by The Bargain
Now her smile grew wistful as she thought about those two. She hadn't seen them in over a month, for they were still honeymooning in the south, and she missed them terribly. Nevertheless she'd kept her letters to them bright and gay, for theirs to her had bubbled with happiness, and she was determined not to dampen their joy. And besides, her life here with Maria and the children held a joy of its own. Every day was filled with an abundance of things to do, things deeply satisfying because they involved sharing her time with those who truly needed it; indeed, the more she gave of herself with these little ones, the more she found her own life enriched.
It was a time of reflection for her, too, of spiritual growth, enhanced by the building of a certain kind of inner peace. And if it lacked the soaring rapture she'd experienced once, for a brief euphoric time in her life, well, that too was something she had come to accept during these recent weeks and months. Such emotional heights, she'd concluded, brought with them valleys of despair—emotional lows that could well destroy a person. It was better to seek the middle ground; there, one could be safe.
Suddenly, from around the corner of the veranda came the sound of a trumpet's fanfare, and Ashleigh turned her head in anticipation. That would be Antonio, she thought with a smile. The seven-year-old was the most musically gifted of the youngsters, already able to play several instruments by ear— not entirely delighting the music tutor Maria had hired to come weekly from Pisa, for Maestro Vivianni, as he called himself, adamantly insisted Antonio learn to read music while the boy, equally adamant, insisted he didn't need to; he could play without it, couldn't he?
As Ashleigh watched, a parade of children emerged from the far wall, each of them dressed in a bright red cape and matching cap—surely stitched by Francesca and Alessandra, Ashleigh mused, for the two older girls were deft with needle and thread. Each child now also played a musical instrument of sorts—blocks of wood banged together, cymbals fashioned out of pot lids, a couple of horseshoes suspended from string handles and clanged with metal spoons—each grinning at her as they marched to the tune of Antonio's lively trumpet and Aldo's flute—still somewhere "offstage."
Ashleigh grinned and clapped briefly in encouragement before drawing her cloak more closely about her and preparing to settle back to enjoy the show. She was very proud of these little pageants the youngsters staged; their first had been performed at her suggestion when, after taking a group of them into Pisa to see a performance of the commedia del l'arte in October, she had caught Antonio and Aldo staring wistfully at the stage on their way out of the theater. That evening she had gone to the two boys and proposed they make use of their own talents, as well as those of the other children, to put on performances here at the villa. Excited by the idea, twelve-year-old Aldo, a natural organizer as well as a fairly able flutist, had taken it from there and mounted, with Ashleigh's help, a delightful production of songs and dances to celebrate All Saint's Day at the beginning of November. This was performed in the villa's large drawing room, with Maria, Patrick, Megan and all of the staff a delighted audience. In December, there were no less than three more pageants: one to celebrate Megan and Patrick's wedding, with Salvatore and Anna costumed to resemble a miniature bride and groom; another to celebrate the Nativity; and a third as a surprise Christmas present for Maria, its songs telling the story of a great queen who became the savior of all the homeless children of the world, rescuing them from a wicked monster named La Guerra—Madame War— played indulgently by Giovanni in a superbly ugly costume designed by Alessandra and Francesca.
Ashleigh settled back into the wing chair, wondering what had prompted the children to stage a surprise for her this afternoon—she'd been told very little about it, and for the past fortnight had been politely asked to keep away from the playroom, which, she knew, served as a rehearsal hall these days; moreover, when she'd chanced upon some of the children from time to time lately, there'd been much buzzing and whispering that fell to silence as she drew near.
Suddenly Ashleigh leaned forward, her jaw agape as the full ensemble came into view. There, in a pony cart being drawn, ever so stoically, by a red-harnessed Finn—who wore an expression that asked: How do I get myself into these things?—sat Lady Dimples, once again decked out in human finery. On her head she wore a huge red hat covered with paper roses of the same hue; draped over her shoulders was a scarlet cape that resembled those the children wore, except hers was festooned with ropes of more red paper roses; clamped firmly in her mouth was a real rose, obviously plucked from the small conservatory Maria kept at the back of the villa. And as the children began to sing a song about "the beautiful lady of the roses," the pig's jaws spread slightly, and Ashleigh could have sworn she was grinning! Moreover the song was a highly lyrical one, with a strong, rhythmical beat, and as the youngsters threw themselves into the refrain with no small amount of gusto, the porker's bonneted head began to sway back and forth to the music.
