The house opened up around me in marble, paintings and sculptures, more lush carpets, and potted plants. An orange tree grew in a conservatory glimpsed in passing and everywhere dark carved wood furniture lined the eggshell-white walls. I could happily linger over every detail, study the art, the carpets, even the chairs, but I was led into a large domed dining room tiled in more intricate scenes that teased my eyes all over again.
Two women rose from the small sitting area next to the fire as Ana Marie ran toward me clapping her hands. “Oh, Mama, look at Phoebe! Doesn’t she look like the queen of the cosmos? And, Auntie Leonor, your dress looks so beautiful with her red hair, just as you said it would!”
Oh, yes, I did adore that child.
Soon I was flanked by the women, thanking each for their hospitality while learning that they were sisters staying at the quinta off and on since the beginning of the quarantine but that Leonor was leaving early the next morning. Adriana was a teacher and Leonor a lawyer, both relieved to realize that, thanks to the pandemic, working from home was possible with today’s technology.
“However, I must return to my own home in Lisbon tomorrow,” Leonor said.
“Oh, please stay with us, Auntie Leonor, please, please!” Ana Marie begged. “Uncle Gaspar can come here, too.”
Leonor placed her hand on the child’s head. “No, my princess, I must return to my own life as I have explained many times, but I will visit again soon and we can always Skype.”
“It is not the same,” the child said, lowering her head.
“Nevertheless, it is how things must be.” She returned her gaze to mine and smiled. “In law it is mostly research and documentation unless there is a trial,” she explained. “Now that lockdown lifts, the courts have much catching up to do and I am needed in Lisbon.”
Eventually they commented on their gowns, each beautifully made custom silk and velvets designed by a seamstress in Lisbon, they said. Isabella wore a column of beaded navy satin and her sister a lovely velvet skirt and tunic the color of fine claret. They didn’t always dine so formally, they assured me. “This is the first time we’ve been out of our leggings for weeks,” Adriana said. “We decided to put on the dog, as you say in English, because at last we have a guest.”
“And guests are always a gift, my grandpapa says,” Ana Marie piped up.
Their English was excellent, probably better than mine because they spoke with the precision often gained among those for whom English is a second language. They ran an English household in order to help Ana Marie’s education now that she was being homeschooled, but Adriana assured me that this in no way undermined their passion for Portuguese. “It is a fascinating and dynamic language,” Leonor agreed, “with a story behind every consonant.”
“I believe it,” I said. “After all, Portugal is the nation of explorers and mariners. How can your language be anything but dynamic?”
“The Portuguese are not a boastful people,” Adriana said, “but we are no less proud of our heritage.”
By the time we took our seats at the long polished dinner table ladened with bowls of early autumn flowers, we were on a first-name basis except for Ana Marie, whose mother insisted she address me as Ms. McCabe.
I fell into the rhythm of the conversation, chatting about the impact the virus had on our lives and what silver linings lay behind this particular toxic cloud. I forgot how much energy comes from socializing with new friends and how badly I had missed it.
“When quarantine first began, everyone withdrew to their country houses, if they were lucky to have them. We consider ourselves blessed that Papa Carvalho kindly wished that my sister and our extended families join him here. It is not as if he was crushed for space,” Adriana remarked, waving a hand around at the huge room.
“We had cousins staying with us, too, but they have returned to Lisbon now,” Ana Marie offered.
“Yes, your uncle and cousins have returned to the city and we miss them all, don’t we, Ana Marie?” Adriana said, smiling at her daughter.
“My husband is back to traveling for business,” Leonor said, “and we thought it would be lonely for Ana Marie, Adriana, and Senhor Carvalho to be rattling around this huge house by themselves so I remained here a bit longer. Now it is time I left.”
An exchange of glances passed between the sisters. Still there had been no mention of Ana Marie’s father and I decided not to ask questions for the moment.
