The Cook of Castamar, page 19
As he had foreseen, Señorita Castro, thinking that Don Diego was following close behind, made for the first carriage. Enrique hurried after Señorita Castro, who quickly climbed the steps and got inside. She turned and flashed a smile, expecting to see Don Diego, but her smile froze when instead she came face to face with Don Enrique. Giving her no time to react, he entered the carriage, blocked her exit, and drew the curtains. A tense silence reigned as the carriage set off: she avoiding his gaze, he waiting patiently. Finally, she looked at him.
‘Marquess,’ Señorita Castro said. ‘Please tell me the truth. What is it you want from me?’
He tutted, pretending once again to resent the question.
‘Señorita Castro, I assure you I have no ulterior motive. As I told you, I cannot bear to see you suffering such injustice. All I desire is your friendship.’
She clenched her jaws in frustration as she tried to think of a way out of this labyrinth. He admired this survival instinct of hers, this rebellion in the face of misfortune, armed with nothing but her wits.
‘You know I have no wish to insult you, Don Enrique. I am very grateful to you.’
‘Then you should also trust me. I have nothing but good intentions. With my help, I am sure you will persuade Don Diego to marry you.’
‘Please don’t be offended if I find it hard to trust you,’ she replied in discomfort. ‘As you know, I was deceived by someone who claimed to have my best interests at heart, only to have him take my virtue. I cannot let that happen again.’
‘Of course not,’ he answered calmly. ‘You are a fighter and that is what I most admire about you.’
‘Marquess, please understand that I am’ – her voice cracked a little as she spoke – ‘terrified.’
He took her gently by the hand to console her. He looked into her eyes and she returned his gaze, her eyes brimming with tears, at once desperate to believe his words and frightened that she would regret it. But she had no alternative, and her desperation gave her no option but to place her trust in him. She was trapped in a web of invisible codes and unspoken rules, and he was there to offer her salvation. Don Enrique had simply waited for all those rules to gradually wear her down and break her spirit. He drew close, preparing for the moment when he would free her from her chains.
‘Allow me to be your benefactor and you will have no more problems of any kind,’ he said, his face close to hers.
She imagined herself free of debt, of pressure, of pretence, while simultaneously distrusting the sensation. Poverty had sunk its claws into her and was beginning to erode her spirit.
‘I only want what’s good for you.’
Her eyes no longer glimmered, as if she had finally been defeated by the exhaustion of living on the edge of the abyss, desperately trying to maintain the pretence of social respectability and financial security while she searched for a solution to her misfortunes.
‘I don’t see what can be done, Don Enrique,’ Señorita Castro said. ‘My past weighs so heavily on me.’
Enrique sat next to her so that he could spill his poison into her ear.
‘Tomorrow you will have sufficient money that you will never need anybody again, not even me,’ he said, taking the liberty of brushing her earlobe with his lips, as if it were merely the accidental result of whispering to her to avoid being overheard by the coachmen.
She looked at him sceptically.
‘A fortune that will provide you with a fixed income for life, allowing you to maintain servants, properties and status,’ Enrique told her, as he inhaled the perfume on her neck.
Señorita Castro opened her eyes and, almost without realizing it, surrendered. Enrique whispered to her again, his lips grazing her ear with each syllable. She felt her hair prickle and pulled back slightly.
‘Please don’t lie to me,’ she said weakly.
Enrique continued with his promises, describing the riches that would come into her possession. ‘The mansion in Cadiz will be yours for life and I will renounce any claim to it for so long as you are alive. You will be the owner of the house in Madrid that once belonged to your father.’
Seeing safety within her grasp, the remainder of her resistance crumbled. She was no longer able to contain her desperate desire to escape this precipice.
‘How can I be sure of what you say?’ she asked, so overcome by agitation and desire that she was scarcely able to speak.
Enrique smiled as he looked upon his work.
‘If this is not enough, tell me what more I can do to gain your trust,’ he replied, turning her face towards his.
‘I can’t trust you,’ she gasped, as she felt Enrique’s gloveless fingers caressing her chin.
‘I’m sure you can find a way, Señorita Castro,’ he replied, brushing his lips against her cheek.
As she sighed, sensing independence was within her grasp, her breasts heaved beneath her bodice. The voice of caution that had warned her against him fell silent, and overwhelmed by the debts and the misery of recent years, she capitulated in return for a promise of security.
‘You’ll put it in writing before a notary,’ Amelia said breathlessly, looking him in the eye.
He smiled, savouring his victory, and stroked her face like a devoted lover.
‘As God is my witness,’ Enrique replied, his fingers sliding towards the nape of her neck.
She groaned, then trembled uncontrollably. The marquess kissed her softly on the lips, bringing a flush to her cheeks, then brushed her tongue with his. She surrendered to him. Enrique sensed she had never been kissed like this before, that her desire had lain dormant.
He traced a sensuous line down her elegant neck towards her breasts, and she felt the needs of the flesh awaken. Inflamed by passion, she grasped his hair and pulled his head back.
‘Tell me what it is you want from me,’ she gasped again.
