Chapter 20
The Letter
Cilly stretched luxuriously in bed and smiled as she saw the curtains were open. Damian always opened the curtains for her so she could see the view as soon as she woke.
Pulling herself upright, she arranged the pillows and smothered a yawn just as the man himself came into the room.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. I thought you would sleep the day away,” he said, carrying in a laden tray from which the decadent scent of hot chocolate drifted.
“Well, if a certain wicked gentleman didn’t keep me awake at all hours of the night, I might be up earlier,” she retorted, accepting the kiss he offered once he’d set the tray down on her lap.
“Is that a complaint?”
Cilly reached for a piece of toast and applied a liberal smear of butter. She looked at him from under her lashes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He laughed, then stiffened at the sound of the door knocker. Before Cilly could say another word, he ran from the room. She could hear his steps thundering down the stairs and the sound of murmured voices.
He’d been like this ever since they’d moved in, leaping like a cat on hot coals every time the post arrived. She’d asked him several times what it was he was waiting for, but he’d refused to tell her. Not yet. He would explain everything. But not yet.
It was very odd, especially as everything else was so very wonderful.
Ever since his visit to Reverend Honeywell, who had lent him a fascinating book that had absorbed his interest for hours, he’d seemed lighter.
He had told her about their conversation that same night.
Not everything, she suspected, but enough to make her understand that the reverend had guided him through the past and helped him see those dreadful events from a different perspective.
Cilly had visited him too, a few days later. She’d not said a word, just hugged him tightly for a long moment and then left the vicarage before she burst into tears.
They had discussed the book the reverend had lent them for days, though reading it had been hard going, but Damian’s mind had been opened to possibility now, and no subject was off limits.
They had even visited Doctor Grantham. Damian had said little on the journey home, but the veil of terror that had shrouded his future had lifted high above them, not gone perhaps, but certainly no longer casting a pall over everything.
She felt instinctively that she must leave Damian to his own thoughts in the wake of these conversations, even though she knew how profoundly they had affected him.
She kept her own hopes to herself, not wishing for him to feel their burden, and just quietly rejoiced in the changes she saw in him.
For it seemed as if a great burden was lifting from his shoulders a little more with each sunrise, as if each day truly was a blessing.
They laughed more and made plans for the future, for the house and the gardens, and to see him so happy and so content with her was everything she could ever have wished for.
Yet the mystery of the post was more than she could bear.
Setting the tray to one side, she slipped from the bed and pulled on her dressing gown, turning just as Damian entered the room. He was white-faced, and almost visibly vibrating with… with something.
“Damian!” she cried, rushing to him. “What is it?”
“It’s the letter I’ve been waiting for,” he said, holding it out to her. Cilly took it from him, noting the foreign postmarks.
“Who is it from?”
He swallowed, his eyes bright with excitement and something that looked like terror. “My Aunt Julia, my mother’s sister.”
“Your… Your mother has a sister?” Cilly stared at him in shock.
Damian nodded, his expression begging forgiveness. “I’ve never met her. I’d forgotten all about her until Honeywell asked me about her family. He told me to write to her, so I did.”
She let out a sigh as everything became clear. “That’s what you’ve been waiting for? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looked away from her for a long moment before taking her hand in his. His gaze met hers, filled with hope as well as the fear of disappointment. “Because it could change everything, and I… I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
Cilly’s breath caught as she understood what he meant. She stared at the letter, her heart thudding as though the thing might explode in her hands.
“Well, you’d best read it, then,” she said, grateful that her voice sounded calmer than she felt.
Damian shook his head. “I… I can’t. You read it.”
He moved to the chair by the fireplace and sat down just as Nichols bustled in.
“Oh, my lady, you’ve not eaten a bite of your breakfast—”
“Nichols, not now, please. T-Take it away, there’s a dear.” Cilly kept her voice even and did not snap the poor woman’s head off, but it was a close thing.
