“Oh, all right,” I sighed, sure he was wrong.
A half hour later, the three of us were in his estate vehicle, a black, open-air Jeep, headed over a dirt road that crossed the wide fields and hills belonging to the Castillo de Rohares.
The Widow Ramirez’s house was a snug little cottage on the edge of the estate, where she grew organic peaches and persimmons, aubergines and artichokes, and raised goats that produced milk and cheese. Frail and wizened, barely as tall as my shoulder, when she answered her door she looked at me with critical, beady eyes. But by the end of the visit, she was smiling and pushing more of her homemade butter cookies toward me.
“Eat, eat,” she pleaded. “You must keep up your strength if you are to give your husband more children.”
I felt Alejandro looking at me, and blushed.
“Gracias, Pilar,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “We wish for more children very much.”
“Of course you do,” she said, pouring him tea. “I know it was always your desire to have a larger family, growing up so lonely, up in that huge castle, with your older sister off working in Granada. And your mother,” she sniffed, “working night and day, when she wasn’t distracted by the duke....”
“Sister? What sister? Alejandro is an only child,” I added, frowning up at him. “Aren’t you?”
He cleared his throat, glancing at his old governess. “You’re confused, Pilar,” he said gently. “You’re thinking of Miguel. Not me.”
Her rheumy eyes focused on him. Then she nearly jumped in her chair. “Yes. Yes, of course. That was Miguel. You are El Duque.” She abruptly held out a plate to me. “¿Más galletas?”
“Yes, please.”
She beamed at me. “It makes me so happy you like my cookies. Alejandro—” she looked at him severely “—barely ate one.”
He laughed. “I had three.”
“Hardly any,” she sniffed. She smiled at me. “You should take the example of your wife, and eat four or more.”
“Gracias,” I said happily, and took another one, buttery and flaky and sweet. “I will need this recipe.”
“I’ll be delighted to send it to you!”
Shortly afterward, as we rose to leave, Alejandro hugged the widow’s small frame gently and looked at her with real love. “Take care of yourself, Pilar. We’ll see you soon.”
“You, too, M—Alejandro.” Shaking her head with a wry smile, she reached up and patted his cheek, then looked down and kissed the top of our baby’s head. Looking among the three of us, she said, “I’m so happy for you, my dear. How it’s all turned out. You deserve a happy life.”
Leaving her cottage, we got back into his open Jeep, tucking Miguel into the baby seat in the backseat. As we drove across the bumpy road, I exhaled in pure relief. Closing my eyes, I turned my face up to the warm morning sun, feeling happy that I’d somehow—I had no idea how—passed the first test. Instead of her tossing me out, she’d fed me cookies. And I’d pretty much eaten all of them. What can I say? They were delicious. I really did need that recipe.
Smiling, I turned to look at my husband. “She was nice.”
“I’m glad you think so.” He was looking at me with a strange expression, as if he wanted to say something. I frowned, and I parted my lips to ask what he was thinking. Before I could, he looked away.
“We’ll visit the Delgado family next.”
For the rest of the day, as my confidence built, I spoke with all of the tenants on his estate. They seemed relieved and happy that I spoke Spanish, though they took pleasure in teasing me mercilessly about my accent. They adored the baby, and all of them praised my new husband to me, even when he was out of earshot. One after another, they told me stories of his noble character, his good heart.
“The land was neglected, and El Duque brought it back from the brink....”
“My roof was falling apart, but El Duque helped me fix it....”
“When the crop died, I thought I would have to leave. But El Duque gave me a loan, enough for seed and animals. He saved us, and he himself was only eighteen....”
“He gave my son a job in Madrid, when there were no jobs to be had. José would have left for Argentina.” The old woman wiped her eyes. “El Duque kept my son here in Spain, and I’m so grateful. I’ll never forget....”
By the time we visited the last house in early evening, I was no longer even nervous. I was relaxed, holding our baby, laughing and chatting with the farmers, complimenting them on their well-cared-for fields and animals, complimenting their wives on their delicious tartas. And seeing how they admired Alejandro, how they treated him with such respect. His people did love him.