Chapter 26 #2
What followed was the most delicious afternoon Elizabeth could remember.
Caterina demonstrated the preparation of gnocchi alla romana and coda alla vaccinara using semolina, milk, and cheese for the first and stewed oxtail for the second, with herbs Elizabeth could not identify.
The two dishes possessed a depth of flavor that delighted her tongue.
“You write, si?” Caterina asked, noticing Elizabeth’s careful notes. “Good. You take Roma home to your kitchen.”
Elizabeth filled several pages of her journal with detailed observations, sketching Caterina’s progress and recording approximate measurements.
The downpour outside continued, providing the opportunity for Caterina to demonstrate the ancient art of making mozzarella from fresh cow’s milk, salt, and rennet derived from stinging nettles. “Is magic, si?” She laughed at Elizabeth’s wonder. “Milk becomes cheese. Cheese becomes joy.”
As they were sampling the fresh mozzarella, which was still warm and incredibly creamy, the rain ceased, and brilliant sunshine burst through the clouds. The room seemed touched by a divine blessing.
“Now,” Mario announced. “We see my Roma.”
Darcy studied Elizabeth’s movements throughout the day, amazed by her enthusiasm for every new experience.
His love for her increased as he observed her willingness to learn, to engage with people so different from herself, and to find joy in the simplest discoveries.
Whether she was noting cooking techniques or listening to Mario’s stories about hidden corners of the city, her joy was infectious and completely genuine.
At the Pantheon, she stood in the center of the vast, domed space and turned slowly, her face tilted toward the oculus through which rain and sunshine fell directly onto the ancient floor.
“It is like standing inside a prayer,” Mr. Bennet said, his voice filled with awe.
Elizabeth and Bennet asked countless questions about Roman engineering and architecture.
As the group toured various ancient sites, the old artist accompanied them, filling Elizabeth’s journal with page after page of swift sketches―architectural details, street scenes, and portraits of vendors, children, and priests that would preserve their Roman adventure.
During their earlier shopping, while Elizabeth and her father examined gloves and slippers, Darcy had secretly pursued a different sort of purchase. At their final stop, a jeweler’s shop tucked between a bakery and a leather goods store, he found exactly what he had been seeking.
The proprietor, understanding Darcy’s careful Italian, had produced two petite, exquisite cameo brooches that could be worn as a necklace.
One featured a classical profile carved in cream against a coral background.
The other showed the same elegant lines in pale blue against white.
Both were delicate works of art that spoke of Italian craftsmanship at its finest. “From the Amalfi Coast,” the jeweler had explained.
“Made by my brother’s son. Very fine work.
Very romantic gift for beautiful ladies. ”
Darcy had studied them, imagining Elizabeth wearing one at her throat.
The coral would complement her warm coloring, while the blue would suit Georgiana’s more delicate palette perfectly.
The jeweler added a golden chain to the purchase.
“These will do beautifully.” He paid despite the considerable cost. Some purchases were worth any expense.
When the afternoon faded into evening, Mario bid them farewell with warm embraces and promises to remember their visit fondly. Elizabeth’s father, pleading exhaustion from their day full of exploration, returned to the albergo to rest and record his observations in his journal.
“You young people enjoy the evening,” he said with a meaningful look at Darcy. “I believe that Signora Rosellini is an adequate chaperone for a stroll through Rome’s gardens.”
And so Elizabeth approached the Villa Borghese toward the Pincian Hill with Darcy and their companion after an open-air carriage ride through the city.
The setting sun painted the city in gold.
The air was soft and warm after the day’s rain, carrying the scent of pine trees and blooming jasmine.
When they reached the Pincian Terrace, they found Rome spread before them like a living map of history.
Church domes and ancient ruins formed the silhouette that had inspired visitors for centuries.
The view was magnificent, but Elizabeth found her attention drawn more to Darcy’s profile as he gazed out over the Eternal City.
“I have a gift for you,” he produced a small, wrapped package from his coat.
