The Other Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  Poppy just stared at him. She wouldn’t have thought he would take such a thing so seriously.

  She wouldn’t have thought that anyone would take such a thing so seriously. But she found it rather charming that he did.

  “Once you have that stable,” he continued, “you can build to your heart’s content.” He paused. “Or until one of your brothers comes and knocks the whole thing down.”

  Poppy chuckled; she could well imagine a similar scene in her own household. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that,” she said. “It never even occurred to me that one could build with playing cards.”

  “You need more than one deck,” he said with authority. “If you wish to make things interesting.”

  “Alas, my life has been nothing but interesting lately.”

  He gave a laugh at that. “Maybe I can find a deck or two here in Lisbon and show you tomorrow.”

  “On the ship?”

  “Oh, right.” Sheepishly, he pressed his lips together. “That’s not going to work.”

  They wandered out of the shop and back out into the bustling streets of the Baixa. It was truly a lovely area, but then something occurred to Poppy, and she turned to the captain and asked, “Why does this part of the city look so new?”

  “Ah.” He stopped walking and turned to her with an almost professorial air. “There was an earthquake here about thirty years ago. It was devastating. Much of the old city was destroyed.”

  Poppy immediately glanced this way and that, as if she could possibly see signs of the earthquake thirty years after the fact.

  “This area was completely rebuilt,” the captain said.

  “How grand these avenues are,” Poppy murmured, gazing down toward the waterfront. “So straight.” She wasn’t sure there was a street so straight and long in all of England.

  “The new city was laid out on a grid.” He swept his arm in a wide horizontal arc. “See how much light it allows. The air quality is improved too, because it does not get trapped in stagnant pockets.”

  Poppy had not noticed it before, but there was indeed a lovely, fresh breeze tickling at her skin. She tried to remember ever experiencing such a thing in London. She could not.

  “It’s remarkable,” she said, craning her neck to peer up and down the street. There was something about the collection of buildings that was very harmonious. Each was almost exactly the same, four or five stories tall, with an arched arcade on the ground floor. The windows were uniform—of the same size on each level of every building, and they all measured the exact same distance apart.

  It should have created a dull monotony, but it did not. Not at all. Each building had its own character, with tiny differences that gave the street such joy. Some buildings were painted, some not. One was even covered with tile. Most had balconies on the first story above the shops, but a few had flat façades, and then a few more sported balconies on every window up to the top. And they were not all of the same width. The grander buildings measured six or eight windows across, but many others had just three.

  And yet still, for all the differences, they fit. As if they could not possibly have been built anywhere else.

  “It’s beautiful. So very modern.” She looked over at Captain James. He was watching her with a curious intensity, as if he truly cared what she thought about the architecture. Which was preposterous. Because why would he? This wasn’t his home; he’d had nothing to do with the designs.

  And yet, with his eyes on hers, so brilliantly blue and inquisitive, it seemed almost imperative that she share her thoughts. “What I find most interesting,” she said, looking back down the street for a moment, “is that there is no single element that is unfamiliar. The windows, the arches . . . They are of the neoclassical style, are they not?”

  He nodded, and she continued. “But when it is all put together in this way, it makes something entirely new. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

  “I agree,” he said. “It’s truly original. I try to visit this area every time I’m in Lisbon. It’s not always possible. Sometimes I never make it past the port. And the old city also has its charms. But this . . .” He waved his arm out again, as if putting modernity on display. “This is the future.”

  Suddenly Poppy could not imagine why he’d chosen to be a sailor. He’d never been so animated when talking about the sea. He had not seemed unhappy, and in fact she suspected there were many aspects of life as a sea captain that he loved. But this—these buildings, this architecture—this was his true passion.

  She wondered if he realized this himself.

  “But this is not even the most remarkable thing,” he said suddenly. “Here, come.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her along the pavement, and when he glanced back to look at her, she saw that his eyes were even more lit with excitement. She couldn’t imagine what new detail had him so aglow, but then he led her inside one of the elegant new buildings.

  “Look,” he said. “Is it not amazing?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she said carefully. They were in some sort of governmental building, stylish and new, but not otherwise exceptional.

  “No, you can’t see it,” he said, even as he motioned to . . . a wall? A doorway?

  “You just told me to look,” she said to him.

  He grinned. “Sorry. It’s what is within the walls that is revolutionary. Each is built over a Pombaline cage.”

  She blinked. “A Pomba-what?”

  “A Pombaline cage. It’s—well, it doesn’t matter what it’s called. It’s an entirely new type of construction meant to make buildings safer in earthquakes. You start with a wooden cage—”

  “A cage?”

  “Not like in a prison,” he said, chuckling at her reaction. “Think of it more as a framework. A three-dimensional lattice, if you will. It’s built into the walls, and then covered with other material. So if the earth shakes, it helps to distribute the force.”

  “Force?”

  “Of the earthquake. If you can spread it out”—he made a motion with his hands rather like Moses parting the Red Sea—“it’s less likely to cause major damage.”

  “I suppose that makes sense.” She frowned, trying to envision the concept in her head.

