by Jessica Dall
“Very well.” Father Moreno lowered his head, his expression still good-natured enough that Cecília had to assume Francisco hadn’t spent much time telling the man about her.
Though everything in Lisbon had kept Francisco too busy to visit over the past eight months, he had sent a letter every week, telling Avô Santa Rita the news and checking on Bibiana. From the way he had almost pointedly avoided speaking about Cecília, she had to assume her brother hadn’t yet forgiven her for how things had transpired. Then again, for all his godly traits, forgiveness had never been one of Francisco’s strengths.
“I’ve been fascinated by your sister’s story since I heard it. Your grandfather was very kind to allow me to visit, now that I’ve managed to find the time.”
Something about the way he said fascinated didn’t sit well with Cecília. She pressed her arms tightly against her stomach. “Do you think you can help her?”
“You believe she needs help?” The priest’s tone remained kind, his gentle, round face making him look quite young, even if the gray at his temples said he was likely two decades older than Cecília.
“She doesn’t speak.”
“I heard she prayed the rosary?”
“She stopped months ago.”
Father Moreno nodded contemplatively before motioning toward the room. “If I may?”
Cecília stepped back to allow the priest and her grandfather into the room before slinking back into one of the corners to watch. Some of her grandparents’ neighbors had come to pray with Bibiana when they had first arrived, wanting to share the grace of the miracle child. One particularly forward woman tried to cut off a lock of hair to take with her before Cecília had spotted it. But like Bibiana’s mumbling, those visitors had trickled off some months before. Cecília wasn’t certain how long it had been since a stranger had been in Bibiana’s room, let alone a Biblical scholar.
For as much as Bibiana reacted, though, the man might as well have been a speck of dust. As he studied her, her blue eyes remained glassy, focused on nothing particular off in the distance, as though she were a life-sized doll.
Father Moreno inspected her for a moment before he gently placed one of his thin hands on hers and closed his eyes. “Shall we pray?”
By rote, Cecília crossed herself and closed her eyes as well. The familiar Latin washed over her as she sent up her own prayer that Father Moreno would be able to do something. Even if it meant that Francisco had been right all along, she would gladly humble herself and beg forgiveness if one of the priests could make Bibiana right again. But when Cecília opened her eyes at the end of the prayer, nothing had changed. Bibiana still sat silently in the middle of the bed, but with a priest on one side and Avô Santa Rita on the other.
Father Moreno removed his hand but looked as calmly good-natured as ever as he addressed Avô Santa Rita. “Would you be willing to consider moving her?”
“Moving her?” Alarm shot through Cecília strongly enough to shake her mouth loose.
Father Moreno didn’t seem bothered by her outburst. “I have already done some reading related to your sister’s case, but my books are all back in Belém, and I have my duties to the royal family to attend to. They have enough of their own troubles to deal with as they wait for the Real Barraca to be completed.”
“Real Barraca?” Cecília repeated. “They’re waiting for a... royal shack?”
“Calling it a barraca is a misnomer, in all honesty.” Father Moreno smiled. “It is being built as a grand palace, but the king prefers to live inside wooden walls to stone ones, after what happened.” He turned back to Avô Santa Rita. “If you were willing to move your granddaughter toward Belém, I would be able to keep up on her case while performing my other work. Father Durante thought you might still have a house in the area. If not, I can easily secure a place for her with the Carmelite sisters. They are in temporary lodgings at the moment, but they are comfortable, from what I have seen.”
Cecília’s heart raced. Bibiana leaving. Going to a convent. Not even a convent. Some building or shack they had put together like in the campos. The possibility left the room spinning.
“I can see what accommodations we have available.” Avô Santa Rita nodded, not seeming at all alarmed by the idea of sending his youngest granddaughter off for Heaven knew how long.
“Can I go?” Cecília asked before she could consider the words.
Her grandfather’s blue eyes hit her. “I’m sure Father Moreno doesn’t need you underfoot.”
“But Bia needs me.”
