Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
“The heavens call you, and wheel around you, displaying to you their eternal beauties, and still your eye is looking on the ground.”
Dante’s Divine Comedy
T wo carriages were carefully inspected before setting off in the early morning, soon leaving London behind to traverse the country roads. Green hedgerows and trees bedecked with the last leaves of the season lined the roads as they drove, so that barely anything could be seen from the windows, but the baron settled back into the luxurious squabs with a happy sigh.
“I think you were right, Molly. A day to Hertfordshire is just what the doctor ordered.”
Molly smiled, enjoying the fact that Marco was sitting across from her on the other bench, his fingers laced over his flat midriff as he watched the passing scenery. He wore a thick woolen coat as a defense against the cold but appeared quite comfortable despite the seasonal weather.
“It is both green and pleasant,” he commented, leaning forward in interest as the thick bushes obscuring the view finally broke to reveal the rolling hills of Hertfordshire. The woods in the distance were suffused in the colors of autumn. Rich reds, browns, and oranges framed the gold of rolling fields to create a kaleidoscope for the senses—a view so beautiful it fairly took one’s breath away.
The butler, MacNaby, and a small contingent of servants had departed the afternoon before to open the manor for the baron’s party of guests, and Molly was looking forward to showing Marco the grounds of the bounteous estate. They had elected to forgo breakfast and eat when they reached Elmstead.
A low growl of a hungry stomach broke the silence, and Molly glanced sideways to find her chaperon glaring out the window. Miss Dubois was quite put out to have to wait for her breakfast, her mouth firmed in sour lines and her shawl hugged close against the chill. Molly suspected that her companion was not much interested in the countryside, not unlike her former mistress who had preferred to remain in Town year-round.
“It ees a long drive for somezing we could do at ’ome, non ?” she complained. As a lady’s maid, she would have eaten when she first arose in the kitchen with the other servants, but as companion, she had to wait to eat with Molly. Yet another point of contention between the two of them.
“Ah, but then we would not enjoy the fresh air.”
Molly turned back to find Marco suppressing an amused smile at her admonishment, and she winked in acknowledgment. Miss Dubois was not an enjoyable fellow passenger, but Molly had squashed each of the servant’s laments with a cheery rejoinder which, thankfully, meant she would fall back into a bristling silence for a good twenty minutes or more. The truth was the other woman was not well suited to the role of paid companion, being far better at the work of a lady’s maid.
Eyeing Marco with the excuse of their proximity, Molly could not stop the stray thought that entered her head.
If I were to wed, I would no longer require a companion.
She nearly groaned out loud. It was one thing to covet time with the handsome Italian, and another to leap to the thought of marriage. She knew he liked her, but she did not want to get her hopes up, that he liked her enough to marry! Unfortunately, her infatuation was growing in leaps and bounds, and she did not know how to curtail the phantasies of an unmarried woman wishing for more than her solitary existence.
What the blazes happened to patience, Molly Carter?
Molly settled back to listen to the rhythmic sound of the carriage wheels on the hard-packed earth of the roadways, interspersed by the rustle of a breeze disturbing fallen leaves, and turned her attention to the view. The baron, who was sitting next to Marco, dozed off for a little while, but Molly determined that to be a good thing as she did not wish John to overexert himself.
Eventually they passed the outskirts of a village, a grouping of charming stone cottages with thatched roofs to break the monotony of the landscape, and Molly realized Elmstead was close. She gathered her shawl closer and fumbled around for her basket. The view gave way to manicured hedges and stone walls to mark the boundary of the baron’s estate, and within minutes the carriage slowed, turning into a private lane.
An archway of towering elms lined the drive, opening up to reveal a small Palladian manor house, the symmetry a perfect juxtaposition to the formal front gardens, and the baron shifted in his seat, awakening with a bleary appearance as he rubbed his face.
“I present to you Elmstead, Marco. One of your future holdings, dear boy. It is hopeful that there will be no brushes with death today.”
Molly glanced at Miss Dubois in alarm at the indiscreet comment, but the servant was not listening, peering out the window in interest. “Do you sink ze breakfast ees ready?”
