Chapter 2
Rafael spun the molinillo between his palms. The wooden whisk, darkened to a rich patina by melted chocolate, seemed so much smaller than he remembered.
He set it aside and picked up the small ivory miniature of his grandmother.
Ah, but Dona Maria would always seem larger than life.
A ghost of a smile played on his lips. Earthy yet otherworldly.
Imperious, yet impish. Her penchant for black only added to her aura of mystery—midnight silks and lace mantillas, ebony hair combs and jet jewelry.
He suspected she relished her reputation among the local peasants as a sorceress with healing powers.
“Chocolate,” she replied, when he had once asked her the source of her magic. “Indeed, querida, Aztec legend has it that the god Quetzalcoatl descended from heaven on a beam of the morning star, carrying a cacao tree stolen from Paradise.”
Rafael stared out the window. When he had repeated the tale to his father, John Richard Greeley had sighed and warned him that he must take the dowager contessa’s stories with a grain of salt.
Greeley was English, of course, his cool reason and fair good looks a marked contrast to Dona Maria’s Spanish fire and smoky beauty.
The two were warm friends, yet elementally different.
Sugar and spice. Even as a child he had sensed it.
He caught his own reflection in the mullioned glass. His raven locks and olive complexion had come from his Spanish mother, while his ice-blue eyes and square jaw bespoke his Anglo Saxon heritage.
Two opposing natures? He made a wry face. Was it any wonder that he felt conflicted about a great many things these days?
Paper crackled as Rafael took a bulging portfolio from his grandmother’s trunk and untied the ribbons. Skimming the top page, he smiled again.
Combine two measures of sun-dried criolla beans with a handful of trinitaros.
Grind to a fine paste on a heated (very important) metate, adding sugar from Barbados, nutmeg from Martinique and the dried seeds of one vanilla bean.
(Use only those from Madagascar! They are far more flavorful than the Mexican variety . . .
Recipes. A peek inside several of the other matching cases showed copious notes on the cacao plant. Dona Maria had devoted much of her life to collecting information about her beloved beans. Lore, legend, historical fact—each new tidbit was meticulously transcribed in her spidery script.
Chocolate was her passion, and she had always intended to write a book on the subject. As Rafael read over her instructions for making a breakfast beverage, he couldn’t help thinking, Lud, what a volume that would have been.
But war had ripped through Spain, tearing such dreams asunder.
Her powers, however magical, could not halt the advance of the French army.
Nor could they keep the mountain cart path from crumbling under the wheels of the family carriage as it sought to pass over the Pyrenees.
He pressed the paper to his cheek, breathing in the faint traces of her perfume.
She had perished in the crash, leaving him with naught but bittersweet memories.
Smoothing at the scrap of paper, Rafael was unashamed of the tears clinging to his lashes.
English gentlemen were forbidden to cry, he knew.
It was considered unmanly to express emotion.
A stiff upper lip. His grandmother had clucked in disapproval at the English notion of sang froid, saying it was harmful to feelings bottled up inside.
He had been twelve years old when his parents had succumbed to an epidemic of influenza.
Dona Maria had held him in her arms that night, saying it was only natural to give voice to his sorrow and fears.
Come morning, the two of them had shared a soothing cup of her special chocolate.
She had taught him much about life.
After a moment, Rafael put the portfolios back in the trunk and carefully refastened the silver clasps. The past was the past. However grim the future appeared, he must not look back.
The present was difficult enough to face.
His gaze strayed to the smaller wooden box.
Duty demanded that he deliver his cousin Jack’s personal effects to his uncle in Kent, along with a first-hand account of the young man’s heroism.
Like himself, the elderly earl was now the sole survivor of his immediate family.
And though the two of them had met only occasionally, Rafael felt compelled to offer more than an impersonal letter.
His leg nearly buckled as he rose. The saber cut had healed, but there were still shards of shrapnel embedded in his flesh. However, physical discomfort was the least of his concerns. The pain of the coming journey was going to pierce far deeper into flesh and blood.
Sighing, he marked an X on the lid of Jack’s trunk. The carters would soon arrive to take his luggage to the ship. His grandmother’s papers would be left behind in a warehouse, along with other items rescued from the family hacienda. He was leaving on the evening tide. Maybe one day . . .
