Chapter 9 #2
“Bah … Turner. The Englishman who delights in landscapes and presumes to overturn the perfection of form, light, and composition established by the great masters of the Rebirth. What is this swirling, turbulent brushwork? These hazy, near-formless renderings of nature … it is chaos when set against the precision of Leonardo, the harmony of Raphael, or the grandeur of Michelangelo. His manipulation of light may intrigue, but where is the order, the proportion, the clarity that elevates art to the divine? His skies are dramatic, yes, but do they possess the serenity of a Botticelli horizon or the architectural balance of a Palladian scene? I think not.”
Angelo and Sebastian burst into incredulous laughter, Nicholas scowling with barely concealed irritation, while Molly and the baron exchanged bewildered glances at the spirited denunciation of one of England’s celebrated painters.
Marco drew a hand across his mouth in startled disbelief, searching for a fitting response to such ornate arrogance.
Sebastian recovered first. “As you can hear, Lord Blackwood, Signor di Bianchi finds it challenging to express his opinions. We trust that exposing him to a broader range of influences during our travels may yet refine his judgment, so that he might one day have something to say to the world.”
Uncle John shook his head, chuckling at the facetious explanation of their guest’s rude assessment. “I believe that Signor di Bianchi suffers from an overabundance 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 rather rustic surroundings 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 reflected upon his vehement dissection of Turner’s talents.
“I beg your pardon if I insulted your art, Lord Blackwood. My friends will attest that I am … ardent where my cultural history is concerned, and I allowed myself to forget my manners.”
To his credit, the baron merely shrugged, his amusement evident. “It was certainly diverting. Perhaps when we return to London, you might censure my collection there. It would enliven an otherwise dull afternoon to hear such spirited opinions from one so well versed in Renaissance art.”
Molly laughed softly at this. “A Grand Tour conducted entirely within our galleries. I think it a most excellent notion, Lord Blackwood.”
After that, they visited the garden, the noon sun having warmed the day sufficiently for a stroll.
Molly and Miss Dubois accompanied Marco toward the maze at the far end of the grounds.
It was formed of evergreen yew hedges, though the oaks, elms, and chestnuts beyond had shed their leaves, which lay brown and russet upon the ground.
The fallen foliage rustled beneath their steps as they entered the opening of the living puzzle, but within a few yards Miss Dubois halted abruptly, her expression stricken.
“I do not like zis. Ze walls are too close, and I feel … confined.”
Molly frowned, having told Marco she wished to show him the fountain at the center of the maze. “They are not so close. No closer than the servants’ corridors in the attic at home.”
“But zere are insects, and creeping, crawling zings. Ze baronezz never made me do such trials.” The chaperon shuddered.
Molly’s irritation was unmistakable when she replied, her tone calm but immovable, and Marco admired the quiet authority beneath her words. “I intend to go on to the center. You may accompany me, or you may wait here.”
Miss Dubois cast a wary look down one path, then turned decisively back toward the exit. “I … eh … I shall remain ’ere. Do not be long!”
Even with her bonnet shading her face, Marco did not miss the brief, restrained satisfaction that crossed Molly’s features as the servant retreated to stand just outside the maze.
His lips curved faintly, recognizing the small victory.
The life of an unmarried Englishwoman was narrow in its allowances, yet Molly resisted such confines whenever she might, possessed of a spirit more independent than her manner suggested.
“Shall we?”
She took his arm, and he felt the awareness of her at once, subtle but unmistakable.
The familiar hint of cinnamon followed, stirring an unwelcome response he did his best to master.
He had resolved to maintain distance while he reckoned with the uncertainty of his future, one he had long believed settled, but temptation had a way of presenting itself when least convenient.
Despite her arm resting lightly upon his, he soon found himself being drawn along at a brisk pace. Molly consulted the paper she carried, upon which the baron had written directions to the maze’s center.
“Why are you in such haste?” Marco asked at last, after being guided around yet another turn.
Molly colored. “The sooner we reach the middle, the longer we may remain there.”
“Ah … you are concerned about Miss Dubois?”
“I am.”
