by Stacy Henrie
Never before had Clare seen such vulnerability from him. It pleased and pained her to see it now. Where was such raw honesty in the days and months following both her miscarriages? Or when he’d returned after locating the body of Antonina’s brother? Why did Emmett hide away such deep feelings from the world, from her?
Without thinking, she lifted her hand to touch the side of his face. The hairs on his jaw tickled her blistered palm. “This may be a chance to win your father’s approval. But if it ends up not being enough, then when it will it end? When will you stop giving into his wishes and whims for your life and start living on your own terms?”
“You don’t understand.”
He let go of her shoulders and stepped back. She let her arm fall to her side. His rejection of her touch filled her with a far greater ache than his words. Dismissive words she could excuse; especially now that she knew the source of his desperation where his father was concerned. But not wanting her touch, even after all they’d endured the past two days? That she couldn’t understand.
It did serve as a stark reminder, though, that her husband’s love and support were not guaranteed. Clare was here to care for their unborn child, if she was still pregnant. She couldn’t afford to lose focus by risking her heart all over again with Emmett. Doing so would only invite further pain and loneliness into her life.
“What don’t I understand?” She held her head up high. “I can see how your father has knowingly or unknowingly preyed upon this comparison of yourself to your brother.”
His expression turned thunderous, but he shuttered it a few seconds later. The sight of it annoyed Clare even more. Better to see and hear his anger than for him to attempt to block it out. “You have no siblings for anyone to use as a measuring stick against you.”
“You’re right.” The admission stung a bit, but it was the truth. “That’s why I had hoped we would be able to have many children. Not for them to compete and compare, but so they could love and encourage each other in who they are as unique individuals.”
He looked instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Clare. I wasn’t suggesting—”
“What do you want to do about the reporter?” she interrupted. She didn’t want to keep talking about children. “Does he have to stay with us at the villa?”
Emmett scrubbed a hand through his hair. The lingering dust had turned some of the dark-blond strands white, giving her a glimpse of what he might look like in another twenty years or so. “I imagine he can stay in a hotel.” He looked at Antonina, then at Clare again. “That might be for the best anyway.”
“He’s still going to be intruding at all hours, and we’ll be expected to be on our best behavior, won’t we?” She didn’t bother to disguise the edge behind her rhetorical question. Having a reporter in their midst, even one not staying with them, was going to complicate things even more. “We’ll need to appear to be the happy couple whenever he’s around.”
His mouth formed a grimace. “It isn’t what I wanted.”
“What is it you want?” she half whispered. Was it still a life with her? Or was it only her money that he wanted?
Emmett attempted a smile, but it fell away quickly. “I want you to consider—and I truly mean consider—returning to England with me and Antonina.”
“Me?” the little girl said to Emmett. He nodded and said something to her in Italian.
Clare caught the words England and home. Was that home to her? She couldn’t leave Sicily right now, but she didn’t like the idea of being apart from Antonina either. The child had only been in their lives for two days, and yet there was already something special and binding in the little familial unit they’d formed.
“I’ll consider returning,” she answered calmly, in spite of the way her heart beat rapidly at the implications. “But only after we see how things are at the villa. I’d also like to find some way to help those who lost so much in the earthquake.”
That would require a few more weeks, possibly even a month. Plenty of time to determine if she was still pregnant as well as help others in this country Clare had already come to love as much as her own.
Emmett gave a stoic nod, but she could read the gratitude within his suddenly relaxed stance. “That’s more than fair. Thank you.”
He leaned close and gave her a kiss on the cheek. The affectionate gesture warmed and surprised Clare, especially since he hadn’t wished to linger earlier with her hand on his face. Then she saw Mr. Sharpe approaching them. Disappointment riddled the pleasure of Emmett’s kiss. He hadn’t bestowed it for altruistic reasons; he’d been playing his part for the reporter.
