The Water's Kiss (11 page)
“What do you know of his daughter?” he asked, the words quiet and distant, as if spoken through silk.
“
Daughters
, Your Grace. He has more than one.”
Colony of Venezuela, New Granada
Estate of Don Manuel de Vargas, Viceroy
March 5, 1810
“Ana! Stop it!” Sofia shouted, her infectious laughter sending Ana into a fit of giggles.
Thwack.
The orange hit Sofia’s round cheekbone and slid to the ground, leaving a trail of juice that the bees would soon devour.
“My dress! You’ve stained it now. Father will insist I change,” she sighed. Ana’s stomach clenched as Sofia wiped the juice from her face and checked her green muslin dress. Yet another way she displeased Father.
A flash of red and blue, then skirts whipping around bare feet. “Miss Anastasia! Miss Sofia!” a young girl’s voice called, breathless and anxious. The girl was new, having been acquired by the purchase of her mother last year, part of Don Vargas’ plan to improve the estate’s profits. Mother never allowed slaves, but since her death, Father insisted that they improved the household. Ana knew that money was tight, though Don Vargas would never admit it. Instead, he blamed his daughters for his fiduciary issues.
“Miss Anastasia!” Maya bent over double, her red skirt billowing in the breeze, part of the standard slave’s uniform for household help.
“Yes?”
Maya’s breathing came in long, painful drags. “Your father. The Viceroy. He wants you. Now.”
“Now?”
“He said it like this.” Maya scowled and wagged her finger at Ana and Sofia, mimicking him. “
Now!
” The slave girl managed to perfect their father’s dark, smoldering look of intemperance, brow furrowed, eyes bright with impatience, jaw clenched and lips pursed like a nun chiding a novitiate.
Sofia giggled; Ana merely shook her head. At twenty-five, she and her sisters were too old to be treated like impertinent children. No one could tell that to Don Vargas, though; for the past few years, since their mother’s death, he treated everyone like children. Everyone except the King of Spain, and if he could have, he likely would.
No one pleased him. Least of all Ana.
Rebels threatened to declare independence from Spain. Ana knew that her father spent each sleepless night reading correspondence and receiving courier reports from the Spanish army and other government officials detailing rebel activities. If the South American colonies achieved independence, he feared, he would lose his fortune. He would lose his home.
Perhaps, even, his head.
But she secretly cheered on leaders like Simon Bolivar. He was a creole, born in the colonies to Spanish parents.
Most considered Ana—indeed, she considered herself—a creole, in spite of her mother’s English background.
And wealthy creoles, especially men, were tired of being blocked from power by the Spanish king and by men like her father, a Spanish-born immigrant. Peninsulars like Don Vargas viewed creoles with contempt. She understood the impulse to rise up and challenge authority.
If Ana were a man, she’d be on the front lines right now, fighting.
Instead, her father tightly controlled their lives. Sometimes she envied the slave women, who went to market and shopped, attended Mass freely, and who could walk down country roads and chat easily in groups. Going to Mass was her only social outlet outside of the few balls during the season. The Don’s thousand-hectare estate gave her plenty of land to roam, but like any penned animal, she felt the boundaries tighter all the time.
Like a noose.
But there were other ways to support the cause. Silent ways. Ways that only underrated women could assist.
“Tell him we’ll be there shortly. We need to make ourselves presentable,” Ana answered. Maya nodded and made her way back to the main house slowly, clearly unhappy with her message.
For the past few days the servants had whispered rumors. When the Viceroy of New Granada, the highest noble official in the Spanish colonies, received a letter from an English earl, everyone knew. Ana had bitten her tongue many times, wanting to ask Father about the delivery yet afraid to know the answer.
“My seamstress told my maid that Father received an offer of marriage,” Sofia said. Her brown eyes cast down, long lashes framing the sadness. “Which of us did the Earl choose?”
Sofia’s naiveté amused Ana. She’d heard the whispered rumors as well, as the coachmen carried her to Mass at church last Sunday. “You, of course. You’re the great beauty.” Sunlight reflected off Sofia’s long waves, hair made of obsidian in soft form. Effortless waves that framed her creamy skin, her almond-shaped eyes, her perfectly-centered nose. Unlike Ana’s unruly, untamed curls that gave her the appearance of a frazzled milkmaid, Sofia’s hair reflected her internal grace and calm.
“But you have mother’s looks, Ana. I envy your red hair, and always have.”
“It is not red. It is brown and ragged, with enough color to make it look as if I smashed ripe coffee berries in it.”
