Beneath an Italian Sky

by Stacy Henrie

  Emmett was nearly past the teetering building when a boy cried out to him in Italian. The pleading voice stopped him in his tracks, and he turned back. On a balcony above him stood two children, holding fast to each other’s hands, their faces pale with fear. The boy looked about twelve years old, while the little girl couldn’t be more than seven or eight. Their dark hair, large black eyes, and matching chins identified them as siblings.

  When the boy repeated his call for help, Emmett looked at Rushford. Staying would delay them from reaching Clare and would likely put their lives in even greater risk. And yet the same determination and newfound energy he felt surging inside him filled his valet’s eyes. They couldn’t leave without trying to help.

  Praying God would keep his wife safe a little longer, Emmett picked his way toward the building. Rushford was right behind him.

  “We’ll need some way to reach them, my lord.”

  The two of them rummaged carefully through the debris around the building. It wasn’t likely that they’d find a ladder, but Emmett couldn’t help hoping anyway. There seemed to be nothing in the way of tools, and they were running out of time to save the children before the building collapsed.

  Rushford suddenly cried out in triumph and lifted a length of rope into the air. After tying one end to a stone, Emmett directed the children in Italian to stand back. He swung the rope and tossed the stone toward the balcony. It landed with a thud. He instructed the boy to untie the rope from the stone and secure it to the balcony rail. Once that was complete, Emmett climbed the wreckage and gave the rope a gentle tug. He was relieved when it held. But would it support a grown man’s weight?

  Since his valet had a broken arm, Emmett would have to be the one to ascend the rope. “I’ll climb up for one of them,” he explained to Rushford. “Then hand the child off to you before I go back for the other.”

  His valet gave a solemn nod. “I’ll keep an eye on the building.”

  Emmett silently voiced another prayer for help and protection before he slipped off his shoes and approached the rope. He gripped it as high as he could reach, then pulled himself upward. For a second, he hung there, bracing himself for the snap of the rope or the sudden crash of the building as it fell. But nothing happened. Taking in a deep breath, he climbed, hand over hand. The muscles in his arms were on fire, and his palms smarting by the time he was halfway to the balcony. Yet he couldn’t stop. He instinctively knew if he did he would likely not be able to start climbing again.

  The pitiful cries of the little girl spurred him on until he could at last reach up and grasp the balcony rail. The boy insisted his sister go first. Her expression turned to sheer panic as her brother lifted her over the balcony toward Emmett. She screamed and held fast to the railing. The boy tried soothing her, but she shook her head.

  “What’s her name?” Emmett asked.

  “Antonina.”

  He attempted a smile, though it was getting harder and harder to hold himself up. “Antonina,” Emmett soothed in her native tongue. “I want to help you and your brother. But I need you to come with me now. Is that all right?”

  She studied him through large, dark eyes before she finally nodded. “Sì,” she whispered.

  Her brother told her to climb onto Emmett’s back. This time she obeyed without any protest other than a whimper. Her little arms wound around Emmett’s neck and held fast. He released the balcony and grasped the rope with both hands again. A loud creak sounded nearby. The building leaned farther, causing the rope to sway. Emmett heard the girl’s frightened yelp in his ear, but she didn’t scream.

  “The building’s listing even more, my lord,” Rushford hollered up to him.

  Emmett would need to hurry. The extra weight on his back made it almost as difficult going down as it had been to climb up. Finally his feet touched ground instead of air. Emmett let his arms sag as he bent forward to catch his breath. Rushford hurried forward to take the girl from him, but she wouldn’t release Emmett.

  “It’s all right, Antonina,” he said, trying to reassure her. “You’re safe.”

  No sooner had the words left his mouth then Rushford shouted, “Watch out, Linwood!”

  A dreadful rumble roared in Emmett’s ears. He snapped up and stumbled away from the building with the child still clinging to him. Pulling Antonina off his back, he cradled her against his chest and crouched to the ground, doing his best to protect her small body. Dust rained down on them, and something struck Emmett in the back. He winced and choked on a cry of pain, but he didn’t think any real damage had been done.

