Chapter Text
A schedule of four months at sea was a significant undertaking for even the most experienced of diplomats.
By that metric, nearly five months left the passengers and crew pushed to their limits by the addition of long weeks in a stagnant and unmoving Atlantic doldrum. A test of the constitution and sanity for all those weak of heart. Luckily, Vincent was not weak of heart. He was well-versed at sea, with numerous (albeit shorter) voyages around the Americas under his belt.
Although, there was a high chance that this particular voyage may be his last. Soon after his forty-fifth birthday, Vincent received a letter regarding his new assignment, and it was a permanent one this time. He was to be made a member of the Mexican diplomatic consulate in Britain, working under Ambassador Díaz.
To leave his home and people was a decision he did not take lightly, but to be an implement in the stability, peace and protection of his country was an honour. One that he would undertake with his fellow compatriots’ needs close to his heart and the profit of immoral, avaricious men as far from it as was possible.
A cynical part of him thought that perhaps he was being pushed away from Mexico for that exact reason. One less well-respected, multilingual detractor at the gates of Puerto de Veracruz meant that however many dodgy dealings he could have prevented entering or leaving his homeland would proceed unchallenged.
Nevertheless, there was good work to be done far from his beloved city, too. The Guerra de los Pasteles was finally over, the absurd ‘Pastry War’ with France that had ravaged said city and beyond. Regardless of the continuing instability in Mexico, the relations between it and Britain were stronger than ever before. Britain’s diplomatic intervention and support during the war was instrumental for its completion, as much as it pained him to admit. Over two hundred lives lost was devastating, but it could have been many more without external mediation.
Preserving that relationship was vital, and the importance of his assignment had been provided in detail to him by his superior. Along with the longevity of the position…
“You’re sure to be there a while. Why not settle down, find a nice rich English woman, maybe? If the beautiful women here in Veracruz aren’t good enough for you, all the more for me.”
His unmarried status had always been a difficult point. Some saw his attendance at church and pious following of the Catholic teachings as reasons for his bachelorhood. He’d been called a monk, a priest, padre in jest many times. He took it as a compliment. His faith was important to him, yes, but a deep unwillingness to live a life that feels inauthentic was his greatest motivation of all.
Of course, some knew he was of a different persuasion. A sodomite, some might say, though he could count the times he’d engaged in such actions on just one hand. He never cared much for seeking out sex, though the shared experience and intimate friendships he had with other cuir men and women and those in-between were very important to him.
He did not care for hiding it, for acting normal. Not for the twenty years since oppressive Spanish colonists were finally overpowered and expunged and, along with them, their sexually repressive laws. Mexican independence was a battle hard-fought with much blood spilled, and it had brought numerous freedoms he could have never imagined in his early years and early twenties.
Judging on those laws imposed by the Spanish, Vincent assumed that much of European law and attitude was conservative on such topics. He didn’t know to what extent.
The boat had become an uncomfortable home over the previous months, though there was something soothing about it. The curved, dark walls swayed with the waves, breathing and womb-like, but now it was time to be berthed.
The choppy, dirty waters of the famed Thames River welcomed the conclusion of his journey.
When he finally stepped off the boat, it felt like there was an assault on the senses, suddenly pushed from seclusion and into the middle of a bustling dock in the heart of London. The majority of people he could see, working and shouting, were paler than Vincent had ever seen, far fairer even than the Spaniards and French he’d unfortunately met throughout the years, even fairer than the Dutch and Englishmen he’d met in Mexico and other countries he’d visited, those who were often so burned by the sun their skin had turned a painful-looking shade of pink; raw and ruddy.
He supposed they were speaking in English, a language of which Vincent was confidently fluent, but with accents so heavy and without annunciation, he couldn’t understand more than one in a handful of words. A dialect, perhaps. His tutoring and imported English texts never prepared him for such things.
As he looked around in bewilderment, he considered that, in all likelihood, there was much more he wasn’t fully prepared for.
After a short wait on the dock, a few of the ship’s crew pushed a cart carrying luggage down the ship’s cargo ramp. Vincent was travelling with a singular trunk which held all of the belongings that he deemed important enough to bring. Books, clothes, a formal hat, a traditional woven rug, some pottery he’d collected over the years, hopefully remaining intact.