“Do you?” Sofia teased. “And unripe lemons for your eyes?” Her sister’s laughter made her more captivating and poised, if that were possible. Ana’s eyes were doubly green today, first from nature and second from envy.
“It will be you. You get to marry the English earl and go off and attend the balls and parties Mama described from her days in England. You will be the talk of the
ton
.” Numb grief crept across Ana’s skin, settling near her heart. An ocean would soon separate them. They had spent every moment of life together, even before they were born, when Mama had carried them and their sister, Maria. While she had never enjoyed the spectacle of being a triplet, Ana had reveled in the comfort of her sisters. Losing Maria to the convent seven years ago had been hard enough, though Sofia had been hit harder: Sofia and Maria were identical twins. Ana had always been the odd one out, but losing Sofia to England would destroy her.
This nameless earl in England threatened everything she knew and loved.
“But I don’t want to marry anyone right now except Sebastian!” Ana looked away and rolled her eyes. Sofia’s imaginary pirate was her great love. Eight years of hearing about a debauched, seductive thief who promised to come for her sister had been quite enough. The story had been amusing when they were teenagers.
Not now
.
“Neither of us has a choice. Mama protected us as best she could. Now that she’s gone, Father intends to make good matches for us. An English earl? He won’t say no.”
“What if the earl is old?” Sofia’s alarm sent a shiver through Ana.
“How old?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Ana reached up and began twisting two frizzed strands of curls together, then knotted them. Sofia tapped her hand, an old reminder to stop the fidget. Unfurling her hair, Ana paused, then used her fingers as a makeshift comb.
“Anyone older than Father would be – ”
“Ugh!” they muttered simultaneously, then looked at each other, nervous laughter blending with the heady orange-scented air. The trees were pregnant with fruit, but not quite ready to drop and release their children into the world. Ana tipped her nose up and inhaled deeply, the odor a balm for her nerves. The unexpected would greet her at home, in Father’s library. He could wait a few seconds. Harvests like this came but once a year.
“I would not like to marry a man of forty-six years. He would remind me of Father and when I marry, the goal will be to get as far away from Father as possible!” Ana declared, hands on her hips, legs rooted among the trees as if planting herself. Suddenly, Sofia seemed like an adversary, someone she needed to defeat in order to win this round against the Viceroy.
“I am not the one you need to persuade.” Ana detected Sofia’s skepticism, a resignation tinged with fear. “Whatever awaits us at the house is our fate. We cannot change it.”
Ana’s nose twitched like a rabbit’s, searching for a clue in the air. The grove’s manager taught her years ago the ways of the citrus crop, how to use her nose to know the oranges and lemons. Judging a crop by the color and texture of the skin, the suppleness of the rind, and the scent the fruit sent into the world told an educated farmer everything he needed to know. The air told her that the crop was still ripening, yet she detected an impatience in some trees, a few ready sooner than the rest, while others would lag behind and only drop fruit when forced to do so, the final product so sweet and juicy that she would nearly weep with ecstasy when eating the first slice.
What if this were her last harvest? She could not imagine a world in dreary England, where even the sun was so proper it hid under the formal dress of clouds. While Sofia had always enjoyed her mother’s stories of Paris dressmakers and London parties, Ana preferred the groves, wending her way through the secrets of the trees, losing herself in their intricacies, relaxing only among the endless rows.
Both reached for the rosaries around their necks. Sofia’s lips began the silent prayer to Mary. Ana moved her lips but did not recite the prayer, replacing it with
He will not win. He will not win
. She was not certain to whom she prayed, but it was not God.
Don Vargas could overrule even God in New Granada....
An Inconvenient Fortune
will be released in September 2012. To read more samples and to sign up for my new releases email list to get the first word on its publication, please go to
A Romance of the Body
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What to Do Next
THANK YOU for reading! Please feel free to lend this novella to friends.
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About the Author
HARPER ALIBECK
is a former history professor who has published eight books and whose work has appeared in 17 others. She is also a National Book Critics Circle member, with reviews published online and in academic journals. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice, in non-fiction and fiction.
In recent years her interests turned toward contemporary and historical romance -- but with a twist. She enjoys researching and writing about characters who defy convention, and especially women who were confined to the mores and expectations of their day, yet find ways to maliciously obey.
A former Latin American and World History professor, research for her novels
Legs
and
Unfinished
included a trip to Santiago, Chile. Alibeck maintains that the best meal
ever
comes from a street vendor selling empañadas after a night of dancing and pisco sours in a Santiago jazz club.
Future research trips to Belize and Ireland may very well set the stage for forthcoming trilogies. She loves to hear from readers at
[email protected]
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blog
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