by Juliana Gray
“Good God, man.” Wallingford disengaged himself with some effort and brushed the sleeves of his riding jacket. He peered at Giacomo, who, undiscouraged by his loss of a dance partner, proceeded to heave and jerk his body about the stableyard like a drunken marionette. “Remember your dignity.”
“Is a miracle, signore! A miracle!”
Lucifer was beginning to look alarmed. Wallingford snatched the reins. “A miracle? What sort of miracle? Has the stable roof begun to leak wine instead of water?”
Giacomo fell to his knees and looked up at the sky.
“I say, are you quite all right, old man?” Wallingford took a concerned step toward him.
The groundskeeper lifted his hands, palms upward. “This day, I give the thanks. I pray at the throne of Our Lord, who give us at last the great blessing.”
“The goats have learned to milk themselves? One of the geese has perhaps laid a golden egg?”
“No, signore.”
Wallingford considered. “Two golden eggs?”
“Signore. Is the women!”
Wallingford loosened Lucifer’s girth and led the horse to the fence. “The women? Is that all? I rather thought you disliked the women. I rather thought, in fact, you jolly well hated them.”
“Is not jolly at all, signore. The women, I hate them seriously. They are so much the trouble,” Giacomo said, following at his elbow. “This is why I am today so happy.” He kissed his fingers.
“So they’ve kept indoors all morning and left the goats to your tender care?”
“No, signore. Is better than that.” Giacomo held up his hands to his Creator. “They are gone!”
Wallingford, in the act of sliding the saddle from Lucifer’s broad black back, turned into stone. “What’s that?” he said at last, through his frozen lips.
“Gone, signore! They leave at the sunrise, in a cart from the village, with the trunks and the hats. They are gone! Gone at last!” Giacomo hugged himself and twirled about like an ancient bandy-legged ballerina.
“Are you certain, Giacomo?” The saddle pressed into his arm. Lucifer sounded an uneasy whuffle.
“I see them myself, Signore Duca. I wave the good-bye.” Giacomo made an illustrative wave, back and forth, adding a flirtatious wiggle of his fingers for effect.
“Quite gone?”
“Gone, the two of them. The devil-sisters.”
“They are not devils, Giacomo. Merely high-spirited.”
“Signore.” Giacomo was reproachful. “You know the women. You have seen the trouble. Your heart, it is light now, yes? Light of the great burden.” He sighed and pressed one hand to his chest. “My heart, it feels full of the gas.”
“The gas?”
“The gas that we breathe.” Giacomo breathed. “Ah. So light.”
“Air, my good man. Your heart is full of air. Lighter than air, I believe, is the proper English phrase.” Wallingford tossed the saddle atop the fence with unusual disregard for the condition of the leather—unusual, that is, since he began caring for it himself. Lucifer nudged the small of his back with a gentle muzzle.
“Aha! You see! You, too, feel this thing, this air in your heart.”
Wallingford turned. “What I feel, my good man, is a strong desire to see to my horse and then see to my luncheon. You will forgive me?”
Giacomo returned his hand to his heart and made a happy little bow. “I forgive you, Signore Duca. I go now, I leave you in the peace, to savor the joy.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Wallingford, fetching a brush. “Go on, take the rest of the day off to celebrate. I daresay I can’t jolly well stop you, as I’m not paying your wages.”
He brushed Lucifer’s coat in long, steady strokes, erasing all signs of saddle and girth. He checked the hooves for stones. He removed the bridle, added a halter, led the horse through the gate and into the paddock. For a moment, he stood at the fence and watched Lucifer canter to the end and back, kicking his heels once or twice with the joy of being alive.
Gone.
The sun burned quietly, right over the crown of his head, penetrating the snug weave of his straw hat with all the strength of an Italian July. It would be very hot, riding in a cart, along the rough road to Florence and the nearest train connection. He hoped the ladies had brought parasols and water.
He picked up the tack and took it inside the stable, to its proper place.