Ashleigh could stand it no longer; bending over as far as her distended stomach would allow, she broke into howls of laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks. It was all too, too much!—the children grinning openly as they sang the laudatory lyrics, the giant dog standing before the cart in a long-suffering pose, the preening pig with a rose between her teeth, gazing about with a dignified air as she moved her head to and fro.
Soon shrieks of laughter joined Ashleigh's as Maria emerged from the end of the veranda, her tall frame bent nearly double with mirth. Behind her came old Giovanni, trying hard to appear serious, but failing as his white mustache twitched with half-contained amusement, then curved above lips that gave way to hoots of delight.
The song ended, but the laughter continued to reverberate from the rafters as giggling youngsters joined the adults. Three or four house servants came running to discover the cause of all this commotion, and when they saw the little tableau with the costumed pet in its center, their laughter drowned out that of the others until all, adults and children alike, were propping themselves up on one another's shoulders, howling with merriment.
When at last the laughter died down, Ashleigh ran forward and bestowed a hug on each child, murmuring, "Grazie, grazie! Oh, you were wonderful—just wonderful!" She gave Finn a hug, too, after that, and for the first time the big dog looked as if he were enjoying himself. Finally she approached the cart, reaching out to give Lady Dimples an approving pat, but when she did this, the pig forestalled the action by dropping the rose at her feet with a happy grunt. Then, as everyone cheered, Lady Dimples turned and accepted a sweetmeat from Aldo before the entire troop of children broke into a chorus of "God Save the Queen" and led the cart away.
"Oh," said Ashleigh to Maria as they watched the others depart, "I don't know when I've laughed so hard!"
"You!" Maria chuckled. "I was invited to a dress rehearsal the other day and nearly fell out of my chair! It's a good thing we sent you into town to select those hair ribbons for the girls, or you'd have heard me shrieking and the whole surprise would have been ruined."
"How did they ever succeed in getting Lady D. to hold that rose and then drop it at the right moment?"
"Oh, that part was easy!" laughed Maria. "The pork chop is a natural-born thespian, or so Giovanni claims. The hard part was getting your dog to pull the cart. He kept looking at Aldo as if he'd been sentenced to a fate worse than death."
"Poor Finn." Ashleigh smiled. "He's put up with an awful lot because of me." Her mind flew back to an image of the hound squeezed onto the floor of a carriage as it made its escape from a house on King Street.
"I hardly think he minds, cara," said Maria, sobering. "From what Megan told me, you saved his life, and from the way he adores you, I'd guess he's never forgotten it." She paused for a moment, her hazel eyes meeting Ashleigh's quietly. "You have a way with those who are weaker than the rest of us, Ashleigh. Helpless animals, the children—who have taken to you like a duck to water, I might add."
Ashleigh shrugged, picking up the muff she'd left on her chair before
joining Maria, who began to walk toward the door leading into the house. "I don't do anything special, really. I— I've always had a fondness for animals, and now, I realize, for children as well."
"But you are wrong, cara—you do a great deal that is special, beginning with showing an open and sincere heart that pours itself out to these little ones, and they can see it, so they blossom under its care."
Again Ashleigh shrugged. "I... I just love them, I guess."
Pausing at the door to the villa, Maria gave her a long, compassionate look. "So much love to give, and my insufferable son sits in London and—ah, forgive me, cara. Sometimes I talk too much." There was another pause, then Maria reached out to give Ashleigh an embrace. "You are going to make a wonderful mother, my darling."
Ashleigh hugged her back. "That's mainly because I'm taking daily lessons—from you."