When it came to heirlooms, his family were far too poor to pass anything along to him of any value. Anything practical had been left to his dear sisters, with their large families to raise and rural homes. The only exception was his mother’s small, silver ring, which had been smithed by his father for their engagement. It was the only item that was left to Vincent after her death, likely in the hopes that he would give it to someone someday for his own engagement. It was incredibly sentimental to him, and he often wore it on a chain around his neck.
He also brought with him material memories, scratchy drawings he’d made of his family and home as a young boy where the technology of photography had not quite reached his village. A few disintegrating dolls that his siblings and he had been taught to make from sun-dried corn husks and played with as young children in the time before he was ripped from them and sent far away to the Catholic boarding school in the city.
He’d only seen his sisters a few times after that. Not once in the last decade. Now, he assumed he would never see them again.
He was collected by a horse-drawn carriage sent by the embassy and greeted in familiar Spanish by the assistant on board. It was a welcome sound and sight to be in the presence of a fellow countryman while surrounded by such unfamiliarity. The ride through the city was a mildly enlightening, somewhat unintentional whistle-stop tour of the sights as they travelled from east to west.
The streets were far dirtier than he imagined they would be – due to the permeating odour, he assumed the horse traffic was the main cause of that – and the disparity of the city was immediately obvious. He saw such proud displays of wealth and empire, whilst beggars and young urchins crowded in ornate doorways that the carriage sped past.
Some streets were dotted with well-to-do carriages and large homes with maids and servants, gentlemen in tall hats and double-breasted jackets, and gentlewomen in wide skirts and corseted waists. Yet two roads over there were slums and suffering that Vincent had never expected from the splendorous stories he’d heard of the city.
Higher up, St Paul’s Cathedral rose above all nearby buildings, and it appeared to be the grandest church Vincent could ever remember seeing; with its baroque details, dome and spires. So extravagant. Vincent, who was led to believe that Catholic architecture was grander and more ornate than the humbly styled Protestantism, wished to go inside to see if the grandeur continued. He also wished to learn of what work the church was doing to improve the situations of the people on the streets below.
Vincent thought of Proverbs, 14:31. “Those who oppress the poor revile their Maker, but those who are kind to the needy honor him.”
After arriving at the embassy, the next few hours were a whirl of meetings and contracts and formalities. He was put up in a guest suite with thin, scratchy sheets and far too many steep, narrow stairs. It took him and two assistants close to an hour to haul his trunk up to his room.
The room was only meant to house him on a temporary basis while he looked for a place of his own, but he soon would find that each day filled his bones with so much exhaustion that he simply fell into bed each night and slept like the dead, and had little time to search for an abode.
“Had you been relocating with a wife and family, you would have had a house assigned to you.”
The comment, though it seemed a casual one, was punctuated with questioning glances from others in the room. New colleagues, expressions ranging from surprised and curious to disapproving.
Vincent smiled, trying to ignore the attention. “Well, I’m glad I could spare the expense from the funds of our diplomatic mission.” He paused, allowing the stiff tension in the air to build a little. “All the more to bolster the wine budget at the next dinner meeting. Drunken men make generous offers, do they not?”
There was a polite chuckle, the strange air dissipated. The questions, avoided.
The next diplomatic dinner he’d mentioned wasn’t so far in the future, just days after Vincent’s arrival, he found himself donning his only formal outfit, a brown suit with subdued touches of white charro detailing along the outseam of the trousers and jacket. His tailor had been disappointed by the request, as he often was when Vincent was in his shop, as the man never dressed in an ostentatious way (or spent much money doing so). Despite admiring the attire of others, he viewed clothes on himself as merely functional. Now, looking at himself in the mirror, he knew his tailor had taken some liberties and done a good job. The function of this particular outfit was, rather simply, to impress.
The embassy’s dining hall wasn’t a particularly grand room. It was mostly empty except for a large banquet table and high-backed chairs, but it was adorned for the occasion with floral displays and with attendees in tall hats and heavily decorated military uniforms that gave it a more aristocratic air.
