The Golden City

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  By the time he reached the breakfast table, he found Miss Paredes and his mother already halfway through their meal. When reminded of the ball they planned to attend later, his mother promised she would take a nap that afternoon. She appeared unruffled by their plans, which made him feel better about dragging her out into society.

  He turned to Miss Paredes, sliding a napkin-wrapped bundle across to her. “I hope this one works for you, Miss Paredes.”

  She peeked at the knife and its wrist sheath, then quickly shifted the contents to her lap. “Thank you,” she said meekly. Her eyes flicked toward the door where Gustavo was entering, carrying a tray with Duilio’s regular breakfast and coffee. “It will be fine, sir.”

  Apparently she didn’t want to talk in front of the footman. Or perhaps she was sheepish after her boldness last night. But she seemed withdrawn this morning. Duilio preferred the woman who’d surprised him in the library the night before, who’d spoken to him like an equal. He wondered if that was the real Oriana Paredes.

  He wasn’t going to find out this morning, he decided half an hour later. Miss Paredes spent the meal reading to his mother about an effort to lift salvage from a Spanish ship sunk decades before near Lisboa. When he left, pleading a need to go speak with Joaquim, Miss Paredes seemed relieved. It was vexing.

  A quick side trip down to the marina past the Alameda de Massarelos, where the family’s boats were moored, gave him the answer to Erdano’s query about where Aga had gone. As soon as Duilio said her name, a furiously blushing João stammered that Erdano’s sister had decided to “visit” at his flat for the time. Since he’d probably gotten the young man into that situation, Duilio asked João to come up to the house in a few days to discuss it further. João’s apartment was rent free, but the young man would need additional funds if he were to host Aga for any length of time. Duilio didn’t mind—after all, Aga was almost family.

  Joaquim wore a pleased smile when Duilio finally reached his office. The office in the Massarelos Police Station was small, with a modern metal cabinet for files standing in the corner and a decrepit desk in the center of the windowless room. As offices went, it wasn’t particularly welcoming. The plain wooden chairs before the desk were sturdy, though, and surprisingly comfortable—a good thing, since Duilio spent a great deal of time sitting in them.

  “I have good news,” Joaquim said before Duilio even settled into his usual chair.

  Duilio puffed out his cheeks. “Erdano and I were set upon last night.”

  “Yes, I heard,” Joaquim said briskly, waving that away as he sat behind the desk. “Now, Captain Santiago has given me a new assignment—”

  “We’re both fine, by the way,” Duilio said, feeling unappreciated. “Only a knife to the shoulder for me.”

  Joaquim folded his arms over his chest, an impatient frown twisting his lips. “Don’t be childish. Cardenas told me about it when I stopped by the house earlier this morning. He said you came in through the servant’s door late last night, looking like hell but on your own feet.”

  Duilio slumped back in the chair and tugged off his gloves. “You stopped by the house to talk to Cardenas and not to me?”

  Joaquim shrugged off Duilio’s protest. “You were at breakfast. Mrs. Amaral has decided to be petulant and is claiming that Miss Paredes stole personal items of the daughter’s. Some jewelry and—”

  Duilio sat up straight, appalled. “That’s ridiculous. Miss Paredes—”

  Joaquim held up his hands. “It’s a baseless charge. However, the charge gives me license to question the Amaral servants. I can get back to work on this case, even if in a roundabout fashion. Fortunately, Mrs. Amaral doesn’t know where Miss Paredes has gone or she’d probably demand I immediately arrest her.”

  “Damnation,” Duilio said with a grimace. “She’ll know tonight. Remember, we’re supposed to go to the Carvalho ball tonight.” When Joaquim looked ready to argue, Duilio added, “Besides, servants up and down the street do gossip. It wouldn’t occur to them that her presence should be kept secret.”

  “Which is why I spoke with Mr. Cardenas this morning,” Joaquim said. “I wanted to ask him to have the servants keep quiet about Miss Paredes.”

  Duilio stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles under the desk. It irritated him that Joaquim felt unwelcome in his home. There’d been a lot of friction between Joaquim and Alessio when they were young. When his mother’s pelt was stolen, Alessio had chosen not to tell Joaquim, even though Joaquim surely would have been helpful in the search. Duilio didn’t know what had passed between the two of them, but he suspected that was at the base of Joaquim’s behavior. And Alessio was dead. “You should have come up and eaten with us.”

