The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(37)

“I don’t know. Pieces of bread and cheese, I suppose.”

“You’ll have to explain.”

“I’m not sure. Whatever would impress our guests. It must be done quick. We are going to eat it by the cenote.”

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Laughton to help you make it? He’s English. He’d know how to.”

“It’s just us heading for a swim, Montgomery is not coming.”

Ramona shook her head and wiped her hands on a kitchen rag. “Then you can’t go.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to swim with two men and no chaperone?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“It’s bad, that’s why not. There’s no arrangement between you and those men, no mujul. You need to ask for a bride seven times before she’ll marry you. Have these men asked even once?”

“It’s not like that. They’re not macehuales.”

“The dzules need to court properly, too. It’s not proper. I’m no fool, Loti.”

“I am going,” Carlota said, her gentle disposition giving way to mulish stubbornness.

But as Carlota spoke, she heard footsteps behind her. It was Montgomery. Of course, he took Ramona’s side. Carlota thought he did it to exasperate her. She didn’t understand why else he’d care where they went. It’s not as if he’d ever made an effort to be sociable. She felt cheated as they walked toward the cenote, but she attempted to convince herself that the situation could be salvaged.

When they reached the cenote she was, for a moment, happy. The water was beautiful, and the birds sang in the trees, and there was all the magic and the glory that she was accustomed to. She thought they’d feel it, too, and this place would soothe them all.

Then Montgomery decided to act like a clown. With each word he spoke she felt the desire to press a hand against his mouth and bid him be quiet. He was breaking the spell that held the land and the water together, that knit the fish in the depths with the sun in the sky.

It was as if he was casting a hex.

When she thought it couldn’t be worse, he tossed his hat aside, took off his shirt, and nonchalantly prepared to go for a swim.

She knew the names of muscles and bones from her father’s medical textbooks, but she hadn’t seen an unclothed man. Or half-clothed, in this case, since he had the decency of at least keeping his trousers in place. Though the trousers, white in color and of a thin material, turned almost transparent once wet, rendering modesty obsolete.

Montgomery was lean. Scars ran down his arm, and despite his gauntness, his body displayed the strength of coarse, constant work. She wondered whether beneath their magnificent clothes the Lizaldes looked different, whether they lacked Montgomery’s sturdy efficiency. After all, they had bodies that had been tempered in front of pianos and desks, bodies that knew the motions of carriages and the sounds of a city.

Montgomery was like a chipped piece of pottery. She couldn’t imagine he’d ever been whole, and his eyes, when they glanced at her, were watery gray. Not green and lush and full of promise like Eduardo’s, but the gray of storms.

She turned her face away, blushing, and clasped her hands together.

Nobody said a thing.

She wished to tell the men that she didn’t understand what was happening, that normally Montgomery didn’t behave like this, that she hoped they weren’t offended, but she could not think what to say or how to begin saying it.

He’d cast a hex, all right.

He’d ruined it all.

When Montgomery emerged from the water and pulled her away, still she couldn’t speak, but each step filled her with anger, and at last she moved in front of him.

“How dare you, Montgomery!” she exclaimed.

Rather than looking contrite, he was indifferent. More than that: he was smug.

She slapped him, hand colliding with his smooth cheek. But all that did was make it worse, and she rushed away, tears in her eyes. The birds in the trees called out, their shrill cries an echo of his mockery.

When she reached her room she curled on the bed and wept. Many of the markers of Carlota’s childhood still remained around her. The chest with toys was at the foot of the bed, and on the shelves sat her dolls. She stared into their smiling faces, hoping to find them comforting, but they looked old and ugly.

She remembered how Montgomery had seemed so confident in front of her, practically laughing. Unable to stand it, she raked her nails across the bedsheets, as if wishing she could slash his face.

How dare he! And yet he did, he dared, he cared for nothing, he made a fool of her. She was drunk on an intoxicating cocktail of emotions. Anxiety, anger, excitement, and shame mingled together, plunging her body into chaos.

Her nails snagged in the cloth, the fine linen was blemished, and she tossed around, pushing the top sheet off the bed. She hugged the pillow.

Later, when the evening’s shadows began dancing through her window, Lupe knocked on the door and walked in. She was wearing the black dress, gloves, and veil she used whenever there were any outsiders at Yaxaktun, so that she might be concealed. The girl stayed out of the way, but this was an extra precaution.

Lupe had with her a tray, which she set down on a table.

“The gentlemen guests are going to have supper in their room, and Mr. Laughton says he’s indisposed, so Ramona told me to bring you a plate rather than have her set the table.”