He should leave, but of course he could not.
She set down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with her handkerchief. “Lord Elliot, if you intend for us to stay here a few more days then we need to come to an understanding about that balcony.”
She was incredible. Amazing. She had to know that his impulse was to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, carry her into the trees, and finish what they had begun. Yet here she was, negotiating lord knew what when a long night had made him less than amenable to compromise.
“How so, Miss Blair?”
“We do share it. It isn’t fair that I should be denied its use, or feel that stepping outside my door might cause you to interpret it to mean other than it does.”
“I promise that I will not misinterpret your joining me on the balcony in the middle of the night.”
The implications of his promise received a thorough scrutiny. She was smart enough to see the holes. “Can we at least agree that I am entitled to leave my door open to the air, without fearing that you will walk in?”
“No.”
“I can see that I was too optimistic about your character.”
“On that we can agree. I did warn you.”
“Lord Elliot, I—”
“I insist that you address me as Elliot in private conversation now, Phaedra. You do not mind the informality, do you? We can set that stupid social rule aside. After all, I have kissed your naked breast and you have moaned for me while I pleasured you.”
Her mouth gaped. He felt like smiling for the first time all morning. She retreated into a manner of prim hauteur. “I would prefer if we avoided each other’s company as much as possible, Elliot.”
“That will be easy this morning. Greenwood and I will be sequestered in his study until past midday.”
She rose to her feet. “I think that I will take a long walk and avoid all of this party for several hours.” She turned to leave.
“Phaedra.”
She paused and looked over her shoulder.
“Phaedra, I require your promise that you will not attempt to leave and that come dinner you will still be here.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Because of your oath to Signore Sansoni?”
“That too.”
Her expression said she understood the other reasons. “And if I will not give my word?”
“I can tie you to the bed again. Would you like that?”
Her face reddened. She dismissed his insinuation with a quick turn of her head.
“Do I have your word?”
“Yes, you have my word, although it is unnecessary and ridiculous. I would not begin to know how to get off this rock, let alone how to travel to the interior.”
Chin high, she floated away, her black sails billowing behind her.
Phaedra returned to her chamber and unpacked her baggage.
How had he guessed her plan? She did not think of herself as a predictable woman, but Lord Elliot seemed to know her thoughts before she had even formed them.
She set the empty valise aside. Preparing to flee had been an impulse born of a night of honest reflection about the way he affected her. She was in grave danger of making a fool of herself, of melting into a puddle just because a man provoked physical desire. Avoiding the challenge completely had seemed a good idea at dawn.
She sat down and put on her low boots. She walked out on the balcony and looked down on the town. Voices floated up from the loggia beneath her. Other guests were breaking their fast.
She took a deep breath and called forth the woman her mother had taught her to be.
Deciding to flee had been cowardly. She had come to this land to find answers about her mother, and some of them might be right here in this house. It made much more sense to stay and pursue the suspicions simmering beneath her fears and vulnerabilities regarding Lord Elliot.
Matthias Greenwood had disappeared into his studiolo with Lord Elliot when Phaedra returned to the loggia. Randall Whitmarsh sat at the table with his wife, however. Phaedra joined them and hoped Mrs. Whitmarsh would soon excuse herself. The interview with Matthias had gone so well last night that she was eager to discover if Mr. Whitmarsh could add to the information.
Unfortunately Mr. Whitmarsh left first, heading off for his long morning walk.
“You looked very lovely last night,” Mrs. Whitmarsh said.
“Thank you.”
“One wonders why…” Her gaze slid down Phaedra’s current ensemble.
Phaedra did not bother with explanations. Mrs. Whitmarsh was not a woman who would comprehend the mixture of practicality and orneriness that had given birth to this eccentricity.
“What I mean is, your mother did not adopt such outward symbols of her unique views.”
Phaedra’s attention sharpened. “Did you spend much time with her?”
“Before we made our home in Rome my husband often attended her dinners. Unlike other wives, I agreed to join him. He was fascinated by her. I thought it best to make sure she never became fascinated by him.”
Phaedra did not think it likely that Artemis would find Mr. Whitmarsh fascinating. But then before she read the memoirs, she would not have guessed Artemis had ever considered another man besides Richard Drury.
“Were you successful in thwarting a liaison between them? Or did my mother favor your husband in that way?”
Mrs. Whitmarsh did not show surprise at the bold question. “I believe I was successful. Of course, until very late in her life she had eyes only for Mr. Drury.”
“You imply that her eyes found another man eventually. Do not mince words for the sake of delicacy. I am her daughter, and like her I think it is silly that people do not speak frankly about such matters.”
Mrs. Whitmarsh shrugged. “One saw a coolness between your parents the last year or so. My husband did not notice, but I did. There were men who wanted her, you see. Not as a wife, of course.”
The judgmental, confident tone of the last sentence rankled Phaedra. She rallied to her mother’s defense even though Artemis needed no excuses. “If you did not see my mother moving her affection to another man the coolness might have only been the result of time passing, and two lovers becoming familiar and comfortable.”
