by Liz Carlyle
It had been the opening night of Fidelio, and the soprano who was to sing the role of Marzelline had fallen suddenly ill. Viviana was the understudy. Viviana’s dresser had been unable to cover her heavy tresses with the elaborate wig which the role required. Quin had sat quietly in one corner, watching their futile efforts, for at the time, a visit to her dressing room was the only intimacy Viviana would permit him.
But Quin had been as determined to have Viviana as her dresser had been determined to have Viviana’s hair stuffed under that bloody wig. Both had seemed a hopeless case. He had been following her like some besotted pup for almost a month. And the dresser was having even less luck, for the wig had been made for a woman with something less than Viviana’s long, heavy tresses.
In a fit of frustration, the dresser snatched up the scissors, and, at Viviana’s acquiescent nod, chopped off a good ten inches. The hair fell in a puddle about Viviana’s chair. The wig was fitted. And when no one was looking, Quin had stolen the ringlet of Viviana’s hair and folded it carefully into his handkerchief. By the next morning, Viviana was the toast of London. And, so far as Quin was concerned, his mistress.
Before her dresser’s act of desperation, Viviana’s hair had been an inky cascade of curls reaching to her waist. Afterward, it had looked like a hacked-up mess. Quin had not minded. They could have shaved Viviana bald, and he likely would not have cared, so long as he could still gaze into her eyes. He had believed himself capable of seeing into her soul.
Oh, what a foolish, foolish boy he had been. So green. So gullible. Viviana had no soul. Her feigned reluctance, her ingenuous demeanor, that utterly guileless way she had of looking at him; yes, all of it had been one grand illusion. She had toyed with Quin as a cat might a mouse—an especially stupid mouse. And in the end, she had ripped out his guts with her claws, just as cats were wont to do.
Ah, but he was wasting him time again, just thinking of her. The first cottage was coming into view now. He could see a stout, maternal-looking woman standing by the tidy front fence, stretching freshly laundered linens across it. Dear old Mrs. Chandler. He lifted his hand and waved. Her face broke out into a smile.
Quin felt his heart warm. Thank God. At least someone was glad to see him.
Perhaps this tenant business was not so bad after all. He looked beyond the large, tidy cottage to the barns and outbuildings beyond. The old granary appeared to be crumbling a bit.
Mrs. Chandler pinned up the last of her laundry and hastened through the garden gate toward him. “Now young Mr. Quin,” she chided, hands on her hips. “In the village all of a se’night, and no time to visit me?”
He gave her a diffident smile, and took the plump, callused hand she extended. “Mrs. Chandler!” he said warmly. “I hope I find you well?”
“Aye, well enough,” she said. “But Philip’s inside with a sprained ankle and a sore temper. Will ye come in and sit with him a bit?”
“To be sure,” said Quin, tying his reins to the fence.
Mrs. Chandler pulled open the gate and motioned him through.
“Your granary, Mrs. Chandler,” he mused as they went up the garden path. “It looks like the witchert wall is falling in at the southerly corner.”
“Oh, aye, ’tis in a sorry state,” she agreed, cutting a swift, sidelong glance at him. “D’ye mean to fix it this year?”
He stopped on the path and appraised her. “Well, yes,” he said. “What choice have we?”
She gave a small, sour smile. “Aye, well, ye can put it off another year, I daresay,” she replied. “But Philip’s been after getting it fixed these last two—and this year we lost a good deal o’ the harvest to the heavy rain. No one has any use for moldy corn, eh?”
Quin was surprised. He had always believed his father a perfectionist. Why had Chandler’s granary been let go? It certainly was not a matter of money; the estate was extremely profitable. Perhaps too profitable?
Quin thought back to the long list of repairs Herndon had pressed upon him almost as soon as he had arrived. Perhaps it was time to actually read it. Suddenly the needs of the estate and its tenants seemed not just nebulous annoyances, but very real—and reasonable—concerns. He set one hand on Mrs. Chandler’s shoulder.
“I shall have Herndon out here tomorrow,” he said.
Mrs. Chandler beamed and pulled open the door.
