by Stacy Henrie
As they left the doctor’s and began the trek toward the villa, Clare felt lighter than she had in a week. She was still pregnant!
Thank You, Father, she silently prayed, for Thy watchful care and for a chance to finally see the doctor today.
She expressed gratitude as well for Antonina and for Emmett. While things were still uncertain there, Clare was actually glad he’d come to Sicily. Without him, she and Antonina might not be alive. She also felt grateful for the sweet interactions she’d shared with her husband this past week. Whatever the future held, she would cherish those moments, even when they became distant memories.
Would such moments continue if she went back with Emmett, or were they only possible under these extraordinary circumstances? Another question, this one more sobering, pricked at her elated mood. Would she be able to remain pregnant if she returned to England? Clare didn’t know, and the uncertainty settled heavily around her heart. She’d promised to make a decision soon, and she would. But she was beginning to see that whichever choice she made, she could lose something precious to her in the process.
Barksley Hall, December 1908: Four and a half weeks earlier
The house looked marvelous—at least the main bedrooms and the kitchen did. Other areas, such as the dining room, study, and drawing room, were still in various stages of renovation. But Emmett was still pleased with how well the work was coming along. So much so that he was planning to surprise Clare by returning to Hadwell House for the holidays a whole week earlier than he’d originally planned.
He couldn’t wait to see her. The estate had taken far more of his time and energy than Emmett had anticipated. He hadn’t been able to get away any sooner, which meant it had been nearly a month since he’d last seen his wife.
Hands clasped behind his back, he surveyed the painting that had arrived the day before from London. He’d had the workers hang it in a prominent spot over the hearth in Clare’s bedroom. It was another surprise for Clare. She’d painted the beautiful picture of his grandfather’s villa in Taormina when they’d honeymooned there last year and had brought the painting to their townhouse in London. However, Emmett thought she might like to keep it here. He hoped that for Clare it would be a memorial, as it was for him, of the first—but not the last—happy period in their marriage. Just like the two weeks Clare had stayed with him at Barksley Hall.
Every day they’d pored over books and sketches together to determine what changes they wanted to make to the house. In the afternoons, they’d gone for walks to view the sea. And every evening, they had dined alone, laughing and bantering as easily and as long into the night as they had in Sicily.
Emmett smiled at the memories as he turned to eye the rest of the room. Clare had known what she was doing when she’d suggested the colors. The walnut-colored wood warmed the cool shades of green and blue that wound their way through the fabrics, the drapes, and the wallpaper. The whole look reminded him very much of Clare.
Did she miss him as much as he did her? Her few letters hadn’t said, but Emmett was hopeful. Or he at least tried to be. With Clare at Hadwell House and him at Barksley Hall, there had been moments of doubt. Moments when he’d wondered if the closeness they had shared here would last rather than fade as it had at other times.
He’d been relieved and grateful during their time together to see Clare acting more like herself. Her humor, kindness, and affection during those two weeks had felt like a gift he’d always cherished but hadn’t opened in ages.
Could that have been the start of something deeper and long-lasting between them? He wanted to believe so, to believe that the tensions of the past were over and their relationship would now be filled with the warmth and connection he wished for. But the only way to know for certain was to see Clare again.
Emmett exited the room and went to his own. Inside, Rushford was packing his trunk. “A letter came for you, my lord.” The valet motioned to the table that stood between the armchairs.
“It’s from Clare,” Emmett said as he picked up the letter.
Rushford nodded, his eyes lit with a smile. “What do you think her ladyship will say to you returning early for the holidays?”
“My hope is she will find the surprise a delightful one. Perhaps even worthy of a very long kiss.” Grinning, Emmett tore open the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper.
His valet paused in his work. “Would you like me to wait to finish packing until you’ve read your letter?”
“No, I’ll take it downstairs.” The sooner the packing was complete, the sooner they could commence the drive to Hadwell House.
