The Spanish Daughter

Book 1: Puri’s Travels

by Lorena Hughes

Genres: Hispanic & Latino

Synopsis

Set against the lush backdrop of early twentieth century Ecuador and inspired by the real-life history of the coastal town known as the birthplace of cacao, this captivating #OwnVoices novel from the award-winning author of The Sisters of Alameda Street tells the story of a resourceful young chocolatier who must impersonate a man in order to claim her birthright...
As a child in Spain, Puri always knew her passion for chocolate was inherited from her father. But it's not until his death that she learns of something else she's inherited--a cocoa plantation in Vinces, Ecuador, a town nicknamed "Paris Chiquito." Eager to claim her birthright and filled with hope for a new life after the devastation of WWI, she and her husband Cristóbal set out across the Atlantic Ocean. But it soon becomes clear, someone is angered by Puri's claim to the plantation... When a mercenary sent to murder her aboard the ship accidentally kills Cristóbal instead, Puri dons her husband's clothes and assumes his identity, hoping to stay safe while she searches for the truth of her father's legacy in Ecuador. Though freed from the rules that women are expected to follow, Puri confronts other challenges at the plantation--newfound siblings, hidden affairs, and her father's dark secrets. Then there are the dangers awakened by her attraction to an enigmatic man as she tries to learn the identity of an enemy who is still at large, threatening the future she is determined to claim.
"An atmospheric and captivating mystery set against the backdrop of 1920s Ecuador, The Spanish Daughter is an engrossing, suspenseful family saga filled with unpredictable twists and turns." CHANEL CLEETON, New York Times bestselling author of Next Year in Havana

Release date: December 28, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 330

Sample

Surely they could all see through my disguise.

A drop of sweat slid down my forehead. I was definitely not dressed for the weather, which was akin to one of those Turkish baths gentlemen visited. The corset squeezing my small breasts was not helping matters. Neither was my husband’s vest, his jacket, or his bow tie. The fake beard made my face itch. If only I could scratch it, but any wrong move might tear it off. Even worse, my spectacles were fogging up and making everything blurry.

How did I ever think I could pull this off?

A tremor rippled over my entire body as I reached the end of the pier. Calm down, you can do this. I took a deep breath, but my lungs didn’t seem to get enough air. I did, however, get a mouthful of the stench of fish and smoke coming from the ship.

This was madness.

Herds of people waited for us to descend the plank. Some carried signs, others waved at my fellow passengers from the distance. I pictured one of them pointing at me in ridicule.

I can still go back inside.

I turned around and smacked into a shoulder behind me. With all the shouting, shuffling of feet, and dropping of bags, I hadn’t seen the young man jostling in my direction. I shifted to the side and he rushed past me, ramming into an old lady strolling in front of us. She squealed as she fell on the ground.

“¡Bruto!” she called after him.

I darted toward her and helped her up—her bony arms as fragile as toothpicks.

“Are you all right?” I said in a low voice.

“Yes, I think so.” She snatched her hat from the ground. “That man is an animal! But thank you, caballero. At least there are still a few gentlemen around.”

I smiled at the irony but more importantly, it gave me a small measure of confidence that my disguise was working. I was about to ask her if she needed to see a doctor when a woman—older than Methuselah—approached us, leaning over a bamboo cane for support. I’d never seen so many wrinkles and spots on a single face.

“¡Hija!” she told the lady I’d just helped.

“¡Mamá!” the old lady said, hugging her mother. The women had a lot to say to each other and left without giving me a second glance.

If only my mother could be here to help me with my ordeal, but she’d passed away three years ago.

And now Cristóbal.

My throat tightened.

But I couldn’t fall apart at this moment. I was already here. I had to follow through with my plan, no matter what.

A Moorish tower in yellow and white stripes rose behind a cluster of hats and palm trees. Although narrower, it reminded me of Torre del Oro, back in Sevilla, a slice of my old life appearing before my eyes to reassure me everything would be fine.

That was what my mind said. My legs told a different story. They had become as heavy as lead. At any given moment, someone—anyone—could attack me. But I had no way of knowing who or if I would be able to even move.

Get a hold of yourself, Puri. Relax.

I scanned the strange faces around me. Certainly, my father’s lawyer would be among these people, though I had no idea what he looked like. I hoisted my husband’s typewriter and dragged the trunk with my other hand.

