Lisbon: Richard and Rose, Book 8

by Lynne Connolly

  I shuddered when I realised how close I’d come to losing him in that moment, but he murmured words of comfort and stroked me until I felt better. Everything was fine because I had him now. I urged him to carry on.

  “We were trapped, but we decided to wait, because help would undoubtedly come and we could make things worse if we tried to dig ourselves out. When the first tremor, the warning, happened, Paul realised that it was an earthquake.

  “Then the second tremor struck. It brought what was left of the house down on top of us and a chunk of masonry hit the cook who was down there with us. John had shot the man, and we’d done what we could. He was badly wounded, but still alive. The blow killed him.” He paused once more. “That would have been the time when I panicked. But I choked it down. What good would it do? I needed to keep my wits about me, if we were to get out of this situation with our lives. And it looked increasingly unlikely. Especially when the water came.

  “I presume a great wave struck, one of those that often follows an earthquake. The disturbance to the earth must be the reason, I suppose. It filled the cellar, sent the body floating, and us too. It extinguished the kitchen fire, which I’d hoped to use in some way.

  “We had a bare six inches in which to breathe, but we were relatively high in the city, so the wave did not completely submerge us. Eventually the water receded. The cellar had upper windows, and some of it escaped. Over the next few hours more drained away, but we were left with about a foot of water on the kitchen flags. The kitchen has drains, presumably to facilitate the ordinary cleaning routines, but the water had a way of escaping through the earth too.” He sighed, staring into space, and I lived it with him, there in that small, stinking space, not knowing if help would come but never giving up.

  “We couldn’t risk missing our chance at rescue, so we slept in turns, and only for short periods.”

  “Did you eat?”

  He shuddered. “We found enough to keep us alive. We found some food. Cheese, apples, but not much else. We were surrounded by spoiled food and water we couldn’t drink. Bodies and sewage fouled it. But we found some bottles of wine.” He grinned. “Never have I wanted water rather than wine so much. Just before you arrived to find us, we’d discovered a small barrel of beer.”

  His voice shook. I nestled closer. “You don’t have to say any more. Not if you don’t want to, or if it hurts too much.”

  Tears glistened in his eyes, turning the sapphire to a vivid cobalt. “Yes I do. I thought John would kill you. He escaped, and my only hope was that Carier had caught up with him and dispatched him. But I didn’t know and I couldn’t make sure. I thought I’d go mad. You want me to say we made up our differences before he left, that I wouldn’t have killed him, given the chance? I have to disappoint you, my love. Twice he made serious attempts on your life. He said he’d already killed our children and you, but I refused to believe him. I knew that, if you’d gone, I’d know.”

  I gasped. “I thought the same! That was why I insisted on going back to Lisbon to find you, even though others had given you up.”

  He drew me closer for another kiss, taking his time. He traced the outline of my lips with his tongue and then plunged inside for a brief but devastating caress. “We are one, my love. I hoped you felt the same, that you’d come and find me.”

  “I wouldn’t let them stop me. They tried.”

  “I can imagine they did. I’ve set fierce guards around you, sweetheart. I was obsessed with losing you, especially after the fever nearly took you. But we have now. If we continue to live that way, we need not fear. I won’t constrain you anymore, although I reserve the right to protect you. You are the most precious thing in my life. Nothing else comes close.”

  I accepted his gift now, for what it was. Not a threat, not a restriction and not something for me to be afraid of. He gave his life into my hands, and as long as I reciprocated, we’d have nothing to fear. “You mean the world to me.”

  He kissed me again, but drew back to watch me. “Should I send for some food, something to drink? You’ve cared for me without stint. Now you have to rest.”

  “I’m perfectly well. Better than well,” I assured him. “I have back the part of me that was missing. I’ll call for tea soon, maybe something to eat. But not yet. Finish your story.”

  He sighed. “Very well. I must, I know. We managed for the first day, and Paul and I slept one after the other. We made some efforts to shift the rubble over our heads, but it only brought more down. For all we knew the entire house had collapsed on top of the kitchens and only the beams lay between us and complete collapse. But it’s hard to wait, and trust, and not do your best to escape.”

  “The second day, or the third, broke. Paul had his watch, but somewhere we lost track, and all we knew was what hour of the day it was, not if it were day or night. It grew very hot in that space, despite the chill of the water swirling around our feet. We built a kind of platform from broken furniture and fittings, and piled our food and drink on it, as well as ourselves. But it wasn’t large enough for both of us at the same time, so we took turn and turn about. I donated my coat as a towel, something to dry our wet limbs on when we switched.”

  “How did you see?”

  He smiled. “My practical love, trust you to think of that. The upper windows sent in a very little light, hardly enough to see by. We had candles, and a tinderbox, and we tore up Paul’s shirt to provide rags. Most kitchens keep tinderboxes on a high shelf above the fireplace, and this was no exception. It had fallen into the water with the tremor, but we rescued it, and once we’d dried off the flint, it struck a spark well enough. Paul wanted to conserve the lights we had, but I couldn’t see the point. The candles would last us as long as we needed them, one way or the other.” He paused and gazed at me, as if gaining strength from the sight. I accepted it and returned it in full measure. I loved looking at him.

