When Benedita returned to the Big House, it was already dawning. She entered through the kitchen door, her hands shaking, her face wet with dried tears. It was then that she heard the thundering of horses in the yard. Her blood ran cold. Colonel Tertuliano Cavalcante had arrived earlier than expected from a trip to São Paulo.
She heard his deep voice shouting orders to the slaves at the corral and then heavy footsteps on the veranda boards. “Where is my wife? Were the boys born?” he bellowed, his voice drunk with anxiety and cachaça.
Benedita hid behind the pantry door, her heart beating like a drum. She knew everything depended on the next few minutes. The colonel stumbled up the stairs, his boots thumping hard on the wood. He was a tall man with thick mustaches and a gaze as hard as stone, dressed in a black coat dusty from the road and a gold chain on his vest.
As he passed through the hallway, he crossed paths with Dona Sebastiana, the midwife, who was coming down with a basin full of bloody cloths. “Well, Dona Sebastiana, how many?” he asked, grabbing the woman’s shoulder. The midwife, surprised, answered without thinking: “Three, Colonel. There were three boys, three twins—a rare thing, a miracle from God.”
Tertuliano’s face lit up with a broad smile, his eyes shining with pride. “Three heirs, three Cavalcantes!” He laughed loudly, thumping his chest.
But when he opened the bedroom door, he saw only two babies in Amélia’s arms. Lady Amélia was lying there, pale as wax, her messy hair stuck to her sweaty face. In her arms, she held two babies wrapped in white linen blankets, both fair-skinned and rosy. When she saw her husband enter, her heart nearly stopped. She had to act fast.
“Tertuliano,” she whispered with a weak voice, her eyes filling with rehearsed tears. “There were three, yes. But one of them, the weakest, did not make it. He was born struggling to breathe, all purple. Dona Sebastiana tried everything, but God wanted him back.” Her voice broke at the end and she sobbed, hiding her face between the babies.
The colonel stopped, his smile fading. He approached slowly, looked at his two sons, and then at his wife. “He died?” he repeated, his voice lower now.
Amélia nodded, her tears flowing for real now—not from sadness, but from the fear of being discovered. “Dona Sebastiana already took the body; she said it was better to bury him quickly so as not to bring more pain.”
Tertuliano remained silent for a long moment, stroking his mustache, his eyes fixed on the two living babies. He was not a man to show weakness, but the news shook him. “God gives, God takes away,” he murmured, making the sign of the cross. Then he forced a smile and held the two boys firmly. “Then let it be. These two will be strong. Benedito and Bernardino, my heirs.”
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