A Duke Never Yields

by Juliana Gray

  A smile.

  “Signore Duca,” came a petulant voice behind him.

  Wallingford heaved a resigned sigh. So much for peace and solitude.

  “What is it now, Giacomo?” he asked, without turning. Lucifer had settled himself in the shade of a tree and began to snatch at the tender new grass.

  “Is the women, signore.”

  “It’s always the women with you, Giacomo. What have you got against the poor creatures?”

  Giacomo’s voice slid into an abject whine. “They are trouble, signore. They are always making the trouble. The signorina, the young one, she . . .”

  “Stop. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “She is spreading the stories, signore. She is saying we are . . . I am not knowing the word . . . the castle, she is saying, has the spirits . . .”

  That chill again, tickling the base of Wallingford’s neck. He set his booted foot squarely on the lowest bar of the gate and ignored it.

  “Of course there are no spirits,” he said. “We poured out everything in the library, directly we arrived. Except the sherry, of course.”

  “Not the spirits for the drinking, signore! The spirits, the souls . . . you are not understanding?”

  “Oh, as to that, I’ve been told many times I have no soul at all, on good authority.”

  “Signore!” Giacomo’s voice was reproachful. “You are making the joke.”

  Wallingford sighed and turned at last. “I never joke, Giacomo. I am much too dignified for something so vulgar as humor. I suppose you mean the castle is haunted?”

  Giacomo nodded his head vigorously. “Haunted. Is the word.”

  The damned chill again.

  Wallingford folded his arms. The sunshine struck Giacomo’s gnarled body like a bolt of clear gold, illuminating the very fibers of his clothing with eye-watering detail. He stood with his legs planted far apart, as if withstanding a flood, his hands attached to his hips. He was wearing a queer old-fashioned jacket, made of some sort of rough wool, and the same flat cap he always had on his head, obscuring his hair and most of his forehead, leaving only a pair of broad ears that looked as if they meant to lift him off into flight at any moment. He seemed quite solid, quite corporeal. Quite un-ghostly.

  “Well, is it?” Wallingford inquired dryly. “Haunted?”

  Giacomo swallowed heavily. “Of course the castle is not being haunted! Is a story, an evil story spread by the devil-woman . . .”

  “Devil-woman! Look here, Giacomo, Miss Harewood may be a mischievous little sprite, but she’s hardly the spawn of . . .”

  “Not the girl! The . . . the kitchen, the house . . . she keeps the house . . .” Giacomo snapped his fingers impatiently.

  “The housekeeper? Who the devil’s that?”

  “Signorina Morini. You do not see her. She is staying in the kitchen. She tells the stories to the girl, and the girl, she . . . she . . .”

  “She what?”

  “She tells them to everyone!”

  “She hasn’t told me.” Wallingford felt a hard nudge at his back: Lucifer, prodding him with his muzzle. Wallingford was surprised he’d left his grazing to come over again. “At least, not since the first night.”

  Giacomo frowned. “What is she saying, then?”

  “Only that she felt something odd lurking about. Female vapors, nothing more. Look here, old man, you’re making the old mountain out of a molehill, as they say. Simply ignore the women. It’s what I always do.”

  Giacomo’s black eyes cast down to the beaten earth. “Is making the trouble.”

  Wallingford uncrossed his arms and waved his hand dismissively. “What’s a few ghost stories, after all? Merely a little fun. I daresay nobody takes it seriously. I’ve never believed in ghosts, and I don’t intend to begin now.”

  “Is true, signore?” Giacomo looked up at him anxiously. “You are not believing?”

  “Of course not. Silly feminine twaddle.” Lucifer pushed right between his shoulder blades, with such force Wallingford nearly stumbled forward. “Look here, old chap,” he said, turning back to the horse.

  “You are not listening to the stories, signore?” Giacomo asked, behind him.

  Wallingford rubbed between Lucifer’s eyes, right in the center of the white lightning strike. “God, no. I never listen to women, as a matter of policy.”

  Giacomo sighed deeply. “Is good. You are wise, Signore Duca. Is no wonder you are duke. Very wise, very good, very . . . very wise man.”

