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“Have you named it yet?”
“Oh, no,sayidati. We are not ready to bottle yet. Maybe one of us will have an inspiration, but you must taste it first.”
Brahim waved her toward the covered portico, a spacious area between the main house and the upper paddock. Sakina wrapped her arm in Shelene’s and they talked about all their children, the new babies and the growth of the estate.
The following week, on Monday morning, Shelene did the hardest thing. She traveled to Arco de la Frontera. Father Etienne welcomed her, having last seen her over two years ago. He clasped her hands in both of his. The war had been over for several years, but its remnants were evident: shot marks in the marble stone, burn marks and a general malaise about the town, as if the French and Napoleon had taken the soul out of the city. And there was the constant stirring of rebellion in the provinces.
The church in the village was surrounded by the small, neat, whitewashed homes so common to Andalucía. The church stood on the hill near the river’s edge with a view of the river below and a wide purple vista overlooking the valley.
“Oh my dearest, you have returned at the most opportune time. Just this month, the parishioners were lamenting the loss of our stained glass in the south transept. We have missed your skills.”
“I’m afraid I am out of practice. You must need it right away. Have you talked to Señor Arellano? His work is so beautifully detailed.”
“You must not have heard. He passed on six months ago. I have shocked you. I am sorry. I thought your aunt would have caught you up on all the local news. About the stained glass—do not devalue your own skills. I think given time, your talents will exceed any artisan in Andalucía, I am certain.”
“That is kind, Father.” She wanted to accept the project; she needed something to keep her mind and hands busy. “But I have come about a more private matter.”
“Certainly, child. Let us sit.” He drew her to one of the pews at the back of the church. There were three old women at front, praying piously, heads down, rosary beads in hand.
“I ask your forgiveness before I present my petition, Father. I know you will be shocked, maybe saddened by my request, but I insist.”
“Go on.”
“I married in haste and my husband has since abandoned me. I wish to purse an annulment.”
He leaned back, a mutter of disgust as he shook his head then clucked his disapproval. “I cannot not accept this is God’s will for you or for any woman in Spain, for that matter. There must be some other solution. Would I be able to speak with your husband? Perhaps someone in authority can convince him of his duty."
“He is gone, Father. It may be months before he returns, if at all. He is on a dangerous mission in his work for the English Crown. I am but a passing thought.” Was she exaggerating truth or just twisting it slightly for her benefit?
“I implore you to wait. Perhaps a year or more. Until you have thoroughly considered and prayed about such an action. The consequences would be dire.”
“No, Father. I need to know how to proceed. Do you petition the bishop? Or do you petition Rome?”
“Oh, no. This is not to be borne. The damage to your reputation would be incalculable. And what about the embarrassment to your family, so prominent in Andalucía? Please, señora, I beg you to reconsider. Can you not wait one month, at least? Time will temper your current anger and confusion.”
“I cannot be the only woman to want to dissolve an ill-suited marriage.” Well, if her uncle Francisco Belgrano had not ruined her family reputation, how did Father Etienne think she could?
“No, of course not, many women may wish it, but they weigh the short-term satisfaction of getting their way with the long-term benefits of remaining in the marriage.”
“Father, I am not so petty as to demand my way just because I have my nose out of joint. I am being practical. I should have married both a Spaniard and a Catholic. I have neither. Surely that is sound enough reason for a priest to support his parishioner in this pursuit.”
“You are not a child, Señora Forrester. You are a grown woman who evaluated all the possibilities, and you chose Señor Forrester. At this time, I cannot support such a petition.”
She took a deep breath. She knew it wouldn’t be easy. “I will wait one month. If you will not make such a petition, I will travel to Seville to see the archbishop. If he will not make such a petition, I will travel to Rome.”
One month passed. Her anger and hurt had not.
One month and one day passed. Her anger disappeared amongst the wild emotions of discovering she was likely pregnant. She kept to her room for one day, laughing and crying in turn. Had she allowed anyone to be near her, they would have thought she’d gone insane. Maybe she had. She’d never wanted Roman more.
Four months passed. Her elation turned to bitterness when her uncle arrived at Las Colinas with the news that Roman was dead. Or course, Uncle could not have known such news was also the confirmation that both Papa and her brother-in-law Oliver Forrester were also gone. Truly gone.
“How do you know, Uncle?” she asked.
“I was in Argentina. I heard the news there.”
The news had numbed her. She’d asked a hundred questions and her uncle patiently answered them all. What could she do now but accept her uncle’s return especially when he presented a pardon from King Ferdinand?
Father Etienne pretended they hadn’t had a conversation about an annulment, instead presenting her with a stained-glass commission to repair the fabulous nativity scene that had been damaged with the last war skirmish through Arco de la Frontera. She accepted with gratitude. She’d worry about the complexity of the problem once she began repairs.
On her one-year anniversary of her marriage to Roman, she walked through the garden and to the hill where her mother was buried. She carried a small trowel and dug a spot near Mother’s headstone.
She buried her wedding ring, now tied with a lock of Antonio’s hair. That night she accepted an invitation from Señor Navarro to join him for a meal in Arco de la Frontera, accompanied by Uncle Francisco.