Though his stomach hurt with hunger, Wallingford did not go to the empty dining room, with its enormous old table, on which a cold luncheon was usually laid out by noon. He went instead to the library, where he’d spent many long hours in the past two weeks. With Roland and Burke gone, with the memory of Abigail’s wretched cold eyes burned on his brain, he had had no other company to distract him.
He had first gone through all the old paperwork, the account books and the estate documents, making careful notes where appropriate. When he felt he had the facts straight, had a solid grasp of the legal and financial history of the castle, he turned to sex.
More specifically, the female anatomy; still more specifically, where its seat of pleasure might be found. He had begun with this single and rather idle goal—merely to satisfy his curiosity, he told himself—but once he had discovered the proper Latin terms, the anatomical descriptions, the degrees of natural variance, he had found himself intrigued. One thing had led to another, and all at once a dizzying new world had opened itself up to Wallingford’s eager mind: a world, moreover, that seemed to have been thoroughly studied and catalogued by the provisioners of the Castel sant’Agata library.
Almost as if they had anticipated his requirements.
By the time he had finished all the anatomical studies, all the titillating Continental memoirs, all the exotic Oriental handbooks, a tiny flame of hope had flickered to life in Wallingford’s breast, among other areas of his body.
Except now, it felt quite extinguished.
Wallingford walked across the threadbare rug to the desk, over which Abigail had bent her abundant torso to such glorious effect on Midsummer’s Eve. He sank into the chair. On the baize-lined surface of the desk, smelling of ink and old paper, a book lay open to a page of illustrations that would cause an immediate run on the market for smelling salts, should it magically appear in a London drawing room at half past four in the afternoon. He gazed for a moment at the entwined figures, at the helpful Latin descriptions below each engraving, and reached out his large hand to close the book.
Just that morning, he had met with his business agent in the village. Just that morning, the fellow had said, I have those marriage contracts drafted for your approval, Your Grace. Should you like to look them over and make amendments?
The clock had ticked off a few silent seconds, and Wallingford had replied, Perhaps another time. I’ve a great deal to do today.
But as he had ridden through the hot air back up the hill, and the sun-soaked castle had appeared around the bend in the road, he had damned himself for a coward. For two weeks, he had hidden himself from Abigail Harewood. For two weeks, he had let the awful memory of her final words beat over and over in his mind, paralyzing his resolve. He had watched her go about her business with her light step and her delicate fairy face: the face that had become so beautiful to him, it made his heart ache whenever she passed by the library window.
It was time to stop hiding, he had thought, riding up the hill. It was time to stop acting like a mere man. That hadn’t achieved much at all.
It was time to act once more like the Duke of almighty Wallingford.
Now, in the warm somnolence of the library, he gazed down at the cover of the book, which was of tooled brown leather, plain and bland. Even its title suggested no more than a dry scientific study on matters of human biology.
Wallingford rose from the chair and walked back out of the room.
He climbed the grand staircase, two steps at a time, the crack of his riding boots echoing from the empty stone walls. He went directly to the ladies’ wing, which
he had last visited months ago. He tried each door; they were all unlocked, the hinges well oiled. The first room contained a trundle bed, clearly where young Philip slept with Lady Somerton. The second was a little smaller, tidy, shadowed from the noontime sun. He went to the wardrobe and opened it: nearly empty, except for a blue dress he recognized as one Lady Morley wore, from time to time.
The door to the third room swung open with a faint whoosh. He recognized it at once. He could feel Abigail’s lingering presence, as if some magic elfin dust had been scattered carelessly about the walls. Or perhaps it was the books, which sat on every available surface, even the foot of her narrow bed. Abigail’s bed, Abigail’s cool linen pillow, on which she rested her head every night and slept and dreamed. What did she dream of?
What did she wear, in bed at night?
A washstand sat against the wall, next to the chest of drawers. He stepped toward it. The pitcher and bowl were empty, but a small cake of soap sat on the edge. He picked it up and sniffed it, lemons and blossoms, and his heart hollowed out of his body, his breath stopped. He sank into the chair and put his head in his hands.