  Wallingford closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Lucifer’s long nose. The warmth, the solid clunk of bone soothed the tingling along his spine.

  “Yes,” he said. “So I’ve been told.”

  Then he straightened and turned to dismiss the groundskeeper, but the man had already disappeared.

  * * *

  If you leave this room, signorina, I shall tell everybody my suspicions. Everybody. I shall tell them the place is haunted, inside and out.”

  Signorina Morini, in the very act of swishing her skirts through the doorway at the opposite end of the kitchen, halted herself in mid-swish. “Che cosa?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. You understand English perfectly well.” Abigail had no idea how one ought to interact with ghosts, but she imagined it was best to speak with self-command. After all, she was the one made of good, solid, respectable living flesh.

  Though that flesh was quivering rather disgracefully, at the moment.

  Morini turned, and Abigail experienced an instant of doubt. The housekeeper was so full of color, her red headscarf burning against the shadows, the few escaping tendrils of her hair gleaming black against her pale skin. “Your suspicions. What are these . . . suspicions?”

  “Why, that you’re a ghost, of course. If that’s the word.”

  Morini shook her head. “I am not a ghost, signorina.”

  “You’re not a regular person. Not a . . . a mortal person.”

  Morini’s shoulders moved, a kind of flinch. She turned her face away, looking at the great hearth with its low-simmering fire, its fire irons in place nearby, its black long-handled utensils hung with care alongside.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to describe any of this. I’ve never made much study into the occult. Now, Tom Thomason, down the pub, he’s a regular expert, sees spirits everywhere, even in the lavatory, which is quite unnerving when you think . . .”

  “Why you are saying these things, signorina?”

  “. . . and more than a little unsanitary, though I suppose if one belongs to the spirit world one’s quite above worries about germs and . . .”

  “You are not making sense, signorina.”

  “Yes, I am.” Abigail took a step forward. “Please, Morini. Tell me what’s going on. I know there’s something, I can sense it; I’ve sensed it from the beginning. There’s some mystery, I know it.”

  Morini stood there across the room, her arms still crossed above the neat homespun of her dress, the white linen of her apron. Beneath the loose material of her sleeves, her chest rose and fell in a slight but rapid rhythm.

  Did ghosts actually breathe? Or was this movement simply some mimicry of human activity, some half-remembered reflex?

  Was the woman alive, or not?

  Something gave way in Morini’s face. Her black eyes softened, in sympathy or perhaps defeat. She sighed, lifting her arms up and down on her chest, and stepped toward the fire. “Signorina, you are perhaps wanting some tea?” she asked, over her shoulder.

  Abigail let loose a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and tottered forward to sink herself into a chair at the rough-hewn table in the center of the room. “Yes, signorina. I believe I should like some tea very much.”

  * * *

  Is many years ago,” said Morini, bustling about the fire with the black teakettle.

  “It always is. Once upon a time and all that.” Abigail propped her elbow on the table and leaned her cheek into her palm. Morini’s slender body wov
e before her in practiced movements, as if she’d been making English tea for English visitors for . . . well, for how long? “How long ago?” she asked.

  Morini sighed and glanced back at her. “You are not believing me, if I say.”

  “Oh, I’ll believe whatever you say. My mind is quite open, I assure you. Amaze me.”

  “Is . . .” Morini paused and looked up at the ceiling, as if the years were marked on the heavy wooden beams above. “Is three hundred years.”

  Abigail’s elbow gave way, nearly crashing her head into the table. “Three hundred years!”

  “Three hundred. Very long ago. The castle, it was almost new, built by the great lord, the Signore Monteverdi, who . . .”

  “Signore Monteverdi! But the castle’s owned by a fellow named Rosseti, isn’t it?”

  Morini spooned the tea leaves into the teapot. “Now, is different. Then, is the castle of the Monteverdi. He and the Medici in Firenze, the great prince, they are friends, they make much gold together. The signore’s father, he start the castle, and the signore finish it. He comes with his new bride, the daughter of the Medici . . .”

  “A princess!”

  “No, not the princess. She is the daughter of his lover, his mistress, not the daughter of the wife. But she is . . . how do you say? The apple of his mouth?”