Fortunately, I had given away all my gowns, which meant I only had to worry about one trunk as opposed to three. As I wandered about the harbor, I ran into several of my dresses on the bodies of other passengers. The last one of them—a pink taffeta sheath my mother had sewn for me—dissolved like foam among a sea of linen and sheer drapes.

A flock of seagulls cawed over my head. I walked past a row of canoes moored along the dock and a group of women carrying umbrellas to shield their faces from the unforgiving sun. Behind them was a man in a dark suit that stood out among the white jackets and hats like a black bean in a bowl of rice. He was holding a sign with my name; the words written in curly, black letters.

María Purificación de Lafont y Toledo.

Lafont from my French father, Toledo from my Spanish mother.

I stopped in front of him.

“May I help you, señor?” he said.

Señor. Another small mercy. He was shorter than me, but I’d always been tall for a woman. His wide skull was reminiscent of those early humans in Cristóbal’s archeology books. His eyebrows were coarse and primitive, nearly joining each other.

I coughed in order to make my voice hoarser. “I’m Cristóbal de Balboa, María Purificación’s husband.” If I spoke slowly, I could reach the lower register of my voice.

“Tomás Aquilino, at your service.”

I was right. This was the lawyer who’d sent the letter informing me of my father’s death. He glanced behind me.

“Where’s your wife? I thought she intended to come herself.”

A sharp pain hit my chest and it had nothing to do with my corset. This ache came every time I thought of what had happened to Cristóbal. I studied every line on Aquilino’s forehead, the glint in his eyes, the corners of his dry lips. Could I trust him?

I took a deep breath.

“Unfortunately, my wife perished aboard the Andes.”

Aquilino looked appropriately shocked. “¡Dios mío santísimo! How?”

I hesitated. “A case of Spanish influenza.”

“And they didn’t quarantine the ship?”

“No.” I let go of the trunk. “Only a few passengers contracted it, so it wasn’t necessary.”

He stared at me in silence. Did he know I was lying? I’d never been a deceitful person and I despised having to do this.

“What a disgrace,” he finally said. “We didn’t hear anything about it here. My sincere condolences, señor.”

I nodded.

“Help me with my trunk, will you?” I said, not as a favor, but as a command. Men didn’t ask, men ordered.

Aquilino grabbed the other end of the trunk and together we carried it across the street. It was heavier than a dying bull, but I couldn’t let the lawyer see how weak I was. By the time we reached the vehicle, I was panting and a layer of sweat covered my face and armpits. No wonder men sweat all the time!

He plunked down his end of the trunk next to a glossy, black Ford Model T. I hadn’t known many people in my hometown who owned a car, much less an imported one. I wouldn’t have imagined there would be such modern vehicles in a place that Cristóbal had called a “land of barbarians.” This Aquilino must make good money as a lawyer, or maybe he was one of those men who found other means to build a personal fortune? Favors here and there, perhaps even a hand—a sort of tax, if you will—on another person’s inheritance. Or maybe, he himself came from money.

I’d only traveled in an automobile a couple of times. In my native Sevilla, I walked everywhere. But when I visited Madrid to see about the expired patent to my grandmother’s invention—her fabulous cacao bean roaster—I rode an automobile similar to this one, except that these seats seemed softer. Or perhaps it was my exhaustion.

Pushing on a lever by the steering wheel, Aquilino informed me that, unless I’d made other arrangements, I would spend the night at his house. We would depart to Vinces first thing in the morning to “see about Don Armand’s will.” He was unable to look me in the eye as he said this.

I recalled the words from the letter—I’d read it so many times I’d already memorized it: As one of the beneficiaries, you are required to come to Ecuador and take possession of your portion of your father’s estate or to appoint a representative who may sell or donate the property on your behalf.

One of the beneficiaries.

I’d been giving this some thought. I’d never heard of my father having other children, but one could never be too sure with men. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d started a new family here. After all, he’d left my mother twenty-five years ago to pursue his dream of owning a cacao plantation in Ecuador. It was inevitable that he should have found someone else to share his bed. The incident aboard the ship left no doubt that someone wasn’t pleased with my coming. The question was who.

During the drive, Aquilino inquired about María Purificación’s passing, shaking his head and clucking his tongue in apparent disappointment. It was surreal to talk about my own death, to hear my name repeated as though I weren’t present. I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. I wanted to demand an explanation on Cristóbal’s behalf, but instead, I played along. I needed to make him believe I was my husband.

