Charlotte lowered her cup. “You were looking at him.”
Under her powder, Verity’s cheeks pinkened. “That’s different; I’m not engaged to be wed. I may not be the strictest chaperone when it comes to your meandering about the estate on your horse, for I fail to see how you could be importuned on such a beast, but watching an almost nude male is another matter.”
“He was fully clothed.”
“It didn’t seem like it, did it? Now come. You can sit in this chair over here, so the window won’t be in your direct line of sight.” She took Charlotte by the arm and led her to a chair facing the fire and gently pushed her into it. “I vow, but chaperoning is much more difficult than I imagined.”
Aunt Verity returned to her settee, adjusted her skirt’s panniers to each side, her neck quite flushed where there was no powder. After a long, awkward moment, she asked, “I don’t suppose you know who he is?”
“He’s the Italian sculptor Mama commissioned to make the fireplace in the dining room.”
“He’s Italian and an artist, too? Good God, what was your mother thinking? And now he’s out there, wandering around with no clothes on.”
Charlotte laughed. “Aunt Verity!”
“Fine, he was wearing clothes, but in such a way that one couldn’t help but imagine what he must look like without them. That’s not acceptable.” Verity picked up her linen napkin and fanned herself. “And don’t say that I shouldn’t have looked, for I know it, but he was right there in plain view and I . . .” Aunt Verity’s face softened as she leaned forward to say in a low tone, “As if anyone could help but look at such a man!”
“He’s quite attractive.”
“He is indeed. Women are in such a ridiculous place in the world. We aren’t supposed to notice anything earthy, as if we were blind, deaf, and dumb, while men not only notice such things, but positively delight in it. It’s so unfair.”
“It’s the same with my riding. I may ride all I want so long as I never gallop, never jump a hedge, never do anything but creep along at the pace of a slug on a perfectly flat surface.”
“Society has not been fair to the fairer sex,” Aunt Verity agreed, still fanning herself. “But to get back to this sculptor. What do you know about him?”
“I only know a little. He’s Italian and he’s gaining a reputation as a master sculptor. His father is a famous painter who no longer paints because of his health.”
Aunt Verity’s gaze had sharpened. “So. You’ve spoken to him, and at length if you know about his family.”
“What? Oh no, not at length,” Charlotte lied, hoping her cheeks didn’t appear as flushed as they felt. “Mama asked me to report on his progress on the fireplace. She wants it finished in time for the wedding.”
“So your mother tasked you with keeping an eye on him.” At Charlotte’s nod, Aunt Verity dropped her napkin back into her lap. “Lud! Sometimes I wonder about your mama. She’s far too smart to make such an error.”
“He’s not an error. He’s quite famous in Italy.”
“Oh sweetheart, I am famous in Italy and I’m not a sculptor.”
“What are you famous fo—”
“La, child, how you talk!” Aunt Verity said in a rush. “I will speak with your mama when next I see her. In the meantime, you, my dear, must stay away from that man.”
“But the fireplace—”
“He can write, can’t he? Let him send you notes of his progress. That’s all you need. In the meantime, you can put your energy into your other duties.”
“What other duties?”
“Surely over the last year you’ve overtaken some of the responsibilities here at Nimway?”
“Mama trained Caroline to oversee the house. Except for basic housekeeping, I was never included. I’ll never be a guardian of Nimway Hall, you know.”
“But . . . why not?”
“Because I don’t have the mark.”
“The what?”
“The guardian is born with an oval mark on the back of her shoulder.”
Aunt Verity looked horrified. “Do you mean to tell me that the ownership of this magnificent house rests on a happenstance birthmark?”
Charlotte nodded. “It’s been that way for centuries.”
Aunt Verity glowered. “And you don’t have this mark, so – Bloody hell.”
“Aunt Verity!”
“I know, I know, it’s rude to curse, but really.”
Charlotte smiled. “It never bothered me that Caroline was to have Nimway, because it felt right, in some way. Besides, I’ve always thought it would be exciting to travel. I’d hoped Robert and I might go abroad for our honeymoon, but he doesn’t travel well. Both coaches and ships make him ill.”
