Night of Fire

by Barbara Samuel

  "Ah, there she is!" St. Ives said beside him. "Cassandra!" He lifted a hand toward her.

  She shifted her skirts and briskly turned. A

  large red jewel, a garnet by the depth of color, glittered darkly against the white slope of her breasts, acute and alluring. A drop of blood. She smiled at her brother.

  Only then did she see Basilic

  He did not miss the half-second of hesitation in her body before she narrowed her eyes and drew up her head. Her mouth sobered.

  Then she drifted over, cloaked in that extraordinary calm. After standing on her toes to kiss her brother's cheek, she stood back, not quite meeting Basilio's eyes.

  "Cassandra," St. Ives said. "Since you could not attend the reading tonight, I've brought the poet to you.

  This is Count Montevarchi."

  "We have met, Gabriel," she said. "As I am sure you have already surmised." Steel in those cold tones.

  Ice in the dark eyes. Not a whisper of warmth as inclined her head toward Basilio. "Good evening."

  A small, low laugh, full of mischief and something else Basilio could not quite name—challenge?—came from St. Ives. "Have you? You did not tell me, sister."

  "My brother is a jokester when it suits him," Cassandra said evenly. "I hope you were not dismayed to learn where you had arrived."

  "Not at all," he said. Gravely, he inclined his head. "I had hoped for a word."

  "Of course." With brisk formality, she took his arm. "Shall we walk in the garden?"

  "Do not monopolize him too long," said a man at Gabriel's elbow. "You will read for us, will you not?"

  Basilio looked to Cassandra for direction, but her profile was as expressionless as marble. He answered the only way he could. "Of course," he said with a little bow. "It would be my honor."

  They went to the garden, silence a gulf between them. He did not know how to speak to her when he couldn't read her expression. Worse, he did not know what he intended to say.

  In a silence as awkward as any he'd ever known, they moved from the house under the gossamer light of a full moon. Her skirts swished against his ankles. The light caught on her shoulders, milk white and utterly smooth, and he suddenly felt quite dizzy.

  He stopped, putting a hand over her fingers where they rested on his elbow. "I wrote to you."

  "I know." She could not look at him. She only stood there, her eyes fastened on something off to the left.

  Abruptly she drew away, lifted her chin. Her voice was quite reasonable. "It was finished. I did not see what could be gained by our correspondence."

  He made an aggrieved sound. "Cassandra—"

  "No." The word was fierce. "We shall not relive the past. It is done. I have recovered, as I presume you have, and we shall simply go on from this moment."

  "Recovered?" He thought of her in the stairway at the opera, falling to pieces in grief.

  "Yes."

  He did not know this side of her, the woman who could lie so coldly, but of course it existed. How else had she made so much progress in a world dominated by men? "Was it so simple for you, Cassandra?"

  She raised her head, and for a moment he saw the wavering softness. Then she took a breath and stood straight. Her hands were balled tight in her skirts. "No," she said clearly. "It was… it… it was terrible."

  "I sent a man to England to carry a letter, when you did not reply." He reached for her hand.

  She slid out of his grip. "I did not go home. I went to Venice; stayed there through Christmas. By then, you were married."

  Venice. A fine, swift agony went through him. "And what did you think of her?" His question, softly uttered, affected her as nothing else had. He heard the soft intake of bream even as she took another step away from him.

  "She reminded me that passion can be intellectual, and that a woman must return always to reason if she is to survive."

  Basilio could not halt an incredulous burst of laughter. "Venice did not teach you that!" He grinned, finding here the heart of their friend-ship, a place where he had sure footing. "You must have been in some other city."

  A toss of that head. "We all see what we need to see."

  Moonlight washed over the slope of her shoulders, and he ached to settle his hand there, feel the warmth of her flesh once more. Instead, he laced his fingers together behind his back. He had missed his friend, and it was his friend he wished to woo. With a proper lightness in his voice, he said, "Venice must have moved you deeply indeed if you will not tell me what she gave you."

