Page 84 of The Seven Sisters
‘No, I . . . suppose I’m simply nervous about my wedding,’ she replied.
‘Well, write to me, and tell me all about it, and I will see you when I too am home in Rio. Bel, I . . .’
‘What is it?’
The ship’s bell rang out to give a thirty-minute warning.
‘Remember this time in Paris, but please, try to embrace your future with Gustavo too.’
Bel stared at Maria Elisa and knew instinctively what she was saying to her.
‘I will, I promise.’
Maria Georgiana reappeared in the cabin. ‘The purser had a crowd of guests around him so I could not speak to him in person, but make sure that you introduce yourself to him. He already knows you’re a woman travelling alone, and I’m sure he will provide someone suitable as a chaperone.’
‘I will, I assure you. Goodbye, Senhora da Silva Costa. Thank you for all your kindness.’
‘And you must swear to me that you won’t set foot off this ship until you dock safely at Pier Mauá,’ she added. ‘The moment you’re delivered safely to your parents, I would appreciate a telegram.’
‘I assure you I will do so the second I arrive home.’
Bel followed them up onto the deck to say her final goodbyes. Once they had left, she went to lean on the railings. She looked out over the port of Le Havre, knowing it was her last glimpse of France.
Somewhere to the south lay Paris, and somewhere in it was Laurent. The ship began to move smoothly out of its berth, and Bel stood there gazing at the shoreline until it finally melted into the horizon.
‘Goodbye, my love, goodbye,’ she whispered. And, consumed by utter misery, she walked down to her cabin.
*
Bel took her supper in her room that evening, unable to face the jolly atmosphere of the dining room, full of happy occupants looking forward to the voyage. She lay on her bed, feeling the gentle rocking of the ship, and, as night fell, watched her porthole become as black as her heart.
She’d wondered whether, when she left terra firma, and the ship and her life were pointed towards home, the dreadful pain in her heart would begin to ease. After all, she would see her beloved mother and father and be back in the familiarity of her own country.
Plans were already well underway for the wedding day itself and Antonio had written in a state of high excitement, saying they were to be married in Rio’s beautiful cathedral, an honour only rarely bestowed.
But try as she might, as the ship moved further and further away from Laurent, her heart felt as heavy as the stone boulders that sat at the back of Landowski’satelier.
‘Blessed Virgin,’ she prayed, as tears spilled down her face and onto her pillow. ‘Give me the strength to live without him, for at this very moment, I don’t know how I can bear it.’
Maia
June 2007
Full Moon
13; 49; 44
27
When I’d finished reading the last letter, I saw that it was past midnight. Izabela Bonifacio was on board the steamer, facing the return to a man she did not love and leaving Laurent Brouilly behind.
L a u . . .
With excitement coursing through my veins, I realised I now knew the origin of the first three letters on the back of the soapstone tile; Laurent, Bel’s secret love. And the sculpture of the woman on the chair in the garden of the Casa must surely be the very one that Bel had sat for during those heady days in Paris? Though how it had made its way across the sea to Brazil, I had no idea.
Tomorrow, I would not only reread the letters – I’d been so eager to discover the story I knew I hadn’t taken in the detail – but also look up Monsieur Laurent Brouilly on the internet. His name certainly rang a bell. But for now, exhausted, I removed my clothes, pulled the sheet around me and fell asleep with my hand still resting on my history.
*
