Beneath an Italian Sky

by Stacy Henrie

  Confused, he asked her what had happened. Her voice continued to shake with quiet sobs as she told him how holding that beautiful, healthy baby had been a painful reminder of their own loss. He’d tried to offer comfort, but all his assurances that she’d surely hold their own child in her arms someday soon only seemed to push her further into her grief.

  This morning she had come down to eat breakfast with him, then excused herself to return to her room. Unsure what else to do, Emmett had gone riding in the park and invited Winfield to join him at the club this afternoon. He wasn’t the only one a bit preoccupied either. Every so often his best friend would pause in what he was saying and glance to one side of the room. But Emmett couldn’t see anything of interest over there.

  “I believe I’ll head home,” Winfield suddenly announced as he rose to his feet.

  Emmett raised his eyebrows. “So early? What’s the hurry, Winfield?” As soon as the words were out, he realized his friend was probably bored with Emmett’s lackluster attempts at conversation.

  “Feeling a bit peaked.”

  It wasn’t the answer Emmett had expected. “You sound like an old man, chap,” he said, laughing. “All you need is a nightcap and pipe to complete the picture.”

  “Ha. I’m no older than you,” Winfield countered. “Besides, I accepted an invitation to the Stouts’ dance this evening, and I’d like to rest before I go.”

  Emmett studied him with growing suspicion. His friend abhorred most occasions that required mingling with society. And yet here he was, planning to go to a dance. Winfield was definitely not acting like himself.

  “You’re attending another social event? Are you turning into a society man?”

  “Hardly.” His friend grimaced in a way that made Emmett smile. “But it is my hope that if I put in more of a show this season, my uncle will have less cause for complaint.”

  Winfield’s uncle, the Duke of Moorleigh, wasn’t nearly as hounding as Emmett’s father when it came to participating in the season, but Emmett also knew the man didn’t waste an opportunity to remind his nephew of the importance of being more social. The only society events Winfield didn’t try to avoid were evenings at the opera or the theater. For that reason, Emmett had given his best friend full use of his opera box, since he and Clare weren’t likely to use it much this season.

  “Are you and Lady Linwood attending the dance?” Winfield asked.

  A frown pulled at Emmett’s mouth. “We were invited, but no, Clare and I won’t be attending.”

  “Is something amiss?”

  Emmett attempted a grateful smile. He appreciated his friend’s concern, but he didn’t wish to discuss his wife’s miscarriage and this newest surge of mourning—or his father’s annoyance at their lack of social activity. To do so would only be depressing for both of them, and it would mean admitting that he was failing to meet Lord Hadwell’s expectations—yet again.

  “I’ll be all right. You go on, old man.”

  Winfield’s expression was earnest as he said, “If you need anything, Linwood . . .”

  Emmett nodded gravely. “I know, Winfield. And I’m grateful for it.”

  His friend bid him goodbye and headed for the door. Emmett remained where he was for a few more minutes before he decided to leave as well. He didn’t necessarily want to return to the cloud of melancholy hanging over his house, so he opted to walk back instead of taking a cab.

  He found the hum of activity and the constant flux of people in the streets comforting. And while he missed the wide-open countryside, he liked the energy of London. Clare didn’t seem to mind it either, at least in small doses. Would she be more willing to attend some larger events in a few more weeks? Emmett hoped so. The nights when he’d been accompanying her to the theater or the opera during their courtship had been some of his favorite times last season.

  I don’t know how to help her, Lord.

  Emmett stared down at the sidewalk. If only the answers he needed would appear in front of him. All of his efforts seemed to muddy things more, even when he wasn’t burdening Clare with his own grief or sorrow. If only there was a way to help her smile return, a way to bring back the banter and teasing and laughter he cherished between them.

  Perhaps they simply needed a change of scenery. Emmett lifted his head with renewed optimism. Once the season ended, he wanted to return to the country, but he recognized that Hadwell House wasn’t Clare’s first choice for a place to live away from London. What if they bought their own estate instead? Some place in Somerset to update and change as they saw fit.

