Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You’re what?” Giovanni stared at Beatrice as if she had suddenly grown a second head.
“Sleeping on the floor. If it’s good enough for you, husband—” she watched how his eyes flickered with annoyance and surprise as she used the word “—then it’s good enough for me.”
Beatrice tried not to laugh at the shocked expression on his face.
It was impossible, and she snorted out a giggle.
He jumped in shock but looking at the way she was staring at the ceiling, biting her lips to keep from laughing, somehow broke through the barriers he had put up, and he started to giggle too.
Soon, they collapsed in fits of laughter, their shoulders pressed together.
“Oh my God,” Giovanni laughed, putting his hand over his face. “We cannot both sleep on the floor! It is too absurd.”
“I know, that’s why we should sleep on the bed,” Beatrice chortled, pushing Giovanni playfully. “I swear I shall not even touch you. We needn’t get undressed.”
“It’s not that,” Giovanni said, the smile fading from his face.
“Then what is it?” Beatrice rolled onto her side, looking up at Giovanni’s face.
“I don’t think I can be trusted around you,” Giovanni said quietly, his eyes becoming serious and dark under his heavy brows.
“I think we are both capable of self-control, Gio.” Beatrice widened her eyes at him sarcastically, but it didn’t prompt any of the laughter it might have done a moment ago. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid,” Giovanni scowled. “I just... no, never mind. It’s nothing.”
He turned his eyes away, lying on his back. Beatrice sighed inwardly at the repetitiveness of his pattern. They had come close to having a good discussion over dinner, but he couldn’t help but pull away whenever she got close to him. He had never been like this with her.
“I think you’re keeping a secret from me,” she said quietly. His breath caught in his chest at her words, and she knew then that she was right. She pressed on. “It’s something else, isn’t it? Not to do with us. Something is going on.”
He didn’t answer, letting his forearm fall across his face and hiding his eyes from her, but he didn’t roll over or get up. That had to mean something.
“You seem... unhappy. Especially since the meeting today.”
“Do I?” Giovanni snorted with laughter, but it held no joy. Beatrice knew she had guessed right.
“What happened?” She asked softly. She was trying carefully not to touch him, even though every instinct told her to take his hand and offer him comfort. “You can tell me, Gio. We’ve always kept each other’s secrets.”
“Nothing like this,” Giovanni shook his head, still not moving his arms from covering his face. “This is... different. Worse.”
“How can you say that?” Beatrice prompted softly. “You know about my parents, about what Silas did to my father...”
Beatrice’s words failed her. Talking about her family was always hard, but she and Giovanni never spoke about how Silas had been forced to defend the two of them against their drunken father and how her father had been killed in the process.
She knew Silas had told Giovanni at one point, but the two of them had never discussed it.
Beatrice shook her head, fighting back her tears.
“We’ve trusted you with everything, Gio,” she said. “You can trust me with your secret.”
“God,” Giovanni sighed, “that you should mention parents now.”
“It’s about your parents?” Beatrice asked in surprise.
Giovanni nodded slowly. Beatrice and Giovanni had seldom spoken about Giovanni’s parents. He had told her when they had first met that his mother had died in childbirth and he was a bastard, but nothing beyond that. She had always got the impression that he didn’t know very much about them.
“What is it?” She sat up on her elbow, unable to stop herself from reaching out to stroke his bare forearm, gently tugging his arm down from his face.
He reluctantly turned his face towards her.
She took a second to revel in how beautiful he was—the long, pure lines of his face, caramel-colored skin, dark, striking features—then she patted his hand and withdrew.
She wanted him to tell her but didn’t want to push him.
“I received an anonymous note a few days ago,” Giovanni said, taking a deep breath. “From someone who knew about my past, requesting a meeting.”
Beatrice’s heart jumped in her throat at his words. She immediately thought of the potential dangers. Like her brother, Giovanni had done unseemly things in his youth. There were things that a person might want revenge for.
“Did you tell Silas?” Beatrice asked, thinking her brother would want to know that Giovanni was potentially in trouble. “Did you go to the meeting?”
“I did tell him,” Giovanni nodded, “and I did go to the meeting alone.”
“Of course, you did,” Beatrice shook her head, frustrated at his bravery and his independence. “Didn’t Silas want to go with you?”
“Silas doesn’t deserve more trouble brought to his door,” Giovanni sighed.
