Page 12 of An Immaculate Deception

I hesitate. Perhaps he doesn’t know how out of sorts he is. I need to choose my words carefully so as not to make him feel worse or self-conscious.

I wave my hand. “You just seem more lively.”

“I was happy to see you well.”

“Doctor Lobo says you are recovering well, too.”

He stares at me in a dull way.

“Wouldn’t you say so?” I press.

Leandro looks away sullenly. I can see his jaw squaring, twitching. The tension in his neck. Was it something I said?

“Leandro.” I muster my softest, most unassuming tone. “Do you remember our conversation from last night?”

“Last night?” he asks. “I…remember holding your hand.”

“Yes!” I sit up straighter, hope blossoming in my chest. “So you do remember! In the carriage, what I told you…”

He averts his gaze again. “I’m sorry, I…” He shakes his head. The silence stretches.

I am unnerved. I see, from the way he rubs his face and shifts nervously on his feet, that I pressed him too soon. He is not well yet. Still in shock from the accident. I should not have brought it up.

Yet now I can’t seem to stop.

“I was referring to what we discussed in the carriage. Do you remember?”

To say that he looks displeased is an understatement. His face falls, and I cannot tell if he does not remember or if he remembers but loathes the memory, then he suddenly spins and turns to leave.

“What’s the matter, Leandro?” I call out.

He stops, hand stilling on the doorknob. “I apologize for my abruptness but I must take my leave now. I have urgent matters to take care of. But I’m happy that you’re…” He pauses, then regards me. Really regards me this time: sincere, earnest, raw, and with warmth. “I’m happy you’re here.”

The words sound genuine. It’s enough to make me feel hopeful all over again.

His lower lip trembles slightly, and there are still shadows under his eyes. But he’s talking, and when he greeted me earlier he hadn’t said one kind word to me. A primal, warm feeling moves through me.

“I’m happy to be here with you, too,” I say.

I feel much better after my bath. The headache has mostly subsided and my earlier fatigue is gone. Better still, Leandro seems livelier and more present, and is speaking again, even if his demeanor remains stilted. This must be lingering shock from the accident that will heal in time. He even said sweet words to me, though haltingly. It seems he doesn’t fault me for the accident, after all. My heart swells with love for him. Doctor Lobo was right: Leandro just needs time.

I examine the clothes that were left for me, folded neatly on a wooden chair of woven straw. The first thing I notice about the dresses is that none of them are mine.

I had expected that Leandro would have sent a boy over to my house to pick up clothes for me to wear during this retreat.

Instead…it appears he borrowed clothes. From whom, I wonder? Perhaps a sister or a neighbor? I don’t recall ever hearing about a Neves sister.

The dresses are quite nicely embellished, but I feel strange wearing another woman’s chemise and corset. Perhaps this decision resulted from Leandro’s unsteady state of mind, him not thinking clearly. But I will go along and not make a fuss over something so minor.

The style is peculiar and gaudy. The bustle is quite small, the corset is longer than usual, and the bodice sleeves are wide and puffy. I settle for burgundy attire with a nice bell shape, and I’m happy with the fit despite the garishly large mutton sleeves. The skirt billows as I step out into the corridor. Mother would have chastised me for what I do next—peek into the empty rooms, one by one, looking for a mirror.

Most guest rooms are small and modestly furnished, even Leandro’s room. But then I come upon a large, meticulously furnished room with an antique brass mirror upon a damask-covered wall.

I hesitate in the doorway for a moment. A dull ache creeps up my leg muscles, and I still, waiting for it to abate. Something about this room feels lived in, though I can’t pinpoint what it is at first. The sun has sunk beneath the clouds, casting a fading gray light into the room. The bed is made up with plump pillows and floral sheets, and it’s richly decorated. But Leandro said he lived alone here. He moved here six months ago, when the comendador assigned him the restoration of the sugar mill.

Of course he lives alone. This must simply be a guest room that has had some usage. Maybe it’s used by visiting priests, wayfarers, and travelers. I glance down the corridor to make sure no one is around. I hear only the distant sounds of pots clanking in the kitchen below. Surely if I go in for just a moment to examine myself in the mirror, no one will mind.

I step inside and tiptoe toward the mirror. This room feels distinctly darker than the others, as though light doesn’t fully penetrate. Blue-gray shadows loom where wall meets furniture. The tall window sheds a hazy outline of fields beyond. A wall-mounted washbasin borders a tall wooden wardrobe.