  “I’d already eaten, and I wanted talk to Mr. Cardenas, not you.”

  That puts me in my place. Duilio sighed. “That will give us until tonight, at a minimum. Has Efisio contacted the police in any way about Lady Isabel?”

  “No,” Joaquim said with a roll of his eyes. “It’s a conspiracy of silence, with him and the girl’s mother shielding the criminal while they’re trying to protect their so-precious reputations.”

  Duilio did understand Joaquim’s disdain for that aspect of privilege. Reputation shouldn’t come ahead of the truth. He nodded mutely.

  “Now, I have something to show you.” Joaquim opened a desk drawer, withdrew a slip of paper, and handed it to Duilio—an invoice from the Castro Ironworks. “I talked with the bookkeeper there a couple of weeks ago, before the investigation was shut down. He didn’t recall anything unusual, but left this for me late yesterday. He didn’t know where the chain ultimately went, but the bill went to that address.”

  Duilio frowned down at the paper, an order for three hundred feet of galvanized marine chain. A coffee stain marred one corner of the invoice, as if a cup had been left atop it. The grade of chain, a little heavier than a normal anchor chain, approximately matched what Duilio had seen when peering out through a submersible’s windows. The billing address near the bottom was in a less-well-to-do parish of the city on Bonfim Street. “Espinoza?”

  “I stopped before work this morning and talked to the landlord,” Joaquim said, “one Mr. Gouveia. The renter answers Espinoza’s description handily. Middling age, lean, with white hair in a queue. He hasn’t been seen there for some time. Gouveia isn’t certain exactly how long, but he’s still receiving the rent via the mail.”

  Fortunately, Espinoza’s old-fashioned hairstyle made him memorable. “Well, this has promise.”

  “Here’s the best part,” Joaquim said. “The tenant rented both the first and second floors and, according to Mr. Gouveia, the first floor has been made over into a craftsman’s shop.”

  “Woodwork, perhaps?”

  “The landlord wasn’t sure, but it was enough to make me curious.”

  “Me too.” Duilio folded up the invoice. He held it between his palms and asked himself whether it was important. Yes, came the answer. Duilio grinned at his cousin. “I’ll try to get back with you later today, let you know if I find anything.” He quickly rose to take his leave. “By the way, did you get a chance to tell Captain Santiago I had another lead I was working on?”

  Joaquim rose as well. He retrieved his suit coat from the back of his chair. “I did, although I didn’t tell him what lead or mention the specific case. He would know, since you’re only on the one right now. But I didn’t feel comfortable talking about your source. Captain Rios was in with him,” Joaquim finished, shrugging on his coat.

  Duilio paused, one hand in the doorknob. Captain Rios was the liaison between the Special Police and the regular police, and he thoroughly disliked Duilio. Rios considered him an interfering busybody and dilettante. “The person who attacked Erdano and me in the tavern last night? He left his knife behind. It was Special Police issue.”

  * * *

  Oriana had been working in the front sitting room where the light was good, but she’d finished the edge she was hemming some time ago
. She’d been sitting there just staring at it. The blue silk dress with its layers of skirt and newly attached ruffle was almost ready. At the moment it lay across her lap on the beige sofa, a cloud of darkness that reflected her mood.

  She shook herself back to awareness. The day before she’d checked behind her a dozen times on her walk home—using a far more circuitous route than she would have normally taken—and had finally been satisfied that she wasn’t being followed. Her brief foray in pursuit of Heriberto had given her a great deal to think about. She’d always suspected that Heriberto wasn’t above blackmail. Now she knew that to be true.

  He had definitely been threatening her father. It had been a vague threat, but Oriana had heard Heriberto mention his girl. She didn’t know whom Heriberto meant by that. It wasn’t Oriana herself, because Heriberto had said he knew where she lived. It apparently wasn’t her father’s employer and purported lover, Lady Pereira de Santos, which hinted that her father was involved with more than one woman. Oriana hadn’t yet forgiven him for replacing her mother with Lady Pereira de Santos, no matter that her mother had been dead for fourteen years now. It implied that the tie of Destiny between her father and mother had been false, didn’t it? She hadn’t been able to reconcile that in her mind yet.

