“That is the difficulty, my dear. In your family you do not speak of them. In my family, we celebrate them. In Italy, one must always be conscious ofla bella figura,of presenting one’s best self. Among the Marches, we please ourselves and the devil take the rest.”
His brows lifted slightly and I patted his hand. “You see? I even shock you with my language. We would be very badly suited indeed. Besides,” I said carefully, “I believe your father has plans for you. Exalted ones.”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “How did you know that?”
I smiled, not looking into his eyes. His father’s letter had been idiomatic and excessively difficult to translate. I had deciphered perhaps one word in five. But those words were enough. “It is not difficult to guess,” I temporised. “Your father is a judge, is he not?” I hoped I had gotten the translation correct from the letter. Father’s dictionary had been printed two centuries back and mice had nibbled a fair number of holes through the most useful words.
Alessandro nodded, his lovely mouth turning sulky. “Si.He is an important man in Firenze, with much influence and power.”
“And he wishes you to be the same, in your time. A very natural ambition for a father, I think.”
Alessandro scuffed his shoe against a paving stone. “But should a man not be ambitious for himself?”
“Of course. What is it you would like to do?”
He dropped my arm then to spread his hands. Like most Italians he was incapable of speaking for any length of time without gesturing.
“I also want to be a judge, to give justice, to have the power to influence people. But I want to want such things for myself. Why are you smiling at me?”
“My dear Alessandro, what difference does it make if your father wants these things for you as well? If you want them, take them, and be happy. Life is either far too short or far too long to make yourself miserable.”
He said nothing as he considered this. I looked through the garden gate, marking the withered vines, the blind stone eyes of the statues, the sharp angles of the hedge maze. It was not grand or even particularly beautiful, but it was my home and I felt a rush of love for the old place so acute, so complete, I nearly wept.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said slowly.
I turned back to him and assumed a brisk, governessy tone. It was time for thecoup de grâce.“Of course I am. And I will tell you something else I am quite right about—you will need a wife who will understand you, who will presentla bella figuraand make you proud. I would imagine your father already has someone in mind,” I said, widening my eyes innocently.
“You are a witch,” he grumbled. “How could you know this?”
I gave a modest shrug, remembering how his father had described the girl in question.Una belleza perfetta.I wished Alessandro a lifetime of happiness with her. “It is only logical.”
He rallied, and attempted once more to change my mind. He seized my hands, drawing them to his heart. “I would give up everything for you, Giulia.”
I smiled at him gently. “But you must understand. I should never want a man to give up anything for me. I should want him to feel in winning me he has won the whole world. Now, go back to Italy, marry your lovelysignorina,and have a good life. And when you are quite old and sitting on the terrace of yourpalazzo,sipping a finechiantiyou have grown in your very own vineyards, I want you to think of me sometimes and smile mysteriously so that your grandchildren will demand to know what you are thinking of.”
He laughed then and reached out, as if to embrace me, then thought better of it and took my hand. “It was a beautiful dream,” he said, his voice laced with resignation.
“It was a beautiful dream indeed,” I agreed.
He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, and when he had done, I pressed it to his cheek. Then, slowly, we made our way into the Abbey and went our separate ways.
* * *
It was destined to be a day of partings. I left Alessandro in the library, meaning to retire to my room to repair my toilette before luncheon. The wind had risen at the last minute, loosening hairpins and whipping colour into my cheeks. A few moments with my hairbrush and a pot of face cream were all I needed, but just as I set foot on the staircase I noticed Charlotte descending. She was dressed for travel and carrying her small portmanteau. She saw me and lifted her pointed little chin.
“I mean to go,” she warned. I blinked at her and she skirted around me, never slowing her pace. I followed her through the cloister and out to the inner ward, arriving just in time to see Aquinas appear.
“The carriage is ready, Mrs. King,” he informed her.
“Good. The sooner I am quit of this bloody place the better,” she muttered.
Aquinas caught sight of me then and hurried to my side. “My lady, Mrs. King requested transportation to Blessingstoke. You were not to be found, and since the carriage was placed at Sir Cedric’s disposal earlier, I thought it acceptable to extend the same courtesy to Mrs. King. His lordship left no instructions.”
I sighed. It was bad enough Cedric had left with Lucy and Emma. What would Father say when he learned I had let Charlotte go as well? Still, I was rather inclined to view the situation as one of his own making. “If Father wanted anyone detained, he ought to have said so. Besides, we have no right to hold anyone against their will. We are not the law.”
I had spoken softly, but Charlotte overheard this last part. She gave me a broad smile and extended her hand.
I shook it, not quite willingly. Charlotte could be a likeable rogue, but she was insubstantial. She had recreated herself so many times I was not certain where her fictions left off and the woman began.