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Marianna

Page 5

by Nancy Buckingham


  And now the task had befallen her of instructing the poor menina in those matters she’d been carefully shielded from knowing about whilst her good mother was alive. Senhora Dona Grace had always been most insistent that her young daughter’s mind was to be kept pure, as she’d put it, with the result that the child’s natural curiosity had been left unsatisfied, all her questions left unanswered. Even after Senhora Dalby’s death, Linguareira had not liked to take it upon herself to act differently, though it had been an anxious time when the menina had started her monthly flows. Luckily she’d not been unduly alarmed, accepting the explanation that it was all a part of growing up. The little menina was a strange mixture, Linguareira reflected, candid and truthful mostly — yet sometimes so withdrawn that you never knew quite what was going on in the child’s head.

  ‘Since Miss Marianna has no mother, it’s up to you to see that she knows what’s what,’ the master had ordered Linguareira the other day. ‘Understand?’

  Oh yes, she knew what he meant well enough. She had to prepare the child for what to expect from a husband who’d seen more than fifty summers. A man who had probably been whoring for twice as many years as the little menina had been alive on this earth. A man who had buried one wife, the mother of his son and daughter, and now lusted for an innocent child as his bride. Ah well, so be it!

  As Marianna burst into the room, Linguareira heaved her bulk out of the chair and fell into her habitual sharp-tongued grumbling.

  ‘So here you are then, miss, and me wondering where you’d got to. A fine way to behave, I must say, running off without so much as a word.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Never mind about being sorry.’ And then, with determination, ‘I want to talk to you, menina.’

  ‘Oh? What about?’

  “About getting wed.’

  Marianna sighed. ‘I thought all the arrangements had been made about that.’

  ‘I don’t mean the wedding itself, child. Here, come and sit down with me. There are things I must tell you.’ Holy Mother of God, where did one begin? It was all so unnatural, a girl of this age knowing far less, than she herself had known at the age of seven or eight. But then, from what Linguareira had heard, all gentlefolk seemed to have such strange ideas about matters like this. Having no experience in finesse, she made a bold and blunt approach. ‘I want to talk to you about how babies get started.’

  A faint flush bloomed on Marianna’s cheeks. ‘But I already know about that.’

  ‘My, you’re a sly one!’ Linguareira’s surprise was quickly followed by an alarming thought. ‘Who’s been telling you I’d like to know. Not that Clever One?’

  The flush deepened swiftly. ‘Of course not! As if I’d ever talk to Jacinto about such a thing.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  Embarrassed, Marianna ran a finger along the curved arm of her chair. ‘The girls at school whisper about it sometimes,’ she mumbled. ‘But I don’t really listen. I’m not particularly interested. After all, there’s not much difference from what the animals do, is there?’

  Ai, the child was not so very mistaken there! Linguareira spoke firmly. ‘Whether or not you are interested, menina, now that you’re to be married you must be prepared. For it to happen to you, I mean.’

  Marianna kept her head lowered. ‘I know that,’ she said huskily. ‘But it will be wonderful to have children, won’t it? Worth all the unpleasantness and the pain.’ She broke off and added apologetically, ‘I know it wasn’t worth it for you, though.’

  ‘That’s all over and forgot long ago!’ Forgot? The tiny, perfectly-formed child who was born too weak to live beyond three days and nights; and Pedro, so handsome and well-set, who had deserted her because of it. Linguareira added heavily, ‘Anyways, it gave me the milk to suckle you, menina., or where would you be now?’

  Impulsively, Marianna jumped up and planted a kiss on the flaccid cheek. ‘Dear Linguareira, I shall miss you quite dreadfully when I go to England. I do wish Mr Penfold would let me take you with me.’

  ‘You mustn’t fret about that, little one. I daresay I wouldn’t fit in among all those smart servants they have in England.’

  Marianna was looking thoughtful. ‘I might ask him just once more,’ she said. ‘It will be almost our wedding day when he returns, so maybe he’ll grant me my every wish. Bridegrooms do that sometimes, you know.’