The carriages drew to a halt in front of the towering portico, and MacNaby came forward as the footman opened the door. Molly and Miss Dubois alighted, standing on the drive while they waited for the baron and Marco. When the baron appeared, MacNaby called out in a hearty greeting, “Ah, your lordship! The tide’s in your favor today. You’ve arrived just in time for a fine breakfast from Cook.”
Molly blinked, a strange feeling of recognition causing her to pause. “Were you in the Navy, Mr. MacNaby?”
The butler bowed in acknowledgment. “Aye, Miss Carter. In my distant youth I served on HMS Bellerophon , but I left when I finished my contract, which was how I came to join Lord Campbell’s household in Edinburgh.”
She smiled broadly in response. “My father was a captain in the Navy. He used to speak of the tide’s favor frequently. It was startling but pleasing to hear it after so long.”
“Captain Carter? I served on his ship briefly nearly forty years ago, before Bellephoron was launched. HMS Thunderbolt which sailed out of Plymouth?”
“Yes, I believe that was one of his commands. How odd that we never made the connection!”
“It was a lifetime ago. I do not usually speak of that time, Miss Carter, but I can confirm Captain Carter was well respected by his crew.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacNaby. That is good to hear.” She smiled, a little sad to think of her dear departed papa, but it had been endearing to recall such a touching memory. Something she had not thought about in years, since his death more than ten years earlier.
Nicholas, Angelo, Lord Sebastian, and Mr. di Bianchi disembarked from the other carriage to join them, Nicholas grousing that he needed to eat. To her delight, Marco walked up and offered her his arm, and en masse, they made their way inside to find the breakfast room.
The weather was cool but mild, and the farms surrounding the delightful Elmstead reminded Marco of Tuscany, and he thought what it might be like to be master of these lands.
Simon’s notes remained in his mind, and looking to the east, he realized he was gazing at the tenant farm of Mr. Wright and his wife, Mary. He wondered what it meant for them that they had two young daughters. Would they attempt to have another child? Did Mr. Wright worry about the future of his farm if they did not have a son to toil the fields in the decades ahead, or would his daughters one day marry so their husbands would take his place when he was too old to labor in the fields?
This title was a concern for the multitude of people involved, and the weight of the unknown bore down on him. Marco loved his current career as bear leader to the wealthy sons of the aristocracy because he spent his days immersed in art and architecture. Florence was the greatest city in the world, and he had planned to walk its elegant streets until he drew his last breath.
But now, Simon’s notebook had opened a new world. One where a dutiful lord could improve the lives of many through good governance, and it was intriguing to consider such a role. If executed with responsibility, he now understood it to be a rewarding endeavor that would be a life well spent. As the future Lord Blackwood, he could ensure the wealth, health, and happiness of hundreds of servants and tenants, and thousands of constituents within his domain.
This visit to Elmstead had him at the crossroads, contemplating two different futures. In this regard, his uncle Simon had succeeded in providing insight into the role he was being asked to step into.
Turning back from the window, Marco stared up at the large oil paintings of the picture gallery. Generations of Scotts stared back at him, and Marco realized that his own father had once visited this house. It provided a strange connection to the past to contemplate his father as a boy, running through the halls, perhaps being chastised for boisterous behavior by stern tutors.
“It is very different from the London home,” he commented.
Sebastian was staring up at a pastoral landscape with great interest. “This is a Turner. The signature is hard to read, but this is his style. What do you think, Lorenzo?”
Lorenzo came to stand by his side, considering the calm river that ran under a stone bridge and was framed by trees. He twisted his face in haughty disgust as he gestured with great disdain.
“Bah, Turner, the Englishman who indulges in landscapes and dares to upheave the perfection of form, light, and composition laid down by the great masters of the Rebirth. What is all this swirling, tempestuous brushwork? These wispy, almost formless depictions of nature—it is sheer mayhem when compared to the exactness of Leonardo, the harmony of Raphael, or the majesty of Michelangelo. This amateur’s use of light may fascinate, but where is the clarity, the precision, the ideal proportions that elevate art to the divine? His heavens are dramatic, yes, but do they evoke the sublime grace of a Botticelli horizon or the architectural symmetry of a Palladian landscape? I think not.”