  But the captain clearly wanted to make sure she understood. “Think of it this way. If I pull your hair—”

  She jumped back. “What?”

  “No, bear with me, I promise there’s a physics lesson in this, and didn’t you recently bemoan your lack of study in the field?”

  She rolled her eyes. Trust him to remember that. “Very well. Get on with it, then.”

  “Right. It’s all about the distribution of force. If I pull just a small lock of your hair, it will hurt quite a bit.”

  He reached up and pinched a lock between his fingers. It wasn’t hard to do, what with her inexpert work pinning it up.

  “Wait, are you actually going to pull my hair?”

  “Not any harder than your brothers likely did.”

  She thought back to her childhood. “That does not reassure me.”

  The captain’s face came a little closer to hers. “I will not hurt you, Poppy. I promise.”

  She swallowed, and she wasn’t sure whether it was the earnest look in his eyes or the fact that it was the first time he had used her given name, but she believed him. “Carry on.”

  He gave a little tug, not so that she felt pain, but just enough that she knew she would have done, if he had yanked harder.

  “Now,” he said, “imagine that I grabbed a whole hunk of your hair.” His hand curved and made a claw shape in the air, as if approximating the amount of hair she was meant to imagine.

  “Oh no.” There was no way her coiffure could survive that.

  “I won’t do it, don’t worry,” he said, displaying his first ounce of sensibility all afternoon. “But imagine that I did. It wouldn’t hurt.”

  He was right. It wouldn’t.

  “That’s beca
use the force would be spread across a larger area of your scalp. Therefore, each affected spot receives less of the tug. And consequently, less pain.”

  “So what you’re also saying is that if you wished to cause equal pain you would need to pull much harder if you had a larger amount of hair in your hand.”

  “Exactly! Well done.”

  It was ridiculous how pleased she was by his compliment, especially since she was the one who now had an errant lock of hair jutting out from the side of her head.

  “Now,” he continued, oblivious to her attempts to subtly pin her hair back into place, “you can’t just erect any wooden framework and expect it to work. I beg your pardon, I suppose anything would be better than nothing, but if you apply the laws of physics, you can create a structure that is incredibly strong.”

  Poppy could only stare as he went on about St. Andrew’s crosses and braces and trusses and someone named Fibonacci who she thought was probably dead, but the captain was so involved in his explanation, Poppy couldn’t bring herself to interrupt and ask.

  As she watched him—and the truth was, she was doing far more watching than listening; he’d lost her when he started talking about geometry’s golden ratio—she realized that he had become a different person, right in front of her eyes. His entire bearing changed. She’d seen him as the captain, standing with complete confidence and authority, and she’d seen him as the rogue, all lanky limbs and smooth motions.

  But now his arms moved through the air as if drawing pictures and plans, and he practically hopped in place as he illustrated his invisible canvas and drew equations in the air. Poppy hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about. Honestly, she couldn’t follow a word.

  But he was magnificent to watch.

  He wasn’t the captain, and he wasn’t the rogue. He was just Andrew. That was his given name, wasn’t it? He’d told it to her that first day. “Captain Andrew James, at your service,” he’d said, or something similar. And she’d not thought of it since, not thought of him as anything but Captain James or “the captain.”

  “Do you see?” he asked, and she realized it was actually important to him that she did.

  “I—no,” she admitted, “but I lack the imagination to picture such things in my head. If I saw it on paper, I think I might understand it.”

  “Of course,” he said, looking almost glum.

  “I think it’s very interesting,” she said hastily. “Revolutionary, even. You said no one has done such a thing before. Think of how many lives might be saved.”

  “It will work, too,” he told her. “There has not been another earthquake of the same force, but if God forbid there was, these buildings would stand. The engineers tested it.”

  “How could they possibly do that?” It wasn’t as if they could snap their fingers and summon an earthquake.

  “Soldiers.” Andrew’s eyes widened with excitement. “They brought in hundreds and had them stamp about.”

  Poppy thought her mouth might have fallen open. “You’re joking.”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “They had the soldiers stamp about, and that shook the ground well enough to approximate an earthquake?”

  “Enough for them to call the design a success.”

  “Now that is something I love,” Poppy said. “To take a problem with no solution, none at all, and then to solve it in such a sideways fashion. To me, that is true genius.”

  “And that’s not all,” he said, taking her back outside and onto the wide pedestrian street. “Look at the façades. You might think them plain—”

  “I don’t,” Poppy cut in eagerly. “I find them quite elegant.”

  “I do too,” he said, and he seemed quite pleased with her statement. “But what I was going to say is that most of these buildings, or rather, most parts of each of these buildings were put together elsewhere.”

  Poppy looked at one of the buildings and then back at Andrew. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  He gestured to a nearby façade. “Most of the pieces of the buildings were put together at another site, one with a great deal more room, where stonemasons and carpenters could all work on one type of thing at a time. There is great economy—both of time and of money—in doing, for example, all of the window frames at once.”

