The Cook of Castamar, page 31
It was long past midnight when Hernaldo arrived home, his hands stained with blood. Adela was sleeping behind the shabby curtain. He attempted to enter silently without disturbing her, but her eyes were open the moment he shut the door.
Adela had appeared in his life in a rather unusual way – by the time he discovered her existence, she was already nine years old. Her mother had not even informed him of her birth. Then one day, Adela had turned up on his doorstep. The mother, dying of fever and despairing at the thought of leaving her vulnerable daughter behind, had told her to travel to Madrid to find her father. So the little girl, carrying a ring, a knife and a loaf of lentil bread, had undertaken the dangerous journey to his door… which he had slammed in her face the first time he saw her, telling her to go and find some other relatives. A daughter was the last thing he needed, and she was old enough to look out for herself. Refusing to give up, she had spent two days in his doorway. When he had finally decided to let her in, accepting that she was his daughter and it was his duty to look after her, she was no longer there. He had put on his shoes and descended the wooden steps onto the street. His attempts at locating her were fruitless. Thinking she had gone for good, he had turned to see her walking alongside a pimp. He was leading her by the hand into some godforsaken, stinking alleyway. Hernaldo had known this man well – he worked for a local criminal who ran whorehouses throughout the neighbourhood. Hernaldo’s stomach had tied in a knot and he had been considering letting her go, when, suddenly, the girl turned her head and something had stirred inside him. He had told himself that nothing he had done in his life was worthy in God’s eyes, and he was not going to let some whoreson rogue lay a finger on the girl.
By the time he had caught up with them, the pimp’s trousers were round his ankles and Adela was desperately telling him her father would show up any minute. And so he did. He spilled the man’s guts, cut off his member and slit his gullet without even giving him time to pull up his trousers.
‘If you want, you can stay,’ he said to Adela afterwards, ‘but you must know that this is what I do.’
The girl had hugged him, and at that moment he knew that God Himself had sent him this precious gift. That night, as she slept, he had gone to settle up with the whorehouse owner, since he had done away with one of the man’s lackeys. To begin with, the man had huffed and puffed, insisting he was owed money. Hernaldo had responded by saying that, if he wanted money, he should take it up with Hernaldo’s master, Don Enrique de Arcona, who would be only too happy to shut down all of the man’s whorehouses. The debt was settled on the spot. From that day on, his daughter had become Heraldo’s only treasure, and he could not be separated from her.
When Adela sat up and saw his bloodied hands, she said nothing. She was used to him showing up like this, in the worst cases bearing an ugly wound, which she would tend to.
‘I’ll get you some stew from yesterday,’ she said, helping him remove his boots. ‘How was your night?’
She already knew the answer. Even so, he replied.
‘Tough,’ he said hoarsely.
‘Why?’ Adela asked.
Hernaldo knew what she was about to say. A recurring topic, where she asked if they could leave Madrid for the coast and leave behind this den of hoodlums and harlots.
‘You know why… I’ve had a lot of work.’
She served him the stew, with more vegetables than meat. His little dove was an unremarkable cook but that didn’t bother him. All he wished was to ensure she would never have to work in the house of some unscrupulous rich man. That’s why he’d told her she had to learn to read and write, some arithmetic and, if possible, some other subjects, whatever she could, so that if she didn’t find a good husband, she could become a governess, teaching and looking after wealthy children.
‘I went down to the Plaza de la Cebada early this morning. I heard they’ve found dead bodies near the Manzanares,’ she said. ‘The porters and bailiffs say it was the same people who thrashed that poor girl to within an inch of her life.’
‘Yes,’ he replied blankly.
He had spent half the night spilling the guts of the ruffians who’d assisted him in the Señorita Castro affair. Some, upon hearing that Castamar was pressing the authorities to find those responsible, had come to ask for more money in exchange for not running their mouths off. Over the course of the night, he had tracked them down and silenced them once and for all. Only one of them had reacted in time, managing to draw his sword when he realized he was about to have his stomach slashed, but Hernaldo had seen him coming and made the first strike, splitting the man’s sternum in two.
‘Was it you?’ Alba asked.
He said nothing and ate another spoonful of stew. She looked at him as if urging him to answer, and he shook his head. Adela tutted in anger and resignation. It was her opinion that Don Enrique was simply using him. But he didn’t agree – the marquess was many things, but he wasn’t disloyal towards his own men, far less ungrateful. He had already had several opportunities to sacrifice Hernaldo to further his own plans and had not taken them. Had he handed him over to the justiciary, for example, as Doña Alba’s murderer, he would have gained the confidence of Don Diego and the king and perhaps even become a grandee. Besides, the marquess had shown many other signs of gratitude: he’d been generous with money, so that they wanted for nothing, and every time Adela got sick or Hernaldo was wounded, Don Enrique had paid for medicines and doctors. The marquess had also confided in him, shown concern and paid for his daughter’s education, and given them the house they lived in, signing it over to Hernaldo. No Habsburg or Bourbon had ever given him so much. For this, he owed the marquess unwavering loyalty.
‘It’s too late to change my life,’ he said at last.