  “His eye, I believe.”

  “She is his apple, his best-beloved, and he give her in the marriage to Signore Monteverdi, his great friend, so she will live not far away.” The teakettle sang; Morini took her cloth and wrapped it around the handle and poured the water into the curving blue and yellow teapot. “She is beautiful, she is charming, she is kind and wise. Everybody love the new signora. Signore Monteverdi, he is mad for her, he has the frenzy of love, he adore the stones because she put her feet on them. It is nine months, she give him a beautiful baby son.”

  “Of course she does.”

  Morini was bustling about, fetching the pot of fresh cream, the sugar, the silver spoon. The air seemed to swirl around her in the warm, fragrant kitchen, made of old stone and old wood. The same stone, the same wood, that this long-ago Signore Monteverdi and his lady would have known; the same hearth that had cooked their food. Abigail laid her hand against the table and traced her finger along the grain.

  “The signore is so happy. The baby is strong, the mother is safe. He buy her many jewels, many clothes. His love grow and grow. It fill the castle and the vines and the village below. It is not a year, and the signora’s belly is great again with another baby.”

  “Oh, the brute!”

  Morini shrugged and poured the tea through the strainer into Abigail’s cup. “He love her. She is young, she is beautiful. Is the way of nature. Her belly grow, the summer come. Her time, it is upon her, and the signore wait in the library all through the night, while she has the labor.”

  Abigail’s hand began to tremble as she lifted the teacup to her lips. “I take it this birth was not so straightforward?”

  “No, signorina. It is not.” Morini’s voice roughened. “The beautiful signora, she has much pain, much struggle. The sound of her scream, her pain, it fill the castle. The signore wait and he wait in the library, and he hear her screams all the night. He lock the door, he let in nobody.”

  “How dreadful! Though of course he had only himself to blame, the unruly satyr.”

  Morini shot her a quelling look. “In the morning, there is a tiny baby, a little girl, but the mother . . . the dear signora . . .” She choked and swallowed.

  “Bled out, I suppose. The poor thing.” Abigail bowed her head. “And her babies never even knew her.”

  “She is carry to Firenze, where the Medici and the signore, they put her in the tomb in the Duomo and have a great . . . a marble . . .” She shaped her hands.

  “A statue?”

  “Yes! A statue for her tomb. Is very beautiful, they say. And the little girl . . .”

  “Did she live?”

  Morini eased herself into the chair opposite Abigail. “She live.”

  “I suppose Signore Monteverdi hated her for it. Your great men are all alike, blaming everyone but themselves, holding grudges and whatnot. You’d think a simple mea culpa would kill them . . .”

  “No, he is not hating her. He love her. All the love he is having for the signora, he give to her. He say, the signora give her her spirit, she is like the signora reborn.”

  Abigail frowned. “Isn’t that a little . . . well . . .” She twirled her finger in an expressive circle.

  “She look exactly like the signora, her mother. Leonora, he name her, just like his bride. She is beautiful. She smile, she laugh, all the day she is happy and filling of joy. The signore, he spend every minute with her.”

  “Do you know, I rather dread to hear what comes next,” said Abigail, drinking her tea.

  Morini’s eyes drifted to the wall behind Abigail, as if she could see the castle’s ancient occupants dancing in the distance. “The years, they pass, and the Signorina Leonora grow and grow, until she is nearly a woman. The most beautiful girl in all Toscana. When she is turning sixteen, the signore, he take her to Firenze, they stay with his old friend the Medici.”

  “Oh, haven’t those two fallen out by now and poisoned each other?” Abigail said dryly.

  “No, they are still the friends, by the grace of God,” said Morini, quite seriously. “Now, the Medici, he has a young man staying at his palazzo, a young Englishman, making his travels. He is a great man in England, they say. A lord. The lord of . . . I forget the name . . . Copperbridge?”

  “Haven’t heard of him.”

  “He is a great man, a handsome man, tall and strong and brave. He travel to Italy to learn, to study the art.”

  “A perfect Renaissance prince. How charming for Leonora! I expect they fell in love directly,” said Abigail.

