The decision had been an easy one. If she wanted to stay in the city long enough to find justice for Isabel, she had to get money somewhere. Should she secure this position, it would give her both an income and a place to live without the threat of Carlos and Heriberto finding her. She didn’t have time to deal with either of them as they deserved.
All the same, she couldn’t be certain Mr. Ferreira wasn’t after the same thing as Carlos. Women usually made the decisions in the home; if a gentleman offered a position, that hinted at seduction. The fact that he was a gentleman didn’t make any difference. She’d had more than one improper proposal from among Isabel’s circle of suitors, all of them gentlemen. She didn’t think Mr. Ferreira intended the same, though. He’d involved his mother in his offer, something that went beyond the realm of acceptable behavior if he planned a seduction. A gentleman did not include his family in his transgressions.
And she was qualified for the job. She had, after all, been Lady Isabel’s companion for more than a year. Although she had no letter of recommendation from Isabel’s family, she must be considered experienced. She also had her abilities as a seamstress to offer, which had helped convince Lady Amaral to hire an unknown woman as a companion in the first place.
Oriana looked at her pale face in the spotted mirror and nodded sharply. She had to take the chance. Having made her decision, she drew her hair down about her shoulders and neck to hide her gill slits, picked up her pitcher, and headed downstairs to the kitchen to fill it.
It wasn’t the same as a bath, but it would ease the ache in her gills. After days without being able to bathe properly, her skin was beginning to feel dull and dry. And she should sponge off her skirt as well. If she was going to ask after a position in a fine lady’s household, she had better be presentable.
• • •
The Ferreira family lived near the end of the Street of Flowers, not far up from the Church of São Francisco—an indicator of the family’s social status. When the aristocrats had built along that street, the most influential located nearer the palace, closer to their prince. The lesser nobles and the gentry had been relegated to the far end near the river. When she’d lived in the Amaral mansion, Oriana would have had to travel some distance downhill to reach the Ferreira household.
Of course, to get from the boarding house to the Ferreira home, she had to go up the steep hills. Climbing had never been easy for her. She’d been told once that the air bladders on the outside of a sereia’s lungs were vestigial. That didn’t matter; they took up space. Her smaller lungs made the steep streets hard going. She might have taken the tram, only she didn’t want to spend what few coins she had—not when she didn’t yet have a position.
So Oriana headed up the Street of Flowers, carrying her portmanteau, her heels clicking along the cobbled edge of the road. When the cool wind tried to pluck away her plain straw hat, she held it with one mitt-covered hand as she walked. Glancing up at the sky, she saw that clouds were rolling in, rain in them. She hoped she would have a place to spend the night.
She felt a sudden pang of homesickness for the house on Amado where she’d grown up among her father’s family. She missed her grandmother’s tile-roofed home with its terrace where she and her sister would sleep under the stars. She missed the beaches and the red-sailed fishing boats that cluttered them. She missed the heady smell of flowers on a summer breeze. Amado was, of all her people’s islands, the most similar in culture and architecture to Portugal, but it wasn’t crowded and formal and stuffy like the Golden City. For better or worse, she’d left it behind long ago. Now she had to make the best of the situation she’d landed in.
When she reached the Ferreiras’ address, she paused, caught her breath, and pulled the bell chain. After a moment, a gray-haired butler appeared at the door.
“I am Miss Paredes.” Fortunately, she didn’t sound winded. “Mr. Ferreira asked that I speak with Lady Ferreira regarding a position here.”
“Yes, Mr. Duilio said you would be coming, Miss Paredes.” He took in her tired costume with perceptive eyes and gestured toward the bag clutched in her hand. “Why don’t you set that on the table over there, miss, and I’ll take you through to meet our lady.”
Our lady. It was a possessive title, suggestive of an elderly woman or an invalid. Oriana did as the butler suggested, leaving her single bag on an exquisitely carved table of dark wood. A fine mirror hung above it, so she took a quick moment to check her hair and make certain her clothes were neat, and then obediently followed the elderly butler through to the front sitting room.
