The Devil on Her Tongue (41 page)

She was talking about that first time in Vila Baleira, when I met Espirito in the inn, and the next day saw Bonifacio in the church, punishing himself. “Yes.”

“Anyway, Espirito hoped some time together would help. But it didn’t. They argued there, and he came home alone. Espirito wants to create a better relationship with his brother. This is why he’s hoping he can help Bonifacio find a position with Kipling’s.”

“Ah,” I said.

A log dropped in the fireplace, sending a small shower of embers onto the hearth. Two jumped onto the edge of the carpet. I leaned forward and pushed them back onto the hearth with the poker.

“It doesn’t appear you’re with child yet,” Senhora da Silva said, startling me, as I was about to set the poker back in its stand. “When it does happen, it will be the next hurdle for Olívia. Each time she lost a baby, it was harder on her. The doctor says it can’t happen again. The next time could cost her her life.” She pulled a delicate scrap of linen from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “It’s unnatural for a woman to remain childless. Olívia daily struggles with this failure. And of course it’s difficult for Espirito to have such a fragile
wife. He is … well, I’m sure he is deeply disappointed as well not to have children.” Again she touched her eyes with the handkerchief. “I talk too much. It’s a fault to not know when to stop speaking. Eduardo often tells me I create trouble with this trait.”

I set the poker back and reached to put my hand on hers. “I’m sure it’s very difficult for everyone, Senhora da Silva. I’m so sorry.”

She took a deep breath and tucked the handkerchief away. “Eduardo and I will never be grandparents—this is difficult for us as well. But I hope you don’t feel I’ve spoken out of turn about Bonifacio. Does it help you to know these facts?”

“Yes, it does.”

“I’m also hoping I’ve made you understand Olívia a little better. I’m sure you would like a friend as well, having left all of your own friends back in Vila Baleira.”

I attempted a smile, and hoped it looked sincere.

W
hen Cristiano and I went downstairs for breakfast the next morning, there was no sign of either brother.

“Espirito has taken Bonifacio to the Counting House,” Olívia said. “Eat quickly. You’re going to be fitted for some new clothing.”

I knew that all I would be able to think about today was the past. About how Olívia and Bonifacio had loved each other, and how Espirito had stepped in and married her once his brother was gone.

“New clothes … No, that won’t be necessary. We don’t know if Bonifacio will get the position.” I had no money, and was ashamed to tell her. “Also, it would take a number of days to have anything made, and we may not be here after tomorrow.”

“It’s my mother’s idea to take you to a dressmaker, not mine. She wants to outfit Cristiano as well.”

It didn’t appear I had a choice.

As we slowly walked up the hilly cobbled street to the house on Rua São Batista with our purchases that afternoon, my feet, in soft new leather shoes, ached from the hard stones. Cristiano was tired as well; he lagged, and I kept turning to check that he hadn’t fallen too far behind.

Senhora da Silva was still chatting. She loved flowers, and was an expert on Madeira’s natural plants and trees, as well as exotics brought from other lands that thrived in the island’s glorious
temperate climate. In the pretty decorated squares, we walked under the shade of banana and guava, pomegranate and fig trees, and she named the English flowers set in borders among the walkways.

“The ornamental gardens at Kipling’s Quinta Isabella are magnificent,” she told me. “I have gone there a number of times as a guest, because of Espirito’s position. Senhor Kipling had seeds and cuttings brought from other parts of the world, and cultivated them. There are bougainvillea, hydrangea, fuchsia, belladonna and camellia, mixed with Madeira’s own earthly treasures, the myrtles and lilies, lupines and violets, and so many ferns. My favourite scent is lily, but Olívia loves camellia. Don’t you, Olívia?” she said, adding, “She always wears it.”

“Yes,” Olívia said.

My face was sore from smiling. Senhora da Silva was attempting to make me feel comfortable, but I was unused to endless talk.

“Do you care to wear scent?” Senhora da Silva asked.

“I used to wear an oil I made from rosemary.”

“Rosemary? But that’s not a flower.”

“I know, but I love its fragrance.”

She shook her head. “You are an unusual young woman,” she said, but her voice was kind. “I’m quite excited to see you in your new frocks. With your lovely colouring, both the pale green and the silver-grey will be beautiful on you.”

Olívia walked a little faster, leaving us a few steps behind.

Senhora da Silva clicked her tongue. “It appears I’ve upset her. Don’t rush, Olívia,” she called. “Be cautious.”

But Olívia didn’t heed her. As her mother hurried after her, I stopped abruptly.

“Come, dear,” Senhora da Silva called.

“Convento Catarina of the Cross,” I read from the plaque on one of the pillars outside the grey stones of a convent. “I know … I knew a Sister from this convent. In Porto Santo.”

“Do you?” Senhora da Silva said, distracted, watching Olívia. “Please hurry. I want to make certain Olívia is all right. She shouldn’t rush.”

Espirito was coming down the stairs as we came into the salon. “Bonifacio is resting,” he said. “I brought him home, but have to return to work.”

