Part 13 – Catia's flight 2: Lisbon, beginning of August 1813
Catia lounges as best she can in the gilded chair, her dove gray walking frock looking almost pink against the red velvet. They had put her in one of the side rooms next door to the presence chamber of the great Palácio de Mafra in Portugal – what would be the throne room had His Highness João the Prince Regent actually been present. A guard stands casually across from her as, in the presence chamber itself, the Council murmurs over her evidence.
THEY counsel and debate, as she sits exiled here, being ogled by an uncouth guard. It had not been so in London. Oh, she had been ogled, certainly, but she had been mistress of her own fate, charting her own course to follow. Now she sits, legs crossed at the knee, bouncing one slipper expeditiously up and down over her toes, waiting.
Four months ago, she had sailed from here to Portsmouth with a full complement of luggage. She had returned with what she could carry… and no regrets. From the ship where she had spent five days as an idle young layabout, she had boarded a coach to the Palace, stalked up to the imposing front door and announced to the gaping guard that Catia had arrived, desiring urgent audience with the Council.
Since they had to be recalled from wherever they were all across Lisbon to convene and be presented with her evidence, and since Catia was well familiar with the Palace servants and facilities, she had simply whisked down the front gallery to the Queen's Tower until she spotted an old friend, one of the departed Princess's less-favored ladies, now reduced to housekeeping.
"Evora!" she'd called.
"Senhora Catia!" Evora had replied happily. Evora is several years older than Catia but, unlike the rest of 'Spanish Carlota's' crew, she is Portuguese, highly educated and highly ethical, all of which had swiftly gotten her disliked at court. An exchange of hugs and whispers was followed by a quick sneak up the wide stone stairs to my lady's deserted chambers; the cavernous dressing room and the equally claustrophobic bath, where the portly youth had become the slender, tasty courtesan once more.
Then, as Catia, whom all the Council knew (though some more intimately than others, it has to be admitted), she had glided into the presence chamber: poised, her elegantly windswept hair gleaming with faint scent; the walking clothes in the slightest hint of disarray; the former contents of the padded waistcoat wrapped in a silk shawl.
Five years ago, the Prince's court had taken ship with him to Brazil mere hours before the French under General Junot had entered the city. Junot had dismissed the Council left behind and proceeded to pillage at his own leisure until the arrival of the English. The Council Catia now faces had been formed after the liberation of Porto.
At the table's head sits Dom António de Castro, the Carthusian Bishop of Porto. Catia has known him and Field Marshal Dom Miguel Forjaz, to the Bishop's right, since the Insurrection of 1808. Both have grown broad, heavy-faced and weary with their responsibilities. Meanwhile, on the Bishop's left, the Marquis Francisco de Melo da Cunha de Mendonça e Meneses, hero of the Algarve and holder of every title the others do not, manages to appear still vigorous despite his age. There are two lawyers, Judge João de Mendonça and the bespectacled Dr. Nogueira, who flank the two Dom de Sousas, one a cleric and the other the Treasurer, all glowering at her. That left only the two diplomats, the long-faced and sad-eyed Cipriano Freire, and the more dashing Sir Charles Stuart, envoy from England, to perk up considerably at her entrance. Their admiration of her beauty would not last long once they'd heard what she had to tell.
Nine men sitting at council – facing one woman – such is Life.
She had announced her findings, outlining the path by which Napoleon's forgeries had come to Portugal and continued to come, and unfurled the shawl on the council table with one dramatic jerk so that its contents spilled to within everyone's reach.
"Here," she had said in a voice ringing amid the shocked images of Sequeira's Royal Virtues, "the proof! You see, meus senhores, the same names over and over, written on the counterfeits themselves – names that travel from Londres to mother Lisboa every month. Names you will all know."
With hesitant hands they had begun scratching among the notes scattered atop the table, began to read, and began to recognize scrawled signatures, masquerading as bank tellers' authorizations: a less-prominent merchant, a couple of the other agents they had sent to Inglaterra – then the Marquis cursed violently as he saw one of his own subordinates represented.
Dom José de Sousa, Principal of the Patriarchal Church of Lisbon, turned abruptly and ordered Catia into a subsidiary chamber, to wait.
So now she sits, flipping her slipper and waiting as they deliberate. Men! she thinks darkly. A woman must do the low work for them but when it comes to the learned talk, the nice debate and wise judgement, only men are fit for that. They are all the same, high and low – PIGS!
She glares at the guard, who instantly straightens up and switches his attention to the rococo paneling over her head. Catia huffs, briefly plotting how she will discipline the wretch next time she catches him staring, before she returns her gaze to the frazzled slipper. She jerks it up almost off her foot once more and allows her mind to drift, thinking.
There is one man who is not a pig. Catia had tossed these very slippers at him and he had packed them for her without protest. He had done the low work for his country and he had paid the price with his comfortable life and good name. From the little she had learned from her contact in Portsmouth, he is still paying for it. He'd been injured on that last night and taken to a voluntary hospital in Westminster. So, he lives… but when he is released, what then? Archie himself had said it: he must return to his old life no matter how unhappy it made him.
