by Jessica Dall
Cecília chewed the inside of her cheek, well aware she was clutching at straws. “Tio Aloisio isn’t married. He doesn’t have any children. Francisco and Bibiana can’t inherit. Marry me, and it would likely be your ship, eventually.”
The smile disappeared, and John stared at her, his face blank enough that it made Cecília’s stomach squirm. She tried to think of something she could say to take back some of her babbling, suddenly feeling more exposed than she had out on the grass. Nothing came to her.
“I’m not Catholic,” John finally said.
“You could convert,” she said in a small voice, apparently not able to stop digging herself deeper.
He shook his head. “I couldn’t in good conscience ever tell a priest I intended to be a good Catholic, love. I’m barely considered a good Protestant most days.”
“There can be mixed marriages,” Cecília pressed. “If a bishop gives permission, the Church would recognize it. You are still Chris—”
He kissed her, sliding his hand into her hair to keep her lips locked to his before he seemed satisfied that he had fully stopped her speaking. Slowly, he pulled back, looking her in the eye. “I can’t just jump ship here. The crew needs me.”
“But—”
“Give me a few months.” He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “Let me get back to Boston and see how things are there. If you still want to run away then, we’ll talk about it.”
She forced herself to pull away from him. “That means no.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
She swallowed, forcing down a new rush of emotion. She managed to keep her voice steadier than she felt. “If you leave, I’m never going to see you again.”
“Why would you say that?” He shook his head. “Lisbon might not be what it was yet, but there are plenty of ships that still come in.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You won’t come back.”
“All these ill divinations.” He reached out, brushing a loose curl back from her face. “Promise me you won’t do something foolish like run off by yourself, and I promise I’ll come back.”
The feeling in Cecília’s stomach wouldn’t let her fully believe him, but she tried to convince herself she was being silly and nodded.
John’s hand lingered at the side of her face, his eyes sweeping over her as though he needed to commit that exact image to memory before he kissed her a final time and pulled back. “It’s late. We should get you back before your uncle does think we have run away.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Cecília...” He fixed his eyes on her.
“I agreed I wouldn’t run off by myself. That doesn’t mean I have to go back inside yet.”
“I’d feel better if I helped you back in.”
“I’d feel better if you didn’t go,” she returned.
John shook his head, a small smile returning to his lips. “Are you certain you wish to get married? Something tells me you would struggle with the ‘submit yourself unto your husband’ part of being a wife.”
Cecília pressed her lips together tightly, sucking a breath through her nose before answering. “Perhaps I should marry an idiot. He won’t be intelligent enough to attempt ordering anything, let alone noticing if I don’t obey.”
John only looked more amused. “But you’d be very bored, you’d have to admit. Left to while away your days with an idiot?”
“If I find someone mentally feeble enough, I could probably still take Papai’s ship, and he wouldn’t know the difference. I could travel to Brazil. Or the Orient.”
He continued to smile as though indulging her.
“Or I could go to France and take a lover,” she added, bristling at the look. “French ladies consider that fashionable, so I hear.”
“Then I’ll have to find work in Paris, won’t I?”
She frowned. “You can be infuriating sometimes. Did you know that, Mr. Bates?”
“Obviously why we get on so well, Senhorita Durante.”
Cecília didn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. She twisted to pick up her bed dress and pulled it back on, though it had gotten damp and didn’t do much to keep her warm. “You may leave, if you wish. It’s safe enough out here. I’ll be fine.”
John opened his mouth as though he intended to argue before he finally sighed. “I’ll be back once I have things settled.”
Cecília nodded, though she still didn’t believe him.
After a final, lingering kiss, John stood. Quickly, he pulled his own clothing back in order. “You are something special, Cecília Durante. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Cecília hesitated, not certain what one was supposed to say to a statement like that.
John didn’t seem to expect an answer, offering a formal bow before stepping back. “Good night. Take care of yourself.”
“And you.” Cecília somehow managed a smile. “Good night.”
He took a few more steps backward before he finally turned and disappeared around the hedge, headed the way they had originally come. Silently, Cecília watched him, her hand going to the cross around her neck. Part of her wanted to laugh. Part of her wanted to cry. Her mind raced yet felt empty. And all the conflicting emotions left her feeling... calm. Releasing a breath, she turned to put her back to the hedge and looked out at the river. The moon no longer reflected on the water, as approaching clouds seemed to have blotted out everything in the distance. It might as well have been just her and the palace for all she could see.
Fitting, she supposed. Even if John did manage to return within a few months, she was trapped for the time being, and she couldn’t keep going as she had been. Spending her days locked away in her room or church had done no good. And returning to spying was certainly not an option. No, if she couldn’t get on the next ship out of Lisbon, she would have to do something else, something that wouldn’t slowly drive her mad.
The dampness in the air turned into a light drizzle, indicating that whatever storm Cecília had felt in her side wasn’t long off. It would likely pour within a few minutes. Tilting her head back, she let the cold droplets hit her face. First thing in the morning, she would find something to do. Something that was just hers. Something that would give her a fresh start—as fresh a start as she could have while still at court.
