The cook of castamar, p.28
The Cook of Castamar, page 28
‘Even so, we do not know if it is a mere friendship or something more serious,’ Alfredo replied. ‘Let us imagine they were engaged. That he had paid off all her debts in return for becoming betrothed, and she, seeing herself free, decided to break it off. And the marquess, driven by jealousy, punished her as an act of revenge.’
‘That wouldn’t explain why he left her next to a dead negro and notified us with a calling card,’ Alfredo said.
‘Perhaps he discovered that you were following him and decided to kill two birds with one stone,’ Francisco said. ‘All I can say is that he maintains an excellent reputation at court.’
‘The only thing I can say with certainty is that I do not believe Señorita Castro to be guilty of such premeditation,’ Don Gabriel added. ‘Perhaps when she wakes up, she will be able to clarify matters.’
Francisco smiled at the remark and looked at Alfredo, who had turned towards them. After taking a small sip from his cup, he settled into an armchair.
Diego got up and walked around the room.
‘Gentlemen,’ Diego said. ‘It is clear to me that Señorita Castro cannot have become involved in this situation through her own volition, though she might have been the victim of some dangerous individual who has been toying with her. Perhaps Don Enrique took advantage of her desperate situation and exploited her for his own ends.’
He said nothing more, but Francisco sensed he was uneasy. If the marquess was behind all this, then he was a skilled player, a man who would stop at nothing to achieve his objectives.
Francisco suggested a game of pontoon to ease the tension, but Diego didn’t even answer. It was Gabriel who, seeing that his brother was gazing out of the window, came over to Francisco and offered to continue the game of chess they had begun the last time Francisco had been at Castamar. He agreed and they sat down at the board, taking a moment to agree whose turn it was to move. They left Alfredo and Diego deep in their thoughts. As he focused on the board, Francisco had the premonition that they, too, were in some way pawns in a game of chess, one in which their friendship would be put to the test.
*
Once more, Sol inhaled the fragrance of mint that Francisco had left on her pillow the last time he had visited, some days ago. ‘Go, then,’ had effectively been the last words she had spoken to him. However, Sol had sensed that this was not like those previous occasions when her younger lovers had taken offence and reacted with tantrums and anger. With surprising indifference, Francisco had simply disappeared from her life. Their paths had not crossed at social events, he had left no visiting cards, sent her no gifts, as his predecessors had done. Instead, he had vanished as if she had been a mere pastime, and the only memory he had left was the smell of mint on her pillow.
Perhaps she should have taken care to draw him further into the relationship. She had been deceived by his delicate manners, his praise, his little presents, his constant attention. His ardour between the sheets during his nocturnal visits, while her husband slept just a few yards away, had seemed to her sufficient proof that he was besotted with her. But she had clearly been wrong. She was worried by his distance. Not because she missed him but because there was far more at stake in her seduction of him than mere entertainment.
A month before the party at Castamar, Don Enrique of Arcona, one of the most dangerous men she knew, had approached her after she had signalled her consent with a flick of her fan. The meeting had taken place in her box during a performance at the Coliseum Theatre, and he had remarked that the time had come for them to renew their partnership, an idea to which she had been receptive. It was clear that the marquess wanted her help, and she already knew what she would request in return. And so, in a conversation in which nothing was said but everything was understood, he had communicated his wishes.
Sol was to describe her friendship with Francisco in correspondence with the Marquess of Soto. The final letter would place Francisco’s reputation in the hands of Don Enrique. The request was hardly free of risk, and she was particularly exposed. Francisco was a close friend of Don Diego of Castamar, a man whom she had more than enough reason to keep at arm’s length.
‘May I ask what your motives are?’ she had enquired.
‘You know full well that is out of the question,’ the marquess had replied.
