1794_Charlotte

by Karen Hawkins

  “You are ambitious.”

  “I am,” he admitted without hesitation. “I have a family that depends on me.”

  “Oh yes. All those brothers and sisters.” Her smile slipped, and her gaze dropped to the fireplace. A log shifted, the noise echoing in the silence as a large ember landed on the hearth.

  She moved away, keeping her skirts a safe distance from the flames.

  He watched, admiring her slender, graceful hands where they held the blue silk of her gown. Something about her pulled at him, something beyond a heated kiss shared in a mystical wood. The way she moved and spoke, both impulsive and quick, contradicted the caution he saw in her blue gaze.

  There were many layers to her, and to his chagrin, he wanted to know them all. “You must come to my workshop so that I may show you the pieces I’ve already finished.” The words slipped from him as if pulled by a golden thread.

  Good God, why had he said that? He hated letting people view his work until it was in place.

  “I mustn’t slow you down. The fireplace must be installed by—” Her lips closed over the words as if they refused to be spoken aloud. After a strained moment, she said, “Soon. We’ve an event, a formal breakfast. Hundreds of people have been invited.” With a sudden burst of restlessness, she turned away, her skirts rustling with each step. “I must go.”

  “Charlotte?”

  She pulled up short, but didn’t turn to look at him.

  He took a step toward her. “This breakfast? Why is it so important?”

  She smoothed nervous hands over her skirt. “There’s to be a wedding.”

  The words echoed in the large, nearly empty room. “Whose wedding?” he asked harshly, although he already knew the answer.

  “Mine.” Her answer was almost a whisper. Head bowed, she left, her skirts rustling as she closed the door behind her with cold finality.

  He stared at the door, oddly bereft at her answer. What is wrong with me that I feel this so strongly? But perhaps it wasn’t that difficult to understand. He recognized her pride, admired her honesty, and reveled in her untamed nature. And what’s more, he’d seen the flash of despair that darkened her eyes at unexpected moments. Was she being forced into this marriage? He couldn’t imagine that to be true, for she was as strong willed as she was spirited. Yet he couldn’t ignore the shadows that clung to her like tangled silk scarves.

  Sighing, he picked up his charcoal and paper, and resumed his seat. He stared at the fireplace for a long time, the forgotten moonstone alone on the mantel.

  After a while, he forced his mind to empty, closed his eyes, rested the charcoal on the paper, and drew. At first, his hand moved slowly, but as the image bloomed to life, his motions quickened. Soon, the charcoal raced across the page, each stroke sure and strong.

  Finally, his hand stilled, and he opened his eyes.

  The paper didn’t contain a magnificent design for the pillars. Instead, a young woman stared out at him, her lips soft, her nose bold, her eyes the saddest he’d ever seen.

  Chapter 5

  Pietro squinted against the bright afternoon sun. “You are not working.”

  “I’ve worked morning and night for the last three days. Now, I am resting.” Marco leaned against the doorframe of the wide door and crossed his arms, the fresh breeze tugging at his shirt. “Besides, the dust was making me cough.”

  “It’s good you are making dust.” Pietro nodded wisely. “The stone is talking to you.”

  “Finally,” Marco agreed. “I will carve two women, Greek goddesses, one on each pillar. The mantel will rest above them.”

  The servant nodded thoughtfully, as if picturing it. “And?”

  “That is all I have now, but the details are forming.”

  Pietro grunted his satisfaction. “It will come. You are well on your way to getting Mrs. Harrington’s recommendation to the Queen, and we are that much closer to going home.” He leaned against the opposite doorpost and, hands deep in his pocket, he looked out across the stable yard with an air of contentment.

  It had been three days since Marco had last spoken to Charlotte. The day after their conversation, he’d returned to Nimway with the hope of speaking with her again, but Simmons’s cold, suspicious stare had let Marco know that any attempt to find Charlotte alone would fail. Angry at himself for even trying, and feeling like a fool, he’d returned to his workshop and had thrown himself into his work. And here he’d stayed since. For the last three days, left alone with his thoughts, he’d relived every moment of their conversation, ending each time with her tortured whisper as she’d left the room. He was burning to discover why she found her coming marriage so distasteful. Was that what had caused the sadness that flickered through her eyes every so often, as raw and real as the ground beneath her feet?

