by Liz Carlyle
“Cerelia?” she said sharply. “What is wrong?”
“There was a little accident.”
“An accident!” She almost tore from his grasp.
“Just some spilt chocolate,” he whispered, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. “She was not scalded, just frightened. She is in the nursery changing her clothes.”
Viviana said no more, but set down her wineglass with an awkward clatter. He released her arm. She held his gaze searchingly for a moment, then rushed from the room.
“Ah, there you are, my boy!” Quin turned to see his uncle, who appeared to be held hostage by the new curate. “Mr. Fitch was just telling me that he is a bird-watcher. Frightfully exciting stuff!”
Viviana hastened through the hall and up the stairs at a frantic pace. Cerelia. Poor child. And more alarming still, what on earth had Quin Hewitt been doing in the nursery? She went straight there, to see that Cerelia sat perched on a table, stripped down to her stockings and drawers. Miss Hevner was offering her a fresh chemise to put on.
“She is not burnt?” asked Viviana, hastening across the room.
“No, my lady,” said the governess. “Just startled. But her dress, I fear, is ruined.”
Viviana slicked a hand down the child’s hair and lightly kissed her temple. “Mia cara bambina!” she said. “Was it your yellow muslin?”
“Yes,” said the child sorrowfully. “And it wasn’t my fault! Nicolo pushed the pot over.”
“It was no one’s fault,” said Miss Hevner. “It was an accident.”
“Felice fell off the pig, too,” said Cerelia, as the chemise was dragged over her head.
Miss Hevner looked at Viviana ruefully. “It has been an eventful evening, my lady.”
“So I gather.” At that moment, however, Viviana spied the gold chain lying on the table behind Cerelia. She picked it up and concealed it in her palm. Something like panic coursed through her. “What was Lord Wynwood doing here?” she demanded.
Miss Hevner looked suddenly worried. “I cannot say,” she confessed. “I was belowstairs heating the chocolate. Ought he not have been allowed to come up?”
“I cannot think why he would wish to,” said Viviana, too sharply.
“Lottie and Diana went down to get him when they heard his carriage,” Cerelia interjected. “They begged him. I went, too. We wanted him to see the pig.”
Dio, that damned stuffed boar again! Viviana closed her eyes and felt the weight of the golden chain and its makeshift pendant grow heavy in her hand. “Was his lordship here in the nursery, Miss Hevner?” she asked lightly.
“Why, he carried Cerelia in,” said Miss Hevner. “Poor man. He went quite pale, as if he’d seen a ghost.”
Viviana’s eyes flared wide. “Pale?” she said. “What do you mean?”
Miss Hevner looked confused. “Pallido, pale, with no color in his face,” she clarified. “I collect he was afraid the child had been burnt, until I reassured him she was not.”
“Va bene.” Somehow, Viviana forced a smile. “Miss Hevner, will you excuse us, please? I shall help Cerelia finish dressing.”
The governess curtsied, lowered her gaze, and left.
Viviana opened her glove, and tried to keep her hand from shaking. “Cerelia,” she said quietly. “I found this on the table behind you.”
Cerelia looked chagrinned. “I thought it was burning my skin,” she said. “The hot chocolate spilt on it.”
“Did anyone see it?” she asked. “Miss Hevner? Lord Wynwood?”
“Miss Hevner took it off,” said Cerelia into her lap. “What does it matter? She has seen it before.”
Fleetingly, Viviana closed her eyes. Dio! “I have asked, Cerelia, that you keep this safe in my jewel box,” she said, keeping her voice gentle but firm. “May I not trust you to do that? Must I ask Nurse and Miss Hevner to help me ensure that this happens?”
Cerelia gave two shuddering sobs. “B-But it-it is mine,” she whimpered.
Again, Viviana stroked her hair. “Cerelia, bella, I do not wish to be harsh,” she said. “But this is not something to be lightly worn. It is very valuable.”
This time, the child burst into tears in earnest. “But you said it was mine!” she cried. “And how can it be valuable? You let him ruin it! It is crushed! And you let him do it, Mamma! You did not even try to stop him.”
