Glittering Promises

by Lisa T. Bergren

  I nodded and looked up at him. My stomach did seem unsettled, and my head ached, but he seemed to understand that I was more overcome with reverence than feeling ill. He paused, then slowly drew an arm tight around my shoulders. Together, we stared toward the glass case that seemed to me an iconic symbol of my Savior. No cage or coffin could hold Him. He was free…free, and so much mightier than I had given Him credit for being.

  There was nothing I could not conquer—or at least manage to get through—if my God was beside me. Whether that was poverty or wealth. I giggled at that thought. When had I ever considered wealth a threat? Not once before I had money. But now? Would such a fortune change me? Mold me in ways that would be better not to be molded?

  No. I would use it for good. Shape it, not allow it to shape me. I laughed aloud, as if I’d just beaten it in a round in the ring.

  Will gave me a quizzical look, and Vivian and Andrew frowned at me, which made me giggle more. But directly behind Andrew, I glimpsed the older woman—the one covered in cysts—shuffling toward the door. My heartbeat seemed to pause, then pounded in my chest.

  The least of these. Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these, ye have done it to Me. My eyes moved from the woman to the shroud’s glass coffin and then back to the woman now disappearing among the crowds. I squeezed Will’s hand, and he helped me rise to my feet. “Will, I need you to do something for me,” I said, looking up into his eyes.

  “Anything.”

  I pulled him along, edging past a group of tourists. The others awkwardly followed behind us. “Cora, what is your hurry?” he asked.

  “Her,” I said, only slowing when we again had her in sight.

  He frowned quizzically at the woman. “Her?”

  “Yes. I want you to give her this,” I said, pulling open the drawstrings to my purse and then unclasping my wallet. From it I brought out a wad of lire. Everything I had withdrawn that morning from my new account.

  His concern deepened as he took it from me. “But Cora, this is a great sum of money.” He lowered his volume as the others gathered drew nearer. “I mean, I know you have a great deal more at your disposal, but you cannot simply be giving it all away…”

  “Can’t I?” I said, laughing again, feeling slightly hysterical, manic in my generous state. I fought the urge to take it from him and give it to her myself. But I wanted him to explain to her, since he spoke her language. “Tell her it’s so she can see a doctor, have a meal, find lodging.” My eyes narrowed on the wad, wondering how the lire compared to dollars. “It is enough, isn’t it?”

  A beautiful Italian woman in a fine dress passed behind Will. She glanced at me as if she’d overheard our conversation. She was wiping her eyes as she held on to a man’s arm, apparently as moved as I was by seeing the shroud. But I focused again on Will, waiting on his answer.

  He frowned again. “It is more than enough. But Cora, are you certain? She could be one of the many people who prey upon rich young tourists—”

  “Will,” I implored, “please. It’s the right thing to do. Look at her. I must come to her aid.”

  “Certainly,” he said. He pulled away, moving quickly through the crowds to do as I’d asked.

  “Miss Cora?” Antonio asked, offering his arm. But I couldn’t abate his curiosity, only wait with excitement to see how the woman would receive the gift. We edged closer. Will was gesturing back toward me, and I gave her an embarrassed smile. The beautiful Italian woman who had paused earlier, who looked a little older than me, hovered near the woman. She looked back at me too, listening as Will explained my intent. The young woman’s piercing dark eyes unnerved me, and I looked to the floor. Would she see me as I was? A miserable sham of a pilgrim, belatedly remembering Whom she owed most?

  I looked up again. The woman and her companion were gone, but Will and the beggar approached me. She grasped my hand, chattering excitedly in Italian and gazing at me as if I were as wondrous as the shroud.

  “She’s thanking you. Saying you are an angel from God,” Antonio said as Will beamed behind her.

  “Tell her she’s most welcome,” I said, staring into her small brown eyes hooded by aging flesh. “Tell her it wasn’t me but God caring for her. I am but His servant.”