  Morini’s gaze returned, shining, to meet Abigail’s. “Oh, the love! It is instant, like this.” She snapped her fingers. “They are in love, they dance all the night, they cannot take the eyes from the other. Everyone watch them together, everyone is happy. Everyone except . . .”

  “Monteverdi, I expect, the old letch.” Abigail sighed. “Men, really.”

  Morini’s eyebrows lifted. “What is this letch?”

  “Generally speaking, a chap who . . . well, never mind. Carry on. I suppose Signore Monteverdi ordered the poor Englishman away, forbade him to visit, locked up sweet Leonora in a nunnery . . .”

  Morini’s eyes grew round. “You are hearing the story already?”

  “Call it intuition.”

  “It is not this nunnery, however,” said Morini, settling back in her chair. “Is only the castle, the Castel sant’Agata, these stones.” She waved her hand at the walls. “But it is prison to Leonora. She is not going outside, she is not leaving her room. The signore, he lock all the doors, he sit in his library, he drink the wine and the grappa . . .”

  “But hold on a moment.” Abigail set her teacup in the saucer with a clatter. “Didn’t he have a son, as well? Didn’t he care about the boy at all?”

  Morini looked down at her hands, spread like fans across the worn wooden table. “The young Monteverdi, he is like other boys. He is strong and brave, he studies with the tutors, he is sent to Firenze. He love his sister very much.”

  “Then he must have felt things dreadfully.”

  “He does not say. He try to speak to the signore, to allow the marriage. He is the friend, the great friend of the Englishman, you see.”

  “Oh! Well, that’s awkward.”

  “But there is not hope. The signorina, she is a prisoner, and the young English lord, he is growing mad with his love, he is desperate. He find a house in the village, he put on the clothes of the peasant, he watch the castle day and night. He find the signorina’s maid when she is outside, he beg her to help.” Morini reached for the teapot and refilled Abigail’s cup. “The maid, she say she will help, she take the signorina a note.”

  “Pluc
ky maids! Clandestine correspondence! Oh, marvelous,” said Abigail. “Did she get the note, or did old Monteverdi waylay the maid first?”

  “She has the note. She is so happy! She dry her tears, she write back to her English lord. She will change the dress with her maid, they will meet in the night, when the castle is sleeping.”

  “Oh, heavens! Say no more, Morini. You must recall my virgin ears.” Abigail paused. “So did they? Meet?”

  “Si, signorina. Young love, it must have its way. All the spring, they meet, they have comfort in the other, until it is June, and the signorina, the poor Leonora, she find out . . .” Morini’s voice trailed off. She looked down at her hands.

  “Copperbridge is courting another girl? He’s drinking in the village tavern all night, gambling away his fortune?”

  Morini whispered, “She is with child.”

  “Oh.” Abigail, who did not generally blush, felt an unaccustomed warmth rise into her cheeks. “Yes, quite. Midnight meetings have that effect, I suppose.”

  “Leonora does not want to tell to her lover the baby,” Morini went on, “but the maid, she has much worry, she write a note. The Englishman read the note and he say, it is enough, Leonora must be mine now. They will run away together. He will come at midnight on the evening of the Midsummer, when the castle and the village have the festa, and take her away.”

  “Midsummer’s Eve! I swoon,” said Abigail. “Did they manage it?”

  Morini rose and picked up a fire iron and nudged at the fire. “The signorina, she dress as a servant, she put on her mask. The maid, she steal the key and let out the signorina from her room at midnight, as she has done all the spring. Leonora, she wait in the courtyard for her English lord. She is happy, she is sad. She love her English lord, but she is hurting her father, who love her, too. She is making dishonor for him. Her heart is so soft, so tender.”

  “She’s a better woman than I am, by God. I’d have stuck a dagger between his ribs by now,” said Abigail.

  “At last her lord come to the courtyard to take her. She say to him, wait, I must say the good-bye. The Englishman say to her no, if you say good-bye, the Monteverdi will never let you go. Then the maid, the maid of the signorina, she run into the courtyard, she say to hurry, the Signore Monteverdi is coming! Hurry, she say to them. Hurry! But . . .” Morini replaced the fire iron and stared at the coals. “Is too late.”