his own face.

Could I do this? Could I accept this humourless man as my husband in name only for a short while? The fact that I would not have to abide his touch made my decision a little easier, and, I told myself, he offered what I needed. He would take me away from Porto Santo.