  She skittered away, then turned to face him decisively. "What once was between us is now dead, Basilio.

  I am willing to be civilized if you keep your distance, but only if you do not speak to me, or attempt to rekindle my dead feelings."

  Now he could see what she had been attempting to hide—the shimmer of tears and the agitated rise of her breasts. Her fingers were knotted so tightly it was a wonder they did not break. He stared at her for a long moment, his heart, his lungs, his loins all afire with longing that made a mockery of his wish to be her friend. And yet, that was all that could be between them—and better than nothing at all.

  "We are forever divided as lovers, it is true," he said. "But that does not kill the love. What was born between us is immortal."

  She gave a snort of laughter he guessed was meant to be cynical. "Only a poet could believe such idiocy.

  There is no such thing as immortal love."

  "Say what you wish. I know you, Cassandra."

  "Basilio, you are married! I will not be party to a betrayal of that level."

  "And I will never ask it. Never wound you in such a manner." A swell of feeling rose in him. "But I have missed my friend. Do not take that, too."

  "We cannot be friends, Basilio." She closed her eyes and shook her head. He waited, knowing that she would raise her head and be stronger in a moment. And she was. Meeting his gaze directly, she said, "I'm afraid that if you wish to attend my salons in the future, as you will surely be urged to do, I must require you to bring your wife, or I cannot admit you." She moved toward the door. "For now, you must go. I'll give your excuses."

  Mockingly, he bowed. "As you wish, madam."

  He waited while she stalked by him. Yes, they were friends. As she and Analise would be friends. It was a poor sort of passion, but he would settle for renewing the friendship. Merely talking to her had eased the weight of sorrow in him as nothing else had since her departure.

  He would come back here, with his wife, the fine, sweet Analise, who could speak no English.

  Cassandra, in her own kindness, would be forced to converse with her in Italian. And perhaps Cassandra would begin to see…

  What? That the child should never have been a wife? That there must be some answer to this triangle that made them all so miserable?

  Ah, no. He only liked them both, thought they would like each other. Analise would not mind a friend in this cold, confusing place.

  A ripple of warning rushed over him—the same dark foreboding that had touched him upon seeing Cassandra for the first time. There was danger here, danger he did not understand.

  He frowned as he made his way to the gate in the wall, trying to pinpoint the reason. What fate did he court in this? What disaster might befall them if he took this path?

  On the street, he paused and looked up at the moon, like Mercutio. It only gazed impassively back at him, giving away no secrets. Did death await him in this?

  He turned to look at the house one last time and saw the shape of a woman illuminated by flickering candlelight in a chamber on the second floor.

  She bent her head into her hands, and Basilio did not need to see colors to know it was Cassandra. He knew the curve of that neck, the movement of those arms. He read the despair in her posture, and nearly scaled a nearby tree to climb up to her.

  A bright memory flashed in his mind—the morning she had spun around naked in his chamber, celebrating the sunlight on her skin. He wished more than life itself that he
could give those moments, free of sorrow, back to her.

  Abruptly, she moved, striding out to a small wrought iron balcony. Out of respect, Basilio dropped into the shadows cast by the tree. He put his hand against the trunk and looked up at her through the branches, feeling closer to her when she reached out and plucked a leaf to twirl in her fingers.

  Cassandra, his dearest friend in all the world. He could not bear to live a life without her in it. Kissing his fingers with a smile, he pressed them to the tree bark, sending his affection to her. Whistling, he walked home, feeling buoyant and clear at last.

  Chapter 14

  Analise could not have said what awakened her. She slept well, especially in the coolness of the soft English air, which was something she found very appealing about this strange country. The climate seemed very gentle, unlike the blazing heat of Italy.

  It was very late, perhaps even close to morning, for a blackbird sang from some hidden spot, its cry mournful and beautiful at once. She donned her dressing gown and opened the window that overlooked the garden to see if she could spy the bird, but it was hidden in the darkness, somewhere very close.

