The Stars of Heaven Read online

  The Stars of Heaven

  Red Adept Publishing, LLC

  104 Bugenfield Court

  Garner, NC 27529

  http://RedAdeptPublishing.com/

  Copyright © 2020 by Jessica Dall. All rights reserved.

  Cover Art by Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Part One: 1755

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two: 1756

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Three: 1758

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part Four: 1760

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue: 1775

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Also By Jessica Dall

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  To Niles, without whom this book would never have been written

  Part One: 1755

  Chapter One

  Tia Ema had barely made it through the door before her quick, sharp voice filled the front hall. “Dores? Dores, where are you?”

  Cecília didn’t hear her mother answer before Tia Ema continued: “Querido São José! The crowds out there... and Aloisio! I’m not sure what I will do with that brother of mine. Meu Deus. I—”

  “Is that you, Ema?” Mamãe’s voice finally came from deeper inside the house.

  Cecília slowed on the steps, moving just enough to be able to argue that she wasn’t eavesdropping. Again.

  Tia Ema barely took the time to say “yes” before she was back into her ranting. “Oh, Dores, I’m not sure my heart can take much more! Aloisio sent his boy this morning, and you wouldn’t believe, he said—”

  “Is Aloisio still not well?” Mamãe had long learned not to wait for Tia Ema to take a breath before responding. She’d likely learned that before the priest had finished the nuptial blessing the day she’d married Papai.

  Tia Ema finally hesitated. “What?”

  “He sent word that he wasn’t well enough to attend vigil with us last night.”

  “Querido São José,” Tia Ema repeated her favorite exclamation. “That man tells me nothing! That useless boy of his wouldn’t answer me a thing this morning. Just looked at me with those wide eyes the entire time I was speaking and said Aloisio wasn’t coming over and over. I had half a mind to...” Tia Ema continued, word after word spilling out when Mamãe didn’t stop the onslaught.

  Cecília reached the landing before the bottom flight of stairs and paused to brush herself off, even if there was no possible way her new gown had gotten dirty on the short walk between her room and the stairs.

  Just making sure it’s lying correctly, she tried to convince herself. Made from a French pattern specifically for All Saints’ Day, with ruffled ends on her elbow-length sleeves and a full pannier holding out the hips, the gown was quite a change from the simple day dresses or Turkish robes she wore around the house. If making sure that it fit perfectly before heading downstairs meant pausing a little longer out of sight, where she could hear her aunt and mother talking, it was hardly her fault.

  “Has anyone been sent to check on him?” Mamãe finally asked as Tia Ema started on her fourth or fifth tirade against Tio Aloisio’s errand boy. “He hasn’t been feeling well since he returned, has he?”

  “He certainly has been relying on that boy to take care of things.” Tia Ema huffed. “I should have gone down to that house of his the second Aloisio docked. He’s always a touch peaked when he returns from abroad. He really needs to—”

  “How bad are the crowds?” Mamãe asked. “If Aloisio isn’t coming, should we still go to São Vincente? The Palmeiro’s service—”

  “No!” The word escaped Cecília’s mouth before she managed to catch herself, and the voices in the entryway went ominously quiet.

  “Cecília?” Mamãe’s far-from-pleased voice echoed up the stairs.

  Cecília grimaced, but the damage was already done. She moved into sight, trying to look as innocent as possible. “Good morning, Mamãe. Good morning, Tia Ema.”

  Mamãe’s pale face pinched. “What have I told you about lingering, Cecília Madalena?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “You obviously have an opinion about what we’re discussing?”

  Cecília refrained from bunching the fabric of her gown in her hands at the dark look flashing through her mother’s blue eyes. Mamãe had once been a beautiful woman.

  She still would be, Cecília imagined, even though her fair hair was fading from gold to white and the lines on her face were growing deeper, if only she didn’t look so severe all the time. Cecília straightened her shoulders. She had already been caught. Denial wouldn’t help anything. “We told Francisco we’d go to São Vincente. He’ll be looking for us.”

  Mamãe shook her head. “I’m sure he’ll have plenty of other things to be worried about today.”

  “But—”

  “Are you arguing, Cecília Madalena?”

  “No, Mamãe.” Cecília bit her cheek to keep herself from adding anything else.

  “Go to the oratório and think about what you’ve done. We’ll let you know when we’re leaving.”

  “Yes, Mamãe,” Cecília murmured and turned toward the room holding their little wooden shrine. It made sense that Mamãe no longer wanted to go across town to attend High Mass. Cecília had been shocked Mamãe had agreed to go to São Vincente in the first place. Her pride at having a son take the cloth had obviously overtaken her need to never go more than twenty steps from their front door. Since one thing had gone wrong, of course she would want to go to the Palmeiro’s private chapel down the street instead. No doubt, if Mamãe had ever had the finances to build their own chapel, Cecília would have forgotten what the outside world looked like entirely.

