40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

"Oblivion—what a blessing for the mind to dwell a world away from pain."Sophocles, Oedipus RexIsabel disembarked the Rainha Frigate and crossed the drawbridge to land on Lisbon’s soil. It was hot and airless and muggy. The physical and mental oppression of the afternoon set up weights on her legs, and she had trouble placing one foot in front of the other. Since Pedro Daun had informed her of Henrique’s desertion, nothing much mattered. What should have been a victory homecoming became a retreat to care for wounds. Two months since she saw the Tagus, Saint George’s castle, the arches of the Praça do Comercio. Everything was the same, and yet it was not. Perhaps she had changed. She had flown, but instead of shedding the carapace, she had shed herself, and only the husk remained.

Sophie clicked her tongue. "This is not right. Citizen Pedro Daun sent word of your arrival. How come no one is here?"

Beyond the marina, only the palace coach awaited—no throngs of subjects waving scarves and going on tiptoes to glimpse their princess. No gas lamps lit the gloomy streets up the hill. No fresh flowers and boughs of rosemary festooned the windowsills.

They settled in the coach and slowly climbed to the palace. Close to the gates, a squalid crowd had formed. As the coach slowed to pass through her subjects, Isabel heard hisses and hoots. When a tomato hit the side of the carriage, Sophie yelped.

"Why are they behaving like a mob? Do you think Portugal is a republic now?"

Isabel shook her head and closed her eyes. She feared she would soon find out, but tiredness quenched her curiosity. All she craved was the closeness of her ladies and a respite from riotous emotions.

Isabel crossed the heavy oak doors of the Ajuda Palace. Her boots echoed over the empty marble vestibule. Only the sculptures were there to receive her, their faces austere. She didn’t expect the queen to welcome her home, but Luis’ absence pierced her heart. After what she had been through, she longed to lay her head on her big brother’s shoulder and cry.

The servants kept their glances down while Isabel dragged her feet to her wing.

Before she could enter her morning room, Lady Philipa came to her.

Isabel leaned into her friend’s embrace. When they parted, Isabel noticed she was dressed all in black, down to the veil of her bonnet. Dread swirled in her stomach. Death had visited the palace? Was that why everyone seemed so downcast? Her first thought was of her brother. But no, if the king had died, black crêpe would be covering the windows and portraits.

Heart speeding, she grabbed Philipa’s shoulders. "Where are the other ladies?"

Lady Philipa glanced down, pressing the corner of her eyes with a kerchief. "Their families sent for them."

"Why?" The season would start soon. Families were returning to Lisbon from their summer houses.

"You don’t know? Oh, dear." A single tear rolled down Philipa’s cheek. She pointed to the escritoire, her mouth opening and closing without a sound. "It’s tomorrow’s newspaper."

A pressed sheet awaited there. The editor only sent an advance copy when he feared the news might displease the king. A sinking feeling plunged in her stomach as Isabel lowered her weight to her desk.

Her picture crowned the front page. In gaudy typography, the headline said: Runaway Princess accepted a prince’s offer and eloped with a viscount.

Her eyes blinked rapidly, and a sob escaped her mouth. A heaviness expanded from her chest to her limbs. She forced herself to keep reading, even though her mind wanted to collapse.

"Princess Isabel de Orleans shed her morality as one exchanges the winter wardrobe. A summer spent in sin, financed by the public coffers."

Luis would set it to rights. The dreadful news hadn’t been published yet. He had to. Had he not promised to hunt all the drakes in the lake so the hens could be left unperturbed when she was ten? Had he not ruffled her hair when she scraped her knees and listened to her music performances when she knew he wanted to be outside? Her arms ached to hug him and ask him to make it better.

Isabel sped through the corridors on the way to the music room. The queen and her ladies blocked the way. Isabel halted, her cheeks burning with mortification.

One of the ladies noticed her presence, and their dithering ceased. All eyes turned to Isabel. Forcing her chin up, she shuffled past them without meeting their superior gazes. Whispers of horrible Italian terms like puttana and vergogna followed her inside.

A stale silence pervaded the room. Her brother sat on his worn leather chair, the cello resting by his right side, his golden head bent.

Her heart leaped. A cry escaped her throat, and she raced to him.

He stood and raised his hand before she could reach him, his expression granite hard.

Isabel halted, her hopes crashing like a bird flying straight at a glass window.

"Is it true?" His voice was harsh.

Her cheeks burned under his scrutiny. She exhaled, and the air abraded her airways. "Not all of it."