  A fresh, cool breeze blew through the wide open stable doors, tugging at Marco’s shirt. Bees buzzed in the nearby flowers, while butterflies flitted in and out of the field where Diavolo and Goliath grazed. The scent of lavender and rose wafted from the gardens behind the house, mingling with the smell of fresh hay and oats.

  Past the gardens, Nimway Hall warmed in the sun, sheltered by the ivy that climbed up its stone walls. The graceful sweep of the emerald colored lawn was threaded with white gravel pathways that led to the deep blue lake. Behind the lake, purple and yellow flowers nodded in the gentle breeze.

  “The English know how to garden,” Pietro said grudgingly “But they cannot grow grapes, sorry bastards.”

  Marco’s gaze moved beyond the lake where a large, golden field stretched to Balesboro Wood. “It is beautiful here.”

  Pietro harrumphed. “Not as beautiful as Italy.”

  Marco gave the elderly, cantankerous stonemason an amused look. “You can love more than one place. It will not hurt you.”

  “Italy is home. Besides, Cook says it is very wet and gray here in the winter.”

  Marco cocked a brow at his servant. “You’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time in Nimway’s kitchen of late. Is it because of this woman?”

  “Someone told her that Italians are good lovers.” Pietro looked smug. “So far, I have not abused her of that notion.”

  “It’s good that we leave soon, before she discovers the truth. She might—” A white horse appeared from the depths of the wood. Marco watched as Charlotte guided the huge animal across the rough ground and onto the path around the lake. Today she wore a riding habit of hunter green, a white spill of lace at her neck, her dark red hair pinned beneath a tall riding hat that sported a pale green band with fluttering ends. Her long skirts flowed across the horse’s white flanks, rippling with the breeze.

  Marco straightened when Charlotte turned her horse toward the stables instead of onto the path that curved around the Hall. She usually rode Angelica to Nimway’s front door where a groom waited to lead the animal back to the stables. But in the brief time Marco had been here, he’d noticed that on occasion, Charlotte would instead ride her horse to the stables where she’d busy herself chatting with the grooms and brushing the monster beast while ordering the stable hands to feed the animal a ridiculous number of apples.

  Not that Marco had watched, of course. He was far too busy for such nonsense. But nothing kept her voice and her low, musical laughter from drifting into his workshop, which had been damned distracting.

  Pietro cursed. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop looking at her like that. As if you see a lovely puzzle only you can solve.”

  “You think I cannot solve this puzzle?”

  “I don’t want you to try,” Pietro almost growled. “That woman is not for you.”

  The words hit Marco like icy water. “The only reason I’m interested in her is because she’s been tasked with overseeing my work here.” Which was a lie, and Marco knew it.

  “Good. You know what would happen to your prospects if you seduced the daughter of a noble patron. Not only would the recommendation to royalty disappea
r, but you would be disgraced, and then where would your family be?”

  “It will not happen,” Marco said sharply. “I’m not a fool; I will not sabotage my own success.” Which didn’t mean he wasn’t tempted. God knew he was only human and the lush and lovely Charlotte presented a wealth of challenges. But it didn’t take a genius to see the end result of this particular flirtation, no matter how pleasurable. “You need have no worries, she is engaged to wed,” he said sourly. Damn the man to hell and back again, whoever he is.

  “Propio bourno! This, I did not know.” The servant gave a satisfied smile, revealing a row of wine-stained teeth. “When is the blessed event to occur?”

  “In three weeks’ time.” Marco watched as Charlotte neared the fence that lined the far end of the stable yard.

  The sun warmed her auburn hair, bringing out the gold tones. He noticed that as she led the horse, the animal’s gait had changed slightly, as if she were matching Charlotte’s limp. For a moment, it looked as if the two were dancing, horse and rider.