I looked out the window. Guayaquil was far from the village I’d envisioned and more modern than many towns in Andalucía. We drove past the river—the Guayas, he said—toward a quaint neighborhood along a hill stacked with colonial houses bursting with flowerpots in balconies and entryways. Aquilino said it was called Las Peñas and the hill, Santa Ana. The serpentine, cobbled streets reminded me of the small towns near Sevilla. The realization that I might never return to my country hit me for the first time since I’d left. Even more heartbreaking was to think that Cristóbal would never explore this new place with me. I stared at my hand, empty without the warmth of his.

Incomplete.

We stopped at a light blue house with a mahogany door and entered. In all likelihood, Aquilino was a bachelor; there was not a single feminine touch in his parlor. No flowers, no porcelain objects, no embroidered linen. Instead, stale landscapes hung on the walls and the life-size sculpture of a Great Dane stared back at me.

A door on the far side of the parlor opened and a girl with cinnamon curls entered, drying her hands on a lime apron. Her dress so loose it swallowed her.

“Lunch is served, patrón,” she said with a soft voice.

“Gracias, Mayra.”

The table in the dining room was much too large for just one person. My eyes set on the colorful dishes awaiting us. The girl called Mayra had prepared us fried sea bass, rice with calamari, and plantains—which they both called patacones.

In the last week, I’d skipped several meals—I couldn’t eat after the nightmare I went through on the Andes—but today, I was ravenous.

Aquilino gestured for me to sit down and he took the spot at the head of the table while Mayra served us. Although I was curious about Aquilino, I didn’t ask him anything. I feared that if I spoke too much, he would discover my secret. So, I said as little as possible, answering the maid with single syllables, nodding often, and shaking my head when appropriate. This seemed to suit Aquilino just fine. Like my husband, he said very little. I’d also gotten into the habit of coughing frequently to make my voice hoarse.

“Are you all right, Mr. Balboa?”

Great. The lawyer was going to think I’d contracted influenza as well.

“Yes.”

I returned my attention to my plate. It was odd but impersonating a man was giving me a freedom I’d never had before. As a woman and the owner of the only chocolate shop in my hometown, I’d always been a tireless hostess. It had always been my job to make my guests feel at ease, to be the peacemaker if there was a disagreement. I often anticipated everyone’s wishes (More wine? Another piece of chocolate?) and avoided uncomfortable silences. But today, I was free to enjoy my food without looking over my shoulder to make sure everyone’s plates were full.

“Just wait until you try Mayra’s dulce de higos,” he said. “She picks them from the backyard tree.”

Mayra set a bowl in front of me. My mouth watered at the sight of fig preserves swimming in syrup. A slice of white cheese rested on the saucer.

“What is this syrup?” I asked, savoring the spicy, cinnamon-tasting juice.

“Panela,” Mayra said.

If I could find a way to mix this with chocolate, I’d have a winner.

After devouring the dessert, Aquilino guided me toward the parlor, pointed at a stiff velvet couch, and sat across from me. He picked up the cigar box and offered me one. I hesitated. I’d always been curious about this mysterious male habit, but I wasn’t sure I could deliver a proper exhalation. Cristóbal sometimes produced immaculate, blue circles, a source of ultimate pride for him.

At my hesitation, Aquilino’s bushy eyebrows arched. Smoking was a sign of a true man, and I must pass the test. I glanced at the Great Dane by the entrance—even he seemed to be waiting for my reaction. I took a thick cigar between my fingers, mimicking Aquilino’s resolve as he tightened his lips around it, and lit it.

The first inhalation hit my chest like a flame. Aquilino gave me the sort of look one might reserve for a curious insect as I coughed incessantly and hit my chest with my hand a few times, attempting to free the inferno from my body.

“You don’t smoke, Mr. Balboa?”

“Only pipe,” I gasped. “In my country, the tobacco is more pure.” Whatever that meant. I’d heard men speak about the quality of tobacco and its purity, but to me, all of them stank in the same way.

Aquilino lit his own cigar. He had no problems inhaling or exhaling.

“I must ask you, sir,” he said, his voice carrying the same solemn tone of a priest. “What are your plans now that your wife, que en paz descanse, is no longer with us?”

