The Cook of Castamar, page 39
Just then, the lamp illuminated a piece of maroon cloth. He recognized it immediately as the cloth she used as a blindfold when she was forced to go out into the open. He had observed her sometimes, from the windows of the upper floors, overcoming her affliction to go into the yard or to attend mass. He stood up, raised the lamp and led the horse by its reins. He forced his way through the undergrowth, shouting her name, but there was no reply. Just then, a bolt of lightning lit up a grove of massive chestnut trees emerging from the thicket, as if by a miracle.
Now he knew she must be close by. He kept going, the sky dark above him, hoping a fresh bolt of lightning would light up the scene. Just then, the faint glow from his lamp revealed a figure a few paces away: the crumpled body of Clara Belmonte. He immediately took one of the dry blankets that was under the horse’s saddle. He prayed she was still alive and slapped her gently on the cheeks as soon as he had wrapped her in the blanket. Delirious, she half opened her eyes and asked for her father. Diego touched her forehead and confirmed that she was very cold. He was even more worried when he felt her weak pulse – she desperately needed warmth. She looked at him uncomprehendingly, not understanding who was protecting her from the cold.
‘With your permission, I am going to take you in my arms,’ he said.
He knew that the girl was not fully aware of what was happening. He fixed the lantern to the saddle of his horse, wrapped a second blanket around Señorita Belmonte and held her in his arms. Her pale face was illuminated by a flash of lightning. Just then, she opened her eyes and looked at him, still in a daze, as if lost in a sea of memories.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ she said in a faint voice. ‘I think—’
‘Save your strength, Señorita Belmonte,’ he said, trying to warm her with his body. ‘Don’t speak.’
‘I think I’ve fallen in love with you, your grace.’
He stopped for a moment, stunned by what he had just heard, his heart pounding in his chest and his soul gripped by the fear of losing her. Full of conflicting sentiments, he mounted his horse, still holding her in his arms. He took the reins and prayed that the horse would not be too tired to carry them both, and he whispered words of encouragement to it before they set off towards Los Viveros. As they did so, he considered that, although it seemed that he had saved her life, it was in fact she who had rescued him. It was she who had dispelled the darkness, she who had healed his wounds with her mere presence. And so, he swore to himself, that if she survived that night, he would never allow her to be alone and friendless again, he would never allow anyone to judge or mock her, to disrespect her beauty and her intellect, and he would never allow anyone to insult her for being a mere cook.
19 October 1721
Finally, Señorita Castro was going to tell him what he wanted to know. Gabriel dressed as quickly as he could, keen not to keep Amelia waiting now she had suggested they meet to talk about Don Enrique. It was only yesterday that she had cried in his arms upon receiving the news that her mother had died peacefully after a short illness. Seeing that her mother was at death’s door, the servants had called the priest to administer the last rites, and at dawn she had gone to meet her Maker. The priest had stayed with her until the end.
That evening, a mass had been said at the church of San Bernabé, while a fierce storm raged outside. The service was followed by a simple burial. Señorita Castro had stood before her mother’s grave, saying a silent farewell beneath the rain. To Gabriel it seemed as if her figure, clad in black, was one of the statues in the cemetery. After a short while, he had offered her some words of consolation and suggested that they seek shelter.
They had decided to spend the night at the guesthouse of the monastery of Los Jerónimos, where they also ate supper. After accompanying her and advising her not to hesitate to wake him if she needed him, Gabriel had retired to his room for the night.
The festivities at Castamar had deepened the mutual regard that had arisen between them during the months of her convalescence, and the more he thought about her situation, the more convinced he was that she was just a victim, not an accomplice.
The day before their departure, and after informing him that the situation with Don Melquíades had been resolved, Diego had changed the subject.
‘Can you tell me what is going on between Señorita Castro and you?’
‘I’m just concerned for her.’
Diego had laughed.