“Miss Blair, my husband and I dined often with your mother over the years. Usually Mr. Drury was present. The familiarity and comfort you describe between them was palpable from the start. No one had to tell me on my first visit that they were lovers and that you were Mr. Drury’s child. The last year, however, he was not in attendance so much. There was an awkwardness when he was. You may think me dim-witted compared to yourself, but when I perceive that all is not right between a man and a woman, I am rarely wrong.”
Yes, Mrs. Whitmarsh, who so carefully guarded her possession of her husband, would become astute in this one area of human nature. Was she also perceptive? Had she seen everything? A woman guarding a treasure would be most likely to notice if the pirate she feared had aimed for another ship.
“Who was the man who became the new object of my mother’s attentions?”
“Is this a contest, where I must give a name in order for you to respect my judgment?”
“It is a sincere question, from a daughter who wonders about her mother’s last years.”
Mrs. Whitmarsh’s defensive pique melted. “I do not know. I am only sure—almost sure—it was not my husband. For months she sparkled like she was young again, but then…”
“Then?”
“It was as if someone had snuffed out a lamp. She was melancholy the last times we called on her. Perhaps whoever it was had disappointed her.”
Phaedra had seen that melancholy. She had not understood its reasons or depths, but the description was apt. A light had gone out.
“You are not alone in wondering if she had a new lover,” Phaedra said. “Names have even been suggested to me. Mr. Needly, for example. And Mr. Thornton.”
“Needly? Well, I suppose that would make some sense. He was not dissimilar
to Mr. Drury. Of the same mold. His erudition on Roman art would give them common ground. Although if asked I would say they did not rub well together. He could be a very arrogant man.”
Mrs. Whitmarsh warmed to the gossip. She enjoyed the topic more than Phaedra liked seeing. “Sometimes attraction can create storms, I suppose.”
“Indeed it can. Now the other, Thornton…” She thought it over. “He was a bit young for her. Enigmatic too. But he was around quite a lot. One could not miss him. A handsome man, dramatically so. He had presence, but…”
“But?”
“It is difficult to explain. He was impressive. Startlingly so. But also somewhat…vague. My husband used that word to describe him once, and I thought it apt. Yes, he was vague in so many ways.”
Phaedra tucked the description away in her mind. When she returned to England she would have to seek out arrogant Mr. Needly and vague Mr. Thornton, and also pointedly ask a few of her mother’s intimate friends if Artemis favored either of these two men.
“I liked her,” Mrs. Whitmarsh said. “I did not approve of her life, and she knew it. She accepted my views, however. She never allowed her other guests to make me feel unwelcome. She was very gracious.”
“She was accustomed to your views, I daresay. They are the normal ones, after all. Whenever she walked out the door of her home, she was the odd one. Would that the world had been as gracious with contrary views as she proved to be, and as accepting of her company as she was of yours.”
Mrs. Whitmarsh blushed. Her rising color told Phaedra more than she wanted to know. The Whitmarshes had never returned those invitations to dinners. Artemis Blair had not been included in their circle and their parties.
These morning confidences suddenly seemed traitorous to her mother’s memory. Phaedra suspected that they echoed Mrs. Whitmarsh’s gossip with her normal friends, in drawing rooms that had never opened for the bluestocking whose life defied the rules.
They also gave her a taste of the gossip about herself. She knew that there were women who laughed and speculated and clucked their tongues, just as there were men who misunderstood her freedom. Such people were easier to ignore if she did not actually suffer their company, however.
She had hoped Mrs. Whitmarsh could give the identity of the man who had usurped Richard Drury’s place. Evidently she could not, but her perceptions were not without usefulness.
Phaedra excused herself. She walked out of the loggia and approached the steep road leading down to the town.
Positano became a women’s town with the dawn. Able-bodied men had left on their fishing boats long before Phaedra entered the center of activity.
It took a long time to inch her way down the dense warren of old, narrow streets. Even with their stepped construction they proved treacherous. She wished she had brought her parasol to use as a walking stick, and to protect her from the sun, which was getting fierce as it hung over the high hill’s peak.
Women and children stared as she strolled through the market street. She admired the lemons and leafy produce, the joints of lamb and beef. At the corner of the market some men sat on chairs outside a tavern. They eyed her with curiosity and suspicion.
The youngest one, a dark-haired man dressed in a fashionable brown frock coat, owned a heavy cane that he had propped against his seat. The others appeared old and wizened. She assumed that they had forgone the rigors of fishing many years ago.
She found the other main streets by following the flow of bodies. Her presence created a small spectacle, much as her ride on the donkey behind Lord Elliot had. Heads appeared at windows and bold stares followed her progress.
The streets led her to a little piazza hard against the hillside. Water trickled out of the mouth of a sculpted lion’s head. It had been set in a small wall built flush with the hill’s rock. Women sat on stone benches in the shade of some trees, waiting their turns to hold their jugs under the lion’s mouth.
Phaedra found a spot on a bench to rest in the cooler air. Dark eyes glanced askance at her. A young woman whispered into a boy’s ear and he ran down a lane. Women dawdled after they used the fountain, chatting in an expressive melody of conversations, keeping an eye on the newcomer among them.