  ‘No, menina, you’d best not ask any favours on my account.’ Linguareira had immediately sensed the English senhor’s hostility to her, and guessed that no pleas of Marianna’s would move him. ‘I expect you’ll manage well enough without me. Just you remember to be a good and dutiful wife to your husband and perhaps he’ll not demand too much of you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he won’t. Mr Penfold is a very kind man.’

  ‘Kindness doesn’t come into it, child, not when a man’s blood runs hot and he wants his way with a woman’s body.’

  Marianna’s young face screwed up in puzzlement. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You told me you did … about the animals.’

  ‘Oh, that! Well, married people have to sometimes so that they can have babies.’

  ‘Do you imagine my Pedro and me were wanting a little one, and us not wed at all?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ There was a small silence, then Marianna looked at her with her candid blue eyes. ‘Then why did you?’

  ‘Because it’s in the nature of men, that’s why. It’s what they always want from a woman, and women try to please them. Like you will have to try and please the man you’re going to marry.’

  Marianna shook her head. ‘I’m sure Mr Penfold isn’t like that,’ she said decidedly.

  Linguareira sighed. ‘All the men are like that, menina, make no mistake about it. Just so long as you’re prepared in your mind for whatever’s to come. Always remember that he’ll be your wedded husband, and that it’s your duty to please him in every way he expects.’

  * * * *

  After their supper of chicken stewed with rice, followed by an arrowroot mould and a dish of guava jelly, Linguareira put her feet up on a stool and settled with a sigh of content to her crochet work, while Marianna wandered out to the veranda. Through the fuchsia hedge that edged the garden, she could see a dim light in the windows of the feitor’s cottage, where Jacinto and his family would also have finished eating by now. A much simpler meal, she knew, probably just a vegetable or fish soup with rough bread. Meat was a luxury for them.

  It was a beautiful evening, drenched with fragrance. Moonlight shone fitfully through mottled clouds, silvering the garden and the surrounding mountains with its cool, mysterious radiance. Daytime’s bright hues were transformed to soft greys and misty browns, with the white streaks of the waterfalls shimmering palely. The air was warm and soft on Marianna’s bare arms, yet she could not prevent herself from, shivering. Fear? Apprehension? But what had she to fear? Nothing, nothing in the world.

  From the shadows of the hibiscus bushes she heard a low whistle that at first she took to be an owl, then a rustling sound was followed by a smothered giggle. Two figures emerged into the moonlight and locked themselves in a lovers’ embrace. Jacinto kissing that wretched girl, Tereza!

  Marianna felt sickened, yet fascinated too, and she could not bring herself to look away. She heard the girl’s soft laughter again as she broke free and began to run along the path towards the magnolia tree; but Jacinto caught her easily, pulling her into his arms and kissing her once more.

  At last, choked by the misery of watching them, Marianna turned away and fled into the house. Not stopping to pick up a candle, she ran upstairs guided only by the reflected glimmer of moonlight, and along the corridor to her room, where she flung herself down on the bed. It was disgusting! Fancy Jacinto behaving like that when he didn’t even like the girl very much. Not, of course, that she herself cared what Jacinto did. She hated him, didn’t she?

  Fingers clutching the embroidered counterpane, Marianna recalled the morning when
Jacinto had bandaged her grazed knee ... his touch very gentle as he knotted her handkerchief, and the strange, tingling feel of his fingertips brushing down the skin of her calf. And she remembered once more the sweet pressure of his lips on hers — those same lips that were now kissing that horrible girl!

  An idea flickered in Marianna’s mind. Sitting up abruptly, she glanced about the moonlit room for inspiration. Yes, that was it! She jumped off the bed and crossed to the dressing-table, her fingers fumbling for the ivory and tortoise-shell box which contained her few pieces of jewellery. Heart pounding, she lifted the lid and felt around for a little gold locket set with garnets and pearls. It was the one item of her mother’s precious belongings that her father had already given her, the rest having been put safely away until she was old enough to wear them.