  She did not feel tired, only surprisingly hungry, and decided she would begin her day now, whatever the time, with some chocolate— another thing she had come to enjoy in this worldly place—and the soft, fluffy rolls the cook made especially for her.

  She did not bother to dress so early. Not even the staff would have awakened yet. Padding down the carpeted stairs in her slippers, she felt mildly wicked and oddly virtuous at once. The dog and cat came with her, as they always did, following her from one room to another, even when she simply had forgotten a bit of thread in one and jumped up to fetch it. They never seemed to mind when she turned around and went back to where she had been, but patiently trailed her. Sometimes she thought their devotion must be much like the devotion of humans to God. Or perhaps even God to humans. It pleased her, this gentle belief, and she always felt a faint blessing when it came to her.

  From the study where Basilio spent so many of his hours, a light spilled out to the hall carpet in a pale yellow square. Quietly, not wishing to disturb him, she crept up to the door and peeked in. As she had so often, she found he'd fallen asleep over his work. With a gentle smile, she moved into the room, and plucked the pen from his ink-stained fingers. He did not stir.

  Even in sleep he looked troubled, and Analise wished she could discover the source of his pain, to ease it. It had grown worse since they'd been in London, and she suspected there was a woman.

  If that was so, if he was in love with another woman, their marriage was an even greater sin than she thought. She had grown fond of him these past months, but she had no carnal love for him. Such things were not part of her nature, and Basilio did not insist.

  He'd been working hard, she saw, for his bold, elegant hand covered pages and pages, the shortened lines of his poetry making a beautiful wavy pattern down the paper. She wished she could read it, but he wrote only in English. Perhaps at some time she could attend a reading with him, and someone might translate to Italian for her. She was reluctant to ask Basilio himself.

  So beautiful, she thought distantly. Like an archangel, with those thick black curls and the red lips and thick lashes. His hands were works of art, so elegantly lean and graceful. She briefly wished that she felt some yearning to lie with him, for his sake, to ease him. Yet she could not even think of it without shuddering.

  And in truth, perhaps he did not wish it. From the first, he had never touched her in that way.

  Until their wedding night, Analise had considered only her own despair. He had said nothing as he tucked her into his bed, but his sorrow was deep and clear. They had been pawns, both of them. In some terrible way, it unified them.

  And now Analise ached for his despair. The despair that drove him to write, sometimes all night long, of something he could not speak of. From the corner, she took a blanket and tossed it over his shoulders, pinching out the candle and shutting the door behind her.

  Cassandra carried her chocolate to the salon, and sat at her desk in the clean and peaceful room.

  Sunlight streamed through the windows, fingering the bright white flowers of a gardenia plant she'd slipped out of the conservatory at the family house. Her cousin Leander was the only one who would notice, and heaven only knew when he'd grace them with his presence.

  She'd stolen the plant after her return from Italy, when winter had seemed endless and the sunshine of the land she'd fallen in love with, very far away. This morning, with the bright new sunlight illuminating the glossy darkness of the leaves, exaggerating the heavy scent of the blossoms, it made her ache in odd ways.

  No matter how she tried to forget it, those days in Tuscany lingered. Which made her remember, with a little flutter of worry, the travel essay on Fire Night.

  In the past she'd often taken a male pseudonym, sometimes at the insistence of a publisher, sometimes simply for the ease of it. But this essay had been published under her own name. It had never occurred to her to write so clearly as a female before, and now it amused her that she had not. The public was mad for travel essays just now, and the success of the book was assured.

  What surprised Cassandra was that there was a great deal of comment on her work in particu-lar—some of it predictable sneers from the male guardians of the literary establishment, but more of a complimentary nature. It pleased her very much, and she had begun to consider more travel to do more work in the same venue.