Soon another woman walked down the lane toward them. Her black skirt swayed with her long strides. She did not look like the other women.
For one thing, she was blonde. Her dark golden hair formed a roll at her nape, visible beneath the deep brim of her black straw hat. She was not as fair as Phaedra but the rich bronze so common in this land had only tinted her skin.
Phaedra wondered if this was another foreigner who, like Matthias, had come to live here. As the woman drew near, however, her almond eyes, high cheekbones, and heart-shaped face revealed she was a native even if her coloring initially confused the matter.
She sat down on Phaedra’s bench. She called a few greetings to her friends. Phaedra tried to translate them but the words came in a torrent and the accents in Positano were even different from those of Naples.
The woman turned and gave Phaedra a good look. The conversations around them dimmed.
“English?”
Phaedra nodded.
“They guessed as much, and sent young Paolo for me. My cousin Julia and I are the only women here who speak it. You have met Julia. She is your hostess in the villa. Are you a widow?” The conversation came in respectable English although the cadence and pronunciation reflected some labor.
“No, I am not a widow.”
The woman’s gaze swept over Phaedra’s long hair. “I did not think so.” She looked down the lane to their right and smiled slyly. “Ah, here comes Signore Tarpetta. Ignore him. He likes to act like a padrone, but his authority and power are all in his head.”
The lame man who had sat at the end of the market street limped forward with his cane, exuding self-importance. Two of the old men accompanied him. The three took positions across the piazza.
“My name is Carmelita Messina. I am not a widow either, in case you were wondering from my black garments.”
“My name is Phaedra Blair, and I am happy to meet someone who speaks English so well. I have tried with your language, but…”
Carmelita waved her hand, dismissing the apology. “I learned some English in Naples. I lived there for several years with Julia and her late husband.” Carmelita gestured with her chin at Signore Tarpetta, who watched them closely despite his conversation with the old men. “He does not like when people from the villa come down here. He fears such as you will corrupt his little kingdom.”
“Do they come down often?”
“We are merely colorful peasants to most of them. We are the little people in the corners of sentimental paintings.”
“Not even Signore Greenwood mingles among you?”
“Sometimes. He visited frequently last year. One time when he went back, he brought Julia with him.” She shot Tarpetta a look of scorn. “He hoped to marry her. He makes much of how he would not have her now, but we all know he would crawl if she did this.” She snapped her fingers.
Their conversation had attracted an audience, and a giggle twittered from the women who had moved closer.
Carmelita again eyed Phaedra. “I wear black to mourn the Carbonari who died when the king killed the republic. If you are not a widow, what do you mourn?”
“I mourn my father, but not with my clothing. The black does not show soiling so fast.”
Carmelita translated for their audience. Heads nodded.
“You do not dress your hair, or wear a veil. I would ask if you are a puttana, but I do not think you are because the mistresses who come with the men who visit up there are always fashionable. Perhaps you do it to thumb your nose at men like our Tarpetta?”
“Perhaps I do.” She looked to the bay several hundred yards below them. “Do visitors come often to Mr. Greenwood? Do special boats arrive just for the villa?”
“There are often visitors, and some come often. He has many friends, S
ignore Greenwood does. He is not one of us but many here grow fat from the money he spends.”
“Like the family of the boys who found the little ancient statue?”
“I did not hear about this statue. The families must want to keep it a secret so if there is more it is theirs alone. He likes the old things, Signore Greenwood does.”
Carmelita again noted the men watching them. “They do not like that you sit here so long, so I hope that you will sit longer still. Tell us about your life in England, Phaedra Blair. No one is taking their water home because they hope to hear some stories from you.”
She had taken to translating everything they said, and women smiled and giggled when she relayed her overture.
A girl no more than eighteen ventured closer. She cautiously reached out and stroked Phaedra’s red hair.
Phaedra did not mind the familiarity but another person did. A male voice barked. Across the piazza one of the old men stepped forward. He scowled and gestured for the girl to come to him.
Head bowed and eyes fearful, the girl hurried to him. He grabbed her arm and pushed her up the lane, taking her away.
“He is the father to her husband,” Carmelita said. “He will tell the family how she befriended a foreigner’s mistress from the villa.”
Phaedra did not want to think about the girl’s fate if the tale angered her husband. The cautious expressions suddenly in the eyes of the other women at the fountain saddened her.
“I do not want to cause trouble for any of you.” She began to get up.
Carmelita’s firm hand caught her arm. “There is no change without trouble. These women are ignorant of the world outside this coast, and my tales of Naples grow old. Tell us about your home, and how you came to be a woman who ventures out alone in a foreign land, looking like a mourning whore who fears no man’s hand.”
Phaedra stayed an hour at the fountain, enjoying the feminine company. She told Carmelita and the others about her life, and how she lived alone and free in London. As the time passed the torrent of foreign words began to make some sense to her. She even comprehended a few of the questions sent her way before they were translated.
Lessons of Desire Page 10