A Grand Tour (Timeless Victorian Collection Book 2)

by Anthea Lawson

  Ken peered out the window, then pulled the curtains closed. He leaned across her to repeat the action on the other side, leaving the interior in darkness. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I really do want to give you a surprise.”

  “You were able to get away, I see,” Bodkin said.

  Ken’s knee bumped against hers.

  “Yes, Rosalie went to sleep early, and Lillian not long after. A fortunate occurrence if ever there was one.”

  “Luck shines on our little venture,” Bodkin said. Eleanor could hear the smile in his voice.

  “I suppose even young people wear out eventually,” Ken said. “My charges are even now attending a ball with Mrs. Daines.”

  “Oh yes, the Wheelers’ ball. The Blakelys were quite sad to decline that invitation.”

  “I can believe it.” Ken’s voice sounded compassionate. “The villa is reputed to be one of the finest in Rome.”

  The ride lasted nearly twenty minutes in Eleanor’s estimation. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of where they might be going. But, even though she tried to keep track of the turns the carriage made, she was distracted by the proximity of Ken. Something about the darkness made her very aware of him. She could hear his breathing and feel the heat where his arm touched her shoulder.

  The carriage drew to a stop, and Ken peeked through the curtains. “Are you ready?”

  Eleanor nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “I’m ready.”

  Ken opened the door and exited the carriage, holding her hand as she stepped out behind him. Bodkin followed.

  She looked around, recognizing where they were immediately. Even in the dark, the shadow of the Colosseum was unmistakable. “Are we going to check on the progress of the Temple of Caesar?”

  Ken smiled mischievously. His eyebrows bounced, but he didn’t answer. He took her hand and walked up a hill in the other direction—away from the Forum. The Basilica di San Clemente? Baths of Titus? For the life of her, Eleanor couldn’t figure out where Ken was leading her.

  They stepped from the paving stones and onto the grass of a park. Ahead, a grouping of lights shone, figures moving among them.

  “Buonasera,” Bodkin called.

  The shadows waved in greeting. It appeared the people were expecting them. But why? And what were they doing here in the middle of the park?

  “Miss Doyle, a pleasure to see you again.” Eleanor recognized Signore Celino as they drew closer and he was no longer merely a shadow.

  “Nice to see you as well, Signore Celino.”

  The guide bowed. “And Professor Kendrick. Come, the entrance is this way.” He led them toward the lights, and after a moment, they were no longer walking on grass, but stone blocks covered with plants. The lights were clustered around a hole in the brick floor. And Eleanor knew precisely where they were—not a floor, but a ceiling.

  “Domus Aurea,” she breathed. Nero’s Golden Palace. She clasped her hands together and turned toward Ken. “But the entrance is restricted.”

  He was grinning. “Restricted, yes, but not forbidden. Nothing is forbidden when your friend is Alastair Bodkin.”

  “Can we go inside?”

  He nodded.

  Eleanor was breathless. She couldn’t keep her own grin from growing. “Oh, Ken. What a marvelous surprise!”

  He watched her, his smile softening, then he tipped his head toward the entrance. “Shall we, then?”

  They peered down into the hole. Lanterns were placed on the ground below, lighting up the interior of the vaulted underground space. A ladder of ropes with boards fastened between them hung downward.

  “I’ll descend first,” Ken said. “I’ll hold the ladder steady from beneath, so—”

  “So if I fall, I’ll squash you.”

  Bodkin laughed. “And then I’ll fall and squash both of you.”

  Ken climbed onto the ladder, then called out when he reached the bottom.

  Eleanor put on her coat, and Bodkin held her arm as she twisted around and moved backward to the opening. She held her skirts to the side, settling her boot onto the first board, the heel keeping her foot from slipping off. She started downward. The temperature dropped as she neared the floor. After only a few moments, she felt Ken’s hand on her back and, with his help, stepped down the last few steps.

