Chapter 286: The Hostess

“Your praise is overly exaggerated,” Lucrezia chuckled.

She wore an Italian-style gown, revealing her alluring shoulders and neck. One hand held an embroidered handkerchief, coyly covering her mouth, letting the lace sleeve slide down to reveal a jade-like arm, enough to captivate any Spanish gentleman.

“I could never be Euterpe. But you, Your Excellency the Count, all the wisdom and talent of Mars and Orpheus are gathered in you alone. Please bestow upon me the beautiful song you have composed, ‘The Beautiful Spanish Lady.’ This gift is truly too precious.”

“A lewd and vulgar little tune,” Sanavria thought, having heard it sung in taverns and on various occasions. He wanted to mock it loudly, but he held his tongue, merely grunting a few times.

“It is my honor.”

“I’m afraid I may not be entirely worthy of your precious gift,” the hostess’s clear voice continued in a deliberately coy tone. “I can’t be called beautiful, nor was I born in Spain.” A murmur began to spread through the crowd.

“I was born on the island of Madeira, grew up in Porto, and married in Naples. Until I came to the Philippine colony, I never had the chance to set foot on Spanish soil. But thanks to His Majesty Philip, every place I have set foot is under the sun of Spain, bathed in his greatness and mercy.”

The low murmurs of the guests turned into a loud clamor. The male guests all took off their hats and held them respectfully to their chests, shouting, “Long live the King!” Taking advantage of this fervent moment, the Count announced he would play a march composed in honor of His Majesty Philip. He used a novel technique that the audience had never seen before, playing the harpsichord while simultaneously using the music and gestures to signal the small orchestra beside him to follow his lead. The few Filipino musicians were clearly very talented musically and actually played the entire piece completely. Although a modern listener would have found both the solo and the orchestra’s performance very rough, with a thin and dim timbre, and the Pomp and Circumstance March played without any pomp at all, the guests’ reaction and mood were unprecedentedly high. Applause and cheers rained down like a thunderstorm. The male guests waved their hats, the female guests dropped their fans, and everyone surged towards the performer like a tide, each wanting to shake the Count’s hand. Sanavria was caught in the crowd and involuntarily moved forward. When he finally managed to stand still, he saw a fervent lady bringing the Count’s hand to her lips, and two noble young ladies, disregarding their status, were fighting over the handkerchief the Count had placed on the harpsichord lid. Besides jealous resentment, the colony’s top merchant felt an increasing sense of humiliation and anger at being ignored.

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind blew. The female guests cried out, holding down their skirts and dodging the falling petals and leaves. Most of the candles in the lanterns floating in the garden pond were blown over and extinguished. Looking up, one could see that the dark clouds that had been lingering on the horizon at dusk had now covered the sky. It was clear that the weather was about to turn bad, and the garden party could not continue.

Baroness Ciaro was still in high spirits. She beckoned the guests back into the house, taking the arm of Count Fananova and holding her skirt with one hand as she walked in front. Sanavria tried to follow, but he was blocked by a crowd of guests who were trying to get close to the Count. The light from the torches burning under the porch shone through the glass windows into the house. Servants walked back and forth, lighting one candlestick after another. Sanavria noticed that in the unlit depths of the corridor, the faint light from the torches outside illuminated a shrine. A figure in a black robe was kneeling before the statue of the Virgin Mary, like a priest at prayer.

Who could that priest be? Sanavria knew that the late Baron Ciaro had always been rather indifferent to the dominant Dominican order in the area. Although Baroness Ciaro presided over the Misericordia of Manila, her close ties with the Jesuit-affiliated fundraisers from Macau far exceeded her relationship with the local religious orders. There was no time for much speculation, not even to glance again at the shrine. In an instant, the jostling crowd pushed him into the grand drawing room, plunging him into a vortex of music, wine, and feasting.

The clouds that had gathered in the evening finally turned into a boundless curtain of rain that poured down on the capital of the Philippine colony. And Baroness Ciaro’s villa was like a living water system, with corridors like rivers guiding the flow of people to the grand drawing room, that ocean of brilliant light. The walls were densely lined with lights, and servants had placed candlesticks on every table and cabinet, with hundreds of bright Australian candles burning as if they were free. These candles not only had a bright flame but also lacked the black smoke and unpleasant odor common to other candles, making them a costly but cherished item for the wealthy in Manila. Glass, porcelain, and silverware sparkled under the candlelight, along with the jewels on the women’s bodies, their silk gowns, and the men’s medals and ribbons. Guests arrived in a steady stream despite the heavy rain, some whispering, others laughing loudly. Unlike the formal and restrained banquets hosted by the governor and the mayor, everyone wanted to enjoy themselves to the fullest at the home of the colony’s most beautiful noblewoman.

