“Go to the kitchen before Cook decides to give your breakfast to a handsome footman who is not such a horrible pain in the morning.”
The stonemason grinned. “No footman can replace me. But still, I’m hungry, so I’ll go.”
“Good. When you do, deliver that moonstone to the butler. It’s in the bag by the door. Tell him it was brought here by mistake.”
Pietro grimaced.
Marco lifted a brow. “You don’t like Simmons?”
“He thinks I spend too much time in the kitchens. Cook laughs at him, but I think he has an interest there and is jealous.”
“It’s more likely he hates seeing his winter stores depleted by an outsider, for you eat more than any two people I know. Now go, and don’t hurry back. I’ve a wish to see my pillow before the half hour is done and you always make so much noise that I cannot sleep.”
Unrepentant, Pietro took the moonstone and left, whistling a merry tune.
Marco returned to the pillars and crouched before them, examining his work inch by inch. He could see details he had yet to carve – the dimple in an elbow, the curve of a knee, the delicate folds of the togas.
He traced his fingers along the line of one shoulder, and realized the two figures had the same width. He stepped back and compared them, surprised to find them identical in every measurement. When he’d dreamed about the figures, he’d thought them sisters, but now he realized that they were representations of the same woman in different poses. She was magnificent, this creature. In his minds’ eye, he could see the turn of her ankle, the delicate hollows that lay along her collarbone, the roundness of her arms, and the length of her curvaceous thigh. When men see you, they will fall in love.
He thought about working some more, but knew he was too tired and he dared not make a mistake. So instead, he found a clean rag and went out into the sunshine. Using the rag, he slapped the dust from his hair, shirt, and breeches. Shimmering and white, the marble dust swirled into the breeze and then disappeared, the distinctive scent mixing with that of fresh hay and morning dew.
When he finished, he tossed the rag back into his workshop and pulled his shirt over his head, and then strode behind the stables to the well. He tossed the shirt over a nearby shrub, and cranked up a pail of fresh, icy water. He poured the bucket over his head, gasping at the cold. It took several more buckets, but finally the water ran clear, the dust and sweat washed away. He used one last bucket of water to wash his shirt, wringing it out and tossing it over his shoulder.
Cold and wet, he rinsed the bucket and then hung it back in place and then headed back to the workshop, the thought of sleep beckoning. Despite his refreshing bath, his eyes blurred with tiredness.
As he turned the corner of the building, he stopped. Charlotte was in the center of the stable yard, perched on her horse, her high crowned hat shadowing her eyes as she bent down to say something to one of the grooms. The poor man stood near a mounting block he’d obviously brought for her use. He leaned forward, hanging on her every word, his manner ridiculously eager.
Marco tried not to scowl but failed. Truly, he couldn’t fault the poor man. Charlotte looked especially beautiful today. Her hand rested gracefully on the pommel, her heart-shaped face softened by her smiles. She was indeed a goddess, Marco decided, too tired to stop himself. She was Diana of the Hunt, and he wished he could carve a statue of her right then and there.
She said farewell to the groom, and then straightened, seeing Marco for the first time.
Their gazes met, and locked. He waited for the flash of hurt anger he was sure he’d be met with. But instead, she favored him with a slow, faint smile, and then tipped her hat in his direction, her head tilted at a saucy angle.
He didn’t know what to do; her reaction so at odds with his expectation that all he could do was stare. Fortunately, she didn’t wait for him to figure it out. As soon as her hand fell from her hat brim, she turned Angelica toward the fence surrounding the stable yard. With a gentle motion, she set the horse to a canter straight toward the fence, her skirts streaming alongside the horse’s flanks.
Good God, she’s going to jump that damned fence! Heart racing, Marco took a step after her. What in the hell is she thinking? That fence is too high and there’s a ditch beyond it! Even worse, not only was she riding a brute of a horse, but she was riding sidesaddle, which he’d never trusted.
