by Cheri Lasota
Regardless, the conde’s quiet reserve calmed her, and she relaxed into her chair and took a sip of her piping hot garoto.
“Tomorrow we will discuss your education,” he continued, looking at them both. “I will be your tutor, as will my brother—when he has time to visit, of course. Education is shunned by many here, but it is of great importance to me. I will have you both literate and learned. Under my tutelage you will study mathematics, literature, philosophy, and history.”
The padre folded his hands and smiled. “And I will come by often to teach you Latin and theology, though my brother has also attended seminary and will help you with your studies in my absence.”
Seminary? Arethusa glanced at Tristão.
“If you went to seminary, why aren’t you a priest?” Tristão asked the conde, his curiosity getting the better of propriety. A momentary surprise crossed the conde’s face at the question, and then his features softened into a smile.
“That, Tristão, is a very long story,” he replied in a stiff voice with a glance at the padre. “Suffice it to say, I have found a different calling.”
The condessa broke the silence. “Good of you to put it so delicately.”
The conde tried to silence her with a look, but she would have none of it. “Do these children meet with your approval?” she said, her voice cold. “Two orphans, one mute? How am I even supposed to communicate with this girl?”
Arethusa cringed, her feelings taking her back to memories of the stoning. Is this what Artemis had destined for her—to move from hate to hate with no reprieve?
“Leandro tells me they know their letters,” the conde soothed in a voice that resonated like a church bell. “Arethusa may write to you, and you to her.”
Rage raised blood vessels in the condessa’s temples until she looked near to bursting. She stood and slammed her fists on the table.
“I have nothing to say to her.” Her voice was colder than Isabel’s had ever been, but Arethusa heard an old anger behind her words.
“Inês,” the conde said, “these are your children now. You will make them feel welcome.”
The condessa looked as though she might say more, but Padre Salvador raised his hand. “Inês, Tristão and Arethusa have come from difficult circumstances. As your priest, I would advise you to take that into account. They will look to you for guidance and wisdom—would you deny them this?”
The condessa refused to look at Padre Salvador, but Arethusa watched the anger dissipating to a slow simmer.
Tristão, always the peacemaker, asked the conde, “What are we to call you?”
“You may call me Pai, but Inês prefers condessa,” he said in an even tone.
I won’t call him Pai, Arethusa thought. She peeked at the condessa from behind the steam rising from her demitasse cup. The woman remained aloof as she glared at her husband. And her—I won’t call her anything!
“Pai,” Tristão said in a cheerful voice, as if he were relieved. It sounded strange to hear Tristão say father to someone he had just met. But Arethusa realized this was the first time Tristão had ever been able to say it.
The conde coughed again and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. “Would you both like to take a tour about the house? I need to speak to my brother in the study.”
Arethusa nodded, happy at the thought of escaping the condessa as well as exploring the rest of the house.
“Yes, Pai,” Tristão said again. Arethusa could tell he liked the sound. It reminded her of the moment he had first said her own name in Senhorita Jacinta’s infirmary.
“Teresa,” the conde called out.
“Sim, Conde Estrela?” The housemaid appeared at the kitchen door.
“Would you please take the children on a tour of the house and see them to their rooms?” he requested, as he and Padre Salvador rose from their chairs.
“Claro que sim, Conde Estrela.”
The maid waited for Arethusa and Tristão as they slid from their chairs, their desserts already devoured and the last of the garotos sipped. As everyone else left the room, the condessa remained, still nursing the last of her coffee. Arethusa felt the heaviness lift as they drifted to the sitting room and sighed with relief as her tense muscles continued to relax.
The maid turned to look at her new charges. “I will show you your rooms. Then you can see the rest of the house.”
At the sound of Teresa’s voice, the conde, who walked ahead of them as they crossed through the sitting room, spoke to the housemaid in a low voice.
“Be sure to tell them about the study.”