“Hey, ho, look who’s here!” Don Basilio shouted loudly. He was as keen on chasing every feast in Manila as he was on emptying the pockets of every shipowner who came to port. The guests’ attention was drawn by the port tax collector’s shout. They saw a man tiptoeing into the hall as if afraid of stepping on something unclean and soiling his shiny Persian lambskin boots. Besides the Count, this man was the tallest in the room, but his figure was slender rather than robust. His velvet jacket, with a hem that reached his thighs, a belt embroidered with gold and silver, and long stockings with bows and garters, all accentuated his dandyish fragility.

The newcomer ignored the other guests, including the tax collector. He habitually tossed his head to make his brilliant blond hair shine even more under the lights. His left hand twirled his meticulously groomed mustache, while his right toyed with a gilded cane. He swaggered through the crowd, pushed his way to the Count, and extended a hand tightly bound in a lace cuff: “Don Eugenio García Zapatero, a loyal follower and servant of His Excellency the Governor. I greet you.”

As if afraid of being crushed, he quickly withdrew his hand from Weiss’s palm and then seized the Baroness’s delicate hand, respectfully bringing it to his lips.

Weiss took two steps back, feigning to accidentally avoid the “perspiring” mayor’s wife who was rushing towards him with open arms. He took a glass of Madeira from a servant’s tray and strolled over to the treasurer, Andrade. “That gentleman must be a celebrity from the motherland,” the Count inquired in a conversational tone. “Perhaps I am just ignorant, but one rarely sees such an elegant man of letters in the Eastern colonies.”

“Eugenio García Zapatero, the Keeper of the Rolls, secretary to the Governor’s office,” Andrade said, taking a sip of sherry to hide a sarcastic smile. “Or you could call him Mr. Salamanca’s little bee. Nowadays, any Peninsular who deigns to come to the East India colonies can add a ‘Don’ to his name, even if he was just a poor wretch who couldn’t pay his debts back home, or a fugitive from a galley.”

“I heard he writes a Latin sonnet for His Excellency the Governor every week. Last week, to celebrate the relief of the governor’s constipation, he even composed a special poem.” A bored young gentleman never missed an opportunity to mock someone, especially since this secretary’s blond hair was as suspicious as his Latin. “Mr. Count, if you could also write a little Latin poem, Mr. Secretary would hate you as much as Sanavria does. For now, he only has a little hostility.”

“Hostility? Why?”

“Ah, the songs you play make the ladies of Manila so infatuated. Isn’t that enough?” the young gentleman said, toying with his glass. “Be careful, Mr. Count, your way with women will make you many enemies…”

“Including you?”

“Oh, I’m not in such dire need of a respectable widow to fill my purse, but there are many people here who covet this fortune and title,” the young gentleman said, glancing at the star-surrounded Baroness Ciaro.

Andrade couldn’t help but let out a dry “hehe,” because his own nephew was one of Baroness Ciaro’s many suitors. In the face of wealth and title, the age difference was clearly not an issue.

This conversation prevented the two from hearing Eugenio’s compliments to the hostess, but Lucrezia’s crisp laughter still carried over: “Although it is a pity that I cannot welcome His Excellency’s arrival, it is wonderful to have you bring the Governor’s greetings.”

“Where has the Governor gone?” Captain Iker de Suvisarreta asked with a thick Basque accent. This somewhat foolish question was immediately met with a retort from Eugenio: “Lord Salamanca has personally gone to inspect the new fortifications at Cavite. Even with the bad weather, His Lordship has decided to stay overnight in the barracks. From Madrid to Manila, I can swear before our Savior and the Holy Mother that there is no official as dedicated to the noble cause of God and King as Lord Salamanca. He is truly one of a kind!” The governor’s secretary waved his hands, launching into a display of noble passion and profound emotion that was truly beyond compare, seemingly about to drown any unfavorable remarks about the governor in a torrent of words. In the end, it was the Count who rescued Captain Suvisarreta from his predicament, proposing that to show respect for His Excellency the Governor, he would play the Pomp and Circumstance March again.