Chapter 10 #2
Surely she remembered all this? Surely Jonathan and the villa were inextricably linked in her mind?
He searched her face for signs of awareness, but she avoided his gaze and continued: “Our very kind friend has also offered to tour us about the ruins. But first, please come this way.”
She struck out directly toward the tent, trusting the others to follow.
As they circled round to the front, Jonathan observed three of the tent’s four sides were draped in thick hangings to ward off the chill.
The fourth was left open, revealing an interior piled with carpets, cushions, blankets, and a low table set for luncheon. The effect was luxurious and cozy.
“A picnic in wintertime, Claire?” Lady Cainewood raised a skeptical brow. “Won’t you be cold?”
Lifting her chin, Claire marched past her elder sister and claimed her place at the head of the table. This was everyone’s cue to take their own places, and they obeyed.
Beneath the table they found foot warmers and sheepskins enough to dispel all of Lady Cainewood’s doubts. Once the steaming teapot went round, the guests were quite as comfortable as they could wish.
As the duke, Jonathan had been assigned a spot beside Claire again, of course, with Mrs. Chase on his other side.
His spirits revived by hot tea and Cheshire sandwiches, he lounged among a heap of cushions, feeling almost carefree.
Though he would have liked to renew his acquaintance with Mr. Hawkins, whom he recalled as a well-traveled sort full of interesting stories, at the moment their relative placement allowed for no more than perfunctory conversation.
Instead, Jonathan admired the view beyond the tent opening, which was principally of the adjacent bath house. Or rather, what once had been a bath house, for all that remained of it were crumbling foundations, the rough outlines of an elegant plunge pool, and a remarkable mosaic floor.
Somebody had swept the mosaic clear of snow.
Worked in thousands of tiny millennia-and-a-half-old tiles, it depicted intricate patterns of entwined snakes surrounding the head of Medusa.
Though her face was ugly and cold-eyed, Jonathan knew the Roman Britons had looked upon the monster as a protector, and privately he greeted her with all the warmth of an old friend.
“Mrs. Chase,” he felt so enlivened as to inquire, “I wonder whether you share your husband’s antiquarian bent?”
“My Nathaniel, an antiquarian?” Mrs. Chase threw back her head and laughed. “Begging your grace’s pardon, but whatever gave you such an idea?”
He frowned. “We discussed Roman amphorae—”
“Oh, he did once made a mint off a pair of those”—she leaned closer and whispered—“which, between ourselves, may or may not have been genuine.” She emitted a little laugh, or maybe a tiny snort. “I assure you, your grace, that is quite as far as his interest extends.”
Jonathan was dismayed by this revelation and, perhaps out of habit, looked to Claire to share his feelings. But she clearly hadn’t heard the exchange. Instead she seemed absorbed in gazing upon the Medusa, her brow once again crossed with anxious lines.
Amid feeble and fading hopes, Jonathan hadn’t forgotten her offer of friendship—and just at present, she appeared sorely in need of a friend. Though he wasn’t sure how, he resolved to try his hand at cheering her up—as a friend.
Casting about for a neutral, friendly overture, he finally settled on: “Is this your first visit to the ruins, Lady Claire?”
Startled from her reverie, she took a moment to return from wherever her mind had been before hearing his question. She shook her head. “My brother brought me here in the spring.”
He felt a pang of disappointment.
He’d wanted to be the one to show her this place.
“Your friend Mr. Lysons kindly gave me a tour,” she went on. “I was sorry to hear of his passing soon afterward.”
Jonathan nodded his thanks, for his speech was hindered by a sudden tightness in his throat. Though Mr. Lysons had died in June, the news hadn’t reached Italy till September. He’d been a good man, a venerated scholar, and something of a mentor to Jonathan.
“He seemed very fond of you,” she added kindly.
“Oh?” Jonathan cleared his throat. “Mentioned me, did he?”
She smiled sidelong. “He spoke of little else.” Deepening her voice like a man’s, she added: “‘These tremendously important shards were assembled by young Jonathan.’”
He laughed heartily at that. “You do a fair impersonation.”
Her eyes twinkled. “‘Young Jonathan reckoned this heap of rocks was a stable, though it’s clearly a garden shed.’ ‘And we discovered our seven-hundredth hypo-whatsit the day Jonathan fell through the floor.’”