“I’m not certain if the sisters would have room, but if you have somewhere else to stay, it wouldn’t be a trouble to me,” Father Moreno said. “I believe wishing to stay together is entirely understandable, after everything that has happened.”
Avô Santa Rita pursed his lips slightly. “We’ll discuss it. When do you need her in Belém?”
“As soon as is reasonable is fine.” Father Moreno caught his hands in front of him. “I can stay in touch by messenger as you work out the arrangements.”
Avô Santa Rita nodded, motioning for Father Moreno to precede him out of the room.
Cecília sent another look at her sister on the bed before turning out of the room as well. She had agreed to stay in Loures to keep Bibiana safe. If Bibiana was no longer there, there was no use in her being locked away in the country. That would be a brand-new punishment to face. From God or Francisco, though, she wasn’t quite certain.
Chapter Ten
“You should take her along, Fernando.”
Cecília had nearly choked on her dinner when her grandmother took her side in the argument with Avô Santa Rita.
“Senhor Romão has been trying to get you to go into town anyway, hasn’t he? You could stay there with the girls until you work out other accommodations.”
There was, no doubt, more happening than either of her grandparents had let Cecília in on, and Avó Gouveia had followed the statement with a thinly veiled attack on Papai and Mamãe’s marriage: “Anyway, we should be making certain that Cecília Madalena is meeting the right people now that she’s eighteen. We don’t want history to repeat itself, after all.” But if it meant that she wasn’t left wasting away in Loures while Bibiana returned to Lisbon, Cecília was more than happy to take it.
Located just to the west of Lisbon proper, Senhor Romão’s house seemed to have escaped any real damage, the jagged brighter stripes of white plaster on top of older layers the only visible sign that repairs had been made to the structure. With four stories and a red-tile roof, it was familiar enough to make Cecília’s chest ache. If only her home had been a few miles west rather than in the Baixa... If only they had been slightly higher up on one of the hills...
She shook her head to clear it before she could fall too far down the hole of if only. She had given into that despair more than once in the months she had been all but alone with her thoughts at her grandparents’. There were better things to focus on.
She turned back toward the carriage just in time to see Avô Santa Rita helping Bibiana down to the brick pathway that led to Senhor Romão’s door. Silent as ever, Bibiana had allowed Avó Gouveia to dress her in a full gown that morning and lead her into the carriage. If not for the entirely empty expression, she would have looked like a perfectly normal young lady. Cecília prayed that would be the case sooner rather than later.
The door of the tall house opened, and a well-dressed older man, who Cecília had to assume was Senhor Romão, moved down the front steps to greet them. “Senhor Santa Rita! So glad you made it. I trust your trip was pleasant.”
“Oh yes,” Avô Santa Rita said, as though he hadn’t spent several hours complaining about the bumpiness of the road, the heat of the carriage, and just about every other part of the journey. “It was so kind of you to offer your home to us.”
“Of course, of course!” Senhor Romão continued with the same exuberance. “We have missed you over the past years, and it is an honor to host a criança milagre.” He dropped his
eyes to Bibiana.
The urge to put a protective arm around her sister at the new scrutiny passed through Cecília, but Bibiana continued to stare at nothing, so Cecília contented herself by bunching her skirt in her fist.
“And you must be Cecília.” Senhor Romão shifted his attention.
Cecília gave a curtsy, feeling slightly off-balance in the new low-heeled shoes her grandmother had gotten her to go with what Avó Gouveia considered appropriate court dress. “A pleasure to meet you, Senhor Romão.”
“Enchanted.” He bowed. “I believe it was suggested that you were interested in making your introductions around Lisbon?” Though he still addressed Cecília, he looked to Avô Santa Rita for confirmation. Getting a short nod, he continued, “If you are not too tired from your journey, there is a party at Senhor Mendonça’s tonight that would be a very suitable entrance to society. I would be thrilled to have all of you join me.”
A jolt of excitement, followed closely by a wave of guilt, ran through Cecília’s body at the idea of a party. It had been years since she had been to anything close to one, and even then, the “parties” Mamãe had taken them to were never more than a dozen women in someone’s salon.