  The locket lay in her palm, the garnets winking redly. It felt curiously cold against her skin. Shaking out a lace-edged handkerchief, she quickly wrapped the locket and ran to the door, opening it and peering outside. The dark corridor was deserted. On swift and silent feet she ran past the stairhead, then turned along a lesser corridor to the rear wing of the quinta where the servants had their quarters. Marianna knew where each one of them slept, and in a moment she had reached a room containing three low truckle beds. With the one small window letting in only a thin slant of moonlight, she had to feel her way across to the bed set furthest from the door. She lifted the straw palliasse and laid the locket beneath it, then quickly dropped the mattress back into place and straightened the cover.

  Stepping out into the corridor again, Marianna heard a door open somewhere below and the sound of a guitarra floated up the back stairs. There was a sudden burst of laughter. In an agony of fear that her presence might be discovered, she raced back to her own room and arrived there breathless and panting, her heart thudding against her ribs. But within moments she was sufficiently in control to light a candle, to smooth her frock and tidy herself before the cheval glass. Her eyes were overbright and her cheeks flushed — but there would be a satisfactory enough explanation for that.

  Before she could change her mind, before she was attacked by qualms of conscience, she picked up the china candlestick and hurried down to find Linguareira, to report that one of the servants had stolen her mother’s locket and that the whole house must be searched.

  * * * *

  The knowledge that Tereza had been sent home to her parents in disgrace, pending the fidalgo’s decision about her, failed to bring Marianna the satisfaction she had expected. Instead, as she and Linguareira set off for Funchal next day, Nuno trotting behind the horses as usual, she felt a gnawing sense of remorse.

  The servants were assembled on the veranda to bid their young mistress farewell. Along the route, women emerged from their cottages to bob her a curtsey as she went riding past, and men at work on the terraces paused to sweep off their pointed carapucas in a low bow. But Marianna was painfully conscious that the peasants’ usual cheerfulness was lacking; there was a certain coolness in their good wishes. Though they did not presume to condemn her for Tereza’s banishment, it was casting a shadow over the day.

  Jacinto’s parents, Eduardo and Rosaria Teixeiro, had come to see her off. In the traditional obeisance, the feitor and his wife each bent to embrace her knees until Marianna gave the signal to rise again by pressing a hand to their backs. Jacinto’s mother murmured softly, ‘May the Good Lord bless you, minha menina, and grant you many strong children.’

  Of Jacinto himself there was no sign whatever. Marianna clung to the hope of seeing him until long after they had left the valley and were well on their way, but at last she had to acknowledge the fact that Jacinto was letting her depart without a final goodbye. Did he suspect what she had done to incriminate Tereza, she wondered wretchedly. And if so, did he now hate and despise her for it?

  Before they reached Funchal, Marianna came to a decision that was a moderate sop to her conscience. She would make a special appeal to her father, implore him to show the utmost clemency towards the girl Tereza, as a gesture to celebrate her wedding. More than that she could not bring herself to do, dared not do. To confess her shameful secret was quite unthinkable.

  The SS Apollo bringing her bridegroom was due to arrive within the next twelve hours or so, depending on the weather at sea, and the nuptials were planned for the following day at noon. Fortunately, Mr Penfold had put arrangements in hand for the reception to be held at the British Consulate. The house in Rua das Murças in its present neglected state could never have been made ready to receive the guests, nor could a suitable repast have been provided. Nevertheless, a wedding was an excuse for revelry and a general air of merriment prevailed among the servants; all the morning Marianna had heard Linguareira loudly berating them for a lot of lazy, drunken, good-for-nothings. At which, she knew, they would laugh behind their hands and mimic her with cruel accuracy the moment her back was turned.

  After a good, solid luncheon of pork and walnut pudding, Linguareira settled in her favourite basket chair, gave a heavy sigh of relief and promptly fell asleep. Soon she was snoring steadily. Almost as if he had been waiting for this signal, Codface sidled into the small parlour and beckoned to Marianna.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ he told her in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘A visitor? Who is it?’