Angelo and Sebastian burst into gales of disbelieving laughter, Nicholas scowling with seething irritation, while Molly and the baron blinked in confusion at the scathing criticism of one of the great painters of England. Marco swept his hand over his mouth in alarmed perplexment, searching for a suitable rebuke to such eloquent arrogance.
Sebastian calmed himself to speak first. “As you can hear, Lord Blackwood, Mr. di Bianchi struggles to form his opinions. It is our hope that bringing him along on our travels will further his education so that he might contribute some of his thoughts to the world.”
Uncle John shook his head, chuckling at the facetious explanation of their guest’s rude assessment. “I believe that Mr. di Bianchi suffers from a surplus of opinions.”
Marco finally found his tongue in the face of such an unexpected onslaught. “I apologize for our priggish friend, Lord Blackwood. He grew up in a barnyard and has yet to learn how to conduct himself indoors.” As they were not all family present, he elected the formal address for his uncle.
At this, even Lorenzo chuckled, his expression wry as he realized his vehement dissection of Turner’s talents. “I apologize if I insulted your art, Lord Blackwood. My friends will tell you that I am enthusiastic about my cultural history, and I forgot myself.”
To his credit, the baron shrugged, his amusement evident. “It was certainly entertaining. Perhaps when we return to London, you can censure my collection there. It will wile away an otherwise boring afternoon to hear such distinct opinions from someone as knowledgeable about Renaissance art as you.”
Molly giggled at this. “A Grand Tour in the privacy of our galleries. I think it is a superb notion, Lord Blackwood.”
After that they visited the garden, the noon sun having sufficiently warmed the day to stroll about, and Molly and Miss Dubois accompanied Marco into a maze at the end of the garden. It was composed of evergreen yew hedges, but the oaks, elms, and chestnuts had divested their leaves upon the ground. The brown and russet leaves rustled and crunched beneath their feet as they entered the opening of the puzzle of foliage, but within a few feet, Miss Dubois stopped in her tracks with a stricken expression.
“I do not like zis. Ze sides are too close, and I feel crushed.”
Molly frowned, having told Marco that she wished to show him the fountain at the center of the maze. “They are not that close. No closer than the walls of the servants’ corridors in the attic at home.”
“But zere are bugs and creeping, crawling zings. Ze baronezz never made me do such zings.” The chaperon shuddered in disgust.
Molly’s irritation was evident when she responded, her tone brooking no argument, and Marco was impressed by her steel. “I am going to visit the center. You can accompany me or you can wait here.”
Miss Dubois looked into the maze and swung her head back to the exit. “I … eh … I shall wait ’ere. Do not be long!”
Even with the bonnet shielding her face, Marco did not miss the glow of triumph that crossed Molly’s features as the servant hurried out to stand outside the maze in agitation. His lips quirked, having some inkling what drove Molly to seek these brief flashes of freedom. The life of an unwed Englishwoman was restrictive, but she constantly fought those bonds as someone with something of a wild spirit despite her polite demeanor.
“Shall we?”
She took his arm, and he flexed in reaction as he caught the scent of cinnamon again. Despite his wishes to maintain his distance while he sorted through his rampant confusion over his future, a future until these past weeks he had considered settled, it was ever tempting to steal a moment with her when the opportunity arose.
Despite Molly’s arm being curled around his, he soon found himself being pulled along with the aggressive young miss. She had requested the baron write down the directions to the middle, and now consulted her page frequently.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” Marco finally asked, after she had yanked him around yet another corner.
Molly blushed. “The faster we reach the middle, the longer we can spend there.”
“Ah, you are worrying about Miss Dubois?”
“I am.”
This raised a suspicion in the back of his mind, and Marco frowned as they hurried through the tightly clipped yews. “Did you know Miss Dubois would refuse to enter?”
Molly hesitated, licking her lips. “I do not know what you mean. How would I know such a thing?”
“It strikes me that you have made a great study of your shadow.”