  Antonio paused, as if digesting my words, then he translated as I’d asked. The woman squeezed my hand, nodding again and again, half bowing, then turned away, the beatific smile still on her face. I was struck by the beauty of that smile. It showed missing and rotting teeth, but there was such joy—such pure joy—in it. I grasped Will’s arm, and we made our way to the door.

  Outside, the heat enfolded us, and perspiration immediately beaded at my temples. After the dim interior of the church, I blinked against the bright sunlight. Antonio went to the sidewalk and flagged our drivers, who’d parked a block away. They immediately pulled out and into traffic, then stopped beside us. Will opened the door, and I clambered into the backseat, Lil right behind me. We sat across from Will and Antonio, who both set to loosening their ties and opening wide their jackets. We all breathed a sigh of relief as the motorcar moved out into traffic, allowing air to flow through the compartment. Soon we reached the much quieter, narrower road that would lead us back to the villa.

  I stared out the window, taking in the crumbling walls, perhaps hundreds of years old, and relatively new homes and other structures, all crowding right up to the road’s edge, making use of every inch of space. The others were silent, perhaps because they didn’t know what to say. Perhaps they thought I’d gone mad, giving a stranger every dollar I had on me. Perhaps they were moved.

  I looked over to Will. “Do you believe it’s real? The shroud?”

  He paused, and his eyes drifted back and forth as if he was thinking. He leaned forward, elbows to thigh, fingertips tapping fingertips. “Does it matter?” he asked, staring into my eyes. “Regardless of whether or not it’s real, it still serves God, yes? You were clearly moved.”

  “Indeed,” I said, considering his words. “But then…you believe it a fake?”

  He pursed his lips and tilted his head. “I wouldn’t say that. I would say there are various accounts. Some say the Knights Templar held it for a time. But other scholars point out that Luke says in his gospel that Jesus was buried with two cloths, one for His head, one for His body. And yet…” He glanced over the side of the motorcar as we slowed to pass a farmer on an old wagon pulled by a donkey. Then Will looked back to me. “Wouldn’t it be tender of God to provide such a miracle for those of us who benefit from the occasional reminder of His life? His Son? Is it not possible that Luke heard about two cloths laid upon Jesus, but another was beneath it? Or laid over the two?”

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  “The cloth is very old. Scholars say that it could indeed be old enough to date from Jesus’s time. But there’s no way to be certain, is there? In the end, you either believe it’s real, or you do not. Just like we believe in Him or we don’t—that’s what faith is. A step we take. Or don’t. I consider the shroud a holy tool the Lord can use, as He clearly used with you today.”

  We drove for a time and then pulled over and parked, in order to see a famous fresco in the tiny local church. We walked up into a tiny hilltop village buzzing with the activity of an afternoon market. “Oh, might we shop?” I asked Will.

  He chuckled. “With what? You’ve spent everything you had.”

  I smiled back at him. “If there’s something I absolutely have to have, we’ll have to come back for it.”

  “That can be arranged,” he said. I took his arm, and we wandered, pausing before one stall and then another. There were women selling earth-hued pottery pieces, and others selling linens. Bottles of olive oil and vinegars. Casks of wine. Bits of Etruscan artifacts—“or so they say,” Will said in warning as I paused over a piece, a primitive painting of a flying dove.

  “And if they’re telling the truth?” I asked.

  He cocked a brow and smiled. “Then it’s over two thousa
nd years old.”

  “It’s possible, right?” I asked, thinking again of the shroud.

  “Certainly. Italy is full of such wonders.” He moved on to the next stall, a watchmaker’s, and picked up a gold pocket watch, admiring it for several minutes. I turned back and asked the vendor how much he wanted for the fresco piece, then borrowed money from Lil to purchase it.

  When Will moved to the haberdashery stall to try on hats, I eased into the watchmaker’s tent, hoping Will wouldn’t see me. He’d left me under Antonio’s intent gaze, and the older man’s lips twitched as if he knew what I was up to. I picked up the watch that Will had admired and then fingered the tag. It was far more expensive than I’d anticipated—what I might have spent on a gift for my parents through all our Christmases combined.

