Chapter 27 #2
I put out my hand to him and he took it. His was warm and firm in mine. “I am. Walk with me in the courtyard and I will try to explain.”
It was characteristic of his youth that he did so. An older man would have armoured himself in his pride and refused an explanation. Only the young have such a gift for self-torture.
We moved out into the courtyard arm in arm.
The sunshine, after days of mournful grey, was a revelation.
The warmer air had melted off most of the snow and what remained was slowly dripping away against the stone.
It was cold to be sure, but nothing like what it had been, and I stopped to raise my face to the sun.
“You are sure you do not wish to come to Italy?” he joked bravely. “We have the sun almost the whole of the year. You do not have to search for it as you do in England.”
I opened my eyes and smiled at him, taking a moment to memorise the soft black hair touched with bronze, the noble profile, the gentle eyes staring into mine with such sadness, and perhaps the merest touch of relief.
The wind rose a little just then, scudding a cloud over the face of the sun and throwing the courtyard into shadow.
“You are shivering. Take my coat,” he insisted, draping the garment over my shoulders. I murmured my thanks and took his arm, leading him toward the iron gate that led to the gardens.
“You see, Alessandro,” I began slowly, “you come from an old and proud and very dignified family. I too come from an old and proud family, but I am afraid we are a little short on dignity.”
He opened his mouth to make a polite protest, but I held up a hand.
“Oh, do not, I beg you. I know my family for what we are. From the manner of our dress, our speech, our small eccentricities and our grand follies, we are odd. We do not fit the pattern of society, and as a result we are often talked of.”
He said nothing and I pressed on, gently.
“I should not suit you, Alessandro, not truly. I keep a pet raven and I speak my mind and I associate with those who are beyond the pale of society, and yet I am very nearly the most conventional member of my family. People are still talking about my cousin Charles’ appearance at a house party last month.
He wore his wife’s gown and demanded to be addressed as Carlotta. ”
Alessandro choked back a laugh and I squeezed his arm.
“You may think it amusing, but to us, he is family. We will not hide him in the cellars and pretend he does not exist. We will welcome him with open arms, and very likely give him the names of our dressmakers,” I finished, smiling at my own little jest.
Alessandro’s brow puckered. “But surely such things are better left unknown. I too have the curious cousins, but we do not speak of them.”
“That is the difficulty, my dear. In your family you do not speak of them. In my family, we celebrate them. In Italy, one must always be conscious of la bella figura, of presenting one’s best self. Among the Marches, we please ourselves and the devil take the rest.”
His brows lifted slightly and I patted his hand. “You see? I even shock you with my language. We would be very badly suited indeed. Besides,” I said carefully, “I believe your father has plans for you. Exalted ones.”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “How did you know that?”
I smiled, not looking into his eyes. His father’s letter had been idiomatic and excessively difficult to translate.
I had deciphered perhaps one word in five.
But those words were enough. “It is not difficult to guess,” I temporised.
“Your father is a judge, is he not?” I hoped I had gotten the translation correct from the letter.
Father’s dictionary had been printed two centuries back and mice had nibbled a fair number of holes through the most useful words.
Alessandro nodded, his lovely mouth turning sulky. “Si. He is an important man in Firenze, with much influence and power.”
“And he wishes you to be the same, in your time. A very natural ambition for a father, I think.”
Alessandro scuffed his shoe against a paving stone. “But should a man not be ambitious for himself?”
“Of course. What is it you would like to do?”
He dropped my arm then to spread his hands. Like most Italians he was incapable of speaking for any length of time without gesturing.
“I also want to be a judge, to give justice, to have the power to influence people. But I want to want such things for myself. Why are you smiling at me?”
“My dear Alessandro, what difference does it make if your father wants these things for you as well? If you want them, take them, and be happy. Life is either far too short or far too long to make yourself miserable.”
He said nothing as he considered this. I looked through the garden gate, marking the withered vines, the blind stone eyes of the statues, the sharp angles of the hedge maze.
It was not grand or even particularly beautiful, but it was my home and I felt a rush of love for the old place so acute, so complete, I nearly wept.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said slowly.
I turned back to him and assumed a brisk, governessy tone.
It was time for the coup de grace. “Of course I am. And I will tell you something else I am quite right about—you will need a wife who will understand you, who will present la bella figura and make you proud. I would imagine your father already has someone in mind,” I said, widening my eyes innocently.
“You are a witch,” he grumbled. “How could you know this?”
