The Valentine Poem

by Victoria Hinshaw

  The Valentine Poem

  A Novella

  Victoria Hinshaw

  ©2003

  First published in My Only Valentine, Kensington Zebra, 2003

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Book cover design and interior format by

  Lisa Messegee, www.thewritedesigner.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  London, 1814

  Miss Susan Kimball stood before the mirror, carefully watching her lips form the words. “Bella mia, te amo…te amo, carissima mia.” A tall and haughty conte pulled her into his arms and ravished her with a cascade of kisses from her forehead to her throat. In her mind she could hear his sighs of love, see the depths of his passion. She looked down at the small volume in her hand and turned the page, hoping to find more phrases of courtship. Instead, the next section was titled “Hiring a Carriage.” What did she expect? She had been embellishing on the simple te amo in The Language of the Italian States and Provinces: Being a Compendium for Travelers of Useful Declarations, Phrases, and Conversations Together with Days of the Year, Celebrations and Recognition of Saint's Days. The book was dated 1788, nearly three decades ago. But it was all she had to teach herself the language of the region she most fervently wished to visit and experience in every sense of the word. Again she peered into the looking glass, concentrating on how her lips moved as she whispered again, “Te amo, bella mia.”

  Her words turned to a grin. Why was she engaging in this fanciful nonsense? There would not be an enraptured conte. No one was going to murmur those melodious syllables to her and she would never have the opportunity to say them back to the dark and rather dangerous man in her dreams. She stared into her own eyes for a moment, then stepped back from the mirror and surveyed herself from her narrow waist to the wisp of a cap she wore on her head. No English gentleman had ever tried to convey such a message to her. What made her think some Florentine or Venetian would find her light brown hair, pulled back into a bun, or her ordinary grey eyes worthy of his admiration?

  She could not help shaking her head as she stared into the glass. Somehow, she was the anomaly among her sisters, the middle girl who never fit in. The others were beautiful, with their mother's pale blond curls and eyes as blue as the skies over the sweeping fields of their home near Salisbury. Susan took after the more sober features of her father, William Kimball, Baron Halford. Looks were not the only quality that set her apart from her sisters. Araminta and Philadelphia, the two eldest, had long ago married and brought forth several children, for despite the extravagance of their names, they were as conventional as any women could be. They aspired to attain the Lady's Magazine descriptions of virtuous paragons of feminine worthiness. Susan's two younger sisters, Dianthe and Theodosia, were almost precisely the same. They would begin their quests for suitable husbands during this season's marriage mart. Her mother had given up on Susan's prospects last season, her third, after she irrevocably spurned the attentions of the only male to make an effort to solicit hers. Susan turned away from the lackluster sight in the mirror. It was as though she received all the shares of imagination meant for every one of her sisters and none of the shares of good looks. Their minds were entirely conventional; her head overflowed with dreams of exciting travel, especially to the Italian peninsula. The baroque glories of Rome, the frescoed churches of the Medicis’ city, the gondolas plying the canals of Venice, these filled her mind and stirred her soul. How very ironic that the kind of beauty an Italian admired in a female belonged to her sisters, who longed for nothing beyond the boundaries of London society.

  “Susan, you are not ready to go.” The Dowager Countess of Traisdel, Susan's grandmother, admonished her from the hall. “You need your warmest pelisse.”

  Susan hid the book in the folds of her skirt as she turned. “I shall be ready in a moment.”

  A quarter hour later, when they arrived at Renwick House, Susan followed her grandmother out of the carriage and into the marbled foyer where the footman took their wraps.

  “Lady Renwick will receive you in the Blue Room,” the butler said, and led them up the wide white staircase.

  Susan followed Lady Traisdel, determined not to say a word when the conversation inevitably turned to the plans for her sisters’ presentations or to her perceived failure to find a husband after several seasons in town. She ought to be accustomed to the topic by now. Every exchange since their arrival in London a week after the New Year seemed to have centered on Why Susan Did Not Take or How Dianthe and Theodosia are Certain to Do Better than Susan.

  She made her curtsey to Lady Renwick and sat beside Lady Caroline, a quiet girl of nineteen years, whose first season last year had been no better than Susan's. Caro and Susan had entertained each other on the sidelines of at least a dozen dance floors.

  “Mama has a plan for me.” Caro spoke softly to Susan alone as the older ladies exchanged exclamations on the peculiarity of the frigid weather.

  “A plan? Whatever does she want you to do?” Susan well remembered how shyly Caro conducted herself in company, despite her delicate beauty and substantial dowry.

  “She believes I should sing. She says my voice is my best asset and she wants me to perform. She has hired a music master to teach me, but I fear I shall never be able to overcome my nerves.”

  “Of course you can. You have a lovely voice.” Susan glanced over at Lady Renwick, in close conversation with Grandmother. Caro's mother had a very good idea, if only Caro could gain courage.

  “The music master, my lady, as you instructed.” The butler spoke from the doorway, then stood aside as two men entered.

  Susan’s eyes widened. Both had the dark, wavy hair that might indicate an Italian heritage. Perhaps someone with whom she could try to converse, someone who could help her learn his language.

