They lived in fear that somehow the news of their whereabouts would leak out and fly across the countryside. No doubt there must be a price on their heads. As they met in secret the next night, Patrick pointed an accusatory finger at Liam. “You shouldn’t have stopped me from shooting that scurvy guard. Look what happened—you’ve got a limp you can’t explain and some bloody Englishman who should be dead is alive and can identify us.”
“There’s been enough killin’,” he said. “Maybe I was wrong, but it’s done, and that’s one less thing I have to answer for on Judgment Day.”
“You’ve got a long enough list without it,” Sean said.
In his heart, Liam knew Patrick had told the truth. In saving the life of a hated Englishman, he had put his own life and the lives of his brothers in jeopardy.
They wove their way through woods and off traveled roads until they arrived safely back in Munster. Liam hurried home to Maeve. She saw him from the window, trotting down the road on horseback. She ran to meet him.
“Liam, you’re home, and we have a son!”
“A son, is it? Well, I’ll be.” He swung himself off the horse and swept her up in his arms. “Maeve, I’ve missed ye so.” He clung to her, his brush with death emphasizing how precious she was to him.
“Come, show me our son.” He took her hand, and as they walked toward the house, she noticed his limp.
“Good Lord, Liam, how did you get that?”
“A bullet with more deadly intent, but I’ve always been lucky.”
“Oh, Liam.” Maeve laid her head on his shoulder.
“Don’t ye be cryin’ now. I’ll not be putting myself in the way of any bullets ever again,” he said, hoping it was true. “Now, let’s see our son.”
Liam bent over the baby’s bed. Asleep, he looked to Liam like a tiny angel, and he felt a surge of joy. “He’s a wee one, isn’t he.”
Maeve picked him up and placed him in Liam’s arms.
“Now, don’t go cryin’ on me, I’m your papa.” Liam grinned.
“He’s so quiet and good, he never fusses.”
“Have ye named him?” Liam asked.
“Sure and his name is Dermot, after your father, like we planned.”
This moment should give me nothing but happiness, he thought, but a new fear rose up in him. ’Tis not only me, but my wife and child in danger. Now I have two to look after, two sweet, innocent beings who deserve to live in happiness and safety. That his limp made him easily recognizable sent a shiver through him. Before the hated constabulary—or worse, the Redcoats—would take him or harm his family, the three would slip through their fingers. He, Maeve, and Dermot would go to America, if he had to paddle across the Atlantic himself.
Chapter 4
The day Vittorio left, it seemed to Ottavia that all nature mocked her grief. The early sun was warm, the leaves on the trees did a gentle dance in the breeze, and the birds sang. God and nature had conspired against her.
She felt helpless as a newborn, dependent upon another for her fate. As she sat alone in her bed, she pulled the blanket past her chin and buried her face.
At the priest’s house, Vittorio waited until Father Nollo returned. The old priest, who had met his replacement when he first came, was startled to see how thin the young priest had become. His eyes spoke sadness, and Father Nollo was overcome by guilt that he was taking Father di Rienzi away from a parish he had grown to love so much. The young priest assured Father Nollo that his people were anxiously awaiting his return, and that he had an assignment awaiting him in his native Florence.
Father Nollo was looking forward to sharing a meal with Father di Rienzi and hearing about his parishioners, whom he had missed. To his surprise, the young priest demurred, saying he was anxious to begin his journey. The simple parish priest watched the young aristocrat as he silently folded his few cassocks and laid them in a cloth bag, his eyes downcast and his shoulders stooped.
“Are you all right, my son?” Father Nollo asked, laying a hand on his arm.
The young man turned troubled eyes to him, looking like a lost child. For a moment, Father Nollo thought that he would confide in him whatever was torturing his soul. But that was not to be.
He forced a smile. “Of course, Father.” He straightened his shoulders and turned away. He finished his packing quickly, walked outside, and threw the bag over the back of his horse, which was tethered in front of the house.
