The Spanish Daughter(84)

“Don Cristóbal, how are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you.” I hesitated to take another step.

“Would you come in for a minute? We’ve been waiting for you.”

We? Exactly who was waiting for me? I didn’t feel like seeing Martin right now.

I followed Angélica into the parlor. Laurent, Catalina, Alberto, and Tomás Aquilino stared at me from their seats around the coffee table. Where was Martin? Had he told them the truth? No, he’d covered up for me in front of Julia. But what was going on here? I’d just seen Aquilino the previous day.

I shook hands with the lawyer. His handshake was weak and he avoided my eyes the entire time. Come to think of it, everybody seemed to be avoiding my eyes.

“Shall we wait for Martin?” Alberto said.

“No,” Angélica said. “He’s not part of this family.”

So she was still irritated with him. But little did I care about the complexities of their relationship at the moment. I dug my hands in my pockets to hide their tremor.

Aquilino turned to me. “Se?or . . .” He cleared his throat. “Padre Alberto was kind enough to bring me over to discuss with the family some disconcerting news I received this morning.”

Disconcerting?

“I received a letter from a British captain—I think his last name is Blake—from a ship called the Andes. He’s trying to locate Do?a María Purificación de Lafont y Toledo to notify her that her husband’s remains have been found. Apparently, the only address he has in connection to Mrs. Lafont is mine since her husband had sent me a telegram from Cuba.”

Cristóbal was found?

I leaned on the arm of the couch, light-headed. My face was on fire, my chest thumping. How had they found him? I wanted to see him! But then, as soon as I realized the extent of the news, I looked around the room at all the puzzled faces staring back at me. They didn’t understand a thing—obviously. How was it possible that my remains had been found when I was alive and well, standing right in front of them?

Here it was, the moment I’d been dreading. I looked around the room. Catalina, Angélica, and Laurent were staring at me. Alberto was simply nodding as if nothing could shock a man in his line of work.

“But if Don Cristóbal passed away weeks ago,” Aquilino said slowly, “then who are you?”

“An impostor!” Laurent said. “I knew it!”

“I don’t understand. Didn’t our sister die on the ship?” Angélica said. “Where is she now?”

Catalina had turned pale. She merely looked from one face to another trying to make sense of things.

“It was to be expected,” Laurent said. “A fortune like this one attracts all kinds of scoundrels.”

A scoundrel? He was the only scoundrel here! I was about to respond, to defend myself, but Angélica spoke first.

“Well? Aren’t you going to tell us who you are?”

“Yes,” Laurent said, pointing his finger at me, “and how did you find out about my father-in-law’s fortune?”

At that moment, Julia entered the room with a tray filled with espresso cups. I thought of the word “scoundrel” and suddenly I remembered what it was that I needed to recall, what my unconscious mind had been trying to tell me since I woke up.

As my siblings and my father’s lawyer stared at me, I removed my spectacles and set them on the coffee table, then I pulled off my beard and mustache, relieved that this would be the last time I would ever have to wear that dreadful thing.

Their faces transformed from confusion to shock.

As I removed my jacket, so relieved as if I’d been unlocking a pair of handcuffs from my wrists, I spoke with my regular voice. “I’m María Purificación.”

I raised my chin. I was not ashamed of what I’d done, especially now that I’d figured everything out.

Catalina covered her mouth.

“What? Purificación?” Angélica looked at me as if a sculpture had come to life. “Why would you do this? Why would you deceive us?”

“Because I needed to know which one of you had sent Franco to the ship to kill me; because I feared for my life and didn’t trust any of you after Franco murdered my husband.”

All of them spoke at once. In their faces, I read incredulity, confusion, and in Catalina’s case, an intense pain.

Finally, Angélica’s voice rose above the rest. “You’re mistaken. Nobody here would do such a thing!”

I glanced at each one of them until my eyes landed on the guilty one.

“Yes, one of you did.” I lifted my chin. “Since we’re all here confessing, why don’t you tell them the truth, Elisa?”

Still holding the tray, Julia looked directly at me, her eyes filled with tears of what I could only read as rage.

My sisters turned to the maid, incredulous.

“Elisa?” Catalina said.

Julia, or Elisa, set the tray on the sideboard. For a moment, I thought she was going to flee, but she simply stood there, staring at her hands, which were shaking even more than mine.

“I don’t know what this . . . this person is talking about.”

“Don’t deny it,” I said. “I saw the puppets in your room. Your stepfather was a puppeteer. I read about it in one of the letters you sent to Armand.”