The Devil on Her Tongue (52 page)

I put it back into my waistband. I went out in the dark night and slowly walked back to the cottage.

I
awoke to the sun high through the bedroom window, thinking, for an instant, that I was glad the storm had passed.

And then I sat straight up, shocked that I had fallen asleep. My sodden clothes lay on the floor beside the bed, and I put my hand under the pillow, feeling for my gutting knife. What good would it have done me had Bonifacio come into my room, his fury restored? I had slept as though an innocent child. For the last month, as soon as I lay down, the infant began to move. The movements through the night sometimes woke me. But last night he or she was still, as if waiting to know our future.

I rose and dressed. When I walked into the sitting room, Bonifacio was sitting in front of the fireplace, although no fire burned. I stopped, my heart thudding.

He looked at me, his mouth twisted and his eyes shot with blood. “I’ve sent Cristiano down for his breakfast, and told him to stay with Tiago this morning.”

I nodded.

“Sit down,” he said.

I did as he said, pulling my shawl more closely about me, used to trying to cover my growing bulk. Then I realized it didn’t matter, and let it fall open.

Bonifacio studied my belly. “When will it be born?”

“The end of January or beginning of February.”

“It’s Espirito,” he said, and my mouth opened. “It’s my brother, isn’t it? My own brother!” he said, his voice low but his face dark, pinched with suspicion.

“No! No, Bonifacio. It’s not Espirito. How can you even think that? Bonifacio, no.” My words ran together. I took a breath and spoke more slowly. “Of course it’s not Espirito. That’s a ridiculous assumption. He’s like my own brother,” I said, although I did not think of him that way.

“Give me a name,” Bonifacio demanded.

I couldn’t name Abílio, for then Bonifacio would leave, refusing to work for him. I would be forced to go back to Curral das Freiras with him.

“I will never speak his name, Bonifacio. Never,” I said, wiping my eyes.

He studied the cold fireplace.

After a long while, I asked, “Will you still allow me to stay, as you said last night?”

“Yes.”

I exhaled, a long, slow breath.

“But I don’t do this for you,” he said. “As I said last night, it is part of God’s plan, another test He has put in front of me. The child is a test.”

I nodded, and we sat in silence. Finally I said, “Others will think … they will think it’s your child.”

“You imagine I care what others think?” He stared at me for a long moment, then left for work.

I stayed in front of the cold fireplace, my hands on my belly.

I did not go into Kipling’s to post the letter, as I did not want to run into Espirito. For the first few days after Bonifacio learned of my pregnancy, I had worried that he would confront Espirito. I knew that there was already so much tension between them; now I couldn’t imagine the situation as they worked together at Kipling’s.

As each day passed, I lost some of my anxiety, but I remained very quiet around Bonifacio, cautious of saying or doing anything that might give him reason to grow angry with me. And so I gave the letter to Raimundo to take to Kipling’s to post.

I was sitting on the veranda reading. Cristiano played in front of the cottage with a wooden stick, brandishing it as if it were a sword, swiping at low-hanging branches. Bonifacio was inside the house with his Bible.

I looked up as Cristiano gave a cry, dropping his make-believe sword. He ran down the path, where Espirito and Olívia very slowly walked towards the cottage. Espirito supported Olívia with an arm around her waist, and held a large basket in his other hand.

I wrapped my heavy shawl closely around myself as I went to the top step. Cristiano was walking beside Espirito with a cheery, marching step.

“Hello, Diamantina,” Espirito called out, and I lifted my hand in a half wave. “We have come with cakes for Bonifacio’s birthday,” he said, and I swallowed. I hadn’t known it was Bonifacio’s birthday.

“How kind of you.”

Olívia was gasping, one hand on her chest as she bent forward with each slow step.

“Since he said you weren’t feeling well the last few times we’ve invited you all for dinner, and when he also declined our invitation to celebrate his birthday, we took it upon ourselves to come to you,” he added as they stopped at the bottom of the step.

“I see,” I said, holding my shawl tighter. Bonifacio had never mentioned these invitations. “Olívia, you must come in and sit down.” I stepped aside, pulling open the door.

“Henry Duncan sends his regards,” Espirito said. “We have begun the production of his altar wine.”

I nodded. Cristiano ran into the cottage ahead of us. Bonifacio was standing, his Bible on the settee. A fire roared behind him.

“Espirito and Olívia have brought cakes for your birthday,” I said, certain he’d already heard what Espirito had said. I stared at him, willing him to be polite.

“Thank you,” he said to the two of them, though his eyes were on Olívia.

I took the basket from Olívia and set it on the table, then went to the cupboard and took out the fancy plates we never used. With my back to the room, I wiped them with my shawl, then turned, holding them in front of me.

Olívia had taken off her woollen cloak and was holding it out, waiting for Bonifacio to take it. He hadn’t moved. The room was very warm. I set down the plates and reached for her cloak. As I did, my shawl fell open.

Olívia stared at me, then turned to Espirito. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

It took Espirito too long to respond. “I wasn’t aware either,” he finally said. And then he looked into my face. I was trembling with
the strain of trying to smile naturally, as though my condition were a blessed event. But I imagined I resembled a horrible spectre, a skull with bared teeth. Bonifacio stood straight and unmoving. We were both so rigid it was as though we would crack if we moved too quickly.

“When is it due?” Olívia asked.

“The beginning of February.”

“You’re that far along and haven’t told us?”

I looked at her, unsure of how to respond.

“Oh. Now I understand. Surely my mother told you … If you were trying to spare me, I thank you. But there’s no need. You have every right to the happiness of your own child. You and Bonifacio.” She looked at Bonifacio then.

I remembered Espirito’s face in Curral das Freiras after his father’s death, when it was clear Bonifacio and I didn’t share a bed. I thought of Espirito coming upon me as I left Abílio’s office in the dark of night. But he didn’t know of Bonifacio’s mutilation. Or did he? I suddenly thought back to the night, seven months ago, when he brought Bonifacio home after finding him unable to go any farther on the road into Funchal. How he had sent for the physician. The way his hand shook as he drank when I asked him what was wrong with Bonifacio.

He knew. Surely he knew it would be impossible for Bonifacio to father a child.

All of these thoughts passed through me in less than thirty seconds. I lowered myself onto the settee, my legs weak.

By the hard look in Bonifacio’s eyes, I understood that he still believed this child was his brother’s. As Espirito had wed the woman he had once loved, he now believed Espirito had also had possession of his wife. Would Bonifacio confront Espirito here and now? It would be humiliating to announce that he suspected his brother of sinning with his wife, but even worse would be the disclosure that his wife was a whore.

I felt so small and ugly and filled with self-hatred that tears filled my eyes.

Olívia straightened her shoulders and opened the basket and
lifted out the small cakes, setting two on a plate. “
Feliz aniversário
, Bonifacio,” she said, handing him the plate, then looked at me. “Could you direct me to the
latrina
?”

I led her to the hall and pointed at the door.

A few minutes later, when she hadn’t returned, Espirito went down the hall. Bonifacio and I remained in the sitting room, the cakes untouched. Finally I gave Cristiano a cake, and he ate it quickly and looked at the basket. “Have another,” I said, and he smiled with delight, unaware of the strain in the room.

I went to the hallway. Outside the
latrina
, Espirito stood with Olívia drawn against his chest, one arm around her thin back. With his other hand he slowly stroked her hair. I silently turned and went back to the sitting room, not wanting them to know I’d witnessed their shared moment of grief.