She took the mug and the slice of toast he offered her, kissed him in thanks, and they sat in companionable silence looking out at the red and gold autumn view of ducks waddling on the bank by the stream, and in the patches of bluebell flowers and golden and white ragwort. And then she caught him completely unawares by asking a question that surprised him and made him jerk his mug so violently away from his mouth mid sip that tea splashed the front of his shirt.
“What is a-a cicis—bo?”
TWENTY-THREE
‘A CICISBEO?” he repeated, pronouncing the word correctly as he concentrated on wiping his shirt front free of tea before it was too badly stained; this also helped hide his surprise at her question. Where had that come from? He didn’t have a long wait to find out.
“Oh, is that how you say it? And you were one—one of these cicisbeo—?”
“The plural is cicisbei.”
“Evelyn told me you were one of these cicisbei while you lived abroad?”
Christopher sipped at what was left of his tea. He wondered when mention of her noble cousin would intrude on their time together. And the man had had the gall to tell her about his past! Or at the very least intimate at it to pique her curiosity enough to ask. So be it. He had intended to tell her anyway, but not so soon, not here at the cottage. So much for best-laid plans. He finished off a corner of toast then said to delay the inevitable,
“I’ll need to get in fresh supplies if we are staying here a little longer.”
“You want to leave?”
He heard her anxiousness and shook his head.
“No. I’d stay here with you forever if that were possible. But we need food, and perhaps you’d like a change of clothes? That’s if you wish to stay…?”
“I do. Teddy won’t be home for another fortnight, and Evelyn said I have a month to—”
She stopped herself. She did not want to think about the future. She did not want to think beyond being here with Christopher. And she wouldn’t, not yet. So she returned to her original question, hoping to divert the conversation and her thoughts back to the here and now.
But for Christopher, her question was anything but about the here and now.
“And were you a cicisbeo?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
“I had intended to do so, just not yet. But now that you have asked… What did your cousin tell you?”
“Nothing much beyond the word. Though he did say you were sought after, which I assume means you were expert in whatever these cicisbei do—” She paused when Christopher laughed harshly, but when he did not comment further, added quietly, “He also said you would tell me if I asked, but that I should be careful what I wish for. And by that I can only assume whatever you did in this capacity is not for the eyes and ears of a lady…?”
“Not an English lady, that’s certain. The English have little understanding of such an arrangement, and never will. But the Italians are far more pragmatic, and as it is an accepted practice amongst the aristocracies of the Italian states and principalities, the position of cicisbeo is, if not highly regarded by all, a fact of life. As such there is no shortage of young gentlemen applying for the position within a noble household.”
“And while you were living in the Italian states you applied and were given this position?” Mary asked, trying to understand what he was telling her.
“Ah, my path to such an official post was different from most. I need to take you back to my first couple of years away from the vale. I was eighteen and abroad, and without any income or friends to call on who could help me. Not that I would’ve asked for help at that time in my life… I fell on hard times, and that required I earn my keep. To be truthful, I was not myself. I’d been given some unwelcome news—shocking to me—that made me run away from home. And I let this news dictate my state of mind. You must remember, I was very young, so thinking or acting rationally was beyond my capabilities. As a consequence, I was quite stupidly self-destructive. To be blunt: I accepted an arrangement with a woman who fed and clothed me in exchange for certain favors—”
“You were her lover?”
“That is a polite way of putting it. I was her lover, and then there were others. Soon she was providing my—services—to other women—”
“How old were you when you embarked on this most interesting career?”
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen? You were just a-a boy!”
“Was I? Yes, I suppose I was. But I’d left the boy behind, here at home. And by the time I’d turned twenty, I’d slept—if I can use that euphemism—in so many beds I stopped counting. And I was paid for the privilege.”
Mary gasped, the full import of what he was confiding in her finally dawning. Her violet eyes went round and she could barely comprehend the full extent of this revelation.
“I never—I never knew such a—such a vocation existed. Females turn to prostitution for any number of reasons and give their bodies to men for pecuniary gain—but men? Are there truly men who are—who do—” She looked to him for direction. “Is there an equivalent word?”
“There are several. Gallant. Varlet. Petticoat pensioner. To name three,” he said mildly. “To bring this sordid little episode to its apex, when I was about twenty, I came to the attention of a noblewoman. Yes, she hired me as her gallant, but then she took a fancy to me, and convinced her husband to sponsor me as—”
“—a petticoat pensioner?”
Christopher laughed out loud. “Oh, my darling, you say it so politely. As if I were being hired to be her dancing instructor or her pianoforte teacher! But no, not as her paid whore, lover, gallant, call it what you will, but as her cicisbeo. A high honor indeed.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. And highly unusual for a foreigner to be elevated to such a position. It is usual for noble couples to select a young nobleman from among their peers. But as this noblewoman, and more importantly her husband, were aristocrats—he a Conte and member of the governing council—an exception was made. Though I was to receive intensive training before I took up the post officially.”
