The Spanish Daughter(16)

But apparently, he hadn’t left Martin anything—an odd thing, considering how close they were and how patient Martin had been when my father was in one of his moods. Not even my mother—the saintliest of women—could stand his rotten temperament. She would invite the ladies from the Cofradía for an afternoon of prayer. (“Only the Virgin can help your father now,” she would explain.) But my father loathed them and the sights and sounds of these devout ladies never seemed to improve his temper. Quite the opposite.

Alberto covered his mouth and coughed, but his serene expression returned almost immediately. Either he didn’t fully grasp what Aquilino was saying or he didn’t care.

When Aquilino finished reading the document, he raised his head and stared at each one of us.

Under the table, my legs trembled. I could barely digest that the respectable Armand Lafont had left the majority of his assets to his estranged daughter, someone who to me was nothing more than a name carved on a wooden sign that dangled at the plantation’s entrance, a name that had tormented me all my life but somehow didn’t seem real. Now that name was about to turn into flesh and blood and come to my hacienda to claim everything I’d managed to accrue and keep in pristine order. But where was this beloved daughter when I’d played nurse to my father during the last six months of his life? This had been the matador’s final thrust.

“Oh, well,” Catalina said, standing up. “What good are material possessions anyway? You can’t really take them to the grave, can you?”

Of course she would say something like that. From an early age, Catalina had little use for our father’s presents. It was not uncommon to see the peasants’ daughters wearing my sister’s gowns or playing with her toys.

“Oh, save it, Catalina,” I said. “I don’t want to hear a word about it!”

I managed to stand. Laurent rushed to assist me. He’d turned pale. Surely, this was not what he’d envisioned when he agreed to marry the daughter of a French landowner. Though he’d managed to fool everyone in town to think that he had his own personal fortune, he hadn’t fooled me. I knew early on that Laurent’s family had nothing but a prestigious last name and a lot of arrogance.

Martin avoided my eyes, like he always did, and removed a hand-rolled cigarette from his front pocket. His large hands shook slightly as he lit it, but once he took the first drag, the tremor subsided. The frown between his eyebrows remained.

“It goes without saying, Don Tomás, that my sisters are entitled to my portion of the estate,” my brother Alberto said, rubbing his chin.

I still hadn’t gotten used to seeing my baby brother dressed so solemnly. That white cassock made him look older, but his eyes still glistened with the same mischief and curiosity they had when he was a child.

“In that case, Padre Alberto, the law requires that your portion be divided among your three sisters.”

“But Alberto doesn’t even know Purificación,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair! Didn’t she get enough already?” My voice cracked.

“I’m just stating the facts according to the law, se?ora. You are certainly within your right to contest the will.” Aquilino shut his briefcase. “In the meantime, I shall write a letter to your sister in Spain notifying her of your father’s passing and his final will.”

Laurent grasped my arm, shaking his head slightly. He leaned toward me, his warm, wine breath tickling my ear.

“Don’t worry, ma chère,” he whispered, “we’ll take care of this.”





CHAPTER 7

Puri April 1920



“English or Western saddle?” Martin asked me.

At Angélica’s request, my father’s right-hand man was going to take me on a tour of the plantation while the maid, Julia, prepared my room. I wouldn’t have accepted if I knew I would have to get on a horse.

Were all men supposed to know how to ride? I knew for a fact that Cristóbal had never climbed on one of these four-legged giants. He was as urban as they came. But I didn’t want to look like a chicken in front of Martin. Something told me he didn’t respect weakness.

“English,” I said, which apparently was the wrong decision as the saddle was much too small and didn’t have a horn to hold on to.

Martin smiled for the first time since I’d met him, but it didn’t seem like a friendly gesture to me, more like a personal victory of sorts. He set a minuscule black saddle on the horse’s back and pulled the leather girth under to tighten it around the belly. He’d chosen a white mare for me called Pacha, like the Incan queen, he said.

I stared at her long legs. How on earth was I going to climb this creature without tearing my pants in two?

Martin adjusted his own saddle, which was significantly larger than mine and made of a rougher leather with intricate leaf designs carved throughout. It also had a big horn sticking up on top. Was it too late to change my mind?

My pride didn’t let me. I would climb on this horse and ride it even if it killed me.

In one swift move, Martin got on his horse. The saddle seemed to mold to his body. He made curious sounds with his tongue that communicated something to the animal. I had no idea what the message was, but the gelding must have understood because he shook his ears lightly and turned toward the trail.