‘Perhaps you can refresh my memory, Gabriel. Who was it who said, “Don’t trust her. She’s very close to Don Enrique and I’m sure she’s up to something”?’
‘I don’t recall ever saying that,’ he had answered, a smile playing on his lips.
‘You liar!’ Diego exclaimed and tossed a velvet cushion at him.
‘Okay, I confess.’ He laughed. ‘I was wrong about her. I know you’re just jealous. You can’t bear the fact that Señorita Castro is interested in me.’
‘Ha!’ Diego replied.
‘Nonetheless, the closer I am to Señorita Castro’s heart, the greater the chances that she will overcome her fear and tell me what we need to know.’
‘I’ve known you long enough to see that you like her, so I will just remind you of what Father said. Your wife should have the same colour of skin as you – for the sake of your own happiness and that of your children.’
‘I am well aware of it, Diego, I assure you.’
A silence had settled upon them until Don Melquíades advised them that supper was ready. They didn’t speak of the matter again, but Gabriel couldn’t stop thinking about it, conscious that his feelings towards Señorita Castro went deeper than mere affection.
He hadn’t objected to their mother inviting Don Enrique to Castamar again because it would allow him to keep the man under observation. The marquess had not exchanged so much as a glance with Señorita Castro in public, beyond a courteous greeting upon his arrival. However, at the start of the private supper, Señorita Castro had approached Don Gabriel and asked him to station a trusted footman at her door, so that she would feel safe. He had done exactly as she asked, but still suspected that something had happened after he had left her in her room.
Whatever the situation, though, he had to recognize that his investigation would be at a standstill until he managed to visit the Zaguán. He had eventually tracked the place down, but his brother had forbidden him to visit it. At the same time, Diego’s friends Don Alfredo and Don Francisco had uncovered a certain complicity between Don Enrique and the young dauphin, Luís, who was only fourteen years old. It seemed that Luís had developed a great affection for the marquess, but that was all. Gabriel couldn’t help but feel a sense of frustration, as if he was constantly about to grasp the end of a rope, only for it to slip through his fingers once again. And given the lack of information from Señorita Castro, he had – despite her reluctance – insisted on escorting her carriage to El Escorial. He had ridden alongside, while, through the open window, she recounted some of her adventures from when she lived in Cadiz with her father and they had travelled regularly to the capital.
So, he had been surprised when, after a stormy night, she had appeared at the door of his bedchamber looking forlorn.
‘Do you remember all those times you asked who might have an interest in my presence at Castamar?’ she had said, her face a picture of sorrow.
He had nodded, barely able to contain his curiosity.
‘Now that my mother is dead, I am free to tell you what it is you wish to know,’ she had gone on. ‘For the first time in a long time I am going to be completely honest, although I must warn you that what you are about to hear may well upset you.’
Gabriel thought that his persistence was finally being rewarded. And so, he dressed as quickly as he could, with scarcely enough time to put his things in order. He went down to the courtyard to find her waiting with tears in her eyes. He took her gently by the hand and told her that he would protect her, that she should not worry about whatever it was she was about to say.
She blinked and then told him what he wanted to hear. She had come to Madrid in the hope of making an advantageous match with his brother; she had left Cadiz with her father’s debts around her neck and scandal on her heels – not so big a scandal as some claimed but enough to provide material for malicious gossipmongers; deceived by Verónica Salazar, who was under the orders of Don Enrique, she had settled her mother in the house at El Escorial, which was owned by the marquess; he had seduced her, making himself her only creditor and sole benefactor; staring into the abyss of poverty, she had accepted his advances as the only way to free herself of her debts and regain her position in society. The marquess’s one obsession was for her to win Don Diego’s heart and to marry him and she, fearing for her own life and that of her mother, had submitted to his demands. Finally, the tears flowing freely now, she confessed that, although she had no proof, she was sure Don Enrique, seeing she could no longer visit Castamar, had orchestrated the terrifying assault to which she had been subjected. Indeed, on the first night of the festivities, he had entered her bedchamber and once again threatened her mother’s life.