Viviana was near a state of nervous agitation by the time she left her luncheon at Arlington Park, though she had schooled herself carefully to hide it. This time, she had arrived at the front door of Wynwood’s grand estate in the company of Lord Chesley’s favorite groom. After thanking Lady Alice for her thoughtfulness, Viviana remounted with the groom’s assistance, then reined her horse around to face him.
“Thank you,” she said to the young man. “You may return to the stables now. I mean to ride on a good deal further, and take the air.”
The groom furrowed his brow. “Are you sure, my lady?” he asked. “I was told I was to wait.”
“And so you have,” said Viviana over one shoulder. She had already started toward the bridle path. “But I would feel guilty keeping you longer from you duties.”
With one last look of reluctance, the young man touched his hat brim and urged his horse on past her. Viviana watched him go, slowly exhaling. For the first time since leaving the stables that morning, she felt as if she could breathe again. Inside, she felt as tight as a clock coil, as if someone had stuck a key into her brain and wound her almost to the breaking point. She wanted to ride fast and hard away from Arlington—and away from Hill Court, too.
Luncheon had seemed interminable. Lady Wynwood had been stiff and exceedingly formal, her expression perpetually dyspeptic. Viviana had responded by behaving with chilly civility, until she realized how desperately Lady Alice was struggling to maintain the illusion of harmony in front of the servants. Viviana had forced herself to warm toward Quin’s mother. The lady herself had not followed suit. Or perhaps it was her usual demeanor. With the English, one could never be sure.
In any case, Viviana now had no wish to return to the confines of the house. What she needed, she decided, was a thundering ride with the cold air in her face. No one had need of her at Hill Court. The children were at their lessons today. Lord Chesley was meeting his steward. And Papà, well, he was in another world altogether: the world of music, the only place in which he was ever truly happy. Viviana had no wish to disturb him. She remembered too well his misery when, for a year and a half, he had had no work at all, a deprivation which was due to her stubbornness—and to Gianpiero’s cruelty.
But she would not think of Gianpiero, and add that trouble to those which already weighed on her mind. She trailed slowly after the groom, who had all but vanished into the trees. After a quarter mile, she reached the path which split to the north. This path, Chesley had warned, was isolated. She would have to ride many miles before reaching a farm or village. Perfect, then. Isolation was just what she longed for.
The path, when she turned onto it, narrowed almost immediately. Here, the branches hung lower, and the tree trunks edged nearer, giving one the impression of being embraced, almost sheltered from the temporal world beyond the forest. Drawing the cold air deep into her lungs, Viviana set her mount, a spirited bay gelding, at a brisk pace and plunged into the shadowy depths. Here, the air was still, the ethereal silence broken by nothing save the muffled beats of the gelding’s hooves, allowing Viviana to clear her head of all but the horse’s graceful movements.
But the forest’s embrace did not last. Some three miles later, her humor much improved, Viviana felt the sun dapple her face and looked up to see the trees thinning. She could see that the path curved slightly, then melted into a narrow farm lane but a few feet ahead. The gelding, tired of trotting sedately through the trees, danced sideways into the wintry sunshine and tossed his head with an impatient snort.
Narrowing her eyes against sudden brilliance, Viviana looked down an undulating stretch of road which was a
s close to straight as one was apt to find in this part of England. To either side lay open pasture, dotted by an occasional copse of trees. Far in the distance, the dilapidated roof of an old barn or cow byre peeked over the horizon.
Again, the horse tossed his head. Viviana could see his point. It really was a very empty road. And in the end, the temptation was too much. Viviana checked her grip on the reins, then touched him lightly with her crop.
The gelding sprang like a shot, leaping from a dead stop to a thundering gallop so fast Viviana lost her breath. Along the gelding’s powerful thigh, her skirts billowed and whipped. Vaguely, she knew it was folly to give such a horse his head, but prudence seemed to have escaped her. The intensity of the horse’s raw physical power felt liberating. The rush of cold air cleared her head and tore at her hair.
