She worked in the cane fields, cutting cane under the relentless sun, but her rustic beauty and natural strength made her stand out among the anonymous mass of workers.
Dona Isabel, observing from the veranda, felt something that went beyond the need for labor. It was a whim, a hunger. She immediately ordered the young girl to be removed from the fields.
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“Bring her inside,” she commanded. “She shall serve me, and only me.”
Mariana’s transition to the Big House was the beginning of a nightmare disguised as privilege. Initially, her tasks seemed like a blessing: washing fine linen clothes, preparing baths with imported aromatic herbs, and serving meals where malagueta peppers and coconut sweets mingled.
But the atmosphere in the Baroness’s bedroom was oppressive. The walls, lined with heavy Flemish tapestries, muffled outside sounds. The environment reeked of incense and French perfumes—a futile attempt to mask the smell of fermentation coming from the mill.
Soon, “accidental” touches became intentional caresses. On hot nights, when the chirping of crickets was the only music, Isabel began to demand massages.
“It is for the melancholy, Mariana,” the Baroness would say, lying in her canopy bed, her voice drawling. “The doctors in Europe recommend touch to calm a widow’s nerves.”
