Pierre clapped Signore Biotti on the shoulder with familiarity and grinned us. “Nothing like a passionate Italian,” he said, then made the introductions all around. It was almost as if Pierre were more the host than Biotti was. I stiffened in frustration. Hadn’t Will and I suffered enough strife over the last few days without Pierre interfering here? But the more I heard, the more I was certain. It was he who invited us to come to the table, he who decided who would sit where.
Ten others wandered in from the gardens and joined us at the long, dramatic table set symbolically with Pierre’s red roses. We soon learned, via translation, that they’d been invited for this test of the grand fountain. But I felt that they were more a hired supporting cast in Pierre’s latest play.
“It has taken us years to clear it,” Biotti said, winding pasta onto his fork with the aid of a soupspoon, returning to his topic of favor, the fountain. “The brush and trees. Then we had to repair the tiles that had broken away, and then,” he said, lifting his fork, mouth full, “we had to go to work on the aqueduct.”
“I guess it was leaking in a hundred different places,” Pierre said.
“Two hundred,” Biotti muttered, still chewing.
I absorbed that with surprise. I had no idea what all it took to maintain a fountain, but it certainly sounded comprehensive. And expensive. It was no wonder the place had fallen into disrepair.
“How is it, Pierre,” Will said, picking up his wine goblet, “that you know our host?”
“My father and he once did a great deal of business together,” Pierre said, picking up his own goblet. “And now I hope to pick up where my father left off.”
Signore Biotti laughed at this, winding yet another bite of pasta on his fork. It was delicious, I thought: linguine in a sauce bright with tomato and lemon and basil. And our host seemed to be enjoying it more than all the rest of us combined. I found his mood contagious. He obviously adored his home and was eager to share it. No matter how Pierre had finagled an invitation and how he might’ve decorated the tables just for me, I didn’t want another argument between him and Will to interrupt it. I simply was too tired to deal with it.
Thankfully, Will let it go, and conversation moved on to other subjects—the state of the government and their lackadaisical approach to European expansion of imports, a ball to be held in one of the noblemen’s homes the following week, and so it went. As the food settled in my stomach, I closed my eyes and felt the lovely breeze cool my face.
“Ahh, the little bird with the broken wing is settling in for a nap, I see,” said Signore Biotti.
My eyes flew open in embarrassment as all eyes turned to me.
“No, no,” he said, lifting a hand of approval. “After you see the fountain, you shall rest, little bird. In the villa.” He sat back in his chair, finished eating at last, and patted his chest. “Nothing like a siesta at Villa d’ Este to invigorate the body.” With the last of his sentence his hands turned to fists, and he lifted them in the air.
I smiled. “I confess, that does sound lovely.”
“She was only discharged yesterday from hospital,” Pierre said lowly to our host, a note of accusation in his tone as his eyes moved to Will.
“Shall we see the fountain now?” I asked Signore Biotti sweetly, quickly intervening. “I, for one, cannot wait.”
Signore Biotti set down his napkin, his eyes alight. “Yes, yes, let’s!” He rose, and the rest of the table rose after him. Then we moved down the walkway and learned that the fountain beside us was called a Hundred Fountains, even though only about twenty appeared to be doing as they ought—casting small rainbows of water above. As we turned the corner, Lillian gasped. Above us was a tiny skyline, like a miniature model of an ancient city, broken in places, all of it eroded, but still breathtaking.
Will smiled. “It’s a representation of Roma,” he said to the group. “See there? Even a little Hadrian’s Column, which should have more meaning to you all now.”
Lillian clapped her gloved hands. “Oh, it’s marvelous,” she enthused. “Were I a small girl, I’d want to take my dolls up there and play amongst them.”
“I’m certain that sculpture has seen its fair share of small girls over the centuries,” Signore Biotti said, offering her his arm and then patting her hand in a fatherly way. His eyes grew distant. “For many decades this estate was abandoned. Can you imagine? Goatherds brought their flocks through here to eat the foliage. Perhaps their little sisters came along to play.”