I had to tread carefully. I couldn’t come across as a threat to anyone.

“I will probably return to Spain. I have no interest in either the country or the cacao business. To be quite honest, this was my wife’s dream—not mine.” The burn in my throat had given my voice a natural coarseness that I decided to use to my advantage. “I must ask you, Señor Aquilino, are there any other heirs?”

“Just two. Don Armand had two daughters in Vinces: Angélica and Catalina de Lafont.”

Two sisters.

The news hit like a slap in the face. It was one thing to suspect something, to consider a possibility. It was something else to receive confirmation that there were, indeed, real blood relatives. My father had betrayed me and my mother. He’d raised two daughters, whom he probably loved more than me, while I’d waited for him to return to Spain for over two decades. But he was never planning to come back, I now realized. He’d made a new life without us, discarding us like an old newspaper. What an idiot I’d been—religiously writing all those letters to him, sitting for hours by the window, drawing his portrait. In my childhood innocence, I’d always expected him to walk through the front door, his arms filled with presents, and then take me on one of his adventures.

“Angélica is the eldest,” he said. “Well, in reality, there is a brother, too. But he renounced his inheritance.”

A brother as well. And he renounced the fortune?

“He’s a priest.” Aquilino stared at his cigar with appreciation. “He took the vow of poverty.”

A priest, of all things. My father hadn’t been a religious man, not according to my mother’s recollections. Then how did he produce a priest? I, myself, was filled with doubts. Although I would never voice them out loud. But if it was true that this brother had renounced my father’s money, had it been a voluntary vow or a forced one?

“What about their mother? Is she also an heir?”

“No, Doña Gloria Alvarez passed away a few years ago. But we’ll get into all the details tomorrow.”

My father had hidden so many things from us. It stung worse than his death. Good thing my mother hadn’t lived to see so much deceit. Another woman, another family. Did he think he could make amends by leaving me a portion of his estate? What good would that do when I never had him? I would never know what his voice sounded like, what cologne he used, or feel the warmth of his hugs.

A thump against the window startled us both. We moved toward the pane in time to see a speckled bird wrecked on the pebbles outside the house.

“A sparrow-hawk,” Aquilino said.

I remained silent, unable to keep my eyes from the dying bird.

“The poor creature must not have seen the glass,” he went on. “It didn’t know what it was getting itself into when it came here.”

Two weeks earlier

It took us a week aboard the Valbanera to arrive in La Habana, my first taste of the American continent with its colonial buildings, narrow streets, and tantalizing beaches. But we didn’t have time for sightseeing as almost immediately we had to board our next ship, the Andes, a British vessel that was three times the size of the Valbanera. Not that Cristóbal would’ve agreed to any sightseeing with me anyway. He’d spent the entire week aboard locked in our cabin, typing.

The clerk at the reception desk had a perfectly bald head filled with moles, like a spotty mango.

“Your name, sir?” he asked.

“Cristóbal de Balboa, and this is my wife, María Purificación de Lafont y Toledo.”

Cristóbal tapped his fingers on the desk—repeatedly—while the clerk wrote our names as if there weren’t dozens of passengers standing behind us. Cristóbal had little patience for incompetence, a trait I never quite understood since he had a temperate disposition and always avoided conflict. His way of expressing his frustration was to burst into a variety of tics: tapping his foot, scratching the back of his head, loosening his tie, chewing his nails to the quick. It was as if his body expressed what his voice couldn’t.

“Purificación,” the clerk said slowly. “With a c or an s?”

“C,” Cristóbal said, curtly.

My husband had little to no awareness of his many habits or the effect he had on others, especially women. He never noticed when our female customers stared at him or groomed their hair while he took their order or handed them a warm cup of chocolate. I could see why they were enthralled by him. Cristóbal was already thirty-four years old, but he took care of his appearance and of his hygiene. His beard was always trimmed and his necktie always straight. Most of all, he was attentive and kind and had an aloof quality that made women feel at ease in his presence. I couldn’t deny that I’d been fortunate that my mother hadn’t found me an old, fat man to marry. Ours was certainly not a problem of attraction.

Cristóbal turned to me, sighing.

Ours was a problem of affinity.

While my husband spelled out my last name for the clerk, I had a feeling that someone was watching me. I turned my head as discreetly as possible.