“Bah, treachery!” he cried, wiping tears of laughter. “He promised to keep that secret! And the word is hypocaust.”
“La! If you say so.” When her mirth subsided, she added more soberly: “Jokes aside, Mr. Lysons spoke of you like a son. One who made him quite proud.”
Jonathan’s pleasure mingled with a familiar feeling of guilt, for he was all too conscious he’d been a poor ‘son’ to Mr. Lysons this year. While the old scholar kept up their longtime correspondence, the young protégé, mired in gloom and self-pity, never found the will to answer his letters.
And then it was too late.
But after talking with Claire, he felt a little better. He liked picturing the two of them—the love of his life and the father he’d never had—together, on a fine spring day in Mr. Lysons’s favorite place. “I’m so glad he got the chance to meet you, Claire.”
As soon as the tender words left his mouth, he threw her a look, for he hadn’t meant to say them aloud.
Had he crossed the bounds of friendship already? Were things spoiled between them? She gazed back at him warily, perhaps asking herself the same questions.
His musings were interrupted by a piercing laugh.
Heads whipped round, till most everybody was staring at Elizabeth’s friend, Miss Harris, who, unaware, continued her fit of hilarity.
When Jonathan looked to see who’d sparked her amusement, he was surprised to find none other than Milstead, stretched out by her side and flirting outrageously.
If Claire felt equal shock, she had more success hiding it. The only visible change was a slight compression of her lips.
What did that signify? Jonathan wondered. He was wild to unravel the mystery. Had he witnessed a proposal?
Or something else entirely?
Either way, Milstead was a bounder to flirt with Miss Harris after his marked attentions to Claire. Why in blazes would he do that?
The last question was easily answered. Milstead’s smug glances in Claire’s direction made his intentions clear enough: He meant to make her jealous. But she refused to take the bait.
Jonathan could not but admire such dignified restraint. His pride in her was almost as fierce as his desperation to learn what had happened on that sleigh.
Apparently Miss Harris finally realized everyone was gaping at her, for she checked her laugh—while still remaining intently focused on Milstead.
She had to be aware of his entanglements (and surely knew he’d crossed the border of impropriety), but she appeared far too diverted by his scandalous behavior to think of curbing it.
Which seemed to embolden Milstead even further.
At a rather unnecessary volume, he asked: “Shall we make ourselves a tour of the villa, Miss Harris?”
Noah’s eyes blazed in defense of his sister’s honor. “Now wait a minute, Milstead. My sister intends for us all to go about together with Mr. Hawkins. It would be ill-mannered of you to break up the party.”
Milstead turned to Claire. “Surely you can spare the two of us, Lady Claire?” he said with polite venom. “For Miss Harris and I wish to walk on our own.”
A corner of Claire’s mouth twitched. “If Mr. Hawkins has no objection.”
Mr. Hawkins replied that he had none, provided the unchaperoned explorers took care.
Silence reigned as a leisurely Milstead climbed to his feet, straightened his clothing, and offered Miss Harris his arm. The young lady accepted it, visibly vibrating with excitement, and ran away with her scoundrel.
Captain Talbot broke the silence. “As it happens, Lady Elizabeth and I were also contemplating a solitary ramble.” He looked to Elizabeth. “Were we not?”
She glanced from his beseeching face to Claire’s, which was starting to turn red.
“Only if my sister truly doesn’t mind,” Elizabeth said, sounding guilty—for it was plain that her sister minded very much.
Jonathan had seen Claire lose her temper just a handful of times.
It was a rare occurrence, but once she’d crossed the Rubicon, the resulting outburst could be every bit as violent and ungovernable as the Roman Civil War.
Now he saw signs of danger, and he could tell by their panicked faces that her siblings saw them, too.
As Elizabeth froze up and Noah looked to Jonathan, he found himself obliged to take charge.
“What’s that?” he shouted out the front of the tent at nobody, then turned to Claire. “Lady Claire, I think the upper footman is needing you for something.”
Rising, Claire peered outside. “Where is he?”
“You don’t see him?” He rose as well. “I’ll escort you.”
With a hand on her shoulder, Jonathan steered her toward the tent’s opening. “Since the hour grows late,” he added, looking back to Noah, “perhaps we ought to have Mr. Hawkins begin with the six of you. We’ll join you momentarily.”