Chapter 6 #2
Rafael slanted a surreptitious look at Kyra, but saw only curiosity rather than trepidation shading her profile. A good sign, but she had yet to be swept up in the helter-pelter jostling of the crowds.
“It’s best if we stay close together,” he counseled, shifting the wicker basket from one hand to the other in order to take her arm. “The market is quite large, and with all the rows of stalls, it’s easy to lose one’s way.”
A last turn took them through a low archway, and then, in a flash, they emerged from the gloom and into the bright sunlight.
“Oh.” A sudden exhale escaped her lips as Kyra blinked, her eyes adjusting to the blaze of colors and whirlwind of activity.
“It’s a bit chaotic,” said Rafael, trying to gauge her reaction. “But cheerfully so.” Or so he hoped, suddenly worried that he might have misjudged just how overwhelming the experience would seem to someone who had chosen to retreat into the shadows of solitude.
She didn’t answer right away, which was further cause for concern. Inwardly cursing himself for a fool, he fumbled for something to say that might sooth her fears . . .
When all of a sudden, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “There is so much to see—I hardly know which way to look.”
“Let’s begin here,” answered Rafael quickly. Taking her arm, he guided her to a row of fruit stalls. “They have oranges from Valencia here. Their sun-kissed sweetness reminds me of home.”
A woman clad in brightly mismatched calico hefted a sack of the plump fruits. “Aye. A handsome treat fer a handsome gent!” She winked at Kyra. “Ain’t you a lucky gel.”
Rafael promptly handed over some coins. “The luck is all mine, milady.”
The fruit seller chortled. “Oh, sure enough, I be the Countess of Lemons and Limes.” She raised several more sacks and winked. “Or would ye prefer some tasty English apples?”
“Just the oranges for now.” He began peeling one of the fruits as he nudged Kyra to continue along the line of stalls.
Their progress was greeted by good-natured jests and urgings to try more of the treats.
Rafael purchased some almonds and sultanas, then led them down an aisle featuring pots and pans.
“Here, you must taste this.” He handed Kyra a segment of peeled orange. “Close your eyes, and you can feel the warmth of the Spanish sun.”
She hesitated, but only for an instant. “Mmmm. Why, that’s quite delicious!”
“Have another morsel.”
It disappeared even more quickly.
He peeled two more oranges and handed one of them to her. “I’m glad you like them. My grandmother had several trees in her garden and when I was a small child, it was always a special treat when she allowed me to choose one of the fruits.”
“What lovely memories.”
“Indeed.” He hoped that she would soon let her own sunny memories of the past chase away the gloom of the recent events.
She looked thoughtful as she ate—slowly at first, then with increasing gusto. Her fingers were soon sticky and juice was dribbling down her chin. He reached out to flick a drop off her lower lip.
“Oh, Lud.” A laugh burbled in her throat. “I must look like an absolute fright.”
With her loosened curls dancing in the breeze, her cheeks flushed with mirth and her eyes sparkling with life, she had, in his estimation, never looked lovelier.
“You look like someone who appreciates oranges. As do I.” He licked his syrupy fingers, drawing another laugh. “Have some Marcona almonds. The saltiness is a nice counter to the sweetness of the oranges.”
“Oh, I couldn’t! I’ve indulged quite enough.”
“Nonsense. It’s impossible to indulge enough at markets. They are all about sampling everything.”
“Well, if you insist.”
A cheerful crunch-crunch punctuating their steps, they wended their way through the kitchenwares, the stacks of nubby linen and Belgian lace, and on to the flower stalls.
Rafael had not exaggerated—the display of orchids was even more impressive than he had described. Kyra stood entranced, the profusion of subtle hues and shapes leaving her a little breathless.
“Dare I hope the pinks are pleasing?” he asked.
“More than pleasing,” she said. “They are astounding.”
He stood for several long moments studying the blooms. “Let me try to guess which one you like best.” Another drawn-out pause, before his fingers slid through the foliage, and drew one of the potted flowers closer. “I daresay it’s this one.”
“How did you guess?”
“I’ve seen your palette, remember? It’s clear which shades of rose madder and alizarin crimson you favor.”
“Most men would never notice such things,” she mused.
“Ah, but I am not like most men.”
How true. A clench of longing squeezed at her chest, but Kyra quickly shook it off. Such sentiments were now forbidden—she was no longer worthy of romantic dreams. Of romantic desires.
