Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [166]
The morning after the festivities were over and the dignitaries gone, Leonor said she was too tired to get out of bed. She closeted herself in her chamber, curtains drawn, refusing food but agreeing to the yerbabuena and manzanilla tisanes Siña Ciriaca served her.
“Shall I call the doctor?” Eugenio asked the second day.
“No, mi amor. I’m exhausted, that’s all. I’ll be fine.”
“Promise to eat something, then. You can’t regain your strength if you refuse food.”
“I will,” she said, and closed her eyes.
Eugenio found Elena in her room. “What shall we do about Leonor? I’ve never seen her like this.”
“It’s been only a day. Maybe she really is tired. We should let her rest and she’ll be fine in a few days.”
“I’m worried about her.”
“Let’s indulge her and watch for any other signs of illness. She’ll probably be up and about again in a day or two.”
Three days later, the doctor was called. Leonor received him and allowed him to take her pulse and listen to her heart, but when he emerged from her room, he could only report what Eugenio, Elena, Miguel, and Siña Ciriaca already knew.
“Her pulse is slow, but not alarmingly so. Let her rest as much as she needs so long as she takes liquids.”
Siña Ciriaca prepared dove broths and alternated them with the tisanes with honey. Eugenio, Elena, and Miguel visited her, but only for a few minutes, because while Leonor seemed happy to see them at first, she’d soon close her eyes and fall asleep.
Ten days after she’d taken to her bed, Leonor rose, dressed, and joined them at the midday meal as she always did, except that she pushed her food around.
“It’s wonderful to have you up and about again, querida,” Eugenio said, kissing her hand.
“I was tired, that’s all.”
She’d lost weight. Her round cheeks had drooped, and her face had lengthened. Deep lines crisscrossed her features, and the loose skin under her neck shook with every movement. Eugenio, Elena, and Miguel tried not to stare as Leonor listlessly chewed a piece of bread and sipped her sherry. The conversation over the meal was sparse, because they were all afraid of saying something that might upset or make her sad again. Leonor didn’t notice. She nibbled bread and asked Miguel to pour another glass of sherry, which at least brought some color to her cheeks.
As they finished the almuerzo, Bombón announced don Simón, who was so ebullient he seemed about to float through the roof.
“Buen provecho,” he said upon entering.
“Siña Ciriaca, another place setting, please,” asked Elena when Leonor didn’t.
Simón blushed and bowed. “Very kind, señorita Elena, but gracias. I’ve already eaten.” He turned to his star pupil. “My dear Miguel, I bring momentous news. Spain’s most illustrious living painter, Maestro Pedro Campos de Laura, has agreed to let you be his student in Madrid.” The schoolmaster could barely contain his joy as Miguel, Leonor, Elena, and even Siña Ciriaca, who’d just removed the meat platter, gaped.
“My goodness, you’re full of surprises, don Simón,” Leonor said.
“Not at all, my dear. Don Simón and I’ve been working on this for weeks.” Eugenio avoided her eyes.
“I know nothing about it,” Miguel stuttered.
“Don Eugenio and I didn’t want to say anything, in case Maestro Campos de Laura didn’t accept,” don Simón explained with a satisfied grin. He was so happy that he was insensible to Leonor’s uncharacteristically stiff posture. “He doesn’t teach, Miguel. This is a great honor and a tribute to your talent.”
“Getting you an apprenticeship with an artist of Maestro Campos de Laura’s reputation wasn’t easy,” Eugenio said solemnly. “Don Simón knows him from Madrid, and I was owed some favors, and when our own governor Izquierdo was recalled to the Peninsula, he met with el maestro to persuade him to consider you.”
Miguel looked from Eugenio to Simón to Elena to Leonor. “I don’t know what to say; it’s such a surprise.”
“We always do what’s best for you,” Eugenio said.
“Yes, sir, I understand that. Still—”
“It was so good of you to go through all that trouble,