Emmett waited until he was in the library and seated in one of the newly upholstered chairs before reading his letter. This was the only room in the house he and Clare had left relatively unchanged. Its cheerful fire and shelves of books made for a comfortable place to read or think.
Dear Emmett,
I hope this finds you well. It sounds as if the work on the house is progressing nicely and that you are pleased with this newest round of renovations. I’m glad it’s going well. But while we’ve been apart, I’ve come to a decision. I’m not sure how to share it. I guess it’s probably best that I just state it, even without preamble.
I’ve decided to spend the holidays somewhere warmer, at the villa actually. I know this is a sudden decision, but I very much believe the warmer temperatures of Sicily will do me good. I leave for Italy in four days. And while I know that’s before you are scheduled to arrive back at Hadwell House, I can’t delay my leaving.
I wish you the merriest of Christmases. Our time together at Barksley Hall will remain one of my favorite memories from this year.
Sincerely,
Clare
He lowered the letter to his knee and tried to pull in a full breath through the pressure squeezing his chest. His wife wished to spend the holidays somewhere else, away from him. How could that be true, especially after their time here? Perhaps he’d misunderstood her meaning in his first perusal of the letter.
Gripping the paper tighter at its edge, Emmett read the letter through a second, then a third time. But the words didn’t change. Clare was leaving England, without him.
The viselike ache inside him increased, along with his confusion. What had happened between them since Clare had left Barksley Hall last month? She hadn’t mentioned being unhappy in her other letters, though Emmett had suspected she felt some loneliness. Did she truly dislike being at his parents’ home so much? Or was it him she could no longer abide?
Emmett rose to his feet and began to pace the room as anger and hurt coalesced inside him. He welcomed the feelings, as they helped block out the aching near his heart. How could Clare up and leave like this? Without waiting to see him, without waiting to tell him goodbye in person?
A knock on the library door had him lifting his gaze from burning figurative holes in the rug with his glare. “Yes?”
“I’m finished packing, my lord,” Rushford answered.
Emmett glanced at the letter he still held, then at the fire. “My plans have changed, I’m afraid. We’ll wait to head back to Hadwell House until next week as planned.” If Clare had no desire to see him before her departure, then he would grant that wish.
There was a long pause before Rushford said in a puzzled tone, “Shall I unpack then?”
“No, just leave it. Thank you, Rushford.” Emmett moved to the hearth and stared down at the flames.
“Is something wrong, my lord? Is Lady Linwood all right?”
Hearing Clare’s name threatened to renew his pain. “She’s fine. But I’ve decided there would be too many things left undone if we departed today.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Emmett listened to the sound of Rushford’s fading footsteps as though they were the sound of his dying hopes. All of his fears had been proven right. His and Clare’s time together last month had been quite pleasant, but it represented nothing more. Setting his jaw in a firm line, he dropped the letter
into the fire and watched the words curdle black in the heat until nothing was left of them except for ashes.
Chapter 11
Two days after Antonina’s distressing experience in Giardini, Emmett and Mr. Sharpe returned to a quiet villa. The drawing room, which Clare had cleverly converted into a sewing room to make clothes for the earthquake victims, sat empty.
“Where is everyone?” Mr. Sharpe asked, looking around as he and Emmett hung up their hats and coats.
The reporter had opted to accompany Emmett and the work gang who were repairing the roads rather than stay behind at the villa with the refugee women and children Clare had enlisted the day before to help with the sewing. Emmett had discovered he didn’t mind the man’s company. In truth, he had grown accustomed to the young man’s near-constant presence and had even learned a few things about Mr. Sharpe that softened his view of the reporter.
Mr. Sharpe also struggled with proving himself to his father, who apparently hadn’t wanted his son to become a reporter. And when the young man wasn’t asking incessant questions or scribbling away in his notebook, he was actually quite funny, with a dry sense of humor Emmett appreciated.
“Clare?” Emmett called out. “Antonina?” Where had they gone? He led the way down to the kitchen, where Signora Russo was pulling something from the oven.