Beatrice bit her lip. She wanted to protest that it wasn’t fair that he bore the burdens of Silas’s problems but would not let the favor be returned, but she didn’t want to distract him.
She had just managed to get him to open up, no matter how irritated she was that he had deliberately put himself into the path of danger.
“And who was there?” She asked. “At the meeting today?”
“My father. Or the man who claims to be my father,” Giovanni laughed, his voice more of a bark than ordinary words.
“Your father?” Beatrice stared at him, not understanding. “Did he not abandon your mother?”
“Not according to him,” Giovanni rubbed his eyes. Beatrice wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or if he was trying not to show tears. “According to him, his father separated him from my mother. When she died in childbirth, his father lied and said I had died too.”
“Your grandfather did that?” Beatrice asked gently. It was such a cruel thing for someone to do to anyone, let alone a child of your blood.
“Apparently,” Giovanni nodded, blinking hard. “And then, on his death bed, he told the man who claims to be my father that I lived.”
“How long ago would that have been?” Beatrice asked.
“Fifteen years ago.” Giovanni let out a long breath.
“You were twelve,” Beatrice said, doing some quick calculations. “It was before we met you in Paris.”
“I was still in Rome then.” Giovanni’s eyes were shadowed with pain. “Alone. Struggling on the streets.”
“It was hard for you,” Beatrice said. She wanted him to feel like his pain was acknowledged, that she understood he had suffered. “You must have longed for a family then.”
“I did.” Giovanni nodded, not taking his eyes off the ceiling. “But I had no hope of one. All I knew was that my mother was dead and that no one had ever spoken my father’s name in my entire life. I was completely unwanted until I met Silas.”
“We wanted you,” Beatrice said, her eyes prickling as she thought of such a young boy, so alone in the world. “You have always been wanted by us.”
“I know,” Giovanni’s voice was no more than a croak, but Beatrice felt the thankfulness in his words.
“This man who claims to be your father, does he have any proof?” Beatrice asked.
“Do you think he needs some?” Giovanni asked, his eyes flickering towards her.
“Of course,” Beatrice nodded enthusiastically. “There are people who might try and trick you into hurting you. You cannot be too careful.”
“Very good,” Giovanni nodded appreciatively, and Beatrice knew she had said the right thing. “That’s exactly what I thought.”
“So, did he have proof?” Beatrice asked.
“Yes.” Giovanni reached inside his jacket, pulling out a sheaf of papers tied together with a red ribbon. Slowly, he handed the bundle to her. “They are love letters.”
“From your mother?” Beatrice rolled onto her stomach, holding the letters in her hands. They were very old, she could tell. The paper was brittle and yellowing, but the handwriting was still clear and spidery.
“So he says,” Giovanni coughed slightly as if his voice was stuck in his throat. “And it is her handwriting. I would recognize it anywhere.”
“These are from her?” Beatrice stroked the ribbon, noticing the knot had not been untied. “You have not read them yet?”
“I... can’t.”
Beatrice could tell from his voice that he was scared. She didn’t blame him.
“I understand,” Beatrice said softly. “I think if there were anything left of my mother or father, I would not be sure if I wanted to see it. Or read it.”
“You remember nothing of them?” Giovanni asked, turning his head towards her.
“Barely anything,” Beatrice shrugged. “I remember the feeling of my mother’s embrace, the fear of my father and his fists... we were never a happy family.”
Beatrice shook her head, trying to dislodge a whirl of emotions that flooded her suddenly. Memories of darkness, fear, and the odd moment of tenderness, but what she remembered above all was Silas—always by her side, and then later, Giovanni too.
“Those memories must be difficult,” Giovanni said tenderly. He reached his arm across to squeeze her shoulder gently. She was grateful for his touch, for the familiar comfort of it.
“They are.” Beatrice looked down at the letters. “But these are not your memories, Gio. Maybe it would help to hear some of hers, to know your mother. The small memories I have of my mother, at least, they assure me that she did love me. You should have that too.”
“Bea, I don’t think I can,” Giovanni whispered, dropping his hand from her shoulder and staring at the wooden beams above.
“I could read them to you,” Beatrice suggested carefully. “Maybe just one, to see. Should you like that?”
She held her breath as she watched him. He nodded—a tiny, single nod—and Beatrice carefully undid the knot of the ribbon. The fabric had stiffened with age and crinkled, but with some gentle unpicking, she teased it open.