there had been the man himself. Handsome, yes, but not quite in the hidalgo way. Even in that moment of terror and confusion, she had retained enough of her wits to sense the difference. The man had possessed none of a hidalgo’s raptor beauty. Simply a good-looking man—almost a peasant, come to it, with that blunt nose and open smile. And if his eyes had been such a pure blue as to give despair to hidalgos, there had been nothing in them but friendship and concern.
So Rebecca Abrabanel would conclude, over the years. But she would still find herself wondering about that moment. Hour after hour, at times. It was self-indulgence, perhaps. No other moment in her life, when she looked back, would ever bring quite such a glow to her heart.
“Yes—please! My father . . .” She lowered her head for a moment, shutting her eyes. Tears began leaking through the lids. Softly: “He is very ill. His heart, I think.”
She opened her eyes and raised her head. The man’s face was blurred by the tears.
“We are alone,” she whispered. “No one—” A shuddered breath. “We are marranos.” She sensed his puzzlement at the term. Of course. He is English.
So Rebecca Abrabanel would conclude, over the years. But she would still find herself wondering about that moment. Hour after hour, at times. It was self-indulgence, perhaps. No other moment in her life, when she looked back, would ever bring quite such a glow to her heart.
“Yes—please! My father . . .” She lowered her head for a moment, shutting her eyes. Tears began leaking through the lids. Softly: “He is very ill. His heart, I think.”
She opened her eyes and raised her head. The man’s face was blurred by the tears.
“We are alone,” she whispered. “No one—” A shuddered breath. “We are marranos.” She sensed his puzzlement at the term. Of course. He is English.