"Which parts of it then? The affair with Penafiel? The trysts with that puppy Alfonso? The pagan revelry in the palace garden?" His face became red.

Isabel brushed away a stray tear. "The journalist distorted everything. I fell in love with Henrique—"

"I don’t care to hear how my best friend seduced you." He flung the newspaper at the hearth and turned his back on her. For several seconds he gazed at the fire, his chest rising and falling irregularly.

"Please, Luis, you must understand--"

When he faced her, all traces of anger were gone. He adjusted his ruby studs and speared her with a demeaning stare. "I sent you to defuse a crisis, and you caused a scandal of geopolitical magnitude."

Isabel’s chest caved at the cold reprimand. She would rather have the brother’s anger than the king’s displeasure.

The trip had turned into a disaster, but Luis had sent her there. Even knowing Canastra was a blackguard. "Your Majesty is right. I shouldn’t have gone to Spain. It certainly wasn’t my idea."

"The diplomatic mission was above your capabilities." He lifted his eyebrows, his mouth pressed into an unforgivable line.

Diplomatic mission? For whom? Luis only cared about his own skin. The realization pierced her in the chest. Her own brother and king. Isabel closed her eyes. "I know about the letters," she said, hating the weakness of her voice. "He blackmailed you, didn’t he? So you sent me there, not knowing what his plans were. How could you?"

His mouth gaped, giving him the appearance of a bull fish. Glancing away from her, he brushed his nose. "The pressures of the throne, my popularity, I couldn’t—You won’t speak of it again. I forbid it."

"I was a pawn in Canastra’s schemes to destroy Portugal, and you won’t talk about it?"

"Talking won’t make a difference. Our borders are already under martial law, and I swear, if the Bourbon tries to breach our Torres Vedras, I will lead the troops myself." He used a high pitch, a bravado she knew too well. He then pushed away from the mantel and went to the altar. Bending forward, he placed his forehead at the Saint’s feet. "It’s this curse. Perhaps an enemy gunshot will end my torment."

When he had spoken about the Braganza’s curse in the past, she always felt sorry for him, but now, she could see it for what it was—another attempt to manipulate her feelings.

"Sheath your sword. Your wife will endure you for many years. Alfonso won’t invade."

He straightened, a frown forcing his pale brows to meet atop his nose. "Impossible."

Isabel dropped onto the couch, her legs still tired from the journey. "I went to his frigate and convinced him of a monarch’s honor. Alfonso craves stability and a chance to return home. Now that he sits on the throne, he doesn’t need Canastra’s schemes."

"Thank God." Luis sprawled by her side and closed his eyes.

The anger and worry visibly lifted from her brother’s shoulders. He had denied her brotherly comfort, but she still needed the king’s support. Only Dom Luis could salvage her reputation. He could speak with the newspaper owner and forbid the publication. "Will you summon the journalist here? Threaten him with libel?"

He tugged at his collar and looked away.

"You won’t allow them to publish it, will you?"

"My interference won’t matter. Do you think I can stop the dreadful pennies? The gossip will spread like wildfire."

The air left her lungs in a rush, and she grabbed his arm. "Then stand by me. The Society of Catholic Ladies’ lunch is tomorrow. The gossip will die if you appear by my side and vouch for my character."

He tapped her hand affectionately. "The ministers called an emergency meeting yesterday. They forbade me to link myself to the scandal."

Scandal? If she had not spoken with Alfonso, they would have faced much worse. Isabel removed the flag from her reticule and passed it to him. "I gave you back your throne. Now I need you to give me back my reputation."

He eyed Portugal’s colors as if she had presented him with a shroud. "The situation has been unstable. I cannot risk my popularity. I’m sorry, Bel."

Ice coursed through her veins, and she froze. Would he allow her to be vilified? Tears streamed down her eyes. "But I can’t live here like this. I can’t—"

She had already lost too much.

"You won’t have to. I wired Aunt Rita in Bavaria. The court there is less rigid. At least until the scandal fades."

The scandal wouldn’t fade. Not if the king turned his back on her and she escaped to a distant principality. It would be a declaration of guilt. The harsh winters, living among strangers... She could endure all. But never seeing Henrique again?

She clutched the flag to her chest, her voice a strangled whisper. "Don’t ask this of me, please."

He placed his arm above her shoulder. It would have been better if he had kept his royal distance. The warmth of his touch hurt.

"Can you do this for me? For our country?"