Chapter 6
A subtle movement and a warmth near my mouth. Gentle yet invasive.
Breath against skin.
I startle awake. It takes me a moment to orient myself, to remember where I am. This room…this place…I’m in Leandro’s farmhouse, recovering from the accident. He stands before me, by the bed.
He steps back quickly.
“Are you well?” Leandro asks, eyes wide.
I rub my eyes. “Uh…”
I sit up slowly. A sharp pain shoots up from my abdomen. The weight of a dozen rocks pulls on my muscles and a current of drowsiness tries to drag me under. I shut my eyes until the discomfort subsides. When I shift my legs, my lower back aches.
“I feel unwell,” I say, pinching my brows.
Leandro regards me, wide-eyed.
“Doctor Lobo said this is to be expected,” I add. “Perhaps there is no great cause for concern.”
I stare at Leandro, who’s staring at me. I pull the covers over my body, feeling awfully indecent. I’m still wearing the medical gown, and the physician isn’t here; it’s just me and Leandro.
A moment ago he stood so close to me, I thought I felt something warm near my mouth or nose. As though he put his hand near my face. Then as soon as I opened my eyes, he stepped back quickly. Or did I dream that?
“I’m not dressed.” My voice sounds thick, rusty.
“Oh,” Leandro says, as though only just then realizing this fact. He clears his throat. “I apologize.”
I’m relieved that my muscles don’t throb as much anymore and my headache is gone. But I want him to leave so I can get myself together. How wiry and disheveled must my hair be? Is my face puffy and swollen? This is so unflattering. I need to wash up and make myself presentable.
“How long have I been asleep…?”
“A couple hours. I didn’t mean to disturb your rest.”
He asks me three times if there’s anything I would like—cafezinho, bolinho de milho, water, tea, a warm rag for my sore muscles, a servant to wait on me by the door—to which I reply in the negative, then says he left a fresh change of clothes for me and will have the servants bring up warm water for a bath.
“You’re talking!” I say as the realization hits me.
I didn’t intend to say that aloud. But he was talking, and before he had been silent as a mule.
He gapes at me. I’ve stunned him into silence again.
“I mean,” I start, “you weren’t talking much before. It just seems like you’re better, that’s all.”
He doesn’t respond.
I hesitate. Perhaps he doesn’t know how out of sorts he is. I need to choose my words carefully so as not to make him feel worse or self-conscious.
I wave my hand. “You just seem more lively.”
“I was happy to see you well.”
“Doctor Lobo says you are recovering well, too.”
He stares at me in a dull way.
“Wouldn’t you say so?” I press.
Leandro looks away sullenly. I can see his jaw squaring, twitching. The tension in his neck. Was it something I said?
“Leandro.” I muster my softest, most unassuming tone. “Do you remember our conversation from last night?”
“Last night?” he asks. “I…remember holding your hand.”
“Yes!” I sit up straighter, hope blossoming in my chest. “So you do remember! In the carriage, what I told you…”
He averts his gaze again. “I’m sorry, I…” He shakes his head. The silence stretches.
I am unnerved. I see, from the way he rubs his face and shifts nervously on his feet, that I pressed him too soon. He is not well yet. Still in shock from the accident. I should not have brought it up.
Yet now I can’t seem to stop.
“I was referring to what we discussed in the carriage. Do you remember?”
To say that he looks displeased is an understatement. His face falls, and I cannot tell if he does not remember or if he remembers but loathes the memory, then he suddenly spins and turns to leave.
“What’s the matter, Leandro?” I call out.
He stops, hand stilling on the doorknob. “I apologize for my abruptness but I must take my leave now. I have urgent matters to take care of. But I’m happy that you’re…” He pauses, then regards me. Really regards me this time: sincere, earnest, raw, and with warmth. “I’m happy you’re here.”
The words sound genuine. It’s enough to make me feel hopeful all over again.
His lower lip trembles slightly, and there are still shadows under his eyes. But he’s talking, and when he greeted me earlier he hadn’t said one kind word to me. A primal, warm feeling moves through me.
“I’m happy to be here with you, too,” I say.
I feel much better after my bath. The headache has mostly subsided and my earlier fatigue is gone.
Better still, Leandro seems livelier and more present, and is speaking again, even if his demeanor remains stilted.
This must be lingering shock from the accident that will heal in time.
He even said sweet words to me, though haltingly.
It seems he doesn’t fault me for the accident, after all.