  A stable hand hurried to open the gate, and Charlotte led her horse into the stable yard. There, she handed her horse to a waiting groom, her gaze swinging to meet Marco’s.

  For a long moment their gazes locked. Marco’s chest tightened, and he wondered if he should cross the yard and speak to her. To what end? There’s nothing I could or should say. I’ve no reason to speak to her at all.

  Angelica butted her head against Charlotte’s arm, drawing her rider’s attention, and that was that – Charlotte turned away to take care of the demanding animal.

  Marco muttered under his breath about evil creatures.

  “You’re still staring,” Pietro pointed out.

  “Go to hell,” Marco snapped and then wheeled about and went back inside, welcoming the safety of the cool, dark stable.

  Pietro followed. “I don’t understand. She’s not your usual type of woman.”

  “And what is my ‘usual’ type?” Marco asked coldly.

  “Tall, stately, and beautiful. This one is pretty, yes, but no more.” The stonemason pursed his lips. “It’s a pity about that limp, too. When she walks, you can see that one hip is higher than the other and—”

  “She is fine as she is,” Marco said coldly, his jaw aching where he clenched it. “We are all different, Pietro. It is those differences which reveal beauty. If we all looked the same—” He shrugged. “Everything would be bland, uninteresting, boring, and ugly.”

  “I suppose so.” The stonemason frowned. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “You should think more. It will do you good. Besides, I am not so arrogant as to change what God has deemed perfect. You should do the same.”

  The old stonemason cast a pious look heavenward and crossed himself. “I cannot argue with that. But I will say one thing, and you will not like it.”

  “Then do not say it.”

  “You need to hear it.” The old man pointed a gnarled finger. “You are making an error. Ever since we arrived, you’ve been distracted, moping around the shop, unable to hear the stone when it speaks to you. You cannot work well because you are constantly looking for that woman, wondering about her. You watch her as if you would devour her.”

  “You are exaggerating.”

  “Ha! You know what I think? E’ stato un colpo di fulmine.”

  “Like hell,” Marco snapped. He didn’t believe in colpo di fulmine. Ancient Italian lore held that a passionate man could, with just one glance at the right woman, be hit with a consuming ardor so strong that it would be as if he’d been struck by lightning and his chest split open, his love exposed for all the world to see. The English called it ‘love at first sight,’ which was a pale version of the same foolish myth. “Spare me your ridiculous talk. I feel nothing more than admiration for Charlotte Harrington.”

  His admiration was well deserved, too. His artist’s instincts were intrigued by her fiery color, the delicate yet stubborn line of her jaw, by the boldness of her nose, by the fullness of her lips. But more than her physical attractions, Marco was fascinated by her many expressions and her bravery in facing the challenges of her life. And there were so many things he didn’t yet know about her. Why did she ride into the woods each day as if pursued by the hounds of hell? Why had she looked so unsettled when she mentioned her coming marriage? But most of all, why was there such sadness behind her amazing blue eyes?

  The old man sighed loudly, drawing Marco’s attention once again. “I don’t mean to argue—”

  “Really?”

  “But don’t forget why we’re here. What you stand to lose if you stray from the rules of a commission.”

  “The rules of a commission,” Marco repeated in a bitter tone. “That the satisfaction of the patron is more important than the quality of the art? That the artist is never to assume he is more than a common laborer and never cross the social boundaries established to keep it so?”

  “It is the way things are,” Pietro said stubbornly. “You know that.”

  Marco looked down at his hands, which were clenched into fists. With a deep, heartfelt sigh, he stretched out his fingers, noting the callouses from holding the chisels and hammer, the dust that had been ground into his fingertips that no amount of soap could wash away, the cuts and bruises caused by working with stone that was sharp and unwieldy. They weren’t the hands of a person born into the gentry, someone who could court and win a woman like Charlotte Harrington.

