by Lisa Berne
Bloody, bloody hell, he thought, furious, but suppressed—yet again—his anger, and looked again at the horse, who stood very still, looking back at him, and clearly ready to shy away.
“You poor fellow,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’d like to take that bridle off, and brush you down, and feed you properly. Will you let me?”
Christopher turned away and, still with the same casual slowness, began to walk toward the stable he’d seen at the end of the pasture. When at length he got to the open doors, he turned and saw the horse had followed him, although at a distance.
“Come on,” he said. “Bridle off now.”
And the horse came to him, tentative, nervous, but still letting him remove—slowly, gently, ever so gently—the bridle.
“Good boy,” said Christopher. “Never again for that bit. Let’s brush you now, and then to supper.”
It took more than two hours to accomplish this. Christopher was glad to see there was plenty of hay and oats inside the stable, but was nonetheless practically shaking with anger by the time he emerged into the waning afternoon. The old man was still there, leaning against the fence as if it were propping him up.
“So,” the old man said in reasonably good English, his voice heavy with irony, “you dismiss my trainer? Am I to thank you?”
“You’re the owner?” Christopher demanded.
The old man nodded.
“Well, he was a damned bad one.”
“Yes.”
Taken aback at this unexpected agreement, Christopher said, “Why’d you have him then?”
Suddenly the old man with his wispy white hair and deeply lined face looked yet more frail, more sunken. The irony was gone. “I suppose, giovanotto, you would like to thrash me as well?”
“I—ah—”
“Perhaps I deserve it.” The old man gave a long, low sigh. “Why did I have him, that reprehensible man? It is because I lost my two sons. They went with General de Beauharnais into Russia, and never came back. So you see, I have no one. Only this horse, and the half-dozen others, in the stables beyond.” He gestured toward a larger outbuilding behind the one in which the gelding was currently housed. Looking at Christopher with dark eyes that seemed infinitely tired, he went on:
“For more generations than I can count, my family has trained horses for the noble house of Falconieri. So when that facinoroso came along, boasting of his skills, promising to restore the glory of my lineage, I was weak. I let him in. And you saw what he was like. I knew what he was like. There is nothing more to say. I do not know that I will ever forgive myself.”
Seeing the old man’s pain and remorse, Christopher discovered he no longer had it in him to be angry. He said, “Do the other horses need tending to, then?”
“Yes.”
Without another word Christopher went to the other stable, where he fed the six horses he found within—all skittish, all thin—and brushed them, cleaned their hooves, gave them fresh water. He shoveled manure. Used a pitchfork to lay down fresh straw. Finally he put a loose-fitting rope harness over the chestnut gelding and patiently coaxed him to join the others in the main stable, into a freshly cleaned stall.
Then he went to the old man’s house—it was a handsome flat-roofed mansion, made of warm yellow brick, but dirty and altogether decayed by years of neglect—and in the vast dilapidated kitchen he managed to prepare a meal of sorts, a simple stew of beef and carrots and onions, a bowl of which he set before the old man, who sat at the head of a table incongruously large for just the two of them; in years past, it would have accommodated a large staff of servants.
“Grazie,” said the old man. “Sit. Eat.” And when Christopher took a chair at his right hand, he added, “I am Mauro della Valle. You are—?”
“Christopher Beck.”
“An Englishman, of course. You are far from home.”
“Yes.”
Mauro della Valle didn’t ask why. Instead he said, “You are good with horses, Cristoforo.”
Christopher only shrugged and dug his spoon into the stew.
“You are; surely you must see it?” insisted Mauro.
“Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps. A certainty. You like animals, I think?”
He thought about it, and finally said, “Animals are honest.”
Mauro nodded. “Sì. That is true.”
They spoke little else during the meal, but Christopher was aware that the old man was observing him closely, and by the time the stew was finished, Mauro asked him if he would stay on and help.
Christopher didn’t have to think twice about it.
He said yes.