“Sim, Conde Estrela.” Teresa hesitated. The conde began to walk up a set of stairs to the left past the sitting room but turned back and studied Tristão and Arethusa’s faces for a long moment.
“I am pleased to have you both in my home. Sleep well.”
“Goodnight, Padre Salvador. Goodnight, Pai,” Tristão said.
The conde’s smile was like a blessing. “Per ardua ad astra, Tristão. In Latin that means ‘through hardship, to the stars.’” He kept his smile for Tristão, but, as he gazed at Arethusa, a wash of sadness swept through his eyes.
Tristão and Arethusa stared after him, wide-eyed, as they watched the two brothers ascend the stairs. After lighting a candle, Teresa led them down a long hallway lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany paneling and intricate tapestries of flowers and island life. It wasn’t as drafty as the orphanage hallways, but a coldness pervaded the house, an unnamable feeling of disquiet. The maid continued on to the middle of the hall and stopped at a door on the left.
“This is your room, Senhor Vazante,” she said.
“Please, Senhorita—I’m just Tristão.”
“Oh, no, Senhor,” Teresa said, “the condessa demands formality in this house.”
She opened the door and went to light the oil lamp sitting on the edge of the washstand. As Tristão stepped inside, Arethusa peeked past the doorframe to see a sparsely furnished bedroom with a wardrobe and a small bed covered by a multi-colored handmade quilt.
Teresa motioned to Arethusa as she left the room. “Come with me, Senhorita, and I will show you your room.” Arethusa followed the maid farther down to the last room on the left.
The candlelit room was also lined with dark mahogany wood paneling, giving the room an elegant feel. A handmade quilt of white lace covered the small bed, and, to the right, a pitcher and basin stood along one wall next to a large walnut wardrobe.
Teresa paused as Tristão joined them. “You are a mute, Senhorita?” At Arethusa’s nod, Teresa glanced at Tristão. “Between the three of us, we had better find a quick way of communicating, or the condessa will soon grow cross.”
“I can understand her when she mouths to me—most of the time.” Tristão smiled at Arethusa. “But she also writes and gestures.”
Teresa frowned. “I cannot read, but we can make up signs for everyday things.”
“Yes,” Tristão said. “We do that too.”
“Good. Let me show you the rest of the house.” She exited the room with perfunctory courtesy and swept her hand toward the door across the hall. “This is my bedroom here. If you need anything, I’ll be close by.”
They walked back through the darkened hallway, Teresa’s smoking candle leading the way, casting tall shadows on the walls. Ascending the creaking stairs, they came upon another hallway of tapestries. Teresa opened a door on the right.
“These are the master’s quarters. You are not allowed in here unless you are summoned.”
A large, carved bed dominated the space and a burgundy chaise lay beneath a window looking out to the sea. Lace curtains adorned the windows, and all the furniture in the room, from the bed to the armoire, was carved in ornate circular designs. Portraits of the Cristo and the Virgem Maria hung on the walls, and, on each bedside stand, open-armed religious figurines stood atop linen cutwork doilies.
As Teresa closed the door, Tristão whispered to Arethusa, “Have you ever seen anything so fine? It fe
els like a palace compared to the orphanage. I’d be afraid to touch anything.”
“That is good.” Teresa eyed him. “You can’t break what you don’t touch.”
As they entered the next room, Arethusa realized it was a biblioteca. Shelves of books reached from floor to ceiling, and a desk and chair sat in the middle of the room.
“Will we be allowed to read these books when Pai teaches us?” Tristão said, wide-eyed.
“I suppose so.” Teresa looked thoughtful. “I know many of these are learning books.” She moved to leave, motioning them to the next room where the conde and Padre Salvador’s muffled voices could be heard. “This is the study and it is always locked. If you remember nothing else, remember this: entrance to the study is forbidden to all but the conde and Padre Salvador.”
Tristão raised his eyebrows at Arethusa. Tristão leaned over to Arethusa as they headed downstairs, whispering, “I wonder what he’s hiding in there?”