  After a minute or two, Antonina squirmed in his grasp. “Angelo? Angelo?” she yelled in a tear-filled voice as she looked over Emmett’s shoulder.

  He slowly straightened his aching muscles and turned. The building had crumbled into ruins. There was no more balcony, and no more Angelo waiting to be rescued. Nothing but stone and plaster and beams.

  Rushford came to stand beside him and placed his hand on Emmett’s shoulder. Instead of comforting, his valet’s grip felt heavy and final. “There’s nothing more you could have done for him, my lord.”

  “We can’t be certain he perished—the boy could still be alive.” After all, that other young man had survived being buried in the rubble. Emmett attempted to set Antonina down again, but she clung all the tighter to him. Too tired to protest, he shifted her to his side and began to move away what he could of the wreckage with one hand. “Angelo?” he called loudly. “Angelo? Can you hear us?”

  Rushford joined the effort. But there was no answering cry from the boy. Emmett finally set Antonina on her feet, though he kept hold of her thin shoulders. “We need to go,” he explained. “But I will come back . . .” Emotion made his voice hitch, and he had to cough to clear it. The girl didn’t need to hear his own shock and regret at the loss of her brother. “I will come later today and look for Angelo again.”

  Tears had made streaks in the white dust that covered her face. He’d never seen such a mournful expression, especially on one so young.

  “How old are you, Antonina?”

  “Eight.”

  “And where are your parents?”

  She wordlessly pointed at the mound of ruins. Had her parents been killed first, leaving her and her brother to escape alone?

  “Would you like to come with me and Mr. Rushford?” He nodded to his valet, who watched them with a sorrowful look of his own. “I must find my wife now and see if she is safe. She is very kind, and I think you’ll like her. Will you come with us?”

  Emmett held his breath. He didn’t want to leave the child behind, and yet he wouldn’t force her to come with them either. Perhaps there were other family members or friends who lived close by who would be anxiously looking for her. But a glance at the toppled buildings around the square proved the futility of such a thought. Even if the girl’s friends or neighbors had survived, they’d have no shelter to offer her.

  “I’s come with you,” she said in broken English.

  She tugged one of his hands from off her shoulder and placed her small one inside his large palm. A lump filled his throat, momentarily robbing Emmett of the ability to speak. He responded instead by giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

  Somewhere beyond the square another roar sounded. It still wasn’t safe to remain long in one place. Echoing his thoughts, Rushford said, “We need to keeping moving, my lord.”

  “You’re right.” Emmett shoved his feet inside his dust-filled shoes and scooped Antonina into his arms. “We need to go.” He would do all in his power to keep his little charge safe, along with anyone else that came under his care.

  *

  At first, Clare believed she was simply more tired than she’d thought when she swayed on her feet on her way up the grand staircase of her friend’s villa. She’d woken before four thirty in the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep, her mind racing with thoughts of Emmett and his abrupt arrival in Sicily. Unfortunately, her wakefulness had also renewed her nausea, so s
he’d gone down to the kitchen to make herself some tea. The warm liquid had soothed her queasiness and eased the early morning chill. It was still dark outside, but Clare had heard the rain drumming against the kitchen window.

  The tea hadn’t helped with her apparent dizziness at rising so early though. She could hardly put one foot on the stair above her without listing to one side or the other.

  She’d nearly reached the landing when she was thrown into the wall. Clare cried out more in surprise than from actual pain. A painting near her ear tumbled off the wall and crashed to the floor. In the dim light, she could see that the entire foyer was shifting around her. The banister swayed, and vibrations shook the stairs beneath her bare feet.

  “Helena!” The viscount’s sudden shout from above made Clare jump. “Grab the baby! It’s an earthquake.” The man yelled for the rest of the household to assemble in the upstairs hall.