The bread Clare had eaten earlier had greatly helped her hunger and nausea. But the movement of the boat was beginning to wreak havoc on her stomach. “Let’s see if the captain has any tea,” she announced with a smile.
“Then may I inquire after your experience during the earthquake, Lord and Lady Linwood?” Mr. Sharpe asked.
“Of course.” Emmett offered Clare his arm. “Why don’t we all sit down to some tea?”
As Clare accepted his grip and held Antonina’s hand in her free one, she couldn’t help thinking what a balancing act the next few weeks would be—between her and Emmett, between them and Antonina, and finally, between all of them and Mr. Sharpe. She’d learned and inherited plenty of skills from her father. But juggling was one she hadn’t mastered yet.
*
It was still standing! Like the rest of Taormina, his grandfather’s villa had weathered the earthquake intact. Emmett assisted Clare and Antonina out of the cart of the kind farmer who’d offered to drive them from the waterfront to the villa. Mr. Sharpe had thankfully parted company with them after they’d posted telegrams to Emmett’s parents, Clare’s parents, and the young man’s editor at the newspaper, assuring all that they were safe. The reporter had then claimed he was starving, something Emmett felt certain Mr. Sharpe knew nothing about, and headed off to find a restaurant after promising to visit them later at the villa.
Rushing forward up one of the outer staircases, Emmett reached the villa’s front door and threw it open wide. “Signora Russo?” he called loudly. The house was all right, but what about their housekeeper and her husband?
The older Sicilian woman had endeared herself to Emmett the first time he’d come here as a boy. Her willingness to teach him Italian and bake him sweets had secured his fondness for life.
“Signora Russo, we’re back!”
The door to the servants’ stairs opened and crashed against the outer wall as the woman bustled through it. Despite her round girth, she still moved with agility, reaching Emmett’s side in only a few strides. She threw her arms around his middle and squeezed. When he was certain he wouldn’t be able to breathe again, she released him and promptly burst into tears.
“Oh, signor, signor. We were so afraid for you.”
She embraced Clare next with no less emotion, then Miriam. Even Rushford received a hug, though Signora Russo was mindful of his patched arm. Antonina had ducked behind Emmett, where she silently watched the boisterous greetings.
Using her apron, Signora Russo dabbed at her wet cheeks as she recounted what had happened in their absence. She and Alessandro were also awakened by the sound and trembling of the earth. They ran outside and saw a mysterious circle of yellow-white light over the bay. The couple made their way to the nearest church, and eventually they joined one of the many religious processions, complete with a carried statue of St. Peter, that were marching through town. When they returned to the villa some time later, Signora Russo continued to petition the saints to protect Lord and Lady Linwood from harm.
“And you were!” she exclaimed with a clap of her hands. “But what is this?” She waved at their disheveled appearance.
Emmett briefly explained how they’d taken refuge in a field outside the city and had spent the night there, with little to eat the past two days. “Is it possible we might eat something now? Before dinner?”
“Sì, sì. I grab s
ome fruit, but then . . .” She gave them all a shrewd look. “A bath for all of you before you set one toe in that dining room.”
Only then did Signora Russo notice Antonina huddled behind Emmett. “Who is this?”
“This is Antonina.” Emmett put his arm around the girl’s shoulders. “She lost her family in the quake. Clare and I have invited her to live with us.”
The older woman seemed to understand what Emmett hadn’t voiced—that the girl wouldn’t be a servant but a member of the family. “Little Antonina,” she said in Italian as she bent down to view the girl at eye level. “How would you like a nice, hot bath and a new dress? My own daughter is all grown now, but I still have a few of her things.”
Antonina looked to Emmett as if asking permission. “It’s all right. You can trust Signora Russo.” The child bravely lifted her chin and accepted the hand the woman held out to her.
The next hour flew by. Once all of them had eaten some fruit, Emmett headed upstairs. He was more than grateful to scrub away the dust and grime that covered him. When it came time to don a fresh pair of clothes, Rushford struggled to help with his broken arm. Finally Emmett insisted on doing as much as he could on his own. After trying so hard to ensure the survival of others, he felt a bit ridiculous about not dressing himself.