  “We heard sounds from above, though whether it was people digging for us, or scavengers, we weren’t sure. We had one weapon. We conserved that weapon and the one shot it contained. One of us had an easier way out.”

  He drew me closer. “The body of the cook had bloated, and it was stinking pretty badly. It had to be, for us to notice after we’d been living with it for days. On the third day, as near as we could tell, Paul slipped on the table and fell. It was a bad fall, and he trapped his foot in an underwater drain. One of his turns twisted it. I heard the snap, knew he’d broken something. I should have checked more rigorously, but he assured me it would do, and I believed him. I shouldn’t have done that.” He shuddered.

  I held him close. Kissed his cheek, his brow, his lips. “Don’t think of it. He’s here, he’s alive.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s fine.” Not more than that, not yet. Paul had lost a foot, and while he was sanguine about it, at least to us, an edge of suffering tinged his expression now. He knew he’d been lucky not to lose his leg, had declared his determination to walk again, once the estate carpenter had fashioned him something to replace his lost appendage. “He’ll live and he’ll be happy because he has Lizzie and his brother to help him. Joaquin will remain here as much as he can, but since much of the family wealth depends on the winemaking, he’ll travel to the vineyards. He really loves that work. I misjudged him, Richard. He considers the making of fine wine and port akin to the creation of a work of art. It’s his calling.”

  “We both misjudged him. He’s a fine man.”

  “So are you.”

  “I’ve done many wrong things. Some of them I can never atone for. I would have killed John without compunction. You’d have forgiven me, then?”

  I smiled and reached up to caress his cheek, rough with stubble. It glinted in the dim light, like powdered gold dusted over his beloved features. “It wasn’t a matter of me forgiving you. It was you forgiving yourself. I would have remained with you, supported you, even if you’d killed him in the spring. But you wouldn’t have lived with that very easily. A man shouldn’t h
ave to make that decision. Neither should he have to live with it afterwards. John largely made his own future by seeking revenge at every turn. You did everything you could to make him see reason, but he refused. And now he’s dead.”

  “How did he die?” He hadn’t asked that before. We’d only told him John was dead when he demanded to know.

  Now I had to tell him. “I shot him when they brought you out. He must have been watching all that time and not attempted to help us. I would have shot him for that alone. He aimed his pistol at you, and I’d had enough. No more, I decided. I’ve always been a good shot, you know that, and I got him in the head.” I swallowed. “I’m sorry, so sorry. But I’m glad you didn’t do it.”

  “Even after everything he did, so am I. It’s wrong to kill someone of your blood. But I’m glad he’s dead. He had his chances to make a new life and he refused to take them. He’d have always caused trouble, and his mind was dangerously twisted. He was obsessed with revenge.”

  “I think he was part mad, at the end.” I stroked a hand over Richard’s chest, down over his stomach. The muscles tightened under my hand in instinctive response. “But remember, Richard, you killed for me once. I’ve returned the favour.”

  “So we’re even.” His smile, at first grim, turned tender. “And we’ve come through our ordeals, we’re alive and in love. What more could we ask for?”

  What more indeed?

  I reached up and kissed him. He threaded his fingers through my hair and held me close, making the kiss deeper, hotter, and just like that we created another conflagration. It wouldn’t stop until we were both sated. Then we’d rest and return to the flame. It would always be like that between us.

  Epilogue

  Late spring, 1756

  “I want to remodel the garden.”

  Richard looked up from the letter he was perusing. “Sorry, my sweet?”

  “The garden. It’s dingy. No colour. I want to remake it.”

  He reached a hand over the breakfast table, and I put my own in it. “You must do as you see fit. Are you missing the colours of Portugal? Shall we buy a house there?”

  I repressed a shudder, recalling the events of the previous winter. “No. I can understand why Lizzie is so happy there, but she has reason to be. She has two children now, and her husband back.”

  Paul had recovered his spirits with his strength and as he’d promised, was learning to walk again, with the help of his wife and the collection of clever false feet the carpenter was constantly fashioning for him, refining the design with each new model. He had learned to use a crutch as soon as he could, when his wound had knitted sufficiently for him to try, and joked about having more in common with the sailors in Lisbon port.

  Lisbon was busy rebuilding. A remarkable man had taken charge, one of the government, and he was rebuilding as fast as he could, replacing the beautiful city with one just as fine. Our help wasn’t needed. But we received the government’s thanks, for what we weren’t sure.

  This was where our life lay. Here, in London and in the country, fulfilling the purpose Richard was born for, and living every day, as Richard had promised, for the moment. We could make plans and still remain with each other. Every time I looked at him, every smile, every time I lay in his arms at night, I thanked God for sparing us both.

  We had nearly died in 1755, me in the spring, Richard in the autumn, and we both had the strong feeling that something had turned, the tenor of our lives had changed.

  “I like it here,” I told him now.