The reply stirred a quiet suspicion, and Marco frowned as they moved between the neatly clipped yews. “Did you know she would refuse to enter?”
Molly hesitated, pressing her lips together before answering. “I am not certain what you imply. How could I have known 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 same determined focus that reminded him of his friend Lorenzo. “And what of it? What would you do if Miss Dubois followed your steps like an ill-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, momentarily taken aback by such an installation in so unexpected a place. For a modest country estate, the effect was astonishing. What riches the Blackwood title must command.
It was a magnificent fountain, drained for the winter, yet striking all the same, even to a Florentine accustomed to beauty.
Diana, the goddess of the hunt, was captured mid-motion, horn raised as if to summon the spirits of the woods to follow her.
She wore a short, flowing tunic that revealed strongly sculpted limbs, sandaled feet set in purposeful stride, her gaze fixed upon the distance where her quarry must be fleeing, whether in fear or exhilaration, it was impossible to say. A stag ran beside her, alert and fleet.
As Marco studied the stone features, a recognition stirred. He glanced down at Molly, who stood transfixed by the sight, then returned his gaze to the statue.
The resemblance was disquieting rather than flattering, and a chill traced his spine as a thought took shape. Perhaps he was not merely an observer here, but caught within the momentum of her intent. There was something resolute about Molly, a steadiness of purpose that did not easily yield.
The notion unsettled him further, and he forced himself to turn away from thoughts that threatened to stray beyond prudence.
He was ill-prepared to bind himself to a life so distant from all he knew.
There was no denying her appeal, nor the way her presence lingered with him, but temptation was not the same as readiness.
Would England, and the determined young woman at his side, release him if he chose to return to Florence as a bachelor?
Or had he stepped onto a path from which retreat would not come easily?
Yet … what might it be like to walk beside a woman of such conviction? A partner possessed of resolve could make even the most uncertain future seem attainable.
The visit to Elmstead had only deepened his confusion.
Was he truly contemplating a life he had never sought?
Within a matter of weeks, everything had shifted, not least the fact that someone still meant him harm back in London.
How was he to weigh the future when the present remained so precarious?
And what of the risks of giving away his heart a second time?
Watching Catherine fade had undone him. He did not know if he could endure such loss again, if affection were once more entwined with the specter of death.
Was it not safer to remain unattached, to return to Florence as he had been, and preserve the hard-won peace he had built after grief?
Clearing his throat, Marco resolved to anchor himself in honesty before his thoughts carried him too far. “Molly, you understand that I do not yet know if I shall remain in England?”
Her gaze met his, confusion flickering there, and he realized that while his own thoughts had been in tumult, she had been unaware of the storm they had stirred.
“I know.”
“Then you understand that we cannot come to any agreement, you and I?”
She lowered her eyes, her disappointment evident despite her effort to conceal it. When she spoke, her voice was subdued. “I know.”
“There is much for me to consider. This title. Florence. I cannot say what the future holds. We must first resolve this danger, and only then might I find some … chiarezza .” He paused, irritated by his lapse into Italian at such a moment, yet unwilling to pretend certainty where none existed.
“Clarity,” she echoed, her shoulders sagging slightly as the word settled between them.
“Sì. I need to find clarity, and we must not imagine things are something more than they are. I do not say this to wound you, but I cannot make promises, and it is best that we do not pursue anything while I endeavor to understand my course.”
She drew in a steady breath, her gaze lingering upon the empty basin of the fountain. “I know.”
Setting forth such truths ought to have afforded him some relief, yet it did nothing to ease the sensation that he stood at a crossroads, uncertain which direction might lead him toward peace.
It was as though the choice before him carried unusual gravity, one path promising fulfillment, the other the quiet ache of regret, and he could not yet discern which was which.
He reached into his pocket and traced the familiar, etched surface of the timepiece he had once received from his father and wondered whether Peter Scott had faced a similar reckoning when he had defied the late baron over his intended marriage to Marco’s mother.
What counsel would his father offer now, if he were present?
Which course would he urge Marco to take after a life marked by struggle and ended too soon?
Would he encourage him to assume his place in England, or advise him to hold fast to the life he had forged 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.