by Julie Matern
“Are you unwell?” he asked. “You look faint.”
She recovered herself and observed that he had a playful smile on his lips, fully aware of the power his presence had on young ladies. Not wanting to appear as inexperienced as she really was, she blurted out, “Oh no, you merely surprised me, that is all.”
“Then I shall take pleasure in surprising you whenever I can, as it only serves to heighten your beauty!”
Francesca’s cheeks burned under his scrutiny, and she bent her neck to avoid his piercing gaze and gather her confused thoughts. “It appears you are acquainted with my cousin, Katherine Townsend.”
“I am indeed. We spent a little time together in Bath. I believe another cousin of yours, Annabelle, was there also. Katherine can play most divinely and has a passable voice. She and I sang together while she played. A very handsome girl, with grace and elegant manners.”
Francesca felt her heart sinking and her girlish hopes dashing on the rocks of her fantasies. She searched for something else to say that would not betray her feelings, but Mr. Ashbourne spared her the trouble by telling her some amusing anecdotes about Annabelle’s cousin William from their time together at Oxford. As he spoke and guided her smoothly around the dance floor, his soothing tones and friendly manner eased her anxieties. She was mesmerized by his mellow voice and consequently astonished when he released her from his arms; she had not noticed that the music had stopped. She clapped to cover her confusion and nodded toward the orchestra. The other couples followed suit. Then, with a grand bow, Mr. Ashbourne excused himself and swiftly exited the room.
Francesca felt like a candelabra that had lost all its flames in a large gust of wind, dark and empty. Her mother, noticing her apparent distress, came to her rescue and led her off the floor to get some punch.
“You look rather unwell, darling,” soothed her mother. “It is near two in the morning. Perhaps you should retire.”
“Oh no, Mama, I am quite well. But I believe you were right—I was in need of a drink.”
“I think you have danced every dance! You must be exhausted. Are you enjoying the evening?”
“Oh, Mama, I think I might die of happiness! Would that it could go on forever.”
“Well, by the looks of your dance card, it will go on for another two hours, at least! Come, let us return to the ball.”
Try as she might, Francesca found the rest of the ball lacking. Her handsome consort did not return, and it appeared that he had left Haversham House for his lodgings. Francesca went through the motions of conversing and dancing with many more good-looking young men, but her heart was no longer in it as her heart had already been stolen.
Three
UV
ITALY
Giorgio Giaccopazzi looked down at his hands, surprised to see that he was twisting the bed sheets just as his heart was twisting in his chest. It was not the way of nature. No parent should have to watch their child die. She was not yet forty. He examined his daughter’s face as the eyelids fluttered and her breathing became ever more labored. Her raven mane of wild hair, wet with perspiration, stuck to her forehead in ringlets as her body exhausted itself, waging war against the fearsome enemy of fever—a battle it was losing, minute by minute. Her once olive skin was gray, the color of death. For the thousandth time, Giorgio bowed his head and pleaded with the heavens to save his only surviving child. A tear escaped and rolled down his wrinkled cheek, unheeded.
He raised his eyes from the prayer and cast them at the view from the window. A vast ocean of vines, pregnant with fleshy grapes, begging to be harvested. His other child. How much time had he devoted to that child when he should have spent it with this precious daughter of flesh and blood, now reaching out to touch death’s gossamer veil? He caught a sob in his throat and groaned again to the God of heaven to save her, to give him more time.
A strange sound, barely there, caught his ear, and he shifted his gaze back to the invalid in the bed. Her eyes were barely open, but the expression in them was one of desperation and her lips were moving. He leaned close to place his ear by her lips.
“Papa.”
He gently clasped her tiny, soft hand in his calloused one. “Si, my darling child. What do you need?”
“Papa, the end is near … must tell you something.”
“Do not say such things—” He began to sweep aside the notion, but the dying woman imperceptibly shook her head,
“Si, Papa … You must be brave … let me go … I am not afraid … must tell … confession.”