Viviana leaned low over his withers, urging him forward. On and on they went, the gelding flying over the rolling hillocks, his powerful legs eating up the distance. Viviana felt the cashmere scarf around her neck loosen, then tear away. Her hat lifted buoyantly, but held fast, caught by its pin. In the wintry air, the tang of horse sweat was sharp, the chimera of escape exhilarating.
But alas, they soon reached the last stretch. The fantasy was over. The old byre was nearing, and beyond it a bend which even Viviana dared not risk. Gently, she reined the gelding back on the downhill grade. He began to slow in obedience, but in that instant, Viviana caught a flash of movement to her left.
It was as if lightning struck. She was jerked violently right, the horse shying wildly, nearly pitching her from the saddle. But Viviana was an experienced rider. She regained her seat neatly and reined the gelding in, crooning soothingly at him. His sidestepping ended in a cloud of dust and a clatter of stones. The horse stood shuddering beneath her, his head tossing, his nostrils flared wide.
After slicking a hand down his neck, Viviana turned him in the roadbed and trotted back to see what the devil had set him off. She wished at once that she had not.
Lord Wynwood stood at the corner of the dilapidated building, reclining lazily against it, one boot propped back on the stone foundation. He was dressed for the country, in snug, buff-colored breeches, a coat of dark brown, and riding boots just a shade darker. She could still make out the weal across his cheek, though it looked like little more than a scratch now. Behind the barn, a big black horse tugged halfheartedly at the colorless grass.
Wynood held a yellow apple in one hand, half of it eaten. He appeared to be still chewing as his dark gaze shrewdly appraised her. Finally, he swallowed. “Well, Viviana,” he said dryly. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Viviana’s heart was still pounding. “Why, how dare you!” she cried. “You—you did that deliberately!”
He tossed what was left of the apple to the black horse, and pushed away from the barn. “Did what deliberately?” he asked, approaching. “Made you go haring off like some bedlamite down a narrow country road? No, you imbue me with powers I do not possess, my dear.”
Viviana slid off her sidesaddle, and caught her reins in one hand. “Good God, Quinten, this is not funny,” she answered. “You spooked my horse! I could have been killed. Is that what you wish? Is that what would it would take to make you happy?”
He shot her a chiding look. “Viviana, you flushed a covey of grouse,” he returned. “Don’t ride so damned fast when you don’t know the terrain.”
Viviana felt her face heat.
“What, you didn’t see it?” he asked incredulously. “You don’t believe me?”
“I do not know,” she admitted. “What…what is that, a flush of grouse?”
He eyed her riding crop warily. “You frightened some birds in the weeds beyond the cottage,” he answered. “They burst into the air. Your horse saw them, Viviana, even if you did not.”
He was telling the truth, she realized. Her attention had been focused on the blind curve ahead and on getting her horse to slow. But she had seen something—a very indistinct something—from one corner of her eye as she passed.
Quin stepped closer, and lifted his hand.
Instinctively, she drew back. “Non mi tocchi!”
The gelding took offense, nearly jerking the reins from her hand as he tossed his head and wheeled his hindquarters restlessly about.
“Put away the crop, Viviana,” said Quin, reaching again, more slowly. “I’ve learnt my lesson. What is this? A new Continental fashion?”
She was a tall woman, but Quin was far taller. She felt him tug on her hatpin, and lift the hat from her head. She felt surprisingly lighter, and turned in some embarrassment to see that her lost scarf dangled like a banner from her hatpin.
“You looked a sight, Vivie, with this flying out behind you.” Quin did not look up at her as he deftly disentangled the mess, but she could see the faint, familiar grin curving his mouth as he struggled. She could smell him, too; warm wool, perhaps a hint of whisky, and the clean tang of soap—bergamot, she was sure. It was her favorite scent in all the world, and she was a little shaken to realize he still wore it.
“There,” he said just as her knees began to weaken. “The pin is freed. You may put your muffler and hat back on.”
But when he lifted his gaze, he faltered. “Your hair,” he said. “It is…it is coming down.”
“Non importo,” she answered, snatching her hat and slapping it back on. “I fix it later. Grazie, Lord Wynwood. I must be away.”
