Page 14 of An Immaculate Deception

He bites his lower lip. I’ve never seen him do that before. I wait, and he doesn’t speak. He appears so deep inside his own head. Even though he’s a bit better, and talking, there’s no doubt he’s still disturbed. His eyes are still buggy. His voice lacks the usual animation and liveliness. There’s a guardedness, a troubled air about him.

I almost regret asking the question. Leandro is not well. I should have waited. Now the terrible silence is making me fret that I’ve somehow broken him even more than the accident did.

“They’re my mother’s. Passed down from her grandmother.”

I think of Valentina Neves, Leandro’s mother, the elegant woman I’ve seen in church who’s always wearing rounded-toe heels and velvet gloves.

She doesn’t live here. But I know it’s common for wealthy people to spread their valuables across many different properties for safekeeping. So it does make sense.

“Same for the dresses?” I spread my arms to indicate the dress I’m wearing.

“Yes.”

I nod, but I’m uncertain. It makes sense that Valentina would leave some of her expensive jewels and dresses at this property. And if they were already here, it’s not so odd for him to lend them to me. My own dress, skirt, petticoat, and corsets must all be filthy from the accident, and I would not want to wear them anyway. I will confirm with the housekeeper later that they are being set aside for washing.

I could almost believe Leandro, except for one thing.

“When was the last time your mother visited?”

“What?”

“When was the last time your mother slept in that room?”

I sense my questioning is becoming impertinent. Especially since he’s still in shock. And by now he must have heard the suspicion in my tone.

But I can’t help myself.

He stares at me for a long moment before answering. It’s a strange mannerism that seems to define his state of shock, taking so long to respond to every question I ask, as though solving an elaborate math problem in his head. But the questions I have been asking should be simple. His face is cast in shadows, the sun must have gone down by now.

“Several weeks ago.”

Now I know he’s lying. Because the scent of lavender rose permeated the air even before I broke the bottle. A woman slept in there recently enough that her scent still lingers.

Maria das Dores, the housekeeper and cook, starts the house tour in the drawing room. She has a stilted, guarded demeanor as if she was bit by the same bug that bit Leandro. She speaks haltingly, stiffly, and at times pauses her speech to look at Leandro, seeking reassurance. I try to smile at her, and she frowns. Leandro watches from the sidelines. The half-moons under his eyes look deeper under the flickering glow of whale oil lamps. The sun hasn’t completely fallen behind the clouds, but the pale light of dusk does little to illuminate the room.

It’s disconcerting to see the inside of a place before the outside of it. I feel disoriented about what kind of spatial arrangement to expect as we move from one room to another.

If Leandro was telling the truth about not wanting me to visit because of the state of the house, then I surely understand the sentiment now. The house has a dark, decaying air about it. The faded green wallpaper is peeling and cracking along its stripes. The orbs of the oil lamps are brown on the inside of the glass, as though they haven’t been polished in months. If there is a chambermaid besides the housekeeper, I haven’t seen one. The air is stale and musty. A layer of dust coats the paintings and thin cracks fracture the window glass. The sofa cushions bear rips that reveal the fabric beneath.

This is supposed to be a relaxing medical retreat, yet I’ve already caught Leandro in a lie and it rattles my nerves.

Because he is lying. As I listen to Maria das Dores go on and on—breakfast is served at seven, lunch at noon, and supper at six thirty—I think of more things that don’t make sense. He said the dress I’m wearing belonged to his mother. I doubt that, because the embellished style and fabric are not like the dresses of old. I know the older styles Mother and Grandmother still have in their wardrobes, and they’re not like this. Nor do the garish wide mutton sleeves match anything I can imagine Valentina Neves wearing.

What is he hiding from me? Something about this fazenda, about his life.

And his very state unnerves me the most. The way he stands now, watching me silently. His stance carries such a gravity around it. He looks at once alarmed and eager.

I can’t help but feel the accident isn’t the only reason he’s acting strange.

Is he afraid I’ll discover his secret? Something to do with the mystery woman who slept in the lavender-scented room? This could explain the tension—dread, even—I sensed in him when I awoke. Perhaps he never meant for me to end up here, and now that I’m here, he’s afraid I’ll find out about her.

I feel a movement in my belly and draw an inhale. All this ruminating can’t be good for the baby. I try to calm myself. I don’t want the baby to absorb my discomfort.

For the sake of the baby, I resolve not to jump to premature conclusions. That perfume alone doesn’t mean that Leandro has a lover. Maybe Maria das Dores sprays perfume in that room while cleaning it. Or there could be another explanation I’m not thinking of. Maybe his mother came to visit recently and in his disturbed, post-accident state, he forgot about it.

I conjure to mind the look in Leandro’s eyes when, last night, he held my hand and I told him about the baby. The love that he felt for me then. The love I felt for him.

I just need him to heal from his shock and go back to the way he was. I have only a few days here, then Mother will demand an answer. Doctor Lobo said Leandro’s shock would pass soon, and he’s already better than when I first saw him. Maybe not today, but maybe tomorrow, or the next day, he’ll be back to the way he was before the accident, and we can resume things where we left off.