by Stacy Henrie
When Emmett started to ask in Italian if Antonina wanted to go for a walk, his housekeeper wagged her finger at him. “She needs to learn the English.”
“You’re right, signora.” He turned to address Antonina a second time. “Would you like to go for a walk?” Signora Russo nodded in approval, then moved toward the stove. With the housekeeper’s back turned, Emmett winked at Antonina and walked his fingers in the air to further demonstrate what he was asking.
One corner of the girl’s mouth lifted. It was the nearest thing to a smile Emmett had yet seen from her, and the sight of it warmed him. “Yes, I go walk.”
“Yes, I would like to go for a walk,” Signora Russo corrected.
After Antonina repeated the words, Emmett applauded her efforts. Signora Russo rummaged up a small coat and had the girl try it on. It was slightly short in the wrists, but it would do. Once ready, he and Antonina went upstairs to meet Mr. Sharpe.
The three of them walked to the nearest cathedral. The reporter looked suitably impressed with the building, even before they went inside. Emmett introduced Mr. Sharpe to the old priest, who was thankfully still around. Before the priest began expounding on the church’s vast history, Emmett excused himself and Antonina. “Feel free to return to the villa when you’re finished here, Mr. Sharpe.”
The young man appeared a bit flummoxed as to what to do, but the priest motioned for him to come along. With a shrug, the reporter complied.
Emmett took in a deep breath that tasted of freedom as he and Antonina headed away from the cathedral. Neither of them spoke as they walked hand in hand down the street, but it was a companionable silence. The contrast between Taormina and Messina made him feel as if he walked on a different planet. Had the viscount seen a doctor yet about the gash to his head? What of the old couple Emmett had assisted from the hotel? Had they escaped?
The farther they walked, the more Emmett realized they weren’t alone in taking to the streets today, but they were the only ones empty-handed. Dozens of people passed them, heading in the opposite direction, with bundles in their arms. Curious, Emmett stopped a middle-aged gentleman and inquired where he was going.
“Why, to Giardini,” he replied in an American accent.
Emmett studied him in confusion. “It’s four miles away. And you’re walking all the way there?”
“There’s no other way to reach Giaridini now. The earthquake made a real mess of the roads between here and there.”
“What is in Giardini?”
It was the older man’s turn to look puzzled. “Where have you been, son? There have been refugees and wounded passing through there since yesterday.” He hoisted the wrapped bundle in his arms. “They’re in desperate need of bread and bandages. Some of them don’t even have more than a stitch of clothes on—”
“That’s brilliant,” Emmett exclaimed. Another idea was formulating in his mind. At the man’s severe frown, he quickly shook his head. “Not brilliant that they’re in need. It’s . . . oh, never mind. Thank you for answering my questions. We must be off now.”
He swept Antonina up onto his shoulders and hurried as fast as he could back toward the villa. “Clare?” he called as they entered the house. She was coming down the staircase.
“Oh, you’re back already?”
Emmett noticed she had on her hat and coat. “Were you going somewhere?”
“I thought I might step out for a while too,” she said, her cheeks turning pink as if with embarrassment. “Did you forget something?”
He set Antonina on her feet. “No. I’ve just had an idea of how we might help the other earthquake victims. I’ll explain once everyone is assembled.” Emmett called for the rest of the household to come to the foyer.
Once Miriam, Rushford, and the Russos had joined them, he repeated what the American gentleman had said about the refugees in Giardini. “I’d like to gather up any and all sizes of spare clothing and whatever bread we have in the villa. And material for bandages, if we’ve got that too.” They started to scatter before he recalled something else. “We’ll need to wear sturdy shoes to carry everything to Giardini. Apparently the roads are impassable right now for all but foot traffic.”
Though it would involve an eight-mile, round-trip walk, everyone wanted to come, including Antonina. The little girl held a sack of bread, while Emmett held another sack of food and a jug of water. He and Clare had both donated clothing for the refugees, which she and Miriam carried. Even Antonina had insisted they give the dress Clare had been hemming to another child in need. The Russos and Rushford had more food, some bandages, and another jug of water between the three of them.