THE NEXT MORNING ARETHUSA AWOKE TO A soft knock. Tristão’s shy smile appeared through the tiny crack in the door. She scrambled to sit up and cover herself. He had seen her in her nightgown before, but everything had changed since then. Now it was hard to be near him.
Arethusa gestured for him to leave, but he held up his hand and implored her with his eyes.
“Sorry to take you from your sleep, but I was worried about you. I used to get that same feeling about the little ones. I’d wake all of a sudden, and, not knowing what I was about, I’d have to check on them, one by one, in their beds. Irmã Fátima used to call me their guardian angel, but it isn’t true, of course. I just have to make sure nothing’s the matter, and then I can be steady again. Do you see?”
Arethusa didn’t quite know how to respond. She stared at him a moment and then motioned that she was fine, though she was anything but. It was becoming clear to her how difficult this new arrangement would be. To see him day after day, knowing what he once felt for her and what he would never feel again. That she even felt a twinge of regret about him angered her. He betrayed me. How can he think all is forgiven now?
“Are you sure?” he said, opening the door a little farther. “I—Are you settling in? Did you sleep well?”
She rubbed her eyes and brushed back the strands of hair that were spilling out of her plaits. She was much too tired to put on a sweet face for him, but she knew he wouldn’t leave unless she lied, so she looked him straight in the eye and mouthed, “Yes.”
Tristão breathed an audible sigh of relief, and his smile was disconcerting. It spoke of a comfort and a familiarity she did not feel. It was hard for her to despise him when he looked at her like that. But she wouldn’t be taken in again. The Goddess wouldn’t allow it, and now that they were adopted brother and sister, whatever chance they once had to be more was lost.
Tristão glanced toward the window. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Arethusa followed his gaze out into the blinding sunrays flaring through the white lace curtains and the May breezes drifting through the open shutter. The sun’s light shone on the water, creating silver-gold streaks that flowed translucent over the blue waves.
A well-tended garden of vegetables, fruits, and flowers lay outside the window. The fragrance of canna lilies, sweetbriers, and honeysuckles touched her nose and mingled with the scents of the sea. She also recognized banana trees standing among the potato and sugar beet patches.
The sudden swing of the door startled them, and when she glanced back, the condessa had burst into the room, her cheeks flushed with anger. The woman kept her distance from Tristão, not even allowing the fabric of her skirt to touch him, and waved him back.
“In this house, you will never be allowed in each other’s rooms. Despite what the law may say, you are no brother and sister, and you will keep your distance.”
Tristão went pale as Arethusa froze, feeling the weight of the condessa’s words and the unspoken accusations behind them.
“I am sorry, Condessa Estrela,” Tristão said.
The condessa ignored his apology. “Padre Salvador is taking leave of us and wishes to say goodbye,” she said without humor. “Arethusa, you will dress after Tristão leaves the room.”
Arethusa’s eyes popped open wide in surprise. Did the woman think she had no sense of propriety at all? What would it be like living with this woman? She knew exactly. Her father had been like that, angry without reason, suspicious without cause. What made her think the Estrelas would be any different?
*
The condessa glowered at her and Tristão with disgust as they walked into the dining room, and Arethusa smoothed her skirt and finger-brushed her hair, feeling like a lowborn outcast next to this condessa in all her expensive fabrics. She had just the one black mourning dress, but she wished she could have worn a new dress and shoes to breakfast.
“Send João for the seamstress.” The condessa motioned to Teresa. “I will not have these children embarrass me one more day in these orphanage rags.”
“Yes, Condessa.” The maid shuffled off.
“So you have awakened.” The master of the house raised his coffee cup. He wore a fine suit of linen, and his powerful presence in the room was unmistakable, despite his sunken shoulders and the sallow cast of his skin.
“Ah, let them have their rest, Fernando. They’ve had an exciting few days, if you haven’t noticed,” Padre Salvador said.
“Indeed.” The conde motioned them to sit.
“Arethusa, did you have a comfortable rest?” the padre whispered.