  The possibilities brought a smile to his face. Surely having something as wonderful as a house in the country to look forward to and plan for would help cheer his wife.

  Confident once more, he quickened his pace, no longer dreading his return home. He’d share his idea with Clare first, then if she agreed, he would write a letter to his father’s land agent tonight, inquiring about any estates in the area that were currently for sale. By summer’s end, autumn at the latest, he and Clare would hopefully have a place in the country to call their own. A place where they would raise the children he still firmly believed would be theirs.

  Chapter 9

  Clare sat upright in bed, her heart thrashing at a breakneck pace. The moonlight shining through the thin curtains veiling the balcony showed nothing amiss inside her room. She’d heard a noise, though, loud enough to jerk her from sleep. As she struggled to make sense of the sound, her stomach twisted with familiar queasiness. Should she go downstairs to the kitchen and prepare some tea? What if Mr. Sharpe heard her? She didn’t need him asking questions about why she was awake in the middle of the night. It was going to be hard enough trying to sneak away from the villa to see a doctor about her pregnancy without being discovered. For the hundredth time since dinner, she wished the reporter had chosen to stay elsewhere.

  A child’s cry pierced the air. Antonina! That was the sound that had woken Clare. Would it wake Mr. Sharpe too? She threw off her blankets and grabbed her dressing gown. Pulling it on over her nightdress, she hurried into the hall. She pushed through the door of Antonina’s room and found the girl sobbing in bed.

  “Antonina?” Clare rushed to her side.

  The child didn’t appear to be awake, though her cries were real. “Angelo! Angelo!”

  “Nina, dear, wake up.” She smoothed back the child’s hair and touched her damp cheek. “It’s all right,” Clare soothed. “You’re all right. It’s only a bad dream.”

  Antonina’s eyelids fluttered open. She murmured something in Italian that Clare didn’t understand before she seemed to notice who sat beside her. “Clare?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Were you dreaming . . . about your brother?”

  “Sì.” The little girl sat up. In the dim light, her black eyes looked even larger. “He not coming back?”

  Clare swallowed the lump that rose into her throat. “No, not here on earth.” She gathered Antonina onto her lap and hugged her tight. “But one day, in heaven,” she whispered, “you’ll see Angelo and your mother and father again.”

  The child sniffled and pressed her face into Clare’s robe. Antonina’s shoulders trembled as she wept some more. Clare gently rocked her back and forth as tears filled her own eyes. She didn’t doubt that God had put this little girl directly in Emmett’s path because He knew they all needed one another.

  Kissing the top of Antonina’s head, Clare blinked away the salty moisture and murmured words of comfort. She didn’t expect the child to understand all of the English words, but they seemed to calm Antonina.

  Clare was about to settle the child back in bed when she heard a muffled noise from down the hall. Was someone else awake? Someone who had heard Antonina’s crying? Clare hoped it wasn’t the reporter. Glancing down, she found Antonina staring up at her. So much for the girl falling back asleep.

  “I’ll be right back,” she reassured her. “I’m going to see what that sound is.”

  Antonina clung to her,
though. Clare couldn’t blame her, not after the girl’s horrible dream. “All right. We’ll go see what it is together.”

  She kept the girl’s hand in her own as they walked quietly into the corridor. But Clare heard nothing more as they moved past her room, then Emmett’s, followed by two empty guest rooms, and finally Mr. Sharpe’s.

  “Hmm,” Clare murmured, mostly to herself. “Maybe it was something outside.”

  They retraced their steps down the hallway, back toward Antonina’s bedroom. As they drew alongside Emmett’s door the second time, Clare heard the noise again. It sounded like a muffled shout. Would it wake Mr. Sharpe? Clare turned the handle and led Antonina into the room. Emmett shifted restlessly beneath his blankets. Moving closer, Clare thought she detected a sheen of sweat on his face. His eyes were shut, but his lips were moving.

  “I can’t reach him,” he suddenly cried out, making Clare jump and Antonina whimper. Was Emmett dreaming of Angelo too? His next words were her answer. “You’ll have to jump, Angelo! I can’t reach you.”

