The Spanish Daughter(8)
“Don Martin, meet Don Cristóbal de Balboa, Do?a Purificación’s husband,” Aquilino said.
Martin squared his brick shoulders and shook my hand, looking me straight in the eye. No one had ever shaken my hand so hard or looked at me so intently. As a woman, I was used to a soft kiss or a gentle squeeze of the hand. Men certainly didn’t hold a woman’s gaze for long, unless they were close or openly flirting. I made a conscious effort to tighten my grasp with equal force. The palm of his hand was a rock against my skin—maybe that was what the hands of all countrymen felt like. In comparison, Cristóbal had had the hands of a pianist: long and slender fingers, and as soft as a pair of velvet gloves.
I could feel my cheeks burning, uncertain of my disguise, but I held his gaze. I wouldn’t be the first one to look away. Something told me that the approval of this man was paramount. But after a quick assessment of my face, Martin finally let go of my hand, seemingly uninterested.
“Did Do?a Purificación stay at the port?” he asked.
“No.” Aquilino gestured toward the automobile. “I will explain in the car.”
The three of us entered a vehicle similar to Aquilino’s, but this was a touring car with two rows of shiny leather seats rather than one. The seat offered some relief to my sore backside after the stiff canoe ride.
We stopped by the deck, where Martin and Paco loaded our luggage. On our way to the hacienda, Aquilino told Martin that Do?a Purificación had perished on the ship. I tried to read something in Martin’s solemn expression, but it was impossible. He turned toward me and offered his condolences without asking any details of my “wife’s” passing. I couldn’t decide if this was a sign of discretion or indifference.
I remained as inconspicuous as possible. I didn’t want either one of them to examine my features too closely or ask me any questions. Like a mute, I listened to their sporadic chatting, which competed with the loud engine. They mentioned people I didn’t know, but I supposed would meet soon. Most of the conversation, however, pertained to the weather pattern in the last couple of days and how well the crops were doing. Martin turned to me and explained that they’d already started collecting the pods. I barely nodded, as though I had no interest in the subject, but in reality, I was eager to learn everything there was to know about the business.
At the end of the road hung a handwritten sign over a sturdy fence. Martin stopped the vehicle to open the gate. I couldn’t help but notice his assertive gait—the man radiated confidence. I lowered my head to read the sign through the windshield. Stunned, I read the name twice.
LA PURI.
My father had named his hacienda after me.
*
My father’s mansion, because that was the only way to describe such a luxurious construction, was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. It was a two-story manor with shutters and balconies all around, a solid structure painted with pristine detail in crimson, pink, and cream. Doric columns spread throughout the porch to support the second story. From the balconies hung ceramic pots with ferns and blue orchids. The porch floor was made out of the loveliest coral mosaic perfectly matching the walls. Under the shade sat a lady with a porcelain cup and a book in her hands.
Martin parked in front of the house and the two of them got out. After a moment, they turned around and stared at me. Like a fool, I’d been waiting for them to open the door for me—out of habit more than anything. I scrambled to open the door myself and got out.
The woman on the porch wore an ivory hat covering half of her face. Her silk gown in pearl tones was long, loose-fitted, and similar to the stylish dresses I’d seen so many times on the most affluent customers that came by my store. Perched on the woman’s shoulder was a white cockatoo with a lengthy tail, as if to leave no doubt that her monochromatic presentation was deliberate.
As I approached the steps, I recognized my father’s eyes in the woman’s face. Growing up, I’d memorized every detail of my father’s face through a portrait that sat on our chimney’s mantelpiece.
She had to be one of my sisters.
When the woman saw us, she stood to greet us. The cockatoo remained still except for a thick yellow feather that popped on top of its head.
“Do?a Angélica.” Aquilino approached the young woman and kissed her hand.
She must have been a couple of years younger than me. Her body was slender, with a long, swanlike neck. There was elegance to every one of her moves, from the way she turned her head to examine us (me in particular) to the way her long fingers extended toward mine so I would kiss her hand once Aquilino had made the proper introductions. I couldn’t reconcile how someone who looked so fragile would live in a rural place like this. She belonged in Madrid or in Paris, not in the country.
My cheeks flushed as I kissed my sister’s hand. It felt so unnatural. The only hand I’d ever kissed had been the parish priest’s (and only because my mother had prompted me to do so). One of Angélica’s eyebrows lifted slightly as she examined my face more closely. I lowered my boater hat to cover as much of it as possible.
When Aquilino mentioned María Purificación’s tragic demise at sea, a frown creased Angélica’s brow.
“What a shame,” she said, shaking her head. “I was looking forward to meeting her.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or just polite. Her expression revealed nothing more than discomfort, and given the strenuous heat, it might have been more of a reaction to the weather than to the sad news.