Chapter 231: A Date With Amelia

“Is something wrong?” Amelia asked curiously. “Are you feeling unwell after working so hard? Why don’t we step outside and walk around Medellín for a while?”

There was genuine concern in her voice. More than anyone, she had witnessed the effort Carlos had poured into maintaining the fragile, half-formed government over eastern Antioquia.

The great families were not fully on his side. Some were brazen enough to stir internal trouble, quietly sabotaging his administration while pretending loyalty to the Crown. If Carlos lost, they intended to present themselves as faithful royalists who had merely infiltrated the rebels.

A few had been careless. Those who left evidence behind were dealt with mercilessly. Carlos confiscated their estates and redistributed portions of their wealth among servants and officers loyal to his household.

But others were more cunning.

They disguised sabotage as incompetence. Delays, “misplaced” shipments, failed harvest estimates, conveniently lost correspondence. No proof. No open defiance.

Even his own father, Amelia thought, might have struggled to hold such people in check.

Carlos remained silent for a moment, staring at the mountain of papers before him. At last, he nodded. He did not have the strength to read another report.

“Let’s go,” he muttered. “I’m tired of dealing with those idiots. They truly believe that if Spain wins, they will ascend to heaven. It’s absurd.”

He stood abruptly, sweeping several documents off the desk. They scattered across the floor.

“Even if only to prevent another man like me from rising in the future, the Spanish Empire would strip Antioquia of its wealth. Perhaps all of New Granada. They are being dangerously naïve.”

He tugged open the collar of his shirt, the humid heat of Medellín weighing heavily on his temper.

“I wish we had cold air… something to clear the mind.” He paused, then added, “No—let’s go to the river. I want to bathe.”

Amelia’s eyes widened slightly.

“Then allow me to fetch my bathing chemise.”

Carlos nodded.

She returned briefly to her chamber and selected a thick linen bathing garment. Stark and unbleached, it had a high neckline and weighted hems designed to sink rather than float. Unlike the delicate shifts she wore beneath her corsets, this fabric was coarse and opaque—a tent of modesty meant to conceal every contour even when soaked.

She knew it would grow heavy in the water, dragging against her limbs.

But it was a small price for the cool freedom of the Medellín River.

With a quiet sigh, she joined Carlos at the carriage.

For the past month, they had both been living in the mansion, occupying separate rooms for the sake of appearances. She mounted the carriage, and soon the horses began their steady rhythm toward the outskirts of the city.

Their destination: the Medellín River—known to the indigenous as the Aburrá River.

As the wheels rolled over uneven stone and dust, Amelia glanced at Carlos.

“While we travel,” she said gently, “will you tell me what troubles you so deeply? You know I can listen. I might even have a useful thought or two.”

Carlos hesitated.

“My father-in-law wishes me to expand,” he said at last. “His plan is sound. Strategically, it makes sense.”

He stared out at the passing fields.

“But those so-called elite families… they are the greatest weight upon my ambitions. I fear they will sabotage the war itself. And if we lose…” His jaw tightened. “If we lose, we lose any chance at independence.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Once the first battle begins, I cannot retreat into ambiguity. I cannot pretend loyalty to the Crown. The moment blood is spilled, I become a rebel.”

His voice lowered.

“And then there is my family in Spain. I fear what may happen to my father once the war begins.”

Hearing the strain in Carlos’ voice, Amelia’s brow furrowed. She understood the danger all too well.

She, too, had two sons in Bogotá—both managing their own businesses, both old enough to be implicated if suspicion fell upon her household. And now that society already whispered about her relationship with Carlos, their position was precarious.

If war came, her sons would not be spared simply because they claimed neutrality.

A quiet anxiety began to tighten in her chest.

Carlos noticed the change immediately.

He blinked, almost confused. Had she not intended to soothe him? How had the burden shifted so quickly?

“What troubles you now?” he asked gently.

After she explained her fears for her sons, Carlos let out a slow breath.

“Do not worry. We have at least three months—perhaps more—before any invasion begins. That is time enough to persuade them to leave Bogotá.” He paused. “I have read their letters. They are good young men. Sensible. They will understand.”

He glanced toward the road ahead.

“I will also summon my servants from the estate in Bogotá. When the time comes, we leave no one behind.”

Amelia exhaled softly, reassured—but only partially.

Then she hesitated.

“And what of Master Mutis? And your partners in Cádiz? If this is not handled carefully, they may be implicated as well.”

Carlos fell silent, thinking.

“I cannot tell them anything,” he said at last. “And neither should you—not even your sons. We must offer no explanation. If too many ears hear our intentions, we risk ambush… or worse, a preemptive strike by the Spanish army.”