  Ken held the ropes as Bodkin descended, and Eleanor stepped out of the way—even though he’d been joking, she didn’t fancy being squashed by the round man—and looked around her in wonder. She stood in a domed room of brick and concrete with passages leading from it in various directions. Rubble covered the floors, and on the walls, between trailing vines and patches of decay, colorful frescoes, pictures of scenery, animals, and people were still visible.

  Eleanor knew about the Domus Aurea from her readings, but she’d never imagined she’d actually be allowed inside.

  In its time, Nero’s Golden Palace had sprawled over an enormous portion of Rome. The extravagance of the palace was unequaled, and an embarrassment to later rulers, who stripped it of its finery and closed it up, constructing instead buildings for the people, such as the Baths of Caracalla and the Colosseum.

  The palace was believed to have been lost until a young man in the fifteenth century fell into a hole on a hillside and found himself in a cave surrounded by vibrant mosaics.

  Ken brought a lantern, holding it high so she could see the paintings on the domed ceiling. Most of the images were difficult to recognize with their missing pieces, but the colors were there—paint that had remained in place for nearly two millennia. He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  Eleanor nodded, utterly awestruck. Most of the exits were blocked, some completely collapsed, but Ken led them confidently forward toward a clear doorway. They followed a passageway and entered a wide room with high ceilings. The paintings on the walls were divided into irregular sections, and inside each was the image of a person. Men and women wearing robes, some with laurel-leaf crowns, looked into the room, as if peering through individual windows. Ken lifted the lantern, and by its glow, they studied the Roman faces.

  “Seems like a friendly sort of chap,” Bodkin said, holding his lantern near a painting of a man in a gold colored robe who held a glass of wine. “Someone you could have a drink with.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Eleanor said. She kept her voice low, but it still echoed through the chamber. “All these images, so perfectly preserved.”

  “Only a few of the rooms have been excavated, and we can only guess what treasures must be contained here, buried for so long. The emperor’s decadence made this palace a marvel of architecture and artistic achievement.” Ken’s voice echoed through the chamber, the natural storyteller emerging.

  “Imagine coming as a guest to Nero’s Pleasure Palace,” he said, leading them to another room. The walls in this chamber contained openings where statues must have once stood.

  “I don’t think Nero invited teachers to his parties,” Eleanor pointed out.

  “Probably right,” Ken said. “We would not be part of his inner circle.” He straightened his arm, releasing her hold on his elbow, then swept up her hand in his, leading her through another passageway. The action was so natural, yet it sent a thrill through her.

  Ken continued as if nothing unusual had happened. “But pretend, for a moment, that you’re a Roman citizen with an invitation to the Golden House. To arrive, you’d cross a man-made lake, which historians reported to be more like a sea, then climb the marble steps and cross between mighty pillars. You would pass through a courtyard displaying a colossal statue of the emperor—over one hundred and twenty feet high—then make your way through the three hundred rooms, each more spectacular than the last, with walls covered in rich paintings and intricate mosaics of ivory and gold inlaid with jewels. You’d enjoy lush gardens filled with statuary, waterfalls, fountains, and zoos with exotic animals. If you were hungry, you could feast in halls laden with table after table of delicacies. Perhaps you might stop for a time an
d watch a dramatic performance or a troupe of dancers or bathe in the enormous bath complex. You may choose to visit the marketplace. If you were one for art, you’d admire masterpieces and sculpture from Greece and Asia Minor in the galleries.”

  Ken pulled on her hand, leading her into the next room and held up the lantern to reveal a spacious round chamber. “Then, at last, you’d arrive at the emperor’s main banquet hall.”

  Bodkin stepped in behind them, his lantern giving further light to the vast space.

  Ken lifted his chin, pointing upward. “The ceiling of this room revolved slowly, day and night, in time with the sky. Panels could slide back to shower guests with flower petals, and hidden sprinklers would spray perfume.”

  “Unbelievable,” Eleanor said. She looked around the room and tried to imagine the crumpled rocks and vines were gone, and instead it was filled with tables, music, and ancient Romans. “It must have been . . .” No words could convey her amazement at this place.

  “Certainly knew how to throw a party, didn’t he?” Bodkin said.

