Note from the author: I'll be posting the full novel over the next year or so. The content is published elsewhere, but I am the author and copyright holder. It's a historical enemies-to-lovers romance, so it starts out slow, but I promise that it will heat up so stick around!
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Chapter 1: Lady of Paradise -- Catherine's Perspective
Sunlight sprawls out over the grey-white beach, coating each grain in a pearl-like sheen.
The rest is less poetic.
Burnt necks and spoilt fruit are commonplace in the Spanish market, and the boiling sun provides little cover. My skin has darkened two shades already. Maman will not be pleased.
I find refuge under the stall of a merchant, a gently aging craftswoman. Above our heads hangs a hand-painted sign that has been decorated with long-stemmed flowers. The merchant's table is bare. Either the sign of a good day of business or a poor one indeed.
"Buenas tardes, señora," I say.
"Buenas tardes, señorita."
The woman's mouth moves with fuller r's and rounder sounds. I try to commit her pronunciations to memory. I curtsey deeply. She only stares. Her narrowed eyes question the servant's dress upon my fair form.
Can she sense the French blood that courses through my veins? Our island, Saint-Michel, has been split down the middle - or less than the middle, to hear the Spaniards tell it. The families Navarro and de Guînes have been feuding for the past half-century, one trying to claim glory for Spain and the other for France.
Once, we sought to bridge the divide with marriage. My eldest aunt, Valentine Marie Elisabeth de Guînes, was sent in white silk to the Navarro patriarch.
They sent her body back in a coffin.
There is a reason that nothing is exchanged between our estates. No business is permitted to pass between borders. Even goodwill is discouraged from conspiring against one's sense of loyalty.
However, for the time being, I am exempt from the embargo. My thick, chestnut hair has pinned securely under a bonnet, my best ruby necklace offered as bribe to my lady's maid, Ana. Catherine Eleanor Margarite de Guînes has been banished, and in her stead, stands only a servant girl running errands for her mistress.
The merchant reaches under the counter and retrieves a statuette of two dancers. The circular base clacks on the wooden surface.
"Beautiful dancers for a beautiful girl. Only two reales."
"Gracias, señora."
The dancers have been carved with passionate strokes; their motion fossilized in clay. The female dancer teeters on a pointed toe, completely engulfed in painted fabric. Her hand rests upon her partner's shoulder. The gentleman holds her, head held high, back straight as an arrow. Though they remain a respectable distance apart, his eyes are filled with longing.
I try to imagine my betrothed in such a manner: his powdered wig cutting through a crowded banquet hall, my frame weighed down by a magnificent Parisian creation. Wandering through a molasses of socialites, the layers of fine silk graze my ankles. Around us, a dance begins. It's a minuet that jolts the ballroom into action. I stumble. The velvet toe of my slipper snags on the floorboards. Benjamin catches me in his arms and yet, I see only a reflection in his empty blue eyes.
Dear Catherine, my fiancé writes in his letters. You are Aphrodite incarnate. Your face, a moonbeam upon the echoes of my heart.
I must be the most unloved moonbeam in all human history. Despite his broad declarations of love, Monsieur Dupré is far more interested in his turnip garden than his soon-to-be bride. Of course, this is of little consequence to my parents. They have chosen a placid gentleman for their willful daughter. A wet towel for a Persian rug. It shall be a slow death, and unfortunately, not even one to occur dans la Ville Lumière.
While I contemplate my eventual demise, a small hand weaves its way around my purse strings. The pouch falls with a soft jingle. A boy of twelve, maybe thirteen, races off into the crowd. Before I can lay hands on him, he disappears in the labyrinth of stalls. Under normal circumstances, a prickly chaperone would warn me not to soil my dress. However, Ana's uniform, a starched apron and sturdy laces, has been crafted for tight corridors. I lift my skirts to give chase. In my haste, I rattle the merchant's stand and land uneasily.
The open-air bazaar has carts and merchandise tumbling into its narrow corridors. Madness closes in around me. My route is dictated by the crates and limbs pressed against each other. And yet, the market possesses the upper and lower classes, dark and light, alike. Ladies with feathers in their hair are followed by wide-eyed girls with parasols. Baskets swing from both tattered and well-kept sleeves. A pair of men locked in the heat of negotiation slide a gold piece back and forth.
A woman with a sweat-soaked shawl coiled around her neck turns over merchandise carefully. Instinct tells me that she is a traveler from my side of the island. Despite the ban on Spanish association, there are many who commit treacheries in the name of spice. It was one of our own vendors' carts that brought me, unknowingly, to this market. There is no loyalty greater than the French kitchen.
A thick man calls out from behind his stall, "Señorita, give this a taste!"
He holds up a clear jar. Two halves of yellow fruit bob in a salty brine. "Best pickled mangoes in all of San Miguel!"
The shop owner across the row shakes her head, "Señorita, do not put that garbage anywhere near your mouth. Have this instead."
She dangles a steaming piece of fried pastry. Even in the heat, the vapors entice. Unfortunately, there can be no Spanish delights without my purse, and my stiff, brown attire eliminates the option of purchasing goods on credit.
The end of the stalls is marked by a steep descent toward the rolling ocean.
The thief is nowhere to be found. I stand at the edge, observing the luxuriant, blue waves. Seagrass snakes its way into the gap between my soles and Ana's ill-fitting sandals. I've often watched the whirring tides from our balconies, but to be so close is magnificent. Only for the preservation of my complexion am I not rolling in the sand.
Further down the shore, I hear a murmur of activity and the clang of blades.
Two men face off with blunted rapiers. A circle has formed around them. They heave with breath, occasionally darting their sightline to the crowd for encouragement.
Clang. Thud. Clang.
Their boots land uneasily on the sand. The stocky leather is tasked with catching their momentum gone awry. Bare feet would prove a wiser choice, and the heat might make them lighter on their feet.
The difference in the fighters' sizes frames the fight as one between David and Goliath. A number of hands trade coins as the bout looks to be going one way, and then swiftly, the other. I notice lots of blade contact between these duelists and not much skill. Still, I join in with a clap and a shout when appropriate.
They are energetic men. The short one punches from the hilt, rendering the tip of his weapon useless. His opponent responds to the jabs with a wide, whipping motion. His parries nearly result in his own disarmament.
"Terza! Terza!"
A man on the opposite side of the circle shouts blade positions. With angry beads of sweat running down his temples, he attempts to rescue the bout from an unfavorable outcome. I imagine such dark attire to be rather discomforting in the sunlight. He dons a black tailcoat trimmed in gold.
Perhaps it is part of an advisor's job to look intimidating. His champion appears to be the one striking wildly, long arms and no idea how to use them.
The advisor curses as a blade lands near his champion's ear.
If men were not so averse to taking advice from a woman, I would offer my assistance. My education in swordsmanship was carefully tended to until Maman decided that a lady was better suited to the study of a musical instrument. Where I once enjoyed the soft harmonies of piano, I now loathe its feeble tones with every fiber of my being.
