by Lora Thomas
“Really? Who? Anyone I know? Please don’t tell me it is Drakos.” Martin laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot?”
“You are not helping matters any, Martin.”
“I thought it was humorous. You want to go home, and if Drakos and Madelena were upon the same ship, you’d go mad.”
“Shut it,” Oliver snapped. “And, no, it is not Drakos. It’s some chap named Ross who came to Rome with his wife a month ago. His father knows my aunt. He is traveling home, and passage had already been paid prior to him coming.”
Martin nodded. “So they had already booked passage. That explains why I haven’t seen anyone by that name.” He looked down at the correspondences upon his desk. “I think I will work a bit.”
“Go ahead. I am not much company.”
“Then go enjoy the day.” Martin pulled out his pocket watch. “It is nearly ten. Meander around the square a bit. Maybe something will catch your interest.”
“I’ll see you this evening.”
When Oliver left, Valerio spoke, “I take it he doesn’t see eye to eye with Signore Drakos.”
“Who does?”
“Not many. What did Drakos do anyway? Young St. John there seems like an easygoing fellow.”
“It is complicated.”
“It usually is.”
Martin sat down behind his desk. “Nothing that would interest you. Go back to sleep. I will handle any business until the aftereffects of whatever spirit you indulged in has dissipated.”
“Homemade whiskey. Worst drink I have ever placed in my mouth.”
“Then why did you drink it?”
“And let my brother know that I couldn’t handle his brew? Preposterous.”
Martin laughed. “Sleep, my friend. I have a feeling that our week is about to become busy.”
Oliver left Martin’s office and traveled to the docks. He loved watching the ships come in. Listening to the various captains bellow orders and watching the crews bustle about seemed to give purpose to the chaotic order of life. Crewmen scurried up the rigging to secure canvases, and dockworkers raced to the incoming ships to tether the lines. Seagulls squawked in search of an easy meal. Life seemed simple. If only that were the case.
“Easy, men!” a captain ordered as his ship eased into a slip. The sound of the bow of the boat gently tapping the wooden pier caused Oliver to study the vessel.
It was well crafted and appeared relatively new. No barnacles were upon the belly, and the lines and rigging were not dulled from the wear of time. The white sails were pristine and blinding, even tethered to the mast. His eyes roamed over the entire ship as he looked for flaws. Despite the newness of the vessel, Oliver could see weakness.
“Your stern was not properly pitched!” Oliver shouted to the captain.
The captain looked down from the railing. “What say you?”
Oliver cupped his hands to his mouth. “Your stern is not properly pitched! You will take on water by month’s end.”
A scowl settled over the captain. The captain looked like so many with a beard and deep lines around his weathered eyes from years of squinting in the sun. You could tell that his hair was once a dark brown but was now faded from the sun. The captain’s clothing was well laundered, despite the wrinkles upon the front of his shirt.
“You say my pitch is bad?” the captain inquired. “How do you know?”
“I build ships.” Oliver pointed to a section on the stern, just above the waterline. “The pitch was not applied thick enough. Your ship will take on water by the end of the month if more is not applied. I have built many ships, and I am here to tell you, that needs to be repaired or you and your crew will be swimming to your next destination. The pitch appears thick, but it is low quality. Mixed with another substance. Most likely whoever applied the sealant was skimping in order to make the supply last longer…or make more of a profit.”
The captain growled. “It is by God’s graces that you were here to see this. Thank you. I will see to it immediately.”
“You are welcome.”
The captain turned, leaving the railing, and called for the carpenter. How simple life is with a hammer and a saw in one’s hands. Things just make sense. But now? Now, nothing makes sense. Ever since meeting Madelena, nothing had made sense. From their first meeting where he knocked her down, she had intrigued him. The mysterious basket lady from a week ago was all he could think about. And when he learned who she was, despite the warnings to avoid her, he found that he could not. What spell had she cast over him?
Oliver meandered along the pier, allowing his thoughts to haunt him. He hated that he had been so rude to Drakos. He did not want Madelena to see him as a spiteful bastard. But how was he supposed to react after their intimate encounter and then being introduced to her betrothed? It was too much. He knew she had not betrayed him. He knew she was to be wed. But seeing her with Drakos caused rage like he had never experienced before to fill his soul. He needed to apologize to Madelena. To set things right before he left. He did not want her to regret her decision about seeking him out for her first encounter.
Turning, he left the docks and headed back to Martin’s home. People were waking from the previous evening’s festivities. Men could be heard laughing, and the mumble of voices blending together echoed around him. Peddlers were trolling the streets with their goods. Children were laughing and running, playing a game of chase. He passed the Fountain of the Four Rivers, and the corner of his mouth twitched at the memory of Madelena and him splashing in the water.
Oliver turned right and continued his trek home. Maybe Martin was correct. Perhaps he needed to put Madelena out of his mind by seeking companionship with another. His eyes drifted over the women present. They were beautiful, but none held his interest. Some were sitting at an outdoor café with their mothers enjoying a mid-day meal. He knew these types of women. They were on the prowl for a wealthy husband. The veneer of civility they put on soured his stomach. Many times in the past, he had socialized with women just like these, and each time he found them just as revolting.