Sipping a delicious pureed vegetable soup, I smiled. “And suddenly a stranger falls into your lap from the back of a laundry truck.”
Lenore laughed. “Yes, exactly. You cannot trust deliveries these days.”
“And then Alice stepped into a fairyland filled with dragons and mazes,” I added.
“Alice in Wonderland is one of my favorites!” Ana Marie giggled. “I have a Mad Hatter tea party at the end of the south lawn!”
“All designed by indulgent parents based on their children’s favorite stories over the generations,” Leonor added. “It was Senhor Carvalho who added the lights five years ago.”
“A bit over the top, as they say, but children adore it. The garden used to be called the Story Garden in English and it had been open to the public for a few weeks each year. Now we keep the gates closed always,” Adriana said, eyes fixed on her plate.
“Because the evil ones came and took Daddy away. Draggy tried to protect him,” Ana Marie whispered, suddenly serious. “Maybe he is keeping him safe underneath his wing?”
Adriana leaned over and patted her daughter’s knee. “Hush, darling, and please take the bread to our guest.”
The child complied, holding the basket in both hands as she made her way carefully to me, eyes welling.
“Thank you, Ana Marie. You are a very gracious host,” I told her, taking a roll.
The child’s gaze met mine. “Can you help us, Phoebe—sorry, Ms. McCabe? Will you help us?”
“Of course!” It was an automatic response but no less heartfelt.
“Ana Marie, sit back down, please,” Adriana said. “Know that you are welcome here, Phoebe, but it may be best that you leave with Leonor tomorrow morning.”
“Mama, no!”
“Hush, Ana Marie, and you may return to your seat and finish your supper.”
The child complied and picked up her spoon.
“I’ll stay, if you don’t mind,” I said. “My friends and I came to Portugal to help.” Once I found out exactly what matter I was helping, that is. What did this family have to do with the Divine Right of Kings? What happened to Ana Marie’s father?
“You will be relieved to know that plans are in place to bring your friends here tonight,” Leonor told me. “They arrive and I leave but that is how it goes. There you have it.”
I almost sputtered into my soup. “Really? Oh, that’s wonderful—I mean about them coming! I have been so worried and was going to request the use of your landline so I could contact them.”
“Which friends?” Ana Marie asked, pausing from her careful soup-sipping. “I hardly ever see my friends now.”
“Ms. McCabe’s friends, and you will be able to see yours soon enough, I hope. We will have more company briefly in the meantime. Won’t that be fun? They will be leaving shortly, too. Now eat your supper,” her mother told her. “Your bedtime is coming soon.” She turned to me. “As your friends are currently on their way, perhaps it’s best to wait.”
“Senhor Carvalho keeps their passage secret,” Leonor remarked. “There are so many secrets here.”
“Secret from who?” Ana Marie asked.
“It is from whom, darling, not who, and you are slurping again. Please concentrate on eating and not on the adults’ conversation for now,” her mother scolded.
Ana Marie frowned and returned to her dinner but I sensed her ears were practically vibrating.
It was difficult to know how much to say in front of the child so I decided to stick to something safe. “Is Senhor Carvalho your father, Adriana?”
“No,” she said with a small smile, “but we are all family just the same.”
Now I was totally confused. Adriana called Senhor Carvalho “papa” and Ana Marie referred to him as “grandpapa” but Leonor had used the formal signatory at least once. That could mean that Ana Marie’s missing father was Senhor Carvalho’s son.
The main dish of spicy roast chicken and vegetables arrived, after which followed a scrumptious rice pudding so creamy I felt I could sail away on a cloud of vanilla. Conversation remained on neutral ground but I was still eager to get answers, though it seemed that nobody there was prepared to give them.
“Forgive me, Phoebe,” Adriana said at last, “but it is time I took Princess Dervish to bed and read her a story. Please excuse me. I will leave you in the excellent care of my sister and hope to see you later tonight or tomorrow.”
I said my good-nights and watched as the mother strode hand-in-hand with her daughter toward the door, Ana Marie waving at me as they went.