The trek wasn’t as arduous as Emmett had believed it would be, though it was still necessary to watch one’s step. But friendly conversation and the steady stream of people heading to and from Giardini made the time pass quickly and brought a feeling of camaraderie to the air.
Emmett almost felt badly Mr. Sharpe was missing it. This was a far more interesting story than anything to do with him and Clare. He’d left a note for the reporter on the foyer table, explaining where they had all gone, since the young man was likely to return to the villa before them.
In spite of seeing scores of homeless, wounded, and dying in Messina, Emmett still felt a jolt of shock at the sight that awaited their arrival in Giardini. Many of the people had on little to no clothing, while others were covered in mud. A number of the wounded were without bandages, since they hadn’t yet received medical care. On nearly every face, he saw the same dazed expression of shock and hunger that had plagued their own group. Is this how he and the others had looked to their rescuers just yesterday? It felt as though days had passed since they’d left the quake-ravaged city, instead of barely twenty-four hours.
He approached a man about his own age whose leg appeared to be broken. Emmett pulled a loaf of bread from his sack and handed it to the stranger. The other man whispered “Grazie,” then immediately gave half the loaf to the old man seated beside him. They looked as if they might be son and father.
The stranger’s murmur of gratitude was repeated over and over again as Emmett passed around the food and water they’d brought. He never heard a word of complaint. In contrast, everyone seemed thankful and eager to share their portion with those around them.
At first Antonina stuck close to his side. Emmett wasn’t sure if she felt shy or alarmed at the obvious suffering. When they came upon a group of children, though, overseen by a nun in a dirty, tattered habit, the girl finally ventured forward to hand some bread to another child. After that, Antonina insisted on helping him pass around the provisions until there was nothing left.
Holding the empty sacks and jug in one hand, Emmett took Antonina’s hand in the other and went in search of his wife. He found his valet and the Russos distributing more supplies among the refugees. Miriam was nearby, assisting a group of women who were passing around jugs and cups of water. But where was Clare?
Emmett spied her at last, kneeling beside a middle-aged woman. Using a comb she must have brought along, Clare was untangling the woman’s long hair. Even from a distance, Emmett could see the profound effect of the simple act of kindness. The woman had tears spilling down her cheeks, and she appeared to be speaking in low tones to Clare. As he and Antonina drew closer, Emmett could see there were tears in Clare’s eyes too.
Not wishing to disrupt the poignant moment and also eager to seize the chance to watch Clare, he stopped before she saw him. The sorrow and empathy in her expression stirred something deep inside him. Here was the woman he’d married—a woman with whom he could laugh and banter but also one whose generosity and kind nature put others immediately at ease.
If only he could unburden his darkest doubts and tragedies to her as this stranger was doing. And yet what if Clare didn’t understand, or what if he unintentionally drove her back into the melancholy of her own grief by talking?
Questions burned Emmett’s tongue, desperate for release. What was the real reason
his wife had come to Sicily without him? Did she want to return with him to England? It had been less than a day of pretending to be a happy couple, but already, it was taking its toll on both of them. Campaigning for a seat in the House of Commons would only intensify the necessity of playacting. Would they ever get past that and go back to when they hadn’t needed to pretend? Or was going forward, starting afresh, the only way to heal the rift that seemed to constantly narrow and widen between them?
“Are you finished?”
Emmett glanced up to find Clare standing in front of him. “Uh, yes. We’ve no more food.” He lifted the empty sacks. “Antonina helped me pass it around.”
“That’s wonderful.” Clare gave the little girl a quick embrace around the shoulders. “I only wish there was more we could do for them.” Her gaze swept the assembled crowd.
“I do as well.”