  Careful to keep her skirts from wrinkling, Cecília knelt in front of the oratório, crossed herself, and said a quick prayer for forgiveness. As far back as her first confession, she had struggled with the commandment to honor thy mother. Before Papai’s death three years before, Mamãe had loved saying that Cecília had too much of her father in her. Cecília had to admit that was likely still true. Unlike her younger sister, Bibiana, who seemed entirely happy at the prospect of spending the rest of her life indoors like a proper Portuguese lady, Cecília had inherited far more of her father’s w
anderlust than any daughter should have been cursed with. But after three years of being lucky to get outside long enough even to go visiting, Cecília imagined the Palmeiro’s confessor had to be growing tired of hearing Cecília atone for all the ways she had disobeyed her mother week after week after week.

  After lighting a votive candle to place in front of Mamãe’s most prized possession, the golden reliquary that held a lock of blessed Santa Inês’s hair, Cecília stood and blew out a tense breath. She hadn’t heard the bells since they had chimed nine, but it had to be inching toward the half hour. If they didn’t leave soon, they would have no choice but to go to the Palmeiro’s service at eleven.

  If she could get Tio Aloisio to join them, though, she might have enough time to change Mamãe’s mind and get all of them across town to São Vincente.

  Cecília moved for the back door, listening carefully to make sure she didn’t come across any of the servants as they worked to get things ready for dinner. Beyond dodging where Bibiana was playing with one of her dolls, however, the way was clear. Cecília sent off a quick prayer of thanks and grabbed a black outer robe to wear over her gown. With the pannier under her gown, the robe wouldn’t let her blend in quite as well as she normally did when she slipped out, but with the crowds that always arrived on All Saints’ Day, she would likely be able to make it to the river unnoticed.

  Crisp autumn air blew in as Cecília cracked the door, and a rush of excitement pulsed through her. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Lord knew how many acts of contrition she would be doing that night for sneaking out, but for the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to feel remorse. How anyone could stand staying inside on such a beautiful day—proper lady or not—Cecília would never know.

  From the state of the streets, it seemed the rest of Lisbon agreed. Cecília stepped away from the alley behind her house and was swept into the mass of bodies on the main road without a second look. The one time Cecília had managed to lure Bibiana outside on a feast day, Bibiana had hated every minute of it. The crowds had scared her, the tight, winding streets had confused her, and the only good memory she seemed to have from the experience was looking at all the colorful sheets and banners hanging from windows to decorate the cobblestone streets.

  That’s what makes Bibiana a better daughter, Cecília supposed. As it was, Cecília could have spent all day moving along with the chaos, looking at the little tent cities that had popped up overnight wherever there was space, and listening to cart women trying to sell sardines to anyone who would stop long enough to listen.

  Two more turns and a few stinking brown puddles later, and the Tagus came into view. Cecília’s breath caught. Brilliant blue, the river called to her as it always had, looking all the more beautiful in the midmorning light. All of the white stone buildings facing it looked as though they had been painted gold by the sun, as though God had seen fit to decorate the city far more majestically than the lisboetas had managed with measly banners. For all of Mamãe’s complaints about dirt, thieves, and beggars out on the street, all Cecília could see was the beauty.

  Tio Aloisio’s house sat on the bank of the Tagus, close to the strait where the river narrowed before reaching the Atlantic. Not as grand as many of the buildings that had been built close to the king’s riverside palace, the house was still an impressive structure, nearly as tall as Cecília’s home in the Baixa, with similar white walls and a red roof.

  “More than enough space for a single man in town,” Tio Aloisio had claimed when he’d bought it a year before so he would have a place to stay closer to the docks. He’d needed one, as often as he’d taken to going on trade missions after inheriting Papai’s ship. He couldn’t very well travel back and forth from his country vineyard.

  Pulling her skirts up an inch, Cecília crossed the last street at a jog and came to a stop in front of the wide door. She knocked and waited for someone to answer.

  No one did.

  Frowning, she tried again. Even if Tio Aloisio had fallen so ill that he couldn’t make it out of bed, the house certainly shouldn’t have been empty. A servant, his cook, the boy Tia Ema cared for so much... someone would be up and about. Cecília lifted her hand to knock a third time. The door opened as if timed to her forward swing.

  Cecília jerked her hand back, barely avoiding hitting the man filling the doorway. She froze in surprise. A second later, she realized she no doubt looked idiotic with her fist hovering in the air and dropped it to her side. “Pardon me.”

  “My fault, I’m sure,” the man answered with a crooked smile, his words accented in a way that made them sound discordant.