Viviana went down on one knee. “Hush, Cerelia,” she said, wiping at the child’s tears. “You do not know what you speak of, cara mia.”
“I do know!” she cried. “You said I might have it. You did not even wish to have it repaired.”
Viviana gathered the sobbing child into her arms. “Oh, cara, nothing is so simple as it seems,” she said into Cerelia’s hair. “I said it would be yours someday; and then I shall have it fixed. I just do not wish you to wear it yet.”
Please, God, not yet. And not here. Of all places, not here.
But Cerelia was crying in earnest now, her frail, narrow shoulders shaking uncontrollably against Viviana. Viviana tightened her grip, patted the child’s back, and felt her own heart breaking all over again. How unfair life had been to this child! And in great part, it was Viviana’s fault. Her poor choices had been compounded by another’s cruelty, and Cerelia had paid the price.
It seemed as if the world she had so carefully built was collapsing in on all of them. As if all her sacrifice and suffering might be for naught. At that thought, the anger and resentment swept over her anew, and Viviana was suddenly, and almost frighteningly, glad that her husband was dead. For were he not, she might have been tempted beyond reason to kill him.
Eleven
In which Lucy speaks Her Mind.
Q uin found that dinner was a pleasant enough affair. Inexplicably, he was seated between Miss Fitch, the curate’s spinster sister, and Viviana—the contrast being Chesley’s idea of a joke, most likely. Viviana smiled politely as he helped her into her chair, but otherwise occupied herself with Henry Herndon, who sat on her other side.
Quin’s mother had been placed near the head of the table adjacent to her brother, but next to Signor Alessandri, who seemed to have thoroughly charmed her. Quin had not missed the Continental kiss the dapper old gentleman had placed on his mother’s glove upon their arrival, nor did he fail to notice how closely his mother attended to Alessandri’s conversation during dinner. It had been a long time, he suspected, since a gentleman had attempted to flatter his mother so excessively.
After dinner, Chesley opened the double doors which connected the parlor to the larger withdrawing room, then ordered the furniture pushed back and the carpets rolled up so that they might have some impromptu dancing. Lord Digleby Beresford went at once to the pianoforte and began to play a lively tune as several of the younger people took up their positions for a country dance. Viviana’s mind seemed elsewhere. Quin watched from the corner of his eye as she excused herself and headed for the stairs.
She was going up, he suspected, to put her children to bed. Alice had often remarked on Viviana’s careful attention to such details. As for Alice, her brood had departed during dinner. Quin had heard Miss Bright bring them down in the middle of the soup course, where they had proceeded to make enough racket for eight or ten children as they pulled on their coats and mittens, and said their final good-byes.
Viviana was gone no more than five minutes before sweeping back down the stairs, through the entrance hall, and into the Lord Chesley’s parlor, where the evening’s refreshments had been laid out. She wore a gown of shimmering blue silk, the color so dark it almost matched her raven hair. The gown was set well off her shoulders, and left a vast deal of her creamy, faintly olive skin to be admired. And to his chagrin, Quin found his eye almost uncontrollably drawn—but to her eyes, rather than anything lower.
Tonight her lovely madonna’s face appeared strained and wan. Faintly etched lines were plain about her eyes; not lines of age, he thought, but of something worse. Suffering, perhaps. How he hated that. Never would he have wis
hed such a thing on her, not even in his darkest days. At least he hoped that he would not have done so. But then again, he had been so impetuous and insecure. Perhaps he had even wished worse on her. He was ashamed to think of it now.
Viviana seemed unaware of the music, or of the few people who yet lingered in the parlor. She went straight to the sideboard and poured herself another glass of wine, this time something as dark and red as the earrings she wore, and far less insipid-looking than the sherry they had sipped earlier.
Just then, her eyes caught his across the small room. “Barolo,” she said, her gaze wary over the rim of her glass. “Will you take a little?”
He joined her there. “You look tired, Viviana,” he said, filling a glass for himself. “Is anything wrong?”