Part Four: 1760
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cecília tapped the end of her pencil against the paper in front of her, finally throwing the thing down like a child having a tantrum when the numbers just wouldn’t work out.
You’re the one who asked to learn these blasted things, the voice in her head chided as she sat back in the chair with a huff.
Senhor Rocha had been very kind, taking his own time to teach her what the architects were doing, starting with the basics before slowly working up to all the complicated equations they were using to make the new building plans for Lisbon as disaster-proof as modern mathematics would allow. Cecília had proven to have an aptitude for it, at least most of the time. With the way she currently felt, though, she was lucky when one and one turned out to be two on the page.
You need more sleep.
She laughed at that. I would if I could.
For the past half a year, she had done her best to put John as far from her mind as possible, and that hadn’t been easy. Even if she had suspected he wouldn’t return if he left, she had held out some hope for longer than she should have. She had even attempted sending letters. The first one was six months after he’d been gone, addressed to him at the London parish written in Mr. Hobbes’s book, then another in generally passible French, addressed to his sister a few months after that, asking about John’s welfare. It hadn’t been until a full year had passed that she’d decided it was time to put the matter from her mind entirely, accepting it one night as her own sort of Easter service—a resurrection after Lenten suffering—and dedicating herself to her own betterment. And for six months, she had done reasonably well at it.
Then she’d had that blas
ted dream.
She placed the heels of her palms against her eyes and rubbed, as if that would clear her head. It had taken her long enough to fully accept that John was gone. She didn’t wish to consider what suddenly dreaming about him meant.
Thinking too much about Lisbon?
She tried to convince herself that was the case. She hadn’t been invited on the architects’ final scouting trip before they began work on the first minister’s new Praça do Comércio, the grand commercial square that would replace what had once been the king’s riverside palace, but Senhor Rocha hadn’t attempted to spare her feelings when she’d asked how the city looked. By all accounts, save some new scaffolding in the Baixa, it didn’t look much different than it had the last time she had been there five years before. It was down to the dust, from the state of Senhor Rocha’s clothing, though it was allegedly from all the digging they were doing for the new sewers that were planned to run under the perfectly geometric buildings they would be constructing soon.
Always soon. She sat petulantly in her chair. In the months since she’d begun working with Senhor Rocha, she had seen all the good work the architects had been doing—designing framing that would stand up to another quake, planning water pumps to make it possible to fight fires, using those blasted equations she couldn’t make sense of to ensure all the stonework on the new buildings would fall away from the internal framing rather than on anyone inside, should it crack—but with all the time running numbers and testing models, there hadn’t been time to actually begin rebuilding. I’ll be sixty before I ever see Lisbon again, at this rate.
If Dom José had any real interest in the rebuilding or in ruling in general, Cecília had to imagine Senhor Carvalho would be treading close to the king’s last nerve. But with Dom José happy to leave Lisbon to others, and anyone who would oppose the first minister too dead to object, Senhor Carvalho was free to rebuild the city as he wished, as a modern marvel.
She stood sharply, needing to think about something else. At least, after the Távora Affair—as the entire dreadful experience was being called—court had been quiet enough that the first minister seemed to have forgotten about her. If she could just keep going on as she had been, not thinking about John or death or any of it, she could possibly enjoy the rest of her life.
Or at least be content with it. She moved out into the hallway.
The unfamiliar sight of ecclesiastical robes on that side of the palace made Cecília freeze. With the first minister’s office and all of his supporters down the hall, what priests remained at court rarely strayed from the chapel. The surprise made recognition take a moment. “Father Moreno?”
The middle-aged priest looked at her. “Senhorita Durante. How are you?”
“Very well,” Cecília lied. “Are you visiting?”
“Father Cardona actually requested I return, for the time being.” Father Moreno gave one of his congenial smiles, as though he hadn’t been one of the priests to leave in protest after Father Malagrida had been arrested for his connection to the Távora family two years before. “It seems he could use the help now that Father Delacruz’s health has declined. May the Lord see him healed.”
Cecília mumbled the same, crossing herself quickly, though she had to admit she hadn’t noticed anything wrong with Father Delacruz beyond the fact that the man had to be at least eighty. She had long assumed his continued presence at court was spite more than a calling, as if he dared the forces on the other side of the palace to attempt removing him.
“How is your sister?” Father Moreno asked before Cecília could add anything.
A knot formed in her stomach at the thought of Bibiana, or Sister Maria Inês, as she had become. Though the odd letter still arrived from time to time, generally around Easter or Advent, Bibiana had disappeared from Cecília’s life nearly as completely as the rest of her family. She still forced a smile for the priest. “She is well. Just recently took her vows with the Poor Clares.”
“They are blessed to have her.”