“We’ve had a lovely time, Espirito,” Senhora da Silva said. She glanced at Olívia, sitting in a corner of the sofa, her breath sawing the air, her eyes closed.

“Thank you again for today, Senhora da Silva,” I said, then turned to Espirito. “Could I come with you, to see the wine lodge?” I couldn’t bear to think of sitting in the salon with Olívia and her mother for the next hours, with Senhora da Silva’s non-stop chattering and Olívia’s dark silence but for her rattling breath.

He glanced at Olívia.

“Olívia needs to lie down,” Senhora da Silva said. “I’m going to have Ana make her a poultice, and then I must go home as well. Take Cristiano with you, Diamantina, so Olívia has complete quiet.”

Espirito led Cristiano and me across a courtyard behind the Counting House. We entered a long, dim room lit only by small square windows. The floor, like the courtyard, was paved with pebbles. The room was very hot, and the smell of alcohol overpowering. I had a dizzying, pleasant sensation immediately, as though I’d drunk too many cups of wine in Rooi’s inn.

“This is the
adega
, where we store the wine as we let it mature. These vats are made from enormous old timbers from ships,” Espirito said, gesturing to the hundreds of massive kegs resting on low wooden braces. Each keg was chalked with the name of the grape and a year. Some had huge funnels atop them. I ran my fingers along a keg, and Cristiano did the same. The wood was silky to the touch in spite of its age. Large bottles in wicker baskets sat in front of each keg. “The bottles are tasting samples.” There was a wooden ladder to climb to a second floor of wide wooden planks and supported by immense beams. More kegs sat under the roof. There was an apparatus of ropes and wooden turning wheels, used, I imagined, to raise and lower the kegs.

A young man put his head in the open doorway. “Espirito, when
will the shipment of new bottles arrive?” he asked in English, and when Espirito answered him and he left, I asked, “Where do you get your bottles?”

“You know English?” he asked, surprise in his voice.

“A little. I learned it on Porto Santo,” I answered, hesitating, then added, “From English sailors. And from an English wine merchant who sold to the innkeeper. I often spoke with him.”

“Ah,” he said. “We have our bottles sent from the mainland.”

He took us into the sunlit cooperage with its woody scent. Cristiano looked around with interest. Under a high window, an old man was working at a table. “Jorge is making bungs for the kegs from the outer fibre of the banana tree. The malleable nature of the fibre ensures that each bung fits perfectly. Jorge has been doing this for thirty years.” The old man reminded me of Papa. He smiled at us, dipping his head.

“Although some winemakers prefer to blend in the
adega
, I like working here,” Espirito said, leading us into a smaller room where a wooden table with stools around it sat in the middle of the floor. Some tasting bottles sat beside it, and there were funnels and small glass pipes. “I like riding across the island, choosing grapes from the different terraces before each harvest, but this is my true love—creating the blends.”

I ran my hand over the bottles.

“Would you like to try one of our best?” He poured me a small glass.

I held up the glass, admiring the rich mahogany glow of the wine. I put it to my nose and breathed in its odour, then took a sip. I let it wash over my tongue and touch the sides and roof of my mouth. I opened my lips the slightest bit and sucked air in, to give myself more of a sense of the flavour as I swallowed. “It’s a wonderful
vinho da roda
,” I said, handing the glass back.

He studied me. “How do you know about round-trip wine?”

“From the English merchant I mentioned. Mr. Duncan told me it was the Dutch who discovered that warming the wine they took on at Madeira speeded the aging when they sailed with it to India. The intense heat of the hold and the constant motion of the sea seemed
to improve the taste, so the Madeira producers started to purposely place kegs of wine on ships for the voyage to India and back, creating this
vinho da roda
. That’s why you keep your casks high under the roof, isn’t it? To keep them warm?”

Espirito nodded. “It’s Henry Duncan you’re referring to?”

I smiled. “Yes. He was always kind.”

“He’s our competitor, but is a good friend of Martyn Kipling. And to me as well. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should attend to matters in the
adega
.”

I nodded, and as Cristiano and I went towards the door, I took one long, last, deep breath of the warm, familiar odour of the wine.

Olívia didn’t feel well enough to join us for dinner.

I took my place across the table from Bonifacio. “Did you find the Counting House interesting?” I asked, trying to imagine him with Olívia. He was thirty now; he must have been sixteen or seventeen in his first year at the seminary, and had met Olívia the year after that.

“It was all right.” He looked into his steaming soup bowl.

“Martyn Kipling is returning from Lisboa in a few days,” Espirito said. “He left his son-in-law in charge of meeting the prospective employees and giving his recommendations. They have an office at the quinta, so we should go there tomorrow, Bonifacio, and I will make the introduction.” He sat back as Ana served his soup. “Diamantina and Cristiano can come if they wish. Unless you two have anything else you’d rather do,” he said, looking from me to Cristiano and back at me, smiling.

“We’d like to come, wouldn’t we, Cristiano?” I said, and the boy nodded.

Bonifacio picked up his spoon. “There’s no reason for that. They should stay here.”