You’re here for Bibiana, she told herself. Not to go to parties.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself from praying her grandfather would agree to go.
“Why don’t we get settled first?” Avô Santa Rita avoided answering.
“Of course, of course.” Senhor Romão motioned to some of the servants loitering by the doorway. “Let’s get you to your rooms, then we can catch up, eh?”
Cecília watched her grandfather’s response to the continued exuberance—another simple nod—before she went to Bibiana’s side to lead her inside. Something about Senhor Romão’s friendliness seemed off, as though he was taking genuine amicableness and making it absurd or perhaps playacting altogether. Cecília could only assume the man was after something, though she couldn’t imagine what. The Santa Ritas were an old family but only fidalgo, minor nobility. It was hardly a name that led to deference.
Whatever the reason, though, it had gotten her to Lisbon with Bibiana rather than rotting in the country, so Cecília would gladly take it.
CECÍLIA DID HER BEST not to plaster her face to the carriage window as they rattled up the uneven path to Senhor Mendonça’s home. Not far from Senhor Romão’s, the larger house seemed likewise untouched by the quake, and in the mix of the orange-pink dusk light and golden torches lining the path to the front, the tall white walls glowed. With Bibiana settled into the room they would be sharing and seemingly content to continue staring at a wall, Cecília had internally justified attending Senhor Mendonça’s party by deciding she would go and be introduced but wouldn’t let herself enjoy any of it. As building excitement continued to buzz through her body, however, it seemed she was already beginning to fail on that count.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and Senhor Romão smiled from his spot next to Avô Santa Rita. “Ah, here we are. Looks like a fine turnout tonight.”
Avô Santa Rita gave some murmur of agreement as a man dressed in dark-blue livery hurried down the front steps of the grand house and opened the carriage door.
“Senhorita.” Senhor Romão motioned gallantly for Cecília to go first.
She offered a smile of thanks, though she honestly would have preferred to have had the other men out of the carriage before she attempted to navigate the doorway herself. Avó Gouveia had spared no expense in outfitting Cecília for Lisbon, and after nearly a year of bed dresses around her grandparents’ house, the wide pannier and rich silk left her feeling off-balance. The new heeled shoes and folded ruffles of lace certainly didn’t help.
She could only hope she would be able to hide how ungraceful she felt around people no doubt much more used to court dress. Avô Santa Rita and Senhor Romão followed her out of the carriage, and with a quick word to the doorman, they were all swept inside.
The energy in the room made Cecília’s skin buzz. Internal bargain or not, Cecília soaked in the mass of bodies and voices like a starving man who had suddenly arrived at a feast.
“Santa Rita,” a voice cut through the din, and a large, rotund man made his way through the crowd. “I thought that was you.”
Avô Santa Rita turned and smiled. “Sousa, I hadn’t heard you would be here.”
“I wouldn’t think of missing a Mendonça party!” The round man, Senhor Sousa, laughed heartily. “They’re the event of the week.”
“That’s what I told him.” Senhor Romão inserted himself into the conversation. “I don’t believe you’ve met Senhor Santa Rita’s granddaughter, Senhorita Cecília Madalena?”
Senhor Sousa gave as deep a bow as his stomach would allow, the thick curls of his wig swinging forward with the motion. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, senhorita. Your first time in Lisbon?”
The question hit her hard enough that she was momentarily struck dumb.
“It seemed time for her to make a debut at court,” Avô Santa Rita answered for her, skillfully avoiding another direct question.
“She will be a welcome addition, I am sure,” Senhor Sousa said before bringing his eyes back to Cecília. “I believe the ladies have withdrawn upstairs, if you would like to join them while your grandfather and I talk.”
She glanced at her grandfather to check if he took any issue with the idea. When he didn’t object, she offered what she hoped was a courtier-worthy smile. “Thank you very much, senhor. That would be lovely.”