She glanced at him briefly but continued their ramble with the single-minded attention that reminded him of his friend Lorenzo. “And what of it? What would you do if Miss Dubois dogged your heels like a foul-tempered French poodle, yapping and snarling even when there is no one to fight?”
With that, she swung them around a corner, and the center was revealed. Marco stopped, a little stunned by such a riveting installation in such an unexpected place. A small country estate? What riches the Blackwood title must control!
It was a magnificent fountain, drained for the winter, but magnificent nevertheless even to a Florentine accustomed to beauty. Diana, the goddess of the hunt, was blowing a horn as if to summon the wild spirits of the woods to follow her on her chase. She wore a short, flowing tunic which revealed long sculpted legs strapped in sandals, as she stared into the distance where her prey must be racing away with dread, or perhaps excitement, a majestic stag running by her side.
Staring up at the eerie face carved of stone, Marco was struck by the likeness. He looked down at Molly, who stood in awe, as if transfixed. He returned his gaze to Diana.
Their similarity was uncanny, and a shiver ran down his spine as Marco realized that, perhaps, he was the prey and there might be no shaking Molly from her quest to join with him. There was something about the young lady. Something unrelenting about her force of will.
His dismay was offset by the rush of heat from thinking about Molly’s slender legs bared to him … clinging to his hips … which he fought back while his thoughts reeled. He was ill-prepared to commit to a life here, so far from everything he knew. There was no denying she was pure temptation, even now the subtle fragrance of cinnamon made his mouth water, but would merry England, and the huntress at his side, release him if he chose to return home as a bachelor? Or had he entered the otherworld from which escape was not possible?
Yet … what would it be like to have a woman of such strength at his side? Success would be inevitable with such a determined and enticing partner.
Marco was afraid that visiting Elmstead had made his thoughts even more confused. Was he now contemplating accepting this fresh path that fate itself had thrust at him? None of this was what he had planned for himself. Within just weeks, his life had changed so drastically, not to mention there was still a killer stalking him back in London. How was he to make monumental decisions about his future when he did not know if he would survive the week?
And what of the risks of giving away his heart a second time? Watching Catherine fade away had decimated him. He did not know if he could survive allowing himself to love again, when death could steal his other half. Was it not safer to maintain his independence and return to Florence as an unmarried gentleman to live his life as he had the past few years? It had taken a long time to carve out some peace after such a terrible loss.
Clearing his throat, he decided to stand his ground before things got out of hand. “Molly, you understand I do not know if I shall remain in England?”
Her eyes found his, confusion in their depths, and he realized that while the past few seconds had been rather ground-shaking to him, she had no notion of what he had been thinking.
“I know.”
“Then you understand we cannot come to any agreement? You and I?”
She looked down, her disappointment plain despite her attempt to hide it. She finally answered in a thick voice, “I know.”
“There is much for me to consider. About this title. About Florence. I cannot say what the future holds. We must resolve this danger first, and then, perhaps, I can find some … chiarezza ?” He stopped, irritated that his English had failed him at such a pivotal moment.
“Clarity,” she replied, her shoulders sagging slightly in defeat.
“ Sì . I need to find clarity, and we must not imagine things are something more than they are. I do not say this to hurt you, but I cannot make any promises and it is best we do not pursue anything while I sort this out.”
She sucked in a deep breath, staring at the empty basin of the fountain. “I know.”
Laying out the hard truths should have brought him some comfort, but it did nothing to ease the sense that he was standing at a fork in the road, wholly uncertain which route he should pursue to find his happiness. The sense that the most important decision of his life was before him, but he did not know which path would lead to the heaven of a fulfilled life versus which path would lead to the hell of regrets.
He reached into his pocket to stroke the etched surface of the timepiece he had received from his father and wondered if Peter Scott had faced a similar decision when he had argued with the late baron about his intended marriage to Marco’s mother. What would his father say if he were here now? Which path would he counsel Marco to take after all the struggles he had faced until his life had prematurely ended? Would he have encouraged him to take Papa’s place in England, or dissuaded him from giving up what he had built for himself in Italy?
Perhaps it was time to escort this party home so Angelo and he could resume the search for the journal and end this plot to kill him so he might be freed to consider his choices.