It was elegant, all ivory and gold, and the fine furnishings made Oriana curious to see the remainder of this house. Nothing about the couch or the low tables or chairs was ostentatious, but having worked with fabric in the past, she could tell that each was constructed of quality materials. The brown figured rug under her feet appeared to be wool and silk. The whole room suggested wealth but not extravagance. She wondered if that were only true of the public areas, as in the Amaral home.
Enthroned in one of the chairs across from the sofa, Lady Ferreira sat alone, a wistful expression on her face as she gazed out the window in the direction of the river. A great beauty, the woman had her son’s dark, clear eyes. The lady wore a dark brown suit, suggestive of a working woman’s efficient garb—no frills or lace—yet shantung silk that fine would never be seen in the city’s offices. The skirt was trimmed in black velvet that matched the smart velvet cuffs and lapels on the jacket. Jet earrings dangled next to the lady’s slender throat. A newspaper lay abandoned on the small table next to her right hand, along with a cup of coffee.
“Lady, this is Miss Paredes,” the butler intoned. “Mr. Duilio said she would come by.”
The lady stared out the window as though she hadn’t heard him.
“Lady Ferreira?” Oriana tried. “I’m Miss Paredes.”
The lady moved then, as if a new voice had been enough to rouse her. She turned halfway to gaze over her shoulder. “Ah, my son told me you would come.” She gestured for Oriana to approach and opened one hand to indicate the sofa. Oriana obediently sat, catching the scent of the lady’s perfume, floral with a hint of musk, as she did so. The lady murmured for the butler to bring a tea tray, and then said, “I’ve not had a companion for a long time. It will be nice to have someone to talk to.”
Oriana nodded. “Your son suggested you might consider me for the post.”
“Oh, of course,” the lady said vaguely. Her eyes drifted back toward the window.
“I’ve been companion to Lady Isabel Amaral for the past thirteen months.”
Lady Ferreira simply nodded, her eyes fixed on the windows.
“I do not, however, have a letter of recommendation from the Amaral family, as Lady Isabel left her home unexpectedly.” Oriana waited for a disbelieving response, but the lady simply nodded again. “I am also trained as a seamstress,” Oriana added, “and worked previously at a dressmaker’s shop on Esperança Street, from which I can provide references pertaining to both my skill and my character.”
“That’s not necessary,” the lady said.
Oriana didn’t know quite what to make of that. She’d been let go without a reference after more than a year in the Amaral household. Most employers would see that as the mark of a troublesome employee. “Did your son vouch for my character, my lady?”
Lady Ferreira had returned to staring out the window. She rubbed the fingertips of one hand with the other, a gesture that reminded Oriana of Nela’s arthritic hands. “He says you need to be here.”
Need to be here? Oriana wondered again whether the man planned this as a prelude to seduction, but couldn’t bring herself to believe he would involve his mother in such a scheme, particularly not when his mother seemed to be . . . less than completely aware of her surroundings. It didn’t sound like Lady Ferreira actually wanted a companion so much as she’d been told to acce
pt one. No matter how it affected her situation, Oriana refused to be party to forcing the woman into company against her will. “Are you certain, my lady? Do you truly want me to stay?”
The woman sat unmoving for a moment, her expression distracted. Then she looked at Oriana directly, the first time she’d done so. “It will be nice to have someone to talk to. Felis is so busy, and has no interest in business. I . . .”
The lady’s gaze had drifted over to the abandoned newspaper. One gloved hand reached for it but paused midmotion. She seemed frozen.
“Felis, my lady?” Oriana prompted after a moment.
“My maid,” Lady Ferreira said, shaking herself. “I do not have visitors. We are still in half mourning. But I enjoy reading the newspapers.”