“Leonor, what happened to Ana Marie’s father?” I asked as soon as we were alone.
The woman set her glass down and turned to me with her large dark eyes luminous in the candlelight. “I’ll put it simply: they killed him, right here on the grounds—threw him to his death at the bottom of an ancient well. We have yet to find his body as the ground is too unstable to continue the search. Still, we know he is gone. The Divinios, or whatever those monsters call themselves, may kill every last one of us before they are done. That is one of the reasons why my husband refuses to return here and why I have been called home.”
8
When Leonor escorted me to Senhor Carvalho’s quarters later, I had learned little more except that the Divinios had somehow caused her brother-in-law’s death. That was only the beginning, she assured me. The rest of their diabolical affinities were far worse but she claimed that was not her story to tell.
“If I could take my sister and Ana Marie away from this accursed place, I would, but that’s not to be. Adriana refuses to leave and there’s some question whether they would even let her go.”
“They let her? What do you mean by that?”
She shook her head. “I will leave Senhor Carvalho to give you the full history. Adriana and I must ensure that your friends’ rooms are ready for their arrival and I wish to spend time with them while I can. I will say goodbye here and wish you all the best of luck. Just knock and enter. He is waiting.” With that she left me standing in front of a thick rosewood-and-ivory inlaid door.
I knocked and stepped into a marble vestibule large enough to serve as a foyer of a separate residence. In fact, it was so large that I thought at first that this had to be the library only minus the books.
“Phoebe, please keep walking,” I heard the senhor call.
So I continued on into a huge semicircular room hung with thick gold velvet curtains on tall windows and walled with books. For a moment all I could do was stare. It was as if I had been dropped into the library of an ancient mariner with antique maps framed about the walls, a magnificent floor-mounted celestial globe dating from at least the 1500s, various brass navigational instruments in glass cases, and even a glinting sword suspended on one wood-paneled wall. But then my gaze swerved to the right and stopped.
Maybe I even gasped. A large portrait of a magnificent woman in a red velvet gown hung on the wall to my right. I recognized it as the famous painting of Isabella of Portugal painted by Tiziano Vecellio—Titian, in other words—that supposedly hung in the Prado Museum in Madrid. So, why was it here?
I stepped closer. Though I certainly didn’t have that portrait memorized in such detail that I could recognize every aspect, something about this one seemed off. The Venetian red in the gown seemed too bright, for one thing. The background’s ruby velvet curtains almost competed for attention with the subject herself, and yet how many portraits of Isabella of Portugal could there be?
“I thought you would be interested,” Senhor Carvalho said, gazing at me from a leather chair by the fire, “but if that one strikes you so deeply, consider the other.”
He was indicating the full-length painting of the empress holding court over the fireplace. Here the queen was portrayed standing, her gaze half-turned toward the viewer. Though she wore the same deep Venetian red gold-threaded velvet gown as seen in the first, a shade that perfectly picked up the henna tones of her hair, this fabric seemed real enough to touch.
Fine washes of paint had been layered on to create the richness of the fabric and to enhance depth. Creamy satin poured down under the sleeves in a glossy ivory color with such clarity I could almost feel the fabric gliding through my fingers. In one hand she held a rosary with her index finger pointing to the floor on her right and in the other a small book, probably a Bible.
Masterfully painted not only in terms of detail but of lighting, the subject emerged from the background in a halo of magnificence as befitting her station. After all, she had been the most powerful woman of the then known world—Holy Roman Empress, Queen Consort of Spain and Portugal, Germany, and Italy, plus Duchess of Burgundy—all through her marriage to Emperor Charles V. She was known as just, wise, and hardworking as well as beautiful. She also happened to be Prince Carlos’s grandmother, though she had died many years before he was born.
“But this one is by Titian,” I said, unable to contain myself, “and the other one should be by Titian but isn’t!”
