“But, Francisca, whatever could be wrong?”
Through her sniffles, it emerged that she believed I would regard her creations as hideous and would resent such an exuberant expression of her gifts.
“Oh, John,” she moaned, “sewing these dresses is the greatest folly I have ever permitted myself. I cannot say what made me do it.”
She misinterpreted my astonishment and pledged that she would never wear either of them if I objected. “Indeed, I shall throw them into the hearth.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” I growled.
Remembering our courtship, I took two hundred-
She reached back over her shoulder to still my hand. “Not now — we haven’t time for that. Later, I promise. But we’ve our Sabbath supper, and Benjamin will be at Luna’s at any moment.”
I slapped her bottom playfully. “I only wish for you to put on one of the dresses, you wicked-minded girl. The one with the butterflies. Please, it’s beautiful.”
“But I shall die of embarrassment, John.”
“Nonsense. It is good for us to be embarrassed at least once a week.”
She snorted. “John, I assure you that philosophy is of no help to me at this particular moment. I shall cringe when they set their shocked eyes on what I’ve made.”
I squeezed her tight, then bit the lobe of her ear so that she yelped. “Do it for your husband,” I whispered, “who feels nothing but tenderness for you.”
“You do not feel particularly tender at this moment,” she observed.
“That is just the tip of my emotions. I assure you the rest of me is as gentle as a rose.” I squeezed her tighter, then growled.
When Francisca was dressed, I held the lamp up as she stood before our mirror, so we might both get a good look at her. I had never seen her look more captivating. The butterflies on her sleeves seemed ready to flutter away.
“Admit it,” I ventured. “You chose that particular pattern for me.”
Francisca bit her lip slyly, then grimaced. “The Sabbath is sacred to Benjamin and Luna. It may be considered an affront.”
“Shush. Do you really think any God worth our while would take offense at a woman who has become a landscape of fluttering wings?”
I pushed her toward the door and, when she continued to stall, lifted her into my arms and ran with her down the stairs, crashing into the walls on purpose, so that she could not help laughing and hollering. By the time I had deposited her inside Luna’s doorway, Benjamin had already arrived.
The old apothecary leaned forward, his spectacles at the tip of his nose. “Goodness gracious me, Francisca. You are the meeting of heaven and earth, dear girl.”
Luna started, as though remembering something long lost.
“Francisca made it,” I announced proudly.
Suddenly, Luna burst into tears and ran from the room.
“What have I said?” I asked.
“It’s me,” Francisca moaned, her shoulders slumping. “I’ll go home to change. I’ve offended Luna.”
“No, no, no,” I said. I grabbed a candlestick and the three of us followed the sound of muffled sobs to the back of the house. We found Luna in the larder where she kept the wax for her sculpted fruit. She was sitting on the floor, sobbing, her knees pulled up to her chest. Benjamin squatted next to her and kissed the top of her head.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s my sister,” she said mournfully.
I lifted her hands to my lips. “I miss Graca too,” I whispered. “Every day when I paint my tiles, I think of you and her both, and how you changed my life.”
Luna fingered the hem of Francisca’s dress. “My sister never had an opportunity to meet you, my child. She would have loved seeing you at this moment.” She traced her fingers across the butterfly pattern. “It’s so unfair that she never saw the two of you married. How relieved and happy she’d have been that you found such a clever girl, John. Youth is incomparably beautiful, is it not, Benjamin? And they have no notion of it.”
Benjamin smiled knowingly.
The next morning, rising to the challenge I’d issued, Francisca summoned me from bed before I’d fully woken and measured me for my new waistcoat, whacking me on the head whenever I yawned.
The following Saturday, I woke to discover my present on her pillow, with a note that read,
It was fashioned from shimmering lavender damask. Across the front she had painstakingly sewn rows of tiny diamonds in yellow and pink.
Thanks to Luna, who cherished a good game of cards, this marvelous creation became known locally as my “King of Diamonds” waistcoat, and for many years I never failed to wear it on my birthday, feeling rather like a present myself when I had it on.
From that day forward, Francisca and I were constantly on the lookout for unusual fabrics. We soon discovered a tumbledown shop at the back of a shipping office on the Rua dos Ingleses from which we could purchase woolens, cottons, and silks from India, Turkey, Persia, and even the west coast of Africa.
I remember, in particular, the dress Francisca made for the Christmas ball at the Factory House, our British club, in 1816. I ought to add that she and I had refrained from attending such gatherings in previous years because of her pregnancies and the ceaseless labor involved in caring for infants. This was to be our debut, in a sense, as a couple — at least for the British community.
As she had no desire to offend the more conservative guests, she insisted on a fabric that would not be too garish. In the end, she chose a soft cotton from Morocco emblazoned with black, olive green, and yellow twelve- pointed stars set against a background of lapis-lazuli blue.
Francisca designed a low collar and long sleeves ending in ruffles for her gown, completing it with a long, extravagant train that I carried for her. The small buttons were also black and shaped into stars, carved from jet in the workshops of Bologna.
When she put this dress on for the first time — her black hair pinned up, a pearl necklace around her neck — she naturally asked my opinion. The children were in their room sleeping, and I was reading the
I wore my King of Diamonds waistcoat to the Christmas ball, of course, under a wide-lapeled coat of charcoal gray that Mama had made for me years earlier. Perhaps the two of us did look “fit for a lily pond,” as I overheard an elderly woman by the entrance remark to her gentleman companion, but I didn’t care; the disdain shown to myself and my mother after Papa’s death had freed me forever from worry over such spite. It is a glorious moment when we finally begin to enjoy our own individuality, and I now had the confidence to do so.
We stood by ourselves for quite some time, drinking punch and feeling like discarded fish, but I soon insisted on dancing nonetheless. Thankfully, the few steps I knew were graceful and surefooted, owing to Mama’s patient instruction. Even though Francisca thought she might faint — indeed might have wished to as a means of escaping the sea of scrutinizing eyes — I led her through the dance without either of us putting a foot wrong.