“What are you whispering about?” the condessa said, her smile a sneer as she buttered her bread. “Am I not her mother now? Should I not be privy to all her nearest concerns?”
“That is enough, Inês,” the conde reprimanded. The condessa said nothing more for the rest of the meal but ate her breakfast with slow precision, emptying her coffee cup as the padre rose to leave.
Padre said only one thing to Arethusa before he left for Angra. He leaned down and whispered, “This is where you are meant to be, Arethusa. It will be difficult right now, but you will someday come to understand why you have been brought here.”
Unsure what he meant, she merely nodded.
Soon after they said their goodbyes to Padre Salvador, they followed the conde into the library.
“This will be your classroom.” He swept his hand toward the bookshelves, the globe on its pedestal, the stacks of papers lying in every corner of the room. “Have either of you had any education thus far?”
“Padre Salvador taught me some reading, writing, theology, and some Latin,” Tristão said, as they all sat.
Arethusa wrote on her pad, Reading and writing. She handed the note to the conde.
He nodded once. “I know you have been taught that education is forbidden to you, but now that you are living in an upper class household, that foolishness no longer applies. We have a great deal of work ahead of us. You will soon be well versed in history, mythology, and mathematics as well as reading and writing. And you will also continue your lessons in theology and Latin, Tristão, when my brother comes to visit.”
“Now, then, I know little of raising children,” the conde said, “but I expect you to be truthful, to work hard at your studies, and to be respectful.” He raised an eyebrow at them. “Has my brother told you why I brought you here?”
They shook their heads. Arethusa wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She was afraid that the conde would discover it had all been a mistake and would soon send them back to the hell that was Lar de Santo Jerome Emiliani Orphanage.
“When I met you at the festa and my brother told me your names... I couldn’t believe it.” He stopped again and gazed out the window. “I had heard those names before, you see. In fact, I know them quite well.”
“Did you know,” the conde said to Arethusa, studying her face with earnest eyes, “your name comes from the ancient Greek myth of Alpheus and Arethusa?”
She hesitated. How can he know this? Is the story comm
on knowledge here?
The conde looked to Tristão. “And that your name is a variant of Tristan, one of the most famous knights in all of English legend?”
A slow shock washed over Tristão’s face.
“As a boy I was fascinated by mythology, and in my studies I came across these two myths. They were two of my favorites. When I met you, I knew it was no coincidence. It was God’s will that we meet, and so I brought you here to live in my house.”
If the conde knew the story of Alpheus and Arethusa, he might also know about the power of the moonstone. Perhaps that was why he tried to take it from her at the festa.
“Will you tell us the knight’s story?” Tristão said, looking like an oversized child, his foot tapping a drum beat against the chair leg.
The conde smiled. “You have the same look in your eyes that I had when I first heard of it. Yes, the legend of Tristan and Isolde will be your first lesson.” He sipped from a glass of water and cleared his throat. “I don’t believe in coincidence. And when I tell you this story, Tristão, you will see something of yourself in this knight of Cornwall. Yes, indeed you will.”
Arethusa frowned. The conde’s words were familiar, as if she had heard them before, though she knew she had not.
Conde Estrela brought out a very old book from the bookshelf. It looked well used, with frayed edges and marked pages. The conde settled into his chair and flipped to a page noted with the leaf of a dried reed.
“Let the story now commence.” He turned his gaze to the book and began, without preamble, to read.
“In the country of England, in the county of Cornwall, the Queen of Lyonesse gave birth to a son on her deathbed. She had only the time to name the child before she died, saying ‘I shall name you Tristan, for in sorrow was I taken from you and in sorrow do I go to my death.’”
“His name means sorrow?” Tristão said.
“Yes. Just as your own.”
Arethusa did not look at Tristão but felt him move closer, leaning toward the conde, as though to capture every word. Despite his coughing fits, the conde’s voice held a rich, deep timbre. When he spoke, the story came alive.