  It was, however, appallingly precipitous of Basilio to appear just now—particularly in his incarnation as a poet. Her brother Gabriel had clearly made the connection very quickly— though not without a good deal of help from her.

  A flash of memory burned across her inner eye: Basilio last night, standing in her garden, his hair caught in that elegant queue. Moonlight caught and held in the curls, and sailed along the broad brow and swooped over his aggressive nose. And his eyes, burning, burning, alive and full of determination.

  "Oh, God," she whispered. Her hands had shaken for hours afterward, even after he'd left her. She wanted to be the very picture of Reason, and had failed miserably.

  Narrowing her eyes, she picked up her pen and wrote forcefully in her journal: I will not allow him to be my downfall. I have come too far, learned too much. I have made my way as a woman in a man's world, and I cannot allow a man to be my undoing. As it was, fortune smiled and I did not conceive a child in those rash days, allowing me time to regain my sensibilities. What woman would not have fallen under such a spell as those days cast? The sun and the lush colors of the landscape, and the sensual beauty of the man himself? I am only human.

  I fell to my senses.

  I do not regret it. I will not. Not even now can I find it in myself to regret what he gave so freely—

  himself and his world. And more. So much.

  When I am honest, I know it was a true and generous love we discovered there, on those magical days. Though it would be simpler to call it the magic of the country, that would be a lie. It was the harmony we discovered: a perfect melding of hearts, minds, and bodies. It grieves me that life did not allow such a perfect union to be joined in a marriage, for after all, that is what a marriage should ultimately be.

  It would be different if he had been married upon our meeting, or if there had been true feeling between them. It is impossible to imagine the honorable Basilio breeching such a trust. Instead, we are all the victims of politics— Basilio and I, and the child who wished only to be a nun— a marriage of another sort.

  For that reason, I will not regret and I will not forget one moment of those beautiful hours. I will gladly live every day remembering what he gave, and every day I will remember that I let him go because it was best for him. He could not have borne the ghosts of his mother and brothers.

  Honor is not, after all, the sole realm of men.

  She paused, feeling stronger, wiser, braver, and then continued.

  Just
now, in order to maintain that honor, I must keep myself very busy. Every day, every evening. Perhaps I shall write to Phoebe and ask her to come visit me. Or even speak with Julian about the possibility of bringing Ophelia and Cleo to Town to be presented at Court. 'Tis not too soon to be thinking of marriage for them. Yes. That is a fine idea.

  "My lady?" Joan put her head in the room. "There's a gentleman caller most insistent in seeing you this morning. Mr. Wicklow. Shall I bring him in?"

  Robert. Cassandra hesitated. The heir to a tradesman's fortune, he had attended a salon with Julian one evening not long before. Tall, good-looking and well-spoken, for his education had been seen to very nicely by his social climbing parents, he had been an excellent addition and Cassandra urged him to return whenever he liked.

  He had how established himself as a fixture. Not because he had a particular aspiration to the scholarly world, but because he'd become quite enamored with Cassandra.

  She had not encouraged him, though she supposed she had not particularly discouraged him, either. His attention had been a balm to her wounded spirits. He amused her. He was kind. He had good manners.

  A good companion.

  Just right, she realized sensibly, for a morning like this when she was tempted to brood. "Send him in, Joan. I'm nearly finished here." Carefully, she put the pages away and stood to greet him.

  Pleased with herself for allowing Reason rather than Emotion to rule this morning, Cassandra agreed to a stroll in the park. Robert entertained her with tales of a soppy and comic duel that had taken place after the opera the night before, and chatted lightly of the various people they knew in common. He had an acute and wicked tongue, and Cassandra laughed at his descriptions. "How can I ever be sorry when you do not attend my salons, sir, if you bring me such amusing tales from the world?"

  "Ah, but I understand I most certainly should have been there last night, since I missed that dashing poet who has so charmed the literary set," he said. His russet eyebrows, raising in amusement, were all that gave his jibe away. "I was fair devastated to hear."