Though only three days had passed since he’d last been here, it felt strange to be inside a house. Emmett found Antonina eating in the dining room, looking somber but not terrified. Her dark hair lay drying down her back, and she wore a simple frock. Perhaps in a few days, once Antonina had settled in at the villa, he and Clare could take her to buy some new clothes.
The girl didn’t smile, but her eyes lit up when she saw him. She lifted her plate for him to see what she was eating, prompting a chuckle from Emmett. “Looks and smells magnifico,” he said as he sat down.
Clare appeared a few minutes later, as well-dressed and poised as ever. The only indicators of the horrors they’d lived through were the white bandages covering the middle of each of her hands. No doubt Signora Russo had expertly tended to Clare’s blisters. Her hair was piled once more on top of her head, a fact Emmett noted with a flicker of disappointment. He’d enjoyed seeing her hair in a long braid the past few days.
“Where are Miriam and Rushford?” he asked her.
His wife took a seat beside Antonina. “They’re eating in the kitchen. Both of them were able to bathe and change as well.”
Emmett slid his napkin onto his lap. “Shall we pray over the food?” he asked Antonina. She blushed as if she’d done something wrong by starting, but he assured her that she was right not to wait.
Bowing his head, Emmett shut his eyes and offered a prayer in English. He thanked God for His divine mercy in watching over all of them and expressed gratitude for Antonina coming to live with them at the villa. He asked for a blessing on the viscount and his household, then gave thanks for the beautiful meal set before them. When he finished, he noticed there were tears in Clare’s eyes. Were they ones of thanksgiving? he wondered as he began to eat.
She hadn’t said much to him since his confession on the steamer about his brother and father. When she had spoken, she’d acted pleasant, at least in Mr. Sharpe’s company. But Emmett could tell it strained her as much as it did him to pretend things were fine in order to keep up appearances around the reporter. He was relieved to be momentarily rid of the man.
Beneath his relief and gratitude was also a feeling of rawness after sharing his deepest fear with Clare about never gaining his father’s approval. Her admonition that Emmett stop trying to live a life according to Lord Hadwell’s dictates had stung something fierce.
How could Clare fully grasp what it was like for him? Her parents adored her, exactly as she was. Emmett had seen it the moment the three of them had embraced each other when Mr. Herschel had come to England for the wedding. The contrast between her situation and his own had smarted. However, that didn’t excuse his thoughtless remark about his wife not having any siblings. Clare had once confessed how much she’d wanted a brother or sister—it was the reason she anticipated having a whole houseful of children. But was that still what she wanted, with him?
Emmett recalled her earlier question on the boat about what he wanted. He’d nearly answered, “To know that you love me for me and not my title.” Thankfully he’d swallowed back the words in time. He hadn’t been ready in that moment to witness Clare’s reaction, especially if she wasn’t able or willing to offer the assurance he craved. Instead he’d petitioned her to consider returning to England. That was something else he wanted—needed, really—even if it was far less important to him than his other desire.
He hoped Clare would choose to go back with him, though it wasn’t likely to be any easier to fix their marriage there than here. If anything, the strain they’d experienced on the boat, with Mr. Sharpe around, would be exacerbated once Emmett began campaigning.
A knock at the door had all three of them lifting their heads. “That’s likely Mr. Sharpe,” Emmett said before taking a drink.
Clare frowned and set down her fork as if no longer hungry. “My hope is he’ll grow bored of asking us questions after he writes his first story.”
Emmett wasn’t so sure. His father had likely promised the young man a substantial amount of money for every story about them printed in the paper.
Voices echoed in the foyer, then moved toward the dining room. Belatedly, Emmett considered what Mr. Sharpe would think about Antonina eating with them. But there was nothing he could do about it, nor would he. The girl was a part of their family now.