He made his way back to Martin’s home and walked around the structure to the log. Removing his coat, he rolled up his sleeves and snatched the hatchet from where it was buried deep into the wood. If he could not have the woman he wanted, then he would take his frustrations out on the only thing that would not protest.
Over and over he brought the hatchet down, sending fragments of wood flying all around. He attacked the wood until his arms screamed with pain, and his hands burned from the force of his grip. He looked down at his hands. The injury to his hand had been healing, but now it lay open again with ugly raised blisters. Splinters were scattered about his fingers. Martin needed better tools. Pushing the pain to the back of his mind, he grabbed the hatchet again. Perhaps he could finish Martin’s boat before he left. Better yet, perhaps he would work himself to the point he collapsed and not have to think about Madelena again.
Chapter Twenty-One
It had been four days since the Cancios’ ball. Jacob would be here this afternoon, and Oliver could put Rome behind him once and for all. These past four days had been hell. He kept his mind occupied during the day by working on Martin’s boat, but at night he could not sleep so he drank. He knew he looked a mess.
Bloodshot eyes peered back at him from the mirror, as he ran a hand over his unshaven face. He was amazed Geneva had not complained about his appearance. He looked worse than any deckhand he had ever seen and smelled worse, too. He needed a hot bath and a good shave.
Opening the door to his room, he stepped out into the hallway and spotted a servant.
“You there,” Oliver said. “I need a bath.”
The older woman stopped and turned, her arms full of linens. Heat flooded the woman’s face as she diverted her eyes to the floor. “Yes, signore. I will have one brought up.”
Oliver closed the door and looked down. Closing his lids, he growled. No wonder the woman looked like she had walked in on the Henshaws n
aked for he was lacking a shirt and his breeches were unbuttoned, exposing the hair around his manhood.
Fastening his breeches, he approached a chair and pulled on a discarded shirt.
There was a rap upon the door before it opened. The servants worked quickly readying the bath. A large wooden tub was brought up along with several pails of warm water. Clean linens were placed upon his bed while he waited, and several clean towels were left behind as they departed.
Dipping some of the water from the tub, he opted to shave first. After his whiskers were removed, he entered the water and scrubbed away the toils of his work. Once cleaned, he dressed and exited the room.
He found Martin and Geneva sitting in the dining room. Martin sat at the head, Geneva beside him, each with a newspaper.
Martin peered over the top of his paper. “Don’t move, Geneva. A wild beast has emerged from his den, and I fear that we might spook it.”
“Martin,” Geneva scolded. “It is good to see you bathed and shaven, Oliver. I was beginning to think that you had forgotten that we owned a tub.”
“I apologize.” Oliver approached the breakfast buffet and filled a plate with sausages and eggs. Approaching the table, he took a seat beside Martin, opposite to Geneva.
“Martin tells me that your brother will be here today,” Geneva began.
Oliver nodded. “Yes. Jacob. Do not worry about him staying with you. He lives upon his ship.”
“You mean palace,” Martin mumbled.
“Martin,” Geneva scolded.
“What? It is the truth. His ship is far grander than many of the homes in Rome. I was always afraid to touch something, afraid it would break.”
“You are clumsy,” Oliver said.
“No. Your brother scares the life out of me. Hell, most of them do. And they’re vengeful, too. If I did break something, they would take great delight in tormenting me. Slowly picking away at me until there would be nothing left.”
“They are not that bad,” Oliver spoke. “They are worse.”
Geneva shook her head in disbelief. “You both are going to grow warts from your lies.”
“They are not lies,” Martin defended. “They are the truths. Did I ever tell you the one time that Nathan and Noah tied me upside down to the mast of a ship because I accidentally knocked Noah into a puddle?”
“Horse manure,” Oliver said.
“It was not!”
“No. It was not a puddle. It was a large pile of horse manure from where the stalls had just been mucked. If you are going to tell stories, please make certain that you have the details correct.”
“That is not the point, Oliver. The point is that they are vengeful. Their revenge is worse than the crime committed.”
Oliver shrugged as he stabbed a piece of sausage with his fork. “It builds character.”
Geneva laughed. “Oh, Martin. You do take things a tad too seriously.”
“Me? I am not the one who has been sulking around the house all week.” Martin shot a look in Oliver’s direction.
“He has been quite productive. At least he finally has that stupid log formed into a boat and in the pond. Whereas, if I had waited on you, it would still be a rotting log in my backyard.”
Martin snapped his mouth closed and flipped the paper back up over his face.
“Thank you for that, by the way,” Geneva said. “It is a beautiful boat.”
“My pleasure,” Oliver said. “She just needs a name, and you will be ready for Martin to paddle you across the pond.”
“What should I call it?”
Oliver leaned back in his seat. “Salacia.”
“The Roman Goddess of the sea. Perfect! I am surprised you know your mythology so well. Many do not.”
