Lisbon

by Valerie Sherwood

  15

  Lisbon, Portugal, Summer 1732

  Lying like a many-faceted jewel at the mouth of the Tagus River, Lisbon—that westernmost capital of mainland Europe—glittered in the morning sun. Although it was early, the old city, its Moorish influence still visible, was already a hubbub of activity. On the Mar de Palha, the “Sea of Straw,” the lateen sails of rakish flashed

  red and brown and orange as they took advantage of the brisk breeze that came up the tidal estuary from the Atlantic, which here seemed only a breath away. Colorful crowds jostled each other along the waterfront. Black-skirted barefoot varinas hawking trays of fish carried on their heads darted in and out among passengers from incoming vessels. University students from Coimbra, sweltering in black capes over their black frock coats, shouldered by gaudily painted harlots intent on snaring foreign sailors. Dominican “Black Friars” wound through the crowd in their hooded black habits over white woolen garments, dodging donkey carts piled high with vegetables and fruit, while veiled women from the south—a living reminder that the Moors had left their stamp on the city—rubbed shoulders with elderly flower vendors shuffling along with mountainous baskets ablaze with enormous red and pink and yellow blooms.

  Looming over the city from the heights, the storied battlements of the Castelo de São Jorge looked down ove the myriad churches of the Alfama, or Old Quarter. Here steep twisting alleys, some so narrow that only two donkeys could squeeze by at a time, were decorated with flapping laundry and graced by iron balconies that hung out over the street, trailing vines and flowers from large earthenware pots. Everywhere were tiny hidden gardens and gracious courtyards filled with fragrant fruit trees and palms and scampering laughing children and dogs and cats.

  This was the great port city of Lisbon where the Ellen K. had made landfall last night.

  Lost in gloom over Tom’s loss and still crushed by her “betrayal” of him, Charlotte had given Portugal scarcely a thought during the voyage. All the way up the Tagus estuary she had moped in her cabin, although she could hear excited cries from the passengers on deck. Even on disembarking, she had kept her violet eyes downcast, ignoring the lights of Lisbon—as if she felt she was unworthy to share in the joy others felt at making port safely after a fair voyage.

  Charlotte had not cut a very good figure as they landed, for her gown, which had been hastily mended on the voyage, was both unfashionable and ill fitting. That, combined with her determinedly downcast manner, had caused brows to lift as they disembarked, and Rowan had scowled fiercely back, as if to challenge the opinion of his fellow passengers.

  Unwilling to parade Charlotte through the common room of one of Lisbon’s more elegant hostelries until she had better clothing, and unhampered by luggage—for unlike most of the passengers on the Ellen K, he and Charlotte had traveled almost embarrassingly light and had no need to wait for drays or heavy carts to transport their baggage— Rowan had hoisted his saddlebags himself and led Charlotte to a nearby low-roofed whitewashed inn where he took rooms for them both.

  But when Charlotte had promptly sunk down on the bed and announced in a bleak voice that she was not hungry and would go straight to bed, Rowan had lost his patience.

  “You will eat something if I have to force every bite down that white throat!’’ he snapped.

  “But I don’t wish to go downstairs,” Charlotte protested. “You can see that I am too tired,” she added defensively.

  “Very well, you will eat here—but eat you will!”

  Charlotte had sighed and viewed without enthusiasm the bowl of caldeirada, a kind of Portuguese bouillabaisse, redolent of onions and paprika, which was brought up to her. “Aren’t you going to join me?” she asked.

  “No, I shall seek more lively company,” was his cold rejoinder. But he stood ruthlessly by while she consumed the very last spoonful of the caldeirada. He even insisted that she finish the glass of wine he poured for her.

  That he had slipped a mild sleeping potion into the wine he gave her, Charlotte had no way of knowing, for she was unused to wine and did not notice its slightly altered taste. Rowan watched her drink it, knowing she would assume it was the wine and not the potion that would keep her asleep through the night and well into the next morning. Then he had locked the door and left her. And gone to prowl the town looking for word from the man he was to meet in Lisbon. He found none.