With Mauro’s assistance and advice, born of decades of experience, Christopher cared for the horses, gently, patiently, kindly, and trained them. Without complaint he repaired the weather-beaten stables, fixed broken-down fences, shoveled manure, mopped floors, chopped and stacked wood. He cooked for himself and Mauro—never anything complicated, but simple, hearty meals that suited them both. And when the time was right, he went to the palazzo where the present Duke of Falconieri dwelled, just outside Perugia, and persuaded him to come see the della Valle horses once more; in due course the Duke did, and left having gladly purchased four of the horses.
There was money again, and the promise of prosperity once more.
Christopher had never worked so hard in his life.
Never had he been happier.
Too, Mauro wasn’t one to heap on superficial compliments, but his occasional and well-chosen words of praise meant more to Christopher than any easy flattery, for he knew he had earned them. Deserved them.
Whitehaven, England
Autumn 1817
Home again!
And oh, how wonderful to be back.
Beloved faces, familiar things.
Gwendolyn had been gone for nearly two years—two very interesting and enjoyable years during which, in the delightful company of the Marksons, not a single whiff of danger threatened (slightly to her disappointment), and even the inevitable discomforts of travel were, thanks to Mr. Markson’s careful planning, minimal.
She arrived in a joyful flurry of sketchbooks and art prints as well as an avalanche of little, carefully chosen gifts for family, friends, and servants. Goodness, so much had changed since she’d left! She had heard the news through the affectionate correspondence which had been a constant feature of her life while abroad, but it was one thing to read about things in letters, she thought, and quite another to witness them with her own eyes.
Katherine had had her babies—yes, babies, and, moreover, identical twins!—and now, with winter on the way, Cordelia and Rosalind were fast approaching their second birthday. They were both plump and cherubically beautiful, with curly dark hair and big, dark eyes sparkling with fun. They had let Gwendolyn kiss them right away, the darlings. How splendid, how glorious, to be an aunt!
And Katherine had done more than have babies.
Already the author of two successful books, she’d had two more published, one of them a second volume in what had become a series about British maritime history; the other was a bold, spirited defense of the novel as a suitable literary form not just for men but for women, too—both to read and to write—which had sparked a tremendous wave of responses, negative and positive. The negative ones, Katherine had wryly written to Gwendolyn, only served as a catalyst to further book-sales, and quite a few fellow authors whom she admired had said nice things about it so, on the whole, she was satisfied with its reception. She was, she added, working on a new book.
A novel.
Percy had at last fulfilled a long-held ambition and with Hugo’s assistance had purchased his commission, gaining a coveted spot as a lieutenant in the elite Royal Horse Guards. Despite his disappointment at having missed by months the tail end of the Army’s occupation in France, he accepted with reasonable equanimity his less exotic post at Windsor Palace—it providing him, most conveniently, an ample amount of free time in which to enjoy the many
and varietous pleasures of London.
His twin Francis, meanwhile, was now happily established at Oxford, while Bertram, likewise sanguine, was in his final year at Eton and looking forward to joining his elder brother at Oxford next year.
It was a bit of a shock, Gwendolyn thought, to peep into their neat, quiet bedrooms at home and to realize that her little brothers were now out in the world, each making his own way.
Next door, there was another sort of shock: the Becks’ house was empty, Mr. Beck having moved with Diana to Nottingham where he had a large nexus of business interests. Within months of his arrival, he had married again; with similar speed Diana had gotten married also, to an ambitious young barrister. Diana wrote infrequently, but often enough for Gwendolyn to learn that no word had come from Christopher and that Mr. Beck never even mentioned his son’s name. Still, he hadn’t sold their Whitehaven house, and left nailed on its front door a placard, his Nottingham address carefully painted on in small neat letters.
Gwendolyn went to look at the placard.
A cold, sharp wind, pungent and damp from the nearby ocean, whipped at the hems of her gown and pelisse, and she crossed her arms tightly against her chest to warm herself. Her eyes were fixed on the neat little letters, but into her mind had come a memory—a painting by Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez which she had seen in Madrid. Its subject was a striking young nobleman, dark-haired and dark-eyed, very proud and aloof in his black doublet, his neck and face set off by a small white pleated ruff and the strong, rather eerie shaft of light with which the painter had illuminated them. All else was shadows, black and deep, dark blue.
