Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (30 page)

Chapter Eleven

Seven weeks later

‘L
and! Land!'

The shout echoed from the deck above, through the open porthole to where Mary and Teresa were playing a lazy game of cards in their cabin. They glanced at each other and then leaped to their feet to race down the corridor, Adriana close behind them with her mending still in her hand.

The deck was already crowded, everyone pushed out of their long doldrums, the long, slow days, by that wondrous word—
land
. It had been weeks since they had seen anything but endless grey waves, the other ships in the royal convoys mere specks in the distance. While they certainly didn't suffer from the privations some of the other vessels were said to endure—lice that forced Doña Carlota and her ladies to shave their heads; no food but salted fish and ship's biscuits; low levels of fresh water—life on the
Hibernia
had become dull, but not difficult.

And now the journey seemed near to being over.

The long, lazy days of reading and cards with Teresa and Adriana, while her father was closeted with the other diplomats, had left Mary far too much time to think about Sebastian Barrett. Since he had transferred to another vessel, she had learned nothing of him and it seemed to make her think of him even more.

Made her remember the ways he had seemed changed in Lisbon, the new solemnity in his eyes, the watchful way he seemed to observe everything around him. The way he watched
her
. She was so unsure of him, so wary of trusting any changes. Wary of
him
.

What would happen when she saw him again?

She and Teresa found a small space between the crowd at the rail and she shielded her eyes from the golden sunlight in the endless stretch of pale-blue sky overhead. For days, it had been growing warmer and warmer, the air softer. After the grey chill of the onset of a Portuguese winter, the light was intense, unyielding.

Mary peered closer. Without a glass, the shore of Brazil seemed to be a mere dark ripple in the distance, a tiny break in the endless expanse of sea and sky. It almost seemed like a dream.

But the bustle and noise of the crew was real enough. Once the storms of their departure from Europe were past, the voyage since Madeira had been a blessedly quiet one. Perhaps
too
quiet at times, such as when they drifted for a few days, becalmed in the middle of the Atlantic, but even the sailors had become lazy. They danced in the evenings with passengers, told tales of other, more perilous voyages. Now they were suddenly scaling the masts, letting the sails billow free to carry them to their destination.

The shore grew closer and closer. Mary could make out a crescent-shaped sweep of pale golden beach. Dark, shining volcanic rock shapes rose up out of the bright blue water like sea creatures. The famous Sugarloaf Mountain was off to the side, leaning back as if it was a guard at the entrance to the city. In the distance were great, dark mountains, looming all around, almost cutting into the fluffy white clouds.

Between the bay and the mountains she could see the city, white walls winding up the hillsides, much like Lisbon had been, all washed in that vivid, wondrous light.

What would she find there? Mary sensed a whole new voyage just beginning in those mysterious new streets, a world she couldn't even yet fathom despite all her reading. Maybe she could even make herself into something new!

Something that wouldn't be unsure of seeing Sebastian Barrett again, that would laugh at him and all he had once made her feel.

‘Mary!' she heard her father call. She glanced over her shoulder to see him hurrying across the crowded deck. He took her hand tightly in his as he stared out at the bay, at the other ships drawing closer. Mary feared he looked tired, his eyes darkly circled with worry. She hoped the sun might help him, too. That here, so far from the troubles in Europe, he could get some much-needed rest.

He gave her a smile. ‘Soon, my dear Mary, we'll have solid ground under our feet again at last, eh? Maybe this time we will stay put for a while.'

‘I can't wait to see Rio, Papa,' Mary said, trying to give him a reassuring smile in return. ‘And you will have plenty of fresh fruit to eat, and time to rest.'

He laughed. ‘No time to rest now, my dear. I think the real work is just starting. But I do have my Mary to help me.'

‘Of course, Papa,' she answered, thinking of her beautiful mother and how Maria always was there for her husband and child. Of how family was the only real home, the only really important thing. ‘You'll always have me to help you.'

He gave her a mock-severe frown. ‘Not
always
, I hope. Lovely young ladies like my Mary need their own families.'

Before Mary could answer, there was a sudden booming salute from the cannons lined up along the docks. She looked up, startled, to see that the royal ships had drawn closer in the harbour as they approached the shore. She could make out figures now, people lining the wharf as they waited to welcome their royal family from across the ocean. Mary couldn't help thinking it must be rather like meeting mythological figures, suddenly stepping down from a painting.

