3

The weeks have settled into a pattern of the utmost sweetness and industry. The days are spent studying Spanish and instructing the children, and even some of the slaves, in drawing. We take our benches and sketch papers around the plantation, capturing nature’s splendor and picnicking in the shade of the ceiba trees, which become my new fascination. God made the ceiba on a different scale from the rest of creation. Its grandeur begins at its roots, like thick horses’ necks that reach from the ground to my low height, where they connect with their massive trunk, at odds with the delicate canopy of leaves. I cannot keep my hands from the knobby bark, and imagine the trees are old men, great and grumpy, but with a softness that allows us to poke fun at their unusual forms.

A hibiscus plant, with blossoms as red as a ruby, beckons me. I lean in to inhale, allowing its breath to fill my lungs. “My dear sister,” I say. “Forgive me for plucking you for my amusement, and know you will be cherished while you perish tucked behind my ear.”

The laughter of my companions calls my attention back to them.

“Mees Sofeea,” says Carlito, “I fink ju make me waf.” And he does “waf” and “waf” at every little thing I say, especially when I address the plants. Then he kisses me from one side of my face to the other, and laughs some more.

I hope Carlito never loses his joy, but I see how his father and mother are so plagued by their exploitation of the slaves, and my heart aches that this child will inherit such a legacy. I pray that even if he grows up in poverty, he never owns a single slave. I am certain slavery is what has made his father so ill.

It is ironic that Dr. Morrell has pledged to make me well when he so withers. He sits watching over us with his green eyes, his gaunt and erudite features a mask of intelligence and gallantry overlaid with such sadness that I cannot look on him for long. It is clear to me that to die in poverty away from this corrupt Eden would be better than to perish in wealth amid its contradictions. But how can I judge him? The moment I turn my back from a slave to the botanical abundance and luxurious bosom of La Recompensa, I find myself justifying my time here, indulging in its richness, philosophizing about the divine justice the slaves will eventually enjoy. Yet even as I turn from it, I feel the cold cloud of the institution shadowing every avenue and gallery.

In this place of my rehabilitation, these horrors can never allow full rest. Mother begs it of me in her letters, but she cannot understand what we see. I promise her that I will try. After all, I have poisoned every inch of my body in an effort to eradicate my headaches: I have endured leeches and bloodletting; I have prayed until my knees bled; and I have traveled thousands of miles away from my home to a foreign land in search of a cure. I owe it to her to maintain my health.

Distractions help, and I am finding Fernando a welcome one.

Early one morning he asks whether Mary and I would like to ride with him. Mary is not the horsewoman that I am, and declines, but I accept with enthusiasm. I ride Rosillo every day, and having a companion more my age than little Eduardo will be pleasing. Eduardo will still accompany us, of course—Madame Morrell would not think it proper for Fernando and me to ride alone—and he will translate for us.

The slaves commend us to God as we pass on our mounts, and I feel sadness at their kindness. They are surely angels to endure the suffering they do, while always ready to offer us blessings in such heartfelt voices. I return their commendations and offer my thanks, and they too seem affected by my attention. Perhaps this small interaction can offer the slightest balm to their weary souls.

“Muy amable,” says Fernando, gesturing from me to the slaves.

“Amable,” I say, searching my mind for the translation.

Eduardo calls back to me. “Very kind.”

I smile, and bow my head to Fernando in thanks.

We have reached a vista—one of many along the border of La Recompensa—that offers views grander than any I have seen on earth, and which I intend to commit to canvas in the future. I long to allow my heart to soar to the elevations of the mountains of San Marcos, but the slaves I saw on our way will not allow me a full appreciation of the moment. Fernando glances back at the slaves nearest us, toiling amid the coffee plants, and then back at me.

“¿Es triste, no?” he says with a furrowed brow.

I know triste in French is “sad,” and I can see that is what he means by his face. I am surprised that the son of a planter would speak such a thing.

“Triste, sad.”

“Sad,” he says.

“Sí,” I say.

“No me gusta.”

“He does not like it,” says Eduardo, in a voice mature beyond his years. “I do not like it either. I want to go to America with you, Miss Sophia.”

“I wish I could take you both with me,” I say.

Eduardo translates, and Fernando gives me such a look of longing, I must turn away.

We ride to the trail nearest us and look back over La Recompensa like kings and queens, with the rising sun at our backs. A tiny bird slips from the foliage leading to the forest and looks as if she has been born of the palm leaves. I am transfixed by such an arrangement of greens, and she shows off by coming to rest on a flower of the most brilliant purple. Mr. Allston would be fixated by this rare shade of indigo in nature, and I commit it to memory to note it in my journal.

I hear Fernando ask Eduardo a question in Spanish, followed by his careful pronunciation. Then Fernando turns to me.