Sol had smiled, expecting the marquess to ask her price. However, he had allowed the rest of the evening to pass without asking what it was she wanted. And precisely because Don Enrique had not asked and because it was never wise to seem too eager, she had told him she would need some time to decide upon what payment she would require in return. Some weeks later, worn down by the man’s inexhaustible patience, she had sent him a simple note: You may visit me when you wish. It had not been long before Hernaldo de la Marca, a sinister-looking man, had made an appearance to hear her answer.
‘I want to be free again,’ she had told him. ‘Free like I was before I married my husband. The Marquess of Villamar is a weight around my neck and he has now become too heavy.’
No more words were needed for Hernaldo to understand the only way in which she could attain such independence. Since then, she had kept her side of the bargain with the marquess and had handed him all her correspondence with Don Francisco up until the day of their rupture. She had only withheld the final letter, the one which jeopardized her young lover’s reputation. This was, of course, the very letter that Don Enrique most desired, but she had no intention of giving it to him until she had received payment of her own. Always keep one card, her father had counselled her. Just remember, Sol, that your beauty is a powerful weapon – but it is not eternal. And that was why she had been eager to make a rapid ascent.
Her father, a wealthy merchant from Valladolid, had left her no title, just a large dowry, which she had used to marry Demetrio Velarde, a man almost thirty years her senior who was a secretary at the Treasury and whose position had provided Sol with a connection to the court.
When her first husband had died, she had decided to obtain a title. She had her eyes on Don Rodrigo, Duke of Castañeda and Villalonga, who had come to Madrid in search of a wife and with the intention of establishing himself in the capital. She had met him at one of the gatherings organized by Queen María Luisa, in the absence of King Felipe, who was still embroiled in his war against the Habsburgs. Oh, these men and their wars! She had spent the whole evening subtly flirting with Don Rodrigo, ensuring their fingers made contact as they both reached for the same pastry. Don Rodrigo had made her the centre of his attention. During the weeks that followed, they had exchanged notes in which the duke made his interest clear. It had been at another encounter, in the house of the Countess of Arcos, that he had appeared with an elegant woman, younger than her, who threatened to upset her whole plan. Rodrigo had introduced them to each other.
‘My dear Sol, this is my cousin, Doña Alba de Montepardo.’
‘Any friend of Don Rodrigo is always welcome in our little group of friends. We must admit you without delay, my dear,’ Sol had said, slighting the newcomer by implying that she had no circle of friends of her own and she was in need of their charity.
The woman’s expression of surprise had led Sol to assume that she attributed this discourtesy to clumsiness rather than evil intentions. The problems came later when Don Rodrigo innocently praised Doña Alba’s social gifts.
‘Really, Don Rodrigo, you are too—’ Doña Alba had replied.
‘Well, of course, my dear,’ Doña Sol had interrupted, ‘you have a special innocence.’
Doña Sol had smiled and reminded Rodrigo that he should present himself to the queen. Once the two women were alone, Sol had smiled at Doña Alba.
‘Forgive me for being so direct. I see that you have a particular interest in Don Rodrigo, but I fear you are wasting your time. He would never settle for a woman like you, and what’s more, I happen to know there is another who occupies a place in his heart,’ Sol had said, but Doña Alba had merely laughed and given her a somewhat condescending look. ‘Even so,’ Sol had continued in a whisper, like it was a secret, ‘I have heard so much about you that I hope we will become lifelong friends.’
‘I hope you have heard nothing but praise,’ Alba had replied.
‘Of course,’ Sol had said, continuing with her pretence.
At that moment, Alba’s expression had changed slightly, and a dangerous glint appeared in her eyes.
‘In contrast, I have not had the pleasure of hearing anything whatsoever about you. Indeed, I did not even know of your existence until my cousin invited me to come along to this gathering so that he could introduce us,’ she had said.
It was at that moment that Sol had understood that this woman had no marital designs on Rodrigo. She had smiled, seeking to avoid the confrontation she herself had initiated, and said she didn’t understand.
