by Juliana Gray
“I . . . yes.” Lilibet nibbled at her toast.
“You look quite green. Or perhaps it’s just the light. Philip, you’ve a hearty appetite this morning. How are those kippers?”
“Splendid, thank you, Cousin Abigail.”
“Jolly splendid of them, to find kidneys and kippers for us. I wonder how they managed it.”
Lilibet forced down another bite of toast. “I suppose one can order these things. There are hundreds of English in Florence.”
“Yes, but how would they know?” Abigail leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice. “Don’t you think there’s something a bit odd about the old place?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Lilibet lifted her teacup to her lips; the fragrant steam seemed to soothe her stomach. “It’s an old castle, that’s all.”
“Really? You don’t feel it? As if there are ghosts hanging about every corner?” Abigail swept out one arm, illustrating ghosts, and nearly knocked over her tea.
“Ghosts!” Philip bounced in his seat. “Real live ones?”
“No, darling. Ghosts are generally dead,” said Abigail, with a kind expression. “But real dead ones, certainly.”
“What nonsense,” Lilibet said, ignoring the chill in her spine with iron-minded resolution. Old buildings were full of noises and drafts, after all. Quite enough to give one eerie feelings, with no basis in physical fact. “Ghosts, indeed.”
A shadow filled the doorway, making her jump: Signorina Morini, the housekeeper. “I have more toast, Signora Somerton, and more of the tea.”
“Thank you, Morini,” said Lilibet. “Are the gentlemen about yet? Lady Morley?”
Morini marched forward and placed a fresh rack of toast near Lilibet’s plate. An impressive woman, Signorina Morini, with her slender figure and her black hair confined by a brightly colored headscarf. From the earliest moment of their rain-soaked arrival at the castle three weeks ago, her capable fingers had taken firm control of the workings of the household. She’d found linens and food, shown them through the lonely rooms, sent word to the village for maids to bring the kitchen to life again. She maintained her benevolent rule from her stately post in the kitchens, overseeing the hive of activity like an all-knowing oracle. “Signore Burke, Signore Penhallow, they both had the breakfast, it is an hour ago. Of the duke, I see nothing.”
“Morini,” said Abigail, “I wonder if I could have a few words with you on the subject of ghosts.”
Morini’s hands, in the process of refilling Lilibet’s teacup, froze in place.
“Morini! The tea!” exclaimed Lilibet, and the housekeeper straightened the pot just in time.
“Ghosts,” said Morini. She looked from Lilibet to Abigail and back again. “Of ghosts, there are none.”
“Something else, then?” inquired Abigail. “Because I think the air’s humming with them.”
“Is nothing, signorina. Only the old stones, the wind rattling the old walls. You are wanting more tea?” She proffered the pot in Abigail’s direction.
An instant’s silence. Lilibet looked at Abigail and saw her locking eyes with the housekeeper, a queer intent expression on her face.
“I see,” she muttered at last, and then, “yes, more tea. I like your blend extremely, Morini.”
“But what about the ghosts?” demanded Philip. He reached across Lilibet’s plate to grasp a piece of toast.
“Darling, don’t reach. There are no ghosts, Morini says.” Lilibet found her knife and spread a thick layer of butter over Philip’s toast.
“No ghosts,” said Morini, in an almost unintelligible mutter, exiting the room in a gust of kitchen-scented air.
“She’s lying, of course.” Abigail gazed thoughtfully past her teacup to the doorway. “Did you see the look she gave me?”
“Nonsense. Philip, for heaven’s sake, don’t lick the butter from your toast. It isn’t considered at all polite.”
Abigail leaned back in her chair and tapped her finger against the rim of her teacup. “Very interesting.”
“I assure you, he doesn’t do it often . . .”
“Not the butter, Lilibet. I mean Morini.”