* * *
Wallingford had never visited the kitchen of the Castel sant’Agata before. He had only the vaguest notion where it lay: somewhere down the corridor past the dining room, he supposed.
In the end, he let his nose guide him, let the scent of baking bread draw him down the hall and through the half-open door. The kitchen was empty, but a kettle hung above the fireplace, and a loaf sat cooling on the large table in the center of the room. A slight hot breeze wafted through the open window.
Wallingford stopped in the center of the room and turned in a slow circle.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” His voice was low. “Morini, isn’t it? The housekeeper. I’ve never seen you, just as Abigail can’t seem to see Giacomo, God knows why. But you’re here. I can feel it. It’s like a tingling in my head, at the back of my neck.”
The room was so quiet, he could hear his own breathing.
“You know where she’s gone, don’t you? I daresay you know everything.”
His boots scuffed against the stones as he turned again.
“I wish . . . I wonder if you could tell me where she’s gone. I’m all alone here, of a sudden, and while I suppose that’s a triumph of some sort, the last man standing and all that, I can’t help feeling that . . .”
His words trailed away. Outside the window, the geese honked indignantly, and an instant later Giacomo’s voice let loose a string of lyric Italian curses.
“The thing is, I love her. I love her so much, I can’t think, I can’t sleep. And you know how she is: She’s like a sprite, impossible to catch, and yet I must try, I must, because there’s no living without her.” He took a breath, and went on, more calmly, “If you know where she’s gone, Morini, whoever you are, you must tell me. Find a way to tell me. I’ll keep her safe, I swear it. I’ll devote my life to making her happy, because . . .”
The breeze gusted in, stronger now, making the teakettle swing above the embers of the fire with a little rhythmic squeak.
“Because she’s my last hope.”
His words bounced lightly from the walls. The scent of the cooling bread tantalized his hungry belly, reminding him that it was an hour past luncheon, and he was talking sentimental rubbish to an empty room, like a madman.
He turned on his heel and walked out the door, down the stone hallway, to where a lunch was laid out on the massive dining room table, set for one.
* * *
Wallingford had just finished an excellent artichoke tart and a glass of wine when the door opened and a maid slipped into the room, straightening her headscarf nervously and not quite meeting his gaze.
“Maria, isn’t it?” he said, grateful for even a trace of human contact.
“Si, Signore Duca.” She made a little curtsy and held out her hand. “A note, signore.”
His heart crashed against his ribs. “Thank you, Maria.”
He unfolded the note with care, because he didn’t want his shaking fingers to be noticed by Maria, who stood still by the doorway as if waiting for a reply.
He read the note with care, because the handwriting was difficult to decipher, and the words themselves had an odd syntax, as if the writer were not a native speaker of the English tongue.
He refolded the note with care, because he knew he would have need of its details again, and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
“Thank you, Maria.” He folded his napkin and rose from the table. “It appears I shall be leaving the castle within the hour. Would you please send a message to the stables, that my horse should be saddled and ready. And Maria?”
“Si, signore?” The maid looked a little panicked, as if she hadn’t quite understood his every word.
“Give Signorina Morini my best compliments, and assure her that the Duke of Wallingford will endeavor not to disappoint her.”
SEVENTEEN
Borghese Gardens, Rome
Abigail handed her sister the wide leather-trimmed goggles and helped her to ease them around her head, atop her billowing white scarf. “This is so thrilling,” she said, tightening the buckle. “I want you to know, I’ve laid twenty lire on you with the chap running the book at the hotel café.”
“Where the devil did you find twenty lire? Really, Finn,” Alexandra said, to the man hovering over the bonnet of the automobile, “that’s quite enough. These men are really most frightfully competent. You should see to your own machine.”