Before his horrified gaze, Charlotte urged Angelica to a faster pace as they approached the fence, the horse’s long legs eating the ground as she thundered toward the fence and ditch.
Marco held his breath, his hands clenched at his sides.
Just before she reached the fence, Charlotte gathered the horse beneath her. At the last possible moment, they launched into the air and sailed over the top rail, the jump wide as they cleared the ditch and landed smoothly on the other side. Without a break in stride, they continued on, cantering easily toward the trail that circled the lake.
Marco exchanged a shocked look with the groom who still stood in the middle of the stable yard. “Does she normally do that?” Marco demanded
“She used to do it every day, but she hasn’t made a jump like that since her sister’s accident.” The groom’s gloomy face held a hint of admiration. “Miss Charlotte can ride, though. She hasn’t taken a fall since she was a girl.”
Marco joined the groom, watching Charlotte canter toward the lake. “I think I lost ten years of my life just now.”
“See this?” The groom pointed to his own brown hair, which was thoroughly streaked with gray. “All of it comes from watching Miss Charlotte ride.”
Marco laughed.
The groom gave Marco a measuring look and thrust out a hand. “Jimmy Davis.”
Marco shook the man’s hand. “Marco di Rossi.”
“I know who you are. We all do. Some of us have taken a look at your work.” The groom nodded as if he was a famous art critic. “You do well.”
“Thank you,” Marco said drily.
“You’re welcome. It’s been wonderful to see the improvements Mrs. Harrington has made to the house. I was born here, you know, as were most of us. The Harringtons are a good family.”
“I just learned of Miss Caroline’s death. It’s tragic to hear of one so young dying.”
Davis glanced over his shoulder and then moved slightly closer to say in a low voice, “The accident is not something we speak about openly. It was a tragedy and the family still grieves. But she was a lovely girl, Miss Caroline.” He shook his head. “Although it’s anyone’s guess what she was doing riding a horse she barely knew, and in the middle of the night, too.”
“So that’s how she died.”
“Something must have startled the horse, for it threw her. She wasn’t found until the next morning when she didn’t show up for breakfast. Her bed was found unslept in, and a search party was formed, but . . .” He sighed, his eyes shiny. “She was a lovely, kind girl, Miss Caroline.”
“Where was she going so late at night?”
“Aye, that’s the question, isn’t it? No one knows. If you ask me, it’s Balesboro Wood as did her in.” The groom eyed the woods with suspicion. “Evil spirits lurk there.”
“I don’t trust those woods, either. The trails are impossibly difficult.”
“’Tis the pixies. They find it funny to lead people astray, evil creatures.” Davis sighed and picked up the mounting block. “I guess I’d better take this back inside. If you need anything, let me or one of the others know.”
“Thank you. I will do that.”
Marco watched as Davis disappeared back into the stables before turning back to where Charlotte was just disappearing into Balesboro. So that is what happened to your sister. He couldn’t imagine how horrible that must have been, to have lost a sister at such a young age, and in such a way. If Davis was to be believed, there was still a mystery attached to the death, too. That would make it all the harder to accept.
He watched Charlotte until she was out of sigh
t, glad the groom wasn’t still here to witness Marco staring after Charlotte like a lovesick fool. Maybe he was imagining things, but there was something different about her today. When he’d met her in the woods that first day, she’d been stiff with caution. She was the opposite of the woman who’d just tipped her hat at him in such a bold manner, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
Shaking his head, he walked back to the workshop. He threw his wet shirt over a bench, found a towel, and dried his hair. With each tousle of the towel, his energy seeped away, his fatigue returned. He had to sleep. He gave the pillars a final look, and then went into his room where he stripped out of his wet breeches and fell into bed, falling into a deep sleep where marble caryatids, freed from the stone, danced with a woman with fire-colored hair who rode a horse made of snow.
Chapter 9
Two days later, deep in Balesboro Wood, Charlotte rode Angelica down random paths, some carved for horses, while others were little more than pathways fashioned by wild animals. The going was slow, but neither she nor Angelica cared. Overhead, the sun filtered through the branches, splashing onto leaves until they shone emerald and mint and every shade in between.