He didn’t answer. He lifted her skirts and caressed her thighs. Then, as she shuddered, his head disappeared between her legs, and she experienced a pleasure she had never known before. She raised her hand to her mouth so that her groans would not be heard outside the carriage. She was overcome both by ecstasy and by the hope that she had avoided the precipice. And yet Enrique, who understood the suspicious disposition of those who have survived misfortune, knew that even now a tiny voice inside Amelia’s head was whispering that she had made a pact with the devil. A voice she herself had silenced out of necessity. All that remained for him was to take delight in the knowledge that Amelia Castro was now his.
16 October 1720, evening
Hernaldo rode unhurriedly, as was his custom, his hat pulled down over his head and his cloak wrapped tightly around him. His lantern was unlit on account of the full moon. He had come to meet Don Enrique to give him the key. Hernaldo knew that his master would be delighted to receive it, and he in turn was happy to be of use to Don Enrique once again. He looked up and saw ahead of him the stone wall that surrounded the estate of Castamar.
Whenever he came here, he felt as if he was approaching a burial ground in which he was the gravedigger. He had spent half his life surrounded by death, dealing it out for the flimsiest of reasons simply to keep hunger at bay, without pausing to ask whether his victims deserved their fate. It was simply part of a trade at which he excelled. However, the death of Doña Alba de Montepardo had not been one of those jobs that was quickly forgotten. It was a constant wound to his pride, a reminder of failure whenever he approached the estate.
We plotted to assassinate her husband, but we caused the duchess’s death instead, he told himself. He had said as much to Don Enrique once, and his master, with a murderous look in his eyes, had replied that the sole responsibility lay with Don Diego, whose idea it had been to swap the horses that morning. ‘Don’t ever suggest otherwise again,’ he had said, ‘if you want to remain in my service… and keep your head on your shoulders.’
Hernaldo had obeyed. That’s the bad thing about conspiracies. They always involve death, sometimes accidental and sometimes not. His master and he had left a fair few corpses in their wake, making sure to cover their tracks so as not to arouse suspicions. And in connection to the death of Doña Alba, he recalled one of the rare occasions when administering death had afforded him a certain pleasure. The victim had been a ruffian who went by the nickname of Tuerto, on account of the fact that he was missing an eye.
At the time, Hernaldo had been looking for a groom to train Don Diego’s horse. He had needed to be sure that whoever he found for the task was not some inexperienced novice, as it was no easy matter. The steed would be trained, at the sound of the whistle, to rear up on its hind legs and then fall upon its rider with all its weight. Finally, after much searching, Tuerto had mentioned El Zurdo, a dangerous, violent sort, the kind whom it was best not to cross. From the moment Hernaldo first met the ruffian, he had sensed that they might come to blows at any moment.
‘He knows what he’s doing,’ Tuerto had assured him. ‘He’s trained horses for some of the most powerful men in Spain. You should be able to find him at the Zaguán; he’s taken a shine to one of the whores there.’
The Zaguán was a brothel in Lavapiés frequented by gamblers, swindlers, prostitutes, soldiers of fortune and thieves. Hernaldo had sent Tuerto off with a few reals and continued on his way.
It was only much later, after the death of Doña Alba, that Tuerto had reappeared, with two henchmen by his side, demanding payment for his silence. Hernaldo hadn’t hesitated. He ran his sword through Tuerto’s chest, and one of the dead man’s sidekicks, seeing how things were shaping up, had turned on his companion in an attempt to curry favour with his assailant. But it was too late. He already knew too much to be spared. Hernaldo’s victims didn’t tend to be honourable men, and neither was he. They were drinkers, degenerates, mercenaries… Anyone who might be an inconvenience to Don Enrique had to be removed. That’s why you can’t remember their names, he thought as he skirted the wall.
He continued at a trot until he came to the grove that concealed a breach in the boundary. His men had made it two nights ago so that he could enter the estate without being seen. He passed through the gap and made for the appointed place – a thicket of bushes that was not far away. His master was already there waiting and, seeing him, gestured to him to make haste. Hernaldo broke into a gallop that soon brought him to Don Enrique’s side.
‘I have to return before I am missed,’ Don Enrique told him. ‘Have you got it?’
Hernaldo produced the key and allowed himself a satisfied smirk. Don Enrique put the key in his pocket and gave him a grateful look. For Hernaldo, his master’s recognition was the best payment.
‘Am I right in thinking that you have Amelia Castro in your clutches?’ Hernaldo asked.
Don Enrique merely smiled.
‘I am delighted, your grace.’
‘Did you visit Doña Sol? Did she tell what she wishes in return for her help?’
‘To do away with her husband, the Marquess of Villamar, in a chance accident. Apparently, he has always been a weight around her neck and he has now become too heavy. She suggests poison, as he is an incurable glutton.’
Don Enrique, who appeared unsurprised at Doña Sol’s request, smiled at the comment.
‘Make the preparations but not too hastily. Such a payment cannot be made in instalments, so she will have to keep her side of the bargain first,’ he said, and turned his horse to leave.
‘I will have everything ready for when the time comes, your grace.’
