by Julie Matern
A stab of pain in his cheekbone alerted Giorgio to the fact that his jaw was clenched, and he attempted to relax and avoid letting panic consume him. He tried a different tack.
“I have the sad duty to inform you that Isabella has died.”
The chalky eyes flew open and pinned him like daggers. “Isabella is dead?”
Without warning, the old woman threw back her head and howled in pain. Her sister thrust her arms around her in an attempt to console the fragile woman, who was shrieking like a distraught child.
“I am sorry, Signore,” she bellowed over the wailing. “I think you must come back tomorrow and try again.”
Giorgio nodded and made for the door. As he exited, he looked back on the tableau that formed a pseudo image of a mother comforting her small child. He sighed deeply with regret that he had caused the uproar and walked back out into the welcome sunshine.
He spent a restless night at an inn in Sandicci, filled with dreams of running from house to house in search of his infant grandchild and awoke in a great sweat before the sun was up.
Should I stay, or is the woman’s mental state too unstable to yield the required memories? he debated with himself.
The inn provided a fine breakfast, and during it, a message arrived for him from the former maid’s sister, which made the decision for him.
“Signore, my sister wept far into the night but then slept like a baby. This morning she is more alert than I have witnessed these many months. Please, make haste.”
As he stood to knock on the now familiar cottage door, he checked his emotions and reined in his expectations.
He was quickly ushered inside. “Look, sister. Isabella’s father has returned! He needs to know the secret.” The old maid nodded and began to speak, and it was as if another woman entirely were before him. Yes, the eyes were still dimmed, but there was life in the expression and lines of the face.
“You are her father? I loved her as a mother would. I never had my own children, you know. Her own poor mother had died …” Her voice trailed off, and she sat lost in cloudy memories.
“You journeyed to France with her?” encouraged the sister.
“Yes, I remember that. Her father was busy … she was lonely. She loved horses. She spent too much time with the horses. I scolded her. She was drawn to the stables and would not mind me …” The old woman shook her head at the memory, and a smile tugged at her lips.
“And France?” pushed the sister.
“France? Ah, yes France. Poor Isabella was so neglected. We went to France to see her friends and then … she told me it was a secret. She will be angry with me for telling it …”
“No, no sister. She will not be angry. What happened in France?”
“She tried to tell her father … he was busy, always busy … too busy …” The old woman looked through him into the past. He felt a jolt of guilt, and he racked his memory for such an occasion. He had none. He wiped a tear from his eye.
“We traveled to Nice. She was quiet. Very quiet. Too quiet.”
“Did you meet someone there?” asked the sister.
“Friends. We met friends from school. Good girls, happy girls. Isabella was sad. Why so sad? I combed her hair. Beautiful, thick hair. I’m going away.”
“Isabella went away?”
“She left me … left me alone. Took another maid … I was her maid … she left me …”
“Where did Isabella go?”
“Isabella, she was kind … she gave me money, but I was alone … she left me … for four months. Four months. I cried when she left me.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“It’s a secret. Shh. Swear, Luciana. Swear you will not tell.” The old maid frowned like a child caught disobeying.
“It is all right. Remember, she has given permission for you to share it with me,” repeated Giorgio. Luciana quirked an eyebrow at him, still suspicious.
“She left. It was not proper. I told her it was not appropriate. For months and months. It is not proper …”
“You do not know where she went?” asked her sister.
“No. She would not tell me. I got letters. Short letters. She did love me. She wrote me letters.”
“What happened when she returned?”
“She was ill. Gray and ill. Sad. Very sad. Her eyes—they were empty. Poor, pretty Isabella. She was so … broken …” Her cheeks glistened. “Where have you been? Who has hurt you? Do not ask, do not ask. We must go home … tomorrow we must go home … Luciana, this must be our secret.” The muddled memories were tumbling out now.
“Did you suspect the cause of her sorrow, sister?”
“She was so pale, so tearful. She grieved …”
“Who did she grieve for?”
The old woman’s eyes jumped from side to side then she whispered, “For the baby.”
The sister looked to Giorgio with concern but he nodded. “She told you that she had a baby?” she asked Luciana.
“No, she would not tell me. I guessed. So much grief.”
“Do you know who might have done that to her?” entreated Giorgio.
Her voice dropped to a whisper again, “That stable boy. He loved her. I should have known. I am to blame. I am guilty. When we got home, he was gone. Gone.” She brushed away a tear. “But I kept her secret until today.”
“You have done well!” said Giorgio. “Now that she is gone, it is right that you should have told me.”
The old woman’s expression clouded. “She is gone again? To France?”
Confused, Giorgio looked to the sister for direction.
“Yes, dear,” she soothed. “She has gone away again.”
“I hope that she does not fall ill again. I was so worried for her health,” croaked the old maid. Sensing that the door to lucidity was closing, Giorgio pressed, “Do you recall the names of the friends she traveled with?”
The old woman’s face crumpled as she strained to remember. “… Angeloni … from Rome.”