  Ken showed them a large, brick-covered cylinder in the passageway beside the room. The massive construction extended from the floor to the ceiling. “This is believed to contain the device used to rotate the ceiling,” he said. “But the place is still too fragile to break it open and see.”

  “Don’t want the roof caving in on them, eh?” Bodkin said, peering up at the structure.

  “There’s something else you’ll want to see,” Ken said, squeezing her hand. “This way. I saved the best for last.”

  They walked back through the banquet hall and down the passageway to the window room, then took a different doorway.

  “The access is not fully cleared,” Ken said, leading her around a partially collapsed doorframe. A breeze blew in from above, indicating another opening to the outside nearby. They continued around piles of rocks and, at times, climbed over or ducked beneath when the passage became too small. “It’s just ahead,” Ken said.

  They emerged into a large room, mosaics forming geometric shapes around the top of the wall near the ceiling. Here and there, tiles were missing, but the work was mostly intact. They studied the pattern for a moment, then Ken took her to the side of the chamber, lifting the lantern to reveal a smooth, white wall.

  When she looked closer, she could see names—hundreds of them—had been carved into the plaster. “Oh, people shouldn’t have . . .” she began, but stopped. “Does that say Raphael Sanzio?”

  “It certainly does,” Ken said. He pointed to another spot on the wall. “And here, Michelangelo Buonarroti signed his name as well. Artists and historians alike crawled in here throughout the centuries, studying the remains of the palace, especially the extraordinary paintings, then left evidence that they’d come.” He showed her other names: Lord Byron, Cassanova, and the Marquis de Sade.

  Eleanor thought the graffiti was almost as interesting as the palace. Some of the people had left dates beside their names, some carved images.

  Ken handed her the lantern and pulled a small knife from his pocket. “What do you think? Should we add our names?”

  “Oh, I don’t—”

  He didn’t wait for her approval but set to work. After a few moments, he’d made a small E.D. & R.K directly beneath a painting of a flowering tree. A giggle bubbled up from inside, and Eleanor couldn’t keep it from bursting out.

  “What’s so amusing?” Ken asked.

  She shook her head, blushing. “Nothing.”

  He watched her for a moment, brows raised, waiting.

  She pointed toward the letters. “It just seems adolescent—like something a starry-eyed youth would do.”

  Ken squinted, then turned back to carve a heart around the initials. Eleanor’s eyes went wide, and her breath caught. The action was so silly, and yet its implications . . .

  “Displays of affection aren’t reserved for the young.” Ken traced the heart with his finger. “Nor are the sentiments that inspire them.”

  His words sent a delicious shiver over her.

  “Are you cold?” Ken slipped the knife back into his coat and moved closer, rubbing her arms up and down. “I should have brought you a scarf.”

  Bodkin had discreetly disappeared, and when she noticed it, Eleanor blushed again. “It’s not too cold.” Feeling brave, she laid her cheek on his chest.

  His arms went around her, pulling her against him.

  “Tonight was more wonderful than I could have imagined,” Eleanor said. “Thank you.”

  “I like surprising you. And your reaction didn’t disappoint.”

  Ken stepped back but didn’t release her. He crooked a finger beneath her chin, tipping her face up. The shadows from the lantern played over the planes of his face and shined in his eyes. “I’m glad you came to Rome, Miss Eleanor Doyle. More than I can say.”

  Eleanor’s knees felt like pudding, and her heart fluttered. “As am I.”

  Ken held Eleanor’s hand in the carriage, pleased that she leaned comfortably against him as they rode back to her pensione. They’d taken a different route home, delivering Bodkin to his apartments directly after leaving the Domus Aurea.

  Bodkin had complained of a headache, but Ken thought his friend was just using the excuse to provide them with some time alone together.

  The excursion had turned out even better than he’d hoped. Eleanor had been—Ken’s heart warmed as he remembered the delight in her eyes when she realized their destination—Eleanor had been perfect.

  The carriage stopped, and the two exited, stopping outside the pensione door.

  She turned toward him, smoothing the coat over her arm. “Thank you again, Ken. Tonight was magical.”

