The House of Ulloa (Penguin Classics) by Emilia Bazan

Author:Emilia Bazan
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780141392967
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2013-08-01T00:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

To the amazement of all who saw, the marquis had brought the wetnurse to the manor on the front of his saddle, for there had been no other means of transport available in Castrodorna, and he had been too impatient to let her come on foot. The poor mare will shudder for ever after remembering the day she had to bear the weight of both the present Moscoso and the wetnurse of his future heir; for the girl was as strong and large as an ox, with a veritable fountain of milk – as Máximo Juncal, who was, after all, the expert, readily agreed.

Don Pedro lost heart, however, when he found that the child had still not arrived. Indeed, it seemed to him that now the expected birth would never happen. He was ferociously hungry and hurried Sabel with his supper. She served it to him personally, for Filomena, the maid who usually served in the dining-room, was busy elsewhere. The lass looked fresher and more appetizing than ever; the flesh on her bare arm, the copper-coloured shine of her curls, the soft tenderness and sensuality of her blue eyes, all seemed in contrast with the woman who lay prostrated in agony only a short distance away. It was a long time since the marquis had seen Sabel closely. Rather than merely look at her, it would be more exact to say that he examined her carefully for several minutes. He noticed the girl was not wearing ear-rings and that one of her ears was disfigured: then he remembered that he himself had torn it, when he crushed the filigree ear-drop with the butt of his rifle in a brutal fit of jealousy. The wound had healed, but the ear now appeared to have two lobes instead of one.

‘Doesn’t the señora sleep at all?’ Julián was asking the doctor.

‘At times, between contractions … But to tell the truth, I don’t like this drowsiness she falls into at all. We’re not getting anywhere, and the worst thing is she’s losing strength. She gets weaker and weaker, and hasn’t tasted food for forty-eight hours – she confessed to me that before telling her husband, long before that, she was already feeling ill and couldn’t eat. All this falling asleep looks wrong to me. I would say that rather than drowsiness, what we have here are real fainting-spells.’

Dismayed, Don Pedro rested his head on his clenched fist.

‘I’m convinced,’ he said emphatically, ‘that these things only happen to señoritas brought up in the towns. Only one of them would get so worked up over such a trifle … I’d like to see the girls around here faint … they’d give themselves half a jugful of wine and finish off the job singing.’

‘No, sir, there are all sorts everywhere. The lymphatic-nervous ones lose their vigour quickly. I’ve had some cases …’ and he went on to explain in detail the various battles he had fought – which in truth were not many, for he had only just entered the fray, so to speak.

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