She glimpsed a skiff making its way across the choppy white waves. The figure seated in the prow wore the blue sash of a lord mayor, and Mary thought it must be Lord Arcos, the viceroy of Brazil, who had been given only a few weeks to prepare for this most momentous of events. As he drew near the ships, there was the muffled sound of cannon fire out over the water. The acrid scent of smoke combined with the sweetness of the blossoming orange groves on shore, and the salty sea breezes.

‘So we are safe here from that devil Napoleon,' Teresa said.

Mary glanced at her friend, startled by the sudden, serious sound of Teresa's voice.

‘Yes,' Mary answered. ‘But not from other things?'

Teresa laughed. ‘We are never safe from
all
things,
minha amiga
. But I suppose we will be able to make merry here. And I will serve Doña Carlota again, so I am sure there will be balls and dinners, just like at home. Will the officers be as handsome after such a long voyage, do you think?' She tossed Mary a teasing look, making them both laugh. ‘Not as handsome as my brother. So many ladies are so fond of him, but he has spent much time with us lately. I doubt it is
my
company he likes so much.'

‘I am sure I don't know what you mean, Teresa,' Mary said. She turned away to look at the beach again, feeling her cheeks turn warm. Luis Fernandes
had
dined with them often in the voyage, always laughing, always entertaining them. Luckily he had not said anything else like his words in Lisbon. She didn't know what she would say to him if he did. She liked him very much, of course, but....

But he was not like her old dreams of Sebastian Barrett and those had to be banished.

There, on the wharfs, were the English diplomats who had been sent ahead on a faster boat, a collection of sombre dark coats against the vivid green and white of the shore. Was Sebastian among them? She was sure he was. But she didn't know yet how she would react to seeing him again.

She only knew she had to figure it out very soon indeed.

Chapter Twelve

M
ary opened the shutters of her new sitting room, letting the brilliant sun cascade inside. It made the layer of dust over everything visible, tiny flakes of silver dancing in the warm, stuffy air, but it also showed her details of this new home she hadn't been able to fully see when they arrived late the night before.

They had been brought ashore while the fireworks still exploded in the night sky over the royal ships, so her father could help oversee preparations for the Braganzas to disembark, all the elaborate ceremonies the colonial crowds would expect. Mary had seen little of the city in the dusk, aside from bumpy, dusty roads, the shimmer of mysterious light behind lacy, latticework balconies, the enticing scent of flowers on the breeze, the heat of the day still caught in the darkness. The feelings of it were so intriguing and she couldn't wait to see more.

For now, though, there was just the small house they had been given off the main square of the city. The morning light was brilliant, piercingly golden and clear, unlike any she had ever seen before. She had lived in so very many places with her father over the years, Mary thought as she studied the room, but nothing like Brazil.

The house was a simple one, with white-plastered walls, tall, beam-crossed ceilings and heavy, dark carved furniture that looked almost medieval. Old, silvery mirrors framed in curlicues of gilt hung high on the walls. Soon, she knew, it would be her own, once their crates were opened and she could unpack their own silver and china, the porcelain ornaments they had found in Russia, her mother's portrait and some lighter curtains at the windows. It would seem as much like home as anywhere else could.

Somehow, the thought of
home
made her remember the glimpse she had of Sebastian Barrett when they arrived in port. He was so different from the memory that had haunted her from London, so serious. What was he thinking about? Mary frowned—surely he was the last thing she should think of when she felt that old pang of longing for a place to belong.

A church bell tolled from outside the window, deep and sonorous, pulling her away from the unwelcome thoughts that haunted her about Sebastian. She glanced outside to the street below.

Most of the lanes they had bumped over in their night journey had been hard-packed earth, but the narrow road outside their house was made of cobbles. Shadows were cast over the moss-covered rocks, outlines of the tall, close-packed whitewashed houses, the balconies that jutted out from the upper stories, shaded in latticework.

It was still early and there weren't many people out and about yet, unless they were all clustered at the docks, waiting to catch a glimpse of the royal ships. Mary glimpsed women in sleeveless, pale muslin dresses against the warmth of the sun, mantillas draped over their heads and shoulders, the flash of diamonds around their necks and around their wrists. She had heard the large, shimmering stones were still mined in the interior of the country and worn by all the fine ladies all day long, and she wondered if her pearls would look paltry in comparison.

Intrigued, she leaned over the windowsill, craning her neck to try to glimpse the city's main square around the corner of their little lane. She knew from their passage last night that it was also cobbled, with the large, carved façade of the grand cathedral at one side, where the magnificent painted and bejewelled statue of the Madonna looked down on the marble front steps where the royal family would go to hear mass as soon as they disembarked. The lanes, cobbled and dirt alike, were swept clean and lined with fragrant flower petals and cinnamon sticks, already trampled underfoot and spreading their intoxicating fragrance on the breeze.