Maria's warm laughter spilled about their shoulders. "Adulatrice!" she scolded. "But come, if there is any decent mothering instinct in me, I'd best get you inside, out of the cold. We must think of your health—and that of your bambino!"
Arm in arm, the two women entered the house.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Maria's steward knocked on the door to her study, entering when the contessa called out for him to do so.
"Yes, Enrico?"
"Contessa, he is here," the steward told her, "the gentleman who sent the letter this morning. Shall I show him in?"
Maria froze for an instant, then forced herself to appear at ease as she nodded. "Give me a few minutes, Enrico. Then admit him to the small drawing room. I shall be there."
Maria watched the steward withdraw, then rose slowly from her desk. So it had finally come. The moment she had dreamed of, all these years. She would see her son again.
But the meeting would not be as she had imagined it countless times in the past; far from it. For one thing, she was certain Brett had no idea who she was. "Dear Contessa di Montefiori," the formal letter had read, "I have reason to believe you entertain as a guest in your home someone I have been searching for, for some time. I should like your leave to call upon you this afternoon to discuss the matter. If this will not cause you any undue inconvenience, please send word to my ship...."
Of course, it was not as if she hadn't been expecting it. She had as much as warned Ashleigh to be prepared in case Brett showed up. But that was months ago, when the possibility seemed to loom only in the distant future; now here it was, nearly the end of February; the situation was at hand, and she was not at all sure she was prepared for it herself.
After the letter—which was signed, "Your servant, Brett Westmont, Duke of Ravensford"—arrived this morning, delivered by a seaman from Brett's vessel, which was docked in the harbor, she had taken immediate steps to protect Ashleigh's privacy by sending her on an outing with the children; it being a lovely, warm day, this had posed no problem, and then she had alerted Megan and Patrick, who accompanied her.
So she was free to face him alone; she could gauge his mood and weigh his reasons, even test his intentions before deciding whether a confrontation between him and his wife might take place. And, she had to be honest, it would also allow her a few precious moments to view her son in terms of her own emotional attachment.
Looking down at her hand as it rested on her desk, she saw that it was trembling. Summoning her will, she thrust it into the folds of her amber silk skirt and moved toward the door. As she left the study and walked toward the drawing room, Maria only hoped she had sufficient strength—and the wisdom—to carry it all off.
He came through the door Enrico held open for him and paused for a moment as Maria turned from the window where she'd been standing, nodded to dismiss her steward and then met his gaze.
Oh, how much like Edward he looks! she thought. Despite the chestnut hair he has from me, and, of course, those wonderful turquoise eyes! But his mouth, too, is more like mine than Edward's, which was weak and never bore such a determined line. Oh, Brett, my son! How beautiful and manly you have grown! And how I long to run to you and—
Maria schooled her features to reflect none of these thoughts, firmly clamping down the emotions that, just for a second, threatened to rage; she smiled, saying, "Your Grace, do come in. I have been expecting you."
During the pause before she spoke, Brett had time to assess the beautiful woman before him. She was younger than he'd assumed her to be, this wealthy widow of a highly placed Italian nobleman, although, as he looked more closely, he realized she appeared of an indeterminate age. Her face, with its excellent bone structure, was the sort that would age well; unlined and with a beautiful complexion, it could have been the visage of a woman close to his own age, and only the dramatic wings of silver in her otherwise dark chestnut hair indicated she was probably somewhat older.
And then, as she moved forward to greet him, he noticed her eyes. Of a most unusual hazel hue, flecked with gold and turquoise, they were eyes that had seen a great deal, he knew. These were the eyes of a woman who had experienced a gamut of human emotions; their serene depths reflected a familiarity with pain, and the kind of wisdom the more enlightened of the human race are able to draw from it; but they reflected a knowledge of joy, too, and of their owner's ability to store its bounty, and Brett found himself strangely heartened by this discovery, although he wondered why this should be; he'd hardly met the woman.
