The Abyss Read online

  The Abyss

  Lara Blunte

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Something to bear in mind in this story: Marquis was the second highest noble title in Portugal, after Duke. It corresponds to the English title of Marquess.

  See my Pinterest board for a visual guide: https://www.pinterest.com/larablunte/the-abyss/

  Contents

  One. May

  Two. Brothers

  Three. In the Corner of a Ballroom

  Four. Defiance

  Five. A Grimace

  Six. Mining

  Seven. The No-No

  Eight. Escape

  Nine. The Crossing

  Ten. Rio de Janeiro

  Eleven. A Changed Face

  Twelve. Alive

  Thirteen. Innocence

  Fourteen. Experience

  Fifteen. Doubt

  Sixteen. Caprichosa

  Seventeen. A Bracelet

  Eighteen. Affection

  Nineteen. All That Was For Her

  Twenty. A Joy That Eluded Him

  Twenty-One. Spirits

  Twenty-Two: The Land and the Foreman

  Twenty-Three: Findings

  Twenty-Four: Sunday

  Twenty-Five: Wooing

  Twenty-Six: The Botada

  Twenty-Seven: Near and Far

  Twenty-Eight: The Wide Abyss

  Twenty-Nine: Teté's Plan

  Thirty: A Woman Wounded

  Thirty-One: Sanctuary

  Thirty-Two: A Seed of Love and a Seed of Destruction

  Thirty-Three: Fever

  Thirty-Four: Hard Hearts

  Thirty-Five: A Thing

  Thirty-Six: Water

  Thirty-Seven: Onslaught

  Thirty-Eight: Three

  Thirty-Nine: The Quality of Mercy

  Epilogue. A Secret

  One. May

  Lisbon, Portugal ─ 1803

  The most important thing about Clara Moreira Tavares was this: that she must marry very well.

  This crucial fact was dinned into her day after day, almost hour on the hour, by her mother.

  Her father, Pedro, was a public servant who had carefully ascended the ranks at Queluz Palace. In spite of a gentle manner, Pedro was savvy about politics and economic affairs, and had become a trusted advisor to Prince John, the regent. It was to be hoped that soon, rather than just before he died, he would be given a noble title.

  In his efforts, he was admirably aided, pushed, sometimes shoved by his wife, Juliana, who was the main architect behind her husband's ascent. Her ambition, arising as it did from a relentless sense of social and personal inferiority, was boundless.

  And when Clara was born a more beautiful child than her parents ought to have produced, Juliana could not stop exhibiting her. The living doll got her more praise and attention than she ever thought possible.

  Clara kept growing, and her mother's fear that she might become uglier ─as did happen to lovely children more often than she could count ─ were wholly unfounded. Clara only became more beautiful until she was, and not only in her parents' opinion, the loveliest woman in Lisbon. The prince himself dared say in Europe ─ and a prince ought to know.

  Therefore, as soon as Clara could understand what was being said to her, and long before she realized what marriage meant, or what love was, she was given lectures on the fact that her looks were going to lift her above other women.

  Whenever mother and daughter chanced upon the many unfortunate people who walked the streets of Lisbon, or could see them from a carriage window; whenever poor, dry, resentful female relations that looked yellowed with neglect came to visit; whenever the servants in the house sighed with effort, Juliana would look meaningfully at her daughter.

  The world was a hard place, but it would not be so for Clara, because she was beautiful. For her, doors would open wide, avenues would appear, and the best of everything would be laid at her feet.

  By the time she was eighteen, there were enough suitors of note to come calling.

  On that late May morning, Clara sat by the window of her room, looking down at the red roofs of Lisbon that rose and fell all the way to the blue waters of the Tagus. Fruit trees were in bloom, their flowers adding color and a sweet aroma to the city.

  Clara was sketching, but not the city, or the trees, or the Tagus. She was sketching something from memory.