“Ah, Lord Linwood,” she said, looking up. “You and Mr. Sharpe are back.”
Emmett nodded. “Do you know where Lady Linwood and Nina have gone?”
“They are in the garden, painting.” The housekeeper set the dish on the sideboard.
After thanking her, Emmett and Mr. Sharpe headed outside. “Does your wife paint?” the reporter asked.
“Oh, yes. Quite well.”
Emmett thought of the picture of the villa hanging in Clare’s bedroom at Barksley Hall and the one she’d painted of him. What was she painting today?
Near the empty fountain, Clare sat before a canvas and easel. Antonina was perched on the fountain’s stone bench, a brush in her hand too and an expression of total concentration on her young face. Emmett approached the little girl first. “What are you painting, Nina?”
She hopped off the bench and turned her canvas around. A pile of what appeared to be rocks covered the bottom half of her picture. But were they actually rocks?
“Are those . . . stones?” He crouched in front of her.
A brief smile lifted her lips as she nodded. “It is my house, after earthquake.”
Her house after the earthquake? Emmett shot a look of alarm at Clare, but her focus was on her own painting. That meant dealing with this was up to him, but why was Antonina painting a picture of rubble? He struggled for something positive to say. “They do look like stones,” he offered as he rose to his feet.
He moved to stand behind his wife so he could view her painting. As with her others, this painting captured a scene with incredible detail. But the subject concerned him. Emmett recognized what had to be a demolished street in Messina. Rain filtered down onto the ruined buildings and masonry. Off in the right-hand corner a small group of people were heading away from the destruction.
“What do you think?” She swiveled to face Emmett, clearly eager to hear his opinion.
To Emmett’s relief, Mr. Sharpe answered first. “That is remarkable, Lady Linwood. It looks exactly as you and your husband described it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sharpe,” she said as she blushed. Emmett felt a peculiar flicker of jealousy at not having inspired the added color himself.
The reporter leaned forward to point at the tiny people. “Is that your group, fleeing to the countryside?”
“It is.” Clare faced her painting again. “I hoped to capture the feel of that morning.”
“Why?” The question tumbled from Emmett’s mouth before he could stop it.
She frowned and dipped her brush back into the paint. “A wise person recently told me that there are many ways to express grief, even through drawing or painting.” Beneath her adept fingers, the paintbrush added depth to the shadows and textures. “So Nina and I are painting pictures to represent the earthquake.”
Mr. Sharpe walked to where a few of Clare’s other paintings from her time in Sicily sat propped against the nearby stone bench. Before Emmett could go over and view them too, Antonina held up another painting for him to see.
“Look, Emmett.”
The face staring back at him—clearly rendered by Clare’s skillful brush—looked much like the little girl, but Emmett recognized that it was her brother. It wasn’t an exact likeness, and yet it was close enough to set his heart thudding with the memories that filled his nightmares. He pulled in a long breath and pushed it back out.
“How did you . . .” He directed the words to Clare.
His wife shrugged without looking at him. “I sketched something first, using Antonina as a model. When she thought it was close enough to Angelo’s likeness, I painted it.”
Emmett nearly asked if such a thing was wise given all the child had been through. However, as he watched Antonina lovingly study the painting of her brother, he swallowed back the question. Perhaps Clare was right. He didn’t know what they would do with the paintings of rubble, but it was evident how much the portrait of Angelo meant to Antonina. The child didn’t have an actual photograph, so the painting would serve as a way to remember him.
“It’s an outstanding likeness, Clare,” Emmett managed to say with utmost sincerity.
She didn’t blush as she had at Mr. Sharpe’s compliment, though the tension left her features. “I think it’s been good for her to paint her own picture too,” she said quietly. “I didn’t tell her what to paint, Emmett. The house is what she chose.” Clare glanced over her shoulder at him. “I, for one, am glad she did. She needs to let her grief out so she can come to terms with it.”