From behind, he heard footsteps and whirled around, only to find a few parishioners who had come to send him off with bread, fruit, and good wishes. He thanked them graciously, and slowly mounted his horse. He leaned over to kiss the children one more time as mothers held them up. They asked for his blessing, and saw the tears in his eyes as he made the sign of the cross over each of them.
He waved his final goodbyes and looked expectantly behind him one last time. Just as his heart, the road was empty.
His horse trotted listlessly along the dusty road, as if he sensed his master’s reluctance to leave, the bag gently slapping his flanks and the young priest, his shoulders hunched, wrapped in his brooding thoughts.
He didn’t see her until she stood right in front of him on the road. Ottavia, who had been sitting half hidden among the cypress trees, walked onto the side of the road and stood looking up at him. Her thick hair was tied back carelessly, and tendrils curled about her face. Her white peasant blouse revealed tan shoulders, and the full skirt could not hide her lithe figure.
The sight of Ottavia made his heart leap. Growing up, he had known many girls and women, friends of the di Rienzi family, who had every advantage, but he had never known anyone as beautiful as Ottavia. If he had been a sculptor, he would have captured in marble some portion of her beauty at that moment. He knew the sight of her standing there, the sunlight kissing her delicate features, would haunt him forever.
He leaped off his horse and swept her into his arms, burying his face in her hair.
“I had to say goodbye,” she whispered.
“I’m so glad,” he said, holding her tight.
They clung to each other as swimmers to a branch in a relentless current, desperate to stop time.
Finally, she pulled away. “You must go now.” She was dry-eyed, summoning every ounce of courage to send her heart away from her forever.
He was distraught. “I’ll come back. I’ll send for you. I can’t leave you, Ottavia. Please, God, help me.”
“Go and serve God. I understand now that it is your duty.” She touched his face one last time, her fingertips telling a final goodbye. “I will always love you.”
Ottavia took a few steps backward on the road, then turned and began to run. Vittorio stood in the road and watched until she was out of sight.
During those first desolate weeks without Vittorio, convinced she would never see him again, Ottavia cried enough tears to last a lifetime. But she had work to do; the very old and the very young needed her. Eventually the routine of daily chores, of helping others, began to heal her. The pain dulled. She would bear it, because she knew it would be a part of her for the rest of her life.
Shortly after, Ottavia discovered that she was expecting Vittorio’s child. She could not betray Vittorio to her mother, and her mother, never thinking of the priest, decided the father was young Federico, who paid so much attention to Ottavia.
She knew he would be happy to marry her, and assumed Ottavia felt the same way. She also knew that, to protect her daughter and the child she bore, the marriage should be arranged quickly. Both mothers met and agreed, obtained their husbands’ permission, went to Father Nollo to arrange a wedding date, and announced the plans to Ottavia and Federico.
“I have wonderful news. You and Federico are to be married in a month,” her mother told her that evening as they sat together in the kitchen. Ottavia stared in disbelief, unmoving as her mother put her arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.
“Are you not pleased?”
Ottavia’s answer was st
ricken silence. She retreated to the solace of her room, and lay in bed, her hands caressing the tiny roundness of her stomach. She was carrying Vittorio’s baby, a living testimony to the love they had shared…and would always share. She could not wait for the child to be born. She hoped it would be a boy, a young version of Vittorio, with warm brown eyes and golden highlights in his hair. That was what she lived for.
The horror was that now she must marry Federico. Short, sturdy Federico. Federico, who, compared to Vittorio, was clumsy, foolish, and dull. Federico, who was to be—the word made her shrink in horror—her husband. Tears streamed down her face. Never in her life had she felt so abandoned.
Chapter 5
The weeks dragged on, and Ottavia met each day with increasing dread. Her mother busily sewed Ottavia’s wedding dress of soft white cotton, with tiny ruffles at the shoulder and hem, and fine embroidery at the bodice. It was a beautiful dress, and her mother took great joy in making it for her youngest and most beautiful daughter. Her own marriage had been arranged thirty years ago; she gave no thought to the fact that Ottavia might be unhappy with their choice. The belief that she was carrying Federico’s child assured her that this union must take place.
