by Jessica Dall
He turned back to it and prodded at the spot.
“Mr. Bates...” She took another step back.
Some of the plaster flaked off, but the building remained standing. Cecília realized her fists were clenched tightly enough that her nails were biting into her palms. She forced them to relax.
Mr. Bates studied the home for another moment before he lifted the latch on the door and pushed. It swung open without protest. He called inside, “Anyone there?”
No one answered.
He looked back at Cecília. “It’s likely safer staying inside than out here in the dark. We can stay by the door, if you like.”
Cecília tried to convince herself she was being silly, but she found herself still frozen in place.
“Senhorita Durante. We need to sit. Find something to eat.”
Cecília suddenly realized she hadn’t had a thing to eat all day. They had been fasting, of course, before Mass, and everyone in the kitchens had been so busy preparing a feast... Her stomach soured as her thought trailed off before she could decide if she was actually hungry.
The light wavered slightly as Mr. Bates stepped over the threshold with the lantern. He moved around, the light catching the window to the left of the door—what Cecília vaguely recalled was a salon—then to the right before he stepped back up to the threshold. “A few things look as if they were knocked over, but it doesn’t seem bad. I think it’s safe for you to come in.”
Cecília swallowed but forced herself forward, limping worse than before, her protesting muscles beginning to seize from standing still.
“Could I help?”
“You’re hurt yourself.” She somehow managed to keep walking.
“I’ll get by.” He nodded to the left room. “There’s a settee in there. You should sit.”
Cecília turned without argument. “Your shoulder?”
“Stiff. It will be for a while. But I got it back in place. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
She twisted as much as she could to give him a questioning look.
“It’s been...” He hesitated. “Dislocado? Is that the right word?”
“Deslocado?” she corrected.
“I’m getting tired. My Portuguese and Spanish are running together.” He offered a weak smile. “My shoulder’s been out of joint before, more than once. I’ll get it in a sling when I can.”
“You’re not in pain?”
“I didn’t say that.” He stepped into the room after her and set the lantern on a small round table.
Cecília paused. The salon, she remembered, had been decorated much like hers was—like hers had been—in the Moorish fashion, with thick pillows and rugs. That salon had been entirely redone. Tall-backed chairs and dark-wood tables filled the space, all surrounded by shelf after shelf of leather-bound books. “What is all of this?”
Mr. Bates looked back at her. “What’s all of what?”
It’s a wonder Tio Aloisio had any room for trade, bringing all of this with him. She shook her head, doubting she would be able to explain the oddity of seeing the room so changed in her current state. She limped to a long bench with a padded back and lowered herself as carefully as she could. She still grimaced as pain shot up her side. Eyes watering, she bit down a whimper.
“What happened to your side?” Mr. Bates moved closer to her.
“Something fell on me.” She placed her hand gingerly on the spot and gritted her teeth, not wanting to think what it had meant, having a crucifix nearly kill her.
“Would you like me to look?”
She lifted her eyes back to his.
“Something may be broken,” he said quickly. “I know how to wrap it, if so.”
“Are you also a physician, Mr. Bates?” She shifted slightly. She would have to do something about her clothes. Since she was seated again, the boning in her stays that had kept her upright was pressing too hard on her side, and she felt the splintered framing of her pannier jabbing into her hips. She couldn’t let herself consider what state her new dress had to have been in.
“Ships are dangerous places. Saw a man get blown straight out of the rigging once. Cracked his rib. Did something wrong a few days later. Suddenly couldn’t breathe and dropped dead.”
Cecília’s eyes widened.
“Not that I think you’re going to die,” he said in a rush. “Just a reason to check on it. Especially after that walk. You should have been resting far earlier than this.”
Cecília managed a nod even if words wouldn’t come, and Mr. Bates moved to the spot behind her on the bench. His hand gently touched hers. She gasped as he pressed a hard piece of boning tighter to her.
His hand jerked back. “I’m sorry.”
“Sailors don’t tend to wear stays, I take it.” Cecília did her best to keep her voice light, though her discomfort made the words too terse.
Mr. Bates gave a short, equally awkward laugh. “No, I can’t say they do.”
The room went quiet again, silence stretching out as the obvious settled in. Cecília cleared her throat lightly. “You can’t do anything with my gown on?”
“I... Well, I’m sure I could...”
She had already accepted that she couldn’t stay dressed as she was and moved to trying to convince herself there was no reason to worry about impropriety. Twelve hours before, her mother would have become apoplectic at the idea of Cecília doing anything as shocking as being alone in a room with a man not related to her. But there was nothing to be done for it, just like she could do nothing about her clothing without his help. Resigning herself to the situation, she undid the clasp of her black robe. “It’s fine. The stays hurt, and I’ll need help...”
Mr. Bates didn’t answer for a moment. Then he stood. “What do you need?”