My host chuckled. “Ah, yes. I forgot that you were an art historian, and one with an expert eye, it seems. You are correct, at least in part. The one on the left that should have been a Titian was first painted by Seisenegger in 1531, but Isabella’s husband, Emperor Charles, was not happy with the results. He commissioned Titian to redo the painting in 1534, the one which hangs in the Prado today. This is the cast-off, so to speak, but nevertheless an original, though not by the master himself.”
“So Titian copied and improved upon the first?”
He stifled a cough and continued. “Yes, indeed. One wouldn’t think the master a copyist but a commission is a commission. The one you stand before now is by Titian, you are quite right there, and painted after her death. Very few people know of its existence as it has been in my family for centuries, hidden away here as it were. There is an old tale that to release it to the world would bring destruction onto the family. Old lineages are filled with such stories.”
I turned to my host so excited that I forgot my manners. “But how did your ancestors manage to secure two royal portraits, one of them by Titian?” I asked.
“The story goes that the empress herself requested that her likeness be sent back to her family in Portugal after her death as she knew that she would never return in person. These two paintings were to be her visitation by proxy, you might say. The Seisenegger arrived in 1535 and the Titian many years after her death in 1568.”
“The same year Don Carlos died,” I whispered, leaning closer to the masterpiece. Because it hung too far over my head with my nose ending more or less at the queen’s feet, I could see very little close-up. Still, it seemed that a small corner of the work appeared more vibrant than the rest, as if centuries of varnish and candle smoke had been carefully wiped away.
“You’ve recently begun restoration but stopped,” I remarked, peering closer at the original depth and beauty of the master’s brushstrokes hidden beneath.
A painting of this age would be nearly buried alive under grime unless properly restored. If it was this beautiful under that sludge, I could only imagine how it would glow once fully revealed.
“True. I had a conservator in residence before the pandemic but she had only just begun to work before quarantine forced her to stop. She later caught the virus and has now passed, I am sorry to say. A tragedy as she was very gifted. Perhaps I am guilty of saving the best until last but dear Senhora Belo was quite close to tears when she began to work on what she claimed was her first master artist. I am only sorry she was unable to finish it. She had a little workshop set
up by the elevator.”
The painting hung over the fireplace stretched a good five feet above me, a life-size portrait. I stepped back, pulling out my iPhone to magnify the surface while roaming the camera from left to right over my head. Evan’s super-magnification feature was impressive but not perfect considering that I longed to investigate with intense scrutiny. No time for that now.
“Do you mind if I take pictures?”
“Not at all.”
Once that was done, I turned to my host. “Senhor Carvalho, please put me out of my misery. Is your relation to this Divine Right of Kings because Isabella of Portugal is your ancestor? Is that what’s going on here?”
He leaned forward on his cane, eyes twinkling. “Dear Phoebe, you remind me of my granddaughter—quick to reach conclusions, eager to find answers, and brimming with passionate interest. Unfortunately, my answer to your question is both yes and no. Yes, my family can trace our lineage back to the House of Aviz, but no, that is not why I am involved in the Divinios matter, or at least not directly.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
He got slowly to his feet, gripped his cane, and joined me before the empress. “She is indeed my hallowed ancestor but I have no direct claim to the Portuguese throne even if such a thing still existed. We are, after all, a republic, and rightly so. No, my involvement stems from the property this quinta is built upon, the very earth under my feet, as it were.”
“But this house doesn’t look old,” I said.
“And it isn’t, having been built in the early 1800s. After the big earthquake of 1755, most of the castles and quintas in the area were left in shambles and the residences seen around here were built upon the ruins. However, the land predates all of that. Sintra has been held in reverence by the Romans, the Templars, the Moors… It was known to be the site of many religious orders as well as renowned as a mythical and mysterious area with its own unique power. Though little aboveground remains standing, it is what lies below that drew me into the crosshairs of the Divinios brotherhood.”
The Crown that Lost its Head Page 9