Ottavia felt none of a bride’s excitement. Her numbness turned to fear whenever Federico called at the house. He was too overjoyed at getting his prize to notice she was unhappy, and dull-witted as he was, he thought her recoil at his touch came from shyness, not from lack of desire.
She was to move into his family’s home on their wedding night, and live with his mother and father and his three brothers, each a year or two apart. The Gibelli brothers were all clever with their hands, and Federico and his brothers quickly added a large room to the back of the house for him and his bride. Though Ottavia wanted no part of it, Federico insisted that she come with him to see the room in which they would consummate their marriage.
The first taste of autumn sent a chill through her as they walked to his home on the other side of the village. She drew her shawl around her and did not remove it when they entered the house. His parents greeted her warmly, but the brothers, unaware she had entered the house, were brawling in loud horseplay. They crashed around their bedroom as they wrestled with one another, laughing and shouting. They stopped as soon as they saw Ottavia and stood together, grinning and eyeing her as she passed them.
Four Federicos. Ottavia drew the shawl tighter around her shoulders. How will I endure the Gibellis? It is surely another punishment for my sin. I made love with an angel outside of marriage, an angel who is also a priest, and my sin is more grievous by tenfold. Federico and his brothers were sent to torture me, to make every day a purgatory for the rest of my life.
Federico brought her into the room that would be theirs. It was big by Argiano standards, with a fireplace and a large stone hearth on the outside wall. The room was furnished with a table and a few chairs, and facing the fireplace, the bed. Ottavia did not want to look at it, but Federico took her by the hand and brought her over to it. “For us,” he said, desire in his eyes.
She turned away, but Federico held onto her hand. I’m imprisoned, and my heart is frozen. They were very close, so close she could see the beads of sweat upon his forehead and upper lip, hear his heavy breathing, feel his breath upon her neck. He held her tight in his grip. She recoiled from the roughness of his thick fingers. For one terrifying moment, she thought he was going to lock her in his solid embrace and kiss her. Instead, he merely held onto her; he had only a short time to wait until she would be his.
I must get away! She pulled her hand from his grip and walked quickly from the room, past the brothers, who said nothing but continued to grin foolishly at her, and bade goodbye to his parents. She started down the road to her home at a pace so fast that Federico had to quicken his stride to keep up with her. When they reached her house, he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him. “We have less than a week to wait, Ottavia,” he whispered in her ear, his lips grazing her cheek. She shivered at his touch.
“Goodnight,” she said, without raising her eyes to him, and ran into her house.
Five nights more. She cried to herself as she lay in bed. Five short nights and I will be the wife of Federico Gibilli, bound to him forever…to make love to him, to feel his hands touch my body, his eyes look at me naked, his bull-like body on mine. I am condemned, condemned to look into those eyes every morning of my life.
“I cannot do it,” she cried aloud. “I will not marry Federico and know, every day of my life, that I once knew the warmth of Vittorio’s love.”
Five nights shrank to four nights, four nights to three. She was frenzied as the day loomed closer. She could not concentrate on the simplest tasks. When she spilled a pitcher of milk, she smashed the pitcher on the floor, then knelt down and sobbed over the broken pieces.
“Ottavia, what’s wrong?” Her mother rushed into the kitchen to find her sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, sobbing.
“It’s broken,” Ottavia said, her hands on her heart.
Two days.
“Try on your wedding dress. I want to make sure it fits,” her mother said, thinking it would please her. Ottavia lifted her hands mechanically as her mother slid the dress over her head. As she fastened the buttons, Ottavia tried to imagine that it was Vittorio whom she would wed. As her mother fussed with the folds, her thoughts were on Vittorio—his eyes, his smile, the gentle way he touched her hair.
“I cannot do this,” she cried, tearing the dress off. She threw it on a chair as though it were the most repulsive object she had ever seen and dashed out of the house.