“I am aware that, in England, it would be inappropriate for me to give you a personal gift since we are not yet betrothed. However, Mario assured me that it is proper here in Italy. I want you to have a small token of our brief time here.”
Elizabeth unwrapped the coral cameo, its delicate beauty evident even in the fading light. The gold-encased stone was less than an inch in length, yet the intricate carving was grand.
“Fitzwilliam, this is exquisite.” Her voice was unsteady with emotion. “You are too generous.”
He stepped closer to help with the clasp, and his fingers brushed her nape as he fastened the chain, sending shivers through her that had nothing to do with the evening air. “I thought… Well, I hoped…you might think of this night whenever you wear it.”
“I shall treasure it always,” Elizabeth replied, her hand rising to touch the cameo where it rested against her throat.
Signora Rosellini tactfully drifted away to examine the view more closely, providing Elizabeth and Darcy with a measure of privacy.
“Elizabeth, it is likely too soon to speak of such things again, but each day that passes, my feelings for you grow even stronger.”
Warmth spread through her at his honest declaration. “Fitzwilliam…”
“I do not expect you to return my affections immediately,” he continued. “However, I hope that your regard for me might deepen, as mine does for you.”
Elizabeth studied his face in the golden evening light. “You ask about my regard.” She took a breath, gathering courage to match his honesty with her own. “Do you remember, after our encounter with the French warship, when you… When you held me?”
“I remember everything about that moment.”
Elizabeth’s confidence mounted as she spoke. “Your arms around me, your strength supporting me when I was shaking from the experience―you made me feel cherished. Protected. A man I could rely upon completely. Someone who would stand between me and any danger.”
“Elizabeth…”
“I had not realized how much I wanted—no—how much I needed someone who could be both gentle and strong.” Her cheeks warmed with the confession. “Someone whose mere presence made me feel safe but never constrained.”
“Then may I hope that time and continued acquaintance might deepen such tender feelings?”
Without conscious thought, Elizabeth’s fingers stroked the cameo adorning her neck as she answered, “I find myself longing for the same.”
The rope burned through Wickham’s palms as he pulled himself up the ratlines one final time. His legs trembled from hauling canvas and scrubbing decks. Below, the harbor at Civitavecchia spread like a forest of masts.
He rejoiced at the sight of the Mary Catherine’s familiar silhouette.
Wickham dropped to the deck in silence, his bare feet finding purchase on the salt-warped planks. A boatswain’s whistle shrilled across the water, and crew members scurried up the Mary Catherine’s gangway like ants fleeing rain. They were still taking on cargo.
Impatiently waiting for the captain’s dismissal or his meager wages―three copper coins that would only buy bread―he hurried to discover where the Mary Catherine was headed next.
The port authority’s office reeked of tobacco and unwashed bodies. Wickham pressed himself against the grimy wall, straining to hear as a clerk shuffled through manifests. “Piraeus,” the man muttered to his companion, stamping a document with unnecessary force.
Athens. The word echoed in Wickham’s skull as he stumbled back into the blazing Italian sun.
His stomach gnawed, a constant companion since Gibraltar.
His shirt, the same shirt he had worn for over a week, clung to his shoulders like damp canvas.
The hammock had offered no rest, swaying in stagnant air filled with five other men’s snores and curses, their bodies pressed together in the suffocating hold.
He entered the tavern nearest the docks but quickly backed toward the door.
The men inside had the look of wolves with scarred hands that took what they wanted and eyes that measured a man’s worth in seconds.
Wickham recognized predators, having been one himself. The irony tasted as bitter as old wine.
A ship’s bell clanged across the harbor as another merchant ship pulled away from the dock.
He needed to find his next berth, one that was eastward bound.
He could not afford to lose sight of Darcy.
Nor could he afford to tarry long in the port on his own.
Damning Darcy for the wealth that brought him privilege, Wickham stood empty-handed among thieves who would gut him for sport.