Faye Kellerman - The Quality of Mercy

Rebecca placed the mustache over her lip and pressed it down. Picking up the looking glass, she blew warm air onto its surface and buffed it with the hem of her chemise. It was an old mirror, dull and distorted, and she had to squint to keep her eyes in focus. But once she made out her reflection, she smiled. The mustache and beard she’d chosen were perfect—full with reddish tones. With her face disguised in manly pelt, she realized how much she resembled her brother—their features were the same, only their coloring differed.

She stroked the beard and decided it would be a nuisance to have facial hair, something else to be washed, combed, trimmed, and pomaded. Ah, but what it signified! The hair on her chin and above her lip meant she was no longer artwork—a thing of beauty to be courted, wooed, and won. Nor was she required to remain homebound until a proper escort was found. She wasn’t obliged to act flirtatious or coy. Or keep her hands busy. (The true English gentlewoman was always industrious, her aunt had lectured.) The beard and mustache allowed her the luxury of idleness, the sudden freedom to come and go and do as she pleased.

To be a man, she thought wistfully.

Picking up her brother’s hose, Rebecca pulled them over her coltish legs. Although Ben was taller than she, he wasn’t particularly tall for a man, not like their father. And she had the fortune—or mis fortune, her brother had informed her—of being well sized for a woman. His hose were too long for her, but the excess material was easily hidden inside his boots.

Her brother had enormous feet. Even the surplus of stocking failed to fill up the empty space. No matter, she thought. Grandmama would stuff them with rags until they fit snugly. Marry, the boots were old. They’d been redyed a sickly brown, the toes were scuffed beyond repair, and the left sole sported a pennysized hole. But a starving man didn’t scoff at scraps. They were the only shoes Ben had left behind, and they would suffice. A pity he’d taken all his good ones to Venice, Rebecca thought. She especially liked his red velvet shoes with the gold buckles. They would have looked splendid with the yellow and black round hose she’d chosen to wear today.

Her chest would look much too womanly under a doublet. She needed help. She gathered up a set of gold sleeves, a slashed gold and red doublet, a pair of gloves, and a brown cap with a peacock feather. Stuffing the clothes under her arms, she opened the door to her brother’s bedchambers and peered down the hallway: a chambermaid, carrying fresh sheets. She disappeared into the left guest closet.

Her mother was not due back from her visit with Aunt Maria until suppertime. Her father was God knew where, discussing God knew what with God knew whom. He’d taken with him the new houseguest, Esteban Ferreira de Gama. De Gama had been most cordial to Rebecca since his arrival a week ago. She thought him quite witty, if not handsome—thickly set, with enormously powerful legs, like those of a draft horse. A warm smile, but not lecherous. Not like Manuel de Andrada.

Only he remained inside the house with her, alone with Grandmama and the servants, the door to his cell shut.

What would that weasel say if he saw her like this—false beard and dressed as a man. Would he laugh at her, tease her, or threaten to tell her father? She decided most definitely he’d threaten to expose her game—unless, of course, she capitulated to him. How many times he had pawed her or worse, tried to corner her and pry open her legs. She dared not tell the men in her family about it. She’d implied de Andrada’s improprieties to Ben once before, and her impulsive brother had been ready to kill the weasel on the spot. She had to use all her feminine wiles to restrain his rage. The last thing in the world the family needed was an unexplained murder in their house, the law poking its nose into the family’s personal affairs. So she held her peace about de Andrada and kept the door to her bedchamber locked.

Manuel de Andrada had to be a very important man for Father to keep him around. Or at the very least, a man who knew too much. She spat on the floor and cursed his name. How much longer would her father have to support that maggot? Give him clothes, food, and shelter? Several of her kinsmen had spoken of poison and de Andrada in the same sentence. She wished the talk would convert to action.

Tiptoeing out of her brother’s bower—all the sleeping quarters were on the upper level—she scampered down the hallway, then ran down the spiral staircase, hurrying into the library. She hid behind a walnut bookcase overflowing with her father’s medical tomes and surveyed the room.

No one around.

She rushed out of the library to the door of her grandma’s closet. Roderigo had built the chamber to suit the old woman’s needs. Since the hag was severely crippled, her cell was on the first floor—no steps to maneuver—and right off the kitchen. It made serving her meals easier.

Rebecca threw open the door and the toothless woman looked up from her poster bed and smiled. She was reading, her emaciated body propped up with a half-dozen pillows.

“I need some help,” Rebecca said, closing the door.

“You disguise yourself again?” the hag croaked out. “You’re the Devil!”

“Hurry, Grandmama. I must leave before that slimy worm de Andrada sees me.”

The old woman put down the book, slowly swung her legs off the mattress, and rested her bandaged feet on the floor. Rebecca stood to help her, but her grandmother motioned her down with the palm of her hand.

Her feeble movements were painful for Rebecca to watch—withered, spotted hands pushing up a frail body hanging from a bent spine, bony fingers reaching for her walking sticks. When the hag was finally upright—or as upright as she could be—she extended the sticks out and dragged her legs toward them. Her hands trembled horribly, but Rebecca knew there was yet so much the old woman could do with them. The young girl forced herself to act impatient and short-tempered with the hag. Anything less would seem as if she pitied her grandmama, and as sure as poison, pity would kill her.

“Hurry up, you old sot,” she chided. “Father should have put you away years ago.”

“Hush your foul mouth, Devil.”

“Have I all day to watch a cripple walk?”

“Whore.”

Rebecca smiled.

“Daughter of Jezebel,” the hag scolded.

“Tell me about Jezebel,” said Rebecca.

“Your learning of the scriptures is an abomination.” The old woman reached her and kissed her bearded cheek. Rebecca threw her arms around the skeletal frame.

“You’ll break me in two,” Grandmama screamed.

“I hope so.”

The old woman pushed her away, bent down on the floor and opened the lid to a box. She pulled out swatches of rags, a twine of string, and a knife. Rebecca stripped naked from the waist up.

“You’ve such lovely, large mounds, granddaughter,” the old woman said, wrapping the girl’s breasts in rags. “You’ll flatten them out if you keep this up.”

“Would I could lop them off.”

“Oh hush up.” After Grandmama encircled Rebecca’s chest with rags, she pulled the ends tightly from behind and secured them with string.

“I can’t breathe,” Rebecca gasped.

“Hush. You’ll grow used to it.”

“It’s too tight.”

Her grandmother responded by pulling the twine tighter.

“I’m being crushed,” Rebecca pleaded.

The old woman ignored her. “So you know nothing of Jezebel?”

“I know something of her,” Rebecca said. “I greatly like hearing your versions of the stories.”

“Not my versions!” the hag said, knocking Rebecca’s head.