At the other side of the square was the new royal palace, a structure that had been quickly converted from the viceroy's small, rambling house. Mary had caught a glimpse of it in the moonlight, workmen still scrambling over it on ladders, converting it into walkways between an old prison with barred windows and the convent connected to the cathedral into a larger palace. Along with the smell of flowers and the faint whiff of salty sea air, she could smell fresh paint, the gilt that was being laid over the window frames. She thought of how, at least for a time, Dom Joao and Doña Carlota would have to live together again. She remembered Teresa mentioning how much the Princess hated her husband, the man she had been tied to since she was ten, how much she had tried to create her own powerful entourage in Europe. Now, here in Brazil, that was ended.

People were gathering outside now, atop the roofs and in windows, waiting for more of the fascinating spectacle of royalty to come into their midst.

‘Mary, dear, are you ready? They shall be disembarking at any moment,' her father said as he hurried into the sitting room, looking most distracted, as he had far too often of late. He wore the full splendour of his courtly diplomatic dress, satin breeches and stocking, a dark-blue satin coat embroidered with gold braid and with his medals and ribbons. He looked just as handsome as she always remembered, but she worried at the dark circles beneath his eyes.

‘Of course, Papa. But I fear I shall be quite overshadowed by your splendour!' she answered, forcing a cheerful smile to her lips as she rushed to his side. She straightened one of his diamond-framed medals. ‘I see I shall have to beg for presents of more flashing jewels while we're here.'

‘You can have anything you like, my dear, as you well know! But you look lovely, as always,' he said. He gently touched her cheek, a wistful smile on his face. ‘Just like your mother.'

‘No one could be as beautiful as Mama.' Mary linked her arm through her father's. ‘Papa, is everything quite well? I mean—I know it is not. Thousands of people have just been hurled across the sea and you must help them come right again. But are
you
well? If we could find a good English doctor...'

‘I am quite well, my dear, quite well,' her father insisted. ‘The warm sun will do me good, I'm sure. Now, shall we go? We must be waiting for the royal arrival.'

Mary nodded. She knew he would not tell her more, not yet, not when he had a job to do. She would just have to make sure he rested, ate his meals and enjoyed something of this strange land they had found themselves in, just as she had to.

She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors just before they left the house. She was right, she thought, that her father's attire was much more splendid than hers! She wore a white gown, simply embroidered with tiny blue flowers and trimmed at the low, round neck with a fine lace frill, and her mother's white-lace mantilla covered her dark hair. Her face looked pale beneath its cobweb-delicate pattern, but she knew she looked as well as she could.

She wondered if Sebastian would think so, as well, and pushed that thought away. It should not matter to her in the least what he thought about her now!

In the crowded square, her father had to leave her to find his delegation, and he deposited her with a group of other ladies near the marble steps to the cathedral, out of the hot tropical sun. She studied the people around her, the press of the people who had long been living in Brazil in their pale cottons and fine gems and the stunned courtiers who had recently disembarked, stifling in velvets and gold embroidery. The air smelled of cinnamon and flowers, sweet on the warm breeze, along with the less lovely dirt of the streets, the press of people and horses in close quarters.

Mary glimpsed Sebastian across the square, the gleam of the sun on his golden-brown hair. He was taller than most of the men around him and his handsome face looked solemn and watchful above his fine white cravat. For an instant, Mary's breath caught at the sight of him and she quickly looked away. She could not be distracted by him, not now.

The doors to the cathedral opened and the crowd let out a loud cheer and surged forward, carrying Mary with them. Sebastian was quickly lost to her sight in the crush and she couldn't even see her father any more. The heat was even more intense there, the sunlight brighter, the smells of the cinnamon and flowers and perfumes powerful, along with the incense that flowed on a silvery cloud out of the cathedral doors. Musicians launched into a lively dance tune, blending with the church bells and the cheers.

She managed to push her way to the edge of the square, near the fountain and away from the thickest of the press of people at the cathedral stairs. She went up on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the royal family as they emerged from Mass.

They stopped beneath the vivid triumphal arch to wave and Mary could hear a ripple of disappointed murmurs around her. Unlike the fabulous, idealised colour of the paintings, the real figures were rather prosaic.