He caught her gently by the shoulder. “Viviana, I—” He stopped, and shook his head. “Contessa Bergonzi, I owe you an apology. Uncle Ches told me everything—why you are here, I mean. That it was all his doing. I was…I am just…well, I apologize.”
She surveyed him coldly. “Si, my lord, as well you should,” she returned. “And me, I should not have been there. That was my mistake.”
He dropped his hand, and smiled sourly. “I left you little choice.”
Viviana did not drop her gaze. “You are ten times a fool, my lord, if you believe that.”
He glanced at her oddly. “So my threat meant nothing to you?” he murmured. “Then why, pray, were you there?”
Still holding the gelding’s reins, Viviana stepped back a pace, then lifted one shoulder. “Perverse curiosity, perhaps.”
He held her gaze steadily, as if waiting to see if she would falter. Instead, she looked boldly back at him, and pretended she did not see the pain in his eyes. Yes, let him mourn for a lifetime the loss of his pretty fiancée. Viviana did not give a damn. She had not lived almost ten years of emptiness without learning how to harden her heart.
“You know that Esmée has jilted me?” he said. “Yes, I daresay my sister will have told you everything.”
Viviana had led the gelding to an old gatepost, now half-rotted away. “It is none of my concern, Wynwood,” she said. “I am not responsible for it. But I am sure your mother can yet find you a blue-blooded, flaxen-haired English miss.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. “Miss Hamilton is Scottish, and her hair is decidedly brown.”
“The bride of your dreams.” Viviana gave a muted smile. “Do you not remember? You once told me what she would be like.”
“You don’t know anything about my dreams, my dear, and you never did,” he said. But there was little anger in his tone.
Viviana stepped gingerly onto what was left of the post, and mounted unaided. Lord Wynwood did not offer to help. Instead, he looked up at her a little bleakly. She wished he would not do that. She wished he would come out and fight the fair fight over whatever it was that so angered him. She could see it, not just the bleakness, but the rage, too. How easily one recognized one’s own shortcomings in another. And, oh, how she wished to scream at him! How she longed for the merest excuse. But he said nothing.
Viviana spurred the gelding halfway around. “Buona sera, Lord Wynwood,” she answered. “I must be off.”
“Viviana, wait!”
She turned back. “Si?”
“You
took luncheon with my mother today, did you not? I hope…I hope that she was kind to you?”
“She was polite,” said Viviana. “Exceedingly polite.”
“Ah, I think I see.” His face softened slightly. “Viviana, how long do you mean to be here?”
She bristled. “Until Chesley no longer needs my father. Why?”
He shrugged, and dragged a hand through his hair, a young man’s gesture. Her heart lurched. Ah, she remembered it well.
“It behooves us, Viviana, to get along,” he finally said.
“You have been talking to your sister,” she remarked. “Fine, then. We will get along—if we see one another, which is not likely, is it?”
He did not answer. Instead, he offered up his hand. “Then let there be peace between us, Viviana,” he said. “We are too old now to make fools of ourselves.”
Viviana leaned down and shook it. His hand felt warm and strong, even through her glove. “Pax, Wynwood.”
Their hands slid apart. The touch was broken. Viviana straightened in her saddle and started to nudge her mount around. Suddenly, she noticed for the first time that the stone building was actually a small house—a cottage, he had called it. The gardens were overgrown, but the place must have looked charming at one time. The house had a cowshed attached to one side, and it was that which was collapsing.
But Quin was still looking at her, as if he had something more to say. “Viviana, you look…different.”
“It has been almost ten years, Quinten,” she said quietly. “Time alters us.”
“No, not like that,” he said. “Your nose, it—it isn’t quite the same. Is it?”
Instinctively, she touched the slight hump with her gloved forefinger. “This, you are asking?” she answered. “No, I fell down the steps. I broke it.”
“When?”
Again, she shrugged. “Two years past, perhaps,” she said vaguely. “Awkward of me, was it not? But now my face has—what does your uncle call it?—yes, gravitas. You English value that, I find. But as to me, well, I would much rather have my nose back.”