In the silent gallery at the Museo Nacional del Prado she had stood before the portrait, unmoving, until Mrs. Markson, who had unawares come to stand next to her, said in her soft, pleasant way:
“What marvelous technique.”
Gwendolyn had jumped. “Yes,” she answered, then added, gesturing at the proud young nobleman, “He reminds me of someone I know.”
“A friend, my dear?”
“Yes—well—I think so. Somebody from back home.”
A more forceful person might have commented upon the ambiguity of Gwendolyn’s reply, but Mrs. Markson only said mildly, “I see.” And together they went on to Bartolomé Esteban Murillo’s portrait of Saint Isidore of Sevilla, which, they both agreed, made them think that the famous saint would be a perfectly delightful person with whom to sit at dinner and enjoy a long, confidential chat.
Now, staring at the placard, Gwendolyn’s thoughts turned to Christopher’s father Mr. Beck. He had always seemed very pleasant, and generous too, yet he was also capable of shouting harshly at his son, according to Diana, and holding on to what struck Gwendolyn as a deep-seated anger.
People were complicated, she thought. How could one get to know another person—really know them?
All at once she realized she was shivering in the cold and, still with her arms crossed against her chest, turned away and swiftly went home, glad to step into its familiar light and warmth.
Some two years after Christopher’s fateful brawl in the horse-ring, a nephew of Mauro’s, having served under Marshal Suchet in Spain and thought to have been killed in the siege of Tarragona, arrived unexpectedly on the doorstep of the della Valle house, thin, careworn, but alive. He was greeted with tears of joy by his uncle, who suddenly looked twenty years younger. Tommaso, Christopher saw, was more than willing to stay on and work with Mauro, and before too many days had passed he went to Mauro who stood on the wide front loggia looking out over the spacious pasture where the horses—including two new ponies—were enclosed.
“Buongiorno, maestro,” said Christopher, coming to stand next to him.
“Buongiorno, Cristoforo. What do you think of our little Frieslands?”
“Very promising.”
“Sì. I believe so also.”
They stood in silence for a few minutes. With a heightened awareness Christopher took in the beauty of the Italian countryside on a crisp cold morning: the rolling green-brown hills, the sleeping orchards, a soft yellow winter sun overhead. Finally he said:
“Maestro, it’s time for me to go.”
Mauro looked at him. “You need not. You know that, don’t you?”
He smiled a little. “Thank you for your generosity, but—this is Tommaso’s time now.”
There was another silence.
Mauro said, “Where will you go, Cristoforo?”
“Back to England.”
“And what will you do there?”
“I don’t know.”
Mauro nodded. “Perhaps you’ll marry, and settle down.”
“Good Lord, maestro, who would have me?”
“You underrate yourself, Cristoforo.” Mauro looked at him contemplatively. Then: “You have changed a great deal since we first met.”
“God, I hope so.” Christopher laughed.
“You were uno selvaggio—a wild one. Like that chestnut you saved.”
“I think it was the chestnut that saved me, maestro.”
“Perhaps. You saved me, Cristoforo. From despair, and worse.”
“And you took me in. Thank you for that. Well—” Christopher felt within himself a sadness, but also, now, a rising eagerness to begin what came next. “I’ll go pack.”
Within minutes his old valise was filled with his few possessions. He went to see the horses one last time, then he shook hands, heartily, with Tommaso and embraced Mauro, who tried to press on him some money. This Christopher refused without hesitation. “I’ll work for my passage. I’ll go the same way I came, maestro.”
And then he was gone.
Whitehaven, England
February 1818
The family was gathered, as it always did after supper, in the library, where a warm fire crackled cheerfully in the big old hearth. On Hugo’s lap was little Rosalind, who was examining with intense concentration a small carved wood bear Gwendolyn had given her, and next to them on the sofa, snugged up close, was Katherine, who had leaned her head against Hugo’s shoulder and closed her eyes.
