Chapter 7
Leandro finds me on all fours, surrounded by scattered jewels, broken glass, and a pool of liquid, as I attempt to escape the nauseating miasma.
He rushes to my aid. My mind has righted itself: Up is up, down is down.
The dizziness, muscle pain, and vertigo are gone.
But the nauseating scent still sours my gut.
I take in the awful mess I’ve made. There’s glass everywhere, a spreading pool of liquid, and scattered jewels.
As I fell, I knocked over the jewelry case and it hit the floor, spreading its contents all over: opal and ruby earrings, silver bracelets, a pearl necklace. I am appalled.
“Are you unwell?” Leandro asks, wide-eyed, as I try to collect myself.
The housekeeper hovers in the corridor behind him, hand to heart. Aside from the mess I made, the room is in order. The bed is made, the lace curtains are pulled neatly aside with a black trim. The only disordered element is me.
“I apologize. I came in here for a moment, then felt faint, and accidentally knocked over the jewelry box and perfume bottle. Must be the…”
Pregnancy. My sensitivity to smell must be because of the pregnancy. The muscle pain and backache were the same as when I woke up from the carriage accident. Doctor Lobo said these aches are to be expected for the next few days.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, sinhá,” the housekeeper says. “It’s normal to feel faint on a hot day like today. Let me get you a little sugar water, it’ll sort you right out.”
She disappears into the corridor with bouncy steps, leaving me alone with Leandro.
“Why…” Leandro starts, “why did you come in here?”
I explain that I was looking for a mirror and the perfume scent made me ill at ease. I feel much better once we’re in the corridor and he has shut the door of the room. There was a palpable, heavy presence in that room.
“Has your discomfort passed now?” Leandro asks.
“Yes, mostly.”
“At any rate, we must tell Doctor Lobo about it.”
“Yes,” I say, not because of me so much, but because of the baby. Doctor Lobo said there should be no concern, but each bout of unease, each pulse of pain renews my fear: Is the baby also feeling unwell?
“Leandro.” I place my hand gently on his arm and he stills. We’re now at the top of the stairs that lead to the first floor. “Those jewels, the perfume.” I make my voice as soft as possible, so as to not sound accusatory. “I was wondering who they belong to?”
He bites his lower lip. I’ve never seen him do that before.
I wait, and he doesn’t speak. He appears so deep inside his own head.
Even though he’s a bit better, and talking, there’s no doubt he’s still disturbed.
His eyes are still buggy. His voice lacks the usual animation and liveliness.
There’s a guardedness, a troubled air about him.
I almost regret asking the question. Leandro is not well. I should have waited. Now the terrible silence is making me fret that I’ve somehow broken him even more than the accident did.
“They’re my mother’s. Passed down from her grandmother.”
I think of Valentina Neves, Leandro’s mother, the elegant woman I’ve seen in church who’s always wearing rounded-toe heels and velvet gloves.
She doesn’t live here. But I know it’s common for wealthy people to spread their valuables across many different properties for safekeeping. So it does make sense.
“Same for the dresses?” I spread my arms to indicate the dress I’m wearing.
“Yes.”
I nod, but I’m uncertain. It makes sense that Valentina would leave some of her expensive jewels and dresses at this property.
And if they were already here, it’s not so odd for him to lend them to me.
My own dress, skirt, petticoat, and corsets must all be filthy from the accident, and I would not want to wear them anyway.
I will confirm with the housekeeper later that they are being set aside for washing.
I could almost believe Leandro, except for one thing.
“When was the last time your mother visited?”
“What?”
“When was the last time your mother slept in that room?”
I sense my questioning is becoming impertinent. Especially since he’s still in shock. And by now he must have heard the suspicion in my tone.
But I can’t help myself.
He stares at me for a long moment before answering.
It’s a strange mannerism that seems to define his state of shock, taking so long to respond to every question I ask, as though solving an elaborate math problem in his head.
But the questions I have been asking should be simple.
His face is cast in shadows, the sun must have gone down by now.
“Several weeks ago.”
Now I know he’s lying. Because the scent of lavender rose permeated the air even before I broke the bottle. A woman slept in there recently enough that her scent still lingers.
Maria das Dores, the housekeeper and cook, starts the house tour in the drawing room.
She has a stilted, guarded demeanor as if she was bit by the same bug that bit Leandro.
She speaks haltingly, stiffly, and at times pauses her speech to look at Leandro, seeking reassurance.
I try to smile at her, and she frowns. Leandro watches from the sidelines.
The half-moons under his eyes look deeper under the flickering glow of whale oil lamps.
The sun hasn’t completely fallen behind the clouds, but the pale light of dusk does little to illuminate the room.
It’s disconcerting to see the inside of a place before the outside of it. I feel disoriented about what kind of spatial arrangement to expect as we move from one room to another.
If Leandro was telling the truth about not wanting me to visit because of the state of the house, then I surely understand the sentiment now.
The house has a dark, decaying air about it.
The faded green wallpaper is peeling and cracking along its stripes.
The orbs of the oil lamps are brown on the inside of the glass, as though they haven’t been polished in months.
If there is a chambermaid besides the housekeeper, I haven’t seen one.
