The Spanish Daughter(9)

“Please come inside.” She picked up a white fan from the table and opened it in one swift move, like a flamenco dancer. I couldn’t help but picture my mother in her polka-dot skirt when she danced: her serious demeanor, her proud pose, the precision of her steps and the elegance of her hands. Flamenco had been her biggest passion, but she’d only danced in the privacy of our parlor; she’d always been so careful to hide her drops of sangre gitana.

The cockatoo adjusted its gray feet on my sister’s shoulder as we entered the house.

She was very feminine and graceful, this sister of mine. The sway of her hips as she entered the hacienda held the complete attention of both Aquilino and Martin. Even I was staring, and I was a woman!

Inside, she removed her hat and set the bird on top of a cage. Angélica had her hair in a bob, very chic. As I faced my late father’s oversized portrait in the foyer, I noticed how similar Angélica’s complexion and coloring was to his.

The mosaic tile carried on to the foyer, but the walls inside were powder blue. Behind another column was a spiral staircase and a crystal chandelier hung above our heads.

A tall man was descending the staircase.

“Perfect timing, cher,” Angélica told him. “Come meet María Purificación’s husband, Don Cristóbal de Balboa.”

When she said my name, it sounded as if she knew me well, as if she and I had grown up together, and the family talked about me often. There had been no awkwardness in her tone. It was somewhat touching, but I couldn’t let my guard down. As far as I was concerned, someone in this house wanted me dead.

“Don Cristóbal, this is my husband, Laurent Dupret.”

A Frenchman. I’d known beforehand that many Europeans had made their way to this remote corner of the world, but it still jarred me to find them here, looking so polished and radiant.

He wore a striped gray suit, a checkered tie, and a carefully folded handkerchief that strategically escaped his front pocket. He looked like he’d just shaved even though it was the middle of the afternoon.

“Enchanted,” Laurent said, extending his hand to mine.

He had long arms and fingers that appeared to be made out of elastic rather than flesh and bone. His handshake was significantly softer than Martin’s, but Laurent was manly, attractive, and had it not been for my disguise, I would’ve sworn his eyes scanned me with flirtation. There was something unsettling about him and I feared, more so than earlier, that he could see my true self beneath Cristóbal’s spectacles. But if he noticed something, he didn’t say.

I broke eye contact and followed my sister’s lead to an elegant living room that smelled of polishing wax and pine. A harp sat in the corner of the room.

“Would you care for a whiskey, Don Cristóbal?” Angélica said.

I was used to light alcoholic beverages like wine, sangría, even champagne on occasion, but never hard liquor.

All eyes were set on me except for Martin’s. After our initial introduction, he’d barely paid me any attention.

“Yes, thank you,” I said slowly.

“Julia!” Angélica called. “Bring the whiskey bottle, please.”

As we gathered around a marble-top table, a maid in a black-and-white uniform entered the parlor, her feet barely audible, her hair coiled in a braid around her head. She carried a tray filled with glasses and a golden bottle.

“Call Catalina,” Angélica told her, picking up the bottle.

Catalina, my other sister.

You would think that as lonely as I was, I would be excited to meet my family. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve been. But after what had happened on that ship, I was wary, resentful. And yet, a part of me was curious to know more about them. I tried, unsuccessfully, to control the tremor in my hand as I reached for the glass Angélica offered me. As soon as my gaze met hers, she produced another smile.

“Have a seat, please,” Angélica told me.

I picked a chair with a scarlet cushion.

A woman dressed entirely in black entered the room. She was much too young to be dressed with such severity. Her lace skirt covered her legs all the way to her ankles, and the long sleeves of her blouse concealed her arms entirely, but hard as she tried to hide underneath the dress, the fabric hugged her waist and hips so snugly it enhanced every curve of her body. Her eyes and eyebrows, carefully shaped and outlined, were so stunning it was impossible to look anywhere else.

She slid her hand over her tight bun and looked at me, the one stranger in the room.

“This is María Purificación’s husband,” Angélica said. “He came to us with the sad news that our sister perished aboard the Andes.”

It was nearly imperceptible, but Catalina’s eyes widened as she shot a quick glance at her sister. I couldn’t tell if the gesture was a reaction to their sister’s demise and what that meant for them, or if she had somehow discovered the truth about me.

“Don Cristóbal, this is my sister Catalina.”

Catalina faced me and muttered what sounded like condolences.

“May the Lord have her in His eternal glory.”

I stared at the gigantic cross hanging from Catalina’s neck and nodded at her, tightening my fingers around the cold glass—I couldn’t bring myself to kiss her hand, too.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, mechanically.