Gwendolyn, sitting on the hearthrug with Cordelia and playing pat-a-cakes with her, paused for a moment to look closely at Katherine, noticing—not for the first time—how pale and wan she appeared. Mama did too, Gwendolyn thought, turning her gaze to where her mother sat in her chair sewing a rent in one of Hugo’s shirts, though not with her usual energy.
It had been a hard winter for more than one member of the family. Aunt Claudia and Grandpapa had been laid low with the influenza, as had the maidservant Eliza here at home, and then the little twins had gotten sick too, altogether leading to several weeks of anxious nursing, both at home and at the parsonage where Grandpapa and the aunts lived. Gwendolyn had pitched in heedless of any risk to herself, and so had the kind Mrs. Studdart, but it had clearly taken its toll on both Mama and Katherine.
And here it was, nearly March.
Gwendolyn had something to say on the subject and was dreading it. She hated disappointing people she loved, but she knew it was the right thing to say and do. When should she tell them?
“Pat, pat,” demanded little Cordelia, and Gwendolyn, setting aside her pensive thoughts for the moment, at once obliged. And then Cook, immaculate in a neat gray gown and blindingly white ruffled cap, came into the library in her slow magisterial manner, in her hands a large tray.
“Sandwiches, stewed pears, and fresh-made ginger biscuits,” she announced, and put the tray down on the low table near the sofa where Hugo, Katherine, and little Rosalind were ensconced. “Do have some, madam, Mrs. Katherine,” she added, sternly eyeing them both. “Eliza says neither of you but barely touched your dinners.”
“Oh, thank you, Cook,” said Mama, looking guilty, “what a delightful-looking tea. Dinner was delicious. It’s just that I haven’t much appetite lately.”
“I know that, madam, don’t think I haven’t seen it. And I won’t have you going off into a decline. Mr. Hugo, you see that y
our good ladies eat.”
“Don’t worry, Cook, I’ll bully them into it,” promised Hugo, “ruthlessly,” and Cook nodded, satisfied.
“Letters came,” she said. “They’re next to the biscuits.”
With the same stately pace Cook departed, and Gwendolyn did the honors of the tea tray, handing round the letters as well. There were several for Katherine, one for Mama, and one for herself. She looked at it, puzzled; she didn’t recognize the large looped handwriting. But she put off opening it and instead shared a ham sandwich, some biscuits, and tea with Cordelia who ate and drank with a relish suitable to a person twice her size.
“Mama, what is it?” said Hugo, sharp concern in his voice. “What’s wrong? Is it Francis, or Percy? Bertram?”
Quickly Gwendolyn looked up at Mama, who held her letter, opened, in her hand and was silently weeping.
“No, no,” she answered shakily, and pulled a little wisp of a handkerchief from her reticule with which she mopped rather ineffectually at her face. “It’s not that, Hugo darling. It’s just that—I’m so relieved!”
“Relieved, Mama?” asked Gwendolyn. “What about?”
“Oh, Gwennie, I’m relieved about you, dearest.”
“Me? What do you mean, Mama?”
Her mother wiped her eyes again, and took a long restorative sip of tea. “It’s about your Season. I know you’ve been looking forward to it ever since you came home, and so was I, and dear Katherine as well, but when everybody fell ill . . .”
“I’ve been wanting to talk with you about my Season, Mama.” Gwendolyn took a deep breath, then went on: “I feel dreadful about letting you and Katherine down—and I hope you don’t think I’m being impertinent—but I just don’t think either of you are quite well enough to go to London this spring. I’m worried it would be, well, exhausting for you. So I propose we postpone it for a year.”
“I’d hate for you to have to do that, Gwennie,” said Katherine, looking remorseful.
“I don’t mind,” answered Gwendolyn stoutly. “Truly I don’t.”
“But that’s just it, Gwennie darling,” said Mama. “You can go. If you like.” She held up her letter. “This is from the Duchess of Egremont.”