Cecília lowered her head but didn’t otherwise answer. Bibiana would have been miserable at court, and after everything Cecília had experienced, she was glad her sister was nowhere close to the capital, but it would have been nice to have the potential to visit. Of course she would choose a cloistered order.
“I should get my things settled.” Father Moreno didn’t seem at all perturbed by her lack of answer. “I hope I will see you at service, now that I’m back. Are you still keeping the Hours?”
Cecília nearly winced before she caught herself as two-year-old memories fought to join in. “No, Father. But you’ll certainly see me at morning Mass.” At least on Sundays. Even if the state of her soul was rather questionable, she had been certain to attend Mass and confess at least what she could. The rest, she would have to take up with God when the time came for that.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He gave a light blessing as a goodbye then continued the way he had been heading—an odd choice if he intended to head straight to the chapel but also opposite the first minister’s office—so Cecília supposed he could simply be avoiding Senhor Carvalho. She certainly had done so on more than one occasion, taking the longer route on the off chance that the first minister would have been out in the hall.
As it was, she took her chances and followed the most direct route to her rooms. With any luck, Tio Aloisio would be out, and she could crawl back into bed for the rest of the day without needing to explain.
As she opened the door, the sight of her uncle sitting on the settee in the center of their antechamber quashed that hope. He looked up from the pamphlet he was reading before he checked the large clock that had appeared in the room after the Vento de Verão had docked the week before. “To what do we owe the honor, having you back so early?”
“Everyone is still in Lisbon.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t join them.”
“I wasn’t invited.”
Tio Aloisio raised an eyebrow. “When have you found that an impediment?”
With everything else already threatening to bring up memories she’d very happily suppressed, she decided to avoid that familiar line of discussion. “What are you reading?”
He lifted the pamphlet enough to show the title: Candide, ou l’Optimisme.
“Candid, or the Optimist?”
“Candide is the boy’s name in it.” Tio Aloisio didn’t look up from the pamphlet. “Monsieur Voltaire is satirizing Herr Leibniz’s Théodicée, using our earthquake, apparently.”
Yet more about the earthquake. “Have I read Théodicée?”
“It’s there, if you’d like to try.” He motioned to the bookshelf by his desk. “We have the French translation. It is Herr Leibniz’s response to parts of Monsieur Bayle's Dictionnaire Historique et Critique.”
“I’m never going to get through them all if everyone insists on writing a response to everyone else.”
“Spend more time with your French than those geometry problems Senhor Rocha gives you, and you’ll read more quickly.”
Cecília decided that was another line of conversation not worth pursuing. French was likely a more useful subject than geometry, as she was hardly ever going to become an architect, but spending too much time actively learning the language also brought up memories of times she would rather have buried. “I saw Father Moreno today.”
That caught Tio Aloisio’s attention enough for him to finally set the pamphlet down. “Did you?”
She nodded. “Ran into him in the hall. He said Father Cardona asked for him to replace Father Delacruz. Perhaps the Fathers are finally beginning to move on from what happened.”
“I imagine it likely has more to do with what is happening with Father Malagrida.”
Cecília frowned, asking, even though she wasn’t certain she wanted to know the answer, “What is happening with Father Malagrida?”
“The first minister has recalled his brother from abroad. Father Carvalho is to be appointed Inquisitor General.”
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“Inquisitor...” Cecília trailed off as the implications hit her straight in the chest. With the king supporting every move Senhor Carvalho made and the court brought in line, the only problem the first minister could even possibly have had was Father Malagrida. Though the old priest had been implicated in the Távora affair, he was still locked in Junqueira Prison—not from any clemency on the first minister’s count, of course, but because even with as much power as Senhor Carvalho had, he couldn’t execute a priest.
He couldn’t, but if the Church found Father Malagrida guilty of heresy... “The Inquisition already cleared Father Malagrida. He’s not a heretic, just a mad old man in a cell.”
“He had his new ravings made into pamphlets, spouting prophecies and Lord knows what else. Father Carvalho will be leading the new inquest.”
And I wonder what the verdict will be with the first minister’s brother in charge. Cecília’s body went cold, the smell of ash and flesh a little too recent in her memory for comfort. “You believe Father Moreno is here because of that?”
“Do you believe the timing to be coincidental?”
“It could be.”
Tio Aloisio fixed her with a look that said he didn’t believe even she thought that. “We may have to start limiting your time in the architects’ office, if it is turning you that naïve.”
She huffed but moved on. “What would even happen, if”—when—“the Inquisition finds Father Malagrida heretical? Senhor Carvalho has outlawed autos-da-fé. He called them barbaric. Is he willing to slide back his own progress simply to settle some old score he’s already won? What threat is Father Malagrida to him now?”
“When he is still attempting to stir up panic in the populous?”
“He’s mad! Who would listen?”
“More people than one would hope.” Tio Aloisio grabbed his hat by the door. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Cecília frowned. It had perhaps been overly optimistic to believe that Father Moreno’s arrival meant something good, but she still sent up a prayer that nothing was starting again.