She did not mince her words, expressing both the terror and the torment she had experienced. When she finished, she turned to him for confirmation that she had disappointed him, and he made no attempt to hide his emotions. He let go of her hand.
‘You have behaved very badly, Señorita Castro.’
‘I am deeply ashamed, and I will understand if you never want to speak to me again, but please, don’t judge me,’ she said.
‘You came to Castamar with the intention of seducing my brother, you accepted money from Don Enrique and had relations with him in exchange… Look what it has all come to.’
‘I beg you not to sit in judgement of me,’ she repeated. ‘I told you everything because I believed it to be my obligation, but I cannot say, with the exception of some specific actions, that I feel any remorse.’
‘Well, Señorita Castro, you should,’ he reproached her.
‘Don Gabriel, it is not fair to judge a woman for desiring a good husband, for wanting to make a good match when she can scarcely support herself. We women are subject to a world ruled by men, where all that matters is an appearance of goodness and our ephemeral beauty. I cannot tolerate your facile judgement when I have only done my best to survive, even if, in so doing, I have committed errors.’
‘I cannot condone your collusion with Don Enrique,’ Gabriel said. ‘You have disappointed me in every possible way. I understand that you found yourself in a difficult situation, but you should never have accepted money for…’ There was silence and they looked at each other, he with disappointment in his eyes, she with indignation. ‘You became his lover, Señorita Castro. You cannot ask me not to judge you for that. You have plotted against my family and now you ask me simply to accept it.’
‘The only thing I have asked is that you do not judge me, Don Gabriel, but you are clearly incapable of doing that!’ she exclaimed. ‘You are judging me for surviving as best I could,’ she continued. ‘Was I to be drowned by my father’s debts and allow my mother to die? What else was I to do? Perhaps you can tell me!’
Gabriel sensed in her words all the humiliation she had suffered during the past months. For a respectable lady who had fallen into disgrace, the only response had been to strive to maintain a façade of the respectability that she no longer possessed.
‘You could marry for love,’ he said. ‘You are capable of that and many other things.’
She suddenly felt ashamed for losing her temper with him for no reason other than her own suffering, and she apologized. But he had already forgiven her. Amelia had been subjected to terrible pressure and forced to do things that were unworthy of a lady. He looked around to make sure there was nobody to observe them, and kissed her hand.
‘I admit I am disappointed,’ he said, ‘but I also recognize that it must have taken great courage to tell me all of this without sparing me the details.’
‘I fear you will not wish to see me again,’ she answered, her face a picture of consternation and sadness.
He did not reply. He was still overcome by everything he had heard and, for the moment, preferred not to be in her company. He was deeply hurt – not only had she committed the unforgivable act of plotting against his family at the urging of that contemptible man, but she had also injured his feelings towards her. He knew that her behaviour was the result of desperate circumstances that he could hardly judge, but he found himself unable to forgive her just then.
‘If you are in need, come to Castamar and stay as far away from the marquess as possible,’ was all he could say.
She told him she was leaving for Cadiz. She wanted to spend some time at the estate, far from her problems, and she trusted the servants there as they had been with her family for many years. The villa was secure and was hers for life, as the marquess had signed a deed renouncing any claim he might have upon it.
‘Even so, if you wish to remain in the capital, I can send some men from Castamar for your peace of mind,’ he said.
She thanked him but rejected the offer. He bowed farewell and headed for the stables, intending to return to Castamar as quickly as possible.
He gave orders to a stable lad to saddle his horse, offering him an extra maravedí to silence his protests at serving a black man. Over time, he had learned that gold hid his colour better than any blanket. When he turned, he found a boy standing in front of him with a note in his hand.
‘Are you Don Gabriel de Castamar?’
‘I am. Who is looking for me?’
