THE GOLDEN ROSE

Chapter 1 - A Vision Descending

Zacatecas, New Spain – 1770

Clara sent her maid away and the black woman scurried from the room, leaving her unhappy mistress scowling into her looking glass. She could hear the sound of voices downstairs and knew her mother's guests had arrived. She had obviously dangled Clara's return as a means to have her invitations accepted. Not everyone had a daughter as beautiful or talented as Clara, the other members of society would be eager to attend, if only to hear her sing.

The dress was based on one her mother had seen in a portrait recently arrived from Madrid and the slaves had worked day and night on the intricate embroidery and beading. The fan had been a gift from one of her suitors. She knew by using it she was giving him hope that his suit was successful and she had told her mother so, but her mother just told her that she could do worse than the old Don. She should just marry the ancient Spaniard herself. It was unlikely he could even kneel for the ceremony let alone be a good husband. Perhaps that was a good thing. And yet he was one of only many her mother had lined up for her, men of all ages and quality of visage, but none of them of any interest to Clara.

She would be quite happy to run a household alone, like her mother did. Of course, her mother lived as a widow, but she wasn't, she had given birth to Clara unwed and society simply accepted her widowhood.

"Senorita Clara, your mother is ready for you," the maid said timidly from the door.

"Maria, do stop bowing and scraping, I'm not going to berate you, it is my mother I am angry with, not you. Come in and help me with my hair."

"You will let me do the style a la francaise with the bouffant...."

"No! It is ridiculous, you may do the ringlets, and the smaller version like I asked you, and you may add the roses from Mama's garden."

The red gown with it's elaborate embroidery looked dramatic against her black, unpowdered hair, now studded with red roses and the fan was black and edged in lace. She took the stairs slowly and the chatter ceased as she came into view of the guests. She hid her distaste behind the fluttering fan. She could not wait for the evening to be over.

***

Sebastiao entered the house along with his host, Don Miguel, annoyed that he had yet to corner the man long enough for a private conversation. He had arrived from Lisbao mere days ago and he wished to begin his search for the artifact on behalf of his sponsor. Much as he relished the adventure, he now wished only to find la Rosa de Oro and return to Portugal to ensure his family was safe and still being protected. And Amelia too of course. He found it difficult to believe he had been so struck with her because now he could barely remember her face. The belief that separation causes love to grow seemed not to be working in this particular instance.

There was a bottleneck in the small entrance to the house and he looked about for the cause and found himself staring at a vision descending the staircase. Dressed unfashionably, no towering wig, her hair unpowdered, no lace to disguise the decollatage of her daring red gown, the girl was without doubt the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. She fluttered a large fan before her face but from his angle he could see her expression behind it, one of distaste and boredom and he was in sympathy with her and stifled a smile. For some reason she looked down toward him, perhaps she was seeking an escape for the front door was behind him, and their eyes met. Her pupils widened and her lips parted and he felt his body react almost instantly.

"Eu estou apaixonado," he thought. Was it possible? To fall in love with one glance?

She floated down the steps and male guests fell over themselves to offer their arms including a distinguished elderly gentleman who behaved as if he had a right to expect her to accept him. Nevertheless, to Sebastiao's amusement, she ignored them all and they parted like the red sea as she walked into the parlour. Being taller than most of the men there, he could see over their heads toward the parlour where a formidable woman in black, obviously a widow and more obviously the girl's mother, waited with a scowl beside a piano. Another woman sat there, a plain girl with large brown eyes who gazed at the beautiful girl with open adoration.

"Come in, come in everyone!" The widow invited them and everyone fought for the seats set out for the concert, and others stood behind. Sebastiao took his place at the very back, no longer obsessed with talking to Don Miguel, but more curious to discover the source of the rising excitement in the room.

"My daughter, Clara, will sing for you," the widow announced, and the pianist began to play as the beauty took her place beside the instrument. She opened her mouth and any thought he had of anything at all flew all the way back to Portugal. She was an angel, and her voice was a gift from God. She blessed his ears as she sang a number of songs, a popular hymn, a traditional Mexican song and a Spanish lullaby among them. He could have stood there and listened to her all night. He was fairly sure the other guests, mostly males, felt the same.

When she finished, there was a rush forward. He shook his head to break the spell. No matter what he thought of the girl, he was heading back to Portugal as soon as possible and Amelia would be waiting. He felt hot and uncomfortable and made his way out the front door and followed the house so that he stood out to the side, away from the light and crowd.

"Who are you? I've never seen you before?" He would have known her voice anywhere, it held the traces of her singing voice and sent shivers down his spine.

He introduced himself with a bow. "Sabastaio Raul da Silva Mendes, at your service Senorita."

"Clara Consuelo Camila Estrabao," she offered her hand and with surprise he took it and bent his head over it. His lips were so close to her fingers he could have kissed them. He wanted to badly, but being challenged to a duel by an outraged brother or jealous suitor was not a good way to end his stay in New Spain.

"Senorita," he looked at her over her knuckles. "It is my greatest pleasure."

***

Los Angeles - Present Day

Shawn sat up in bed, panting, sweat pouring down his neck. What the fuck? He felt like he had just watched a movie, it had seemed so real, he could feel her hand in his, see her eyes, smell the exotic scent of her. He had been him, but not him, he wore strange clothes, and had a sword at his hip. And she....she had been so beautiful, her gown, her hair.....but it had been Camila.

It wouldn't be the first time he had dreamed of her, she was a staple in his dreams day and night, in all his fantasies and most of his songs. Girls he had been with would be shocked to find he was usually thinking of her when he was with them. He fell back against the pillows. Unlike most dreams, this one didn't fade. It was just there, so real, so close to him. He looked at the clock. He had to see her. Camila. He knew she was in Mexico, having a break before her performance in Zacatecas. He also knew there were flights from Tijuana, he remembered her telling him. He just needed to get there and catch a plane and he could be there by nightfall.

He was compelled, he just couldn't not go, he didn't know why. He had no commitments for the next few weeks, or nothing he couldn't change anyway. He was going to Mexico.

***

Zacatecas, Mexico - Present Day

Camila tossed and turned and then woke up with a fright. What was that? Some strange dream. She had been in a very tightly corseted gown, and she had sung some very odd songs, but there had been one familiar face. Shawn. He had been there. His hair had been long, he wore a strange outfit, but it was Shawn. She had dreamed of him often, but never in period clothing, although sometimes in none at all. She slid her legs over the edge of the huge bed. The building she was staying in was almost three hundred years old and kept as original as possible. She felt the age of it, she felt the spirits of past inhabitants in the wood and spirits in the air. She pulled on a robe and padded downstairs to the kitchen. It had been renovated to the highest modern standards, which seemed ridiculous in the old house, but she appreciated it, pouring a glass of cold water and drinking it down. As she returned to the staircase she looked down into the living room and was glad she wasn't holding the glass for it would have smashed on the floor. She blinked and blinked again. A sweet faced, brown eyed girl sat at the piano and she could hear the music as if it was coming from another world, it whirled around her and mesmerised her. Then the girl looked up and reached out a pleading hand.

"Clara...."

Camila gasped, ran up the stairs to her room, and locked the door. What the FUCK???

***Just a short introductory chapter  -  I hope you like this very different story ***