Oliver picked up his fork and began his meal again. “Mother made certain that my siblings and I were well educated. We had several governesses who were well versed in many cultures and languages. Yet I am ashamed to admit I have forgotten many of the Roman and Greek gods.”
“Several governesses? That is unheard of.”
“We are St. Johns,” Martin attempted to mimic Oliver’s voice. “We are known for being eccentric.”
“Jealous?” Oliver retorted with arrogance.
Martin folded his paper and laid it upon the table. “Do you see what I had to put up with during my childhood?”
The tone of Martin’s voice let Geneva know that her husband was only jesting. For years she had heard Martin speak of the friendship and adventures he had with Oliver during his youth. In her opinion, Martin revered Oliver and thought of him more like a brother than a friend.
Martin stood and placed a kiss upon Geneva’s lips. She returned the affection.
“I am needed at the office for a bit. Geneva, my love, do you think you can entertain that scamp until I return?” Martin asked.
“No need,” Oliver replied. “Stephano has asked me to stop by before I leave. Seems the old boy likes me and wants to use Emerald Shipping.”
“Really? I had no idea,” Martin replied with sarcasm. “It’s not like you boasted about it all that evening.”
“Indeed.” Oliver pushed his plate away and stood. “Seems to me that I am a better salesman than you are.”
Martin snorted. “No.”
“Really? I thought the Mortilinis would never ship with us?”
“That is not what I said. I just said I had never had the opportunity to speak with them. They travel extensively and speaking with Stephano’s father is near impossible.”
Oliver grinned. “Then that is why you must speak with the son. You see, Stephano is the contact.”
“How do you know this?” Martin asked in surprise.
“Hang around me, Martin, and you will find out all sorts of juicy tidbits.”
Martin laughed. “Gossip. Your knack of discovering information would land me in the jail for a night or two. A residence I do not wish to try.” Martin looked at Geneva. “I will be back soon, my love.”
The men left.
Oliver made his way to the townhouse Stephano had rented for his time in Rome. It was a short walk from Martin’s. The home was red brick with matching clay shingles. Climbing the few steps, Oliver approached the front door and rapped.
The door was opened by an aging man with gray hair. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. Tell Signore Mortilini that Oliver St. John is calling.”
“Signore Mortilini is expecting you. Please follow me.”
Oliver followed the butler into the home. The inside was larger than it appeared with tall ceilings and intricately carved crown molding. Entering the study, Oliver was impressed. Several rows of books lined a wall along with paintings of landscapes from throughout Italy.
“Oliver!” Stephano exclaimed from behind the mahogany desk. “You are early.”
Oliver approached a set of high back chairs by the desk. “I like to keep you on your toes, old boy.”
“That you do. Hell, I never know what to expect from you. Lawrence, please bring us some refreshments.”
“That is all right. I just ate.”
“Very well. Please inform any visitors that I am momentarily indisposed and will call upon them shortly.”
“Very good, signore.” Lawrence turned and left, closing the door behind him.
“I am glad you are early,” Stephano said, coming from behind the desk to take the seat adjacent to Oliver. “I have a few things I need to discuss with you.”
“What would you like to discuss?”
“First, the shipping of my goods. Can you guarantee their delivery?”
“Like all matters in shipping, nothing is guaranteed. There are many variables to consider. Weather, rough seas, the number of ships in line to dock. That being said, we have missed very few deliveries. Once a storm sank a ship. Another time, the docks at London were overly crowded, and the vessel could not dock for nearly a month. Because of that instance, we purchased a slip in London. We have at least one slip in the majority of port
s we travel to. In some we have more—such as in the Caribbean. But I can say that Emerald Shipping will do its damnedest to make certain that your merchandise reaches its destination safely and in a timely manner.”
“What of valuable cargo? What type of insurances do you have?”
“If the property is traveling through the Caribbean, we have a former pirate ship that we use as an escort vessel if need be. The crew of the said ship are former pirates and know how to fight and fear nothing.”
“You employ pirates?”
Oliver nodded. “Yes. In fact, several former pirates are now part of my family.”
Stephano laughed. “Hell’s teeth! Your family is something.”
“That we are.”
“So. My wine will be transported safely, timely, and be escorted by pirates.”
“If need be, then yes, an escort can be arranged.”
“I will have my solicitor pay Martin a visit to finish the details. Is that acceptable?”
“It is.”
“Good. Now, article two. I need your opinion.”
“On what matter?”
Reaching inside the pocket of his brocade vest, Stephano removed a small box and handed it to Oliver.
Oliver opened the box. The ring inside was delicately made with a sapphire stone mounted in the center.
“It is a lovely ring and a kind gesture, but I do not think I am your type to love,” Oliver teased.
“You don’t have the type of parts I need to love.”
Oliver laughed. “I take it this is for Signorina Valenti?”
“It is. Do you think she will like it?”
“I have no idea. I only met the chit once.”
“Is it acceptable?”
“Depends on what you want to be accepted?” Oliver gave Stephano a knowing look.
“Quit torturing me, St. John. Marriage. It is a suitable engagement ring?”
“It is a lovely ring. She will be thrilled.”
