by Cheri Lasota
In a blinding moment, images flashed into her mind: Diogo’s eyes as he kissed her down in the Sea Nymph’s storage cache, as his hands destroyed her voice in the deckhouse, as he walked away from the stoning in the courtyard. It was Diogo’s eyes and not the eyes of Alpheus that haunted her nightmares and visions.
Arethusa could no longer deny it, not even to herself.
Diogo is Alpheus.
Her eyes flew open, and she pushed away from him. She couldn’t get her mind around it. She had believed it a lie for so long.
Diogo’s anger stirred the air between them. “What? Remembering your Catholic morals?” He clenched her arms tighter, but she twisted her face away.
“You’d better not be thinking of that fool, Tristan. Three years he lived with you, and still he did nothing. Does that not convince you at last? He doesn’t want you. Not as I do. When he turns his back on you for Isabel, he will find I have taken his place.”
Rage shook her. She wanted nothing more than to be away from him. She pulled herself back further onto the crate, desperate for some distance. But he snatched her arm and yanked her toward him again.
“Hit a nerve, did I?”
Arethusa shook her head. She didn’t want to believe it. Pai would never give permission for Diogo to court her. Many would-be suitors had knocked on her door over the years, but, much to her relief, Pai had inexplicably refused them all. She wanted Tristan, and not even the impossibility of such a match between them had opened her heart to the suit of anyone else.
“You think Tristan’s loyal? You think he’ll give a damn about you when Isabel walks by?”
Arethusa turned her head even farther away from him, trying to block out his words.
“Why don’t we see what they’re up to?” He dragged her to her feet. “Not polite conversation, I can tell you.” The set of his jaw was like iron. He took her by the wrist again, pulling her away from the fruit stand and into the crowd.
He hauled her past a group of laughing children and a screaming baby struggling against her mother’s embrace, dirty tears streaming down her rounded cheeks. Diogo pulled Arethusa in one direction, then another, until her wrist chafed against his grip and the bruises on her feet ached. He jumped up on a rock wall and scanned the crowd. She knew by the flash of a smile on his face that he had found them. Arethusa hoped she’d find Tristan in a harmless chat with Isabel, or even better, that he had left Isabel to look for her, wondering with concern where she was.
“Let’s see how your pious love fares against the charms of Isabel, shall we?”
Diogo dragged her on. She had to run to keep up with his long stride. Then she caught sight of them behind a high rock wall, hidden from the crowd, like lovers in a painting, at once washed with brilliant color yet shadowed deep in a private moment. Isabel had a hold of his crucifix. She was pulling him toward her, and Tristan did not stop her. His hand was there at her elbow. And then her lips were on his. Still, he did not pull away. A knife-blade of jealousy sliced through Arethusa, and she realized just how much she loved Tristan at the exact moment she had lost him to another.
Arethusa couldn’t stand to look anymore. But Diogo didn’t think her humiliation yet complete. He grabbed her chin and made her watch. “I want you to see that his love changes with a pretty face. He lacks the courage to be loyal—he always has. He wants Isabel now. You can see it, yes?”
No! she wanted to scream at him. But the truth stood before her, in the arms holding Isabel that should have been holding her.
“Have you had enough?” Diogo released his grip and faced her. “It is not in the stars for you to have him. I am your fate, and you will submit to me, if I have to kill him to do it.”
Arethusa stared at Diogo until she saw nothing except the malice in his eyes. But she did not fear him in the crowd. She backed away, and he did not stop her. She made her way to the horses, tears blinding her in the dust of the street. Loosening Tesouro’s reins, she mounted him and kicked hard, galloping through the crowded streets and up the hill past the Santa Rita Império, away from Praia da Vitória, away from Diogo and Isabel. Away from Tristan.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, ARETHUSA WAS CLOISTERED under the bedcovers in her room when she heard the front door open and loud voices erupt in the hall. Footsteps padded down the stairs from her father’s study.
“And who might this young lady be?” she heard Pai say.
Young lady? Arethusa didn’t want to hear the answer she knew was coming.
“Pai, may I introduce you to Senhorita Isabel Infante,” Tristan said.