  As she sketched, she thought about her suitors, among them two scions of the noblest houses of Portugal.

  Highest on her parents' list was the Viscount of Voges, an old title possessing several palaces and a fortune. The Viscount currently sighed with love for Clara throughout the city. He sighed through thin lips and crooked teeth that were almost blue, Clara thought.

  She was drawing firm lips, neither thick as a frog's, nor thin as the Viscount's. The closed lips lacked the slightest curve, as if the owner did not find smiling easy, and between them there were strong white teeth. Her hand went up to create more of a shade on cheekbones and then expertly drew the line of thick, short lashes around almond-shaped eyes.

  It would be a challenge to reproduce the color of those eyes, but she was not painting with oils ─ her mother would make her life impossible if she tried, complaining about the mess the paint would leave on her hands and dress, or on the floor and furniture, and the bad smell of the turpentine. She would have to find a way of conveying the vivid blue of those eyes, which could turn broody like the ocean in winter.

  She sketched for a while, enjoying the fact that she could stare at the face she was creating for as long as she wished, and that she could caress the lips with her finger to get the effect she desired. Finally, she swept the pencil further up to draw dark hair springing from a high forehead.

  Clara would have to hide the drawing from her parents, from the servants, and from the subject himself. She did not want Gabriel Almada de Castro to know that she had studied his features so closely that she could draw him from memory.

  In theory, Gabriel's family and connections would be more than enough even for Juliana's aspirations. He was the son of the Marquis of Vargas, and his name opened doors from Lisbon to Moscow; the family fortune was nothing short of staggering. Should Juliana ever see her daughter as the Marquesa de Vargas, reigning over the hallowed halls of their palaces in Lisbon, Sintra, Porto and Alentejo, as well as abroad, she would die with a smile on her lips and a tear of triumph in her eye.

  However, Gabriel was the Marquis' second son. The first, Manuel, was already married, and had three sons to succeed him, making it highly unlikely that Gabriel would ever inherit the title, the bulk of the money and the properties ─ unless a terrible strain of whooping cough carried all his brother's children.

  The Viscount of Voges had a title and would be richer than Gabriel, but Clara wanted Gabriel, and her mother and father had unwittingly made a strong-headed girl out of her.

  Clara was hoping for a proposal from the very attractive lips of Gabriel Almada de Castro, and thought that once she had accepted him, her father would follow suit, and her mother would also have to agree. How could Juliana, the daughter of a tradesman, refuse a man such as Gabriel?

  It didn't matter to Clara how overweening her mother's ambition was, because she believed that she was in love. At least, Gabriel's presence and his absence alike affected her, and she thought of him a great deal more than she thought of anything else. She would have the man she had chosen because she could simply not imagine that a better man existed.

  So that evening, at the ball the prince was offering in Queluz, she was going to look her best. Her lustrous dark hair would be gathered in the latest fashion, her lashes would be long and thick around her ravishing black eyes and her white dress would show her figure to its best advantage.

  And she would dre
am that she was closer to her goal, which was to be Gabriel Almada de Castro's wife.

  Two. Brothers

  Had Clara's mother but known it, across the city her beautiful daughter was being considered far from good enough for Gabriel.

  It was Manuel, Gabriel's brother, who was thinking about Clara, not because he had any passionate stake or immovable opinion on the subject, but because he knew their father would.

  As he put the finishing touches to his toilette with the help of his manservant, Manuel almost sighed thinking about the trouble ahead. He was the most reasonable man in the family, since his father and brother were far too alike in their terrible pride, their unshakable convictions and their mercurial temper.

  They did not realize it, of course. The Marquis would react with his usual irritation had he been told that his younger son resembled him. He believed Gabriel to be like his mother, and in looks he was. But the deceased Marquise had been a languid soul who avoided conflict because she liked things to be pleasant, and because she had been quite lazy. This had only led her to avoid her irascible husband inside their great houses and palaces, especially during the last years of her life, when ill health had made her more tired than ever.