My heart swells with love for him. Doctor Lobo was right: Leandro just needs time.
I examine the clothes that were left for me, folded neatly on a wooden chair of woven straw. The first thing I notice about the dresses is that none of them are mine.
I had expected that Leandro would have sent a boy over to my house to pick up clothes for me to wear during this retreat.
Instead…it appears he borrowed clothes. From whom, I wonder? Perhaps a sister or a neighbor? I don’t recall ever hearing about a Neves sister.
The dresses are quite nicely embellished, but I feel strange wearing another woman’s chemise and corset. Perhaps this decision resulted from Leandro’s unsteady state of mind, him not thinking clearly. But I will go along and not make a fuss over something so minor.
The style is peculiar and gaudy. The bustle is quite small, the corset is longer than usual, and the bodice sleeves are wide and puffy.
I settle for burgundy attire with a nice bell shape, and I’m happy with the fit despite the garishly large mutton sleeves.
The skirt billows as I step out into the corridor.
Mother would have chastised me for what I do next—peek into the empty rooms, one by one, looking for a mirror.
Most guest rooms are small and modestly furnished, even Leandro’s room. But then I come upon a large, meticulously furnished room with an antique brass mirror upon a damask-covered wall.
I hesitate in the doorway for a moment. A dull ache creeps up my leg muscles, and I still, waiting for it to abate.
Something about this room feels lived in, though I can’t pinpoint what it is at first. The sun has sunk beneath the clouds, casting a fading gray light into the room.
The bed is made up with plump pillows and floral sheets, and it’s richly decorated.
But Leandro said he lived alone here. He moved here six months ago, when the comendador assigned him the restoration of the sugar mill.
Of course he lives alone. This must simply be a guest room that has had some usage.
Maybe it’s used by visiting priests, wayfarers, and travelers.
I glance down the corridor to make sure no one is around.
I hear only the distant sounds of pots clanking in the kitchen below.
Surely if I go in for just a moment to examine myself in the mirror, no one will mind.
I step inside and tiptoe toward the mirror. This room feels distinctly darker than the others, as though light doesn’t fully penetrate. Blue-gray shadows loom where wall meets furniture. The tall window sheds a hazy outline of fields beyond. A wall-mounted washbasin borders a tall wooden wardrobe.
The most puzzling part of it is the vanity. A wood and leather jewelry box sits on it, with delicate bronze handles. Beside it, a handmade small cedar box and a bell-shaped perfume bottle.
I now know what bothers me about this room. It carries the unmistakable imprint of a woman’s presence. The vanity, the jewels, the bed that’s big enough for two, with its soft, lovely sheets that are nicer than those of the room he put me in. I go to it and run my hand over the sheets.
It’s not warm.
Of course it isn’t. It’s room temperature. How silly of me. And yet…
I look around, searching, and then I catch it: a sweet fragrance in the air. I pick up the perfume and spray a small amount onto my wrist. Lavender with notes of vanilla and rose.
A cold feeling slips down my spine. I think about how Leandro always visits me, or we meet in town. How he told me not to visit him here yet, saying the Fazenda Santa Tereza was still in rough shape and that as soon as renovations were further along, it would be suitable to receive guests.
And now, circumstances have conspired to bring me here against his design.
Is there a woman living here with him, at the fazenda? If not living here outright, then perhaps someone who visits a lot?
A woman Leandro has kept secret from me?
Someone who comes so often that she left her belongings here and infused her scent into the room, left invisible marks on the bed?
Could that be why he looked so out of sorts when he first saw me here upon my waking? Because he knew his secret would be discovered?
Could that be why he hasn’t proposed yet? Because he loves someone else?
A wave of unease suddenly spills over me. A deep ache shudders through my muscles from my backside up to my neck, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Chills climb up my spine and my insides go cold. A dizzy spell, a weakness, takes over my body and my knees buckle.
The perfume bottle slips from my hand. It crashes with a loud clatter, and dark liquid pools at my feet.
The pungent odor sucks all air out of my lungs, so potent as to sear my nostrils and make me dizzy to the bone.
Like the sour fumes of the marshy River Styx, where mud-caked sinners rip one another to vicious tatters in the foam.
My vision blurs and the world spins. I step forward to steady myself against the vanity, but my heel slides in the slick pool beneath and the floor caves.
I throw out my arms and hit something on the way down.
A sea of gold and silver glimmers about me as I fall. A tangled cry escapes my throat.