The air is stale and musty. A layer of dust coats the paintings and thin cracks fracture the window glass.
The sofa cushions bear rips that reveal the fabric beneath.
This is supposed to be a relaxing medical retreat, yet I’ve already caught Leandro in a lie and it rattles my nerves.
Because he is lying. As I listen to Maria das Dores go on and on—breakfast is served at seven, lunch at noon, and supper at six thirty—I think of more things that don’t make sense.
He said the dress I’m wearing belonged to his mother.
I doubt that, because the embellished style and fabric are not like the dresses of old.
I know the older styles Mother and Grandmother still have in their wardrobes, and they’re not like this.
Nor do the garish wide mutton sleeves match anything I can imagine Valentina Neves wearing.
What is he hiding from me? Something about this fazenda, about his life.
And his very state unnerves me the most. The way he stands now, watching me silently. His stance carries such a gravity around it. He looks at once alarmed and eager.
I can’t help but feel the accident isn’t the only reason he’s acting strange.
Is he afraid I’ll discover his secret? Something to do with the mystery woman who slept in the lavender-scented room? This could explain the tension—dread, even—I sensed in him when I awoke. Perhaps he never meant for me to end up here, and now that I’m here, he’s afraid I’ll find out about her.
I feel a movement in my belly and draw an inhale. All this ruminating can’t be good for the baby. I try to calm myself. I don’t want the baby to absorb my discomfort.
For the sake of the baby, I resolve not to jump to premature conclusions.
That perfume alone doesn’t mean that Leandro has a lover.
Maybe Maria das Dores sprays perfume in that room while cleaning it.
Or there could be another explanation I’m not thinking of.
Maybe his mother came to visit recently and in his disturbed, post-accident state, he forgot about it.
I conjure to mind the look in Leandro’s eyes when, last night, he held my hand and I told him about the baby. The love that he felt for me then. The love I felt for him.
I just need him to heal from his shock and go back to the way he was.
I have only a few days here, then Mother will demand an answer.
Doctor Lobo said Leandro’s shock would pass soon, and he’s already better than when I first saw him.
Maybe not today, but maybe tomorrow, or the next day, he’ll be back to the way he was before the accident, and we can resume things where we left off.
With a (near) proposal.
Leandro doesn’t add anything to Maria das Dores’s explanation of the house rules.
He’s so still that he could be a statue.
I start to think that his mind has receded somewhere distant, but when I reach for the Jornal do Recife on the coffee table he moves so quickly that I jump.
He snatches the newspaper before I can touch it.
I stare at him, stunned. He’s like a caiman in a river: perfectly still, but active in its stillness, striking in the blink of an eye.
“Doctor Lobo says you should avoid potentially distressing news,” Leandro explains. “And you know, newspapers nowadays are full of distressing news. Nothing but shock and horror.”
“Of course.”
I’m touched that Leandro is so concerned for my well-being, but still, I’m disappointed.
Mother doesn’t allow me to read the newspaper, so this would have been a perfect opportunity to do it.
She says if I read too much my facial features will turn masculine and I’ll start to look like a desiccated spinster.
I resolve to find where the books are, and I’ll read everything Mother doesn’t allow me to—periodicals, romance, mystery, suspense… I wonder if he has Frankenstein here.
“Any questions, Sinhá Madalena?” Maria das Dores asks, after reciting a series of rules I didn’t pay attention to.
“No questions.”
“Then I can show you the outside of the property next.”
She starts toward the front door.
“One moment,” I say. On the wall above the golden velveteen sofa hangs an oil portrait of Leandro’s parents: Valentina and Ernesto Neves.
Leandro’s father, the comendador, has softer features and looks more like Leandro with his honey eyes, a slightly pointed chin, and a delicate nose.
The Neves fortune comes from the father’s side of the family, yet it is the mother who has the more dignified air.
Valentina is not, and clearly never was, a very beautiful woman. She strikes me as a strong woman, though, from the way she carries herself, and even her stance in this painting. Though perhaps not as domineering as my own mother.
I must win over his parents. A month into the courtship, when I was crooning about Leandro, Mother reminded me that Leandro’s family would not like the idea of him “marrying down.” At the time it seemed a given that Leandro would fight for me.
He would tell them how much he loves me, he would stand up to the whole world for us to be together.
But now, this version of Leandro…this fidgety, silent, gawking man who allowed Doctor Lobo to take charge in his own house, doesn’t seem up to any sort of fight.
Sometimes people change in ways that are permanent.
I truly hope that’s not the case.
“Do you think they’ll like me?” I ask. I try to infuse cheer into my voice, to sound casual. I expect Leandro to respond immediately, without hesitation: Of course they will. They’ll love you. He’s told me so many times that he’s already gushed to his parents about me.
Leandro glances at the painting, then sighs.
The sigh is laced with irritation, or something worse, something I can’t quite pinpoint…
Dread? Disdain? He doesn’t like me bringing up his parents.
Does he think I’m presumptuous to assume that I will meet them?
Because underneath it lies the assumption that we will be together and we will marry.
My heart sinks deeper with each passing second of silence. Am I wrong to assume I will meet his parents?
He finally looks up at me. “Anyone who meets you should like you.”
But he says it with the disposition of a mortician in a morgue.