“It was an excellent idea, truly.”
Her eyes met his. “You really think so?”
“I—”
Emmett wasn’t able to finish, because Mr. Sharpe suddenly announced, “Quite the likeness of you, isn’t it, Lord Linwood?” The young man straightened. In his hand, he held the portrait Clare had painted of Emmett.
He stared, uncomprehending, at the picture of himself. How had it come to be here? “You brought it with you?” he finally asked, returning his gaze to Clare.
There was no mistaking who had elicited the blush that reddened her cheeks now. “It’s the only other portrait I’ve completed, so it made sense to bring it along. If I ever choose to do another, with a live model, it’ll be nice to see if my skill has improved.” Her explanations tumbled over each other. When they stopped, she abruptly stood and began gathering up her supplies. “Antonina, let’s clean up and get ready for dinner.”
Emmett and Mr. Sharpe helped them, but Clare insisted on carrying her finished paintings herself, including the one of him. She refused to look at him as the four of them went inside. Not that Emmett minded so much. He was too busy thinking.
Clare had brought the portrait—his portrait—to Sicily. It wasn’t happenstance that she had either. The picture had been hanging in a frame at Hadwell House, not mixed among her other paintings. That meant she had deliberately removed the portrait to bring it with her. What he couldn’t reason out was why.
When they reached her room, she directed them to set her supplies in the hallway. She opened her door as Emmett started down the corridor toward his own room. Something compelled him to look back, though. He found Clare watching him. The look in her eyes was a mixture of awkwardness and regret but also . . . hope. Then she disappeared inside her bedroom.
He’d seen enough, though. Enough to know why she’d brought that particular painting with her—and it changed everything.
Clare still cared for him; she might even still love him. Emmett shook his head in stunned amazement as he entered his room. He didn’t know her reasons for leaving England without him, though he was beginning to suspect they had little to do with his title or wan
ting to live apart. What he did know was that he’d been given a glimpse into the future and the possibility that it might not be too late for them.
*
Sleep was near impossible for Clare that night. She kept seeing Emmett’s look of surprise when he’d discovered she had brought his portrait with her to Taormina. What reason he had assigned to her actions, she didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure herself what had motivated her to bring the picture along or whether doing so had been a mistake or an excellent idea.
At last she’d finally fallen asleep, only to be awakened some time later by Miriam. The maid had kindly offered to sleep in Antonina’s room for a few nights to allow Clare to get more rest. And, to Clare’s relief, the little girl had gone two whole nights without a nightmare. Until tonight, when she had apparently startled awake and asked for Clare.
By morning, Clare felt turned inside out and upside down with exhaustion and nausea. She’d been so confident that painting pictures would help Antonina continue to sleep well, but it hadn’t. What more could she do to help the girl move through her grief? She hated knowing Antonina was still hurting, especially at night.
Clare didn’t bother hiding the lines under her eyes before going down to breakfast. The source of her fatigue included trying to pretend for Mr. Sharpe’s benefit that everything was fine. In reality, she wasn’t sure from one moment to the next if things were improving or not between her and Emmett. The little girl they’d both come to love was still traumatized by the earthquake, and so was Clare’s husband, though Emmett likely wouldn’t admit it. Then there was the matter of returning to England and joining the campaign trail, which was likely to be a grueling experience. Clare had yet to decide, too, if she ought to risk returning to someplace cold or remain in Sicily. Her head ached from all the ruminating on what to do in each situation.
Emmett offered a cheery “Good morning” and a perfunctory kiss to her cheek when she entered the dining room. On other days, Clare hadn’t minded his now-familiar greeting—there had even been moments when she’d enjoyed it. This morning, however, the playacting grated on her. She let Emmett and Mr. Sharpe do most of the talking as she ate what she needed to in order to assuage her queasiness. Antonina seemed equally out of sorts as Clare. The child mostly picked at her food before asking if she could leave the table.