She swallowed hard and pain flitted across her features like a specter. He caressed her forehead delicately, sweeping the damp curls aside.
“Papa … lean closer … I must tell you.”
T
How much longer would he have to stand in the door of the church and shake hands with people before he could go home and give in to the ache in his chest? How much longer need he pretend to be solid when in reality he was teetering on the precipice of despair? He must, it was his duty, but, oh, the pull of his own home and its privacy!
Giorgio pondered on the sober events just passed. The music and flowers had been all that he could have hoped for; the prayers and eulogy were heartfelt and intimate. This church, his church, familiar and comforting but, oh, the reason for his presence there today, unbearable! Death had been an all too familiar guest in his life. The threat of it an ever-present shadow. His dear wife taken twenty years before, still in her prime. The babies, one by one, until, at last, one had survived and patched their broken hearts with her love. Now, she also, taken by its cruel clutches to join the husband who had preceded her. He felt his shoulders bowing under the weight of his grief.
Blessedly, the last of the mourners finally exited the ancient church, and the bells began ringing the requiem, their somber tones matching his mood. He descended the slick marble steps, worn smooth over time by the faithful, and stepped into his carriage with relief.
The wheels bumped along the dirt path the short distance to the cemetery. He climbed out, shielding his eyes from the midday sun, whose brightness seemed to mock his misery. He had petitioned Father Addario to keep the burial private, and within moments, the tones of the Latin prayer were being repeated, their familiar cadence strangely soothing. He bent to pick up a handful of soil and as he let it slip through his fingers and onto her casket, a primal sob escaped from deep within.
The workman stepped forward and, knowing it would be too much to see his beloved shrouded in earth, Giorgio turned back to his carriage and collapsed, a broken man, into the soft cushions.
His hollow mansion echoed with each footstep, jeering at his desire for comfort and warmth. He shooed away the faithful housekeeper and flung wide the glass doors that looked onto his verdant kingdom. As far as the eye could see, his dominion lay, green, lush, and vibrant. Alive. He strode with strident step to seek peace in its quiet corridors.
As he paced, a great wail racked his breast, the emotions he had held at bay bursting forth, cracking the dam of resistance. Soon his thoughts turned back to his last moments with his beloved daughter. Could the confession that lay upon her dying lips be true? A confusion of thoughts seized his mind. How he had prayed that she would be blessed with children during the course of her marriage. A grandson to be heir to the vineyard. But the God of heaven had seen fit to withhold this benediction, and Giorgio had tried to accept and remain faithful. Then, when her husband, Alexander, had been thrown from his horse two years before and broken his neck, he had laid that prayer to rest. Yet this profession of a child, born long ago, unknown to all but the mother! How was it possible? The unanswered questions poured out as he sought to make sense of this new knowledge. His mind captured again upon the last scene with his daughter, Isabella, as she clutched at his hand, impressing upon him the truthfulness of her statement, and begging him to forgive her. Aghast at all it implied, he had sought to press her for details, however, before she could reply her wretched body was overcome with the cursed co
ughing and she had given up the ghost; at peace at last.
Finding one of the benches he had installed among the vineyards, he sank, holding his head in his hands, the tumult in his mind causing it to pound. He took a deep, shaking breath. Someone, someone must know something! But who?
Isabella had married at an older age than was customary. She had always rebuffed the suitors he had arranged for her. His friends had scolded him for his acquiescence on this—it was softhearted and indulgent, they mocked. Girls should marry whom their fathers chose for them; it was a contract forged to increase land and power.
However, Giorgio did not think like them. He had married for love, although his family had frowned upon the match. In spite of this, Concetta, his chosen wife, had woven her magic upon his parents and they had come to love her as a daughter. How could he then force an unwanted marriage upon his only child? He would not! He had contrived for many suitable young men to spend time at his estate in Florence but not until Alexander arrived had she paid any of them the slightest courtesy.
