Prologue #2
A long-forgotten celebration of St. Valentine’s, a man gazing upon her with the same deep affection that Brendan had just displayed toward his bride, while in the present, the horrid Lady Filminster cursed her with her cruel wishes of love, marriage, and progeny.
* * *
Meanwhile in Florence
“I need your help,” Lorenzo implored, his lean face grave in the faint light of the drawing room. “I have tried to find a clue for years amongst these letters, but found nothing. You are English. You might notice something that I cannot.”
Sebastian Markham and his Italian friend had been working together for a year or more now, forming a lucrative partnership to trade in art to the titled and affluent sojourning in Florence.
So successful had they been that Sebastian had long since ceased drawing his annuity from his brother, the great and lauded Duke of Halmesbury.
It had been a triumphant day when Sebastian had surrendered his allowance, no longer beholden to his haughty older brother.
The great philanthropist who refused no plea for help …
unless it came from his younger brother, in which case he was as cold and heartless as stone.
Sebastian set his jaw and willed the thought of his cursed brother to retreat.
The fly in the ointment was that Lorenzo was consumed by his family history.
Specifically, what had happened to his ancestor, Matteo di Bianchi, from the time of Da Vinci himself, who Lorenzo claimed had been a gifted apprentice at the side of Sandro Botticelli before being taken on at the workshop of the Renaissance Man, the Master of all Arts, Leonardo himself.
That had been before Matteo had been commissioned by an Englishman for some sort of grand cathedral and left Italy, never to return, leaving behind a family legend of greatness left unfulfilled and the mystery of what had become of Matteo’s work.
“What does this Regis Aeterni mean … Eternal King? These people who commissioned him … could they have had something to do with this king of yours, Henry the Eighth? Perhaps they are the ones who encouraged Henry to break from the Catholic Church and declare himself as the divinely sanctioned ruler of Britain? I am not an expert in English history, but you grew up as one of the elite. The son of a duke. You might note something I do not.”
Sebastian stretched out his legs and dragged a hand through his mane of hair. It was time to get it cut, but he enjoyed the unruly appearance that greeted him in the morning. It was visible proof that he had turned his back on the past to carve his own path. Be his own man.
“Just read them. Point out a clue. Something that might unravel this ball of thread.”
Sebastian huffed, responding with reluctance. “It has been three centuries since Matteo sailed from Italy, Lorenzo. Why expend your energy on this? Do you not appreciate the life we lead? We live in the greatest city in the world, surrounded by the art from the Masters. What does it matter?”
“It matters, mio amico! Matteo was destined to be a maestro, a master, I tell you! This Regis Aeterni did him foul! My family has long awaited the discovery of his work. The recognition he deserved as an artista! A great artist! A man of extraordinary talent.”
There was an anguish in the black eyes of his closest friend, an appeal for help not unlike the one which Sebastian had once made to the duke.
Sebastian did not like to think of that time, but he felt the echo of despair.
After five years away from home, it still rankled him that his grand ducal brother had not seen fit to wield his power in Sebastian’s favor.
He did not wish to encourage his friend’s fixation about the past, but it was difficult to ignore a request for help when it was so easy to provide the favor being requested.
Sebastian would read the letters, find nothing of import about the departure of a minor artist three centuries earlier, and Lorenzo would be appeased that he had tried to help.
Sebastian would have assisted his good friend, and perhaps Lorenzo would finally find peace and leave this family mystery interred in the past where it belonged.
So Sebastian relented and agreed to read Lorenzo’s records.
“Give me the letters, then.”
* * *
Mid-August, 1821, London
Lady Filminster’s words still plagued Harriet. Ever since she had met the silly chit on the street, who had brushed her hand and delivered her curse, Harriet had been unable to think of anything else. It was as if a spell had been cast.
First, her Peregrine Balfour had abandoned her to marry a country mouse with no fashion sense.
Then, her Brendan Ridley had married a ridiculous debutante flibbertigibbet who had uttered those dreadful words. The words that haunted not only her sleep, but her waking moments too.
Not that she was sleeping very much. She tossed and turned all night, and none of the gentlemen who sought her favor held any appeal, because of the shrew’s tormenting condemnation.
I wish you the boundless joy of truly connecting with another person.
How dare she? Lily Ridley was a foul-mouthed demon.
Of opening your heart to another and finding that you care more about them than your own self.
Harriet knew that only pain and betrayal could come from opening one’s heart.
I wish you a strong young husband …
Husband! She needed no man in her life telling her what to do.
… and healthy children.
Children! They were loud and cumbersome and demanded constant attention.
And I wish you a long and full life …
Her life was abundant, especially when there was no husband or children to ruin it!
… filled with laughter, Lady Slight.
Laughter was overrated in her opinion. For years, she had labored over her laugh before she had allowed herself to do so in polite society. Only once she had cultivated the perfect little titter had she allowed herself to laugh in polite society.
If she were back on that street with Lady Filminster, she would throw the tiny baroness’s malediction back in her face and scream a counter-curse.
“You are a witchy little harpy, Lily Ridley,” Harriet mumbled, turning over to stare at the drapes.
Morning had arrived. Again. And Harriet admitted the truth.
It was no good. No matter how many assurances she repeated to herself, no matter how long she walked, or how many glasses of wine she drank or events she attended or company she enjoyed, the words came back to torment her in the dark hours of the early morning.
And the lit hours of the afternoon. And the gray hours of dawn when the sun rose to reproach her for her state of misery, when nothing provided solace from the regret and guilt.
She had, with great deliberation, encased her heart in ice years ago.
Now the ice was melting and the resulting beats were the deepest of agonies.
There was no undoing what she had done so many years ago, nor her selfish pursuits since that time.
Even if she could undo the past five years, what use was recovering her heart if it was broken beyond repair?
Regret for her past behavior was becoming a constant companion, and Harriet was growing desperate to find relief. Staring at the crown molding that framed her ceiling, she lay in her soft bed, which may as well have been a bed of coals for all the comfort to be found, and she searched her mind.
It could not be too late for her to change her course. She was yet young.
But how?
She tried to think if there was anyone she could speak to, setting aside the glib acquaintances she had spent her time with these past few years. Nay, she needed someone who might have overcome the mistakes of their past to carve out a sliver of happiness.