  Vivian joined me and saw my hesitation. She slid her eyes over her shoulder to Will, who was still engaged in conversation with the hatmaker, then back to me. “Oh, go on and get it,” she said. “Why hesitate? Money is no longer a concern.”

  “I-I don’t know,” I stammered, feeling my belly clench up as I again stared at the enormous sum on the tag. It was beautiful, the watch, but such a sum would’ve kept me in Normal School for a good four months…

  “Go on,” she said, her eyes shining with glee. “You’re in our world now, Cora. Money equals freedom. The freedom to buy anything you want. And Will has worked so hard. He deserves it.”

  “But I have no more cash. I already borrowed from Lil—”

  “Please,” she said, unclasping her small purse and pulling out a wad of Italian lire. After a quick glance over her shoulder at Will, she carefully passed it to me, hiding it in the folds of our skirts. “You’ll pay me back. Go on. I’ll distract him. Maybe I’ll convince him to buy that hat.” She smiled and squeezed my arm and moved away, leaving me to face the merchant, who eyed me expectantly.

  It’d be the perfect surprise for Will, I told myself, handing the bills to him, even as everything in me screamed it was too much, too extravagant.

  But he deserved it, didn’t he? I wanted something to express all I felt for him. And he’d been through so much… It was the perfect gift.

  I just had to find the right time to give it to him.

  CHAPTER 7

  William

  He looked at Cora as she entered the motorcar and smiled as he noted the aura of pleasure about her. Gone was the vague mantle of weariness, worry. In its place was a new confidence in her step. Joy. Hope. Which made him feel worse about his own misgivings. Over her negotiating him out from under his debt holder’s thumb. Over her instant fame—her wealth and position bound to increase her draw tenfold. Over her always and forever earning far more money in a year than he would likely ever earn in a lifetime.

  He was glad for her. Truly.

  It just didn’t…set well with him.

  Add to that his concern that Andrew fairly seethed with jealousy. There was a new potential enemy within the group’s very own ranks.

  Will felt nothing but increasing agitation every time he looked at the woman he loved. And he did love her, with everything in him. Please, Lord, help me find a way, he prayed silently, watching as Felix helped her out of the motorcar. She leaned in to share a secret with Lillian and then laughed. She was so beautiful. So good. So innocent in all of this. Why did he feel any semblance of resentment? More importantly, how could he find his way past it?

  “There you are at last!” Wallace said, emerging from the villa. “I want you all to meet Simon Grunthall.”

  They collectively turned and faced the newcomer, a small, broad-shouldered man in an expensive suit. He had brooding dark eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

  “Mr. Grunthall is the company’s new press secretary, just arrived from New York. He shall manage all correspondence and interviews with journalists seeking an audience with you young people.” Wallace spoke to the group, but his eyes rested on Cora. One by one, he introduced Grunthall to Will, Antonio, the guards, and the Kensingtons and Morgans. Each shook his hand and greeted him. Cora was last. Will came around to stand beside her, and Simon’s keen eyes flicked between them once, twice.

  “So it’s true? You two are courting?” he asked without preamble.

  “Indeed,” Will said.

  “Be prepared for some competition,” the man sniffed, unfolding an Italian paper to an inner page. “News is out about Cora being a Kensington and many presume she is the one who shall prosper the most from the wealth found beneath Dunnigan.” He eyed her. “They say that luck runs in the blood,” he said, and gave her a smile of appraisal, as if considering it. “Add to that, this”—he handed her the newest issue of Life—“and you’ll be bombarded. As soon as they can find you, that is.” He turned to look over his shoulder at the heavily wooded hillside that rose above the villa, then out to the eastern vineyard, as if reporters might be lurking, even here, now.

  “We aim to avoid that as long as possible,” Will said. “Which is why we’re now taking a rather unorthodox route on our tour.”

  “Take whatever route you wish. The Italians can certainly find you soon enough. And they shall sell their stories to the world press.” He looked to Wallace. “It’s good you brought me in.”