  Poppy peered up and down the street, trying to imagine some vast field filled with unconnected walls and window frames. “And then they brought all of the pieces here? On carts?”

  “I imagine so. More likely by barge.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “It’s not often done. They call it pre-fabrication.”

  “It’s fascinating.” Poppy shook her head in slow wonder, taking it all in—the architecture, the fact that she was actually in Lisbon and people were speaking Portuguese, and—

  “What?” she asked. Andrew was looking at her in the strangest fashion.

  “It is nothing,” he said softly. “Not really. It’s just that most people don’t find this interesting.”

  “I do,” she said with a shrug. “But then again, I’m curious about most things.”

  “It’s what got you into this mess,” he said wryly.

  “Isn’t it just.” She sighed. “I really should have walked the other way down the beach.”

  He nodded in slow agreement, but then surprised her utterly by saying, “And yet right now—just this afternoon, mind you—I’m rather glad you didn’t.”

  It was all Poppy could think about for the rest of the afternoon.

  Chapter 17

  Andrew took Poppy to a small tavern near the port. He’d eaten there countless times, as had most of his crew, and while he would never take a lady to a comparable establishment in England, the rules did not seem to apply in the same way here in Portugal.

  Plus, the tavernkeeper’s wife was a superb cook, and he could think of no better place to take Poppy for true Portuguese cuisine.

  “This will not be quite what you’re used to,” he warned as he reached out to open the door.

  Her eyes lit up. “Good.”

  “The patrons can be a bit uncouth.”

  “My sensibilities are not so tender.”

  Andrew opened the door with flair. “Then by all means, let us go forth.”

  They were greeted immediately.

  “Captain!” Senhor Farias, the middle-aged owner of the establishment, came bustling over. He had learned some English over the years, and he spoke it far better than Andrew did Portuguese. “Is so good to see you. I am told that your ship is here and I wonder where you are.”

  Andrew grinned. It was always a joy to be greeted like an old friend. “Senhor Farias, it is my pleasure entirely. Tell me, how fares your family?”

  “Very good, very good. My Maria is now married, you know. I will soon be—how do you call it—not father, but . . .” He rapidly snapped his fingers in the air, his preferred motion whenever he was trying to think of something. Andrew had seen him do it many times.

  “Avô, avô,” he said. “Not father, but—”

  “Grandfather?”

  “Yes! That’s it.”

  “Congratulations, my friend! Senhora Farias must be very pleased.”

  “Sim! Yes, she is very happy. She loves the little babies. But who is this?” Senhor Farias finally noticed Poppy standing just a little behind and to the side of Andrew. He took her hand and kissed it. “Is this your wife? Have you been married? Parabéns, Captain! Congratulations!”

  Andrew stole a glance at Poppy. She was blushing furiously, but she did not seem to be truly embarrassed.

  “She is my cousin,” Andrew said, since that seemed the safest lie. If his men had not already come to Taberna da Torre for a meal, they would soon, and would surely impart the news that the Infinity had been sailing with a woman on board. “She is a guest on our voyage.”

  “Then she is a guest in my taberna,” Senhor Farias said, leading her to a table. “I will bring only our b
est food.”

  “Are you telling me that some of your food is not the best?” Andrew teased.

  “No,” Senhor Farias said with conviction. “My wife cooks nothing bad. It is all best. So I will bring your cousin everything.”

  Poppy opened her mouth and for a moment looked as if she might refuse, but instead she said, “That would be wonderful.”

  Senhor Farias planted his hands on his hips. “Does the captain not feed you?”

  “The food on the Infinity is very good,” Poppy said, allowing Senhor Farias to link his arm in hers. “But I have never tried Portuguese food—well, except for malasadas—and I am very curious.”

  “She is a very curious lady,” Andrew called, trailing after them.

  Poppy shot him a look. “That can be interpreted in several ways.”

  “They’re all accurate.”

  She did a funny thing with her mouth that was clearly the equivalent of rolling her eyes, and then happily went with Senhor Farias to his best table.

  “Sit, sit,” he urged. He looked from her to Andrew and back. “I will bring wine.”

  “He’s lovely!” Poppy gushed as soon as they sat down.

  “I thought you would like him.”

  “Are all the Portuguese so friendly?”

  “Many, but none so much as he.”

  “And he’s going to be a grandfather!” Poppy clasped her hands together, her smile enough to light the room. “It makes me so happy and I don’t even know him.”

  “My mother often says that it is the mark of a truly good person if she is happy for those she has never met.”

  She frowned. “That’s odd. My aunt says the same thing.”

  Andrew bit the inside of his cheek. Damn it, of course Lady Bridgerton said the same thing. She and his mother were the closest of friends. “It’s a common phrase,” he said. This was probably a lie, but maybe not. For all he knew, all the ladies in his mother’s set said the same thing.

  “Really? I’ve never heard anyone else say it, but then again, my circle of acquaintances is not so broad.” And then, alleviating any worry he might have had that she’d found his comment suspicious, she leaned forward with an eager expression and said, “I can’t wait to see what Senhor Farias brings. I’m so hungry.”