“I can do most of it.” She slipped the black robe off stiffly and focused on looking herself over, so she wouldn’t have to watch Mr. Bates watch her—or politely try not to watch her. Though her hands were scratched raw, and her arms were already mottled with deep-purple bruises, it seemed her robe had taken the worst of what had happened. The lace at the elbows of her gown was perhaps even salvageable. She tried to keep her mind on that thought as she unpinned her stomacher and set it aside with her dirty, ripped robe. Carefully, she pulled her arms free of the gown and turned her attention to the layers of petticoats that were draped limply over her broken pannier. Grimacing, she forced herself back up to standing to undo the ribbons holding each layer around her waist. The throbbing in her side grew as she worked to unwrap each tie, but she somehow managed, leaving a puddle of the beautiful fabric she had been so pleased with that morning around her.
Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised. The verse the Palmeiro’s confessor loved to recite whenever she confessed a sin of vanity flittered through her mind.
Sending up yet another quick prayer for forgiveness, Cecília finally lifted her eyes to Mr. Bates. The man had thoughtfully turned to study the books lining the far wall as she worked, though Cecília imagined it had to be too dark to make out what the books were. Cecília swallowed, trying to fight down how exposed she already felt with her stays still wrapped tightly around her, standing there in her thin camisa. She imagined she wouldn’t feel much better when she was down to just the camisa.
She cleared her throat to bring Mr. Bates’s attention back to her. “Could you help...? My stays are laced in the back. You should be able to, with one arm...?”
Mr. Bates’s eyes dropped over her for a split second before he seemed to catch himself, and he nodded. Silently, he moved to her side, and she turned to let him get to the lacing, her heart pounding uncomfortably in her ears. As much as she tried to tell herself it was necessity, every sermon she had heard about immorality and lust of the flesh flew through her head at once. Necessity or not, letting an Englishman undress her had to be its own terrible level of damnation, and Heavens knew her soul didn’t need any more of that.
With a final few awkward tugs, the stays gave way. Cecília took a grateful breath as the boning stopped pressing into her injured side then immediately regretted it, as the expanding air sent a new wave of pain through her. A small grunt sounded from somewhere in the back of her throat.
“Did I hurt you?”
Mr. Bates’s voice brought her back to the present. Cecília shook her head, still holding the front of her stays protectively to her chest, as though that would change the fact that she was practically naked. “Breathed too deeply.”
Mr. Bates nodded, taking a step back from her as he rubbed his own shoulder self-consciously. Or perhaps he was simply in pain as well. “Sit again?”
She didn’t need to be told twice. Though it was blissful, no longer having the boning pushing into her, she suddenly realized how much she had been relying on it to remain upright. Without the structure of her clothes, her body was trying to crumple in on itself. She sat back on the little bench, leaning her less-hurt shoulder against the padded back to leave her hurt side open.
Mr. Bates took a breath as if he was going to speak again, but instead, he silently moved back to his place behind her on the bench. The touch of his fingers on her side made Cecília tense, but he moved quickly, professionally, feeling along her ribs.
She cried out as he reached where the crucifix had landed.
“Sorry.” He pulled back. “But I think there is a break.”
She took as deep a breath as she dared. “You’ll want to wrap it, then?”
His words stumbled slightly as he rushed. “I’m sure I can do that over your... your...”
“Camisa?” She looked at him.
He nodded. “I’ll look for something I can use for that and a sling and see if there’s anything to eat.”
Cecília shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
“You should still try to eat.” He headed toward the door of the room.
“Please, don’t go.” The words escaped before she could stop them. She added at a near whisper, “I don’t want to be alone.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line then said, “We have to eat.”
Cecília frowned but didn’t answer, fingering her gold cross—the one Papai had given her from one of his trips to Brazil—where it sat near the neckline of her camisa. Mr. Bates’s eyes dropped just long enough to make Cecília’s hand still before he caught himself and moved back into the front hallway. Cecília went back to rubbing the metal, finding dents that had formed when she’d fallen. Too tired to think anymore about what that meant, about what any of it meant, she let her eyes drift closed and vaguely hoped she would wake up and find that everything had been an awful dream.
Chapter Three
Cecília ached so deeply she half wished she’d never woken. It dug down to her bones, straining every muscle and ligament to the point where she thought she might snap apart. Slowly, she forced her eyes open, and the reality of everything crashed back down on her. Somehow, it made the pain worse.
Though her eyes searched the room, she couldn’t bring herself to move from how she had ended up curled on her side on the little bench. Her eyes settled on an open bottle of wine sitting next to a bowl that held part of a loaf of bread.
Releasing a shallow breath, Cecília steeled herself to move. Her body fought against every shift, the sharp pains from the day before joining with muscles that had gone so tense that they refused to stretch. Somehow, she managed to get herself more or less up to sitting, even if her teeth felt as if they might crack from how tightly she had clenched her jaw.
Across the room, Mr. Bates was sleeping in a high-backed upholstered chair, his head leaning at an awkward angle against one of the wings protruding from the side. Though Cecília had the lingering suspicion that Tio Aloisio had brought a fair deal of the new furniture back with him from England, she had to imagine the Englishman would have fared better with the old Moorish pillows on the floor.
As if he could feel her eyes on him, Mr. Bates stirred awake. He winced, and Cecília noticed the bruise that had formed along his jaw and neck. She imagined she couldn’t look much better in the daylight, at least not if the ugly splotches on her forearms were any indication.
