Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [124]
She didn’t know what to say. No beautiful woman was ever completely ignorant of her beauty or of a man’s affection. If she denied that Simón loved her, she’d be lying. She wasn’t above flirting with him, but she wasn’t in love with him.
It touched her that Miguel knew that a young woman ought to be married. On the other hand, she had to put a stop to gossip.
“Miguel, querido,” she said. “These matters are inappropriate for boys to discuss in the street or the school yard. It’s disrespectful to don Simón, to me, and to you, too. They’re private, adult concerns. Don’t trouble yourself with them. Promise me you will not discuss this with anyone else.”
“I promise,” he said.
She pushed his hair back, tucked the sheets around his shoulders. “You can talk to me about anything, Miguel, you know that.”
“Sí.”
“But sometimes I will not be able to explain everything you ask.” She smiled as if guarding a secret. “As you grow up you’ll begin to see things differently.”
He nodded. As usual before she left the room, Elena kissed his forehead and snuffed out the candle on his bed table. He was left in the dark, wishing he were already a man and could answer his own questions.
Siña Ciriaca unbuttoned Elena’s black dress. Beneath it, her undergarments were dyed black as well. Siña Ciriaca helped her step out of her three petticoats, then unfastened and helped her remove the corset until Elena wore only her chemise, stockings, and indoor slippers. She stepped behind the screen to change into her nightclothes. Her white nightgown and robe were cooler than her daywear, but even these were trimmed with black ribbons along the neckline and wrists.
Siña Ciriaca made sure that there was enough water in the pitcher and a glass by the bedside, and that there were extra candles for the sconces because she knew that Elena often stayed up into the early hours. “Buenas noches, señorita,” she said, closing the door.
Elena unfastened her hair, which was twisted and confined all day in tortoiseshell pins capped with a small ebony comb. She bent over and brushed her chestnut waves back to front, then side to side, then front to back, and finished with a braid over her left shoulder. The water in the basin was cool, and she inhaled the sharp scent of the lemon slices floating on the surface. She washed her face, her neck, behind her ears and patted them dry with a linen towel. From her top drawer, she withdrew the velvet pouch. Ana’s pearl necklace and earrings slid onto her palm, light but substantial, warm, glimmering from within. She put them on reverentially, each movement a prayer. She smiled into the mirror, admiring her smooth neck adorned with pearls, the twinkling diamonds on her earlobes. She’d been in mourning for five years, but every night of those 1,825 days she put on Ana’s pearls and diamonds and gazed into her own beautiful reflection.
A month earlier, she’d observed her twenty-third birthday with no husband, without her own household or a nursery buzzing with children. Over the years, don Eugenio had brought eligible young men for her to meet. They made overtures and looked for her to show some sign of interest, but she responded with polite formality. Several tried to convince her to love them, but others, like don Simón, withdrew into distant worship. A beautiful young woman who did nothing to make a man fall in love with her was saintly, and Elena, La Madona, was admired for her restraint and self-possession. She knew she was a romantic figure. The death of her fiancé created an aura of tragedy around her that she did nothing to discourage.
Had Inocente lived, she would have married him, even though she felt toward him like a sister. She’d added to the trousseau folded inside the cedar bridal chest that doña Leonor gave her for her fifteenth birthday. The white linen napkins were edged with fine crochet, fashioned with pineapple motifs. Each pillowcase and hand towel was embroidered with an A for her and Inocente’s last names, Argoso and Alegría. She had two