Their efforts weren’t in vain, though. Having been homeless themselves for two days, Emmett recognized the magnitude of what a little bread, water, clothing, and kindness could do. Of course, after two days of privation, he had been able to return to his home and his wealth. He hadn’t lost his possessions or his family. There were few people before him who were as fortunate. Nearly all of these people had no homes or livelihoods to return to.
Emmett led Clare and Antonina to where the others were waiting to walk back to Taormina. “We can come again tomorrow and the next day,” he reassured Clare, “and for however long they’ll have refugees passing through.”
“I’d like that.”
As they began walking, he threw Clare another glance. “That was a very clever thing you did, bringing a comb along.”
“Thank you. It was something I wished we’d had while we were in that field.”
“Did that woman tell you her story?”
She nodded, her expression pained. “I didn’t understand most of it, but what I did was so sad.” Her voice wobbled as Clare continued. “Apparently she lost both her parents, her husband, and three children in the quake. She’s the only member of her family who survived.”
The tragic tale was a sobering reminder for Emmett. He’d been in no danger of losing his parents and siblings, but Clare might have been killed in the earthquake. That horrid possibility prompted a physical ache inside him—and not just because Clare was someone he’d once cared a great deal about.
She was still his wife, the woman he’d fallen in love with. Surely that was reason enough to try to make things work. If that meant going backward or forward or whatever direction they must to see if they could truly be together again, then that was what Emmett wanted most of all.
Somerset, England, September 1908: Three months earlier
Clare shut her eyes and tilted her face toward the sunshine bursting through the clouds. If only she could store up every drop of warmth and light before she needed to return from her walk. Opening her eyes, she whistled for Bran, who’d gone off exploring. The dog reappeared a few moments later, and Clare commenced her wander down the worn country path.
Maybe instead of returning to the house, she ought to keep walking until she reached the sea. Then she’d commission a boat to take her back home to New York or to Sicily—anywhere but Hadwell House. This estate held so few happy memories for her and so many darker ones now that she had miscarried for the second time.
She’d not been as far along in this pregnancy as she had been the first time. But that didn’t take away the physical aches and fatigue or her profound grief at the loss of her dreams to be a mother—again. Tears leaked from her lashes, and Clare made no effort to stop them. It was a relief to let them fall unchecked without being burdened by the disapproving looks of her father-in-law, the expressions of pity from her mother-in-law, or the infuriating optimism of her husband.
There had been one brief moment of shared sadness with Emmett when the doctor had informed them that Clare’s pregnancy had ended. The sorrow and disappointment she’d seen on his handsome face had given her such hope. Hope that this time Emmett would grieve aloud, with her—that they would work through this together. But all too soon, he’d hidden his emotions behind a matter-of-fact expression and words of gratitude for the doctor’s assistance.
Unlike last time, Clare hadn’t seen another hint of mourning in his eyes in the last month. Any time he spoke with her he seemed determined to maintain his everything will turn out right in the end attitude. Still, she’d tried sharing with him her own feelings of grief, hoping it might help them both understand each other better. But whenever she did, Emmett appeared distressed and eager to escape. The last two weeks she’d given up trying altogether. Instead she’d poured out her pain in private, in prayer, in letters to her parents, and occasionally in confessions to Miriam.
This second disappointment of not producing an heir had apparently revived Emmett’s efforts to find them a house in the country. When they’d returned last month to Somerset from London, they’d followed up on several possibilities. After Clare had miscarried, though, she’d been too ill to accompany Emmett when he went to scout out properties. Last week, he’d left again on the hunt for a home, and Clare had been almost grateful for his absence.
It wasn’t that she wanted to remain at Hadwell House. The trapped feeling she’d experienced living here after her first miscarriage had returned. She’d also found herself thinking often of what Lady Melinda had told her last winter. That Emmett had married Clare first and foremost for her money. Was their increased strain and her husband’s single focus to find a house—one that he would use her money to purchase—proof that the widow had been right after all?
