me.”
Bella snorted. “He will survive his disappointment. He might also come to respect you.” She shrugged again. “It’s not my business what you do, but if it was me, I’d refuse.”
“Which is why you’re always in trouble,” Alejandra retorted.
Sister Beatriz snorted and sat up. “What’s that? Tongues wagging? Sewing, girls! Sewing!” She clapped her hands in a brisk manner, and the girls bent over their sewing. Needles flashed in silence, and in a short while the elderly nun dozed off peacefully again.
“Isabella’s husband might come for her soon,” Paloma said on a bright, let’s-change-the-subject note, and Bella groaned silently. She knew what would come next.
Alejandra gave a scornful snort. “Who, the imaginary one?”
“He’s not imaginary, is he, Isabella?” Paloma turned to Bella.
Bella didn’t answer. They’d been over this a hundred, a thousand times. At first she’d fought the accusation tooth and nail, but now, after all these years, she was half inclined to think she’d dreamed it, dreamed him. But Reverend Mother had the marriage papers in her desk, and his signature was on them, firm and black and clear. Lucien Alexander Ripton, Lieutenant.
“Of course he is,” Alejandra insisted. “Her tall English lieutenant, with his broad shoulders and his so-beautiful face
just
like an angel!” she said in a mocking voice. “An
angel
, wed to
Isabella Ripton
?” All the girls laughed.
Bella doggedly sewed on. She understood why they pecked at her. She might attack someone, too, if she was about to be married to an old, poxed
vizconde
.
Besides, it was her own fault. She shouldn’t have told them in the first place.
After the hasty marriage, Lieutenant Ripton and her aunthad decided to place her in the convent under the name of Ripton, Bella taking his name in the manner of English wives instead of keeping her own name, as Spanish women did.
Her aunt had instructed Bella not to tell anyone she was married—not the Mother Superior of the time, nor the other nuns, nor any of the girls. Then, she said, if Cousin Ramón came looking for Isabella Mercedes Sanchez y Vaillant, daughter of the Conde de Castillejo, Mother Superior could truthfully tell him that no such girl was in the convent; only the sister of an English lieutenant.
It was strange, but exciting, having a new name.
And sure enough, Cousin Ramón
had
come, and Reverend Mother had assured him no girl of that name was in the convent. Sweet, elderly Reverend Mother, so patently truthful and innocent, and so obviously distressed by his tale of a young girl who’d fled her home to cross Spain in such terrible times—anything could have happened to her, the poor, young innocent. Dreadful, dreadful! She’d offered immediate prayers for the lost girl’s safe recovery, and even Cousin Ramón had to believe her.
So at first, Isabella never told a soul she was married, and when the elderly Mother Superior died and Isabella’s aunt took her place, Isabella’s security was assured—as much as anyone’s security could be in wartime.
But a few years later the fighting was over in Spain. Napoleon’s puppet was ejected, and King Ferdinand was crowned king of Spain, and relatives turned up to collect this girl or that. The convent was full of talk of dowries and settlements, of betrothals arranged and marriages planned. The girls were abuzz with excitement and nerves and romantic speculation.
At almost sixteen, Isabella was still plagued by pimples and a flat chest, and when even the younger girls started to patronize and pity her, she could not bear it. In secret whispers in the dark one night, she’d confided in her friend, Mariana, about Lieutenant Ripton, her tall, dark Englishman, as beautiful as an angel, who’d killed a man to protect Isabella, and then married her to save her from her evil cousin Ramón.Now the war was over, he would surely come for her and take her away to England.
But Mariana had whispered
Bella snorted. “He will survive his disappointment. He might also come to respect you.” She shrugged again. “It’s not my business what you do, but if it was me, I’d refuse.”
“Which is why you’re always in trouble,” Alejandra retorted.
Sister Beatriz snorted and sat up. “What’s that? Tongues wagging? Sewing, girls! Sewing!” She clapped her hands in a brisk manner, and the girls bent over their sewing. Needles flashed in silence, and in a short while the elderly nun dozed off peacefully again.
“Isabella’s husband might come for her soon,” Paloma said on a bright, let’s-change-the-subject note, and Bella groaned silently. She knew what would come next.
Alejandra gave a scornful snort. “Who, the imaginary one?”
“He’s not imaginary, is he, Isabella?” Paloma turned to Bella.
Bella didn’t answer. They’d been over this a hundred, a thousand times. At first she’d fought the accusation tooth and nail, but now, after all these years, she was half inclined to think she’d dreamed it, dreamed him. But Reverend Mother had the marriage papers in her desk, and his signature was on them, firm and black and clear. Lucien Alexander Ripton, Lieutenant.
“Of course he is,” Alejandra insisted. “Her tall English lieutenant, with his broad shoulders and his so-beautiful face
just
like an angel!” she said in a mocking voice. “An
angel
, wed to
Isabella Ripton
?” All the girls laughed.
Bella doggedly sewed on. She understood why they pecked at her. She might attack someone, too, if she was about to be married to an old, poxed
vizconde
.
Besides, it was her own fault. She shouldn’t have told them in the first place.
After the hasty marriage, Lieutenant Ripton and her aunthad decided to place her in the convent under the name of Ripton, Bella taking his name in the manner of English wives instead of keeping her own name, as Spanish women did.
Her aunt had instructed Bella not to tell anyone she was married—not the Mother Superior of the time, nor the other nuns, nor any of the girls. Then, she said, if Cousin Ramón came looking for Isabella Mercedes Sanchez y Vaillant, daughter of the Conde de Castillejo, Mother Superior could truthfully tell him that no such girl was in the convent; only the sister of an English lieutenant.
It was strange, but exciting, having a new name.
And sure enough, Cousin Ramón
had
come, and Reverend Mother had assured him no girl of that name was in the convent. Sweet, elderly Reverend Mother, so patently truthful and innocent, and so obviously distressed by his tale of a young girl who’d fled her home to cross Spain in such terrible times—anything could have happened to her, the poor, young innocent. Dreadful, dreadful! She’d offered immediate prayers for the lost girl’s safe recovery, and even Cousin Ramón had to believe her.
So at first, Isabella never told a soul she was married, and when the elderly Mother Superior died and Isabella’s aunt took her place, Isabella’s security was assured—as much as anyone’s security could be in wartime.
But a few years later the fighting was over in Spain. Napoleon’s puppet was ejected, and King Ferdinand was crowned king of Spain, and relatives turned up to collect this girl or that. The convent was full of talk of dowries and settlements, of betrothals arranged and marriages planned. The girls were abuzz with excitement and nerves and romantic speculation.
At almost sixteen, Isabella was still plagued by pimples and a flat chest, and when even the younger girls started to patronize and pity her, she could not bear it. In secret whispers in the dark one night, she’d confided in her friend, Mariana, about Lieutenant Ripton, her tall, dark Englishman, as beautiful as an angel, who’d killed a man to protect Isabella, and then married her to save her from her evil cousin Ramón.Now the war was over, he would surely come for her and take her away to England.
But Mariana had whispered
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