2

I do not sleep well for the rest of the night, and entertain horrid visions of what I saw. I cry into my sheets for my mother, terrified of this foreign place, of being so far from home amid savages—both slave and noble. The ache in my head does not subside, and I feel the crushing dejection of certainty that I will never outrun my infirmity—that it is a plague upon my spirit I will have to endure for a lifetime. Just when my despair reaches its utmost, my dark room begins to glow the richest shade of lavender. I watch the walls in wonder as the lavender warms to dusty pink, and I hear the bong of a faraway bell. I unwrap the leaves from my head and place them on my bed as I cross the room to open the shutters to the sunrise.

From this vantage in the morning light, I can fully take in the magnificent view from La Recompensa: the wide green lawns and livestock-covered plains, the foliage bursting with flowers of unimaginable color and size, and the columnlike palms. My view crosses an expanse of dark and enticing forest that crawls up the grand mountains that stand proud on the horizon, under a sky that has the appearance of the pearly interior of a great conch shell. It is as if God is reassuring me after the hell of last night that all will be well and justice will prevail. When I see the poor slaves emerging from their huts, filing off to work in fields and forests, the ache in my chest returns, and I pray the sunrise fills them with the same renewal it does me. I know their eternal rest will far outlast their small season of hell on earth, and it is the only comfort I take in their existence.

My eyes find the post, stained from last night’s whipping. I force myself to look at the sullied ground, but I see the red dirt has absorbed the man’s blood. It occurs to me that the crimson dust of this land did not come from God, but from the punishments of the brutal plantation owners who have invaded His paradise.

I did not think my head would allow it, but after a breakfast of the most succulent oranges and fluffiest eggs imaginable, I have ridden on horseback around the plantation with my escort, Eduardo, one of the Morrells’ three children. Eduardo, just twelve years old, takes his duty very seriously. With care, he lifts low-hanging vines, points out the slightest elevations of land, and instructs me on the vegetation I ensure him is all new to my eyes. He delights in my rapturous discoveries, and seems intent on finding new treasures to elicit greater and wilder exclamations. Upon our return, the slave in charge of the horses, Urbano, stables mine and bows to me. He speaks in the Spanish still so uncooperative to my ear, but I understand the name of the horse I have ridden, Rosillo, and he gestures from the large steed to me.

“He says Rosillo is for you, Mees Sofeea,” says Eduardo, in the most darling English. Madame Morrell’s children speak the Spanish of the doctor’s land, and the English and French of New Orleans, Madame Morrell’s place of origin. I am in awe of the way she can converse with me in English in one breath, instruct Tekla in Spanish in another, and give her attention to her daughter Louisa’s French studies in yet another.

Madame Morrell sits on the gallery watching over us like a benevolent angel. Her face is handsome and complicated. While a gentle smile rests on her lips, her forehead betrays her inner anguish. Mary has told me that Madame Morrell lost her devoted father and an infant daughter many years ago, and that she carries those losses with her always. The way Madame Morrell pats Tekla’s arm, I can see that she also shares in the misery of her slaves, though not enough to make a difference in their lives.

The slave woman from last night who witnessed the brutalizing of her man, and the little ones who must be her children, now kneel at Madame Morrell’s feet and bow their heads. She places her hands on each one of them, tears falling down her face, and as I draw nearer, I hear that she is blessing them. I place my hand over my heart, enchanted and troubled by this woman and the social order in this strange place. I lower my head to the slaves as they file away down the stairs, and Madame Morrell stands to meet me.

“You are the picture of Santa Ana, a patron saint of horsewomen,” she says.

I laugh at the thought of being compared to a Catholic anything, even something as noble as a saint, but I dare not say such a thing out loud, and take the compliment as it is meant.

“Gracias, Madame Morrell,” I say.

“You delight us when you speak the language,” she says. “And you will have ample opportunities to please our society. We shall have our first visitors tonight.”

Mary joins us on the gallery, looking fresh and lovely in spite of the way her face now mirrors our hostess’s, divided between pleasure and pain.

“How delightful,” says Mary. “Would you like me to start the children’s lessons today?”

“No, thank you,” says Madame Morrell. “I want the two of you to experience La Recompensa anew, and to allow that terrible nightmare to dissipate before you begin your work.”

“It will hardly feel like work,” I say. “Your children are treasures, and I am feeling so well this morning, I could instruct an entire schoolroom of young artists.”