I noticed the fine mosaic paving beneath my feet—chunky tiles of purple porphyry, green granite, and more that, when a leaky fountain allowed its bounty to spread, made it look like a virtual treasure trove of rare stone. I gazed around me and considered the estate anew. It truly must’ve been magnificent back in its heyday; the thought made me admire Signore Biotti’s endeavors to restore it all the more.
Beside us, flowing down open channels, was water. And as we rounded the bend, we saw an ancient figure of Diana, moss-covered and rising from the center of a half-moon of grotto dug out of the very cliff. “Yes, yes,” Biotti said dismissively. “It’s grand. But you must go down there, below, to see the big fountain in all its glory. If it works, I should say. No promises, no promises.”
We turned and took the stairs he indicated, descending even more. Already I lamented all those we’d already descended, knowing I’d have to climb them again. Normally, it would be no issue, but my arm and head were truly throbbing, and I had little on my mind other than that promised nap in an airy room.
I had my hand on Will’s arm, and Pierre scurried down the steps to catch up with us. I suppressed a groan and considered pleading my headache and returning to the villa now, entering a room where no one could disturb me.
“These gardens were truly the wonder of Italy. Amongst wonders, of course,” Pierre said, slowing beside us. “There was once a fountain with great clockworks that would ring out at the top of the hour, but Signore Biotti hasn’t gotten to that yet. If he did, he’d make a veritable fortune in visitor’s fees. Or at least have the grandest plaything for his parties.” He moved forward and pointed out a hole in my path, as if I or Will might not have seen it, and we circumvented it.
At last we reached the bottom, joining the other guests at the far end of the rectangular, still pool and looking upward.
Signore Biotti appeared on the floor above us, leaning on a balustrade that sprawled the curved length of it. I winced, worried that the old stone would give way beneath his great girth. But he was rising then, lifting his arms and crying, “This is the day! This is a fine day, an historical day in the history of Tivoli! A hint of things to come!” With that, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.
We waited. And waited.
And just when Hugh and Felix both opened their mouths—presumably to break the tension with a wisecrack—we heard the water above us on the next level. With a tremendous rush, it spewed in a ten-foot-wide flow over one edge and down into the pool via twin waterfalls. A moment later, four waterspouts sprayed from the upper pool, and then three seconds later, water flowed from a second waterfall into the pool directly before us. I sucked in my breath, amazed at the sense of history unfolding directly before me. We heard a grumbling beneath our feet and felt a corresponding vibration. Then, two giant waterspouts rose, twenty feet high. We all cheered.
We stared in awe at the wonder of it, and Will stepped over to the nearest waterspout, plainly curious about how it all was working on gravity alone. Pierre leaned down and said lowly, “Do you like it, mon ange? Because I would gladly build you a replica as a wedding gift on our estate in Paris.”
“A wedding gift,” I said, turning to him in puzzlement.
But he was dropping to one knee and sliding a ring out from an inside pocket beneath that red rose corsage, all the while never dropping my gaze. He held my hand, and I felt Will catch sight of us and freeze, while everyone else turned from the spectacle of the fountain to the spectacle of us.
&
nbsp; “Cora Diehl Kensington,” Pierre said, love and earnestness in every line of his face. “You have stolen my heart as I pray I have stolen yours. Will you do me the distinct honor of becoming my bride?”
I stared down at him as his eyes searched mine. I could sense everyone around us holding their breath. Only the fountain moved in that second.
I licked my lips. “Pierre! I…I cannot,” I whispered.
Pierre’s brows moved into a frown. “You…cannot? Certainly, you can, mon ange. Just think about what we could be together. Is this not the finest conclusion?”
“I cannot,” I numbly repeated as if in a daze.
“You cannot,” he repeated, rising, his face looking like I’d never seen it before, hard and…bitter. “Why?”