The half mourning explained the lady’s soberness, but newspapers? Isabel would never have chosen such a thing, preferring to read sensational novels, such as the works of Collins or Sheridan Le Fanu. Or, rather, Isabel liked to have them read to her. Oriana suspected that Isabel had fancied herself one of those gothic heroines. In retrospect, newspapers seemed a safer choice.
Oriana gestured toward the paper lying by the lady’s elbow—the trade daily. “Would you like me to read it to you?”
Lady Ferreira’s eyes had drifted to the window again. She rose in a cascade of brown silk and went to stare out at something beyond the glass. Oriana followed, but saw nothing out there save rooftops and the distant waters of the river.
The gray-haired butler had returned on cat feet, leaving a tea tray on the table. He touched Oriana’s elbow, bowed, and softly said, “Miss, I’ve been instructed to show you your rooms.”
She was being herded away. Oriana murmured her excuses to the lady and followed the butler out to the hallway. Lady Ferreira never seemed to note their departure.
“Will Lady Ferreira need me later?” Oriana asked.
The butler inclined his head. “I believe you’re to start in your position tomorrow, Miss Paredes. You’re to have the rest of the afternoon to settle in.”
It wouldn’t take her that long to unpack her few garments and press them. “May I walk about the house, Mr. . . . ?”
“Cardenas, miss,” the butler supplied. He waited for Oriana to retrieve her bag and hat from the table next to the doorway, and then led her along the main hallway toward an elegant stairwell that led up to the second floor. “The lower floor is all public save for the library,” he said. “Teresa will show you around this evening after supper. I assume you’d prefer a tray in your room tonight. . . .”
The butler went on, assuming various things about what she wanted. Since it was a butler’s job to be cognizant of the needs of the house’s inhabitants, she decided to follow his lead. She didn’t want to cause trouble and end up without a position again.
The main second-floor hallway stretched on for some distance, with doors leading off to either side. Bedrooms, she guessed. The stairwell up to the servants’ floor would likely be in the back. Mr. Cardenas surprised her by stopping at the first door on the left. He opened it and gestured for her to enter ahead of him. “Miss Paredes.”
Gripping the handles of her bag, Oriana stepped into the room.
It was far too grand a room for a servant, even an upper servant such as herself. The colors of the room suggested a man’s taste, all dark browns with occasional hints of burgundy. A stately bed occupied the far end, fine ivory drapes hanging from the posts. A small seating area lay to the right of the door, a leather settee and a low table hinting that the owner would have time to recline and read there. Two doors led off to the right, a dressing room, she supposed. “Um,” she began, “surely there’s some mistake, Mr. Cardenas.”
“No, miss. Mr. Duilio said to put you in here.”
“Thank you, then, Cardenas,” Oriana said, attempting to settle properly into her role in the household. If she became too familiar, it would be difficult to retreat later, and she might end up facing another footman who thought he could take advantage of her. Better to start off on the right foot. “Also, if it’s not too much trouble, could one of the maids bring up a tray? I didn’t have a chance for luncheon.”
The butler inclined his head. “Of course, Miss Paredes. Do you prefer tea or coffee?”
“Coffee,” she told him. “With cream.”
He bowed and left Oriana there, staring at the opulence around her. She licked her lips nervously. She didn’t understand the reasoning behind this elegant room and the courteous treatment she was receiving. Ensconcing her in this bedroom increased the likelihood that Mr. Ferreira intended a seduction. She couldn’t imagine any other reason he might place her in what must be a family room. But she wasn’t attractive enough to inspire some grand passion in a man she barely knew.
Worry made her empty stomach roil. Surely this can’t be his bedroom. No, the butler would not have treated her with anything approaching respect if his master’s designs had been so blatant. Even so, the room smelled masculine, with a hint of bay rum in the air. It wasn’t a room normally used by a lady.