  In the flurry of introductions and her attention to the fine figures both men presented, her mind raced far ahead of the moment and she missed both their family names. What she heard was the unmistakable lilt of an Italian accent from the music master, who was called Antonio. His intriguingly handsome companion, called Gianni, bowed and met her gaze with eyes so black and sparkly she stared transfixed. After he turned away, directing his attention to Lady Renwick, she could not tear her gaze from him. His complexion spoke of sunshine and open air, his hair of the gentle breezes of spring, his mouth of the touch of petals in the mist. The deep set of his eyes beneath a wide forehead and the smooth planes of his cheeks reminded Susan of the face of an angel carved by a master's hands.

  Abruptly she remembered her Grandmother and looked away from Gianni, relaxing her fingers from their white-knuckled clasp. She stole a surreptitious peek and found the dowager absorbed in Lady Renwick’s exchange with Antonio. Another quick glance revealed a look of enthrallment on Caro’s face. Had her mother any idea of what this music master looked like when she arranged his visit? Or that his companion would be even more handsome?

  Lady Renwick proceeded to enumerate her instructions. “Above all, Antonio, Lady Caroline must be ready to perform at least two selections at our annual Valentine ball. You have just under four weeks to see that she is perfectly prepared to enthrall our guests. I leave the choice of music to you once you have heard her voice. And Caroline, you must overcome your shyness.”

  Susan watched Caro’s face, a
fascinating blend of wide-eyed admiration for Antonio’s looks and utter terror at the prospect of singing in public.

  “Susan, would you accompany Caroline and the gentlemen to the music room?” Lady Renwick waved them away.

  Susan shook off her musings and quickly agreed. Now she wished she had taken more time with her hair this morning and put on a more becoming gown. She felt as tongue-tied as Caro looked. The music room held an elegant new pianoforte, the newest and finest model Broadwood produced.

  “If I may?” Antonio seated himself on the bench and struck a series of chords, as if testing the instrument. “Now Lady Caroline, will-a you sing for me?”

  If she had not felt so concerned for Caro, Susan would have laughed at the stricken look on her friend's face.

  “I, ah, I do not…” Caro tried to mumble excuses.

  Susan frowned when she saw Gianni’s expression of mild amusement. “Perhaps we should stay out of her view. I am afraid she is rather bashful,” she whispered.

  “Va bene.”

  Susan led the way to the corner of the room, out of Caro’s line of vision. Her heartbeat quickened as she stood beside a potted palm and fingered its fronds. There was only one piece of furniture here and it was a narrow settee, barely wide enough to accommodate two. Gianni bowed and waved her to a seat. Carefully, as if she might be sitting on eggs, she perched on the edge of the cushion. His gaze held hers for a moment before he seated himself beside her, their thighs almost touching.

  “Signor, you said ‘va bene,’ meaning ‘it is fine,’ I believe?”

  Gianni nodded, smiling. “Si. You know the Italian language?”

  “No. Yes. That is, I have studied a little. But I have had no instruction.” His nearness brought Susan a blush of warmth that belied the chill of the afternoon and their distance from the fireplace.

  “So we will partake of un po conversazione, per favore.”

  Susan's mind went blank. Only the words te amo came to the fore, clearly unsuitable as a beginning topic. Not a single term could she recall. And though she copied his pronunciation, her voice sounded both thin and distinctively English. “Si, per favore.”

  “Bene. An important part of speaking is to form the words properly. Please watch my lips. Questa e la camera musici, mi capisce?”

  She could watch his lips forever. His mouth was fascinating, enticing, beautiful. She wished he would simply continue talking so she could observe every movement of his appealing face.

  He smiled widely. “Ripeto. Questa e la camera musici, mi capisce?”

  She tried to shake off her foolish and imprudent thoughts. If she were going to learn from this man, she would have to get over staring at him like an awestruck henwit. She straightened her back and cleared her throat. “Questa e la camera musici? Si. Is this the music room?”

  “Molto bene.” His dark eyes shone with encouragement.

  She blurted out the question that had been on her mind since he walked in the door. “Do you tutor students? Could I persuade you to give me lessons, Signor Gianni?”

  “I should be happy to assist you, but I insist that you call me Gianni, and for our lessons, you are Susanna.”

  She felt herself grinning like a ninnyhammer and diverted her eyes, trying to wipe the simpering expression from her face. She was not a silly rattlebrained miss just out of the schoolroom. She was a young lady with independent ideas and a taste for the unconventional. A smile from a handsome man should have no effect on her whatsoever. Age and gender were superfluous to the learning process. But as long as Gianni had come along before anyone else qualified to teach her…

  “Will you come to Halford House in Brook Street tomorrow about two in the afternoon and we can discuss terms?”

  “Of course, I shall be there.”

  Susan felt the nonsensical smile returning and quickly bit the inside of her lip to stop it. “Domani?”

  He smiled more brightly than a dozen candles. “Si. Domani, Susanna mia.”