  Annoyed by that failure, he had come back after being out all night to find Charlotte sleepily rousing. Abruptly he had decided that, presentable or not, he would take her out now to view the town. Perhaps that would breathe some life into this listless creature!

  When Charlotte had stepped outside the whitewashed walls of the inn and been handed into an open carriage, she had been amazed.

  She had come in darkness into a city of light.

  The streets were clean, the skies a vivid blue, the air off the Atlantic clean-washed and tangy. Buildings of soft-hued stucco were all around her, pastel pinks and watery greens and hazy blues. And scattered proudly among them— some still under construction—were marble palaces built in a splendidly rococo style with windows that flashed in the sun. Indeed, as they continued around the great central plaza, the very buildings seemed to blaze about her, each more magnificent than the last.

  And they seemed to her enchanted gaze to rise forever, terrace upon terrace of them, sweeping up over the low hills above her. It was a dizzying vista and Charlotte was sharply aware of how different it all was from anything she had ever known. All the splendor of a great city was opening up about her and she found herself caught up in it, swept away from her dismal thoughts.

  Now they were turning into a broad avenue whose traffic consisted predominantly of coaches and carriages with occasional handsomely caparisoned riders, some in glittering wide-brimmed sombreros, who passed by on dancing mounts with jingling spurs and silver-studded saddles. But it was the coaches on which she chose to feast her eyes—so astonishingly many of them! There was a blue one, its door emblazoned with a coat of arms of snarling leopards, there a giddy-looking coach encrusted with delicate garlands of painted ivory and gold and with more glass than she had ever imagined a coach could have, and just passing was one with a sleek maroon leather body and bright yellow-green wheels, and just ahead—oh, just ahead was a truly magnificent coach adorned with gilded mermaids that gleamed gold in the sun.

  “Why, it is a city of coaches!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

  “And other wonders," agreed Rowan in a slightly sarcastic voice, for the determinedly downcast demeanor of this bride-who-did-not-want-him had brought a look of amusement to the narrowed eyes of a harlot he had scorned as he went into the inn. He was still smarting from her worldly assessment of him.

  Charlotte, immersed in the wonders within her view, did not notice his tone.

  “And it is a city of palaces, " she added, impressed. “And so many of them look new. Look at that one—and the one over there. They are just now being constructed!"

  “All built by the gold that flows from the mines of Brazil," he told her carelessly.

  “It s glorious," she sighed, sinking back in contentment.

  Rowan turned an amused look upon his bride, and that swing of the head brought into view another carriage just then passing. It bore an opulent couple, the gentleman in gold-embroidered lavender-blue silks, the lady in a striking gown of crimson taffeta ornamented in black grosgrain and wearing a spectacular hat that set off to perfection her cloud of raven-black hair. Their heads were both turned away, for the gentleman seemed to be pointing out something in the street beyond, but in the brief moment as they flashed by, the lady s handsome profile came into full view and Rowan drew in his breath sharply.

  Katherine. A pang went through him. Katherine, the woman who had cast him aside the moment a better offer came her way. Bitterly he remembered the fancied smirks of his London friends and acquaintances, all of whom, he had no doubt, had laughed when they heard about it. Ah, she had made a mockery of him
in London, had Katherine, and now here she was riding gaily by in Lisbon all decked out in a carriage, her dark loveliness attracting attention—just as she meant it to.

  And lounging beside her, that graceful fop of a young husband of hers, Eustace Talybont. Well he might lounge about, secure in the knowledge of the inherited acres that would one day be his! Rowan had not been one of those fortunate ones blessed with an ancestral seat and no need to make a living. He recalled that Talybont was supposed to have made a jest about Katherine s rejected suitor. The “money-grubber" Talybont had called him, referring to Rowan s onetime stint as manager of an elderly lord s estate—a position from which he had been hurriedly ousted when the old lord died and his sons had shouldered Rowan out. Rowan s hands clenched at the sting of that remark. Indeed, had Talybont been in London when Rowan heard what the man had called him, he would have sought him out on the spot and sampled with his blade the color of that arrogant blue blood! He toyed with the idea of doing so now, of ordering the driver to draw up alongside the carriage that had just passed them and then rising in his seat and leaning over and slapping his glove across Eustace Talybont’s self-satisfied face.