Shaking herself, Oriana gathered her wits. She would need to find the toilet stand shortly, so she’d better start exploring. She set her bag and hat on the settee and went to investigate the entry nearer to the dressing area. It opened onto a small room that smelled still and unused.
The dressing room held a large armoire and a chest of drawers in a dark wood that matched the bed. When she opened the armoire, she found a quantity of clothing, clearly a man’s. For a fleeting second her worry that this was Mr. Ferreira’s bedroom returned, but the clothing hadn’t been touched recently. This was someone else’s room—abandoned.
Oriana backed out of the dressing room and cast a quick glance at that second door. It didn’t lead to the dressing area after all, so it must adjoin some other room, possibly Lady Ferreira’s. At least she hoped so. Bracing herself, she went and tried the handle. The door opened outward, revealing a stunning vista of white porcelain and polished brass.
She laid one hand over her gaping mouth. It was a bathing room. A private bathing room.
A skylight overhead illuminated the largest tub Oriana had ever seen, easily large enough for her to lie down in—almost six feet long. It had to have been custom made for this house. The brass fittings, for hot and cold running water, gleamed as if they’d been polished that afternoon. A soft rug in pale beige covered the tile floor, and thick ivory towels waited in a set of shelves against the far wall, next to another door that must conceal a water closet.
Amazed, Oriana leaned down and ran her fingertips along the cool lip of the tub. A collection of brass boxes and delicate bottles clustered on one side of the vanity caught her eye. She suspected the fragrances would be masculine, property of the room’s previous occupant. Looking about her at this rare creation, she felt an ache that was almost physical. Her skin sorely needed a long bath after a week without in the boarding house, and she couldn’t imagine a better place for it. This room was beyond magnificent. It was perfect.
A sharp rapping at the bedroom door penetrated her reverie. Oriana forced herself to leave the bathing area and found a pretty young maid entering the room, a coffee tray in her hands. Oriana went to take the tray from her, an automatic response.
“Oh no, miss. I’ll just put it on the stand here.” The maid set the tray next to the leather settee, ran brisk fingers over her tidy apron, and curtsied. “I’m Teresa, Miss Paredes. I’ll be taking care of your rooms, and anything else you need.”
“There must be a mistake,” Oriana said. “These rooms are too grand for a companion.”
The girl smiled and shook her head. “No, miss. Mr. Ferreira said it would be easiest to keep you in this end of the house rather than opening up something at the end of the hall. And you’re next to the lady here. Makes it easier for us, you know.”
That sounded more like an excuse than a reason. “Who usually
has this room?”
“It was Mr. Alessio’s room,” Teresa said, casting a glance at Oriana’s bag, where it still rested on the settee. “Before he passed, I mean.”
Ah, the mourning. “When was that?”
“Year and a half ago, miss, about. I didn’t work here then. I started after the father died.”
Oriana puzzled at those statements and decided the girl was definitely talking about two different people. Alessio wasn’t the father, then. Perhaps a brother. “The father?”
The girl chewed her lower lip. “Mr. Ferreira, I meant. He died not long after his son. About a year ago, I think.”
Lady Ferreira had lost a husband and a son within the last year and a half. How awful. Oriana decided to try a different tack with her questions. “Do you like working here, Teresa?”
“Oh yes, miss. Mr. Ferreira is a good master. Everyone likes him, even Miss Felis, who’s known him since he was born.”
Oriana didn’t think this girl was faking her enthusiasm; Teresa didn’t seem the sort who could lie well. She felt her worries about the man’s intentions fading. “That’s good to know.”
“Do you need anything else, miss? I could press something if you like.”
Oriana had always had to press her own garments at the Amaral household. It seemed strange to have a servant do such a chore for her. But since ironing was terribly uncomfortable for her hands, she opened her bag and located her black serge skirt, the blue vest, and her remaining shirtwaist. She surrendered them to the maid. “I thought I would take a bath, so there’s no need to hurry.”
The Golden City Page 10