He scribbled down the name. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You were an affectionate and devoted companion to my girl, and I am indebted to you.”
He clasped her hands and turned to leave, pressing a leather bag of coins into the hand of the sister.
“Signore, that is not necessary—”
“I know, but this information is of great worth to me. I thank you for sending for me this morning.”
He took one last glance at the maid rocking in the chair, lost in her memories, and with renewed confidence, entered his carriage.
Six
UV
ENGLAND
Upon leaving Haversham House, Phillip ran his horse hard for a half a mile and then let it slow to a canter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and cursed his new commission. Why had he offered to investigate another suitor’s character when what he really wanted to do was declare his love for Francesca himself? He took off his hat and threw it as far as he could in frustration. Why not declare himself? The answer made him feel like a coward. The truth was that he was not sure that she cared for him in that way. She treated him well and fondly but more as a brother than a suitor, and now this infernal Ashbourne fellow had turned her head. Had he subconsciously offered to help in the hopes that he would discover him to be a cad, unworthy of Francesca’s affections?
He jumped off his mare to retrieved his hat, mounted again, and took a more leisurely pace. This task would be a sore test of his integrity, for were he to find out that the man was a saint, could he be honest enough to relay a true portrait of him to Francesca? Worse, if the man proved to be a devil, would he be able to restrain himself from celebrating and showing his contempt for the man?
As he rode, he reflected on the change in his feelings over the last year. Though she was four years his junior, he and his older brother had played with Francesca and her cousins when they were children. She was like the little sister he never had, and they had had many adventures together among the fields an
d meadows of the two estates.
She had always been a pretty child with her wild, ebony hair, but it was her high spiritedness that he enjoyed so much. She was given to gesticulating with abandon when impassioned and had a fiery temper when crossed but not in such a way as to make anyone angry and her outbursts were all soon forgotten. She had a little dog whom she loved dearly and a horse whom she spoiled. Even as a young girl she had been an excellent equestrian. In fact, he had never met her match.
She hated to arise early and he had learned to avoid her before noon, and she dearly loved to dance; he had been chosen to be her dancing partner on many a wet afternoon.
When she turned twelve, it had been deemed unladylike to continue to wander about the grounds with young men, and he had missed the association very much. Other things had changed too, as she had been required to learn the art of becoming a refined young lady and her maid had had to learn to tame her wild locks into ringlets. There was less spontaneity and more needlepoint and music lessons, which she hated; less adventure and more history lessons. However, he was still invited to tea on occasion and to play croquet from time to time and their easy friendship had continued. She had still sought his company, and he hers.
Then he had left to go up to Oxford. He was to study the law, as he did not seem suited for the church or the military, and when it came time for the summer breaks, he was regularly invited to spend them with friends at their country estates or traveling abroad. And so it happened that three years passed where he did not see Francesca at all. Then, just before the start of trinity term of his final year, his mother had implored him to visit. He had arrived to great fanfare as he had done exceptionally well in his final exams of the previous year and his mother was all of a flutter with pride. She had brought him to Haversham House to parade like a peacock in front of the Havershams, which annoyed him immensely. He was feeling most uncomfortable with such praise being heaped on his head when the door to the drawing room opened and a vision of utter loveliness entered the room. He gasped before he could control his emotions and adjust to the comeliness that had developed in his absence. Francesca was quite unaware of her own metamorphosis or the effect that it had had on him and rushed to offer him her hand. She was eager to hear of his successes and peevish that he had stayed away for so long. He found himself tongue-tied and shy until her easy manner disarmed him and he relaxed in her company.
The hair that had been so wild was coiffed into a perfect crown and the play dresses had been replaced with fine muslin gowns that accentuated her womanly figure to perfection. The rosy, plump cheeks of childhood had been sculpted into prominent features that gave her a regal bearing of exquisite beauty, a beauty of which she seemed innocently unaware. Her entrance into the room had cast an enchantment upon him.
After that first renewed encounter, he had sought every opportunity to visit without appearing to be overly eager, and as the days passed, his heart had become more and more enslaved. For her part, she seemed to treat him as she had in the past, as a true and loyal friend. But he wanted to be more than friends. He had challenged himself to test the waters before returning to Oxford but had shrunk from the task for fear of damaging the comfortable relationship they enjoyed.
And so, the year had passed, and he had graduated, and yet he still lacked the courage to disclose his true feelings.
He trotted on miserably, wishing with all his heart that Ashbourne would prove to be a rake.
T
Phillip’s horse had stumbled and become lame, therefore he was not in the best of moods when he arrived at William’s family home in Staffordshire. William and Phillip had played together as children when his family visited the Havershams and had attended the same boarding school. Though he and William were up at Oxford together, they had moved in very different circles for the most part, and his circle had not included the infernal Mr. Ashbourne. As old friends, Phillip had managed to wangle an invitation to William’s home in pursuit of information.
“Phillip, my, but it is good to see you! How was your journey?” William welcomed.