Senhor Sousa motioned for yet another man dressed in rich-blue livery and directed him to take her to the ladies. With a deep bow, the footman turned for the grand staircase and led Cecília deeper into the house. She took small steps as she followed, as much to look around as to be fashionable. Like at Senhor Romão’s, places inside the house had obviously been patched, but whoever had covered the damage had done a masterful job. One would have had to have been looking for evidence of the quake to know the house had been hit. She slowed at one of the portraits, studying an older man with a stern face but kind eyes. “Who is this?”
The footman started, seeming slightly shocked that she had spoken to him, but he looked at the portrait as well. “The late Senhor Mendonça, senhorita. This way.”
Cecília spent a final glance at the portrait then followed the man to another door. Though the energy wasn’t quite as intoxicating as in the main hall, the hum of conversation inside the room still left excited butterflies fluttering in Cecília’s stomach.
I’m supposed to make a good impression, she reasoned with the lingering guilt in her chest. Being blithe and friendly will do that better than standing in a corner, sulking.
She could have a little bit of a good time, she supposed. Truly, it was for her grandparents’ sake more than hers. It was what her grandmother had sent her to do, after all.
The footman pulled the door open with a grand gesture and bowed as Cecília stepped past him into the large room. The hum died slightly as attention in the room shifted to her, and Cecília thanked her stays for keeping her shoulders pulled back before she could falter. She added a second thanks to her grandmother, for as formal as her new gown was, it didn’t come close to matching the folds of patterned taffeta and satin the ladies around the room wore.
One of the women on the left side of the room, wearing powdered curls piled high on the top of her head, leaned toward the ladies seated around her. The group kept their voices low, but all fixed their eyes on Cecília as if to make certain she knew they were talking about her. Cecília pretended not to notice, keeping her chin high and looking for a good place to sit.
A woman in a coral-colored gown apparently took pity on her. With an annoyed look at the gaggle of women on the other side of the room, she stood and stepped in front of Cecília. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure? I’m Maria. Maria das Dores de Mértola de Vilhena.”
The family names registered as important somewhere in the back
of Cecília’s mind. She was nobility of some kind, but Cecília couldn’t say just how important, so she offered a smile and curtsy. “Cecília. Cecília de Santa Rita e Durante.”
Confusion passed through Maria’s wide brown eyes as an older woman snapped her head in Cecília’s direction. “Durante?” She ran her eyes over Cecília as though a snake had just slithered into the room. “Any relation to Aloisio Silva Durante?”
Cecília’s eyebrows rose. “My uncle.”
The woman’s nose wrinkled. “Is the first minister now interested in what the ladies are doing?”
Cecília blinked, trying to make sense of the question. “I’m sorry? The first minister?”
“Sebastião Carvalho,” Maria answered before the older woman could. “The king’s first minister. Your uncle is his man, no?”
“I... wouldn’t know.” Cecília glanced around the room, getting the strong sense that no one in the room considered the association a good one. “I actually hadn’t even heard Senhor Carvalho had been appointed first minister. I’ve been out in the country.” When that didn’t seem to allay the suspicion in the room, she added, “I’m here with my grandfather, Frederico Cunha de Almeida de Santa Rita? Senhor Romão invited him.”
That sent a light murmur through the room. Some of the ladies turned back to their own conversations, but a tall, alarmingly bony woman with fair hair stood and came up beside Maria. “Did he know he was inviting another Durante here?”
Maria sighed heavily. “Did anyone request your opinion, Isabel?”
“I just thought there was a higher standard for these parties.” Isabel shifted her attention, looking down her nose at Maria. “Senhor Mendonça certainly is known for better.”
Rolling her eyes, Maria slipped her arm through Cecília’s and started them deeper into the room. “You can ignore Isabel. Most of us have learned to. Come walk with me.”
Before Cecília could wonder where exactly they were going to walk in a second-story space, Maria half led, half dragged Cecília toward a set of double doors on the far side of the room. Pleasantly warm air welcomed them as they stepped onto a wide balcony that overlooked a well-manicured garden. The last of the orange-pink sunset had disappeared against the horizon and left a clear night lit by the nearly full moon.