Arethusa jumped to her feet and looked at her reflection in the glass near the washstand. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her hair was falling out of its pins. She wouldn’t go out there like this. She didn’t want to go out there at all.
“Pardon me.” Pai fell into a deep cough that echoed down the hall. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you here.”
“Isabel is Conde Branco’s new ward,” Tristan continued.
“Indeed?” Pai said, and Arethusa heard the tension in his voice at the mention of his rival’s name. “And has Conde Branco escorted you here this evening?”
A lengthy pause followed, after which Isabel replied, “He has allowed Marquês Cheia and Tristan to escort me here this evening.”
“Ah,” Pai said.
“I was wondering if we might have her stay for supper. And Marquês Cheia too.”
Arethusa scorned the puffy red face staring back at her in the glass. Supper with Isabel and Diogo? Her own private hell. Did Tristan have no memory at all? Did he not recall his promise to protect her from them? She threw her hairbrush on the bed and rushed to her wardrobe, rummaging around for her best dress.
I’ll pull myself together. I’ll go out there looking my best. I’ll pretend I don’t care, because I don’t! That started her off again, and she couldn’t wipe the tears away fast enough.
“Oh, good day to you again, Marquês Cheia,” Pai said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“And to you, Conde Estrela.” Arethusa found it interesting that Diogo deigned to speak with respect to her father. But then, he always was a consummate manipulator.
“Inform Teresa and the condessa of your new guests, Tristan, so we might prepare a place for them at the table,” Pai said. The sounds of heels clicking on the floor came to Arethusa’s ears. They were moving toward the sitting room. She heard Teresa’s door open in the hallway, and Arethusa hurried to catch her.
She signed to Teresa that she needed help dressing.
“I would, Senhorita, but did you not hear we are having guests for supper?”
Arethusa gestured that she knew.
“You know this lady and marquês?” Teresa said.
She threw up her hands in frustration, mouthing, “Yes!”
Teresa gave her a long look and took pity. “I’ll help you but quick now. The condessa will come looking for me.”
The maid pinned pieces of Arethusa’s long black hair atop her head and wound the rest into a loose bun. Arethusa put her hands to her flushed cheeks. Much was at stake. If Isabel caught Tristan’s fancy, he might be persuaded to marry her. Not only would she have to swallow the bitterness of losing him, but she would suffer the humiliation of calling her enemy sister.
Teresa took notice and glanced at Arethusa through the glass. “What is going on? How do you know them?”
“Orphanage,” she mouthed.
“Orphans too? Don’t have the look of it, do they?” Teresa leaned down until both their faces reflected in the glass. “Keep an eye out for that young marquês. Rich, powerful, and handsome too—he’d make a fine husband for the daughter of a count.” Arethusa rolled her eyes at Teresa, but the thought of marrying Diogo struck a dagger into her heart.
“Don’t turn up your nose at every offer, Senhorita. You may look like an angel now, but no woman’s charms hold out forever.”
A quarter of an hour later, Arethusa left her room wearing her finest fitted bodice, the broach the conde had given her on
her seventeenth birthday, and skirts of alternating black and red. Arethusa rarely dressed up, except on festa days and Sunday mass, but she wanted Tristan’s eyes on her tonight.
All heads turned when Arethusa entered the dining room. She glanced first to Tristan, and it was all she had hoped for. When he raised his wine glass to drink and his gaze found her standing there, the glass went still and his eyes told the story of his thoughts.
“You look lovely this evening, Arethusa.”
She tore her gaze away from Tristan to acknowledge Pai’s compliment and was astonished to see he had been watching the exchange of looks between his children beneath the veil of the handkerchief at his nose. She wondered if Pai had read her thoughts and judged her sinful, but when he lowered the kerchief, he was smiling.
“Beautiful,” Diogo added.
Arethusa tried not to meet his gaze, fearing her bravado would crumble. Avoiding also the silent sneers of the condessa and Isabel, Arethusa sat in her usual place at the table, but this time she was obliged to sit beside Diogo, forced to see Tristan sitting next to Isabel.
“You have kept our guests waiting,” the condessa said to Arethusa, her voice without inflection.