“Child, you are indeed a Harrington. We all suffer from wanderlust. In his day, your Papa loved to travel so much that vowed he’d never settle down.” She laughed softly, her gaze focused on an image from the past. “One time, he even sho—Oh. Wait. I’m not to share that. Never mind.”
“Aunt Verity, please! I know Papa was very different before he married Mama, but he won’t talk about it.”
“He will, one day. In the meantime, he won’t thank me for spilling his secrets.”
“He won’t tell us anything, and now Caroline will never know.” The thought of Caroline not being here to share that information, something they’d wondered about together since they’d been old enough to realize their father had a past of some sort, made Charlotte’s heart ache. “Her death has changed everything. People never tell you that when a sibling dies, your place in life instantly changes. You’re no longer the oldest, or the youngest, or the only. Both John and I felt it. But I was no longer a twin. That always made me feel special, and with her, I was never alone. When Caroline left, she took that with her, too.”
“My dear Charlotte, I know you’ll always miss your sister. No one can fix that. But no matter what, you are still you, our wild and untamed Charlotte.”
“Wild and untamed.” Charlotte had to laugh, though the sound was bitter. “Mama has spasms if she thinks I’m behaving in either of those ways. She doesn’t want to lose another daughter.”
Aunt Verity’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “You cannot change yourself just to please others.”
“I’m just trying to be better.”
“Better implies that you weren’t good enough before, and you were. You must be true to yourself, whatever you do. And if this marriage is what you would do if Caroline were still here, and you’re certain you love Robert, then by all means, get married. But if you’re merely trying to distract your mama with a wedding, or you think to become whatever it is you believe Caroline was to your parents, then you are making a grave error, one that will only end in great unhappiness for both you and Robert.”
Good God, was that what she was doing? Was she trying to take Caroline’s place? Charlotte looked at the delicate teacup where it rested on the table and wondered what she’d be doing if Caroline were still alive. Whatever it was, Charlotte doubted her plans would include Robert. What does that mean? She was afraid she knew the answer all too well.
Aunt Verity tsked. “Look what I’ve done! I’ve upset you horridly. See what happens when I’m made to become a chaperone – something I am not qualified for, besides being too young – only to be distracted by a handsome man? I start lecturing like a strict governess on every topic possible!” She patted Charlotte’s knee and said in a pleasing tone, “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Tell me, what did you think of the blue silk gown? I do believe that was my favorite.” Aunt Verity, always ready to talk fashion, went off into raptures over some of the materials and stitches they’d seen, while Charlotte absently nodded, sinking into her own thoughts.
What had her aunt meant by ‘being true’ to herself? Perhaps, had she been older when Caroline died, Charlotte would have known who she was. But when tragedy struck, she’d been in the process of figuring that out. How did she begin that journey again? She wasn’t sur
e, and she desperately wished she knew. Lately, she’d only felt like herself when she’d been with one person.
Aunt Verity helped herself to more tea, and Charlotte took the opportunity to pretend to sneeze into her kerchief, which required her to turn her head toward the window. She managed to sneak a look at where they’d seen Marco walking from the lake, but he was long gone.
Disappointed, she tucked her kerchief back into her pocket and poured herself more tea. Aunt Verity had forbidden Charlotte to see Marco again, which irked. It was unlike her easy-natured aunt to do such a thing, but Charlotte supposed it was understandable considering Marco’s bold masculinity, which was as fascinating as it was shocking.
Still, the more Charlotte thought about the unfairness of such a restriction, the more the wanted to challenge it. Why shouldn’t she see him? She was no child, and she was quite able to take care of herself. True, she’d allowed her guard to slip in the past, which had led to some impulsive embraces, but that was only more reason for her to see him again, to regain control of such improper yearnings. Seeing Marco again would be good for her. Even Aunt Verity would agree, if she were thinking straight. But of course, who would think straight after seeing Marco like that?
Aunt Verity paused in her one-way discussion of the merits of silk wool to combed wool, her voice slower as she yawned between words.
Charlotte set her tea cup back on the table. Marco would be in his shop by now, working. She wondered if he’d made progress on the fireplace pillars. What does he have planned for those? I would know already if he hadn’t ordered me to stay away.
