The Spanish Daughter(77)

Martin snuck inside the room with a small tray in his hands, shutting the door behind him with his foot. He signaled with his free hand that I should be quiet. The tray had a cup of tea and bread and something that looked like caramel. I was delighted. In my twenty-eight years of life, nobody had ever brought breakfast to my room.

“Mayra is already up,” he said, “so we have to be very quiet. I told her you had spent the night here for you were too sick to get home.”

I smeared the caramel-like texture onto the bread.

“This is delicious,” I said. “What is it?”

“Dulce de leche. Some people call it manjar. It’s made out of milk and brown sugar loaf. Bachita makes it once a week.”

“I love it,” I said, taking another bite of my bread.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said unexpectedly. “I always knew there was something different about you. A man could never have such fine features.”

“Do you think other people might have noticed, too?”

“Nobody has said anything to me.”

Smiling, I took a sip of tea while he opened the curtains. He stood by the window for a moment, looking outside, and his smile vanished. He tensed up and shifted forward, fixing his gaze on something I couldn’t see. Forcefully, he shut the curtains and rushed to the door.

“Stay here. And don’t open the door for anybody until I get back.”

Before I could say a word, he darted out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

I set the tray on the night table and dashed to the window to see what the source of his distress was.

Angélica.

She climbed off Pacha with a mastery I didn’t think I would ever achieve with this horse or any other. Lifting her skirt as to not dirty the hemline, she started toward the front of the house with a determined gait. What had happened?

Before I’d finished putting on my trousers, I heard her screechy voice, more upset and unhinged than I’d ever heard her. She was already inside.

“Where is she?” Angélica said.

She?

Oh, no, she’d figured out who I was. But how? Nobody but Martin knew and he’d been with me the entire evening. At least I thought so.

I tried to lock the bedroom door but the knob seemed to be broken.

She was climbing the stairs now, her feet stomping against the wood, her voice getting closer. Martin was telling her to calm down, to come downstairs, calling her by her first name instead of se?ora. This familiarity of theirs, Angélica’s demands, her ringing voice. It almost sounded like she was jealous. They both sounded more like lovers than work associates.

“I know Silvia is here! I know! She left the party right after you did! Oh, I know her so well. She couldn’t wait until her husband cooled down in his grave before coming to see you! Silvia, Silvia!”

She was in the hall now. I was halfway through putting on my corset.

“Silvia is not here,” Martin said. “Stop with this nonsense.”

“You’re such a liar!” Her voice was filled with contempt, but also pain. She was vexed, yes, undoubtedly, but at times it sounded like she might break down and cry.

I was tucking my shirt inside my pants when I heard the door opening in the adjacent room.

“Stop hiding, Silvia! I know you’re in here!”

?Virgen de la Macarena! I’d never moved faster. I didn’t even have a mirror to glue my beard and mustache. Should I try to hide somewhere? The first place she would look would be under the bed.

When the door flew open, I’d just managed to attach the beard to my chin, but I had to hold on to it with my hand so it wouldn’t fall off. I was sitting in the chair where my clothes had been with my legs crossed, my spectacles crooked, and my hand on my chin.

“Don Cristóbal! What are you doing here?”

She stopped sharply by the door. Her eyes taking in the scene in front of her. The bed was still unmade, the breakfast unfinished on the night table, her sister’s husband holding on to his chin as though it might fall.

“Good morning,” I mumbled. “Don Martin was kind enough to let me spend the night here. I’m in horrible pain, you see, I think it’s my molar.”

I only wished she wouldn’t ask to see it.

“Yes,” Martin said promptly. I wouldn’t look him in the eye. “We left the party because Don Cristóbal could barely handle the pain in his mouth, but he didn’t want to ruin your evening, Do?a Angélica. Hard as we tried, we couldn’t find a single doctor to help him, so we just came here so he could rest.”

I couldn’t bear the sight of him. He was so good at lying. It had come so easy to follow my lead.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Don Cristóbal.” Her breathing had slowed down, but her cheeks were still red. “I can arrange for Laurent to take you to the doctor today. I’ll have him come over immediately to pick you up.” Then, adjusting the sleeves of her sheer overblouse, she turned to Martin. “I wish you would’ve told me right away that Don Cristóbal was here.”

“I tried,” he said between clenched teeth.

“There’s no need for anybody to bother taking me. I can walk to town,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment while I finish getting ready, I’ll be on my way.”