Signora Russo opened the door. “Signor Sharpe of England to see you, Signor Linwood.” The reporter entered the room. “Shall I bring him up a plate?”
“Afraid I’ve already eaten.” Mr. Sharpe eyed the fare on the table. “Though I don’t know that I could refuse eating something that smells this delicious.”
The older woman beamed with pleasure. “I will get you a plate then.”
Without waiting for an invitation, the reporter pulled out a chair and sat down. His eyes widened when he saw Antonina. “I wasn’t aware the child was staying with you.”
“She is,” Emmett said firmly.
Mr. Sharpe gave a thoughtful nod as he removed a small notebook and pencil from inside his jacket pocket. “Taking in earthquake orphans? That sort of thing makes for a good story.”
“Please, don’t mention it,” Clare interjected. She smoothed Antonina’s hair in a gesture that was both motherly and protective. “The child has been through enough already. Let’s allow her to recover in peace and anonymity first.”
The reporter didn’t look particularly pleased with the request, but he put away his writing materials. A minute or so later, Signora Russo appeared with his dinner. Emmett hoped the young man would eat quickly and leave even sooner.
“Where are you staying, signor?” The housekeeper set a heaping plate in front of him.
Mr. Sharpe shrugged. “I hadn’t yet settled on a place.”
“I’m sure you’ll find one of the hotels in town to your liking,” Emmett said in a casual tone.
The reporter tossed an expectant glance at him and Clare. “The hotels I walked past did indeed look nice, but I’d hoped to stay close by. That is, if you possibly have any room to spare . . .”
Emmett fought the urge to groan out loud. He couldn’t very well insist the man go elsewhere, unless he wanted to incur his father’s displeasure. “Of course. You’re welcome to stay at the villa. Signora Russo, would you mind preparing a room for our guest?”
“Not at all,” she said with a nod before exiting the room.
“Thank you, Lord Linwood.” The young man brandished his fork. “This will make reporting about the two of you much easier.”
Emmett attempted a smile, but his mouth refused to cooperate. Clare’s cheeks were pale, and when she peered at him, her eyes wore a familiar look of panic. One he could relate to. Having Mr. Sharpe stay at the villa
might make things easier for the reporter, but he was the only one who benefited from the arrangement. Having the man underfoot day and night was bound to make things exponentially harder for Emmett and Clare.
London, May 1908: Seven months earlier
Seated inside his and Winfield’s club, Emmett tried to focus on the conversation with his best friend, but his thoughts kept wandering to Clare and how she was faring. When they’d purchased their townhouse back in March, Clare had selected the household staff. But the hiring and training of the servants as well as furnishing the new home hadn’t come without a price—just as Emmett had feared.
Clare had taken ill for an entire week. Even after recovering, though, she’d continued to turn down most of the invitations they received to social events. Emmett couldn’t blame her. Attending events with a vast number of people and crowds left her feeling fatigued. So he’d taken to skipping large gatherings as well, though he tried to attend as many private dinners and receptions as he could in order to be seen by the right people, as his father had directed.
However, the dearth of high-profile events in their social calendar hadn’t gone unnoticed by Lord Hadwell. Emmett had endured more than one unpleasant conversation with his father about the importance of doing more socially. To appease the man, Emmett had suggested hosting dinner parties for two of Clare’s friends from New York, Gwen Barton and Syble Rinecroft, who were in London for the season and were American heiresses themselves. Both dinners had gone well, especially the one Winfield had attended for Miss Barton. And Emmett had been cheered by the sight of his wife looking energetic and happy for the first time in weeks. However, that had changed again yesterday.
Clare had gone to visit Helena, who had just arrived in town after giving birth to her first baby three months earlier. Meeting the boy would surely keep Clare’s spirits up, or so Emmett had thought. Instead, upon returning to their house, his wife had gone straight up to her room. A short time later Emmett heard her crying.