  He curled his hands back into fists. “I’ve work to do,” he growled. “Sharpen my chisel. I will need it this afternoon.” Jaw set, Marco tossed aside the dust cover that hid the pillars from sight and examined the work he’d done so far. A figure was beginning to emerge from each pillar, although the specific shape wasn’t yet discernable. But inspiration was coming and even now, the excitement of it flickered through him, his fingers itching to pick up a hammer and chisel and set to work.

  Behind him, Pietro shifted items on one of the long work tables. He found the sharpener and set to work, and the calming sound of the chisel sliding across the whet stone soon rang out.

  Gratified to see some progress on the pillars, Marco threw the dust cover over them, and then cast a satisfied look around the workshop. They were housed in an older portion of the stable complex which branched off the newer building. Together, they formed an L shape. The space was crude, but effective. The ceiling was high, and there was a surfeit of natural light from the many windows. A woodstove had been installed at one end and provided welcome warmth during the chilly spring nights.

  The ground was of hard-packed dirt, which suited his purpose well as the dust clung to it instead of drifting through the air. Several stalls, which he suspected had been used as tack rooms prior to his arrival, had been emptied for his use. Someone had furnished the farthest room with a cot, a small stove, and a surprisingly comfortable chair. It was warm and private, and far from Pietro who snored as if he were the lone angel singing in a heavenly choir.

  “There.” The stonemason placed a newly sharpened chisel into an open leather case. “I can sharpen the others if they need—” His gaze locked on something just past Marco. The old man’s brows knit over his large nose. “What is that?”

  Marco turned. There, sitting in the middle of his work table on a stack of discarded drawings, was the royal mace head, the moonstone catching the early afternoon light where it beamed in one of the windows. “Where in the hell did that come from?”

  “It wasn’t there a few minutes ago.” Pietro rubbed his whiskered chin. “At least, I don’t think it was there. What is it?”

  “It’s the head of a royal mace.”

  “Like a king might use?”

  Or a queen. “Yes.” Marco went to the mace head, his gaze falling on the creased pages that rested under the metal base. The edges of the pages were charred. From the top sheet, a familiar face stared back at him.

  Cursing, he moved the mace head aside and picked up the papers. “How did these get here
?”

  “They look burned.”

  “They should be ashes,” Marco said grimly as he flipped through the pages. Charlotte’s familiar face peered back at him in sketch after sketch. In some of them she smiled; in some, a hot, impatient look flashed from her fine eyes; in others her mouth was thinned, her chin angled with haughty pride.

  He scowled at his own foolishness. Over the last few days, in an attempt to beguile his muse into revealing the figures in the pillars, he’d free sketched various ideas. Normally, sketching was a tried and true way to stir his imagination. But to his chagrin, ever since their conversation in the dining room, he’d caught himself sketching Charlotte instead the pillars. Over and over and over.

  Marco refolded the sketches and turned to his servant. “Did you pull these from the stove?”

  “Of course not!” Pietro huffed as he eyed the stack of sketches. “What are they?”

  “Nothing of importance,” Marco muttered. He folded the stack in half and carried it back to the stove, and tossed the sketches into the flames. This time, he watched them burn. As the last paper curled into ashes, he closed the stove door. “I tossed them into the fire last night, but someone retrieved them before they were destroyed.”

  “It wasn’t me.” The stonemason’s wrinkled face creased into a frown. “Do you think one of the grooms might have been here? We haven’t been locking the doors.”

  “Why would they pull sketches from the fire?”

  “Perhaps Miss Harrington asked them to do it. You’re not one to share your ideas. Maybe she wanted more information about the carvings than you’ve given her.”

  “That is ludicrous,” Marco scoffed. “She wouldn’t—” He frowned.

  “What is it?”

  “The last time I spoke to her was in the dining room. She started to pick up some drawings I’d tossed to the floor. I took them from her and threw them in the fire, much as I did these.”

  “Well, then. There you have it.” Pietro seemed to think that solved everything. “She is determined to find out what your designs are for the fireplace.”