“Oh, Bran.” Clare paused to rub the dog’s fur. “Will things ever be right again?”
Emmett believed so, but it felt like ages to Clare since they’d last teased each other or since he’d given her more than a quick kiss on the cheek at breakfast. She longed for the ease and companionship they’d begun to enjoy once more this summer. Could they be that way again, even after Clare’s heart had been shattered repeatedly, not only by the losses but also by the loneliness of suffering through them on her own?
The dog nudged her with his nose, soliciting a small smile from Clare. She was grateful they’d be taking Bran with them wherever they moved. Here, at least, was one member of the family who asked nothing from her that he wasn’t also willing to give in return. Bran didn’t care if she was an heiress or a milk maid. He didn’t look down on her for not being able to stay pregnant either or for not knowing how to get Emmett to talk openly with her.
“Clare!”
She turned at the sound of her husband’s voice. Bran did too, then the dog raced toward Emmett, who bent and tussled with him. The happy image they made renewed Clare’s tears. Only this time, there was a measure of thankfulness intermingled with the regret. She wouldn’t stop feeling her sorrow. If she did, she feared it would fester. But she could welcome and seek out these tiny glints of joy too.
“I thought I might find you walking out this way,” Emmett said as he stood.
Clare raised her eyebrows in surprise. He’d noticed where she liked to walk? Were there other things he noticed about her but didn’t say? “When did you get back?” She fell into step with him and Bran as they headed toward the house.
“Just now, and I have good news.” The grin he sent her way was reminiscent of those he’d offered when they had first met. “I found us a house. It’s a few hours’ drive from here, and it is called Barksley Hall.”
Clare didn’t have to manufacture an answering smile. At last they would have a home of their own, one they could fill with laughter, love, and affection—all the things she had envisioned when she’d agreed to marry Emmett.
“That’s wonderful,” she replied. “How soon can we move in?”
Some of Emmett’s excitement faded at her question. “On that, I’m not quite certain. It’s a very old house, and as such, it is in need of extensive repairs. The main house, the stables, and the tenant housing all require a great
deal of work. However . . .” He turned an expectant gaze on her. “That also means we may do with the place as we please. We can tear down wings or add more—remodel it entirely to our tastes. Anything we like, my dear.”
She hadn’t heard such warmth behind his endearment in weeks. “When can we begin?”
“We should allow you to completely recover first, Clare.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I don’t want you becoming as ill as you did at the start of the season.”
Emmett didn’t look at her as he said this, but Clare sensed the worry he’d clearly felt back then but hadn’t voiced. He did still care about her, even if he refused to share his feelings with her. Was that enough for them to build on going forward?
“I’d first like to take you to see the place in a week or two, if you’re up to it. We can stay in the village near the estate while we decide if we want to purchase it.” He kicked at a clump of grass with the toe of his shoe. “If we do move forward, then Rushford and I will need to stay nearby, so I can hire the needed help and oversee the project.”
Clare knew what he wasn’t saying—she would need to remain at Hadwell House during that time. She fought a sigh at the thought of more weeks with only his parents for company. At least Emmett would likely leave Bran with her. “I think that sounds like a good plan. But as soon as there are any livable rooms inside, I’d like to stay there with you.”
Emmett turned to face her, his disbelief evident. “You wouldn’t rather wait until the place is completely finished?”
“No,” Clare said firmly.
He gave a thoughtful nod. “That might work. If we set a few of the rooms to rights, you could stay a week or two while we figure out what changes to make. I want to know how you wish the place to look, Clare. This is to be our home after all.”
She’d hoped to stay permanently, not just for a week, but . . . “Our home,” she repeated.
On impulse, she slipped her arm through his and tucked close to his side. Emmett again appeared surprised at her response, but after a moment, he rested his hand over hers. The gesture, though simple, felt marvelous. Maybe he’d been right about trying to find them a house of their own. Maybe this project would finally bring the healing and closeness they needed.