Don Enrique nodded, and Hernaldo waited until his master had disappeared. Then he set off back towards Madrid, imagining El Zurdo’s expression when he received his part of the payment for providing the key. He chuckled softly to himself. Everything seemed to be going exactly as his master had planned: Amelia Castro was already at Castamar, Doña Sol had agreed her price, and all that remained was to wait for the fruit to ripen. Poor Don Diego – he could not begin to suspect the terrible misfortune that hung over him, his family and his loved ones.
16
16 October 1720, evening
Diego was keen to resume his conversation with Señorita Castro, so as soon as his mother and Gabriel entered the house, he gently took Amelia by the arm.
‘Will you honour me with your company a little longer?’ he requested. ‘We can talk at ease in one of these rooms.’
‘Only on the condition that you call me by my name,’ she answered.
From her expression he guessed that she was embarrassed at having displayed her emotions in front of him. Diego let her past and closed the door behind him.
‘Amelia,’ he said, after a few moments. ‘Are you well? I felt you were just about to confess something when we spoke earlier.’
She smiled to feign normality, then looked away.
‘Pay me no notice, Don Diego. Sometimes the loss of my father overwhelms me and I act like a fool.’
He understood that Señorita Castro’s urge to speak honestly had vanished. Don Enrique had probably already worked his influence on her, and since Diego and Amelia barely knew each other, he assumed she also held a level of distrust towards him. Even so, he suspected that Señorita Castro’s reasons for keeping silent had more to do with the first cause than the second. He indicated he was taking his leave of her with a slight bow, but Señorita Castro stopped him, saying his name as if she wanted to give some explanation for her change of heart. He did not let her continue, since he was sure she was only going to lie to him, and he could not tolerate hypocrisy.
‘There is no need to pretend, Señorita Castro,’ he said. ‘It’s clear that you lost your desire to be sincere with me on the journey from Villacor to the house.’
On hearing this, she fell silent and he left her alone.
Alfredo and Francisco were waiting for him in the drawing room. The three of them, together with Gabriel, enjoyed each other’s company until dinner time, discussing King Felipe’s possible designs on the French throne.
As the sun was setting, a manservant notified him of the first guest’s arrival, and Diego went out to greet her. It was Doña Almudena, the Baroness of Belizón, with whom he maintained a close friendship. She had married very young and had lost her husband, twenty years her senior, after he had overindulged in crayfish one evening. She was a regular guest at Castamar, mainly because Alba had been her mentor at the court. Since she had no living relatives after the war, she confided almost all her important affairs in him.
Not much later, he was informed of the arrival of the Marquess and Marchioness of Villamar, Don Esteban and Doña Sol. It was the first time they had attended the private dinner, and it had been to Diego’s surprise that Francisco had invited them. Every guest had the privilege of bringing a companion, provided they were happy to share the table with Don Gabriel on equal terms. From the smile on his friend’s face when Don Diego had told him they were coming, he assumed the invitation had more to do with the presence of Doña Sol than that of her husband, whom Francisco barely knew. Alfredo had scolded him like an older brother for taking the liberty of inviting a woman who had a reputation for having affairs with young men behind her husband’s back. Diego acknowledged the hilarity of the situation and, downplaying the matter, welcomed them cheerfully.
Diego stood waiting for everyone else to settle in their seats. When Gabriel sat down, an awkward silence spread across the table. Diego looked over at the Marquess and Marchioness of Villamar. Don Esteban was sweating, sneaking glances at Gabriel, and Doña Sol was ignoring him as if he were nothing more than a servant in the wrong place. Most of the nobles who agreed to come did so because it was impossible to reject an invitation from a duke who was so close to the Crown. They sought his friendship and favour and accepted willingly despite being warned about his brother. The problem arose later, when they confronted the reality of actually sharing a table with a black man.
Seeking to break the silence, Diego gave a short welcome speech. When he finished and took his seat, his brother stood and announced that he also wished to make a toast. Diego found this strange, since Gabriel was not one to draw attention to himself. In fact, once the private dinner was over, he would usually shut himself away in his chambers and not reappear until the celebrations had finished.
Gabriel, you must never appear among them; don’t try to make them accept you; do not confuse your privileges at Castamar with the ones you lack in the outside world, his father had often told him. It will only result in misfortune.
Lamentably, his father had been right.
‘I wanted to say a few words this year, to wish you all good fortune and many years of friendship,’ Gabriel said, holding up his glass. ‘Brother, you know that I admire and love you and that I will always be by your side, ensuring no ill befalls you. To Castamar.’
Diego understood the motive behind the toast as he sipped his wine. That final sentence was aimed at Don Enrique de Arcona. Gabriel did not like him, suspecting he had hidden intentions, and he had suggested they investigate as a matter of precaution, since the marquess could have designs on their mother. The duke, however, did not agree. The marquess’s hurtful and unfortunate comments had irritated him, but he did not see in them any intention to harm their mother. Only occasionally did the man’s displays of warmth towards the duchess, revealing their close friendship, make Diego uncomfortable.
‘My dear friend,’ Don Enrique said. ‘I beg you – please, lend me your cook for my celebrations.’