Alexander was older too, his first wife dying tragically in a carriage accident. For many years, Alexander would not even entertain the idea of marrying again, but at the age of thirty-five, he had had enough of loneliness and had accepted Giorgio’s invitation at last. Isabella was twenty-three, and some thought she was past her prime, but not Giorgio. She had a maturity of feature that was enchanting and a fine figure. She no longer tittered and swooned like the younger girls and could hold a conversation about politics or the sciences that would engage any gentleman.
He thought back to the day Alexander and Isabella had first met. He had casually mentioned the visit some weeks before and had then been away on business, bringing Alexander back with him. As such, Isabella had not had time to prepare her studied indifference as she usually did around suitors and had burst into his study in the fullness of her natural beauty and character, ready to discuss with him the latest trouble among the workers, flushed from her recent ride.
Giorgio had indicated their visitor by casting his eyes to the side, and Isabella had stopped abruptly in mid-flow. Turning fully to face the gentleman in question, she had bobbed quickly in his direction, a crimson glow upon her olive cheek.
Giorgio had watched the man’s face with intent as he read upon it an instant attraction to the ebullient woman who had thrust her presence upon them. Alexander had bowed in response, keeping his light-brown eyes firmly fixed on Isabella’s dark ones. She had apologized for her intrusion and had prepared to leave when Alexander had contradicted her and insisted upon her staying. She, Giorgio noticed with satisfaction, had run her hand over her unruly locks to tame them and had sat primly on the edge of a chair and waited. Alexander had requested that she continue to detail the affair of the workers to her father, which she did reluctantly, after much persuasion. Alexander had proffered a solution, which had interested Isabella greatly, and Giorgio had fabricated a reason to find his land manager, leaving the two alone in his study.
As he returned, he was welcomed by the sound of sunny laughter from his daughter, and as he re-entered the study, it was obvious that the couple had found pleasure in the company of one another. Alexander, who had been invited to spend a week at the estate, instead stayed for a month, at the end of which the couple were engaged.
Giorgio managed a watery smile as he recalled the magnificent wedding day. A jewel in his life’s crown. It had been magical and the marriage, by and large, had been a happy one but for the want of children.
His mind now surged forward as he recalled the confession on his dying daughter’s lips. Did he think less of her? He examined his feelings. He was a man of staunch Catholic faith, but he was also a man of compassion, and he wept—not for the sin, but that the child had not been a part of his life, a solace in this time of mourning, a companion for his dotage. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. Yes, his mission was clear. He must find the child!
Four
UV
ENGLAND
Sunlight flashed upon Francesca’s face like a tongue of fire and woke her faster than any other means might have. She groaned and pulled the covers over her head to shield her eyes from the bright light. Almost simultaneously there was a pressure near the end of her bed and she heard Annabelle praising the day. Reluctantly she pushed the coverlet away, squinting into the bright room.
“I could barely sleep after the ball. My every thought was of Mr. Doyle, the memory of his flattery would not let me rest, and I—” Annabelle stopped abruptly as she finally laid her eyes upon her sleepy cousin. “Oh dear, were you not ready to arise? It is past twelve noon, and the day is so glorious and I could hardly bridle my impatience any longer—I just had to confer with you on the tone and meaning of his admiration. But I believe I have intruded upon your slumber and will take myself off this instant!”
Francesca sat up, shaking her head. “No, no. Do not trouble to leave now that I am awake, but do you not recall that we did not drop in to bed until four o’clock in the morning?” She sank back upon the downy pillows, her arm shielding her eyes against the noon day sun filling the room.
“What is sleep when there is romance to discuss?” replied her cousin with a smile lighting up her pale eyes. “I thought the memory of the gallant and handsome Mr. Ashbourne might have kept you from sleeping, but I see now that such is not the case. Oh darling, do you think Mr. Doyle was using flattery as a way to pass the time, or do you believe him to be sincere in his attentions to me?”
