He slumped against the window, his brows drawn together. “Like what?”
I spread my hands. “Restore a church. Learn to quarry marble in Carrara. Go to Greece and build boats. Only for heaven’s sake, do not let this destroy you. You love her now, but in a year or two, when she has had a child and grown fat and content, you will not. You will have replaced the memory of her with a hundred more precious. But you must try.”
For a long moment he did not move. Then, by way of reply, he held the sketchbook out to me. “Burn it.”
I took it from him, noting how his fingers trailed over the cover as if to memorise the pages that lay beneath.
“Are you quite certain?”
He nodded. “You are right, of course. I must cut her out, painful as that may be. And who knows, perhaps something else may grow there.”
“And what of Alessandro’s letter?” I ventured.
He gave a tiny smile. “You were thorough. I ought to give that back to him. He wanted me to read it, to advise him how best to handle his father. A moot point now, if you mean to send him away.”
I shrugged. “It is better this way. For everyone.” I handed him the letter and took the book away with me. He had been brave enough to ask me to burn it. I was not cruel enough to make him watch.
* * *
After I had burned the sketchbook, waiting until it fell to thin, grey ash, I retrieved a Kashmir shawl from my room and went in search of Alessandro. I finally ran him to ground in the library, gamely working his way throughPride and Prejudice.He sprang to his feet when I entered, smiling broadly.
I nodded to the book. “How are you enjoying Jane Austen?”
He waggled his hand from side to side. “She is a little silly, I think.”
Now I was more certain than ever of my decision. I could not love a man who did not love Jane Austen. “The great Duke of Wellington thought her the greatest literary talent in all of England.”
He smiled politely. “Perhaps she improves upon second reading.”
“Hmm. Perhaps. I wanted to speak with you.”
His smile froze, his lips suddenly quite stiff. He swallowed hard and laid down the book. “You are refusing me.”
I put out my hand to him and he took it. His was warm and firm in mine. “I am. Walk with me in the courtyard and I will try to explain.”
It was characteristic of his youth that he did so. An older man would have armoured himself in his pride and refused an explanation. Only the young have such a gift for self-torture.
We moved out into the courtyard arm in arm. The sunshine, after days of mournful grey, was a revelation. The warmer air had melted off most of the snow and what remained was slowly dripping away against the stone. It was cold to be sure, but nothing like what it had been, and I stopped to raise my face to the sun.
“You are sure you do not wish to come to Italy?” he joked bravely. “We have the sun almost the whole of the year. You do not have to search for it as you do in England.”
I opened my eyes and smiled at him, taking a moment to memorise the soft black hair touched with bronze, the noble profile, the gentle eyes staring into mine with such sadness, and perhaps the merest touch of relief.
The wind rose a little just then, scudding a cloud over the face of the sun and throwing the courtyard into shadow.
“You are shivering. Take my coat,” he insisted, draping the garment over my shoulders. I murmured my thanks and took his arm, leading him toward the iron gate that led to the gardens.
“You see, Alessandro,” I began slowly, “you come from an old and proud and very dignified family. I too come from an old and proud family, but I am afraid we are a little short on dignity.”
He opened his mouth to make a polite protest, but I held up a hand. “Oh, do not, I beg you. I know my family for what we are. From the manner of our dress, our speech, our small eccentricities and our grand follies, we are odd. We do not fit the pattern of society, and as a result we are often talked of.”
He said nothing and I pressed on, gently.
“I should not suit you, Alessandro, not truly. I keep a pet raven and I speak my mind and I associate with those who are beyond the pale of society, and yet I am very nearly the most conventional member of my family. People are still talking about my cousin Charles’ appearance at a house party last month. He wore his wife’s gown and demanded to be addressed as Carlotta.”
Alessandro choked back a laugh and I squeezed his arm. “You may think it amusing, but to us, he is family. We will not hide him in the cellars and pretend he does not exist. We will welcome him with open arms, and very likely give him the names of our dressmakers,” I finished, smiling at my own little jest.
Alessandro’s brow puckered. “But surely such things are better left unknown. I too have the curious cousins, but we do not speak of them.”