‘My dear Doña Sol, of course you understand,’ Doña Alba had interrupted. ‘I don’t know why you thought I could be a threat to you as regards my cousin. It is true that he is well disposed to you, but he also has certain reservations, on account of some disturbing rumours about you. Perhaps that is why he sought my advice.’
Sol had known then that nothing she could say would make things better.
‘Doña Alba, I must have committed some terrible error. All I wish is to be his loyal friend…’
‘You are not the first to wish such a thing; there have been others before you. But, honestly, my dear, after this evening, I very much doubt that my cousin will flatter you with his attentions again.’
‘Doña Alba, I had no intention—’ she had tried to say.
‘My darling, of course you had an intention, and that’s what makes it so amusing,’ Alba had replied cruelly. ‘Because, my dear, I am Doña Alba of Castamar, Spanish grandee: my circle is the only circle that matters; any other is of no consequence.’
The next day, the entire Madrid aristocracy had abandoned Sol. Doors that had always been open to her had become blocks of stone. Desperate, she had turned to a man she had met at the burial of her first husband: Don Enrique of Arcona. Trying to conceal her anguish and bitterness, she had begged the marquess to intercede on her behalf with Doña Alba, whom she had heard was a long-standing friend of his. He had told her they had drifted apart some years ago but that, as chance would have it, he happened to possess some information regarding goings-on at Castamar. As a result, he could advise her when Doña Alba left the estate and arrange what would look like a casual meeting, where Sol might be able to resolve their differences. She had thanked him profusely, and as soon as she was in her carriage, she had ordered her servant to find out who the marquess’s confidant was. That was the first occasion on which she had collaborated with the marquess.
Despite acting on Don Enrique’s advice, however, her attempts to engineer an encounter had been frustrated by Doña Alba’s determination to ignore her. After some weeks had passed, and resigned to her ostracism, to her surprise she had received a visiting card from Don Rodrigo inviting her to meet. She had agreed immediately and had even dared to believe that Don Rodrigo might be about to ask for her hand, despite his cousin’s advice. He did indeed propose, and she had accepted until he informed her that it was his intention to leave Madrid and return to Cartagena, as his fortunes had declined, and although he would give her a comfortable life, he could not sustain their presence at court. At that moment, she had decided to reject his title and the meagre fortune that accompanied it in favour of a more ambitious target.
From an early age, her father had encouraged her to be ambitious, and she was sure he would not have been disappointed by the progress she had made thus far. And so, she had declined Don Rodrigo’s proposal, caring little that this made it clear she had more interest in his wealth and status than in his person. Hours later, the duchess, surrounded by friends among the flowerbeds of the Buen Retiro Palace, had laughed at her in public, making it known that her cousin was still in possession of a huge fortune, and that her little manoeuvre had simply revealed Sol’s true intentions.
At that moment, as their laughter tore at her pride and she saw that all her work had been for nothing, she had sworn to avenge herself upon Doña Alba, even if it cost her her life. And she had done exactly that, she told herself, recalling how she had moved heaven and earth to achieve her objective: she and no other had been the author of Doña Alba’s death.
She had found the opportunity for revenge when she remembered that Don Enrique had someone inside the household of Castamar, and she had become obsessed with finding out who it was. It was not long before her clerk, who had been in her service since her father’s day, discovered that it was a groom called Emilio, better known as El Zurdo, who had been assigned the mission of training Don Diego’s horse so that it would become a lethal weapon. It had not been easy to convince the man to train the duchess’s mount instead of the duke’s. El Zurdo, her clerk and she had become players in a dangerous game. If they lost, Don Diego would become their implacable enemy, bent on destroying her, and Don Enrique would no doubt have them killed even more quickly.
After Doña Alba’s death, Doña Sol had gradually been able to recover her reputation until that old fool Don Esteban, Marquess of Villamar, had appeared some years later. Persuaded by her charms, he had married her, finally providing Sol with the position and the fortune she so desired. Her persistence had paid off.