  She needed to wake Emmett—both for himself, to halt his suffering, and to prevent him from rousing anyone else, especially Mr. Sharpe. Taking a seat on the bed, Clare used her free hand to shake Emmett’s shoulder. “Emmett! Wake up. You’re dreaming. It isn’t real, not anymore.”

  Clare had to shake him twice more before he jerked to a sitting position. “What’s wrong? What’s happening? Is it another earthquake?”

  “No. Everything’s fine.” Or it would be if Mr. Sharpe kept right on sleeping. “You and Antonina were both having bad dreams.” Clare rubbed the child’s back.

  Emmett scrubbed his hands down his face. “Thank you . . . for waking me.”

  “Are you all right?”

  He nodded slowly, though Clare could tell he was still shaken. Compassion moved her to reach out and clasp his hand in hers. “Do you want to talk about your dream . . . in a little while?” she asked, glancing pointedly at Antonina. Even if the little girl wouldn’t understand the words, it would likely be distressing for her to be in the room when he shared the details.

  Emmett didn’t answer right away. When he raised his chin to look at Clare, his expression was anguished. But the emotion faded from his features as he said, “No, I’ll be fine.”

  Four little words, innocuous ones, really. And yet they had the power to reopen the chasm between them. Clare bit back a protest as she rose to her feet. “Do you think you can sleep now, Nina?” The child shook her head.

  “I’ll sit up with her until she’s sleepy again.” Emmett climbed out of bed and onto his feet.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, it’s only fair after we both woke you.”

  She considered arguing, but her nausea was getting harder to ignore. Without tea, the best thing to do would be to return to sleep. Clare guided Antonina back to the girl’s bedroom, Emmett coming behind them. Inside the room, he opened the balcony door and grabbed one of the armchairs. Rather than positioning it beside the bed, though, he maneuvered the chair so it sat halfway onto the balcony.

  “What do you say to sitting outside for a bit?” he said to Antonina, first in English then in Italian. The girl gave a vigorous nod of approval.

  Clare stared askance at the two of them. “It’s chilly outside.” She pulled her robe tighter around her to confirm it.

  “I’ll be sure she’s bundled up nice and warm in some blankets.” And he did. Taking two blankets from the bed, Emmett wound them around Antonina, then he scooped her up.

  “What if one of you gets sick sitting out there the rest of the night?”

  He settled into the chair with Antonina on his knee. “When she falls asleep, I’ll put her back in bed and close the door. I promise.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  His tone was almost pleading. “Being inside tonight is reminding me too much of being in that hotel room. A bit of fresh air, even if it’s bracing, is a good reminder that all of us are safe.”

  Clare could partially relate—tonight she’d struggled to fall asleep at first, trying to convince herself the walls and ceiling were not caving in around her. “I’ll bid you both good night then.” She bent and kissed Antonina’s cheek. “Good night, Nina.”

  “Good night, Clare.”

  The child’s quiet response wound itself around Clare’s heart. “Good night, Emmett,” she said next, touching his sleeve.

  “Thank you again.”

  The earnestness in his voice added to the feeling of closeness. Clare returned to her own room, unsure how long it would take her to return to sleep, but praying it would happen soon.

  The next thing she became aware of was sunshine spilling in through the window. She’d fallen asleep after all. Hopefully Emmett and Antonina had as well. Miriam arrived a few minutes later with tea. After drinking it all, Clare dressed. She peeked into Antonina’s room and was relieved to find the child still slumbering. True to his word, Emmett had set her back in bed, put the chair in place, and shut the balcony door. Had he been able to get any more sleep himself?

  She went downstairs to the dining room and stopped short at the sight of Mr. Sharpe already seated at the table next to Emmett. Clare had momentarily forgotten about the reporter. Both men rose from their chairs when she entered the room.

  “Good morning, my dear.” Emmett held out a chair for her.

