Page 44 of The Truth About Myths
Isabel twirled the turron in her hands. It tasted overly sweet to her taste. "Do you have plans for after Sandhurst? Will you take a grand tour? Imagine the freedom... Choosing wherever you wish to go."
"Duty comes above freedom."
"A little freedom has its uses. You will choose your own spouse." She kept her tone light and breezy. "No obscure German princess for you, or better yet, no one will force you to marry a cousin."
He fixed her with an unwavering stare. "Are we cousins, Isabel?"
A wave of heat covered her cheeks. "If you count Aunt Eulalia, who married Dom José in the seventeenth century… There is a reason Portuguese and Spanish royalty don't intermarry."
"Different tastes in music?"
Isabel discarded theturron. "Marriages entangle our royal lines and risk Portugal's independence. Portugal and Spain are different countries—different cultures, languages, everything."
"Of course. I admire your love for your country. I feel the same."
They were silent for a long moment. Chaffinches rustled about in the hazelnut trees, preparing for the evening.
Alfonso finished the sweets and brushed sugar from his hands. "What would you want to do if you were not a princess?"
The image of her kiss with Henrique came to her mind and, with it, those dreaded stomach flutters. "I love being a princess," she blurted. "It is an honor to represent my country. I strive to inspire my subjects. Especially the women."
"I'm certain you are a role model for Portuguese women." He gazed at her, admiration shining in his eyes.
Isabel couldn't keep his stare. Her skin was still salty from her ocean frolicking. She wasn't sure if she could be counted as an example of anything and wondered how to change the subject. "When you mentionedpundonor… I fear I missed the word's denotation."
He stood taller. "A Spaniard is nothing without hispundonor."
"Do you mean his honor?"
"Spanish has the word honor. The same as in Portuguese or English. Butpundonoris different. How can I explain?Pundonoris a contraction of punta de honor—point of honor. Many things that a Portuguese or an Englishman can, in all decency, allow himself to do or to be done to him, the true Spaniard cannot." He punctuated the words with vigorous hand gestures. "If he is a man ofpundonor, he must take action against insult. Otherwise, he is asinvergüenza. A shameless man. An epithet worse than death."
The concept appealed to her in ways she could not explain. This sense of duty, of right and wrong, of morality should be present in Kings and subjects alike.
"Alfonso?"
"Yes?"
Isabel tilted her head to the side. "Why are you here?"
"I'm visiting friends, of course." He rose and extended his arm to help her up. "Will you be my friend, Isabel de Orleans?"
She sensed there was more to it, and still… With his dark clothes and serious gaze, he didn't look dangerous. He looked lonely. And terribly homesick. Sighing, she placed her hand in his. "I can be your friend, Alfonso de Bourbon."
Isabel sipped her wine. A gaudy arrangement of roses and crystals broke the dinner table in two. On her side of the flowers, Alfonso spoke about the future, his opinions enlightened and his face inspired. Below the flowers, the men guffawed, and the ladies giggled. One could guess which side Henrique occupied. Isabel tore her eyes from the merman-turned-Bachus reveler. She would show him she cared not if he kissed her and then flirted with Rafaela.
When Alfonso finished his speech about industrial progress, Canastra lifted his glass, his face showing great appreciation. "To Alfonso de Bourbon.Dios, Patria, Rey."
Every guest repeated in unison. "Dios, Patria, Rey."
God, Country, King. Everything the Spanish cared about in the world. All that 'Dios, Patria, Rey' stands for were male entities...
The Duchess of Montijo, mother-in-law to Napoleon the III and Alfonso's great aunt, tapped Isabel's arm. The elderly lady pointed an enormous ear trumpet in Isabel's direction. "Are you perchance the opera singer, the one who seduced my nephew when he was fifteen? Shame on you." Winking, she spoke in a lascivious side whisper loud enough to shake the dead.
The trumpet's silk fringe tickled Isabel's nose, and she sneezed. "Oh, no, I wouldn't. I'm—"
"Ha! Don't tell me. You are Maria Rattazy. The scandalous playwriter?"
Alfonso turned from his conversation with Canastra and caught his aunt's hand, pressing it affectionately. "This is Princess Isabel de Orleans."