“You draw bird,” Fernando says.

I delight in hearing my language in his voice, and the fact that he knows of my sketching talents.

“I draw Fernando,” I say.

He laughs and shakes his head, waving me off.

I raise my eyebrow and nod. “Sí, Fernando. I draw you. After dinner tonight.”

He looks at Eduardo. “Cena?”

“Sí, you will dine with us,” I say to him. “And I will draw you.”

Fernando picks a flower for my hair. On the way back from our ride, a fresh morning shower mists over us, turning the air alive with diamond droplets. Fernando worries that I will be upset to get wet, but to his delight I laugh and turn Rosillo in circles in the rain.

Fernando sits in profile against the whitewashed wall, fidgeting and uncomfortable in the humid room, while I begin to sketch him. After a short time, he covers his head with a napkin. Silly man—what is he doing?

Eduardo tells me that Fernando is embarrassed and does not wish to sit for a portrait any longer. I am about to protest when Louisa announces it is time for dancing. I am forced to abandon the dark eyes I have drawn—black orbs with lashes floating on the paper. I leave my sketch on the table and join the company. Fernando comes to my side and gives me a little nudge that sends me off balance and into a fit of giggles while he rights me. I pretend to chastise him.

I have grown fond of Fernando. I think of him when I wake, when I ride, and when I go to bed at night, and must admit that I feel lost in the hours between his visits. Mary often becomes frustrated with me because she must ever call me out of my fantasies while she attempts to speak to me of plantation matters. I offer my apologies—I am as surprised as she at what is awakening in me—but I cannot stop the wanderings of my imagination.

I feel the weight of someone’s gaze and turn to see that Mary stares at me from across the room. Her brow is furrowed and her arms are crossed. She must have seen my flirtation with Fernando and disapproves. My impulse is to go and stand next to her, but something in me rebels. I am twenty-four years old and have every right to further my acquaintance with this man. I know it will never lead anywhere, so I might as well enjoy myself. I have nearly worked myself up to join the dancing when a low and ominous rumbling of thunder beckons us to the piazza. Over the mountain the sickle moon is obscured by clouds, and a sound begins—a rushing so distinct and terrifying, it seems as if biblical floodwaters will consume us. When she sees my fear, Madame Morrell tells me not to worry.

“Listen,” she says. “The storm will not reach us. We can enjoy it from here.”

“Pardon,” says Manuel, who has joined Fernando tonight. He speaks to Dr. Morrell in Spanish, and when he and his brother separate to retrieve their hats and gloves, I see that they will go home to be safe. I am low in spirits now that Fernando is leaving. He sees and comes to me, bowing before me.

“Buenas noches, Sophia,” he says, placing his hand over his heart.

He looks so distraught at departing that I hurry to where the withering hibiscus he plucked earlier adorns the mantel. I bring it to him and place it in his hands, allowing my fingers to caress the soft leather of his gloves. He pulls in his breath and hurries away, after his brother. When I turn back to the room, Mary’s dark look chills my warmth. I stand straight, pick up my sketch papers, and retire to my chamber.

Without Fernando, I am unable to complete his sketch, so I attempt to record the bird we saw earlier. I want to show how it seemed born from the leaves, but with only the light of a candle, my eyes become weary, and my head begins to throb. I know I should stop drawing, but I am possessed, and do not sleep until the bird sketch is complete.

In the ensuing days, I am plagued with such headaches that I fear Madame Morrell will have to send a letter announcing my tragic death to Mother after all. My pain keeps me in my room, so that I am not able to take my morning ride, or speak with Manuel and Fernando on their now daily visits.

On a fresh morning without mist—the first in nearly a week when I have not woken with a headache—I think I will stay in my room and try to paint the bird using some of the oils Elizabeth sent, accompanied by a note from Mother with a thousand cautions about overexerting myself. It is a foolish venture, however, because the moment my hand touches the green to the canvas, my vision seems to explode, and I see only searing red everywhere I look.

Josepha becomes flustered when I am ill. She is like a doting mother, and in my delirium, I often mistake her for Mother until I note her slender form and her soft brown skin. Tekla abuses poor Josepha for her stupidity, but Josepha must be exhausted from caring for me and the house all day, and her son all night. The poor creature never gets a moment’s peace. I try to give her rests, but this seems to upset her as much as Tekla’s admonitions.

I wish I could rouse myself when I hear Fernando’s voice in the hall. I think he elevates its usual quiet for my benefit, and I send Josepha to him with apologies for my ill health, and the hope to see him soon. She is back shortly with Louisa.

“Fernando wishes you to know,” says Louisa, “that he has been practicing a song on the piano to play for your pleasure as soon as the noise does not vex you.”

I am touched that he would do such a thing.

