29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

"If I must lose because I am a woman, I want to lose like a man." Caterina Sforza, The Countess of ForliIsabel focused on stitching the Portuguese flag. Shadows grew in her bedchamber, but the gas lamps were silent. The events of the past hours besieged her like a rioting crowd, but she refused to be affected by them. With gritty eyes, chest numb, she added carmine thread to the Braganza’s coat of arms.

She told herself that accepting Alfonso’s proposal had been the right thing. Seeing Henrique in another’s embrace, and Dolly ruined by a rake, had shed her madness. Now, she saw her duty clearly.

Marrying Alfonso would bring stability to the peninsula. As Spain’s queen, she would help him navigate the intricacies of political life. Her brother might grumble she didn’t consult him, but he would understand she did the right thing.

Her chin trembled, and she shut her eyes. What if Alfonso didn’t make her skin tingle and her heart flutter? Isabel de Orleans wasn’t meant for a life of passion. Passion was for brazen women like Rafaela. Flying wasn’t for her. No, she had been raised for a life of duty, protected within the walls of morality. Why was it so hard to breathe? There was no crippling pain inside those walls.

The needle slipped from her clammy hand, and she pricked the pad of her finger. Numbly, she watched as blood pooled on her skin. It was not blue, her blood. A sob escaped her throat, and her chest shook.

Sophie entered her room and gasped. She dropped a basket and kneeled at Isabel’s feet.

"Here, let me take care of this.” She picked up the flag and shook the cloth. "See? No need to cry. You didn’t stain it. It isn’t my France’s tricolor, but your design is beautiful. No one is better with needle and thread."

Sophie hung the flag over the back of the couch. "Prince Alfonso is outside, but my lady is indisposed. Should I tell him to come back later?"

Isabel cleaned the tears with a handkerchief and pinched her cheeks. "I shall see him now. Thank you, Sophie."

Alfonso stepped inside her bedchamber and bowed deeply. "I apologize for his sorrowful state. I found the sinvergüenza alone in the tavern. The Guardia helped me haul him here."

The Guardia? But were they not a risk to Alfonso? Isabel jumped to her feet.

Two officers of the Guardia Civil invaded the room. Wearing blue jackets embellished with gold braids and the coat of arms of the Spanish monarchy, they cut an impressive figure. The plumed cockade atop the tricorne wavered as they dragged a moaning man inside.

Upon seeing her, they dropped the dead weight on the Aubusson carpet. Placing a hand over their hearts, they shouted, "Viva la Reyna!" Long live the queen.

So shocked was Isabel by their salute, it took her several seconds to recover her wits.

Her gaze trailed from the Guardia’s impassive expressions to the man crumpled on the floor. It was Charles Whitaker. If he was alone, where was Dolly? Had he tired of her already? Left her for another woman?

Isabel fisted her hands by her sides. "Where is she? Where did you leave Lady Dolores?"

Charles lifted his face as if waking up from a bad dream. Tears coursed through his cheeks, wetting his red beard. She had never seen a man crying, and it constricted her chest. Her gaze flew to the Guardia and then to Alfonso.

Alfonso raised his palms. "For my honor, he was not touched in violence. When sober, though, he will have to pay for the slight to Lady Dolores."

At the mention of Dolly’s name, a pitiful keening sound escaped from Charles’ mouth.

"Please! Have you left her in some inn? She loved you, and—"

"Love? My dove doesn’t love me."

"Don’t place the blame on her. She—"

"She used me." Charles sighed and dropped his chin. "She told me if we didn’t elope, she would leave me. We went to the station. I wanted to take her to her father to ask for her hand. Behind my back, she boarded a train to Paris."

Isabel gasped. "I don’t believe you."

The Guardia advanced over to Charles.

Charles mumbled, oblivious to the threat. Trembling, he reached inside his coat and removed a paper. "See for yourself."

Isabel took the message from him. He gazed up at her, his eyes brimmed with raw hurt. Charles was heartbroken. She had judged him unfairly. Heart pain, it seemed, chose not gender. She had been wrong about that as well. Throat swollen with sorrow, she placed her hand above his shoulder. She owed him an apology.

Charles’ face turned green, and Alfonso signaled the Guardia to remove him from the room before he could vomit.

Isabel’s hand fell limply to her side. "Wait, I—"

Alfonso closed the door after the Guardia left. "They won’t harm him unless I say so."

Was the Guardia supporting Alfonso? They must have because the prince’s eyes showed a new light, and he had grown an inch. Still, Isabel couldn’t process it now and slumped on the couch.

She read Dolly’s note, and it all made sense at last.

Alfonso took it from her numb fingers. After scanning the lines, he crumpled the paper. "What an unnatural thing to do. Abandon her duties as a maid of honor to a royal princess. All to become an actress? A woman without morals?"

Alfonso must have believed her silence was due to shock because he knelt at her feet and held her hand. "It is better this way. My dear, you wouldn’t want a corrupt sheep in your household."

The old Isabel would feel the same. This Isabel, this other version of her, was not so sure. Dolly dreamed of taking Paris by storm. Why should she bury herself inside her carapace and conform to a life of rigidity?

A tiny smile crossed her lips, and she hid it under her handkerchief. Lady Dolores had fooled everyone. Where did she hide such cunning? Lady Dolores, too, had chanced to fly. Isabel only hoped it wouldn’t hurt Dolly as much.

Isabel looked at the heirloom ring crowning her finger and at Alfonso’s austere expression, and an ache invaded her chest.

"Did you finish the flag?" Alfonso bent over the cloth. Frowning, he traced her precise stitches.

Isabel nodded. "As we agreed. And then you will—"

"I have pundonor, Isabel, and once I’m king, as promised, I will renounce any right to the Portuguese throne."

Isabel’s smile was perhaps sadder than Charles’. Alfonso would be a qualified king for Spain. He wouldn’t make her skin tingle or her heart pound, but he vowed fidelity. It would have to be enough.