  He laughed delightedly, his eyes sparkling. “I thought you dreaded London. Remember when we first married, how afraid you were of society? I told you that you’d come to lead society in the end, that you didn’t need it, it needed you. And I was right.”

  He stood and came around the table to me, tugging my hand so I got up too. I eagerly met his lips and felt him caress me, his hand splayed over my back. “No stays? What a delightful surprise. While I sometimes enjoy the confinement, and the shape they convey to your body, nothing compares with your luscious self.”

  I had regained the weight I’d lost during my illness and he delighted in it. He was no longer afraid that he’d break me, he said.

  “I have to go out later. I’m attending Mrs. Montagu’s salon, so I thought I’d be lazy and dress properly after I’d eaten.”

  “Do you need to go to the salon?”

  I looked at him quizzically. “Why?”

  “Because I can think of something far more interesting to do.” Just to prove his point, he kissed me, long and slow.

  I drew away slightly, smiled, then laughed. “Richard, do you never think of anything else?”

  “Not while you’re in this world, my love. And that, I know, will be for a very long time to come.”

  Author’s Note

  It’s the first time I’ve done one of these. While I always take care that I don’t distort history for my own ends, this is the first time I’ve used such a cataclysmic event as the background to a story.

  The Lisbon earthquake of 1755 was a natural disaster such as hadn’t been experienced for centuries in Europe. While Lisbon had suffered earthquakes, this was a monster. Modern experts rate this at around 9 on the Richter scale, as powerful as the Japanese earthquake of 2011. I was writing this story at the same time as the Japanese earthquake, and the experience was a strange one. It really brought home how devastating these disasters are, and my sympathies go out to everyone affected by the terrible disaster.

  The earthquake, tsunami and subsequent fires and lootings destroyed most of old Lisbon. It’s not known exactly how many people died, but many were at church for the services of All Saint’s Day. After the earthquake, several determined and gifted people drew services together to rebuild the city, which is now the beautiful city you can see today.

  It says much for the resilience of the Portuguese people that they survived such a disaster. I read extensively about the subject, trying to do the people justice by describing it as closely as I could. For instance, the royal palace, close to the harbour, survived the earthquake but was destroyed in looting and fires afterwards. There are accounts of people surviving in cellars, although many of them couldn’t be reached because of the rubble piled on top and the anarchy that immediately followed the disaster.

  I always meant to end the story of Richard and Rose here. Right from the beginning I knew where they’d end up, and I worked all the dates to suit. Apart from that, the individual stories in the books were done as I got to them. I had no idea at the beginning of the story that Richard’s chequered past would catch up with him, but it seemed right that he should be made to think about what he’d done in the past, and to pay for it.

  I wanted to tell the story of two men in this series. One who had a sensitive nature hidden under a hard, uncaring exterior, and his mirror image, who was also, by a twist of fate, his son. But Rose needed her own conflict. She couldn’t be the woman she grew into without that, so the Drurys were born too.

  Where I’ve included historical figures, I’ve kept them as true to life as I could, relying on contemporary accounts for the most part, and many of the great houses in the books are also based on real-life examples. I based Eyton, Richard’s family seat, on Chatsworth, a house I know quite well. The ruinous Hareton Abbey was based on Calke Abbey, an astonishing place with a nursery just as I described it in Yorkshire, and the rebuilt Hareton Hall, James’s family seat, is based on the superbly elegant Saltram House. Admittedly Saltram was built a little later than Hareton, but I didn’t use the Adam brothers, merely the layout and the idea of classical elegance. And it’s in the right part of the country.

  The palacio where Lizzie and Paul lived is based on a real-life example too. A very beautiful landmark that is today open to the public, it survived the earthquake virtually intact.

  I can’t imagine doing the series without the help of all the editors, cover artists and most of all, the readers. Your encouragement has pushed me to make the bes
t I could for Richard and Rose, who I’ve come to know very well over the course of the ten years it’s taken me to write their story. For which I thank you.

  However, Richard and Rose won’t completely disappear from my books. Richard makes a guest appearance in A Betting Chance, for instance, and I’m planning for him, and perhaps Rose as well, to make an appearance in other stories.

  One final word. Thank you for coming on this journey with me. Writing Richard and Rose’s story has given me more insight into the era I love and the chance to do lots more research. For all your emails, tweets and requests for signings, as well as the interest you’ve taken, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Richard and Rose might not be done, but they deserve a rest from their exertions.

  However, watch for more adventures set in the wonderful Georgian era. There are so many more stories to tell.

  About the Author

  Lynne Connolly has been in love with the Georgian age since the age of nine, when she did a project about coffee and tea at school. One look at the engraving of the Georgian coffee house, and she was a goner. It’s the longest love affair of her life.

  She stopped looking around old houses and visiting museums long enough to go to work, fall in love for a second time, marry and have a family, but they have to share her with her obsession, which they do with good grace and much humor.

  To learn more about Lynne Connolly, please visit www.lynneconnolly.com. Send an email to lynneconnollyuk@yahoo.co.uk or join her Yahoo! group to join in the fun with other readers! http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lynneconnolly. She can also be found at MySpace, Facebook and the Samhain Café.

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