Meeting her halfway across the warm, richly furnished room, Brett took her outstretched hand and raised it to his lips. "My pleasure, contessa," he murmured. "Thank you for agreeing to see me, especially on such short notice."
"Won't you be seated, Your Grace? I've just sent for tea, and I hope you'll join me in the ritual your countrymen are so fond of, and whose custom I adopted when I lived in England as a young woman." She sat on a damask-covered sofa and indicated he might take the green velvet chair it faced over a small tea table.
"I noticed your flawless English, m'lady," Brett returned, "and was wondering how you came by it. Did you live there long?"
"A number of years, yes," answered Maria. Then, wanting to direct the conversation away from her, she added, "But tell me, what is it that brings you away from England yourself?"
Brett lowered his large frame into the comfortable chair, but kept his posture more formal than relaxed. He had yet to determine whether this woman would prove friendly regarding his quest, if indeed she was harboring Ashleigh in her home. And if she was, just how had she come to do so? What was her relationship to Ashleigh?—or to Patrick, whose schooner it surely must be in the harbor; the Dutch-flagged vessel, as some of his officers had already determined, was manned by a crew that spoke American-accented English. No, despite the charming demeanor she presented, it was best not to let his guard down where this woman was concerned.
"You read my letter, of course," he said.
"Yes," said Maria, "but I fear it was somewhat, ah, unenlightening... as to specifics, I mean." She paused as Enrico appeared in the doorway carrying a tea service on a silver tray. "Ah, I see our tea has arrived. You may set it down here, Enrico," she added in Italian, then nodded her dismissal after the steward had complied.
"Specifics?" asked Brett as he watched her pour the tea from a heavy silver pot.
"Yes, Your Grace. You see, I am in the fortunate position of being able to care for a number of children who needed fostering, and I have taken them into my home to live with me over the years. Your letter spoke of someone you've searched for, and—" She paused, teacup in hand. "Do you take cream... sugar?"
"Neither, thank you." He accepted the tea as Maria continued.
"So you can imagine my wondering just which one of these children it might be that—"
"Contessa," Brett broke in, "the person I seek is not a child. She is a fully grown young woman who left England some time last summer."
"I see," said Maria, taking a sip of her tea. "And her, ah, identity...?"
The turquoise eyes fastened on the gold and turquoise flecks in hers, and, as
he was about to satisfy her query, Brett had an arresting intuition: He had met this woman before! As to when, or where, he had not the faintest notion, but he was absolutely certain—without knowing how he was certain—that the Contessa di Montefiori was familiar to him. Checking the urge to question her about it immediately, he forced the impression to the back of his mind—for now—and resumed the conversation.
"Her name is Ashleigh Sinclair Westmont... and she is my wife."
The hazel eyes shuttered at his statement, and Brett could detect no hint of recognition in her response, so he pressed further. "Of course, she may be traveling under an assumed name. I—"
"You are telling me it is possible this woman, your wife, does not wish to be found. Is that not so, Your Grace?" The hazel eyes that again met his were cool and reserved.
An exasperated sigh broke from Brett's lips, and he nodded. "That is correct."
Maria was silent for a moment as she appeared to digest this information. Now it comes, she thought, the critical moment wherein I must determine what is to be done. Sweet Mary, she prayed, let my choice be the right one!
"Tell me, Your Grace, what is it you truly seek? This lady who is your wife... suppose she were here. What are your intentions, should you find her?"
Brett ran a careless hand through his well-groomed curls. "M'lady, I've asked myself that same question hundreds of times since she... disappeared." He shook his head in a weary gesture. "I suppose there's no help for it, but to tell you some of the sorry details, so that—"
Just then, a resounding bark echoed from the hallway outside the drawing room, and a second later, Finn's shaggy form bounded through the partially open door, followed by a pair of curly-headed toddlers.
"Via, via, Finn!" one of them cried, then, raising startled eyes to Maria and her guest, grabbed his red-cheeked companion's arm and stopped short in his tracks, lowering abashed eyes to the floor. "Scusa, Signora Contessa," he mumbled.