As he turned away, the chalk slipped from his fingers. It bounced off the silver hinge of Dona Maria’s trunk, spun in a slow circle through the air and fell back against the ebony wood, somehow inscribing identical intersecting lines across its surface.
Rafael swore and leaned down to erase them. But at the last instant, something held him back.
On second thought, given his unsteady gait, he was likely to be cooped up for much of the sea voyage in his cabin.
Reading through the notes certainly would help pass the hours.
She had accumulated a wealth of arcane knowledge, like the fact that ancient Aztec warriors drank chocolate in order to fortify their stamina during battle.
Strength from chocolate? A fanciful notion.
But then, his grandmother had a fanciful imagination. Her presence, if only in pen and ink, would be a soothing balm for his aching spirit.
“Surely there is something you can do!” The duke‘s appeal was perilously close to a shout.
“You are understandably upset, Your Grace,” said his companion.
The duke’s scowl deepened, but he looked more harried than angry.
Poor Papa. Kyra slipped a step closer to the half open door.
No wonder he appeared on the brink of despair.
She had been a sore trial to him ever since she was in leading strings.
Little arms and legs tugging, tumbling in every direction.
Tying things in a terrible tangle. Even back then, she had chafed at any restraint on her actions.
She had always thought of herself as high-spirited rather than willful. Bold rather than reckless. It was only now that she understood the dangers of self-deception.
“I’ve consulted every blasted specialist on Harley Street,” continued the duke.
“They are all charlatans! I might just as well have spent my blunt on the traveling quacks who peddle elixirs from their pushcarts.” He drew in a harsh breath.
“But you, Professor McTavish, your credentials are above reproach. The University of St. Andrews is known for its excellence in medicine.”
The Scottish doctor clasped his hands behind his back. “You are wasting your guineas on me as well, Your Grace, if you expect me to work a miracle cure.”
Kyra liked McTavish even more for his blunt honesty. Of all the medical men who had poked and prodded at her body, he was the only one who seemed to understand where the real injuries lay.
“But—” began Pierpont.
“Her leg is healing quite nicely. The truth is, other than the broken bone, there is nothing really wrong with your daughter.”
Her father’s eyes widened in disbelief. “The devil there isn’t. She won’t eat! She barely speaks!”
Kyra bit at her lip.
“As I said, there is nothing physically wrong with your daughter. As for her state of mind . . .”
The color leached from the duke’s face. He whispered an oath. “You think the fall has damaged her wits?”
“No, not at all. The symptoms you describe are not uncommon in this situation. Indeed, they are especially apt to occur in young ladies.” McTavish stroked his chin. “You say that Lady Kyra’s sister was killed in the same riding accident that resulted in her own injuries?”
“Yes.”
“Likely she blames herself for the mishap.”
“My nephew, who played a regrettable role in the dare, did say that Alexandra tried to warn Kyra of the danger,” replied her father.
“Ah.” Removing his spectacles, the doctor pinched the bridge of his nose.
Kyra did not wait to hear anything more. Stepping back from her hiding place, she limped the length of the corridor and quietly closed the door of her workroom. Solitude was her only solace these days.
The duke, however, stood still as stone, anxiously waiting for the doctor to go on. Coals crackled in the hearth. A log snapped. From its perch on the mantel, an ormolu clock chimed the hour. As the last ring died away, he slapped a palm to the polished marble.
“Well? What do you prescribe?”
“Patience. Understanding.”
Skepticism arched Pierpont’s brow. “You are suggesting that platitudes can cure what ails her?”
The doctor smiled. “Sometimes love is the best medicine of all.”
“Rafael.” The wrinkled hands were warm, welcoming as they framed his face. Lips, dry as parchment, kissed his cheeks. “Welcome, welcome. Your mother always insisted that I greet you in the Spanish way. But it has been a long time—I trust I am not making a hash of it.”
“Not at all, Uncle Aubrey. You make me feel very much at home.”
“Hendrie Hall is your home now, Rafael. For as long as you like.”
“Thank you, sir.” He followed the earl into the entrance hall, his steps slow and deliberate to hide the stiffness of his leg.