Nichols, never slow on the uptake, looked between them, snatched up the tray and left, closing the door behind her. Cilly perched on the edge of the mattress and broke the seal. Her hands trembled as she opened the letter.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, for the love of God, read it,” he said desperately, putting his head in his hands, clutching at his hair as if he’d pull it out.
Cilly nodded and began to read.
Palazzo Monteverde, Florence, 6th October 1816
My dear nephew,
You cannot imagine my astonishment upon receiving your letter. I confess I stared at it for several minutes before opening it, for I could scarcely believe my eyes.
Damian. My nephew.
You must forgive me if I am foolish and emotional. I have thought of you so very often over the years, with both guilt and regret, though I had long concluded I should never hear from any member of my family again.
First, let me say how very glad I am to know you are well. Your letter was a great comfort to me. I grieve deeply that circumstances have kept us strangers when we ought to have known one another.
You asked about me, about my family. I am pleased to tell you that I have nine living children and, at the latest count, twenty-three grandchildren, though I suspect there may be twenty-four by the time this letter reaches England.
They arrive with such alarming frequency that I struggle to keep pace.
They fill my house, which is a place of utter chaos.
My eldest daughter insists it is because I spoil them all and that they return simply because there is always cake in my kitchen.
I believe there may be some truth in this accusation.
My husband remains as devoted and infuriating as he was the day I married him.
Had my sister met him properly, I believe she might have loved him too, but all she could see was a strange man determined to take her beloved sister away from her.
I am afraid we quarrelled bitterly, and she swore never to speak to me again, that I would be dead to her.
That is one of the great regrets of my life.
I loved your mother very dearly. Please understand that before she became the woman you remember, she was my elder sister.
She braided my hair and taught me to dance.
She comforted me when our mother scolded me and bullied anyone who dared tease me.
Your mama could be difficult, stubborn, dramatic, and impossibly possessive, but she loved fiercely.
Indeed, I have come to believe she loved too fiercely for her own happiness.
As children, we were devoted to one another, but as women, things became more complicated.
When I left, we both said terrible things, things that should never have been spoken.
Pride did the rest. Though I wrote to her several times over the years, I received no reply.
I shall always wish that I had tried harder.
You ask me whether there were others in the family who suffer as she does. The answer is no. At least none that I ever knew.
When I learned what had happened, I was heartsick, but Monteverde forbade me from going to you.
I was heavily pregnant myself, a child which was not to live, I regret to say.
I was too lost in my own grief to consider anyone else.
I should have gone to you, Damian. I should have sent for you and your brother.
I pray you will forgive me one day for not having done so.
I grieved then, as I do still, not only for your father, who was always kind to me, but for your mother too.
The sister I knew would never have wished such an end.
I pray she finds peace in the safety of the home you have found for her, but I beg you will forgive me if I remember only the sister I knew.
I remember her laughter and her kindness.
And I remember how frightened she became whenever she thought someone she loved might leave her.
That, perhaps, is the thing I understand best now that I am old.
Fear can do terrible things when it is allowed to grow unchecked.
I hope you will not allow fear to taint your own life.
I am an old lady now, one who has loved and lost, and so perhaps I might be so bold as to advise the nephew I have never met.
Damian, no child is merely an echo of one parent.
You are your own man, forged in the fires of your own experiences.
Don’t let poor Lily’s fate colour your own life.
If you are ever minded to visit Italy, you will find an enthusiastic welcome waiting for you and many hugs from an aunt who wishes desperately to know you.
Bring your wife. Bring Gideon, whom I should be so glad to know, too.
Bring anyone you please. I have missed too much already and am too old to lose any more family.
Your affectionate aunt,
Julia Monteverde
Cilly folded the letter, discovering her hands were trembling. Somehow, she had managed to read the entire thing without weeping, but only just. She looked up to see Damian staring at her, his expression one of utter shock.
“Nine children.”
Cilly swallowed and gave a nod.
“Twenty-three grandchildren.”
“Twenty-four by now,” she corrected.
Damian gave a startled laugh. He laughed and laughed, then put his head in his hands and wept.