She cut an uncertain look in his direction. Just then, Alice and Henry Herndon approached. They looked disconcertingly like a couple tonight, Quin thought, with Alice’s hand lying lightly on Herndon’s arm. And Herndon had that tight, faintly uncomfortable look about him, as if he were reluctantly obliging Alice and her wishes. Quin was glad, for Alice’s sake, that his mother was well engaged with Signor Alessandri.
“There you are, Viviana,” said Alice. “Are the children asleep?”
“Almost,” she answered in her low, throaty voice. “Nicolo’s nurse is reading a story, but it no longer holds his attention. The book is one he has seen a thousand times.”
“I sympathize,” said Alice. “Mine are forever clamoring after more books. I am thinking of giving in. After all, Christmas is almost upon us.”
“Christmas!” said Viviana, her voice suddenly wistful.
“A wonderful time of year, is it not?” said Herndon.
“Yes, my favorite.” Viviana smiled. “I have such memories of my childhood Christmases in Rome, when my mother was still alive.”
“I am sorry,” said his sister. “How old were you when she died?”
Viviana lifted her slender shoulders beneath the shimmering fabric of her gown. “About twelve,” she answered. “Sometime later, Papà’s work took us to Venice, then everything changed.”
Alice looked at her in sympathy. “Do they celebrate Boxing Day in Venice?” she asked. Then, without waiting on an answer, she turned to Quin. “Oh, I know! We must send to Hatchard’s for some new books for Christmas. Quin will help us.”
“Hatchard’s?” said Viviana.
“A bookstore in town,” Alice clarified. “You will doubtless have someone going back and forth, Quin. You could arrange for a few packages to be brought from town, could you not?”
Quin inclined his head. “It would be my pleasure,” he said. “You have only to make a list. Indeed, I shall fetch them myself.”
Viviana seemed reluctant. “I—no, I could not impose.”
“It would be no imposition,” Quin assured her. And indeed, it would not. If Viviana wanted books, he would fetch books. If she wanted him to slice open a vein and bleed for her, he might well do that, too. Indeed, it had been slowly dawning on him since these last few days that very little had changed so far as his feelings for Viviana were concerned. He was still at her mercy. And still in love with her. Worse, he was beginning to comprehend just what he had given up all those years ago.
But his sister and Henry Herndon were still rattling on—something to do with holly and pine boughs. “It is something of a tradition in the village,” Herndon was explaining. “The children hang greenery everywhere, even in the shops. We usually take a couple of Arlington’s wagons.”
Quin must have looked at them blankly. “The children are already clamoring to decorate the village and church for Christmas,” Alice repeated. “And they have persuaded Mr. Herndon to take them out into the forest next week for the annual gathering of pine and holly. Have you any objection?”
“None whatsoever,” said Quin. He had no objection to anything, save for the awful flip-floppy thing his heart seemed to be doing in his chest every time he looked at Viviana.
Alice gave him one last curious glance, then turned to Viviana. “Would your children care to go, my dear?” she asked. “All the village children are invited.”
“I daresay they would,” said Viviana. “I cannot thank you enough, Alice, for including them in so many lovely things.”
Alice smiled. “We will make an afternoon of it, then,” she said. “Perhaps my brother can be persuaded to accompany us?”
Quin watched a little of the color drain from Viviana’s face. “I would not wish to burden him with the children’s outings,” she said. “And I cannot think he would enjoy it.”
He considered her words for a moment. Perhaps she really had meant what she’d said that afternoon in the cottage. Perhaps she really did believe it best they not see one another again. The thought seemed suddenly to weigh him down.
“I would not wish to intrude,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.
With a lift of one shoulder, Alice seemed to let the matter go. “Very well,” she said. “Let us plan for Thursday if the weather holds.”
“Ah, Herndon,” cried a jovial voice. “There you are! I have been meaning to speak with you all evening about my damp meadow.”
Quin turned to see one of the local landowners wading through the crowd.