I gave a modest shrug, remembering how his father had described the girl in question. Una belleza perfetta. I wished Alessandro a lifetime of happiness with her. “It is only logical.”
He rallied, and attempted once more to change my mind. He seized my hands, drawing them to his heart. “I would give up everything for you, Giulia.”
I smiled at him gently. “But you must understand. I should never want a man to give up anything for me. I should want him to feel in winning me he has won the whole world. Now, go back to Italy, marry your lovely signorina, and have a good life. And when you are quite old and sitting on the terrace of your palazzo, sipping a fine chianti you have grown in your very own vineyards, I want you to think of me sometimes and smile mysteriously so that your grandchildren will demand to know what you are thinking of.”
He laughed then and reached out, as if to embrace me, then thought better of it and took my hand. “It was a beautiful dream,” he said, his voice laced with resignation.
“It was a beautiful dream indeed,” I agreed.
He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, and when he had done, I pressed it to his cheek. Then, slowly, we made our way into the Abbey and went our separate ways.
* * *
It was destined to be a day of partings.
I left Alessandro in the library, meaning to retire to my room to repair my toilette before luncheon.
The wind had risen at the last minute, loosening hairpins and whipping colour into my cheeks.
A few moments with my hairbrush and a pot of face cream were all I needed, but just as I set foot on the staircase I noticed Charlotte descending.
She was dressed for travel and carrying her small portmanteau.
She saw me and lifted her pointed little chin.
“I mean to go,” she warned. I blinked at her and she skirted around me, never slowing her pace. I followed her through the cloister and out to the inner ward, arriving just in time to see Aquinas appear.
“The carriage is ready, Mrs. King,” he informed her.
“Good. The sooner I am quit of this bloody place the better,” she muttered.
Aquinas caught sight of me then and hurried to my side.
“My lady, Mrs. King requested transportation to Blessingstoke. You were not to be found, and since the carriage was placed at Sir Cedric’s disposal earlier, I thought it acceptable to extend the same courtesy to Mrs. King. His lordship left no instructions.”
I sighed. It was bad enough Cedric had left with Lucy and Emma.
What would Father say when he learned I had let Charlotte go as well?
Still, I was rather inclined to view the situation as one of his own making.
“If Father wanted anyone detained, he ought to have said so. Besides, we have no right to hold anyone against their will. We are not the law.”
I had spoken softly, but Charlotte overheard this last part. She gave me a broad smile and extended her hand.
I shook it, not quite willingly. Charlotte could be a likeable rogue, but she was insubstantial. She had recreated herself so many times I was not certain where her fictions left off and the woman began.
Her smile deepened to one of genuine warmth. “Do not be like that. We got on well enough, didn’t we? I am fond of you, my lady, for all your money and fancy ways,” she said pertly.
I returned her smile and inclined my head. “Mrs. King, I will wish you a pleasant journey.”
She gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “I am sure. But go I must. I would rather not meet your lover again.”
Her expression was bland, but her eyes were sharp with malice and anticipation. She was waiting for me to sputter in outrage, to deny, to throw her out of the house in my fury.
And in a flash of blessed inspiration, I realised why. The Tear of Jaipur.
I turned to Aquinas. “Fetch Morag. Tell her to come at once.” He withdrew and I smiled sweetly at Charlotte. “I shall be only too happy to permit you to leave, as soon as your bag and your person have been searched.”
The following minutes were not wholly pleasant.
In spite of her ladylike demeanour and her delicate looks, she raged, she spluttered and cursed us all.
She scratched and kicked and Aquinas sustained a rather nasty bite on his thumb.
But at last we managed to lock her in the boot room with Morag.
There were ominous sounds, bumps and thumps and all manner of swearing.
After a very long interlude, Charlotte emerged, hair straggling down her back, clothes askew, clutching her portmanteau.
“Nothing, my lady,” Morag advised me, rolling down her cuffs and pinning them neatly into place. It was a testament to her efficiency and her brutality that she had not a hair out of place.
“In that case, you are free to leave, Mrs. King. Farewell,” I told her pleasantly.
By way of reply she turned on her heel and fairly ran from the Abbey. Aquinas slammed the door behind her and the three of us stared at one another in bemusement.
I glanced at the tall case clock. “Lord, I must fly. I shall be late for luncheon as it is. Thank you both. I know Mrs. King was a trial, but she is gone now and we need not think on her again. She is a thief and a liar and we are well rid of her.”
“And she didn’t even leave a tip,” Morag put in bitterly.