Chapter 17 #4
“Shush,” Dante said rudely.
Evans opened his mouth to chide him, then closed his mouth as a faint sound reached their ears. Singing.
“I’m like a skiff on the ocean toss’d, now high, now low…
her rudder broke, and her anchor lost, deserted and all forlorn.
” The voice trembled, small and far away, like a girl trying bravely to whistle her way through the dark.
“Revenge, revenge, shall appease my restless spirit.” The voice broke. “Revenge.”
Dante was at the door to the spa before he knew he’d moved. “Cerys,” he bellowed.
“While I lie rolling and tossing all night…Dante? Oh, I knew it. I knew I would start to hallucinate.”
“It’s me. It’s me, my love.” He groped for the latch on the door, cursing the dark. “Why are you in there?”
“Well, you see, the door is locked.” Her voice came closer, as if she stood on the other side.
A padlock held the latch on the door to a hasp in the frame. Dante tugged at it. The warded kind, fairly basic, at least not a combination or puzzle lock. “I don’t suppose there’s a key lying about. Look for a key,” he commanded the others as they approached. “Why did Bathsheba bring you here?”
“She said Lord Baeccon was ready to fund our theater and would meet us here, and I, like a twymffat, believed her.”
He didn’t recognize the Welsh word, but he heard the accent emerging in her voice.
In her fatigue and strain, the wild girl raised in Newport showed through beneath the polish that the people behind him had tried to cultivate.
Dante wrestled with the lock, wondering if he could smash it with his fist.
“Is her ladyship all right?” she asked, her voice almost dreamy and very close to the door, as if she were leaning towards him.
“Is Bathsheba all right? Is she all right?” he repeated.
“Well, yes. I heard a scream and a scuffle. I fear she was attacked and that is why she left me.”
“If she was attacked,” Dante said grimly, “she had time to clasp the padlock and withdraw the key. She told us a tale that you had run away with a lover.”
“A lover?” Cerys gave a hoarse laugh. “But I’m going to marry you.”
He stilled. His voice was no steadier than hers. “You are?”
“Mmm. I’ve thought about it. I’ve had several hours to think, and a good chat with the mice.
They agree. I shouldn’t like to give up the stage, at least not altogether, as I’m having such a splendid time of it, and you are going to build us a theater and all.
But if I must choose, Dante, I would rather be with you. ”
He rested his head against the door. “With me,” he repeated. His heart was cracking open. It was hard to breathe.
“Well, yes, because I love you.”
“You love me.” The words came out strangled. Was he going dumb with joy? His thoughts crumbled apart. A warm surge filled his chest.
“Is it hard to believe? We have only known each other a matter of weeks. But you are so very adorable. And I am certain I can persuade you to fall in love with me, and forget all about Bathsheba Baeccon, even though—”
“Cerys, my perfect love,” he said gently. “Step away from the door.”
“Why?” She sounded hurt. “Are you leaving me too?”
“I am going to break it down.”
“Oh.” A rustle sounded, then her voice, further away. “Carry on, then.”
Dante had never been a brawler. Save for the time Tom Thompson had insulted Daniele and pulled her hair, he had never attacked anything in his life. But this door stood before him and Cerys. He had never in his life thanked God for his size, until now.
He pulled back his leg, balanced, and kicked at the door.
The lock creaked but didn’t budge.
“Is it working?” she called.
Rage swelled within him. This door was every taunt and insult leveled against him that he had not been born a gentleman.
It was every scornful remark that dropped from his father’s lips because Dante could only draw, not sculpt.
It was every cut his mother had received from those who thought she married beneath her.
It was every commission he had not gotten because he was half-Italian, and it was every time a gentleman’s name had been published as the architect on a project although Dante had done all the work.
This door was everything that stood between him and his dreams, and now it separated him from Cerys. He would not stop until that door was down. In this moment, he was Samson at the Temple of Dagon, bringing down the Philistines.
He kicked, and kicked, and kicked again, the impact jarring up his leg and thigh, but rage goaded him on, and the prize inside. The door shuddered, splintered around the lock, and then the whole portal parted from its hinges and fell inward with a crash.
For a moment there was no movement but the scuffle of fleeing mice. Then a dim shape appeared, one hand held before her. “Dante?”
He stepped forward. “I’m here.”
And then she was pressed to his chest, face against his shoulder, and he closed his arms around her. She was whole. She was unhurt. She was safe now, and he would never let her go. The night closed about them, warm and fragrant.
“You want to marry me,” he said hoarsely, cradling her head, stroking her back, running his hands through her hair, which flowed over her shoulders free of pins and the clever little hat. Jasmine and softness filled his senses. His chest swelled with joy.
“I do, I do. And we will live in that beautiful house, and have children, rooms full of children. Little boys who dream of making art, and little girls with your scowl.”
He couldn’t speak, could only hold her, this woman who had made his life complete.
“That’s all right, then,” was all he could say.
“Cerys, my little potato flower.” Her mother’s voice came from behind Dante’s shoulder. No doubt she wanted to hold her daughter, too, but Dante wasn’t ready to let go.
Cerys stilled. “I’m not alone, my love,” Dante said gently. “Look up.”
She pulled her face from his shoulder and peered behind him, searching the dark drive. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open in surprise.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re here. You’re all here.” She reached her arms around Dante, stretching her hands toward her mother, and burst into tears.