“You didn’t get your sling.” Cecília said the first words that came to mind.
“Couldn’t manage it by myself. I figured I’d survive a night.” He seemed to attempt a smile, though it didn’t entirely form. “There’s bread there. It’s stale but not bad if you soak it in the wine. Your uncle has an impressive vintage, though I imagine you already know that.”
“Mamãe never let us drink wine.” Somewhere, her mind realized she had spoken in the past tense, and her stomach twisted. She tried to ignore it by focusing on the confused look Mr. Bates once again fixed on her.
“Your uncle owns a vineyard, and you don’t drink wine?”
“Mamãe says it isn’t fashionable for young ladies to drink.”
“What is fashionable, then?”
“Water, mostly.”
Mr. Bates released an incredulous breath. “That’s a new one.”
“Not in Portugal.” Cecília looked back down at the bottle, bread, and bowl. With the grain shortage they’d had, the fact that someone had left the better part of a loaf of bread sitting around to grow stale was nearly as unsettling as the emptiness of the house itself. Where is everyone?
“You take communion, though?”
Cecília came out of her thoughts with a frown. “Of course.”
“That’s wine.”
“That’s the blood of Christ.”
“Ah. Yes.” Mr. Bates shifted forward in the chair and looked himself over. “I mean no disrespect, Senhorita Durante, but I believe you’ll find that the blood of Christ tastes much more like that bottle of wine than blood, whether or not one believes in transubstantiation.”
Cecília’s muscles attempted to spasm with the new wave of tension moving through her. She let the disdain in her voice say she had no interest in hearing a Protestant’s opinions on her religion. “You can say ‘transubstantiation’ but not ‘dislocated’?”
Mr. Bates’s eyes lifted to her again. “Frankly, I’m impressed I got to Spanish, as late as it was last night. When I lose a word, my mind tends to find French.”
Cecília continued to frown, but her curiosity won out. “French?”
“First language I picked up,” he said. “After English, obviously.”
Cecília realized she hadn’t thought too much about how Mr. Bates spoke. Outside his harsh accent and the single slip the night before, his Portuguese had been flawless. Far better than many of the foreigners who had lived in Lisbon for years. “How many languages do you speak?”
“With some fluency, five. I can get by in a few more, if need be.”
Cecília stared at the man. “You speak five languages?”
“I’ve always had a gift for it.” He prodded his shoulder gingerly. “Part of why your uncle offered to bring me here. He was impressed by how quickly I picked up Portuguese. Of course, I already knew Spanish, and as you can see, they’re rather close. I wager you’d understand me for the most part if I spoke Spanish slowly enough.”
“And how long have you known my uncle?”
“A couple of years now. I happened to receive an invitation to a dinner he was attending in London. An odd confluence of events, really, took me off one ship and then eventually brought me here.”
“Not exactly serendipitous, coming here just for this.”
“So goes the Rota Fortunae, I suppose.” He offered another small smile, though it didn’t entirely hide the tension sliding into his tone.
Somehow, the small crack in Mr. Bates’s calm practicality made Cecília feel better. She looked back at the bread and wine, trying to decide if her battered body would even let her eat. It had been more than a day since her last meal, and she still wasn’t hungry. “So what do we do now?”
“Now?”
“I need to find my family.”
&nbs
p; “They could still be making their way here. In all the chaos yesterday, it’s very possible we’re just the first to arrive.”
“And if they aren’t?”
Mr. Bates looked at her for a moment before he said, “I know you’re worried, Senhorita Durante. You have every right to be, but we have more than enough to worry about right here and right now. We should get ourselves settled. You still need to eat. We should wrap your side. Then, if no one else shows up today—maybe tomorrow—we can make further plans.”
“You want us to sit around an empty house for two days?”
“Can you honestly say you’re in any shape to go elsewhere?” He held her eyes as if waiting to see if she would argue before he continued, “I told your uncle I would see you home. It seems that’s just going to take longer than originally thought.”
Not certain what else she could say, Cecília picked up the bottle of wine and sniffed it. The smell brought back memories of chapels and Mass and things she certainly didn’t want to remember as long as she wasn’t kneeling next to her mother and sister. In her mind, all of them were alive and well.
“I can look for a well, if you want water.” Mr. Bates had obviously misinterpreted her expression. “But we have that right now, and it’s going to make you feel better than water will, believe me. If you feel anything like I do this morning, you could likely use something even stronger. It’s been a long time since I’ve ached like this.”
She took a drink, trying to keep her thoughts off her face as she felt him watching her. Her stomach only churned worse as the warmth of the wine slid past her chest. She tightened her grip on the neck of the bottle. “You’re Protestant.”
Mr. Bates’s eyebrows furrowed. “Does that matter right now?”
“It feels as though it should.”
“I have no desire to convert you, if that’s your worry. Or anyone else for that matter. I wouldn’t have come to Portugal of all places if I did. Again, no offense meant, but you are considered a rather backward part of Europe.”
“Backward?” Cecília’s hackles rose.