  ‘You’ll find out who it is, little menina.’

  Wondering, she followed the man as he lurched down the stairs to the gloomy, cavernous kitchen. There, with the servants crowded round him in a circle, giggling and taunting him, stood Jacinto.

  ‘Here is Clever One come to see you, menina. Your pupil wants to bid his teacher farewell.’

  Marianna felt a great leap of joy at seeing him, but Jacinto’s bony face was set in a hard expression. He looked as if he wished himself anywhere but there.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, crossing to him swiftly. ‘Is something wrong, Jacinto?’

  He shook his head, his lower lip caught between his teeth. ‘I carried down the vegetables and fruit today. I begged Pai to let me be the one to bring them, so that I could see you.’

  ‘You’d better come outside,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  She led the way down to the courtyard, then turned through a dim archway into the wine lodge. There was nowhere in the house itself where she could properly take Jacinto, but surely they could find a quiet corner here where they could talk undisturbed for a few minutes? Her father, Marianna knew, would be safely out of the way. After a brief appearance at his office each morning it was his custom to adjourn to the rooms of the Commercial Association to meet his friends, and he was not usually seen again until late in the afternoon. She took Jacinto across one of the great vaulted chambers, through another arch, and down between two lines of wine butts stacked in tiers — alas mostly empty now. The few workmen in their long white blouses moved around silently, hardly sparing them a glance.

  Marianna halted by an open doorway that gave access to a small patch of garden with a bright sprawling mass of geraniums and a lemon tree growing in the centre. Turning to face Jacinto, she saw a look of sadness in his dark eyes which touched her heart,

  ‘You came to say goodbye to me, after all?’ she said softly.

  Jacinto nodded, then glanced away and stared down at the stone floor. His hand went nervously to the arrow-shaped scar on his right temple. He was wearing his goatskin boots, Marianna noticed, and his white cotton trousers and shirt were clean and neatly patched — not the ragged ones he habitually wore for his daily work around the fazenda.

  From out of his pocket he took something which he thrust clumsily into Marianna’s hand. It was a small wooden spoon that he had whittled from orange wood, the bowl smoothly shaped and the handle having an intricate design of vine

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ she exclaimed delightedly. ‘Thank you, Jacinto.’

  Still not looking up, he mumbled, ‘I said hurtful things before you left the quinta, and I wish now to show you that I am
very sorry. I wish now to say many thank-yous for all your goodness, Marianna. You have always been most kind to me, most generous.’

  These were the tender, heartfelt words of gratitude that she had been hoping to hear at their parting. Suddenly, though, she could not bear to see him so humble before her.

  ‘I have enjoyed being your friend,’ she said. ‘Truly I have, Jacinto. It made me very sad the other day when we quarrelled. But now I am happy again.’

  ‘Happy?’ His head came up and his glance rested on her accusingly. ‘You are happy to be marrying that English senhor?

  ‘Of course I am!’ Marianna waited as a workman shuffled past them through the doorway, bearing on his shoulder a large copper jar of wine. When he was safely out of earshot, she demanded, ‘Why should I not be happy? Married to Mr Penfold, I shall have everything I could possibly wish for.’

  ‘Oh yes! A big fine house, I expect, and costly clothes and jewels, and all the other good things that much money can buy.’

  ‘Also,’ she added, ‘a husband whom I shall honour and esteem.’

  ‘You do not speak of loving this husband,’ he retorted swiftly.

  ‘That is hardly a subject I can discuss with you.’

  ‘You mean that I should remember I am just a peasant?’

  ‘No, not that…’

  They stood looking at one another, both very still and tense; then, hesitantly, Jacinto reached out and touched her on the hand. ‘Marianna ...’

  She jerked away from him, taking a quick step backwards, and anger flared in his face. ‘So! You think that a low creature like me is unfit even to touch the hand of Miss Marianna Dalby?’

 

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