Page 103 of The Truth About Myths
They settled in the coach and slowly climbed to the palace. Close to the gates, a squalid crowd had formed. As the coach slowed to pass through her subjects, Isabel heard hisses and hoots. When a tomato hit the side of the carriage, Sophie yelped.
"Why are they behaving like a mob? Do you think Portugal is a republic now?"
Isabel shook her head and closed her eyes. She feared she would soon find out, but tiredness quenched her curiosity. All she craved was the closeness of her ladies and a respite from riotous emotions.
Isabel crossed the heavy oak doors of the Ajuda Palace. Her boots echoed over the empty marble vestibule. Only the sculptures were there to receive her, their faces austere. She didn't expect the queen to welcome her home, but Luis’ absence pierced her heart. After what she had been through, she longed to lay her head on her big brother's shoulder and cry.
The servants kept their glances down while Isabel dragged her feet to her wing.
Before she could enter her morning room, Lady Philipa came to her.
Isabel leaned into her friend's embrace. When they parted, Isabel noticed she was dressed all in black, down to the veil of her bonnet. Dread swirled in her stomach. Death had visited the palace? Was that why everyone seemed so downcast? Her first thought was of her brother. But no, if the king had died, black crêpe would be covering the windows and portraits.
Heart speeding, she grabbed Philipa's shoulders. "Where are the other ladies?"
Lady Philipa glanced down, pressing the corner of her eyes with a kerchief. "Their families sent for them."
"Why?" The season would start soon. Families were returning to Lisbon from their summer houses.
"You don't know? Oh, dear." A single tear rolled down Philipa’s cheek. She pointed to the escritoire, her mouth opening and closing without a sound. "It's tomorrow's newspaper."
A pressed sheet awaited there. The editor only sent an advance copy when he feared the news might displease the king. A sinking feeling plunged in her stomach as Isabel lowered her weight to her desk.
Her picture crowned the front page. In gaudy typography, the headline said:Runaway Princess accepted a prince's offer and eloped with a viscount.
Her eyes blinked rapidly, and a sob escaped her mouth. A heaviness expanded from her chest to her limbs. She forced herself to keep reading, even though her mind wanted to collapse.
"Princess Isabel de Orleans shed her morality as one exchanges the winter wardrobe. A summer spent in sin, financed by the public coffers."
Luis would set it to rights. The dreadful news hadn't been published yet. He had to. Had he not promised to hunt all the drakes in the lake so the hens could be left unperturbed when she was ten? Had he not ruffled her hair when she scraped her knees and listened to her music performances when she knew he wanted to be outside? Her arms ached to hug him and ask him to make it better.
Isabel sped through the corridors on the way to the music room. The queen and her ladies blocked the way. Isabel halted, her cheeks burning with mortification.
One of the ladies noticed her presence, and their dithering ceased. All eyes turned to Isabel. Forcing her chin up, she shuffled past them without meeting their superior gazes. Whispers of horrible Italian terms likeputtanaandvergognafollowed her inside.
A stale silence pervaded the room. Her brother sat on his worn leather chair, the cello resting by his right side, his golden head bent.
Her heart leaped. A cry escaped her throat, and she raced to him.
He stood and raised his hand before she could reach him, his expression granite hard.
Isabel halted, her hopes crashing like a bird flying straight at a glass window.
"Is it true?" His voice was harsh.
Her cheeks burned under his scrutiny. She exhaled, and the air abraded her airways. "Not all of it."
"Which parts of it then? The affair with Penafiel? The trysts with that puppy Alfonso? The pagan revelry in the palace garden?" His face became red.
Isabel brushed away a stray tear. "The journalist distorted everything. I fell in love with Henrique—"
"I don't care to hear how my best friend seduced you." He flung the newspaper at the hearth and turned his back on her. For several seconds he gazed at the fire, his chest rising and falling irregularly.
"Please, Luis, you must understand--"
When he faced her, all traces of anger were gone. He adjusted his ruby studs and speared her with a demeaning stare. "I sent you to defuse a crisis, and you caused a scandal of geopolitical magnitude."
Isabel’s chest caved at the cold reprimand. She would rather have the brother's anger than the king's displeasure.