  Gabriel's whole face would be transformed into a scowl if he were told that he took after his father. He considered the Marquis to be a vain man, incapable of deep thought or worthy opinions, solely preoccupied with his station in life and with pursuits that were deemed manly for a nobleman like dabbling in politics, hunting, and keeping horses and mistresses.

  Manuel sighed again, thinking how his peace would be disturbed when the Marquis realized that his younger son was too cozy with a girl whose father was a glorified clerk of the prince's.

  Sparks would fly, or there would be an earthquake, and Manuel could imagine the scene as he went down to have a smoke while waiting for his wife to be ready. He tiptoed past the door of the room where his three boys were shrieking and throwing things as the aia begged them to stop. Once at the head of the stairs, he went down the steps quite quickly, thinking that there were far too many dangers in a house full of one's relatives. He would be glad to return to his own estate in Sintra the day after, and thereby decrease the number of people around him who might begin misunderstanding each other.

  He went to the drawing room to smoke, and there Gabriel was, staring out the open window. He was impeccably dressed, the high collar of his shirt and cravat a blinding white, his black jacket and court breeches a perfect fit. Gabriel looked very handsome; certainly, Manuel thought, he could wrench sighs from some better prospects than Clara that night?

  But as Gabriel turned toward him, Manuel realized what he already knew, that it was impossible to make his brother do things that he did not want to do.

  What a little mule, Manuel thought amiably as he sat down and pulled out his case to light a thin cigar. He was fond of his brother, but Gabriel was too full of opinions and principles. Manuel sighed again as he expelled the smoke. Couldn't everyone just get along? And considering that the Marquis, at fifty-seven, was unlikely to ever change, could Gabriel not try and bend a little?

  Manuel was a man who deeply longed for peace, even the false peace of politeness, if a real one were not to be had. He had his mother's character.

  "How long is it going to take before everyone is ready?" Gabriel asked.

  "'Everyone' is just Eduarda," Manuel reminded him. "Father has left on his own already.”

  "I know that," Gabriel said. "How long before Eduarda is ready?"

  Manuel raised his eyebrows, "The last time I went by her room, there were a great many dresses on the bed and a great deal of doubt in her face."

  "Why did she not choose her dress beforehand?"

  Gabriel never used the normal facial expressions for impatience, such as rolling his eyes, or taking deep breaths, or turning down the corner of his mouth. He stood radiating intensity, his face barely moving, his blue eyes changing hue.

  Pelo amor de Deus! Manuel thought, For God’s sake! Now he was refraining from sighing again, only because it might fill him with gas when he was locked into very tight breeches.

  Why was everything a matter of life or death to Gabriel? There was so much in between, and that is where reality took place, not in these heights and depths over nothing.

  He might love his younger brother, but sometimes he wished him quite different, more like himself, because then there could finally be some harmony in the family.

  "She will be down soon!" Manuel replied reasonably.

  "We will be late!" Gabriel pronounced.

  "Ai, meu amigo!" Manuel had the habit, as many people in Portugal did, of calling other people 'my friend' when he was slightly exasperated, or when a point or remonstration needed to be made. "It's not the end of the world!"

  There was more intensity in the blue stare, which was very unlike Manuel's affable dark one. The older brother took another drag from the cigar and let the smoke out slowly.

  "I think you are eager to have the first dance with a certain girl!" he finally said.

  "What if I were?" Gabriel asked, deciding to sit down.

  His wariness showed that he knew he was not going to like what came next.

  "She is a very, very beautiful girl," Manuel said, nodding appreciatively.

  Gabriel said nothing; he waited for the rest of the sentence.

  "But she won't do, you know..." Manuel concluded.

  Now the younger man's eyebrows were raised. "No?"

  "You know she won't."

  "I don't know any such thing."

  Manuel did roll his eyes to the ceiling, "You know very well that father will put a stop to it as soon as he understands what is happening."