  In the light of a streetlamp, he saw her cheeks redden. He lifted her hand, pressing a kiss on her gloved knuckles. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

  “I shall be sad when the time comes to bid farewell to Italy,” Eleanor said. This last month . . .” She raised her gaze to his but then looked away quickly. “I have enjoyed it more than I can say.”

  Ken’s chest felt light. “Then let’s do it again. Find another night when the young people are—”

  The door flew open. Lillian stood in her dressing gown, her eyes wide. “There you are, Miss Doyle.” She looked past them toward the street. “And where is Rosalie?”

  Eleanor stepped away from Ken. “What do you mean? She is in her bed.”

  Her voice trailed off as Lillian shook her head. “She isn’t. I couldn’t sleep, so I crept into her room to find the book she’d told me about.” Lillian glanced at Ken, then pulled her robe tighter. “She’s not there.”

  “Impossible.” Eleanor rushed through the door and up the stairs, Lillian directly behind. His stomach sinking, Ken followed. Eleanor hurried through a doorway into what Ken assumed was Rosalie’s bedchamber.

  “Pardon my manners, Professor Kendrick,” Lillian said. “I am a bit rattled tonight.” She dipped in a curtsy.

  “Think nothing of it.” Ken didn’t know what else to do, so he started lighting the gas lamps in the sitting room.

  A moment later, Eleanor emerged from the bedchamber, a creased paper in her hand. “She’s gone to the Wheelers’ ball with Mr. Reid.” Her voice wasn’t panicked or angry, but the resignation in her flat tone was worse than either. Her shoulders were slumped and her eyes unfocused. She looked utterly devastated.

  Ken jumped into action. He must make this right. “I’ll fetch her.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Eleanor followed him toward the stairway.

  He stopped, taking her by the arms. He wanted to pull her into an embrace, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate it, not under these circumstances and in front of Lillian. “No.” He spoke gently, tilting his head to catch her eye. “You need to stay here. She may return while I’m gone.”

  She shook her head, opening her mouth to answer, but he put an arm around her, leading her back to the sofa. “While I think you look fetching this evening, you aren’t dre
ssed for a ball. If you were to storm into the Wheelers’ villa demanding to see Rosalie . . .” He eased her down to sit. “Well, I know you are hoping for discretion.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Eleanor said in the same flat voice.

  “Perhaps some tea,” Ken said to Lillian, motioning toward Eleanor. “I’ll return within the hour.”

  Twenty minutes later, Ken entered the party. He knew his clothing wasn’t suitable for the formal affair, but he was pleased to find his recent fame allowed others to forgive what they considered his eccentricities. Being dusty only contributed to the image, as did the fact that he didn’t stop for small talk.

  The villa was indeed marvelous, but he had no time to admire it. He scanned the ballroom and then, not seeing them, broadened his search. Eventually, he found Harlan on an outside balcony with Rosalie, Adrian, and his aunt, Mrs. Daines.

  Rosalie’s eyes widened when she saw him. She grasped Harlan’s arm and looked like she was considering whether to run or hide.

  “Ken, what . . . ?” Harlan said, looking pointedly at his dirty clothing.

  “Good evening, Madam.” Ken tipped his hat to a surprised Mrs. Daines, then turned to the young people. “I’ve just left two very worried women at Miss Blakely’s pensione.”

  “But they were supposed to be asleep,” Rosalie said, as if that excused her deception.

  “Yes, well, they are not. Come along, Miss Blakely, and you as well, Harlan. The two of you have some explaining to do.” He held out a hand toward the doorway. “And I think both Miss Doyle and Miss Blakely are owed an apology.”

  “Miss Doyle will be so angry with me.” Rosalie pressed her fingers against her lips, then spoke through them, her forehead wrinkling. “Was she angry?”

  “I’m afraid she was.”

  “Harlan, what is this?” Mrs. Daines asked. “You didn’t tell Rosalie’s companions that she was accompanying you tonight?”

  “She wouldn’t allow me to come,” Rosalie said softly.

  Adrian winced, his knowledge of the deception apparent in his guilty expression.