“Please send him my thanks and promises to rest so I am able to hear it as soon as possible.”

Louisa leaves, and I think of Fernando with a growing thrill until I remember that I was about to write Mother a letter. When I see that I have no more writing paper, I creep into Mary’s room to borrow a page. Her room is tidy and smells like fresh linen. Her dresses hang ordered and straight in the wardrobe, which has been left open to allow the air to flow. When I reach Mary’s desk, I see that she must have had to abandon her own letter this morning in a hurry. The ink is not capped and the papers fan over the wood in disarray. I see a letter in another’s hand peeking out, and after a quick glance over my shoulder to see that no one is nearby, I scan it to ascertain that Horace Mann—the widower who won Mary’s heart back in Massachusetts, but who is taking agonizingly long to recognize it—has written her a letter as sterile as one would to a sister. I feel for Mary, who must endure this treatment. It is no wonder she seems suspicious and even jealous of the attentions Fernando pays me. I resolve to embrace Mary to comfort her the moment I see her.

As I retrieve a fresh page, the sight of my name scribbled on the letter she is writing to Mother draws my attention. It is difficult to control my rising anger as I take in the words: “A quivering tinderbox . . . one who cannot control her raptures . . . bears all she sees miraculously well . . . Continue to allow Elizabeth to share Sophia’s Cuba letters with the public . . . will see to it that she marries no local planter.”

How dare she! A tinderbox! Marry a planter? And encouraging my mother to allow the public reading of my letters, which I did not know about when I poured out my effusive descriptions of Fernando and flowers and all manner of achingly lovely sights and sounds!

I do not care that Mary will know I read her letter, and scribble in my own handwriting that I do not appreciate the sharing of my private thoughts for every gossip to ponder; I am no tinderbox; I keep my sufferings to myself instead of plaguing my company with them; and I will not marry a Spaniard—though my hand trembles in rebellion of the very words I write. I circle my addition to Mary’s libelous scrap and sign it prominently so my mother will not miss my frustration, and Mary will see that I have read it.

Once I am back in my room, I summon Josepha to help me with my toilet and do my best to ignore the lingering ache that extends around my ears. I must appear tonight to ensure that Mary is not spreading her venom in this household where I am rehabilitating, learning about the world, and finding a key to a thing that has been locked inside me for so long it is almost frenzied to emerge. I begin to realize it is those around me who wish to suppress it, because they fear what will happen if I allow my full power to be realized. They have wanted my sterility to keep my passions at bay, and have even encouraged me in my infirmities because they wish to contain me. No more!

I take extra care with my preparations, and for that I am late to the table. When I enter, the men rise and the women bow their heads to me, though Mary will not meet my eyes. Josepha pushes my chair in behind me, and the family resumes dinner, though in a heavy silence. I wait for their inquiries after my health, but find the adult conversation—in French, for it is dinnertime—formal, distracted, and well outside of me.

The children are excited because on a previous night neighbors brought a lovely set of turtledoves, and Tomás fashioned a large cage for them out of rattans and cornstalks on the piazza. The female laid an egg, and the children are betting when it will hatch and whether they will be awake to see it. They imitate the lovely cooing sounds, which upon recollection I realize brought me some comfort during my infirmity. I mention this, but no one seems to care except Eduardo, who tells me how glad he is to have me at the table. The children beg to be dismissed early, and Madame Morrell surprises me by agreeing. Before Mary rises to join them, I place my napkin on the table.

“Mary, allow yourself some rest,” I say. “I will mind the children, and you may return to your letters.”

Her face becomes pale, and as I stand to walk to the piazza, I give her my iciest stare.

Outside, the Morrell children crowd with a group of slave children around a dove they have let out of the cage. They take turns passing her from one small hand to the next, with Josepha cautioning them from nearby. The dove’s gentle nature and softness bring smiles to each face when she allows them to pet her.

I kneel next to Josepha’s son, a tiny one of not four years old, who flits about with the eagerness of a hummingbird. He places his little brown hand on my arm and speaks rapid Spanish I cannot understand in words, but feel in my spirit. When the dove comes to him, Josepha crouches at his other side and places her hand on his back. He quiets while he holds the dove, and I think that I will write to Mother about the doves and the children, and how even the wiggliest of them understands when nature requires stillness. I will try not to mention Fernando, so I do not stoke the fires Mary has started.

I kiss little heads and stand to venture into the garden at night while Madame Morrell is not watching. Her cautions about the night fragrances harming one’s elements are exhausting, especially when I feel as if I need the sweet aroma of the flowers to balance the poison from Mary’s sphere. I am about to step off the piazza when I spot a feral cat watching the scene from the railing. As I shoo him off into the shadows, I cannot help but shiver at the thought that just inches away from such innocent pleasure lurks something dark, waiting to destroy it.