  Clare stumbled up the stairs, fear pushing her faster. A pale-faced Miriam met her in the hallway where the others were gathering. “Oh, my lady, are you all right?”

  “I-I think so. I need to grab something though.”

  Without waiting for the maid’s response, Clare moved quickly into the guest room where she was staying. She grabbed her silver brooch from off the dressing table and slipped it into the pocket of her robe before she hurried back into the hall. Tightening the robe’s sash around her long nightgown, she awaited the viscount’s instructions. Helena stood beside her husband, her ten-month-old son on her hip.

  “All of us will go downstairs,” the viscount said in a grave tone. “We’ll take shelter in the window arch in the dining room. Understood?”

  Murmurs of assent rippled through the assembled group before the viscount started down the stairs. The steps were still swaying under her feet as Clare followed the others to the ground floor. A rumbling noise from somewhere in the back of the house filled the air.

  “Hurry,” Helena’s husband directed, waving them into the dining room. “The walls are starting to fall.”

  Clare moved as if in a dream, numbly following the person in front of her. Nothing felt real. Fear was beginning to resurrect her nausea.

  “Mind the glass as you sit.” The viscount kicked aside a large piece.

  The arched window in the dining room was pockmarked with holes, allowing the rain inside. Cold, damp air hit Clare’s face and neck, and she shuddered. A fire-like glow lit the sky outside, in spite of the storm, and pushed back the early-morning darkness.

  Beneath the enormous archway, Clare took a seat on the floor beside Helena. Her friend looked every bit as terrified as Clare, though her little boy appeared to still be dozing. Miriam sat near Clare. The whole group had to squeeze together in order for the ten of them to sit beneath the protection of the arch. But huddling together also meant staying warmer.

  Creaks, groans, and crashes could be heard from elsewhere in the villa, making Clare flinch. Particles of white dust began floating through the air. No one spoke, except for the occasional whispered prayer. Clare prayed too for those assembled here and for Emmett and Mr. Rushford. Was her husband safe? Had he found a place to take shelter at the hotel?

  Soon the awful sounds drew closer and seemed to engulf them, pressing in. Clare wished she could block out the noise. Without warning, the ceiling to the left of the arch suddenly collapsed, showering stone, plaster, and dust into the room. Someone screamed, and the baby, waking abruptly, started to wail. Clare covered her head, but that didn’t protect her fully from the dust. It entered her mouth and nose, making her sputter and cough.

  “We’re trapped!” one of the viscount’s maids cried in a panicked voice.

  Clare lowered her arms and lifted her head. The girl’s statement was correct—wreckage surrounded them on all four sides now, blocking out all but a bit of light near the top of the window. They could no longer feel the rain, but that was paltry compensation.

  A clammy feeling filled Clare’s chest, making her heart race. She tasted bile on her tongue and feared she might be sick. Clapping a hand to her mouth, she forced herself to breathe evenly. Miriam clutched her other hand and squeezed hard. Somehow the human contact eased a little of Clare’s shock. She clutched the girl’s hand in return.

  “What do we do, Leo?” Helena whispered to her husband. The baby hadn’t stopped crying, and any attempt at soothing him was rebuffed.

  The viscount cleared his throat. “We will simply wait for rescue. Someone will come.”

  Would they? Was rescue as imminent as he believed? Or was the viscount only trying to pacify them into remaining calm?

  Helena’s baby began another round of wails, but his distressed mother made no attempt to shush him this time. The fussing child gave Clare something else to focus on, and she welcomed the distraction. Untying the sash at her waist, she gently took the boy from Helena and set him on her lap. She dangled the sash before the little boy. The diversion did the trick, and he stopped crying. Clare tickled his cheek next. She could just make out the crooked smile that appeared on his dusty face. The sight of it was so incongruous with their situation that it felt surreal, and yet it also brought Clare the tiniest glimmer of hope.

  Somehow, in spite of being trapped inside the villa behind walls of debris, she believed they would be all right. As the viscount had reassured them, someone would come. Clare repeated that refrain over and over as she entertained the baby. Someone would come.