Sorry, Arethusa signed to her, hoping that would be the end of it.
Teresa looked up from serving. “I apologize, Condessa Estrela. I took too long with Arethusa’s hair.”
Arethusa gave Teresa a quick smile of gratitude as the maid continued to circle the table, serving hefty portions of Pai’s favorite fish stew, sweet bread, and goat cheese.
“Let the girl do her own hair,” the condessa snapped.
“The senhorita has no need of adornment.” Diogo nodded toward Arethusa, his tone a subtle cross between derisive and complimentary.
“Marquês Cheia,” Pai said, “Tristan tells me you’ve been back at your family estates in Portugal all this time. Your family owns a winery and shipping business, yes?”
“My great-great grandfather started a small winery in Porto, and it has grown steadily since then. When my father joined the Freemasons, he expanded into shipping so we could export our own product throughout Western Europe and the Americas.”
Pai said nothing in reply but studied Diogo’s face, as though attempting to read beneath the surface. He seemed just as distrustful of the marquês as Arethusa was.
“Is that when he gained his title?” the condessa said. Pai admonished her with a look.
“No. The title has been in our family for generations. Our wealth and prestige are as well-known in Porto as our wine.”
Pai’s raspy voice was quiet and thoughtful. “What brought you back to the Azores?”
“Conde Estrela, that is something I wish to speak with you about privately. I have a business proposition to discuss with you, which may prove profitable to us both.”
Arethusa was instantly wary. She sensed he was hatching a new plot, and it didn’t bode well.
Her father raised his eyebrows but nodded. “If you wish.” He turned to Isabel. “And you, Senhorita Infante, how did you come to be a ward of Branco’s?”
“Pai,” Tristan said, “Isabel, I mean Senhorita Infante, was my good friend at the orphanage. Remember I used to tell you stories about how we’d get into all sorts of trouble?”
Arethusa stared at him. He considers Isabel his good friend?
Pai smiled. “Yes, I remember the stories. They made me laugh, and precious little in this life makes me laugh.”
The condessa narrowed her eyes at the conde. Did she think the comment meant for her? Arethusa didn’t think so. Pai was too kind, too compassionate, but the condessa’s insecurities were so much more transparent than she realized.
“What stories did you tell?” Isabel chimed in, wariness crossing her face.
Tristan gave her a mischievous smile.
I could tell you stories of Isabel, Arethusa wanted to say to Pai. Stories that would make you ashamed to have her in this house.
“Nothing too damaging, I assure you,” Pai said, his smile dazzling.
“Save room for almond tart and coffee,” the condessa told Isabel, and then she called Teresa to take the supper plates away.
Arethusa had hardly eaten. She was too nervous to handle more than the sweet bread and wine. After supper, they all had their desserts in the sitting room. Diogo and Tristan decided to play chess while Pai looked on, and Isabel sat embroidering with the condessa.
Trying to ingratiate herself with the new mother-in-law perhaps? Arethusa thought. Isabel had the condessa smiling, but she also had a perfect view of the chess game—and Tristan.
Arethusa wrote in her journal, trying to concentrate on anything but the people in the room. Tristan was intent on his chess pieces, his back to Arethusa, his foot tapping the floor in his old habit. But from across the room Diogo stared at her. He glanced down at Arethusa’s hand as her fingers poised her pencil to write.
That shook her awake. What was she writing? The page was blank. Oh yes, it was a list of words to use in her next poem. She wrote: eyes. Then she looked into Diogo’s face again. Behind him, the fire roared, and, from where Arethusa sat, it seemed Diogo’s back was being licked and lashed by the flames. And did some of that fire leap into his eyes?
Diogo lowered his gaze to the game to make his next move. She wrote the word pawn as Diogo moved one of his across the board.
That’s what I am to him. He would not hesitate to use us all as pawns to gain his advantage. She saw Isabel glance at Tristan between stitches. Is that what Isabel is, too, a pawn in Diogo’s game?
Arethusa felt a painful ache in her belly as again Diogo’s eyes found hers. She wrote: secret. Arethusa wanted to know what Diogo was thinking. She wanted him to come over and whisper a secret in her ear, a secret that would make her giggle and smile. What would Tristan think of that?