“Your words fill my ears with joy,” says Madame Morrell. “The two of you do your parents honor, and I will sit this very afternoon to write them about you. But for now, both of you should rest and complete your toilet. When we dine this evening, you will have your first introduction to the Layas sons, neighboring planters of impeccable manners and taste.”

I glance at Mary and see her stiffen. Does Madame Morrell mean to make matches for us with Spaniard slave owners in spite of the personal anguish it has brought her, or does she simply hope that we amuse ourselves while in exile here in Cuba? At any rate, I hardly think a Spaniard could capture my interest, no matter how impeccable his manners.

Josepha is a genius at hairstyling. She papers my locks, curls them with hot tongs, and arranges the ringlets so becomingly, I feel a flash of hope that I might take her home to New England when we return, where I could employ her as a servant. Of course, I soon realize my lack of money and her dear child would prevent such an arrangement, but it is a delightful indulgence of thought, nonetheless.

“Usted tiene el cabello suave,” she says in her soft, raspy voice. Josepha takes great care in instructing me in the language. Not all of the slaves speak it, especially those just arrived from Africa, but according to Madame Morrell, Josepha has been here for many years.

“Cabello.” She lifts my hair and points to it. I repeat.

She rubs a coil of my hair to her face and closes her eyes. “Suave.”

“Suave,” I say. “Soft.”

I instruct her back. She likes this.

“Soft,” she says, clipping the word in a strange way. I love how she pronounces our words, though she is rather stupid about remembering them.

I enjoy this language of senses we share, and record the words in my journal so I will have them when I return home and paint. I feel a sudden longing to do so here, and wonder whether I can have Elizabeth send my oils to me. I will surprise her by asking for them in my next letter. Painting always ignites my flares of infirmity and sensitivity like nothing else. Something about the concentration of all that color and power on the point of a brush, instilling life on a canvas with each motion, brings me such ecstasy and torture. I am left breathless at the thought.

I place my hand to my throat and look back in the mirror. This flush has given my complexion a glow, and I admire the way my hair has been set, the aloe Josepha has brushed over my lips to make them shine, and the grass green of my dressing-up gown, the only elegant clothing I own. Mary and I were embarrassed to admit our poverty, and pretended it was economy of packing that allowed us only one fancy dress each. If Madame Morrell understood our true meaning, she was too well mannered to admit it, and insisted that we will have new gowns for balls and dinners, three each at her expense. Her guilt over what we witnessed no doubt contributed to her generosity on the subject.

The air changes with the introduction of male voices, and I feel a curious lifting in my chest. Though I have no real interest in plantation owners and their sons, I will be polite. Perhaps they will provide amusement for me while I am in Cuba.

The late-afternoon light has made a golden dream of the salon, where Madame Morrell sits at the piano playing a song as sad and elegant as herself. I am entranced by her figure in a billowing crimson gown, framed by the rays of the sun slipping through filmy curtains dancing in the breeze. The scent of jasmine has filled the room from where it climbs around the doorways of La Recompensa, and I might be walking the landscape of an opium haze, which I recall fondly from when I regularly took the drug while under a doctor’s care.

Dr. Morrell, now more recovered from the volante accident, sits in a chair by the doors leading to the gallery. He is a lanky man with the appearance of a grand portrait that has faded. I am surprised to see a man who has lived so long in the tropics look so pale, and recall that Madame Morrell said his stomach is a constant plague to his constitution. I hope his poor health is not an indication of what may be in store for us.

The children hurry to embrace me, as if they have known me since birth. I am so charmed by these little ones that for the first time, I wonder what it would be like to have a child of my own, though I quickly banish the thought. If childbearing did not kill me, caring for another while trying to tend to my own fragile health would be my undoing. Since my girlhood, Mother has counseled me that to become a wife and, as inevitably follows, a mother would destroy my delicate sensibilities and burden my artist’s soul. I met this proclamation with a sullen heart at first, until I realized it granted me freedom to act as I wished with anyone I wished, knowing I could never possibly consummate a union. It would shatter my delicate sphere like glass.

Madame Morrell’s song has ended, and when I rise from little five-year-old Carlito’s kisses, the two young men standing at the fireplace clap their gloved hands, calling my attention to their eager gazes. Madame Morrell loops her arms through mine and Mary’s, and escorts us across the room. We answer their deep bows with our curtsies.

“Don Manuel y Don Fernando Layas: Bienvenidas a señoritas Mary y Sophia Peabody de Massachusetts.”