  Cecília tried to get her mouth to say something else as her mind whirled, attempting to figure out who was standing in front of her. His clothes looked too well-made to be a servant, but in a simple brown waistcoat, jacket, and breeches, he didn’t look like one of Tio Aloisio’s merchant friends, either. Then again, it didn’t seem he had entirely finished his morning toilette, with his auburn hair clubbed behind his neck with no sign of a wig—or even powder, for that matter.

  An assistant, perhaps? He looked at most half a decade older than her—twenty-two or twenty-three, if that.

  “May I help you?” he asked when she continued to stand there, mute.

  Cecília started and caught her hands in front of her stiffly. “I’m looking for my uncle, Senhor Aloisio Silva Durante?”

  “Oh.” The crooked smile came back. “You must be”—he seemed to reach for a name—“Bibiana?”

  Cecília puffed up slightly. As little as what the man thought of her mattered, she would have hoped, with seven years separating them, she didn’t look like her ten-year-old sister. “Cecília. Cecília de Santa Rita e Durante.”

  His hazel eyes crinkled at the sides. “Everyone here does have very impressive names.”

  Cecília released a breath through her nose, trying to hide her discomfort at the entirely odd situation by straightening her spine fully, even if he remained at least half a foot taller than her that way. “Is my uncle here?”

  The man nodded as he took a step back. “He’s finishing dressing, I believe. Would you like to wait for him?”

  Waiting didn’t make Cecília feel wonderful, not with time ticking down. She still tried to focus on the positive. “He’s feeling better, then?”

  The man’s eyebrows furrowed. “Better?”

  “He was ill yesterday?”

  The confused look didn’t move off the man’s face, but Tio Aloisio’s voice broke in before he could speak again. “Cecília? I thought I heard your voice.”

  Cecília released a relieved breath as her uncle’s familiar—and healthy—face came into view. “Tio, I’m glad to see you looking so well.”

  He cocked an eyebrow as if he had no idea what she meant, either, before understanding flashed over his expression. “Oh, yes. I’m glad to say my illness was nothing dire. You never know what it will do to your health, being somewhere as damp as London in the fall.”

  “I’m glad,” Cecília repeated then rushed on. “Where are you going to Mass, then? Tia Ema said you weren’t coming to São Vincente anymore?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the time today, Cilinha.” He moved around to gather his things. “I have a business meeting I can’t miss.”

  Cecília blinked. “But it’s All Saints’ Day.”

  “We were delayed getting back.” He picked up his walking stick. “I find I’m still working to catch up. Especially with getting Bates here settled.”

  Cecília glanced at the younger man, who was still lingering in the entryway.

  He offered a quick smile and a short bow. “John Bates. Pleasure to meet you, Senhorita Durante.”

  So the man was English. That explained his accent. Cecília didn’t have time to think too much about it. She turned back to her uncle. “But you’re going to Mass? It’s a Holy Day of Obligat—”

  “Of course,” Tio Aloisio said then finally stopped moving long enough to look at her str
aight on. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

  “I...” Cecília’s mind didn’t switch over quickly enough to come up with anything that wouldn’t be a blatant lie. “She said since you weren’t coming, we couldn’t—”

  “You know better than that, Cilinha.” He shook his head, the curls of his own long white wig bouncing back and forth. “Wandering on your own?”

  Cecília wrung her hands in front of her, nothing about the situation turning out how she had hoped. She tried to salvage something out of it. “You can walk back with me. Maybe you can convince Mamãe—”

  “What time is your meeting, Bates?” Tio Aloisio cut her off.

  Mr. Bates’s eyebrows rose, but he answered, “Ten, sir.”

  “You wouldn’t mind walking my niece back home this morning, then? She could likely point out Rua Nova dos Mercadores for you on the way.”

  Cecília frowned. “Tio Aloisio—”

  “It would actually be my pleasure,” Mr. Bates said over her. “I admit the streets here quite confound me.”

  “They do some lisboetas who have lived here their entire lives.” Tio Aloisio clapped Mr. Bates’s shoulder as if they were old friends then turned back to Cecília. “Your mother will be looking for you.”

  “Tio...” Cecília started, not certain how she was going to finish her sentence.

  Tio Aloisio didn’t give her the chance to, anyway. He checked the time on his gold pocket watch then motioned Mr. Bates outside before stepping through himself, forcing Cecília back onto the street. “I’m running late, as always. See you tonight, Bates.”

  “Have a good day, Senhor Durante.” Mr. Bates lowered his head respectfully then swept on a cocked hat and turned to Cecília. “As you please, Senhorita Durante.”

  With Tio Aloisio already heading the opposite way down the road at a good clip, Cecília was left with little choice but to go with the Englishman or slip off into the crowd by herself to head back home. She couldn’t quite determine which would get her into less trouble, should anyone Mamãe knew spot her. Unable to decide, Cecília spun on her heel and started back the way she had come. If the Englishman could keep up, she supposed she would point him toward the row of shops that lined Rua Nova dos Mercadores.