“Because,” I said, “I’m going to marry Will.”
CHAPTER 31
Cora
Felix let out a surprised cry and then bent backward in joyous laughter. He clapped slowly, a smile spreading across his face, but the others were shocked and uncertain as to what was proper in such an awkward situation. Pierre stared at me, stunned and hurt…and judging by the expression on his face, more than a little angry.
Will moved toward me, and the others parted the way for him. “Cora,” he said softly. I wrenched my gaze from Pierre, hoping my expression told him how sorry I was as I turned to the man I loved most. The man who had claimed my heart from the start and was so right for me, in so many ways, took my good hand.
“Is it true?” he said in little more than a whisper, his eyes rife with hope. He led me a short distance away, still shaking his head. “You needn’t allow his offer to—”
“No,” I interrupted, unable to keep from smiling. “It’s true. I choose you, Will. My heart has always known it, and today, I know it’s right to give in to my heart’s desire. It’s you, William McCabe. I will marry you.” A thought struck me. “Unless you’ve thought better of—”
He laughed, let out a little whoop, and bent down to pick me up at the waist and twirl me around above him. He was grinning, eyes wide, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.
Belatedly, we both seemed to remember Pierre. I looked over to him, even as Will slowly let me slide to the ground, taking care not to hurt my arm. Pierre appeared still stunned that when he actually offered, I could find it in myself not only to turn him down but to turn his invitation into an acceptance for Will. His arrogance made me wince a little, confirming again that I had made the right decision. But I still felt sorry—desperately sorry—for hurting him.
“A word, Cora?” Pierre asked, pain etched into every syllable. His eyes moved to Will’s, asking permission. “Just a turn around the garden,” he said.
I nodded, moving forward, then stopped and looked back at Will, wanting to make sure he was all right with this. He lifted his chin. “No farther than around that bend, please, unless you want company,” he said, gesturing toward Pascal and Antonio.
“There is no need for a guard,” Pierre said stiffly, then awkwardly offered me his arm. I took it, feeling the lout again. Was he wanting a moment to try to convince me? Or to yell at me, releasing his anguish on me?
We climbed the sloping pathway in silence and, behind us, heard quiet congratulations being shared all around. At the turn, we entered a small building, walled on three sides, and a flower-shaped fountain pool beneath a woman’s robust figure. This one did not yet flow, but there was water halfway up its walls, and the walls were wide enough to sit on. Despite the tension, I realized how weary I was and sat down first, concentrating on not fainting again, in order to give Pierre his due, once and for all. And then be done with it.
“Pierre, I’m sorry,” I said, reaching across to take his hand. He allowed me to hold it, but he did not move. “I never wanted to hurt you. And I never suspected for a moment that you would make a public spectacle of your proposal.”
“Forgive me if I offended,” he said stiffly.
“No, no,” I said with a shake of my head. “This is coming out wrong. I…I thought… I’m sorry,” I finally said, knowing there was little else I could say that would make it right in any measure.
“How? How can you…” He paused, gathered himself and asking levelly, “How can you choose him over me?” His handsome green eyes were shrouded in pain.
“I…I simply know he will be a good husband to me. You and I,” I said, with a squeeze to his limp hand, “have been mismatched from the start.”
“But wasn’t that part of the romance?” he said quietly, his eyes growing far away, as if he was imagining our first meeting aboard the ship.
“For certain,” I said, slowly nodding. “But it was the start of an impossible romance, Pierre. A fantasy. Not a solid, God-given love.”
He stilled at that. “I see,” he said, pulling his hand away from mine and tapping his fingertips together. “You feel what you have with William is God-ordained.”
“Yes,” I said as gently as I could.
“And there is nothing I could do or say to persuade you otherwise?”
I shook my head slowly.
He rose, as if in pain, and offered me his hand. I took it and stood up, waiting for him to say what he needed to. “Then I bid you adieu, mon ange,” he said, lifting my hand to his lips, and I saw that his eyes were wet with tears, which made me choke up too.