“I am sure I cannot judge after so little time in his company and at such a public event as a ball, but he did appear to be most sincere from his expression as he danced with you. Have you spoken to your father about inviting him to Danbury Manor?”
“I tried to find Papa at breakfast but he did not appear. I think I will try again at luncheon and suggest that he include Mr. Doyle in the picnic we have planned next week. Do you think such a course is too forward?”
“I am sure it is not, since the picnic is to be a grand affair of fifty people rather than something very intimate. I think it is a splendid idea, Bella!”
Annabelle leaned forward to embrace her cousin and then flounced from the room.
Francesca fell back again in repose and was conscious of a throbbing in her temples, due, she was sure, to a lack of sleep. She closed her eyes against the light and reflected on the festivities of the previous evening but was soon troubled by the vision of her cousin Katherine’s silhouette and that of Mr. Ashbourne in the open window. She was struck again by the impression of familiarity that existed in the pose. She shook her head to rid her mind of the troubling image. She succeeded in replacing it with the memory of Mr. Ashbourne dancing with her. Might not spectators have considered his attentions while dancing with her to be rather intimate? Perhaps it was just his way.
She replayed the manner in which he had leaned to whisper to her and the way it had made her spine sing as his nose brushed her ear. She shivered at the memory. She recalled the way her heart had skipped as he touched her gloved hand. She had felt attraction to young men before, to be sure, but this sudden, intense reaction was completely foreign. It was more than a little frightening that so small an acquaintance could elicit such a depth of passion. And what, really, did she know of him? Nothing. It was just the foolish fancy of a young girl. She would question her cousin Katherine about her acquaintance with him to ascertain the level of their friendship and to discover his character.
She dressed quickly and went in search of Katherine, who she found in the rose garden painting in water colors. She really was very gifted. Francesca could only hope for half her talent. “Good afternoon, Katherine. How you have captured the essence of this lovely day.”
“I cannot agree. I seem unable to replicate the velvet of the rose petals. But it is no matter. It is a pleasant way to pass an afternoon while everyone is sleeping, even if I shall throw it in the fire later.”
Why did she have to have such an unpleasant tone even aft
er having been complimented? Francesca dismissed these thoughts and began again. “I had such a pleasant time with Mr. Ashbourne last evening. Annabelle tells me you are acquainted with him.”
“Not really,” she said quickly, brush in hand, squinting at the rose she was aiming to capture.
“Oh! I understood that you had met him while at Bath. I must be mistaken.”
Katherine continued to paint without turning to face her cousin, “Yes, we did meet while in Bath and sang some songs together, but I would hardly call it an acquaintance.”
Francesca could not help but notice the tinge of pink that appeared on her cousin’s cheeks and the sudden stiffness of her spine. Could it be that she was withholding the truth of the matter from her? To what end? Francesca recovered herself and continued in the same falsely casual tone.
“I was hoping you could tell me about his character. He seems to be a charming and elegant young man with such good manners that I am wondering if it is all a great facade. Can anyone really be so pleasant?”
She had meant it as a lighthearted, comedic comment, but at her cousin’s sharp intake of breath, she was dismayed to see that she may have hit upon a truth.
“Why Katherine, are you all right?”
“Yes, yes. I just caught my shoe on the edge of my easel and thought I might knock the whole painting to the floor,” said Katherine.
“So, can you tell me of his character? Is he really so charming?” pushed Francesca.
“My dear cousin. I told you, I barely know the gentleman. However, I believe your Grandfather Haversham knows him. Why don’t you go in search of him and ask after the gentleman?” Her tone was dismissive, and though Francesca dearly wanted to press the matter further, she thought better of it and went in search of her grandfather, Lord Haversham.
She found him in the library ostensibly reviewing some plans with her father. The two men were deep in a heated conversation that they hurriedly broke off as she entered. She glanced from her father to her grandfather and could not help but notice the heightened color in both men’s cheeks.