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Her well-being, her own happiness, had never truly mattered, had it? Not to him, not to her parents. Her purpose consisted of gaining him access to the higher echelons of Venezuelan society. To be received in the grand homes of the old families of the northern coast of South America. It was what he was paying for. Whatshewould be paying for, forever. Her mother, unaware—or simply ignoring—her obvious distress sent Felix another one of those indulgent looks she’d grown to hate. It was so clear to her now that they’d never really cared who they cleaved her to, as long as they got what they wanted.
“We have so much to do!” Consuelo chortled as Felix said his goodbyes and Aurora reluctantly went upstairs. “We will be ready at first light, Mr. Kingsley.”
The moment the door closed behind the man, her mother spun on Manuela.
Could it possibly only have been months since she’d last seen her mother? She felt as though she’d lived an entire lifetime and was ready for the next. But first she had to free herself from the trap set for her by the people in this room. She tried to think of Luz Alana’s and Aurora’s words in Edinburgh. That she didn’t have to keep everything inside. The way they’d asked for her forgiveness because, like everyone else, they’d made assumptions without looking closely enough to see all that Manuela was carrying. But Cora had seen it. She’d seen everything. What Manuela still didn’t know was whether the duchess wanted it.
“It was nice of the embassy to invite you. I had no idea the British were so interested in women artists from South America.” She hated this most of all. Her mother’s insistence on maintaining civility. Even when she was visibly furious, she put on this charade. This pretense. As a child she’d abhorred her mother’s games. How she’d circle around her, asking superfluous questions while Manuela squirmed, wondering when she’d tear into her. It went on for hours some days, until Manuela couldn’t bear it anymore and begged for the punishment, just so she didn’t have to watch her mother look at her with such naked loathing.
Consuelo Galvan de Caceres had many reasons to be angry at her daughter. Manuela had lied to her about what she was doing in Paris. Neglected to inform her parents that Amaranta had gone to Scotland with Luz and she’d remained behind. She’d put in jeopardy her engagement, and much more. They had plenty of reason to yell at her. That was not her mother’s way. It was much more effective to silently condemn. To remind Manuela of all the ways the family had sacrificed for her. What she’d cost them.
For the first time since that night she’d been discovered with Catalina, she didn’t let her mother’s judgment shame her. “I wasn’t invited by the embassy,” she said, taking a seat by the fireplace. “I was a guest of the Duchess of Sundridge.”
“Yes, we’ve heard about the company you’ve been keeping,” her mother seethed, while her father did his best to appear invisible.
“I thought you would be delighted to hear that I was dutifully climbing that social ladder you value so much, Mother.” Consuelo Galvan de Caceres reeled back from Manuela’s caustic tone, but she promptly recovered.
“Don’t play games with me, Manuela del Carmen. You know very well what I’m talking about. I don’t care if that woman is the Queen of England. I know what she is.” Her mother’s voice did rise on that, but Manuela remained undaunted. “You promised us you’d never do anything like that again. Haven’t you disgraced us enough?”
That was how they’d kept her in this trap. Reminding her again and again that what happened with Catalina—the daughter of an investor in his father’s candle business who had rescinded his offer after they’d been caught kissing—was the root of every disaster that had befallen their family. But the truth was that even if she’d cost them that investor, her father was who ruined their family, not her. She was done being their scapegoat.
“You mean whatIam, Mother?”
Both her parents twisted their mouths in disgust, and for the first time Manuela felt nothing. “Let’s speak frankly of these things—”
“No,” her mother shouted, and her father paled. “I will not abide this. You were seen at the opera with that—” Her mother fluttered her hands in front of herself, which Manuela assumed meantlesbian. She remembered Cora’s joke about the secret signal and wondered what her mother would do if she began fluttering her tongue.
“Niña, are you even listening? I could not believe my eyes when Amadita Carrillo’s letter arrived at our hotel in London.”
It had been Amadita Carrillo. She should’ve known.
“Are you intentionally trying to ruin yourself and this engagement, Manuela? Are you truly this imprudent?” Manuela probably should be furious at her mother’s hypocrisy. At the blatant attempt to make this about her indiscretions and not the fact that Manuela was giving up her freedom to keep them all in luxury. But she found that even in her misery, there was some relief in not needing to wear the mask anymore.
“How exactly am I the imprudent one, Mamá?” Manuela demanded, her control fraying at the seams. “Why not tell the truth, for once? Whatever I have been doing here is no worse than Felix carousing around Italy with his mistress. Did that not embarrass you, or was the suite at the Langham he paid for enough to assuage your mortification?” Manuela had never allowed herself to indulge in rage. She’d always known that her very sanity depended on not dwelling very long in anger. But there was no shoving back in the poison that was seeping out of her.
Her mother blustered almost comically at the recrimination. “He is a man, and he can do whatever he pleases.”
“Manuela, do not disrespect your mother!” Her father would never take her side.
“I will not,” she shouted loud enough to make Prospero Caceres take a step back. “I had three months. That was what I was promised,” Manuela protested, fighting back tears. “As long as I was securing my trousseau, I could stay here with Luz Alana and Aurora and when I was done I’d meet the three of you in London.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed, her gaze unwavering. “Do not take that tone with me. You know very well that engaging in that filth and getting caught socializing with people like that would never be all right with us.”
“With people like me, you mean? Women who want to be with other women. Who take women as lovers.” Her mother flinched at her words, and her father roared.
“That is enough! I will not have that kind of language here.”
“Yes, we will. We will speak the truth. If I have to live with it, then so do you, Papá,” Manuela cried, accusingly. “Your gambling and your careless managing of our finances put us in this position, and I am sacrificingmyselfto fix it.” She slapped a hand to her chest, the tears that had been blurring her eyes finally spilling over. “I won’t let you sweep that aside.”
“What has gotten into you, Manuela?”
She almost laughed at her mother’s horrified expression. “What’s gotten into me is that I’m no longer willing to pretend this isn’t anything other than a sale. That you are not trading me, my life, for your comfort.”
“Don’t pretend that you don’t want the comforts too, Manuela. You enjoy all this as much as we do,” her mother rebuked. “Felix has shown me the accounts of your expenses. Don’t make this about me.” It was true. Amassing pretty dresses and luxuries had been just another one of the ways in which she’d lied to herself about the path she’d chosen. But there was another path for her, if she was strong enough to take it.
A knock on the door made them all turn around. The porter stepped quietly inside, though his face was flushed with red.
“What is it, Damian?” Manuela asked, hoping Felix had not returned.
