The Day of Atonement (23 page)

I felt something tighten within me—my stomach, my heart, my capacity to breathe. Gabriela. Alive. Before me. Standing. Inclining her head.

I felt as though I were looking at her through a long tunnel. I felt as though the ground under my feet buckled, and it took the greatest exertion of will not to hold on to the walls for support. She was here, alive, well. This moment, this encounter, was real.

Time seemed to fall away. Here was Gabriela, and I was a thirteen-year-old boy again, contriving one excuse after another to spend time with her. I was fifteen, upon the London streets, howling with rage at the years and miles between us. I was eighteen, in a darkened bagnio, so drunk my head pounded, hardly even aware of the woman who lay beneath me as I told myself, again and again, that I had forgotten Gabriela, that I never thought of her any longer.

I saw a look of confusion cross Gabriela’s beautiful face—no doubt a strange expression had passed over my own. I blinked, turned away, and when I looked back I knew my face betrayed nothing to suggest I was anything but an obsequious English merchant, eager to make his fortune. Whatever I felt, I would hide—for now—as Mr. Weaver had taught me.

I also knew that what had happened was no coincidence. I had not by chance found myself allied to a merchant married to Gabriela. Inácio had done this. Inácio had lied about Gabriela being dead and then sent me to Eusebio. Why? Did Inácio hate me because I had escaped the Inquisition, had escaped Portugal, had gone to England?
Did he think me wealthy now, and this visit to Lisbon an indulgence? Was this a joke to him? Inácio had been crushed by the same forces that had cast me to better shores. Perhaps he wished to make me pay for it.

That I could make no sense of his motivation hardly signified. I could not depend upon my ability to read people, not those close to me. I could spot a thief at fifty feet, and tell within a moment’s conversation if a husband and wife were well contented, but I could not see into the hearts of those whose actions affected my own existence. It hardly mattered why he had deceived me, only that he had.

Behind Gabriela stood the same mulatto who had answered the door, because—of course—the lady of the house would not enter the room alone to meet a strange man, particularly an English merchant. The serving woman stood with eyes unfocused, there if anyone should need her, but otherwise no more than furnishing.

A rich floral scent, perfume or natural, struck me suddenly and made me light-headed. My heart raced. I thought my ears buzzed until I noticed a fly hurling itself uselessly at the window. The
tap tap tap
of it was thunderous in my ear. I recalled that, ten years before, I had not said goodbye to Gabriela, and I did not have to. I was alive and she was alive. We were in the same room. We were always supposed to be together, and now, it had come to pass.

Was she truly more beautiful than other women, or did I merely see her that way? It did not matter, because she transcended beauty. She was goodness. My mind moved forward—all my plans for Lisbon took a different shape. Whatever Gabriela was now, I could not be worthy of her in any context until I had purged myself of darkness. I must help Settwell, discover who betrayed my father, and kill the priest. Then, perhaps, we could—could what? I did not know, but now possibilities existed where there were none before.

Gabriela curtsied and smiled. Her lips, far redder than recalled, parted to reveal white teeth. Perhaps my gaze was too intense, for
she lowered her eyes. “Mr. Foxx, you are most welcome in our home. My husband and his father will be here shortly, but I did not wish for you to think yourself neglected. I am Senhora Nobreza.” Her English was good, better than I recalled, though her accent was thick.

I rose too and met her eyes before I bowed. I wanted to give her this chance to recognize me. Perhaps she would say,
My God, it is Sebastião!
and throw her arms around me, and I would forget my vows to right wrongs in Lisbon. Perhaps I would not need them any longer because Gabriela would make me whole. If only she recognized me, everything could change, at this moment.

She did not, and I layered falseness over mask over disguise. It was the only way I could survive the evening.

“Senhora Nobreza. It is an honor. I thank you for making me so welcome.” My voice was as even as it was glib.

“You are very kind,” she said. “May I sit with you?”

“I should be delighted,” I said, attempting to appear good-humored, but feeling myself spiraling into despair. She did not know me. She had forgotten me. All this time—nearly ten years—almost half the time I had been alive, I had believed myself in love with her. When I thought she was dead, I had felt all that was good vanish from the world.

I remembered every detail of her face, though it had changed somewhat in its maturation to perfection. I would have known her anywhere. I could have picked her from a crowd of thousands, but she did not see me standing right before her. She had forgotten my face, perhaps even my name. I saw a vase on the mantel above the fireplace, and I could imagine it in my hands. I could feel the weight of it. I knew precisely how it would feel to throw it against the wall, to see it shatter into fragments, to smell the dust of old pottery. I would not hurt her. Never. But I yearned to see destruction all around her and for her to know what she had done—that she had shattered me just as surely.

I took a breath. I sat in a stiff armchair, and Gabriela sat across from me on a settee, with her back to one of the windows. The light reflected off her hair, and she appeared to glow like a Madonna in a painting.

“Senhor Nobreza does not often invite Englishmen to our home, and in the main I am not sorry, but when he told me of what transpired with you and the Inquisitor, I was delighted that he made an exception.”

“I shall make every effort to conduct myself so as to be a credit to the English nation,” I said, settling into my role, taking comfort from the falsehood I projected.

“I have no grievance against the English,” Gabriela said. “You must not think so. It is only that having foreign guests in one’s home brings attention, and we do not like attention.”

“I imagine not.”

“You do understand that as an Englishman you are not exempt from arrest by the Inquisition?”

“Yes, I have been told that.”

“And the Inquisitor you spoke to—he is known to dislike the English.”

“His conversation has led me to understand that to be true,” I agreed.