  The temptation was great, but better judgment stayed his hand, though it did nothing to cool his hot temper.

  He dared not do it—not now, not here. Dueling with Talybont—most certainly if he killed him—would bring Rowan Keynes too forcibly to the attention of the authorities. He might find himself imprisoned or—worse in his view, for he was contemptuous of prisons, having escaped from several—he might be cast out of Portugal, and it was harder getting a ship’s captain to turn his vessel about than it was to bribe one’s way past prison bars.

  Of a sudden his dark eyes gleamed and he cast a quick look down at the excited girl beside him. A plan was forming in his mind and it came to fruition as he noted the fashionable inn the Talybont carriage drew up before. Quickly he told his driver to drive on.

  “Charlotte,” he said.

  Charlotte, who had been craning out of the carriage the better to view, on the highest hilltop above her, the great outer bastions surrounding the lofty pile of the Castelo de São Jorge, turned reluctantly.

  Her violet eyes were shining, Rowan noted approvingly.

  “Charlotte,” he said gravely, “I have a request to make. The woman just alighting at that inn—no, don’t look now, she is turning about”—he ducked his head until he again had a back view of the lady’s coiffure—“I want her humbled.”

  Charlotte came out of her fascinated survey of the city with an effort. “What do you mean, ‘humbled’?”

  Rowan’s mouth formed a grim line.

  “That woman is Katherine Talybont. She broke our engagement, kept my betrothal ring, and married that fop up yonder”—he nodded toward Eustace Talybont, just then helping his wife to alight—“and made me the laughingstock of London. ” He paused, “I want her humbled. ”

  “How?” wondered Charlotte.

  “I will tell you later,” he said, and sat back.

  Charlotte considered him sidewise through her long lashes. Rowan was indeed a very handsome man and she was surprised to hear him speak so bitterly about being jilted. He was so erect, so vital, so manly—how could any woman leave him for another? she wondered. Any woman who loved him, that is. She cast a quick backward look at the woman, who had now left her carriage and was sweeping into the inn with her hand resting lightly upon a lavender-blue-silk arm. Even in that brief glimpse she could see that Katherine was very beautiful.

  "Did you love her very much?” she asked wistfully.

  The answer was controlled, self-mocking. "I thought I did.”

  "And she loved you?”

  "Oh, she was forever declaring it.” He gave a short hard laugh. "But Talybont”—he nodded back toward the inn— "was the richer.”

  Charlotte digested that. She considered the face, now in profile and looking carved from granite, of this man with whom she had made a hasty marriage of convenience. After overwhelming her with unwanted attentions that first night on board the Ellen K., Rowan had kept his word to her. He had slept across her door on shipboard—the reason for this, she knew, was to keep her from dashing out in a paroxysm of grief and hurling herself overboard—and he had offered her no hurt. Indeed, save for rather fiercely insisting that she eat her dinner and drink her wine last night, he had been unfailingly courteous. He had, now that she thought about it, saved her from both Lord Pimmerston and her uncle—and he had done it at the possible cost of his life. All of this she had accepted from him and given nothing in return—that is, if you discounted that brief wild bout in the cabin of the Ellen K.—and she realized now that she must have frightened him half to death by almost going over the rail of the vessel. She had driven him too far, and his control had snapped, but later he had seemed heartily sorry and ashamed of himself and had thenceforth acted as a perfect gentleman. And had he not taken separate rooms for them at the inn last night?

  Rowan had been ill-rewarded for nearly throwing his life away for her, and now he was asking her a favor—just what favor was not yet clear.

  "I will do all I can to help you,” she said with such fervor that his eyes gleamed. “What do you want me to do?”

  She had half-expected him to say, “Go to Katherine's inn and pretend to be a serving girl and find my betrothal ring and bring it to me,” but he surprised her.

  “First,” he said in a gentler tone, “I am going to take you shopping. ”

  Rowan was an extravagant man. She found that out at once, at the first shop he took her to—a cobbler’s, from which she emerged handsomely shod. Next, to buy fragile underthings, silk stockings, a dainty lace chemise as fine as any her mother had ever owned. And to a milliner’s, where he selected several hats to be held for them until he could discover what sort of gowns she would be wearing. The milliner, Charlotte noted, was most respectful and promised that the hats would be held until tomorrow.