“I would have been here hours earlier but my horse fell lame in Stoke. It took me an age to find a decent horse for hire. But I am here now. It is good to see you again, William!”
“How are your parents? And your brother?”
“My parents are both well, and my brother is enjoying life as a married man. Did you know that he is about to become a father?”
“Well, well. I still think of him in short trousers trying to fish in the stream on your estate. Can he really be old enough to have a child?”
“Come, come, we are both old enough, are we not?”
William shuddered involuntarily. “The thought of having a wife and child at the present moment fills me with fear and trepidation. I want to get settled in my regiment and establish myself. Who knows but that I will be flung into the middle of a war soon?” He chuckled.
“Ah, but you have just not met the right girl yet,” Phillip teased. “Then you will think of nothing else but making her your wife.”
“You sound as though you speak from experience. Who is she then?” asked William.
“Oh, no. I speak in theory only,” Phillip countered, hoping that the heat he felt creeping to his face would not give him away.
At that moment, the door opened, saving him from further denials, and William allowed his mother to welcome their guest.
T
William’s family had been invited to dine with their neighbors, the Fairweathers. They had four daughters and were a very merry family. As they took the barouche to the appointment, Phillip used the opportunity to pry into the character of the irksome Mr. Ashbourne.
“Langley? Yes, I know him quite well. But do not you? I was often with him in the dining hall. Splendid fellow! Always good for some fun.”
“No, I did not have the fortune of meeting him. What of his family?”
“He is the only son of a baronet. So, it was of no account if he failed his exams, you see. I believe his father is an older man, more like a grandfather, really, and I understand that his mother died while he was yet a child.”
Harrumph. A sympathetic character then, thought Phillip with disdain.
“Why do you ask?” said William.
“Oh, he appeared at Francesca’s coming out ball and I was intrigued. He came late and left early. Very mysterious.”
“Ha ha, yes, that sounds about right. He is devilishly handsome and has the young ladies fairly fainting over him.”
So far, the report was not in Phillip’s favor. He must find some flaw.
“Would he, perhaps, compromise the young women, then?”
“Far from it! As far as I can tell, he seems to have the greatest respect for the fairer sex. I would suggest that he has merely not yet found his equal.”
“He appeared to give Francesca quite a bit of his time,” noted Phillip.
“Did he now? Well, she is a beauty, isn’t she? Can you believe how she has improved in the last twelve months? Yes, now that you mention it, I do believe she is his equal in looks. Perhaps she has piqued his interest after all?”
He turned to look at Phillip and remarked, “Is that it? Are you in love with her yourself, then?”
“No, no not at all,” he protested. “Francesca and I have been friends since childhood. I was simply interested,” he said and looked out of the window to escape further scrutiny.
“Hmm, methinks you do protest too much! But in all seriousness, Francesca and Langley. Yes, I can see them together. Did she appear to be beguiled?”
“I do not know,” he lied. Then he hurried to change the subject.
The Fairweather daughters were very congenial. They were all in the first bloom of womanhood and were each very pretty, but none of them was yet married. Their mother had made the invitation to William’s family after learning of their house guest, with a view to Phillip being bewitched by one of them. Her manner was obsequious, and it grated on Phillip’s nerves, but
their father was a very agreeable man who loved to read and fish.
Very little time had passed when it became apparent that the oldest Miss Fairweather, Miss Verity, had set her cap at Phillip. He found her to be intelligent and charming and had his heart not already been taken he would have found her company delightful. She was very slight with curly blond hair and pale blue eyes that made him think of starling eggs. She was quite short and looked up into his face in a most appealing manner, and he found himself quite flattered by her attentions.
Phillip in turn acted in a most gentlemanly way and gave her his full attention. She talked of her schooling in Switzerland and her visit to Scotland to see an aunt.
After dinner, she announced that she would play for them all and asked Phillip quietly if he might change the pages for her. He knew enough of music to do a fair job and agreed to accompany her to the piano. He looked up to study the rest of the company as he turned the music. The third Miss Fairweather was obviously well acquainted with William and they were discussing some of the local families. It was clear to an observer that she very much admired William, but it was equally obvious that he was oblivious of her sentiments.
Phillip glanced at the other inhabitants of the room. He caught Mrs. Fairweather staring at him, whereupon she hastily turned her head. He felt a smile coming. Mrs. Fairweather was sitting on the edge of her chair, twisting a handkerchief in an attitude of great agitation. It really was a trial for a woman to have so many grown daughters who were still single. Mr. Fairweather was conversing with William’s father and William’s mother was persuading the other two sisters of the virtues of Bath.
As the evening was ending, the Fairweather family invited Phillip and William to attend a ball with them two days hence. They declined, having not received a formal invitation, but Mrs. Fairweather explained that they could attend as their guests, since the hosts were a very generous family.
Phillip went to bed that night feeling that he had made some delightful new acquaintances and looking forward to the ball. He did not fall asleep quickly, though, as his errand had not yet been completed and Ashbourne’s character had not been thoroughly proved.