Amelia nodded gravely. She understood the stakes.

Yet her mind was already racing through possibilities.

Feign illness? Her sons knew her too well. They were aware of her relationship with Carlos. They would delay, demand clarity, suspect manipulation—unless she truly stood at death’s door.

Pretend pregnancy?

She almost laughed at the absurdity. That would only make them more cautious—perhaps determined to remain in Bogotá to protect family interests.

Carlos watched her expression shift, calculation visible in her eyes.

He thought for a moment.

“What about a wedding?”

The word fell into the carriage like a stone dropped into still water.

Silence.

Amelia opened her mouth—closed it—opened it again.

Marriage between widows was respectable. Practical, even. Society would approve.

But marriage was not a simple gesture.

It meant merging households. Lineages. Assets. Power.

It meant placing her freedom once more beneath a husband’s authority.

She had not suffered in her first marriage. As the daughter of a wealthy landowner, she had been treated generously—almost like a queen. Yet even kindness did not erase reality. Once married, she had curbed her own impulses. She rode less freely. Hunted less often. Traveled only with permission. Every movement passed through the quiet filter of propriety.

And if she married again, everything—publicly, legally—would depend on Carlos’ will.

She believed he would not restrict her. His family’s ideas were liberal, unusually so for their time.

But belief was not the same as certainty.

Marriage, even a loving one, meant dependence.

And she had tasted independence for too many years

Carlos saw the worry in her expression and sighed, a faint trace of disappointment crossing his face.

“We do not need to marry immediately,” he said quietly. “We only need to announce that we are planning it. That would be enough. Those with ill intentions in Bogotá would not question your sons traveling here—especially if they bring their wives and children.”

He leaned back slightly.

“Inheritance is a powerful motivator. If you were to remarry without properly separating assets, the properties your father left you could pass entirely into my household. They would never risk that. They would come quickly—to protect their future.”

His tone softened.

“And bringing their families would be natural. After all, what mother would not wish to see her grandchildren present at her wedding?”

Amelia considered it carefully. It was, undeniably, a sound plan. For the sake of inheritance alone, her sons would not hesitate to travel from Honda up to Medellín. And once here, she could persuade them to remain.

Slowly, she nodded. Relief replaced some of her tension—though guilt lingered faintly in her expression.

When she looked at Carlos again, she noticed the shadow in his eyes.

She felt a quiet sting of regret.

She was not naïve. The suggestion had not been entirely strategic. Beneath the logic, there had been sincerity.

She exhaled softly.

“Carlos… although what we have is good, it is still young. And we have not even properly come to know each other’s children.”

Her voice was steady, but thoughtful.

“Marriage is not a small step. It binds not only us, but our families. There is also Francisco. He is studying in Europe. If we married while he is away… would he not feel betrayed? Would he not resent me—or you—when he returns to find his father wed in his absence?”

She met his eyes.

“I am not against marrying you. But for now, our relationship is still new.”

Carlos was quiet for a moment.

She was right.

Marrying without Francisco present could fracture the household. Isabella, too, might protest—especially if she believed her elder brother had been disregarded. And then there was inheritance. Spanish law would likely remain the foundation of any future legal system, even after independence. Francisco and Isabella were the natural heirs. He would need to prepare carefully.

The disappointment faded from his face.

Yet he folded his arms and spoke with exaggerated sourness.

“Perhaps. But your hesitation was not entirely about Francisco. Do not pretend I did not see your expression when I suggested it.”

Amelia could not help but smile helplessly.

Carlos was a disciplined man in public—measured, dignified, composed. But in private, he sometimes revealed a boyish stubbornness.

She wondered if that was why his children were so remarkable.

Isabella, from what she had heard, was already suited for command. The girl had even wounded her own grandfather in training. And Francisco—his mind had shaped much of the Gómez family’s prosperity with ideas few others could even comprehend.

Perhaps a household that allowed freedom produced stronger minds.

The thought lingered. Perhaps she should speak with her own sons about how they were raising their children.

The carriage finally slowed and came to a halt at a secluded bend of the river. Here, the Medellín River—known to the indigenous as the Aburrá—narrowed into deep, clear pools between stone walls.

The water did not carry the muddy hue of the lower plains. Instead, it shimmered like liquid jade, cold and restless, echoing softly against the canyon rock.

Carlos stepped down first. The mountain air felt fresher here, cooler than in the city. The sound of rushing water replaced the noise of politics and paperwork.

He removed his coat and boots, rolling up his sleeves.

For the first time that day, his shoulders loosened.

“Finally,” he said with quiet satisfaction, breathing in the cold air rising from the river, “a day for ourselves.”

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