Ducking her head, she began fumbling in her reticle for her purse. “How much?”
Rafael stilled her hand. “Allow me to negotiate,” he said softly. “Wait here.”
He moved to the far end of the display, where the proprietor was busy trimming some yellowed leaves from a small ficus tree. A rapidfire series of gestures and grimaces ensued, then finally a gruff nod from the man. In answer, Rafael smiled and passed over some money.
“Sir, I can’t allow you to pay for my purchase,” said Kyra tightly when he returned. “How much do I owe you?”
A twinkle lit in his eyes. “Oh, never fear, I fully intended to ask for recompense for my bargaining skill. And it will cost you dear, Lady Kyra.”
“How much?” she repeated, reaching back into her reticule.
“You have no need for your purse. I wish to be reimbursed with a watercolor sketch of the bloom.”
“B-But that doesn’t seem a fair exchange. Orchids are expensive?—”
“Allow me to be the judge of that.”
Kyra bit her lip, uncertain if it would be proper. God knows, she had transgressed enough of Society’s rules for several lifetimes.
“I hope we might consider it an exchange of tokens of friendship,” added Rafael.
Friendship. Surely even a fallen lady was allowed to have friends.
“Very well. But I still say I have gotten the best of the bargain.” She reached for the flower.
“Mr. Wilkins says we may leave it here until we finish our shopping.” He hefted his basket.
“We need to visit the section where spices and exotic fruits and vegetables from the east and West Indies are on sale.” Seeing she was loath to leave it, he added, “I’ve already made him swear a solemn oath not to sell it to anyone else. ”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “It’s a little unsettling how often you seem to read my thoughts. Does one of your grandmother’s cacao recipes perchance confer the power of clairvoyance?”
“If so, I should bottle it and make my fortune selling it here in the market.” Rafael flashed a boyish grin. “But alas, no. I have no special gifts.”
Ha! His kindness and gentle humor were special beyond words.
But as she shouldn’t—nay, couldn’t—say so, she merely averted her gaze.
But strangely enough, in that blink of an eye, Kyra thought she saw a skirl of sadness flicker beneath his show of good cheer, as if he too, were masking some inner remorse or regrets.
Surely it must have been just a quirk of the light, for the handsome Spaniard was the very soul of honor and integrity.
Unlike me.
What possible pain could be tormenting his peace of mind?
He gave her no time to ponder the question.
His smile firmly back in place, Rafael kept up a light-hearted commentary on all the sights, peppering his explanations of the various sections of the markets with droll observations that kept her chuckling despite her inner turmoil.
By the time the last items on Rafael’s list had been purchased, they had navigated nearly the entire twisting turns of the produce section.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I fear I have worn you out chasing down these vanilla pods from New Spain.”
“Not at all,” responded Kyra, though fatigue was starting to slow her steps.
When she grew tired, her injured leg ached abominably, but she was determined not to show it.
“I have learned more about New World botany from the last two fruit sellers than I have from a shelf of my Father’s scholarly books. ”
“I don’t know about you, but I am famished.” Rafael spotted a nearby costermonger hawking his wares. “Ah, meat pasties! Just the sort of sustenance we need after trekking through the stalls.”
Kyra was about to protest that she wasn’t hungry when she realized that she was. Indeed, the scent wafting up from the man’s barrow was making her mouth water. She started to follow Rafael when a sudden tangling of her skirts nearly caused her to trip.
Looking down, she saw a dark shape wiggle free of the muslin folds. With its matted fur, torn ear and oversized paws, there was nothing remotely cuddly about the scrawny puppy, but as their eyes met, topaz mixing with emerald in the wink of sunlight, she felt a lump form in her throat.
“Oh, sweetheart. You’re hurt . . .” As her fingers grazed its mud-encrusted tail, a stone thumped against the puppy’s ribs.
“Cripple!’ An urchin, nearly as filthy as the dog, scampered around one of the stalls and hurled another stone. “Cripple!” Two other lads appeared as well, and added a peltering of rotten apples.
“Stop!” cried Kyra, shifting to shield the puppy as the leader of the pack raced in and aimed a kick at its rump.
The blow glanced off her shin, causing her to lose her footing and fall to the ground.
With a frightened yelp, the puppy bolted off and squeezed through a gap between two big wooden casks just as its tormenter lunged for its tail.
“Don’t let it escape!” yelled the urchin to his friends. Slippery as eels, they darted through the gathering crowd and chased after their quarry.