A man leaning against a thick column was staring at me. He averted his gaze as soon as I looked at him. There was something wrong with his face, but I couldn’t see clearly for fear of appearing rude.

“Here’s the itinerary.” The clerk presented Cristóbal with a handwritten paper. “Your cabin is number 130 D.”

Cristóbal grabbed the key from the clerk’s hand before he finished the sentence. The man leaning against the column lit a cigarette. His distraction gave me the opportunity to study him.

Half of his face was burned.

The skin was thick and wrinkled from his eyebrow and cheek to his jawline. The other side of his face, however, was intact. One might even call it attractive.

For an instant, our eyes met. A chill ran down my spine, but I attributed it to the thin georgette fabric of my rose blouse. And yet, I couldn’t deny there was something unsettling about him. I held on to Cristóbal’s arm, pretending to stare at a marine landscape hanging on the wall above the man’s head.

“Ready, Puri?” Cristóbal picked up his typewriter case.

“Sí, mi alma.”

The bellhop followed us with our trunks.

I didn’t see the strange man again for two days. On the third day, I ran into him as I was stepping out of my cabin. He acknowledged me by tipping his hat and walked past me without further contemplation. His scent was familiar, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint its source.

I considered mentioning him to Cristóbal, but by the time my husband stepped out and shut our cabin door, the man had turned the corner.

On our way to dinner, the melodic sounds of an accordion and a tambourine floated from one of the salons. Through one of the windows, I spotted a vaudeville circus.

“Oh, can’t we go in?” I begged my husband. “They may have a magician!”

“Puri, I’ve had a breakthrough. Let’s just eat our dinner and go back to the stateroom.”

I clung to his arm. “Please, just this once!”

I dragged Cristóbal and his stiff legs into the salon.

The troupe consisted of three men in shiny red outfits. One rode a unicycle and sported a long, curly mustache and a top hat. His black cape billowed with the cold air drifting from the open door. Another one, a harlequin, walked among the audience on stilts, leaving the children in awe as he pretended to lose his balance above them several times. The third man had a trim goatee and was the highlight of the show. For the next fifteen minutes, he swallowed knives and balls of fire and presented us with Marina the Great, a muscular woman with a taut bun who was about to walk on a tightrope.

Cristóbal leaned over me and whispered, “Look, I’m not hungry anymore. You can go to dinner and meet me at the stateroom when you’re done.”

“But there’s a dance tonight.”

Surveying the room, Cristóbal gripped my elbow and led me outside the salon.

“I’ve already wasted twenty minutes on this.”

“You wasted twenty minutes? That’s what you call spending time with me?”

“You’re the one who suggested that I write my novel during the trip.”

“Yes, but is that all you’re going to do, Cristóbal? Write your novel all day and all night? You barely eat, and when you do, it’s in haste. I’ve spent this entire trip by myself.”

He shrugged. “I can’t help it if I’m feeling inspired.”

“And I don’t inspire you? You haven’t touched me since before. . .”

A woman with a mink coat glanced at us.

Cristóbal coughed, his cheeks a deep red. “I don’t think this is the right place to talk about this.”

There were two couples nearby. I didn’t care what they heard. In fact, it might be better. Perhaps their presence would motivate Cristóbal to stay, at least to avoid a scandal. Besides, I was tired of always avoiding the subjects that made him uncomfortable. I resented that he never mentioned my last miscarriage—my third one so far—as if it had never happened, as if that baby had never existed.

“I’m already doing what you wanted. Am I not?” he said.

He had a point there. I’d been the one who insisted that we sell everything in Spain, including my beloved chocolate shop, and that he travel with me to Ecuador to claim my inheritance—whatever that patrimony entailed. I’d used every tactic in my arsenal: how much this war had devastated Europe, how our shop was losing money, and my last resource: how this trip would be the perfect opportunity for him to write that novel he’d been dreaming about his entire life. But instead of letting it go, I pushed him further.

“Yes, but you make it seem like I did it for my own benefit.” I couldn’t control the volume of my voice anymore. “I did it for us!”

“Why couldn’t you be happy with what we had? Why did you need more?”

“Are you serious? What did you want me to do with my inheritance? Give it away? Forgive me for looking out for our well-being. Forgive me for wanting to get us out of that tiny apartment and move to a splendid plantation in one of the top exporting countries in the world!”

“Oh, don’t even start with that. I know all about that plantati. . .