  She forced her attention back to Caroline, who was squeaking out a few very tentative notes. Gianni touched Susan’s hand. “Do not worry. Maestro Antonio will draw her out and she will sing like an angel in a few weeks.”

  Lady Renwick appeared in the door, a look of vexation on her face. After watching her daughter, who stood with her back to the room, Lady Renwick came over to Susan. Gianni stood and Lady Renwick immediately took his place, hardly giving him a glance. “Susan, my dear, do you think it would help Caroline if you sang with her? Would that not give her confidence, if she is not alone?”

  Susan had no desire to sing for anyone, particularly not at the Renwick’s famous Valentine Ball. This year she did not plan to attend any balls or routs or ridottos or any other assembly, except the event her parents would give to present Dianthe and Theodosia. She was counting on talking her mother out of the money for a few of the dresses she would not need, additions to her little fund for financing her future travels.

  Gianni spoke before she could think of a reply. “If you will excuse me, milady, I believe you have a very fine idea. Though I do not know Lady Caroline well, having a friend at one’s side is always comforting.”

  Lady Renwick nodded vigorously. “Then it is decided, Susan. You do agree, do you not?”

  Susan opened her mouth to object, but caught Gianni’s wink. Instead of declining, she found herself nodding her agreement. Immediately, as Lady Renwick informed Maestro Antonio of the plan, Caro dashed to draw Susan into her embrace.

  “Oh, thank you, dearest friend. All alone I could not squawk a single note, but together, perhaps we can give a creditable performance.”

  Over Caroline’s shoulder, Susan aimed a frown at Gianni, but his only reaction was a polite bow and an appealingly crooked smile.

  An hour later, Susan felt she had been put through her paces like a performing bear on a leash. Simple songs, many scales and exercises, even an aria or two tested the limits of her ability. Unlike her four sisters, Susan’s voice was pitched low.

  Antonio seemed satisfied. “We fix-a your lower register, burnish your mellow tone, and you girls sing like-a the cherubim from heaven. Signorina Caroline takes the high parts like-a the birds, soaring and lovely.”

  Susan thought he had a rather elevated idea of what he could do with them, but squashed her comments. Caroline was much too excited to have her aspirations doubted.

  Gianni spoke to Susan out of the hearing of the others. “Would you consent to having me come to you at one? After we speak together, I can escort you here to sing and then I will accompany you home again. Is that acceptable?”

  Susan nodded. “Very acceptable. In fact, I say molto bene.” She had feared the singing might spoil plans for her tutoring.

  “Brava, cara mia.”

  Susan began to think these singing lessons might have a beneficial effect. They would more than double the time she got to spend with Gianni.

  In the carriage back to Halford House, the dowager propped her feet on a heated brick and cast a dour look at Susan. “I suppose you will have to go to Renwick House every day to practice.”

  “Yes, I expect so. Signor Gianni will come at one to tutor me in Italian and then he will accompany me to Caroline’s lessons.”

  “I do not know what your mother will think of that when she arrives. Why do you wish to study Italian? My gel, you must be careful or you will be known as a bluestocking.”

  Susan was well aware of the low esteem in which her grandmother held educated women. “It will help my singing. I believe we are to do something from one of Mozart’s operas.”

  “All a hum, in my opinion. I am not convinced Elaine is doing the right thing having those foreigners around Caroline. She is more than likely to fall in love with one of those basket-scramblers.”

  “I will try to see that she does not.”

  “The best thing I can say is that you might be displayed to advantage this year after all. Your mother will have enough to do, bringing out your sisters.”

/>   Susan gave a little sigh. Mama was relying on her to help with the shopping, the fittings, all the thousands of little preparations to be made. She might never have time for Gianni unless she went to those singing lessons. “I hope then you will convince her the plan is to our advantage.”

  “We shall see.” Grandmother still wore a skeptical look, but fortunately the short ride came to an end before she could delve any deeper.

  Gianni accepted a glass of claret from his half-brother, Richard, tenth Duke of Bainbridge, and settled into a deep leather chair in the library of his grace’s Grosvenor Square townhouse. Richard, Gianni was quick to note, was dressed in formal court breeches. He must have been at a dinner at Carlton House with the Prince Regent. Richard wore his sixty years well, his features still handsome though his hair was thinning and his paunch expanded every year. Richard, eldest of the ninth duke’s children, was old enough to be Gianni’s father. The duke offered him a cigar, and when he shook his head, lit his own, puffing until his head was wreathed in aromatic smoke.

  “Sorry to have called you here so late, John. I wanted to see you this afternoon, but it was impossible. We are waiting for dispatches from Lord Castlereagh, and we had hopes of receiving information from the continent today. But it was not to be.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Heading for Paris, or so we all hope. I strongly suspect, however, that Napoleon has considerably more fight left than some of our allies give him credit for. We all agree le Empereur’s time is running out, but he will go down fighting, as long as his troops follow his orders.”

  “What is the consensus on timing?”

  “Some say before the trees leaf out in Paris. Others predict he will fall even sooner. I personally tend toward the more pessimistic view. He has many more men left to kill on all sides, in my opinion.”