  But buying the gowns—that was a revelation. The ladies on St. Mary’s Isle had gotten themselves up bravely for their balls and routs, but they were mainly conservative in dress. Not so Rowan. In a shop with, surprisingly, an English shop mistress, he chose her clothes for her and Charlotte could not believe her eyes. Set out for their inspection was a large array of the latest “fashion dolls” from Paris, for France was now the acknowledged leader of the fashion world, just as Spain had been in the last century, and French styles and French laces were as eagerly snapped up in Lisbon as they were in London. The stiff little dolls were dainty miracles of fabric and lace, and, copying their tiny elegant gowns, local dressmakers would whip up full-size copies for ladies of flair and fortune.

  Charlotte’s interest quickened as Rowan selected a slim-waisted full-skirted gown of a tawny gold that matched her golden hair delightfully. It was cunningly made, narrow from the side view but with a very wide skirt held out by light metal hip panniers. It was very sporty, its sleek tailoring giving it the look of a riding habit, while also managing to display Charlotte’s feminine charms in delectable fashion.

  “Where will I wear it?” Charlotte asked, half-expecting Rowan to say they would save it for some distant occasion.

  “Why, you’ll use it for riding about and for everyday wear,’’ he answered her absently. “It will look well with the bronze tricorne hat I selected for you back there and with those bronze leather slippers you are wearing. ’’ Charlotte took a deep breath. On St. Mary’s Isle not even her mother would have considered donning such a gown for everyday wear.

  “I doubt I will be able to wear it riding about, she told Rowan ruefully, “for the skirt will take up more than the whole width of a carriage!’’ She estimated that the skirt must be almost four and a half feet wide across the front, more than double its width from the side view.

  “The panniers that hold it out are flexible and will bend,” Rowan assured her absently.

  “And fashion decrees broad at the front, narrow at the side,” put in t
he shop mistress in a reproving voice, as if Charlotte should know that.

  “You will need gloves,” Rowan said, “but I believe we will purchase those from a glover.”

  “Oh, but we have some very fine ...” began the shop mistress, and let her words dwindle away at Rowan’s cold look.

  “A glover,” he repeated firmly. “For I see you have nothing in bronze kid. ”

  Charlotte watched dizzily while Rowan added to their purchases a silken purse, some delicate handkerchiefs, and told her to remind him that they would also need pomades, perfumes, a comb for her hair, some hairpins so that it “would not fall down in that disagreeable fashion,” and perchance a bit of black court plaster to add emphasis to the whiteness of her skin.

  Speechless as dolls in ball gowns were paraded before her, Charlotte overlooked that bit about her hair falling in “disagreeable fashion.”

  “Which gown do you like?” asked Rowan.

  “The pink brocade, I think,” she said tentatively.

  “No, you shall have the lavender satin with the silver lace. Its hue complements your violet eyes and will”—his sudden laugh jarred her—“go well with Talybont’s blues. I am told his friends have nicknamed him Blue because he never wears any color save blue or lavender. ”

  "To match his blue blood?” Charlotte quipped.

  Rowan gave her an odd look. She had cast off her dreary expression and was entering into this thing. His dark gaze kindled. "Exactly,” he said softly. He turned to the shop mistress. "When will these be ready?”

  "Well, we are very busy, sir,” was the nervous answer. "In a fortnight, shall we say?”

  "No, we shall not say a fortnight. The day gown must be ready by tomorrow morning, and as for the lavender satin, my wife needs a gown to wear tonight. He rose and fixed the shop mistress with a stern gaze. "I see we will have to go somewhere else, Charlotte. Someplace that can accommodate our needs.”

  "But, sir!” The shop mistress was upset at the loss of so much patronage. "I suppose I could have the day dress ready by tomorrow morning,” she admitted doubtfully. Her mind was working rapidly. If she brought in her assistant's two younger sisters—yes, they could do it. "But the lavender satin has those intricate rosettes—it will take longer.” She was very definite about that.