“Training? I do not understand. What sort of training? In the bedchamber?”
Christopher heard the underlying bafflement in her question and he smiled to himself and explained patiently, “No. Not the bedchamber. A cicisbeo is much more than a woman’s lover. He performs many ceremonial functions so that the bedchamber almost becomes secondary. I had a series of tutors and was trained in deportment, swordsmanship, dance, musicianship, the art of conversation, and language. I had to reach a certain level of expertise before I could go into society as the Contessa’s male companion. But I was not a complete country bumpkin, and I was a quick learner. I could fence, knew a few rudimentary dances, and while I wasn’t the most diligent student at Harrow, I was no fool either.”
“Harrow?” Mary repeated, grasping for something with which she was familiar. “My brothers went to Harrow.”
“Yes. Dair and Charles were many years behind me.”
She frowned. “You never told me you were sent to Harrow.”
He smiled. “You never asked. Perhaps now that you do,” he said teasingly to lighten her mood, “it makes me a more acceptable lover to her ladyship?”
But Mary was not to be placated or diverted from her line of enquiry.
“Don’t be silly, Christopher! So while you were being schooled in the art of being a gentleman companion, you were also bedding this woman?”
“That was part of the arrangement.”
“And her husband knew and was comfortable with this—arrangement?”
“I could not have been his wife’s cicisbeo without his consent and signature to the contract.”
“Indeed! A written contract? How civilized to be sure.”
But he was not fooled by her cool civility. It was a veneer, and thin at best. With every revelation he offered about his past, there were imperceptible changes in her posture until she was sit
ting ramrod straight with her hands lightly in her lap and chin parallel to the ground. It was the attitude she adopted with him as steward, when he was called to her drawing room to give an account of his actions. It was her shield of indifference, brought out to protect herself from circumstances and feelings beyond her control. But he was having none of it. Not now. Not when they had come so far and were on such intimate terms. As he seemed unable to tease her into a better frame of mind, he tried a more direct approach.
“Mary. Darling. You do realize my life as a cicisbeo was literally another lifetime ago. And that since then I have had a decade here at home as Squire Bryce.”
“And you accepted a contractual arrangement with this couple, who took you in and groomed you to be the wife’s lover?” Mary stated slowly, ignoring his comment as she tried to make sense of it all. “And once you had learned the finer arts of your-of your—vocation—you went out into society together, and everyone knew you were this noblewoman’s paid lover.”
“A cicisbeo is more than a lover. As I told you the position is more akin to a close male companion. To call it anything less is to denigrate an arrangement between a husband, his wife, and her lover that is a long-held custom amongst the Italian nobility. It is so widespread it is part of the fabric of their life. When invitations are sent out for balls and parties and nights at the opera, all three—husband, wife, and cicisbeo—receive a formal invitation each, and all three attend together. No one raises an eyebrow of surprise or dissent. And everyone is civilized and respectful of such an arrangement.”
“Oh, I am very sure more than a few eyebrows were raised at you, and there were a fair share of sudden weak knees among their females!” Mary threw at him, all semblance of placid enquiry evaporating. “I hope your contract was for many years’ duration, or what a waste of good tutoring!”
“Mary, the Contessa was not my only contract.”
She sat up even taller. “You were a cicisbeo for more than one lady?”
“Not concurrently. A contract is exclusive but they are only binding for two years, sometimes three at most.”
“How many contracts did you fulfill?”
“In ten years? Four.”
“Four? You were the official lover, companion, call it what you will, to four different noblewomen?”
“Yes.” When her hands balled into fists in her lap, he said quietly but firmly, “I have already confessed to a past littered with lovers, and yet you are most offended that I was a cicisbeo to four noblewomen in particular. But as a member of Polite Society, you are surely aware that English noblemen have illicit affairs, set up mistresses, and live an almost separate life from their lawful wife.”
“But that is different! They are different! You are different!”
He completely misconstrued her meaning and said with a frown of puzzlement at her distress,
“How so? An Englishman’s promiscuity is not condemned. Indeed, he is lauded for his sexual prowess and domestic dexterity. And yet because in Italian Society it is the wife who takes a lover with her husband’s consent, such an arrangement is condemned by ignorant Englishmen?”
“Oh, what do I care about the carnal habits of my peers, or of the Italians for that matter!” Mary threw at him dismissively. “I’m not blind to what goes on around me. I have a brother who has an illegitimate child—a sweet boy—and even my mother acknowledges his existence because in her mind he is a symbol of her son’s virility. Woe betide if her daughter were to ever take a lover—”
“A bit late in the day to worry about her good opinion now,” Christopher muttered with a roll of his eyes.
“Touché!” she retorted, and startled him by pulling a face that so reminded him of Teddy when she was at her most cheeky that he burst out laughing. That only made her indignant and she shot to her feet to face him. “It is not easy for me to reconcile what you have told me about your past—about your life as a—your life in Italy—with the Squire Bryce of Brycecomb Hall I know. I always suspected your time abroad was what helped to set you apart from other men, and I do not mean just men here in the vale. And now knowing your past, I am even less surprised why you’ve chosen to keep it secret. You are right to do so. No one would understand, and even those with far broader minds further afield would find your life as a cicisbeo quite shocking—most would condemn it. Tell me: Were you happy with your life in the Italian States?”