‘I have a message for you, sir,’ the boy said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘A horseman delivered it for you this morning.’
Gabriel inspected the letter but there was no indication of the sender, just a cheap wax seal that smelled of diluted wine. He broke the seal and read the contents. The handwriting was crude, and the letter appeared to have been written in haste.
I have written proof of the actions of Don Enrique de Arcona and his machinations against Castamar, which I am sure will be of interest to you. If you want to know more, bring money and come alone to the Zaguán on Plaza del Arrabal tomorrow night. There will be no other opportunity, for the following day I leave Madrid and I do not intend to return. When you arrive, wait until you are approached.
Don Gabriel read the letter several times, unsure whether it was the solution to his problems or a trap. After what Señorita Castro had told him, he was sure the marquess was acting against them. He knew neither Don Enrique’s motives nor his goals, but if there was indeed written proof then he could not allow the opportunity to pass. If he went first to Castamar, his brother – with his customary caution – would forbid him from attending the meeting or, at the most, would go himself, accompanied by his guards, who would doubtless scare off the mysterious confidant.
Gabriel spurred his horse to a gallop and decided to make for the Zaguán. And yet, a voice inside him whispered that he should be careful. The simple fact that a rider had been sent to El Escorial to bring him the note suggested that whoever was behind it was a person of some means and not the kind of lowlife one would expect to find in a house of ill repute. But he silenced the voice and instead his hand slid from the reins to the épée he had armed himself with upon leaving Castamar. As he did so, he felt reassurance in the knowledge that he was as skilled a swordsman as his brother.
34
Same day, 19 October 1721
Enrique walked noiselessly between the Italian harpsichord and the paintings that decorated the drawing room at Castamar, dimly lit by the waning candles. He felt as if he were in his own home, imagining all of this being his once he had carried out his revenge. He looked outside at the brewing autumn storm then sat down to think, reflecting that he had gone about the Don Diego affair in a rather dim-witted fashion. He had finally understood the nature of the duke’s feelings for the cook the previous morning when, upon entering the tearoom, he had come upon a heartbroken Doña Mercedes with tears in her eyes.
‘My son went out early this morning to look for the girl,’ she had said. ‘The lord of Castamar, going after a simple cook.’
It was clear that the duke harboured intense feelings for her, strong enough to make a fool of himself by going out to look for her. The important thing now was to know how deep these feelings went and how far they would lead the duke. Perhaps the cook could be a new Amelia, he told himself. It mattered not to him whether Don Diego’s heart was in the hands of a cook or Señorita Castro. If one thing other than age and death was common to all men, it was chance, and he would always find a way to make it work for him.
Even so, he contained his initial jubilation, telling himself that while many men lost their heads for servant girls it tended to cause only minor scandals. Doña Mercedes had beseeched him to show absolute discretion to avoid any such outcome. The poor woman could only drink her hot chocolate and sit there, waiting for her son to return. He had assured her that he would stay as long as she needed him. Meanwhile, Don Francisco and Don Alfredo had gone out looking for Don Diego. Don Francisco would return to Madrid to accompany the Countess of Bazán to her home and from there head north. Don Alfredo would head south. As luck would have it, Doña Mercedes did not want to worry Don Gabriel by sending him a note. Had she done so, Enrique’s men would have had to intercept it – it was imperative nothing should happen to prevent Don Gabriel showing up at the Zaguán.
In the afternoon, a terrible storm had shaken the earth and heavens, and he had soothed the poor lady’s perturbed spirits, assuring her that Don Diego would certainly have sought refuge somewhere. After a while, Doña Mercedes had begun to doze off and he had convinced her to go and rest, promising to let her know as soon as Don Diego appeared. After she had gone, he settled into one of the armchairs to keep watch and entertained himself by musing on Don Diego and the cook, until the sodden, downcast figures of Don Alfredo, Don Francisco and their escorts emerged from under the cloak of rain.