  And she was jealous of her father’s new life here, where he had a gentlemanly occupation and likely didn’t wear shoes that pinched his feet. Here the males had all the opportunities, which would suit her father perfectly. She shouldn’t be angry with him. But she’d been the one left behind to raise Marina when he’d been exiled. She’d had to hear the news that her sister was dead. She’d been alone then, with no one to comfort her.

  Lady Pereira de Santos lived one house over, and Oriana’s father came there on occasion. She would peer out the Amarals’ windows, trying to catch a glimpse of him as he walked up the front steps of the Pereira de Santos mansion. But she’d never contacted him—not even a note. She had played by the rules, done everything as she should, and now she felt a fool.

  He’d known she was here in the city. Her father hadn’t contacted her, but he hadn’t displayed any surprise when Heriberto asked about her either. He’d seemed ready to defy Heriberto for her sake. He said he wouldn’t tell Heriberto where to find her even if he knew. Part of that was simply his temper. She’d gotten her hot temper from him, not her mother. But she believed his words.

  She’d spent the past two years in fear that Heriberto would blackmail her by threatening her father. Evidently she’d gotten it all backward. And what of the woman who’d watched her from across the street? Oriana sighed, clenching her teeth on the pins in her mouth. She wished she knew what the truth was.

  Stop wasting time. She could mull this over and over for hours and still get nowhere. She turned the dress about to take in the waistband.

  The door to the sitting room began to swing open. Oriana reflexively buried her bare hands in the mass of fabric in her lap. But it was Mr. Ferreira who stepped inside, leaving the door open. His brows drew together quizzically as he regarded her. “Miss Paredes?”

  She abruptly recalled the pins in her mouth and carefully removed them, keeping the webbing between her fingers hidden the entire time. “Mr. Ferreira.”

  “Please don’t rise,” he told her. “Whatever are you doing?”

  “Alterations, sir.” She calmly set the two pins into a small pillow that rested on the table and reset the needle in the fabric. “For the ball tonight. Is your shoulder better?”

  “Is that one of my mother’s old gowns?” he asked, disregarding her query.

  Did he think she’d misappropriated it? “Miss Felis assured me your mother wouldn’t mind my wearing one of her old gowns. In fact, Miss Felis insisted. She didn’t want me being a discredit to Lady Ferreira due to lack of proper garb.”

  Mr. Ferreira sat down in the chair next to the sofa, saving her from craning her neck to look up at him. He steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. “I doubt my mother would even notice, Miss Paredes,” he finally said. “But I recall your wearing several attractive gowns over the past few months. Why do you not . . . ?” When Oriana didn’t clarify, he said, “Ah. Lady Amaral didn’t allow you to take anything with you when you left. Did she?”

  Oriana shook her head. “No, sir. Only the clothes I was wearing that night.”

  “People continually surprise me with their pettiness,” he said. “Although in her case I shouldn’t be surprised. She is, unfortunately, the reason I stopped back by here.”

  That sounded ominous. “Sir?”

  “Lady Amaral has gone to the police with the claim that you stole some of Lady Isabel’s property when she threw you out. Jewelry was mentioned.”

  Oriana couldn’t help her initial reaction—one of disbelief and rage—but she quickly schooled her features to neutrality. “That is not true, Mr. Ferreira.”

  One of his dark brows rose. “It never occurred to me it might be, Miss Paredes.”

  She could breathe more easily then. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I wanted you to be aware of the charge,” he said. “That’s all. The police don’t credit the idea either. After all, Lady Isabel could have taken the missing pieces with her to Paris. However, if Lady Amaral learns you’re living here, she may demand that the police arrest you on suspicion of theft. She’s influential enough that they might comply without evidence.”

  Oriana had learned enough about influence in society here that she knew he was right. She’d stood next to the coal room steps that chilly morning and decided not to take the second bag, the one that held whatever Isabel couldn’t cram into her traveling chest. No matter how pragmatic it would have been, she’d refused to become a thief. Yet Lady Amaral had cast that slur on her character anyway. “She had the butler escort me out, Mr. Ferreira. He would have seen anything I touched. Although I doubt he’d vouch for me to the police,” she added with unfortunate honesty. “He has his position to think of.”