“Why?” Lilibet wiped her buttery hands on a neatly pressed white napkin. The stone walls of the dining room seemed colder and more shadowed than ever; the hint of sunshine from the north-facing windows made no impression whatsoever. She swallowed past the dryness in her throat and looked at Abigail with eyebrows raised. “Surely you don’t think she’s hiding something.”
“Of course I do.” Abigail’s eyes gleamed. She replaced the cup in its saucer with a satisfying clatter. “And I mean to find out exactly what it is.”
* * *
The groundskeeper glared at Roland with a look that seemed to lay all the world’s troubles at his booted feet. “Is a note for you,” he said, grudging every word. Not a friendly man, Giacomo; from the very first evening of their arrival, he’d regarded the Englishmen as intruders rather than legal tenants.
“A note! For me! Splendid news.” Roland paused delicately. “And have you perhaps got this note conveniently about you?”
The groundskeeper pursed his lips, giving the matter some thought. He lifted his cap, ran a grimy hand through the hair beneath, replaced the cap, and then thrust his hand into the pocket of his worn tunic. “Is not making any sense,” he said, extracting a folded piece of paper.
“What, my receiving a note? Seems perfectly sensible to me.” Roland snatched the paper away before the man could entertain second thoughts. A single glance at the seal—brown wax, with a small fox emblem—confirmed his suspicions. He slipped the paper into the inner pocket of his jacket and looked up at the cloudless sky. “Rather warm today, isn’t it?”
“The note. The note is not making any sense.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, er . . . Giacomo, isn’t it?” His eyes slid past the groundskeeper’s scowling face to take a thorough inventory of the road behind him. Standing here near the stable entrance, with the sun shining nearly overhead and the air mountain-clear, he could see every detail of the long drive leading to the main road, until it disappeared around the bend where Lilibet had trotted on ahead of him, three weeks ago. “I say, old chap,” he went on, “I don’t suppose you could tell me who delivered this?”
Giacomo folded his arms. “Is a boy from the village. Why you are having notes with words that are not making meaning?”
For the past few weeks, Roland had kept his brain unnaturally idle. He’d thumbed his way through parts of the library, of course, and endeavored to make some sort of foray into the academic study with which they were, after all, supposed to be engaged. But after so many years of leading a dual life in London, of keeping every sense alert while maintaining the general posture of a half-drunk wastrel, the easy pace of castle life had lulled him into a soporific daze. Or perhaps it was the nearness of Lilibet, whose lavender scent hovered around every corner, and whose image tantalized his every thought. Regardless, his reflexes were not at all what they’d been in the cold haze of London winter.
A second or two passed, therefore, before the cold prickle at Roland’s neck reached the thinking portion of his brain.
Words that are not making meaning.
And just how the devil would the groundskeeper know that?
He spoke with care. “I say, my dear fellow. You’ll forgive me. I had the impression—a quaint sort of custom, really, native to my own humble country—that my private notes were, in fact, private.” He put the faintest emphasis on the final word.
Giacomo made a pffting sound. Evidently he was not impressed with quaint English customs. “Is my duty, to know everything.”
Roland put his fists behind his back, in case they should break discipline and clench. He felt quite appallingly out of practice at this game. “Then perhaps your Engli
sh isn’t up to the challenge, old fellow.”
“Is not my English. Is the note.”
Roland heard a bird call out behind him, piercing the silence between them with incongruous exuberance. Giving thanks, no doubt, for the annual proliferation of willing avian females. Roland wished he could say the same of the human sort. Instead, he studied the face of Giacomo the groundskeeper, its folds and crags weighed down with suspicion, its small black eyes narrowed almost to slits. The noontime sun cast a straight shadow beneath the short peak of his cap, exactly bisecting his face.
Roland drew the note back out of his pocket. The seal was unbroken. He slipped his finger beneath and loosened the rounded wax with a practiced pop, decapitating the fox. The thin paper unfolded easily; the code he recognized at once. “Ah!” he said. “There’s your trouble. It’s from my grandsire, you see. Quite senile, and probably a bit the worse for a bottle or two of brandy, too, eh what?” He folded the paper again and placed it back in his pocket. “I can’t make heads or tails of it, either, to be perfectly honest.”
