Lisbon (75 page)

“And so the wheel of fate turns full circle, Charlotte,” he murmured against the sweet fragrance of her lemon-scented golden hair. “And we are together again, for we have survived everything.”

And there above the burning tormented ruins of Lisbon it was so. For them, just as for young Cassandra and her Drew, the sea air would blow fresh and free, it would take them to worlds beyond the horizon, ever happy, ever young. . . .

Author’s Note

The destruction of Lisbon on All Hallows’ Day, 1755—by earthquake, fire, and “tidal wave”—was the greatest catastrophe of the eighteenth century. Three great earthquakes struck the city that day—the last two mainly stirred the rubble left by the first. These great shocks fanned out in all directions for a thousand miles. They jolted a third of Europe.

Scotland’s fabled Loch Lomond on a windless day abruptly rose more than two feet and as suddenly fell back four. In Holland ships and buoys were torn free from their moorings as canals and rivers were beset by turbulence. In England plaster fell and a fissure opened in a field. Sweden’s lakes sloshed ominously. All over Europe chandeliers swung and jangled, wells and springs were disturbed —some rose, some stopped flowing, some gushed red water or spewed out mud, as far away as Czechoslovakia, fourteen hundred miles away from the epicenter.

Nor did Africa escape. The great waves engendered by the collision of the continental plates and the shift of the undersea Gorringe Bank swept down toward North Africa and broke across the coast, washing some ten thousand people into the sea from the Moroccan coast alone. Those same waves reached England five hours later, the West Indies by evening, but by then their fury was largely spent.

The Earth had spoken. . . .

At least fifty thousand died in Lisbon. The earthquake changed the face of Portugal and was felt over a million square miles, caused in England the sudden abandonment

London's earthquakes of 1750 took place on the dates I have described—indeed the strong quake on March 19 of that year was the strongest of six earthquakes that shook London between February and June; it panicked animals and fish, collapsed some houses, and knocked down numerous chimneys, as well as jarring stones from Westminster Abbey's new spire.

Although the characters and plot of this story are entirely of my own invention and there was no Prince Damião, most of the settings are real and readers will doubtless recognize many of them.

Grosvenor Square was developed just as I have shown it, and George I s exceedingly tall German mistress, “The Maypole,'' did actually reside at number forty-three.

The building in which I have set Mistress Effingham's school in Colchester will of course be recognized as Colchester's famous Old Siege House.

The Legend of Fox Elve with its Golden Maiden is a fanciful tale of my own devising, as is the great peak of Kenlock Crag, where Tom is thrust over; but Buttermere and Cat Bells, Friar's Crag, the Jaws of Borrowdale and Castlerigg Stone Circle are all as real as the silvery Derwent Water.

Castle Stroud is lovely Haddon Hall, almost to the life, although I have spirited it away, complete with terraced gardens, from Derbyshire and deposited it along the east bank of the Derwent Water in Cumberland. I chose Haddon not only because of its beauty but also because of its parallels to my story—the romantic elopement of Dorothy Vernon with her lover John Manners in 1558, as well as the fact that Haddon, like the Castle Stroud of my story, was abandoned by its owners in 1700 and left to molder—in Haddon's case for more than two centuries. I was kinder; I allowed Castle Stroud to molder only slightly more than half a hundred years!

Blade's End, where Cassandra's lover lives, although more ruined, is based closely upon Elizabethan Chavenage 
in Gloucestershire—I have even transported some of its furniture and its interesting tapestries named “Cromwell” and “Ireton” to the banks of the Derwent Water.

Although Gretna Green did not become a popular marrying spot for English runaway lovers until after London s half-accepted Fleet Street marriage mart was closed to them, it was still the law in Scotland that anyone could perform a marriage ceremony before witnesses, and at least in England’s North Country it was common enough for runaway lovers to flee across the border and there be married, like as not by some village blacksmith with an anvil for an altar.

The Lisbon that we see today is not the Lisbon of Charlotte’s time. It was largely rebuilt by Pombal (for brevity’s sake I have referred to Sebastião Jose de Carvalho e Mello as the Marques de Pombal throughout).

In all, three enormous waves, looking higher than mountains from the streets of the doomed city, rushed up the Tagus from the Atlantic and broke over Lisbon that day. Sweeping back seaward, they took with them the debris of a civilization—jewels and plate, destroyed paintings by masters like Rubens and Titian, broken gilt furniture, crosses and goblets, silks and tapestries, coaches and horses and broken ships—and the dead. Always the dead.

And with the destruction of fabulous Lisbon, Portugal’s Golden Age—born of diamonds and gold and sailing ships and the spices of the Indies—ended forever.

We shall not know its like again.

The Devil’s hand shook Lisbon town
 And brought the houses crashing down,
Sent great waves roaring from the sea.
Fulfilling her doomed destiny.
The Devil took his choice that day
Of human pawns with which to play.
Chose who should live and who should die
 Beneath a thunderous smoke-filled sky. . . .

—Valerie Sherwood