  “Yes, well, come inside and join us for luncheon. You can apprise our children of your goals. And your rules.”

  The two men turned and went inside, while the rest of the group shared looks of concern. It had to chafe for them all to be referred to as “children.” All the light and freedom Will had glimpsed in Cora moments before seemed to disappear like air from a balloon. He squeezed her hand where it rested on his arm. “It’ll turn out all right,” he said.

  “Will it?” she returned, lifting the issue of Life as if it were her obituary.

  “Sure,” he said with a smile. “If we got through the first article in Life, we can certainly manage the second.”

  Cora

  We sat down at the long pine table and ate a hearty vegetable stew accompanied by crusty bread. It reminded me of something my mama made, and a pang of longing for her and Papa washed through me. How long until they received the message I’d sent? Did they know the good news now? I hoped so. There was so much in accepting my father’s offer that wasn’t pleasant, I decided as I looked at Mr. Grunthall. My eyes moved to Will. And yet there was so much that was. Slipping free of our financial nooses came at a cost. But it’d be worth it. It will be worth it, I repeated to myself as Simon Grunthall droned on about the importance of guarding every conversation, of finding out the employ of each person we met before sharing personal details, of bringing him in whenever possible.

  “But Mr. Grunthall,” Lillian protested, “you are proposing we shield ourselves from every person we are yet to meet. Part of what the Grand Tour is about is meeting interesting and new people.”

  “And so you shall, young Miss Kensington,” he said with a curt nod. “Only with my guidance. My goal is to protect you all.”

  He finished his last bite of stew and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. His eyes moved to me and then on to the others. “While I shall be available to all of you, my primary concern is Miss Cora.” His dark eyes returned to me. “You have become quite the item of interest in America, my dear.”

  I shifted in my seat, not liking his uninvited use of my first name, the overly personal use of “my dear,” or the implication that he would be watching me every moment. “I’m certain you are overstating their interest,” I said. “Besides, I have no secrets now that everyone knows of my parentage. People will soon tire of me, even if I briefly caught their attention.”

  “Ahh, but we all have secrets, don’t we?” he asked, his eyes penetrating, invasive. “Even now,” he said with a flick of his wrist toward me, “you are inventing new ones.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  He laughed, but no humor reached his eyes. “Women are complex and subtle creatures. It will take me some time, but I am interested in ferreting out
any nuance of a story that might attract the undue interest of a journalist who wishes to exploit you.”

  “What on earth does that mean?”

  “There is no rush,” he said, taking a sip of wine. “We shall begin tomorrow with interviews.”

  “You mean to interview me,” I said flatly.

  “Most exhaustively,” he said with a smile, raising his goblet in the air in a sort of mock toast.

  “I don’t care for your Mr. Grunthall,” I said to my father when I found him outside. He was alone, smoking a cigar.

  “You will in time, Cora,” he returned tiredly. He took a deep draw on the cigar and let the smoke escape his mouth in a lazy cloud. “Trust me in this. I have become quite good at protecting my children. And while he might come across as overbearing, Simon Grunthall will protect you in ways I cannot. He comes with the highest recommendations from friends in the East.”

  Felix and Hugh came outside. They’d changed into more casual clothes. “The girls are changing and joining us for a game of croquet, Cora,” Felix said. “Care to come too?”

  “I’m afraid I need her with me,” my father interrupted. “We have some work to do on the mine.”

  “Already?” I asked, blinking in surprise.

  “Already,” he said, drawing again on his cigar and peering at me with his bright eyes. “It’s overdue, really. You’ll find the mine needs our constant attention. So we must begin, even if it means you sacrifice some of your outings with the others on the tour—or a croquet game.”

  He was challenging me, intent on seeing how dedicated I was to my course. I lifted my chin. “Of course,” I said. “There’s nothing I’d rather do with my afternoon.”

  Hugh huffed a laugh. “Well, jolly for you. Can’t say I’d agree.”