“Encantada de conocerte,” says Don Manuel.

“Yo también,” I say.

The brothers smile, and old Tekla leads the children in a round of applause. It is amusing how delightful they find my crude attempts at speaking Spanish. At my mother’s instruction, I am fluent in some of the romance languages, so I will catch on quickly. I cannot help but hold the gaze of the younger brother, Don Fernando, whose dark eyes are lashed more beautifully than any female’s, like black moons in a white night sky.

Madame Morrell has left us to welcome a neighboring family that has just arrived. Don Fernando and I continue to gaze at each other until Mary slides her arm around my waist and pulls me toward the dining room, where the cook, Tomás, has announced dinner.

The opium dream continues through the rest of the night.

While I am enchanted by these people, I am separate from them because I cannot understand all that is said. Madame Morrell is a patient and enthusiastic translator, and has done an admirable job weaving Mary and me into the conversations. I long for the day when I will be able to comprehend the words without her intercession, and I am hopeful it will come soon, because I already feel as if I have a small grasp of some of their often used words and phrases. While this separation of culture and language clearly makes Mary ill at ease, I find a certain power in it. It is obvious from Manuel’s and especially Fernando’s many glances and smiles that I am a novelty to them, a new species of flower they would like to pluck and study.

For all of the language confusion at dinner, afterward the company is quiet, and would prefer to listen to music than converse. The guests take turns at the piano, with and without singing, and I am at ease in the language of music, which we can all understand. When Fernando performs, his diffidence captivates me so that I long to sketch him. I will ask his permission, of course, but we must be in closer acquaintance before I do so. For most of the song he does not look at me, but at the climax it seems he has worked up enough courage to capture my gaze. I am glad the room is dimly lit, or I would be embarrassed at the flush I know infuses my cheeks.

Louisa, the Morrells’ sixteen-year-old daughter, starts the dance while Madame Morrell plays, and Mary and I recline together to take in the spectacle. It is interesting that the Spanish decorum that prevents unmarried men and women from touching hands in public so delights in joining them in dancing. They waltz with the fluidity of ocean swells, and in spite of the sparest contact, great passion is conveyed in the motion. The noise of the piano and the dramatic atmosphere begin to destroy the peace in my head, however, so I retreat to a chair next to Dr. Morrell’s at the window. I cannot be more shocked when I see Mary join in the dance at Manuel’s and Louisa’s urging, and I am both delighted and jealous to see her laughing, turning, and collecting their attention. Mary might not have a grasp of the language, but she certainly blooms to the music. If Mother knew she was dancing, and I was in proximity of such sound and exertion, she would faint. Finally, when Fernando escorts Mary in another waltz, I stand and walk outside to the gallery. I cannot endure the closeness of the room for another minute.

No one seems to notice I have left, and that is for the best. I have overexerted my good humors this evening, and will pay for it tomorrow. I stand at the railing and gaze out over the landscape, taking deep breaths from the flowers’ exhalations and making mental portraits of the moon-stained mountains. In almost no time, I am transported to my inner world—a place where all my life I have retreated from infirmity of body and circumstance—and exist alone in Cuba as a small creature in a plain of many. The earth seems to pulse up through the foundations of the house to my feet, removing my separation from nature’s soul and restoring me to balance. I am shaken when a deep voice in my ear breaks the spell.

“Ven conmigo.”

I turn my head to see Don Fernando, a marble figure glowing in the luminous night. He gestures with his head, indicating that I am to follow him, and we creep to the other end of the gallery, where a tall shrub, almost as big as a tree, has grown to meet the house. He points to a lime-size reddish knob, one of many that hang from the shrub, and I turn my attention to the strange growth. After a few moments, the knob stirs and begins to open. The tightly clamped petals and coils of the flower begin to unroll, and it is as if she has thrown her arms and legs open wide to bathe in the moonlight. At her full bloom, the white flower is nearly as large as my face and emits a fragrance of delicate sweetness.

“Beautiful!” I say, tearing my eyes from it. Fernando is not looking at the flower, but at me. I step toward him, and seem to have frightened him, because he looks down at his boots.

“Sí.”

His shyness is endearing, and I would wrap my arms around him in gratitude and affection if I could for sharing this lovely spectacle of nature with me. All I can do, though, is offer, “Gracias, Don Fernando,” to which he bows and escorts me back to the salon, where the party has begun to disperse.

Later that night, alone in my room, I write to Mother, describing the good company and the music, and the new things I am learning about myself in this place.