  Before she sat, he leaned close and kissed her on the cheek. Clare couldn’t help peering at him in surprise. Was his kiss a token of gratitude for her help last night? Or had he felt the same brief closeness she had?

  “Quite the caring couple. That’ll help win elections, to be sure.”

  Her attention snapped to Mr. Sharpe, who was watching them like a doting parent. Reality washed over her as Clare dropped into her seat. Neither Emmett’s kiss nor his endearment were sincere—nor were they truly meant for her. He was playacting to his audience, and she was required to do the same.

  “Good morning, darling.” She managed to infuse the greeting with some cheerfulness. “How are you this morning, Mr. Sharpe? Did you sleep well?”

  The reporter dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “I slept better than I have in ages, Lady Linwood. Must be the warmer air here.”

  “I’m sure it must,” she murmured as Signora Russo appeared with her plate.

  Clare was relieved the man hadn’t been awakened by Emmett and Antonina’s nightmares, but his presence still complicated things. Though she’d fallen back asleep herself, she was still exhausted from last night. A close look at Emmett revealed lines of fatigue around his mouth and eyes too. But they had to pretend that everything, especially between the two of them, was wonderful.

  The thought left her with a growing headache. It was going to be another long day.

  *

  By mid-afternoon, Emmett was desperate to escape Mr. Sharpe. He’d already given the young man a tour of the villa and answered questions about his political leanings and even more about his experiences during the earthquake.

  Talking about Messina had unfortunately made Emmett recall his nightmare from last night. He’d been climbing the rope outside of the building where Antonina and her brother had lived. However, in his dream, the building began to crumble slowly while he was still hanging from the rope. Emmett shouted at Angelo to jump. But the stones started dropping faster and faster, yanking Angelo away from Emmett’s grasp and shaking him to the core. It had taken him a few seconds to realize the shaking was actually Clare trying to wake him.

  He’d considered accepting her invitation to tell her about his dream, once Antonina had returned to sleep, especially after Clare had tenderly held his hand. But then he had decided against it. His wife had gone through enough herself during the quake without him burdening her with more shocking details. Besides, sharing something so horrible with anyone still felt too private to him.

  Anxious to avoid a repeat of his dream, he’d been more than happy to sit up with Antonina. Emmett had made certain she was
sleeping peacefully before he returned to his room. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Angelo’s crushed body. He’d eventually fallen into a restless sleep sometime before dawn.

  “I believe I’ll go for a walk,” he declared as he set aside the book he’d been trying to read. With the exception of Antonina, who’d asked if she could help Signora Russo, the rest of them had congregated in the drawing room. Clare sat beside him on the settee, hemming another dress that had belonged to Signora Russo’s daughter. The size was close enough to Antonina’s to be comfortable, but Clare wanted a more exact fit. Mr. Sharpe was writing at the desk in the corner.

  The reporter twisted in his chair. “That’s a capital idea. I’ll join you, Lord Linwood.”

  Not so capital anymore, Emmett thought grumpily. He was tired of playing his role as his half of a congenial couple, tired of having so little to do after several intense days of survival, and tired of the reporter’s constant presence.

  “Have you seen any of the cathedrals yet?” he asked, an idea forming. Perhaps there was a way to buy them all a little time away from the young man’s questions after all.

  Mr. Sharpe shook his head. “No, but I should like to.”

  “Wonderful.” Emmett stood. If he remembered correctly, there was an old priest who was known to give very long, very thorough tours of one of the cathedrals. That was where he’d take Mr. Sharpe first. “Would you like to come with us, dearest?”

  Clare’s lips pressed together, but he didn’t know if it was over a frown or a smile. They’d been trading endearments since this morning. “No, thank you. But Antonina may wish to go.”

  “I’ll see if she wants to come too,” he said. “Then I’ll meet you in the foyer, Mr. Sharpe.”

  Emmett made his way downstairs. One voice came from the direction of the kitchen—Signora Russo’s—which meant Antonina was still choosing to say little. He was saddened by the thought. As he entered the room, he realized Signora Russo was speaking both Italian and English in an obvious attempt to teach the child more of the new language.