As she stretched lazily and inhaled Francisco’s scent on the pillow, her butler appeared to inform her that there was someone waiting for her downstairs: Hernaldo de la Marca. The payment, she thought to herself. Perhaps I will finally obtain my independence. She had been hoping he would appear, but she did not want to seem too eager, so she kept him waiting while she made her preparations. Finally, she entered the room. The marquess’s sinister henchman looked at her and muttered a clumsy greeting that she did not return.
‘Tell Don Enrique I have kept my part of the bargain and am waiting for my payment,’ she said haughtily. ‘It’s been several months now.’
Hernaldo hesitated for a moment before taking a step forward. Sol fixed him with a hostile gaze, as if to warn him that he would pay for his insolence with his life if he crossed the invisible line that separated the aristocracy from the rest. It would be enough for her to give her clerk an order, for him to end up on the gallows in a public square.
‘You don’t have much faith,’ he said.
‘The only things I have faith in are money and the power of my position.’
‘You shouldn’t be so distrusting,’ he said as he held out a cloth that was stained crimson. ‘You can put on your mourning clothes. An accident in the carriage. The horses bolted.’
Sol accepted the news with satisfaction, took the handkerchief and checked that it bore the initials of her now deceased husband.
‘Here is the weapon that will destroy the reputation of that conceited fool. My relationship with him is over,’ she said, holding out a sealed letter. ‘You may leave, and tell the marquess that I hope not to see him for a long time. He only calls me when it is in his interest.’
The man withdrew, and Sol smiled to herself at the thought that her father would be proud of her. Her hand squeezed the handkerchief as if she were grasping a noble title, so tightly that her fingers showed white against the red stains.
24
22 January 1721
Clara rose early, with the intention of getting back to work as soon as possible and not dwelling too much on Rosalía’s death. Her heart had been tied in a knot since the previous night, as she still did not know who the poultice had been for.
After getting everything ready for the day ahead, she sent a message to Elisa, asking her to come down to the kitchens at the earliest opportunity. From time to time, she had retreated to the larder so that she wouldn’t be seen crying in front of her subordinates. Returning from one such trip, she was horrified to see the terrible job Beatriz Ulloa was making of cutting the veal. The girl irritated her. Ignorant and dim-witted, she was squandering the chance to learn a simple trade because she felt secure under Doña Ursula’s protection. Clara walked over and, employing all her patience, took the knife and showed the girl how to cut the meat into even chunks. Beatriz sighed, as if she were being punished rather than taught something.
The kitchen servants were beginning to prepare the masters’ breakfast when a smiling Elisa appeared on the other side of the door. Clara walked over, her heart beating rapidly, and closed the door behind her. She wanted to allay any doubts as soon as possible.
‘Don Diego is well,’ Elisa told her immediately. ‘It was Señorita Castro. Some wrongdoers attacked her, and she was brought here in a terrible state. You don’t need to worry about your lordship,’ she finished, somewhat cheekily.
Clara felt relieved, though deeply sorrowed by what had happened to Señorita Castro.
‘He’s not my lordship. I’m just concerned about him. As we all are,’ she whispered. ‘And keep your voice down.’
Elisa laughed.
‘Well, your concerns have brought you into direct confrontation with Doña Ursula, and now all the servants know it,’ she said, taking Clara’s hand.
Clara tensed up when she heard this, but relaxed upon discovering that she was not the only one who had had a run-in with the housekeeper. Don Melquíades himself had launched his own offensive during the servants’ dinner. He’d even struck the table. Housekeeper and head butler had retreated to his office to continue their argument. That was confirmation for Clara that a war, hidden from the servants for all these years, was being waged between Don Melquíades and Doña Ursula. All of a sudden, she understood she had been the catalyst that had brought their poisonous relationship into plain view.
‘You can’t imagine how Doña Ursula’s face changed when Don Melquíades banged the table. She was—’
The maid interrupted herself and half closed her eyes. Without saying a word, she walked to the door and opened it gently, revealing the figure of Beatriz. Elisa turned pale.