She leaned forward. Her high-necked gown revealed nothing, but her breasts strained against the fabric. If she noticed my eyes upon her, she gave no sign. “Then why did you take such a risk?”

I wanted to ask her why she cared. Of what concern could it be to her why I did anything? The words threatened to erupt from the very core of me, but I pushed them down. I became what I pretended. “I did not think I took a risk by stating what was obviously true. I neither threatened nor insulted nor belittled the Inquisitor. I observed that he made the men in the tavern uncomfortable. I spoke what he already knew.”

“And you think it is not dangerous to speak a truth known to all?”

I remembered once, as a boy, I had said to her in a fit of anger,
I wish I did not lack the power, or perhaps the courage, to change things for our families
. She had turned to me.
I know it is not a want of courage
. I thought now that I could repeat my childhood words to her. Would she remember?

Instead I smiled with patronizing indulgence. “I did not worry about propriety, senhora. My concern was that I witnessed an injustice, and I did not much like it.”

“Perhaps that stands in England, but here things are different. Would your fine principles save you if an Inquisitor came for you?”

“If an Inquisitor comes for me, he shall get more than he bargained for. I shan’t go quietly.”

Damn my tongue. I cursed myself, but I kept my face impassive, and I pursed my lips like a fool who cannot distinguish between bravado and truth. I would never again speak to her without pausing to consider my words, but I feared the damage was already done.

Gabriela sucked in a breath. “You are very direct.”

I considered how I might retrench. “I am alone here, with no one to protect and with, as yet, no fortune rooted in this country. I have nothing to lose, and I flatter myself I would be able to escape to the protection of my countrymen if I had to.”

I had been staring out the window as I spoke, but now I turned to Gabriela. She was flushed. My efforts to soften the force of my declaration clearly had not worked. Gabriela did not recognize me, but I had certainly grabbed her attention.

The Nobrezas, father and son, arrived and we all retired to a fine dining room with a large, ornately carved table in the center. A massive chandelier hung overhead, and there were perhaps three dozen candles lit, though ample light yet streamed through the windows. By
the fireplace was yet another elaborate scene done in tiles—this time images from the Trojan War. I glanced at an image of Achilles, his face twisted in his mighty rage, and I looked away.

We ate chicken roasted with potatoes, and a fish stew with greens and crusty Portuguese bread, and there was a hearty Douro wine. Upon the table were bowls of olives and figs and dates. The conversation was light and informal, and after a few minutes, I gave myself over to the insignificant chatter of people who little know one another. I hardly allowed myself to glance in Gabriela’s direction. I became what I pretended to be: an Englishman after New Christian gold.

I learned that Gabriela and Eusebio had been married only ten months, which surprised me. A New Christian woman her age ought to have been married for years, with several children by now. There was something to this, a story not spoken, but neither of them hinted at it in any detail. Once, when I involuntarily looked at Gabriela, I observed a slight darkening of her cheeks as she turned away.

After dinner, the serving woman brought in another bottle of Douro and Gabriela excused herself. I allowed myself to watch her as she left the room, and nearly sighed with relief when she was gone. How, I wondered, did Eusebio pass his days abroad knowing that she awaited him at home? How did he compel himself to leave this house?

Eusebio said, “She is beautiful, do you not think so?”

I forced myself to simulate polite admiration. “You are a most fortunate man.”

“I am,” said Eusebio with a smile of genuine pleasure. Perhaps he truly loved her, and so perhaps his heart would be broken when I fled with her.

“I hope,” I said, “that you take no risks inviting me here. I would hate to see any ill effects of my talk with the Inquisitor befall you or your family.”

“You have marked yourself to be both honest and courteous, and
I believe the Inquisitor will not target you for that. Indeed, if I read his face right, he looked at you with something like respect, and a man who earns respect is a man worth doing business with.”

“That Inquisitor in particular—I gather he does not like Englishmen. Do you know why?”

Eusebio stared at me. “I will not gossip about an Inquisitor.”

“Of course not. Forgive my ignorance,” I said. Eusebio could still not be certain that I was not an agent of the Inquisition or that I would not, perhaps, someday become one. A man in Eusebio’s position would never intentionally say something that could be used against him. The wrong word here or there might return to haunt him years from now.

“I know it is difficult for you,” Eusebio said. “The English are used to speaking without reservation. But you, Mr. Foxx, are more sensitive to the particularities of life in Portugal than many of your countrymen. A New Christian merchant looks for such qualities.”

There it was. Forward movement at last. I was not foolish enough to believe I had truly earned Eusebio’s respect. More likely, Eusebio recognized that there was some status to be gained by being the one to do business with this Englishman. “Does this mean you are prepared to extend me credit?”

“If you can present me with a reason to do so, a specific investment, then we may discuss it further,” Eusebio said, spreading forth his hands. “If I cannot help you, you are free to go elsewhere. Otherwise, I wish to do business with you exclusively.”

I nodded. I did not want to tell Eusebio I had a venture lined up with the Carvers and was but awaiting a New Christian to lend me money. That would have sounded desperate and calculating. I needed to make Eusebio believe that he, and not the Carvers, was the engine that drove this English merchant. I would eventually get what I wanted from Eusebio, and that was enough for now.

We stood and shook hands, and raised our glasses to each other, and made many promises of friendship. It was all well. I was on my
way to helping Settwell. I thought I could affect the arrangements I needed with only minimal contact with Gabriela, and that would be best for now. Next I would learn who had betrayed my father, and then I would be able to complete my business in Lisbon and, once more, escape.

This time I did not trouble to announce myself. When the boathouse door opened, I forced myself inside. I didn’t know if it was the same young man who had admitted me before. I didn’t look.