As soon as he entered the room, there were dozens of eyes upon him. Blue and grey eyes, unnervingly light. In times of war, eyes as light as these upon him were a sign of danger that was instilled unto him at a young age. He wondered, then, what his beloved late parents would think of his position, with their sincere distrust of authority and government. A distrust that passed between generations, in them as an urge to revolt that transformed into fear throughout the years of violence, and in him as an impetus towards a goal of doing whatever he could to assist the post-war reformation.
“Señor Benítez?” A quiet voice came from beside him.
When he looked over, he saw it was one of the maids for the embassy, an English girl, Margaret. She usually worked mornings, cleaning and providing fresh pots of coffee. Vincent assumed she had been offered some overhours to help out that evening.
“Margaret, good evening. I hope you are being well compensated for such a long day here with us.”
“Of course, Sir.” She smiled and bowed her head, “Would you like a drink? There’s wine, gin, brandy, or… I could make you a shrub if you prefer. There’s no alcohol in them, however, but they are quite delicious.”
“Red wine would be great. But, please Margaret, don’t rush, I could retrieve it for myself if you may point me in the right direction.”
She looked startled, “No, no need, Sir, you have many more important things to attend to this evening, I’m sure. Please, go ahead, and I will bring it to you in just a couple of minutes.”
He conceded and bid her thanks before proceeding further into the room, where he saw the Mexican ambassador surrounded by a group of men in variations of British military redcoats. When the ambassador spotted him, he stepped back from the circle, then raised a hand and beckoned Vincent into the fray.
Even in familiar company back home, Vincent did not enjoy being the centre of attention. He preferred his work to be recognised rather than himself. Nevertheless, he was not unused to being in situations that brought him discomfort.
“Gentlemen, if I may introduce the newest addition to our embassy. Mr. Vincent Benítez, a highly respected diplomat from the great port of Veracruz.”
Vincent bowed his head, “Thank you, Ambassador Díaz.” Vincent raised his hand to grip that of the man next to him and worked his way around the group, shaking hand after hand. “A pleasure to meet you all.”
“Five months at sea, and he finally arrived earlier this week.” The ambassador continued.
“Five months? How did your family fare with such a long voyage?” The man in front of him, a moustached Colonel whose name Vincent forgot the moment it was uttered, asked with raised eyebrows.
“Ah, well, I travelled alone.” He continued his way around the circle and ignored the murmurs of quiet gossip that circulated and continued, “We unfortunately hit a rather stagnant doldrum on the Atlantic crossing, but I am quite well versed at sea, and so were the crew. I did what I could to help, but it was a case for patience. There were plentiful provisions for the additional time.”
When Vincent reached the last man in the circle, he was greeted by an old gentleman with blue eyes, of which the kindness in them betrayed their lightness, and a thick paunch around his midsection. “Very good. I wouldn’t wish scurvy on anyone,” The man smiled. “Pleasure to meet you, I am Joseph Lawrence.”
“It’s very good to meet you, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Sir, actually.” The man waved his hand, as if it were of little importance to him.
“Of course, apologies,” Vincent bowed his head for a moment. He was momentarily distracted as he sensed someone approaching his other side, and thanked Margaret for the glass of red wine she handed him. He felt grateful to have something to occupy his hands.
“You say you travelled alone?” Sir Lawrence asked with an unreadable expression, neutral but curious. “Was your wife required to stay? Or - my apologies, are you a widower?”
“Not a widower, thank the Lord. I’ve never been married, Sir.”
“A handsome man like yourself? I would have assumed the women would flock around you.”
Vincent chuckled, “Perhaps they did at one point. I never cared much to notice.” He took a sip of his wine.
Sir Lawrence paused then, “No? If I may be so bold, why ever not?” He stepped away from the group, leaving them to continue their separate conversations.
Vincent followed and took a second to assess the situation. “My interests lie… elsewhere.”
Sir Lawrence nodded slowly, then, “I see. I did hear that the alleviation of Spanish law had opened the doors to a variety of activities that were previously forbidden...”