Mr. Burke straightened. He looked terribly dashing, Abigail thought, so very tall, with his long duster coat swirling about his legs and his peaked driving cap shadowing his creased forehead. His own goggles hung about his neck, and a light sheen of perspiration shone on his temples. From the heat, no doubt, which hung like a sticky wool blanket against the skin, but also from worry: Mr. Burke, Abigail gathered, was not particularly happy to see his beloved Alexandra competing in a motor-race against him and his beloved automobile.
Abigail glanced at William Hartley, the owner of their own machine and a nephew of the late Lord Morley. He lounged against the side, his belly resting comfortably against the gleaming metal, a foot shorter and a foot rounder than his ginger-haired rival.
Really, there was no comparison.
“You’re certain of the course?” Mr. Burke asked, in a disapproving growl that reminded Abigail exactly of his nephew.
“Perfectly,” said Alexandra. “Around the gardens, down to the Colosseum, back up to the gardens. I tracked it yesterday. And it’s marked.”
Mr. Burke stared at her a second or two longer, and Abigail thought she could feel the very air throb between the two of them.
“Be safe,” he said.
“And you,” whispered Alexandra.
He turned and walked to his motor-car, circling it with attentive care. Abigail watched him tenderly for a moment, thinking how his stern profile reminded her of Wallingford, and so great was her sense of Wallingford’s essence that the sound of his familiar voice did not, for a fraction of an instant, surprise her.
“Lady Morley.”
A shadow loomed on the gleaming metal of Alexandra’s steam automobile.
Abigail whipped around. “Good God! Wallingford!”
“Wallingford!” Alexandra exclaimed. “What on earth?”
He stood there glowering at her from his magnificent height: Wallingford, unmistakably Wallingford, right here next to her in the middle of the hot Roman morning, wearing a light gray suit and straw boater. The sunlight flashed in his dark eyes, revealing the blue in them. Abigail’s heart soared straight upward, as if some invisible weight had lifted away from her chest. She opened her mouth and couldn’t speak.
“You might have told me where you were going, you silly fools,” he said.
“And why is that, exactly?” demanded Alexandra.
He glanced at her. “Because I woke up four days ago to find myself the only damned resident
in the castle, and the entire pile gone silent, without a word of news from anyone, and . . .”
Abigail found her voice at last. “I’m so terribly sorry. How were the goats?”
Wallingford returned his gaze to her and spoke between his clenched lips. “I don’t give a damn about the goats.”
“Such language, Your Grace!” said Alexandra. “In front of Miss Harewood! I’m shocked. Shocked and appalled. Moreover, I’ve a race that begins in”—Alexandra consulted her watch—“five minutes, and I beg leave to point out that you’re a most unwelcome obstruction.”
Wallingford started. “You’re driving? In the race?”
“Certainly I am.”
He turned to Abigail. His eyes were wide with shock. “But you can’t simply leave your sister alone in a crowd of . . . of Italians!”
“Of course not. Mr. Hartley will protect her from any insult.”
Abigail looked again at William Hartley. He stood now a few diffident yards away, hat in hand, scratching his ear, mechanics idling at his side. He seemed to hear his name, for he looked over at them, replaced his hat, and worked his jowls.
Wallingford stared, too. He turned back to Alexandra. “You’re not serious.”
“Well, watch her yourself, then. Though I’d be more concerned for the poor Roman fellow who dared to accost her. Mr. Hartley!”
He straightened. “Yes, your ladyship?”
“I believe it’s time. Is the steam up?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said one of the mechanics. “Full steam. She’s ready to go.”
As he spoke, a loud noise like a pistol shot cracked through the air, and Abigail found herself flung to the grass, with Wallingford’s heavy body covering her own.
* * *
Oh!” said Abigail faintly. “Has the Prime Minister been assassinated?”
Wallingford’s cheek lay against hers. He wanted to keep it there, but lifted his head instead. He saw first the hard rubber of the automobile tire near his nose, and then, farther up, the inquisitive face of Lady Morley.
“No,” her ladyship said cheerfully. “Only a bit of an explosion, it seems. These dashed petrol engines.”