The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(61)

There was so much more to it. As she walked through the lively streets of the Portuguese capital, it occurred to her that this wasn’t just the first time she had been to a foreign land, it was the first time she had traveled to a place that was so wholly unfamiliar.

Which wasn’t the same thing at all.

Poppy had been to a number of locations within England, but even if the towns were new, they had never felt as if they were unknown. Her ears heard the same language she herself had always spoken; her eyes saw the sorts of shops and churches she could find in her own home village. Anything that was new to her was still easily understood.

But today it was as if someone had taken her world and twisted it like a rotating tray on a table, depositing her into a place where nothing was quite as she knew it.

She could not read the signs—well, she could read them, of course—the Portuguese used mostly the same alphabet as the English—but she rarely could figure out what they meant.

It was strange—and thrilling—to listen to the chatter of another language, to realize that hundreds of people were having ordinary conversations, and she hadn’t a clue as to the meaning. She thought of all the times she’d overheard the chatter of passersby as she and her aunt had walked through London (the only place she’d ever been that was more crowded than Lisbon). She never meant to eavesdrop, but it was impossible not to hear bits and pieces: two women discussing the price of wool, a child begging for a sweet.

Now she could only guess, based on the facial expressions and the tones of voice. A man and a woman were arguing across the street—nothing too vehement, but to Poppy’s mind, they were husband and wife, and the woman was cross with her husband for coming home so late the night before.

From the man’s sheepish expression, Poppy did not think he had a good excuse.

Up ahead, at the door to a fashionable milliner’s establishment, two young ladies were speaking with great animation. They were clearly well-to-do; off to their right stood an older lady with an expression of utmost boredom—surely she was one of their chaperones.

At first Poppy thought the ladies might be discussing the hats they had just purchased, but she quickly revised her theory. Their eyes were flashing with too much excitement; the blonde in particular looked almost as if she might burst with joy.

She was in love. Poppy was sure of it. They were talking about a gentleman, she decided, and whether he was about to propose marriage.

From the excited giggles, Poppy predicted that he was.

The people and the language weren’t all that was foreign. The city was vivid in a way that London never could be. Maybe it was the crystal clarity of the sky, or the bright red roofs of the buildings.

Or maybe it was the four malasadas she’d eaten just an hour earlier.

Poppy was entranced.

Captain James was proving to be a most charming and informative guide. He did not complain when she stopped to peer in every shop window, or when she insisted upon going inside a church to gaze upon each and every stained glass window. In fact, he seemed to take joy in her delight.

“Oh, look at these,” she said, for what she knew had to have been the tenth time in the last five minutes. At every shop or stall she’d found something worth pointing out.

This time it was a bolt of fine, pale linen, exquisitely embroidered at the hem. It could be used for a dress, Poppy thought, with the intricate cutwork at the hem, or maybe for a tablecloth, although she’d be terrified someone would spill wine on it. She’d never seen needlework of this particular style before, and she had spent more than her fair share of time in the most elegant shops in London.

“You should buy it,” the captain said.

She gave him a doubtful look. “I don’t have any money, and furthermore, how on earth would I explain its existence when I return home?”

He shrugged. “You could say you got it in Cornwall.”

“Cornwall?” Where had that idea come from? And furthermore—“Do they even make such things in Cornwall?”

“I have no idea. But that’s the beauty of it. I doubt anyone else does either.”

Poppy shook her head. “I can’t very well go around saying I went to Cornwall for two weeks. That’s almost as improbable as Portugal.”

“Almost?” he echoed, not quite mocking her.

“It would be equally difficult to explain,” she said.

He did not look convinced.

“You have no idea what awaits me back in England,” she told him. Honestly, she was a little put off by his flippancy.

“You don’t know what awaits you either,” he said. And although he was correct, and his words were not unkind or argumentative, she thought the statement belied a lack of understanding of her predicament.

No, that wasn’t it. He understood her predicament perfectly. What he did not appreciate was how difficult it was for her to blindly await her fate.

Maybe he was the kind of person who could wait until he had all of his information before making plans, but she was not. If it meant she had to come up with a dozen ideas for every one she actually carried out, so be it.

To wit:

She had considered the (wonderful) possibility that Elizabeth hadn’t told anyone Poppy had gone missing.

She had considered the possibility that Elizabeth had told Poppy’s family but no one else.

But what if Elizabeth’s husband had returned home early?