A ripple of doubt cast across Giacomo’s face. Roland could have fainted with relief.
He smiled instead.
“Well, then, Giacomo. I’m off to the kitchens to see if I can’t persuade them to feed me a spot of lunch. Care to join me?”
The scowl returned to Giacomo’s lips, this time even more pronounced. He pffted again, with vehemence.
“Ah! I shall convey your regrets to the kitchen. Perhaps . . .”
But Giacomo was already stomping back toward the stable, raising a faint puff of dust at every step.
Roland burned to read the note. The code came from Sir Edward himself—a recent one, and fairly complex. The message must therefore be vital. He turned toward the mellow yellow gray stones of the castle’s east wing, where the kitchens were located, and walked toward the side entrance with long and purposeful strides.
Well, two or three of them, in any case, before he was brought up short by the sight of Elizabeth, Lady Somerton, with a commodious picnic basket in one hand and his little lordship’s hand in the other. She was wearing a deep violet frock that billowed toward him in a gust of fresh breeze from the valley.
She hadn’t seen him yet. Her face pointed south, down the long line of terraces, thinking probably of picnic spots.
Roland’s mind hovered for a moment, watching her, balancing the two possibilities. On the one hand, Sir Edward’s note and his duty to Queen and country, to say nothing of his curiosity. On the other hand, Lilibet.
It was no contest, really.
Sir Edward could go hang himself.
* * *
Why can’t we go to the lake for a picnic? Why, Mama?” Philip’s voice veered dangerously close to a whine.
Because I looked out the window an hour ago and saw Lord Roland Penhallow walking in that direction. “Because the water’s still too cold, my dear. We’re much better off in the peach orchard.”
“It isn’t either! It isn’t cold at all! It’s April, Mama! Not winter!” This time he did whine, a solid respectable whinge, of which any five-year-old child might rightly be proud.
“All the same.”
Philip went silent, preparing a new line of attack. “But we don’t have to swim, just because it’s a lake,” he said at last.
“Philip, my dear, I know what little boys are capable of. If we picnic near the lake, you’ll wind up in the water at some point. And I’ve no linens, no change of . . .”
“Lady Somerton! What a delightful surprise!”
Lilibet jumped and turned in the same movement. “Lord Roland! Good God! You . . . what the devil . . .” Her head spun. He was supposed to be at the lake; she’d been sure of it. She’d been safe, secure.
But there he stood before her, broad shouldered and smiling, hatless, the sun spinning gold in his hair. The source—dear God!—of the growing life within her. “Going for a picnic?” he asked.
“Yes, we are, but . . .”
“Let me take your basket. It looks fearfully heavy.”
She relinquished the basket, too shocked to protest. Her serene afternoon had crumbled to bits around her. “But you . . . but you can’t . . .”
“Can’t I? Oh, come, Lady Somerton. You wouldn’t turn me away from a picnic, would you?”
“But . . .” She thought of something. “But Wallingford. The wager. We’re not allowed to mingle with the opposite . . .”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. My brother and his wagers. I’ll tell him I kidnapped the two of you, and take the forfeit myself. Shall compose the advertisement in the Times myself, the most abject apology.” He grinned at her, the sunlight dancing in his hazel eyes. “Let me join you. I’ll be perfectly well behaved.”
That damned smile of his. Those crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “I suppose so,” she heard herself say. “If you promise not to eat everything yourself.”
He gave the basket a little heft. “From the feel of it, there’s plenty.”
“Are you coming with us, your lordship?” asked Philip. He darted ahead and called back over his shoulder: “We’re going down to the lake!”
“To the lake! Splendid!”
“We are not going to the lake! We’re going to the . . .” Lilibet scrambled forward to catch up.