  "Will he?" Gabriel seemed almost amused in a grim way.

  "He will put a stop to it when he knows that you fancy yourself in love with that girl, and are planning something extravagant."

  There was a moment of silence, then Gabriel said, as forcefully as he said, 'Pass me the salt!' at supper, as forcefully, or more, as he ever said anything: "I don't fancy myself in love with her, I love her. And father can't put a stop to anything. I am not the older son, you are. You have boys to inherit the title. Father arranged your marriage and I don't see any great understanding between you and Eduarda. I rather see you tiptoeing around and rushing down stairs and into rooms to avoid her. I will not live like that."

  "First of all," Manuel countered patiently. "Avoiding one's wife is a common exercise for married men. The poor things do not have much to amuse them and are all obsessed with children, who aren't, for the moment, doing anything interesting. Who, in fact, may never do anything interesting!"

  "There you have it," Gabriel said. "I don't intend to avoid Clara because she is interesting. She has a very good mind and a delightful wit. I only need to get her away from those parents, especially that mother."

  "The mother!" Manuel cried, his face a mask of horror. "That mother! Even if papá were capable of falling for Clara's charms, that mother would make everything impossible. And that father, bowing and scraping at the palace. You can see it won't do!"

  "I don't intend to keep discussing this with anyone," Gabriel said. "I will make up my own mind, according to what is best for me."

  "Mas meu amigo," Manuel insisted. "Don't you know that she won't be that beautiful forever? Two or three children and it will all be gone, and you will still have that mother-in-law!"

  "I don't only like her beauty," Gabriel said. "I have told you, she has a mind."

  "Mind!" Manuel scoffed. "That's even worse. She will be full of opinions and the two of you will fight all day long."

  "At least they will be interesting fights," Gabriel replied, shrugging.

  Two boys suddenly irrupted through the door in their nightgowns and threw themselves violently at their father, still shrieking.

  "Pelo amor de Deus!" Manuel cried. "Where is your aia?" he asked his eldest son.

  "She is putting José to sleep," the b
oy answered.

  "Where is your mother?" Gabriel asked.

  "She is getting ready!" the younger boy replied.

  "Pelo amor de Deus," Manuel repeated with impatient affection. "Papá is having his cigar. You need to go up to bed. Off to bed!"

  The boys didn't move. They knew their father would not pull them by the ears or even insist too much that they leave. But suddenly their uncle said, "Off to bed!"

  They jumped up immediately from their father's lap and stood to attention like soldiers.

  "Now!" Gabriel added.

  They turned and left running.

  "Can’t you teach me to do that?" Manuel asked. "Ah, they made me spill ash on my breeches! What were we saying?"

  "Nothing very interesting."

  Manuel considered his brother for a moment, while his hand absently wiped the ash from his leg.

  "You know very well that father would rather die or kill you than accept that marriage."

  "Then one of us will die," Gabriel said calmly. "Though I haven't spoken of marriage, you have."

  Manuel's eyes showed his immense relief, "So you won't marry her?"

  "I haven't said that either."

  "The way to go is to not marry her. If you are so taken with her beauty, then do what every other man does! Go to the proper place and choose a girl as similar to her as possible. Then wait till she gets married and have an affair with her!"

  Now Gabriel was scowling. "I will do neither thing."

  "Why do I forget that you are the Grand Inquisitor?" Manuel wondered, shaking his head. "Have you never heard that too many principles are as bad as none? You need to understand that things are more relative than you think. You will have to understand it, one day."

  "Then, on that day, I will understand it,” Gabriel said. "I think I hear Eduarda."

  He stood up, and Manuel did as well, just as Eduarda walked in. She was dressed and coiffed in the latest fashion. The Grecian silhouette of her white dress with the loose fabric falling from a high bodice hid a body that, as her husband had pointed out, had been ruined by the birth of three children.