Ottavia sought solace in the hills. Today they were buffeted by a chill wind, too cold for a sensible person to stay there. Heedless, she lay down in the sheltered bower, losing herself in memories of Vittorio.
One day left. Feeling the knot tighten about her, she forced herself to think of Vittorio’s baby. Were it not for the child she carried, she would gladly have flung herself from a cliff.
She did not sleep the night before her wedding. Images flashed before her in the darkness: She and Federico locked forever in a stifling embrace; Vittorio drowning and calling to her, and she unable to save him; her baby born with the face of Federico. Finally, as the morning light entered her room, her dear little room, she knew the time had come. She caressed the tiny life within her and sat up wearily, a numbness stilling her heart.
Her mother came to help Ottavia dress, and gently chided her. “You are not ready. Everyone will be waiting for the bride.” The wedding dress in her hands, she asked Ottavia to stand as she put the dress over her head. She fussed with her daughter’s hair, weaving fresh autumn flowers into Ottavia’s thick, dark braid. Ottavia submitted dully to her mother’s ministrations, but when her mother kissed her, she clung to her, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Don’t…don’t leave me, Mama.”
“Every bride is nervous,” her mother said, smoothing her hair.
“What if I do not marry him?”
Her mother smiled knowingly. “That is a question many brides have asked on their wedding day. Your feelings will pass. And you have a child to think of now. If he is born without his father’s name, he will bring disgrace upon himself and this family.”
“I understand.” Ottavia knew the truth of her mother’s words yet hated the bitter fate it thrust upon her. “I’d like to be alone for a while.”
Left in her room, she sank to her knees, the skirt of her wedding dress spilling onto the stone floor, and prayed as she had never prayed before.
“Blessed Mother Mary, I have sinned. I know I cannot have Vittorio; I am happy to have his child. But now I am to marry Federico. Ask your Divine Son, I beg you, to free me from this terrible penance. Please, I plead with you, ask the Lord Jesus to have mercy on me, a simple girl. What I did with Vittorio was a fleeting moment in time. Please don’t let me pay for it for the rest of my life. Spare me from marrying Federico Gibelli.” She lay there
on the floor for a long time, the flowers in her hair trembling.
The sound of the church bells roused her, the bells that tolled her wedding day. She could not have heard a more doleful sound than if they had tolled for her funeral. She got up and walked to the door but could not bring herself to go out. Her mother rushed in and took her by the hand.
“Ottavia, he is waiting.”
Her parents kissed her and, her mother still holding her hand, the three walked out to a cart waiting in front of the house. Her parents helped her into the cart, and as she sat between them, they began the ride to the church. Ottavia looked back, watching their little house shrink smaller and smaller as they rode down the dusty road.
The entire village was at the church, the elders sitting inside and the children frolicking outside, anxious to have the first glimpse of the beautiful bride. She did not disappoint them. Naturally lovely, today she had a solemn air that was unlike Ottavia, surely fitting for the occasion.
The children scampered inside as her father helped her out of the cart. She stood dutifully as her mother smoothed the folds of her dress, then nodded in satisfaction. Her mother stole a look inside the church.
“Your Federico is there,” she said.
Ottavia put her hand to her mouth to quell the scream that rose in her throat. My Federico! I would rather die.
In a trance, Ottavia entered the church and saw the beams of sunlight that used to turn Vittorio’s hair to gold. This day they bathed Federico’s face in a sallow light and rested upon his solid form, forced into a too-tight black suit. Father Nollo nodded to her, but she could not move. She stood there, rooted, as the eyes of the village looked upon her. Then her mother rose halfway from her seat and nodded.
She started unsteadily up the aisle, her mind a whirlwind. Where is Vittorio now? Perhaps he has heard the news from Father Nollo and is on his way to me. I can turn around and flee, run as fast and as far as I can. I will run to Vittorio, tell him of our child…
Choices of the Heart Page 3