It was a luscious day, the sky a bright blue, the scent of spring heavy in the air and on the skin. She took a deep breath, sucking in the freshness of her beloved Balesboro. She loved these woods. She never felt safer than when she was here. It was both ironic and tragic that Caroline had died on one of these paths.
Charlotte shook away the thought, refusing to think about anything sad. It had been several days since she’d talked to Aunt Verity in the sitting room, and each day had brought Charlotte closer to where she was before the tragedy that had changed her life. She felt stronger and surer of herself now, and less as if she were walking on the egg shells of the expectations of others. With that came a peace she hadn’t felt in months.
Angelica whickered softly, and then abruptly turned onto a path Charlotte didn’t recognize. She allowed the horse to take the lead, for no animal knew the woods better, and sure enough, the pathway widened, the sound of rushing water lifting over the rustle of leaves. A few moments later, they entered a small clearing by a stream so picturesque that Charlotte pulled Angelica to a halt.
Before them, a wide stream bubbled over silvery moss that waved across copper colored stones. Clumps of blue and purple flowers grew entwined with emerald green grass. Overhead a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, the sound merging with the rushing water. Even after all of these years, Balesboro still held some surprises and Charlotte was thoroughly charmed.
She patted the horse’s wide neck. “Good girl.”
Angelica whickered in return.
Charlotte glanced up at the sun and wondered if she had time to linger. She was due back at Nimway in an hour, for the vicar’s wife was visiting and Aunt Verity had begged Charlotte to be there. If there was one thing Aunt Verity hated more than expending herself, it was exchanging small talk with a pious woman given to denouncing the very sins Aunt Verity enjoyed the most.
Charlotte grinned and then kicked the stirrups free. An hour would be better than nothing. With a lithe move, she slid off Angelica’s back and looped the reins over a tree branch near a thick patch of grass. The horse settled in for a nap as Charlotte hung her hat on a shrub, and then went to the stream. A large outcropping of rock hung over a quiet pool, the stone surface invitingly smooth.
She bent down and placed her hand flat on the stone, pleased to find it warm. She sat on the rock and tugged off her boots, setting them to one side. She peeled off her stockings and tossed them over her shoulder so they would be well away from the damp stream. Barefoot at last, she pulled up her skirts over her knees, scooted to the edge of the rock, and dangled her bare feet into the pool.
Cool, fresh water rushed over her feet and she wiggled her toes happily. She only wished she had time to undo her cumbersome riding habit and swim in the quiet pool. But the memory of Aunt Verity’s horrified expression when Charlotte had mentioned the vicar’s wife killed the thought. Another day then, if Angelica can be bribed into finding this place again.
Humming to herself, Charlotte planted her hands behind her and tilted her face to the sun filtering through the branches. It had been three days since she’d had her conversation with Aunt Verity. Three days of solitary rides while she decided who she was, what she wanted, and all the reasons she shouldn’t think about Marco di Rossi.
She wasn’t sure what she should do about him. Her life was at a crossroads, and she was ready for something to happen. Something exciting. Something wonderful.
Something like him.
But no, she told herself, that something couldn’t be him. She knew the price he’d have to pay if he ‘crossed the line,’ as he put it. And, as much as Charlotte hated to admit it, knowing her mother, there would be a price. Mama was loving and gracious to everyone she knew, but she had a will of steel and she always, always put family first. Charlotte had no illusions how her mother would see a flirtation between her daughter and the sculptor commissioned to make an unforgettable fireplace for the family home.
There was no winning this one. If she pursued him, or he her, which was a thrilling thought indeed, they both stood to lose. He could lose his reputation and career, and she would have hurt her mother’s already tender feelings in a way that might never heal.
Charlotte sighed and closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her face. It was a problem, this fascination she had for Marco, but she couldn’t seem to give it up. Not yet. There had to be a way around their problems, a way that would free them to at least explore the attraction that simmered between them. Perhaps that would be enough to end it.