Alice took her hand from Herndon’s arm. “I see duty calls,” she grumbled. “Mr. Lawson can never be put off, odious man. I wish his south meadow would turn into a peat bog. But I daresay I ought to go to Mamma now anyway.”
With a murmured good-bye, Herndon slipped away. Alice, too, melted into the crowd. In the distance, Quin watched Lord Digleby pause for breath, then begin the next dance as a laughing crowd of young people drew away from the pianoforte and back onto the dance floor.
“Do you wish to dance?” said Viviana quietly.
He turned to look at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, do you wish to dance?” She was still regarding him warily. “You were watching them a little longingly.”
He shook his head. “You would soon regret it, my dear,” he said. “I cannot dance at all.”
“Oh.” Her voice was soft. “I did not know that.”
He looked down at her hand, which rested lightly on the sideboard. “No, you did not know that, did you?” he said. “In fact, there isn’t very much about me that you do know, is there? Not really.”
“Perhaps not,” she agreed.
For a long moment, he was silent. “And does it ever bother you, Vivie,” he finally said, “that we don’t know those kinds of things about one another? Does it not trouble you that there are things we should have shared and did not?”
She surprised him by going suddenly pale. “P-Precisely what sorts of things?”
He shrugged both shoulders, feeling as if his jacket had grown suddenly too tight. “I cannot dance,” he repeated, dropping his voice. “You love Christmas. Your mother died when you were a child. For well over a year, we lay together, you and I, knowing one another’s bodies but neither of us ever learning the other’s heart or habits or memories, or anything, I now think, that truly mattered.”
He seemed to have stunned her into silence. Viviana looked up at him, her eyes wide and her mouth a little tremulous. He realized he had struck a nerve, and he was not at all sure that he had wished to. But it was too late.
“Why, Vivie?” he demanded, his voice an urgent whisper. “Why did we never share our hearts?”
“Oh, please do not start this,” Viviana whispered. “Please do not do this to me, Quin. Not here, amongst all these people. For God’s sake.”
Quin lowered his voice even further. “When, then?” he rasped. He caught her hand between their bodies, turning his shoulders so that no one else might see. “When can I see you again? Vivie, there are things I need to ask you. Things I need to understand.”
She shook her head and closed her eyes. “There is nothing left for us to discuss, Quin.”
“I think there is,” he said, a little roughly. “I think the
re might be. Viviana, come into the library with me.”
“Dio mio, are you mad?” she whispered. “We agreed, Quin. Just once.”
“God damn it, Viviana, did I ask you to do anything?” he asked. “Anything other than talk?”
She shook her head, her eyes hardening. “Not here,” she said again. “I cannot. I must go.”
She had half turned away when he caught her by the arm. “Tomorrow, then,” he said. “Meet me at the cottage.”
“No, Quin. I shan’t do it.”
His jaw clenched. “Then I shall call at Hill Court.”
Viviana dropped her gaze. “And I cannot stop you, can I?”
“No, you cannot,” he agreed. “Not this time. I have a few questions for you, Viviana. And by God, you are going to answer them.”
But Viviana did not reply. She had already turned her back and walked away. Her spine was set in a straight, elegant line as she floated across the room toward Aunt Charlotte. Already, her smile had warmed, albeit a little tremulously, and her hands had extended in greeting. To anyone else’s eyes, she had again become the serene madonna. Viviana, the consummate actress. And a trained diva to her very core. Or was he simply fooling himself? Perhaps they really did have nothing to talk about. Perhaps Viviana was just as hardened as she seemed.
Was this wise, he wondered, to press her to answer questions when he feared to hear the answers? He didn’t even know what he wanted of her. More than her body. But something less, he thought, than her soul. He wanted, really, what he had once thrown away. He wanted a chance.
Was it too late? Was there anything left of Viviana’s heart to hope for? Or his, come to that? Perhaps he was going to be sorely disappointed. Perhaps he was making a terrible mistake in forcing the issue. But like so many he had made in life, it was a mistake that he already knew he was going to make. And then, as he always did, he would simply have to live with the result.