‘What about me?’ she replied.
‘That’s different, my dove. You have your whole life ahead of you.’
His daughter dreamed of another life, a more peaceful one for him to spend his old age, after so much war, death and desolation. He knew all too well that this dream was unachievable, but he also knew the glimmer in those jet-black eyes, asking him to change his life, leave the marquess, travel to the coast and live by the sea.
‘There’s no point dreaming about the impossible,’ he said.
‘Father, I don’t want to spend my life not knowing if something’s happened to you, if you’ll come home for dinner, if…’
Hernaldo got up and hugged her tight, overcome by the thought of losing his daughter, whispering in an attempt to soothe her, letting her know that his alliance with the marquess was unquestionable, a vow he was honour-bound to uphold. When he closed the door, he recognized that old feeling, sensing that their disagreement was just the beginning of an inevitable change. Then he remembered the marquess and consoled himself with the thought that his master could find the solution to any problem he might encounter.
24 January 1721
Ursula had waited less than a day before swapping her cramped housekeeper’s quarters for Don Melquíades’s office. She had ordered that his belongings should be gathered up and kept under lock and key in one of the storerooms, including, of course, the collection of worthless logbooks the head butler had amassed over the years. If he wished to get them back, he’d have to come and ask for them, another hard blow to his pride. In doing this, she sought to show him she had always had the power and that, now he had decided to break their tattered agreement by confessing his betrayal to the duke, it was time for him to vanish once and for all from Castamar. That defiant act during the servants’ meal and the rebellious airs he had put on had cost him his position and the comfortable life he had been living up until now.
For her part, she had allowed two days to pass to allow Don Diego to calm down before presenting herself before him and expressing her repentance for not having revealed the truth sooner. Don Diego, although he was still roused to fury whenever the topic was raised, forgave her, understanding that, though she had been mistaken, she had only sought his well-being.
‘I’ll take over the running of Castamar until we find a new head butler,’ Ursula told him, putting on the most downcast face she could muster.
Don Diego nodded in acceptance, since he trusted her more than anyone to control the under butlers. They had already been put in place, to perform Don Melquíades’s duties, but none of them possessed the seniority and access to the duke which she had. That was why, after Don Diego’s order that she take charge of everything – since really she had been de facto comptroller for years – she had installed herself in the head butler’s office. Her intention was to exercise her authority in a clear display of her power. She listened to the murmurings of all the servants at Castamar. From her origins as a simple maidservant, she had risen beyond even the confines of her gender. She felt that Doña Alba would be proud of what she had achieved – stopping a Habsburg upstart, who had betrayed her house, from running Castamar. If her mistress had been alive, she would have demanded far more than mere destitution, Ursula told herself.
So, on the morning of Don Melquíades’s fall, she had summoned the senior servants to inform them of his betrayal. Of course, she had avoided calling Clara Belmonte, making it clear that she did not consider her the true head cook. With the others, she had made it clear that from that moment on she would run the house. Everything must function perfectly during the period of transition, she expected maximum cooperation, and visiting Don Melquíades was prohibited. They had all nodded solemnly, except for the gardener, who, as always, had to say something.
‘When are you planning to hire a new head butler?’
She had looked him up and down.
‘Return to your duties,’ she had replied curtly.
The old man had given her a penetrating stare, as if he knew there would not be a new head butler in the corridors of Castamar so long as she was in charge. She had been about to turn and leave when Simón stopped her, speaking in a tranquil voice.
‘You should know that I will visit Don Melquíades when I consider it appropriate, and if you have a problem with that, you can speak to his lordship.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Ursula had warned him, adding to herself, rebellious old fool.
A veiled threat, which both knew would lead nowhere. Despite the bothersome gardener, Castamar was now hers.
Now, her spirits more resolved, she awaited the arrival of her kitchen spy, who apparently possessed some information of interest to her. After the fall of Don Melquíades, it was the turn of the cook, who had questioned her power with her rebellious airs and graces. As expected, Beatriz Ulloa knocked at the door and was called in.
‘Señorita Belmonte and Don Diego are having a secret relationship through notes and the books the duke keeps giving her,’ Beatriz announced.
Ursula raised an eyebrow. She had assumed his lordship’s first order from the bookseller had been an isolated incident – seemingly she had not been vigilant enough. It was clear the duke had taken sufficient precautions to avoid being discovered and had tasked someone he trusted completely to bring the volumes onto the estate without being discovered. She felt a small pang of terror upon realizing that a direct and profound relationship had been established between his lordship and the cook – no wonder the duke’s refusal to dismiss Clara Belmonte had been so categorical. It was now a matter of the utmost urgency to discover the true nature of that relationship. She gave Beatriz one of the master keys to the servants’ wing and told her to slip into Clara Belmonte’s room, taking the utmost caution, and find the books.
‘There must be written notes,’ she said. ‘Bring me one as soon as possible.’
The girl took the key and headed towards the door.
‘Wait! If you’re discovered, I’ll expel you immediately, and if you reveal that you acted on my orders, I will ensure that you never again find work in a respectable house,’ Ursula warned before Beatriz left. The girl disappeared, knowing that her job and her very future were at stake.