Yet somehow, she doubted it. She kicked at the water and watched it arc into a line of splashes, each smaller than the first. She wished Caroline were here. She would have known what to do. There was nothing she’d like better than a romance, often said life wasn’t worth living without—
Angelica snorted loudly, prancing nervously.
Charlotte turned to look. Somewhere close by, and coming closer, a large animal crashed through the shrubs. She started to rise, but the noise was instantly followed by a muttered curse in a deep voice she recognized far too quickly. Fighting a grin, she watched as Marco burst from a dense patch of shrubs, his face dark with irritation, a small branch caught in the torn shoulder of his shirt, a smattering of leaves tangled in his long, dark hair.
His saw her and surprise replaced his irritation. With a swift glance, he took in the beautiful pool, her tossed aside hat, her bunched skirts, and her bared feet dangling in the pool of water.
She waved. “Hello.” It was a weak greeting, but she was too startled to do else.
He scowled, swiping at his hair, leaves showering down. “This cursed wood will be the death of me. If I find that damned owl, I’m going to throttle it and make a hat of it.” With a disgusted look, he yanked the twig from the tear in his shirt.
“What owl?”
“The one I was chasing.”
She tried to keep from laughing, she really did.
His lips thinned. “It’s not funny. The damned thing swooped into the window while I was working, snatched up one of my sketches, and then flew off. I followed him to the woods just as he dropped the paper under a tree.” Marco bent to dust his pants, pausing to yank a torn vine which had wound itself around his knee. “It wasn’t very far inside the woods, so I thought it would be safe to retrieve it.” He straightened, his brow lowered. “But when I reached the tree, the sketch was gone.”
Fascinated, she asked, “What did you do?”
“I decided to return to my workshop, but the damned owl hooted at me. When I looked up, there he was, a little way farther into the woods, holding my sketch. I have no idea how he got it. I had my eyes on the paper the entire time, so—” He shook his head.
“Why do you think he took it? What would an owl do with a sketch?”
“Woman, how would I know what an owl
was thinking?”
She bit her lip at his roar. When she could keep the laughter from her voice, she said, “You wouldn’t know what an owl was thinking, of course.”
“You’re damned right I wouldn’t. It makes no sense, but there he was. This time, I ran at him as fast as I could and leapt into the air and grabbed at the sketch. My fingers closed over it, but he was quicker and flew off.” Marco scowled. “It was like he knew just when to take flight. I kept at it, but every time I reached him, he’d fly off, hooting at me, that damned sketch fluttering as if helpless.”
“You continued to follow him.”
“I did, like a fool. And we got deeper and deeper into the woods, too. Eventually, he disappeared, but it was too late by then, for I was good and lost. I’ve been wandering in these woods for nigh on two hours now and—Good God, woman, will you stop laughing!”
“Sorry.” She gulped back another chuckle.
“No, you’re not,” he said grimly, although his eyes twinkled at bit. “I’m glad I found you. You do know how to get back to Nimway?”
“Yes, and so does Angelica.”
“Thank God for that, at least. That owl hates me with a passion, and . . . Dio, I sound mad, even to my own ears.”
“Anyone who knows Balesboro would know you’re not mad.”
Marco thought he detected real sympathy in Charlotte’s voice, which was infinitely better than the laughter that she’d so far showered him with. “Thank you.” I think.
She turned back to the pool and gently slapped her feet on the water, smiling at the noise. “The villagers swear there’s magic here. I’ve seen a few things that have made me believe it, too.”
He walked to where she sat on the rock, looking around him as he went. He was struck by the beauty of the place, although as stunning as the water and trees and moss were, none compared to the vision in blue who even now was wiggling her toes in the still pool.
It was idyllic here, and yet he’d sworn he would stay away from her. But he was hot and tired, and the stream – and she – looked so inviting that he was pulled closer. “Have you truly seen magical things in these cursed woods?”
1794_Charlotte Page 12