AT ONE TIME I might have been able to wheedle my papa into allowing the dying woman to be brought to our house – if only to the servants’ quarters above the stables – for I’d often coaxed him into agreeing to something he’d initially forbidden. But my influence was waning as the Countess Lorena de Braganza became an almost constant presence in my home.
I was so preoccupied with my visits to the convent hospital to nurse the beggar’s wife that it was a month or so before I realized the extent of Lorena’s power over Papa. One day I came home to find that our black mourning curtains had been taken down from the windows. I went to speak to Serafina and found her packing them away in boxes. Her face showed no emotion when I asked her why she had done this. ‘It’s only the middle of December,’ I said. ‘Not yet six months since my mother died.’
‘Not my idea,’ she replied. ‘Your papa ordered me to do it.’ Then she added, ‘I believe the Countess Lorena de Braganza might have suggested it to him. She thinks the house needs cheering up for Christmastide.’
Then, to my fury, I discovered that Lorena had been giving Papa advice about me – saying that I was not capable of running such an important household as his; that I was a foolish girl and had shown myself to be such by going out without a chaperone; that the incident in the church had sullied my reputation; and that I should be sent to a convent or married off quickly to anyone who’d have me. I also noticed that she cultivated Ramón Salazar, talking to him at length, pretending to solicit his opinion on the most trivial matters. I wasn’t overly concerned, because Ramón had always been besotted by me and only me. For over a year he’d pursued me and sought out my company, so much that he’d become like a family member. I believed it was only a matter of weeks before he spoke to Papa, and our families came to an arrangement for us to be betrothed. I thought that Papa would approve the match. He wanted me to be happy but he also had aspirations to nobility, and Ramón Salazar was of noble blood. My father was conscious of his status in society, and his daughter’s engagement to Ramón Salazar would further enhance his own reputation.
In the spring of the following year a wedding did take place. But it wasn’t for my marriage to Ramón that awnings were erected in the compound of our farm, arches of flower garlands strung over the doorways of the house, long tables laid with white linen cloth and sparkling glass, and a priest summoned to perform the ceremony.
It was for my father.
My father and his new wife, the Countess Lorena de Braganza.
I’d disliked her from the moment I saw her; this countess with her glittering eyes and tiny tongue that darted between small teeth. A tongue as sharp as a pin and eyes that poked and pried. A tongue that was never still for long, and occupied itself with spiteful remarks and sly suggestions. Eyes that roved over our ornaments and silverware, assessing their value, and calculated the price of all they saw.
The gowns she wore were cut low to expose the swell of her bosom, and she leaned forward and laughed when men in her company spoke, even if their remarks were not in the least amusing. For my part I sat and glared at her, for she made the silliest conversation I’d ever heard.
I didn’t want her to marry my father. I didn’t want her in my home. On the evening when their engagement was announced, she came to my room to speak to me and I saw that she was wearing my mother’s coral necklace. The necklace my mother had promised I should have on my sixteenth birthday.
‘That’s mine!’ I snatched it from her neck. The catch broke and the beads flew off, spilling and rolling onto the floor.
She screamed, and her maidservant and my father came running.
‘Help me,’ she whined, holding her throat. ‘Zarita took some kind of fit and scratched me.’ She took her hands away to reveal a bright red weal across her neck.
I gasped. She had pressed her own nails into her neck to make the mark!
‘I didn’t do that,’ I told my papa.
‘Zarita, you must apologize at once,’ said Papa.
I stood in sullen silence.
‘At once!’ Papa repeated. ‘Or I will lock you in your room until you do.’
I muttered an apology, but when my father left, I said to Lorena, ‘You made that mark yourself.’
To my surprise Lorena did not deny my accusation. She waved her maid away and said, ‘You can hardly complain when you employ the same methods yourself to get attention.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Of course you do.’ She looked at me intently. ‘I saw you when you came from the church the day the beggar was supposed to have assaulted you.’
‘He did touch me.’ I spoke in a low voice, for that day was one I preferred to forget.
‘Oh, I know he did. You were heard to say so.’ Lorena smiled, and it was not a friendly smile. ‘He touched me.’ She imitated my voice. ‘This man actually touched me.’
I recoiled from her. How did she know what I had said inside the church of Our Lady of Sorrows?
‘Everyone believes the beggar attacked you,’ Lorena went on, ‘yet your bodice was not torn nor your gown damaged in any way. What was the poor man trying to do? Get a penny from your purse or snatch your money from your hand before you put it into the coffers of the priests? Good luck to him, I say. I’ve spoken to the fop who was supposed to be your protector, Ramón Salazar, and found out what took place. I expect Ramón was happy to play along with the pretence of an assault – it made him look more of a man to leap to your defence. But it was you’ – Lorena came near and hissed into my face – ‘you, in your spoiled petulance, who caused a man to go to the gallows because he brushed against your hand.’
I fell back under her onslaught, the truth of her words stripping my soul and leaving me naked.
‘So don’t put on airs with me, my dear sanctimonious miss. You must live with your own deceit and the consequences of your actions.’ Lorena lifted her skirts to leave. ‘An innocent man is dead. And his son too, most likely.’