Jealousy.
“Keep your eye on the board, Marquês Cheia, or you’ll find yourself without a queen!” Tristan said with a loud laugh. Diogo did not join in but immediately focused his gaze upon his queen.
When the game finally ended, Diogo captured Tristan’s queen after all. He rose from the small table and gazed at Arethusa—was that desire in his slow smile? He spoke in a low voice to Pai, who nodded.
“The marquês and I will be in the library. We’re not to be disturbed.”
Pai’s tone was solemn, and Arethusa sensed that he was not looking forward to the discussion ahead. Did he guess at Diogo’s ultimate designs? Arethusa wished she had the mettle to eavesdrop, but, in a house full of suspicious eyes, she kept her own on the page before her.
Tristan was alone now, clearing the chess pieces and putting them away. She could go to him, try to tell him of Isabel’s two-faced lies and snide remarks, all the while knowing that Isabel’s eyes would be digging into her back, embroidery needle poised motionless over the fabric as she strained to overhear their words.
Arethusa closed her journal, tying its string tight, and put her pencil to the side. She stood, stretching her back, her muscles taut with tension. She sidled up to Tristan, reaching out her hand to touch his arm, but his eyes were on Isabel. He didn’t even see her.
She dropped her arm, stumbled back, wishing she had never made the attempt, remembering that it could never be. Tristan glanced sideways at her, surprised.
Arethusa shook her head to tell him it was nothing. Then she saw the condessa and Isabel staring at her from the corner of her eye, and it was just too much. She turned away, fled to her room, and stood with her back against her door with her hand pressed to her chest to calm her heart. She didn’t know how long she stood there, embarrassed by her foolishness and fear, but she still had her hand on the doorknob when it began to turn. She jumped away from the door and Tristan pushed his way in.
“Arethusa, are you all right? What is it?”
The familiar succor of his attention stirred her, and she wondered what it would feel like to be inside his embrace, to breathe in the scent of his body, to kiss his mout
h. And he had come to her when she least expected it, with Isabel left waiting in another room.
She had lived with Tristan for three years, three years when she could have acted, could have told him how she felt, but it took Isabel’s return to spark a foolish jealousy, to show her how much she had loved him all along.
“Have I done something to hurt you?”
In his face, she saw true empathy. He knew nothing of what she felt. He was beyond reproach, knowing neither the deceptions of Isabel and Diogo nor her own love for him.
Arethusa shook her head and then pressed herself against his body. She felt his arms come around her, and she buried her face into his shoulder. She had never felt safer, never in the arms of Pai, her true mother, or even her beloved sea. Was she not made for this place, this soft space inside the circle of Tristan’s arms?
He held her until it seemed she dissolved against him. Then he pulled away. “I’ve asked João to hitch up the horses. We have to take Isabel home, but I’ll come back to you afterward.”
At the mention of Isabel’s name, the insular world Arethusa reveled in vanished.
Tristan tilted her chin up and touched her temple to his own. “My little sea nymph...” He did not smile. The old sadness she had known through the years was burning bright in his eyes. She wondered that she should see it now, when he had Isabel to make him happy. “You look so pretty tonight.”
She wanted to snatch his hand as he turned to go, but he left her, closing the door so softly she didn’t even hear the click. She collapsed on the bed, her nerves in shambles. She felt the pull of the sea again and wondered if Diogo had gone home yet. If somehow he saw her leave and followed her, if he found her defenseless again, what then?
She both wanted and didn’t want to talk to Tristan. Yet this could be her chance to reveal all to him, to share what she felt at last. But if he rejected her—no, she could not tell him yet. She would hide in her cave all night if need be. He would not try to find her in the dark. He didn’t even know where her cave was.
Arethusa grabbed her capote e capelo and slipped over the windowsill into the warm night, careful to watch for Diogo with every step. When she reached the cold damp of her cave, she began to relax. She remained there, unmoving, for a long time. But the heady thought of Tristan finding her there kept her senses heightened for any sounds beyond the crashing of the waves.