“Happy? Not in the beginning, no. I was miserable. But as I said, that was entirely of my own making. I did, however, come to find a certain level of purpose, and in so doing, happiness.”
“And these women and their husbands, they were happy with you?”
“Yes, I suppose they must have been. I strove to do my utmost to carry out my contractual obligations to the best of my abilities.”
“Of course you did. I have never known you to be anything but diligent and conscientious in everything you do.”
For some unfathomable reason, Christopher felt his face grow hot at her emphatic praise. “Am I?”
It was Mary’s turn to roll her eyes.
“Need you ask? In the eight years we’ve known each other you’ve never deviated from your present life as Squire of Brycecomb Hall. You’ve always presented as a hard-working gentleman farmer who loves the land and the vale. You care for your tenants’ welfare, you’ve turned around the fortunes of Abbeywood Farm, and you’ve always been there for Teddy and me, even if I’ve often found your approach at times to be high-handed. No! Do not try to deny it. And I meant every word of what I said at the mill, and still do.
“But there is one aspect of your life that continues to puzzle the women of the vale. It’s not something their men folk would usually think about, but from time to time, their wives will put the question to them. Possibly they have appealed to their husbands to discover the truth about you. But as I am not privy to their conversations, I cannot say for certain if this is so. What I do know is your continued bachelorhood and seeming disinterest in the fairer sex, even when they blatantly try to engage you, is a constant source of gossip for the village and the gentry families in the district. And even if the women do not speak to me directly, I am not blind to their admiring glances and their disappointment when you do not engage with them beyond the superficial. They are just as perplexed by you as I once was.”
“Perplexed?”
She pouted. “Do you truly have no idea or are you being playful with me?”
He pulled her closer until she stood between his knees, and held both her hands.
“I am not blind, either. I am aware my return to the vale caused consternation amongst our neighbors, but I would have thought that after almost a decade, interest in my marital state would have waned.”
“Waned?” Mary huffed. “While a handsome bachelor of means remains without a wife there will always be interest, and absurd rumors will continue to circulate.”
“Absurd rumors?”
“Yes. The most absurd is that while you were abroad you became a Papist, entered the priesthood, took a vow of chastity for your faith, and returned here as a spy for the Holy Roman Emperor. And that is why you have no interest in the fairer sex.”
Christopher shoulders shook with silent laughter.
“A papist, a priest, a spy, and no interest in women? Dear me, what a dour fellow I am, to be sure!”
“Vicar Beasley’s wife says you are more monk than man. And even I, who am not quick on the uptake when it comes to veiled meanings in conversations, knew at once she wasn’t referring to your ecclesiastical proclivities!”
“Ecclesiastical proclivities?” he repeated. “Oh, my darling, you do have a way with words! And so too does the vicar’s dear wife.”
Mary peered at him keenly. “You’re not about to share more earth-shattering secrets with me, are you?”
Christopher balked, then grinned. “About secretly being a priest?” He pressed her hands. “We’ve just spent six days together making passionate love at every opportunity—that’
s not very monk-like, is it? And I don’t know if it’s earth-shattering or not, but you are the first woman I’ve bedded in ten years.”
Mary gaped at him. “Ten? Ten years? You have not made love in ten years?”
“I see that this disclosure is earth shattering,” Christopher muttered, then rallied. “My reasoning is simple, and should not surprise you. I indulged in an excess of female flesh from the age of eighteen until my thirtieth year. And while my mind and body were engaged, my heart was not. And so when I retired from my vocation, I made the decision to be chaste. I have not regretted my choice. Chastity would not suit most men, but it suits me. I’ve since discovered that I have the temperament that requires mind, body, and heart be committed to a thing or I am not content. I have put this personal philosophy into practice in running my farm, my mills, and being steward of Abbeywood. And it is the reason that when I did fall in love, and the love of my life was not free to be with me, I was able to reconcile myself to life as a bachelor.”
He let the sentence hang, and in the silence wondered if she realized he was talking about her. Mary did, but articulating her feelings did not come easy after such an earnest confession and declaration. And then she said something that made him wish he had never doubted her capacity for insight.
“And while you were reconciled to a life as a bachelor, she—the woman who was not free to be with you—was determined that even though she was wife of a man who was incapable of loving anyone but himself, she would not allow her heart to shrivel and die. She would hold on to hope. And her heart did not wither, because upon meeting her neighbor the bachelor squire, she knew here was a man of principle and benevolence, a man she could admire, and love, if only her life had turned out differently.” Her eyes opened wide and she said a little breathlessly, “Are you not, as I am, a little in awe that against all the odds, these two finally became lovers?”
Proud Mary Page 31