Vincent did not respond, unsure of the direction of the conversation. What was Sir Lawrence insinuating? Was the man of the same persuasion as he? It didn’t seem the case, but Vincent had been surprised before. He didn’t wish to reveal his preferences to a man he did not know nor trust. He reached to the chain around his neck, finger brushing against his cross and his Mother’s ring as a habitual comfort.
Seeming to notice his unease, Sir Lawrence continued. “In the military and now as a diplomat, I’ve travelled the world and met many communities, Mr. Benítez. I have taken the belief that it is difference that strengthens and enlightens. Nevertheless, in case I have assumed correctly, in jolly old England, such activities are not tolerated in law or in polite society, at least, not openly.” He placed a hand on Vincent’s shoulder. “I tell you this so that you don’t have to hear it from someone less worldly than I. Do you understand?”
“Thank you, Sir. That is much appreciated.”
Sir Lawrence observed him for a moment. “You seem a good, respectable man. I think you could go far in this line of work. I would like you to meet my daughter, who is also unmarried.”
“Sir, that’s very kind of you, very welcoming, but-” Vincent was interrupted.
“My daughter is not as one would expect, Mr. Benítez.” He spoke quieter, “I apologise if this is terribly forward, but I’d like the two of you to meet so you may discover your shared differences. Potentially, an arrangement could be formed that may be convenient for both of you.”
“Well, I certainly am in need of new friends. Marriage, however, is not something I am searching for.”
“I understand.” The older man nodded, and looked away before continuing to talk. “I pray that my continued boldness is forgiven, but I must explain in trust that you will respect me enough to never repeat this… My daughter, you see, was not always labelled in such a way.”
Vincent was stunned. He needed to clarify what the man was telling him, “What might you mean by that?”
Sir Lawrence stepped further towards the edge of the room. “She was always so uncomfortable in her skin, in her youth. As my son, she struggled every day, like a worsening ailment as she developed. It was as if it caused her immense pain, not of the body, but of the soul,” He whispered. “Doctors threatened her with the madhouse, but as I told you earlier: I have travelled the world and all sorts of people, I recognised something in her that I had witnessed on such travels.”
Vincent’s first thought was a pained one of the ongoing atrocities of Europe’s consumption of the world, which had allowed Sir Lawrence to have such experiences. It was a thought that, if dwelled upon too long, could have made him feel nauseous to be sharing a dinner with the powers in that room; to be standing in that country. Vincent instead thought of the way the struggles of Sir Lawrence’s daughter mirrored that of his beloved friends back in Veracruz, ones for whom assigned sex seemed, for some, like an inconvenient recommendation they had not followed, and for some, a set of manacles.
“I believe that I, too, have met those afflicted with such pains,” Vincent said in a tone he hoped was assuring of his discretion.
“I assumed as such.” Sir Lawrence smiled. “If you agree to meet with her, maybe she will choose to explain it better than I ever can. She still has some difficulties with the label of daughter, and woman, it seems that it’s not exactly correct for her, but it appears to ease the struggle she felt in childhood. Less painful, and easier to find acceptance in society too.”
“I’m glad she has been blessed with such an accepting father, Sir, but I do not know…”
“Of course, you have concerns. I have some too, as her spinsterhood is starting to raise questions, and as you may understand, she cannot marry just any man. Please be assured, she has received plentiful offers throughout the years, but they did not know of her condition.” Sir Lawrence smiled and then sighed. “I’ve heard that arranged marriages aren’t in vogue any more, but I fear for her; for the depths of others’ curiosities. If anyone were to go digging into her past records, it would cause great trouble for her, and for our family.”
“Sir, marriage is not something I have ever considered a path for my life.”
“Our family is wealthy, Mr. Benítez. You would live a very comfortable life. Beyond that, I’m sure a British wife would improve your diplomatic potential...” The other man trailed off as he seemed to notice the lack of impact his statement was making on Vincent’s demeanour. He exhaled slowly. “Look, a casual meeting is all I ask.”
“With respect for you and for her, I shall agree to a casual meeting. As I said, I would like to make new friends in this city. Please, what is her name?”
“Thomasina.”