Dom Joao was short and portly. Even in his vivid scarlet-satin coat, flashing with gold braid and an array of jewels, he could not disguise his heavy frame and square, plain face, his balding head and rounded shoulders. Yet he seemed rather pleased to be there, after all the long months of prevarication back in Lisbon about whether to stay or go. He bowed and smiled, waving the plumed hat in his hand at the crowd.

His wife, Doña Carlota, however, could not disguise her dismay. Mary remembered the tales of how grief-stricken the Princess was to leave Europe, the panicked letters she had sent to her Spanish family begging them to save her. The life she had made for herself, of her own palaces, her own lovers, her own power, she had to leave behind. Mary wondered how she must be feeling now, after all that struggle was in vain and now she found herself in a strange land across the ocean, with a husband she could not bear.

Doña Carlota seemed to stare at something far off, away from the curious and celebrating crowds. She held her head high, her expression stony and unreadable as she gazed over everyone's heads. Even shorter than her husband, and stout after so many children, she still managed to look more regal than him, in her plain black-velvet gown and flashing diamond jewellery. To cover her head, shorn after the plague of lice on her ship, she wore an elaborate silk turban pinned with a ruby star.

Around them were their children, the boys dressed in blue coats and knee breeches, the heir with a jewel-sewn coat like his father's and the girls in white gowns with black sashes. They all blinked out at the vivid crowds arrayed in the brilliant sunshine, as if shy and uncertain.

A small figure, swathed in black taffeta, was borne out on a chair litter. Mad Queen Maria, who was waving happily at the people, seemingly revived by the long voyage and her new home at the convent behind the cathedral.

Behind them came their attendants, gentlemen in their court clothes of satin coats and knee breeches, looking damp and misplaced in the bright tropical sun, and the ladies in their fine French fashions. Metallic embroidery on pale silks, long gloves, the ones who had escaped the lice with elaborate, upswept curls.

Mary caught a glimpse of Teresa behind Doña Carlota's diminutive figure and tried to wave at her. Teresa seemed to be searching the crowds, as if looking for something, a small frown on her face beneath the fluttering lace of her mantilla.

‘Look at their gowns,' a woman behind Mary said with a giggle. ‘Do you think that is how everyone dresses in Europe?'

‘It's very pretty,' another lady said with a sniff. ‘But surely they will suffocate in such things here! Not to mention no one will be able to afford finery like that. The shopkeeper Mr Daniels charged me five times what he should have, just for these ribbons!'

Dom Joao opened a heavy purse and tossed out a handful of coins in a shimmering silver archway into the crowd. A great cry exploded and everyone shoved forward again. The two women pushed against Mary and she was so startled she stumbled on the slippery cobblestones. She felt herself falling, the cold jolt of the fear, and her arms shot out to catch herself.

The hard blow of the cobbles never came. A strong arm locked around her waist, lifting her up higher to safety.

Mary knew who it was, even before she twisted around in his arms to look down at him. She knew Sebastian's touch all too well now, the warm, hard security of it, knew the clean, citrus soap smell of him. He had rescued her too many times before.

He looked up at her with his jewel-green eyes and for an instant it seemed there was only the two of them in that crowded square.

‘I do always seem to be in need of rescue when you're around, Lord Sebastian,' she said. ‘It is most distressing.'

His handsome face, so solemn and concerned before, broke into a smile. That smile made his face even more beautiful, breathtakingly so. ‘I'm just glad to be of service to you, Miss Manning. You usually seem to have little use for me.'

‘Can you blame me?' she blurted, then immediately wished she could draw the words back. She never wanted him to know how much he had the power to hurt her. Not after how she felt when she learned the truth about her romantic dream in London.

Yet as she looked into his face now, she saw few echoes of that young man she thought she once knew. There were new lines on his face, hardening the good looks, a new solemnity in his eyes.

And she was no longer that girl, either, the girl who had once thought it was freeing to abandon caution and run heedlessly into her new, heady emotions. There were so many more important, more dangerous things in the world for them to worry about now.

She looked away, feeling her cheeks turn embarrassingly warm. She hoped it could only be blamed on the hot day, not on the fact that he was so near her again. After he changed ships on their voyage from Lisbon, she had thought she'd escaped him, that the weeks at sea would make her forget him. That once they met again, he would be much like any of the other handsome men she had met in her travels—charming, interesting for a moment, easily forgotten.

She realised now that had been foolish. Sebastian Barrett was
not
like any other men she had met. He never had been and never would be.

And that was why she had to be more careful around him. She couldn't let the intoxicating light of that place blind her.