  London, June 1907: Eighteen months earlier

  Judging by the lack of horse traffic along Rotten Row, the threat of rain had kept most riders at home this morning. But Clare didn’t mind the prospect of a drizzle. She was enjoying her ride, especially since it meant spending more time with Lord Linwood.

  “You look quite at home on your horse, Miss Herschel,” he said from atop his own mount.

  Clare turned her head to give him an amused glance. “Is that a compliment or a critique, my lord?”

  “It’s an observation of delighted surprise.” His eyes were full of teasing, and yet there was admiration in them too. “I was not aware when I issued my invitation for a morning’s ride that I’d be in the company of such an excellent horsewoman.”

  His candid tone sent warmth tumbling through her—a phenomenon she experienced more and more in his company, especially now that he was her suitor. A week after taking them to the theater, Lord Linwood had asked for permission to court Clare. She’d waited outside the drawing-room door as he spoke with her mother, but Clare stayed close enough to overhear him describe his intentions. The thought that he wished to court her—and the affectionate, knowing smile he’d sent her way as he left the townhouse—had made it difficult for her to stop smiling for long or to sleep. Or to think of anything else besides this warm, caring, handsome man who wanted to spend more time with her.

  “Thank you, my lord. I’ve loved to ride since I was little.”

  “Me as well. Though riding in London is nothing compared to riding in the country.”

  Without thinking, Clare agreed. “There’s something about racing across open countryside, isn’t there?”

  “You speak as if from experience. Does your family own a house in the country?”

  She swallowed hard. Did she dare confess that as a girl she’d ridden bareback around her family’s farm and to and from the nearby village? It wasn’t until after her father’s hair pomade had become successful that Clare had taken formal riding lessons and learned to manage a side saddle.

  “No, we don’t have a house in the country. I lived in Vermont before my family relocated to New York when I was nine years old. There was plenty of countryside to ride through near our first home.” She urged her horse into a faster gait, hoping to bring an end to this particular direction of conversation.

  Thankfully Lord Linwood didn’t inquire what had necessitated her family’s move or what life had been like before that time. Maybe he sensed her reluctance to talk about her childhood. Whatever the reason, Clare was grateful when he beg
an to tell her a story about an impromptu horse race with some of his boyhood chums at his family’s estate in Somerset. Clare liked his funny stories and the animated way he told them. It made her feel as if she were experiencing the events right along with the boy he’d once been.

  For herself, she wasn’t ready yet to reveal details about her earliest growing-up years—the ones from life on the farm. Did they even really matter now? The Herschels’ fortunes had eventually changed for the better. And while Clare appreciated and remembered the lessons gleaned during those hard, lean years, those times were in the past. If she’d continued as nothing more than a struggling farmer’s daughter, she’d likely have never even seen London, much less been welcomed into high society and courted by a nobleman.

  “Do you miss your family’s home when you’re in London?” she asked when he’d finished his story. She greatly missed her father—the three of them had never been apart for more than a night or two prior to her and her mother coming to England. Clare wished he could have come too, so she could learn his thoughts about the man riding beside her.

  Lord Linwood cocked his head as he considered her question. “I miss the countryside and my dog, Bran.”

  “You have a dog?”

  “Yes, a brown-and-white greyhound and the most loyal, intelligent creature of any on the planet. Save perhaps for your dog, Miss Herschel.”

  Clare laughed. “I’ve never actually owned a dog.”

  “You jest,” he said, stopping his horse.

  She did the same with her mount. “It’s true.” Farm animals, yes, but she and her parents had never gotten a dog. “If I did have a dog, I don’t know that mine would live up to your Bran’s illustrious reputation.”

  “He is rather brilliant.” Lord Linwood smiled and urged his horse forward again.

  “I hope I get to meet this extraordinary dog of yours.” Her face grew hot when she realized how presumptuous that might sound. “That is . . . if I’m ever in Somerset.”