Convincing the cook that she had to leave Castamar would be rather more difficult than getting rid of the head butler, even more so if she really did have an epistolary relationship with the duke. If this were the case, Señorita Belmonte would soon request autonomy for herself and her kitchen. Ursula knew her master’s character all too well, and if he wanted the cook to stay, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to see his wishes fulfilled. Regardless, it was clear Señorita Belmonte would not slip up in her job badly enough to provoke her dismissal. Even King Felipe himself had written after the dinner at Castamar to express his congratulations on the fantastic food. In any case, you only had to look at the case of Rosalía to know she would never be dismissed. In a personal sense, Rosalía’s death had been a tragedy, but also – one might as well say it – an act of divine beneficence, for she had been a burden to all. May she rest in God’s glory, Ursula thought.
She walked over to the dressing table, took out the bottle of rosoli that Don Melquíades kept there and poured herself a glass. She downed it in one, hoping the spirit would soothe the fear that had taken root in the pit of her stomach. The longer it took Beatriz to reappear, the more her sense of unease grew. She walked again to the desk and sat down, ruminating on how she could make Clara Belmonte wish to leave Castamar. Personally, she would happily write the most impeccable references if it meant the young woman could work as a cook in another noble house and leave them in peace. A line had been crossed, beyond which the housekeeper and the cook could not be together under the same roof for much longer.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ she said, her body tense, not knowing whether Beatriz Ulloa would appear alone or accompanied by Clara Belmonte, having found the thief in her living quarters. She sighed in relief, feigning calm, when she saw the former enter alone, her hands in her apron pocket. She closed the door and produced the note. It carried the Castamar seal, and Ursula could see the elegant scrawl of his lordship’s hand on it.
‘Clara Belmonte has a whole heap of books on her shelves,’ Beatriz said. ‘This was tucked into the last one. It seems there is a note in each one and—’
‘Give it to me,’ Ursula said, snatching the note from the servant’s hands.
There was no doubt that Señorita Belmonte was keeping a private correspondence with Don Diego. Ursula did not get the feeling they had crossed the boundaries of decency, but there was something clandestine about the whole business. The worst thing was, the duke seemed to believe he was writing to some well-to-do maiden, someone who, if not quite his equal, he certainly addressed as a fellow member of respectable society.
‘I couldn’t understand what it says, because I can’t read or write,’ Beatriz added. ‘If you wish, I can look for more.’
‘No. You’ve done enough. Take the note and put it back where you found it, using the greatest discretion, then bring me the key immediately.’
The girl nodded and made as if to leave while the housekeeper stood there, dazed by so many contradictory thoughts. She didn’t realize that Beatriz had stopped in the doorway until she looked up and saw her still standing there, her face like a sad puppy.
‘What is it, girl?’ she asked, frowning.
‘I had thought that… perhaps you could teach me to read and write.’
Doña Ursula looked at her in surprise. If she had shown some aptitude this might have made some sense, but Beatriz Ulloa was a rather dim girl, whose only aspiration in life was to pass through it doing a job that would feed her and little else. Wasting time on her would be like fertilizing a field that was better off left fallow.
‘You don’t need to read and write. You’re not really a kitchen hand. You’re barely even a scullery maid,’ she said disdainfully. ‘Remember, I only gave you the job in order to perform this function.’
‘Yes, but I thought that someday I might…’
Ursula chuckled as she shook her head. How could people be so mistaken, to the point where they believed they could change their own nature? That poor unfortunate girl had seen a possible role model in Clara Belmonte and had truly felt herself capable of achieving some level of learning. She laughed openly, and the girl looked down at the floor, clearly humiliated.
‘Someday what? You think now you’re going to become respectable? You are what you are, and you will never change that,’ Ursula said, damningly. ‘Such is life. Now, out.’
The girl nodded and left to carry out her duties. Ursula sat on her throne behind the desk, carefully weighing up her actions. Now the relationship between the duke and the cook was no longer in doubt, it was clear she had no option other than to be patient. Perhaps matters would take a different turn at some point or become complicated by some unforeseeable event. If that happened, she would expel Clara Belmonte as quickly as possible. On the other hand, if those circumstances did not arise, she would have to be prepared to deal with the cook for much longer, keeping her under her command while trying to interrupt the pernicious alliance. She knew that interfering in her master’s desires was a dangerous game, so she would have to tread lightly, allowing things to happen by omission rather than action, until it was safe to take a step in the right direction. At least this way, even though she could not throw the cook out immediately, she could keep her under control while she awaited more favourable conditions.
She waited for Beatriz to return with the key before leaving the room for the upper floors. As she walked through the galleries, past the bowing butlers and manservants, she felt invested with an almost divine power, as if she could strike down or protect all of them.
27
Same day, 24 January 1721
Betrayal leaves a bitter taste, Diego thought to himself. One swings between incredulity and self-reproach, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. He could scarcely believe that the son of Ricardo Elquiza, his father’s butler, had brought shame to his own name and to his oath of service to the Castamars. If his father knew that his son had used his position to pass information to his enemies, he would be spinning in his grave.