Her thoughts have just begun to curl fondly around the Baron Featherington when the sound of heavy chairs being adjusted on wooden floors brings her back to the now. She plants both slippers demurely on the floor to await their summons. She knows these men. Now they will come to know her, perhaps better than they think they do. Or even wish to.
The Request
"Catia." This is Dom António the Bishop, who smiles faintly at her curtsey and replies with a short gesture of blessing. He too was at Porto before their own soldiers and the English had come under o Douro Douro to free the city. He has long ago absolved her of her sins committed then in her country's defense. "We grieve it was necessary to send you on such a mission, my child," he tells her gently, "You have done well."
Judge de Mendonça is not quite so quick to welcome a common prostitute to their councils. "Yes, yes, she has done well, very well," he says, waving a hand over the scattered notes on the table, "but one thing is lacking. She has not given us the one name of the man who has unleashed ruin and death upon us once more. Who is the instigator of this crime? Is it one of these names?" He flourishes a list Dr. Nogueira has compiled, crumpling it in his indignation, "The strumpet must speak now!"
The Marquis tut-tuts in reproof and Dom Miguel glares. "She is one of the heroes of the Insurrection. Your Excellency will offer her respect!"
"My lords!" This is Sir Charles Stuart, speaking excellent Portuguese and smiling warmly at Catia. "We hinder the lady's reply."
"Hear, hear," Senhor Freire seconds him in excellent English, also smiling.
Catia modestly thanks her defenders. She is willing, she coos, to reveal the name of the man behind the plot and she will do so – but only to Prince João himself.
Dom José de Sousa the cleric snorts inelegantly as if to say he thought as much. Dom Fernando de Sousa the Treasurer grins, which he hides carefully from his elder. The Bishop regards her with grave eyes, "What is in your mind, child?" he asks.
"She wants payment!" growls Sousa the Principal.
"She wants to begin again, in the New World," corrects Senhor Freire, former Portuguese ambassador to the fledgling United States.
"Your Excellency," Catia says, speaking directly to Dom António, "I do wish to begin again, to leave the killing and the life I have led behind me. I ask only to be allowed to travel to Brazil in order to petition my sovereign His Highness for a small place under his protection, where I may end my days in peace, seeking forgiveness of my sins."
The Marquis Francisco raises his eyebrows at the Field Marshal. He is disappointed for himself but he knows his Prince will be most pleased with the arrival of this young woman, as it is well known that His Highness cordially despises his wife Carlota Joaquina, who in turn cordially detests him.
Dom Miguel shrugs. A pity to lose such a useful jewel but one must be prepared always to suffer in the service of one's king.
The judge is inclined to complain further. He is of the New World and wishes to keep it pristine.
Dr. Nogueira, on the other hand, is from Porto and murmurs that such a request is quite reasonable.
Dom Fernando de Sousa, President of the Treasury, agrees.
Catia just stands quietly and smiles, watching the politics play out before her.
Cipriano Freire smiles back at her wistfully while Dom José de Sousa is hissing at the Bishop that this is the perfect chance to rid the mother country of such a disturbing presence as This Woman.
Sir Charles takes the opportunity to stand as if stretching and, while he is about that, mutters to the lovely lady that he hopes she has a tidy sum set by because he thinks she is bound for Brazil, but should she ever fancy a respite from the jungles there, England will be ever ready to receive her once more.
Catia thanks him prettily but privately she resolves that she will not remain here, in the Europe where there are spies and dirty money and valiant men bound to neglectful wives.
The Results of Requesting
Two days later, Catia and Evora de Silva, her chosen companion, cross the broad front reception porch of the Palace and take the steps to the square where the carriage has just stopped, now loaded with trunks and assorted strong boxes, the result of the Council's generosity. Two liveried men with rifles ride behind while a coachman and footman are on the box. Four great matched greys champ at the bit to reach Queluz and its exquisite jewel-box palace before nightfall. The Regency Council has granted Catia a few months' residence there until hurricane season abates and a sea passage can be made safe.
Then, with Catia's accumulated private wealth secreted amongst a small fortune in goods bound for the royal court, she and her attendant will take ship once more to cross the Atlantic, to Brazil, to freedom, and to a small place under His Highness' protection.
END – part 13
*ffh notes: Sequeira's Royal Virtues: court artist Domingos Sequeira (1768-1837) painted the throne room at Mafra with figures representing the Royal Virtues: Perfection, Tranquility, Kindness, Knowledge, Generosity, Concordance, Constancy, and Conscience.
"O Douro Douro" is Sir Arthur Wellesley (1769-1852), commander of the Allied forces in the Peninsula. He was so nicknamed by the Portuguese troops after the Allied army crossed the Douro River in the 1809 campaign that freed Porto from Marshal Soult. The English made him Baron Douro for that victory, to which the Portuguese added their unofficial tribute by doubling the title. He was to become the first Duke of Wellington in May 1814.
From early June until the end of November is hurricane season in the northern Atlantic.
All the men on the second Regency Council of 1809 are real people (unlike Catia, Archie, and most of the other folk who appear in 'Bridgerton'). Their words and attitudes are my own inventions and I take responsibility for their inaccuracy. I am not out to re-write history in any way. FFH*
