The Spanish Patriot by Nicky Penttila

Author:Nicky Penttila [Penttila, Nicky]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 19th century, A Novel of Corunna, Coruña, Corunna, Europe, Fiction, Fiction-historical, Historical, Loyalists, Napoleonic, newspapers, Peninsular, printers, Spain, war
Publisher: Wondrous Publishing via Indie Author Project
Published: 2015-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

{ 19 }

Lou found Mr. Smith as handsome as ever, on the surface. As he entered Doña Sofia’s small dining room, she squared her shoulders, set a smile on her face and tried to look deep into the man. He turned to her and a smile lit his face, far surpassing her weak effort. “Miss Wakefield, what a delightful surprise.”

“Mr. Smith. A beautiful evening, is it not?”

“With such beauty all about me, how could it not be?”

Doña Sofia tittered, a welcome sound from a woman who had been so serious these past weeks. Perhaps with more young people about her, she might even wear less black. “You flatter us, Mr. Smith. We’re such a small party tonight, so I’ve had the meal set in the family dining room. It’s my favorite room in the house.”

Mr. Smith fell into step behind Doña Sofia as she led the way. “Your family is well, Miss Wakefield?”

“Quite well, I thank you.” How did she ever think him clever? Well, he is clever. Just not wise.

Candles offset the dark paneling and heavy wood of the furniture. The table seated eight but was set for four, each on a side. Doña Sofia directed Lou to sit at her left, and Smith to her right, across from Lou. “Vitor was called away. A messenger. You know how it is.” She clasped her hands before her chest. “Let us pray it is good.”

A gilded square clock sat between two wide candles on a wide cabinet directly across from Lou: quarter past eight. Mr. Kerr would be preparing to steal the ledgers now. Perhaps he was in the hall, looking to see it was clear. They should have recruited Ben to be lookout; then again, his presence would be unusual, and they didn’t want anything unusual. Lou found she could look at Smith, or at the clock; at Smith, at the clock. Tick, tock. Tick. Tock.

“You like our clock? A gift from friends in Germany. It keeps the best time in the house, but the sound, it bothers the boys. So it is here, with my other favorite things.”

Lou dragged her attention from the clock, but the ticking maintained its tempo in her ears. Mustn’t look so nervous. Don’t give it all away. She stared at Doña Sofia, whose dress shimmered. Was it shot through with silver thread, or gold? “Our family nearly always uses lanterns, to be sure the paper and press room are safe from fire, but I love the light from good candles piled high in a candelabrum like this.”

“Rather romantic, no?” As servants poured water and wine, Doña Sofia leaned toward Smith. “Not your usual army fare tonight.”

“Not at all, ma’am. These paintings, they are your husband’s family?”

“Oh, no. This house is mine; I grew up here. Before you are my father and mother; before Louisa, their father and mother. Behind me, oh, my great-grandsires two or three generations back. My husband could take away my name and my holdings, but this room he could not touch.

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