There was nothing to say but good-bye. No way to lessen the pain, nothing that wouldn’t ring hollow in his ears.
But then a man behind Pierre, dressed in dark clothing, rose from an unseen doorway, taking Pierre in a choke hold, dragging him backward. Through the doorway again and then disappearing altogether.
Stunned, I opened my mouth to scream. But it was impossible. Because a second man materialized behind me. He wrapped one arm around my waist and a hand around my mouth. He lifted me easily. I struggled, writhing back and forth, gasping in pain when the movement rammed my arm against the fountain. I was on my feet, desperately trying to gain purchase on the smooth tiles, trying to wrench away from him. I had to get away for more reasons than one. His hand now covered both my nose and my mouth.
My lungs burned with need, and I could feel my knees give way, ceasing their fruitless attempt at resistance. He was simply too big, too strong for me to fight off, especially when I was so recently injured.
My vision tunneled, quickly narrowing.
Will, I thought. Will!
And then, all was black.
William
Will paced back and forth, twenty feet from the small alcove where Pierre and Cora had disappeared. It had been ten minutes or more. Had they not had the time to say all they needed to say? Was the man trying to talk her out of her decision? Should he intervene?
He wrung his hands. She was his. She’d agreed to marry him! He couldn’t get over his good fortune, God’s grace, His mercy. After all this time, things were finally going to go his way. He could feel it!
His eyes moved to the end of the path again. Where were they?
He stepped forward, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to be the cad, intervening when they’d only wanted a moment of privacy to say their good-byes. The poor man had just been turned down, humiliated…
But when his eyes met Antonio’s and Felix’s, both clearly as anxious and concerned as he, he turned back to the empty path. He hurried up it then, Felix and Antonio right behind him, rehearsing one sentence after another as explanation for his intrusion and tossing each aside as inadequate. He finally faced the alcove into which they’d entered.
It was empty.
And it was only as Antonio joined him and walked around the far side of the fountain, then discovered the knob-less door, that the shout gathered in his throat.
“Cora!” Will shouted. “Cora!”
He moved outside and around, shouting her name again and again as the others rushed to him. He turned to Antonio and said, “Stay with the rest, and get them safely up to the villa.” Then he turned to Pascal and the other dete
ctives and quickly dispersed them. He hoped, with everything in him, that Cora and Pierre had simply taken a path for a short walk, or gone upstairs to the villa because she was feeling poorly. Over and over, he banished thoughts of anything else. Of Pierre being a target for kidnappers himself. Of the two of them bringing twice the bounty—and thus being twice the attraction.
Will ran hard up the slope, past footmen clearing the luncheon table, past gardeners and fountain masters, calling Cora’s name over and over again and even Pierre’s.
But there was no response.
They had vanished.
“No,” he muttered. It wasn’t possible.
“Cora!” he screamed.
Cora
I fought back against the darkness, dimly recognizing that I was in danger, that men were carrying me, dumping me painfully into the back of a motorcar, then driving off with me. I blinked and blinked again, willing my vision to steady from a constant swirl that made me want to vomit, trying to decipher words as men shouted back and forth.
Where was Pierre? Was he with me?
Slowly, my vision focused, and I saw that I was bound hand and foot in the back of a motorcar, as I’d gathered. I was sitting tightly between two big men, both in the gardener’s uniforms I’d seen others in earlier. Across from us was a man with a large gun pointed at Pierre, who was also tied up.
We turned a corner too sharply and all moved to one side, the man next to me pressing against my injured arm. I yelped, and my vision ran.
“Oh, sorry,” he said. American, I thought, and judging from the accent, East Coast.
“Silenzio!” said the man with the gun, who was most definitely Italian. He waved his pistol at the American and made a show of clamping his lips shut and locking them. Apparently, they could not communicate beyond that.
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