  “I expected as much.” Mr. Ferreira smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry, Miss Paredes. The police do know what sort of person they’re dealing with. She has a history of bringing charges against servants that generally prove to be no more than an excuse to let them go without pay.”

  Oriana felt her brows draw together in annoyance. Lady Amaral hadn’t paid her when she’d cast her forth. “I see, sir.”

  “Yes,” he said in a dry tone. “I’m sure you do. I’ve already talked to Cardenas and told him that if he hears anything about a theft, he’s to ignore it.”

  * * *

  Amaid came in then carrying a tray with a small pot of coffee and a pair of cups. Miss Paredes tucked her hands back into her mending, her vexed expression fading into polite placidity. Duilio rather liked the vexed Miss Paredes, but he wasn’t foolish enough to say so. “Thank you, Ana,” Duilio told the maid instead. “You may go, but leave the door half-ajar, please.”

  The girl curtsied and swept her way out of the room, pulling the door almost all the way closed. He should go and open it wider to protect Miss Paredes’ reputation, but didn’t bother. He appreciated the privacy for now. He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Would you like a cup?”

  “Yes, please,” Miss Paredes said after a brief hesitation.

  He added cream to hers, having seen her do so that morning, and set the cup on the small table near her elbow.

  “You’re not supposed to serve me,” Miss Paredes protested.

  Duilio didn’t laugh at her wry tone. He broke societal rules regularly enough that this tiny slip in etiquette didn’t merit any twinge of insulted propriety on his part. “I don’t mind serving, Miss Paredes, particularly as your hands are occupied. Do you enjoy sewing?”

  She regarded him warily, as if she feared a trap. “Yes. It’s calming.”

  Well, now he’d learned something. Miss Paredes liked to sew; it wasn’t merely a part of her disguise. He smiled down into his coffee. “I believe there’s a sewing machine down in the workroom. Did you k
now that?”

  “Yes, but once you’ve accidentally sewn through your webbing, you tend to stay away from machines. I prefer to work by hand.”

  Duilio cringed. “I see. The next time you need a gown, it might be simpler to have one made up. I didn’t mean for you to spend your hours here mending.”

  She pushed the rumpled blue mound on her lap into order and then picked up her own cup. “Mending is honest work, sir.”

  He crossed his legs and peered at her lowered features. Their relationship wasn’t a normal one, caused by circumstances to vacillate between that of master and servant . . . and something else. But his remarks about the mending had caused her to revert to servant again, which irritated him. He wanted to talk to her, not just exchange pleasantries.

  Duilio decided she had the same sort of pridefulness about money that afflicted Joaquim. She didn’t want anything given to her, perhaps because that often came with a price.

  He’d hit on the simplest way to handle Lady Amaral before he’d even left Joaquim’s office: simply have Joaquim take a statement about the value of the missing articles, and Duilio would have his man of business pay the woman that sum. It wouldn’t pinch his pocket, and the funds might entice Lady Amaral to leave Miss Paredes alone. Duilio wasn’t going to mention the transaction to Miss Paredes; he didn’t want her scowling at him more than necessary. He fished about for another topic.

  “I have often wondered about your people’s culture,” he said then, hoping to draw out the woman behind the mask of servility. “It’s a shame tourism isn’t allowed on your islands.”

  “Given our history with your people, are you surprised?” she asked tartly.

  His people’s relationship with hers had not gotten off on the right foot, a story recorded in Camões’ epic poem. The islands had been discovered on one of Vasco da Gama’s voyages. The sailors, spotting the lovely “sea nymphs” bathing there, decided they were a gift from Venus . . . and took advantage. The poet chose to cast the incident in a heroic light. He wrote of the sereia running away into the woods, depicting their flight as an attempt to further entice the men—as if sailors long at sea required enticement at all. Duilio had always suspected that interpretation of those events; if a sereia wished to attract a man, she could call him, could she not? “That incident was some four hundred years ago, Miss Paredes. I would hope my people are a little more civilized by now.”