“Why ever not? It’s charming there. Clear mountain water, waves lapping against the shore, and all that. A fine choice.”
“But . . .” There didn’t seem any point protesting. After all, her one objection to the lake—namely, Roland’s presence there—had been made more or less redundant. “I suppose so, then,” she finished weakly.
“Excellent. Steady on, Philip!” Roland bounded on ahead after the boy, his tall body shimmering with grace and energy.
She followed the two of them down the terraced vineyards, one by one; across the tender new grass in the sheep meadow; past the apple and peach trees, heavy with rich-scented blossoms. The delicate spring air rushed against her cheek, smelling of newly turned earth, and the thread of anxiety in her belly began to mellow and ripen into something much nicer.
Something closer to anticipation.
SEVEN
Was it fair play to win a lady’s favor by complimenting her offspring? Roland pondered the matter briefly, and then concluded as he usually did when faced with questions of delicate ethics: Ignore them.
“He’s a fine boy,” Roland said, watching Philip arrange the stones on the lakeshore. He paused, searched his brain, and added: “Clever lad.”
“Too clever at times,” she answered, in a quiet voice. She sat with her back against the sturdy trunk of an olive tree, her gaze pinioned to her son’s every move. “Don’t go too close to the water, Philip!” she called out.
The boy pretended not to hear. Roland could tell, having utilized the technique on a regular basis as a child. Well, he still did, to be perfectly honest. He leaned back on one elbow and considered Lilibet from the corner of his eye.
She’d been friendly enough. Too friendly, perhaps: the sort of shallow familiarity she’d shown when she first walked into the stables three weeks ago, pretending nothing existed between them. He reached for another piece of cheese from his napkin and let the pungent flavor fill his mouth.
Time to stir things up, he decided.
“Tell me,” he said, turning over to face her, “what was your husband like?”
“Is,” she said. “He still exists. He’s still my husband.”
“What is he like, then?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” She gave him a direct look. “I suppose you know him as well as I do, after all. You move in the same circles.”
“Not really. I know him by reputation.”
She shrugged. “Well, there you are. Reputations are seldom wrong in the essentials.” Sh
e reached behind her head and pulled out a single long hatpin. “But I suppose you were really asking what sort of lover he was. That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it?”
He choked and sat up. “Good God.”
She smiled and lifted her hat from her head, setting it on the ground beside her. “You think I can’t be daring? That I’m still the same girl I was six years ago?”
“Of course not. And I adore you even more for it.”
This time she laughed. “Well, it’s no more than you deserve, prying like that. I ought to tell you, just to make you think twice before you ask such things again.”
She was just far enough away that he couldn’t touch her. He longed to reach out his hand, to make some sort of contact, but her hat sat on the grass between them like a prim, long-brimmed chaperone. Had he really experienced carnal knowledge of that body? Felt those eager hips surge against his?
“Only say what you want,” he said.
She returned her gaze to Philip. “What’s there to say? I had to put you from my head. I had to. I owed it to Lord Somerton, to the idea of marriage itself. I thought . . . well, I knew his reputation, of course. But I was naive; I didn’t know what it meant. What one really did in bed with someone, what that entailed.”
“Oh, surely not!” he exclaimed. “You can’t have been that ignorant.”
She slanted him an enigmatic look. “I knew the essential mechanics. But not everything else.”
“The best parts, you mean. God knows I imagined them with you.”
“Did you?”
Was that a note of flirtation in her tone? Roland’s nerves jumped to attention. This he knew how to handle. This was his territory. “My dear Lilibet,” he drawled, “if you’d known the sort of lascivious thoughts in my head as I spun you around those blasted ballrooms, you’d have tossed your lemonade in my face.”
She didn’t laugh, didn’t arch her eyebrow, didn’t play along. Her eyes made a lightning check on Philip, before returning to Roland. Something in her expression made him lean forward, trying to read the soft blue of her eyes. Nostalgia? Desire?
