The Spanish Daughter(20)

“What is it?” I asked, ignoring my good manners.

She opened the door wider and stepped inside with Ramona on her shoulder. I was surprised not to see Laurent trailing behind Angélica like a shadow. His vocation in this world, it seemed, was to please my sister in every one of her whims.

“What? I can’t stop by to say hello?” She slithered toward my bed and sat next to me. “What are you reading?”

I flipped my copy of Fortunata y Jacinta so she couldn’t see the cover. Benito Pérez Galdós was on the Vatican’s list of forbidden authors, but I was infatuated with this story. I’d waited years to get the book. What an odyssey it had been.

“Is there anything I can do for you, hermana?” I said.

“Actually, yes.” Her delicate fingers traced the outline of my book, my favorite one, though Angélica had no idea. She didn’t know a thing about me even though we’d spent every day of our lives under the same roof.

“Well, how do you feel about our father’s will?”

I shrugged. I’d never had any expectations of inheriting. I supposed that was why I hadn’t been too surprised with my father’s last wishes.

“I know you’re not an ambitious woman and you’re more content with . . . spiritual matters. But don’t you see that a big injustice has been committed on our behalf?”

“The world is not just. Look at what happened to our Lord, Jesus Christ.”

“I agree.” She stretched her arm in my direction with feline grace and rested her hand on mine. “But I worry about you, Catalina. What’s going to happen to you when I’m gone? You know that as the oldest, I’ll probably die before you. What are you going to do without the protection of a husband? We both know that our brother can’t be of service to you. Who knows how much longer he’ll stay in this parish. At any moment, they could send him away.”

I didn’t want to hear anything about husbands. The subject was one that hurt and embarrassed me—I was the only woman my age who hadn’t married in all of París Chiquito.

“But things don’t have to be that way,” she said.

My patience was growing thin, but I couldn’t bring myself to be rude to Angélica. It was a remnant of my childhood to always strive for her approval. To have my beloved, older sister in my room, paying me attention, had been my biggest desire as a child. She’d always been so sophisticated, so confident, the most popular girl in Vinces. At seventeen, there had not been a day when she didn’t receive an admirer or at the very least, a gift. It had been maddening.

“And I think I have the solution,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Hermana, can’t you see? With Purificación’s part of the inheritance, we could have a meaningful dowry for you. You could finally get married!”

“At my age?”

Who would want to marry a twenty-three-year-old spinster?

Angélica let out a laugh, which reminded me of so many of those childhood years when she would beat me at cards.

“Catalina, dear, you’re at your prime! You’ve never been more beautiful. The only reason men don’t approach you is that they don’t want to be damned for eternity. It can be intimidating for a man to be with a woman like you, the woman our Holy Mother has chosen as her messenger.”

Heavens, I was so tired of hearing how saintly and pure I was!

“But how would a dowry change the fact that men, as you say, are intimidated by me?”

She stood. “Well, it would just motivate them to pursue you. They’ll see that you’re interested in having a family, a house of your own. Right now, people in town think you’re perfectly content praying all day and communicating with the Virgin. They don’t know there’s a side of you who longs to be loved and have children.” She squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t let your life be just about that. You can have so much more, Catalina. You deserve more.”

How could I explain the effect my sister’s words had on me? I knew Angélica was slick as a cat—I’d always known—and yet, I couldn’t resist her. I was simply one more pawn in the long list of people who couldn’t deny Angélica any of her wishes.





CHAPTER 10

Puri April 1920



The cedar floors creaked with every one of my steps down the staircase. I followed the voices coming from one of the rooms and opened the door. The entire family was seated around an oval table, a fine Italian Gobelin tapestry displayed across the wall. Martin was also there and a new face, a young priest (my brother?), at one end of the table. Even the cockatoo had a spot on the back of Angélica’s chair.

“Don Cristóbal, I’m glad you could make it,” said Angélica from the other end. She’d changed into a black sequin dress and a matching hat with a long feather, which held the bird’s attention.

“Good evening,” I said to all. I was getting better at lowering the range of my voice without having to clear my throat every two minutes.

It was a warm night, with mosquitoes being shooed away from a tray of crab legs and boiled shrimp. My sisters’ fans followed the motions of their tireless wrists. I could already tell I wouldn’t be able to sleep under this heat. The air was so dense I could almost touch it and Cristóbal’s shirt was glued to my back. Good thing I’d cut my hair so short.