That made two people who’d ordered her to avoid Marco’s workshop. Charlotte’s irritation increased, and she kicked absently at her skirts where they tangled around one of her feet. I should have told him that I would visit him whenever I wanted, no matter what he said. At one time, she’d have done just that and never given it a thought. But now . . . she frowned. Now it seemed wrong to be anything other than meticulously polite, even at the expense of her own thoughts and instincts.
She bit her lip, shocked at the realization. Good God, Aunt Verity was right; I have changed. Charlotte had been trying her best to make her mother and father happy, to follow in her sister’s footsteps and be – well, the good child. She’d tried so hard that she’d actually done it, never realizing what she was giving up.
She couldn’t be both sedate and lively, both quiet and loud, both perfectly behaved and wildly passionate. I can’t be both Caroline and Charlotte. I can only be me.
A gentle snore pulled Charlotte’s attention to her aunt, who was now snoozing peacefully, her empty teacup resting in her lap under her relaxed hand, her shawl puddled on the floor near her feet.
Charlotte smiled and carefully retrieved the forgotten teacup. She placed the china cup back on the tray and then collected the dropped shawl and spread it over her snoring aunt. “Thank you,” Charlotte whispered, warmed by gratitude. “You don’t know how glad I am you came.”
The older woman snorted in her sleep, and then resumed snoring, looking adorably peaceful.
Charlotte kissed Aunt Verity’s powdered cheek and then tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her.
In the hallway, she caught sight of Simmons speaking with two footmen. He dismissed them and hurried to join her. “Ah, miss. There you are. I take it Lady Barton is asleep?”
“Just now.”
“I will awaken her. She’ll be much more comfortable in her own bed chamber. I’ll let Miss Hull know that her ladyship is on her way up to—"
“No, thank you.”
The butler frowned. “But Lady Barton—"
“Leave her as she is.” Charlotte ignored Simmons’s shocked look and added, “There’s no need to send word to Miss Hull. Lady Barton will stay in the sitting room and will enjoy her nap to the fullest.” Every word Charlotte spoke seemed to free her a little more. “Aunt Verity is quite comfortable on the settee.”
“But—”
“Leave her. If my aunt – or anyone else for that matter – wishes to nap on a settee in the sitting room in the middle of the day or at any other time, then they should be left alone to do so. Do you understand, Simmons?” She didn’t raise her voice, but instead favored him with the undaunted look she’d seen her mother use a thousand times before.
He flushed. “Yes, miss.” He spoke stiffly and looked as if he’d swallowed a lemon.
“Post a footman by the door so Lady Barton isn’t disturbed.”
“Of course, miss. Will . . . will that be all?” He looked almost afraid of what she might say.
She thought for a moment, her gaze locking on the warm gold ring that encircled her finger. What would I do, and who would I be, if Caroline was still here?
And like that, Charlotte knew. Perhaps she’d known all along, but her spirit had been too wounded by her sister’s death to listen. “Simmons, please bring some fresh ink to the library. I’ve letters to write. Two, in fact.”
Simmons bowed. “Yes, miss. I’ll see to it right away.”
By the time the butler had fetched a fresh pot of ink from where it was kept locked in a cabinet in the pantry and had carried it to the library, Charlotte was already sitting behind the desk, her hands folded in front of her, ready to compose two of the most difficult letters she’d ever written.
Chapter 8
The muse came to him in the dark hours of the night, whispering him awake with a clarity of vision that had him stumbling from his bed, yanking on his breeches, and reaching for his tools before he was properly awake. He did as he always did when the muse came and let the image flow from his mind to his fingers without question, without pausing to consider anything but the feel of the marble giving away under the sharp edge of his chisel.
In his dream, for the first time, he’d clearly seen the two figures that would hold up the mantelpiece. No longer were the goddesses shadowy and distant. The caryatids would be rounded of face and limb, their outer arms and knees bent to add dimension. Neoclassical in design, bold in simplicity, they would wear elegantly draped togas, with jewels set into the leather of their sandals, and a smooth, shimmering whiteness on their arms, calves, and breasts. The togas, thin and revealing, would show more than they covered, baring one breast before hanging over their bodies, clinging to every curve.
It would be a masterpiece. He knew it even as he chiseled the rock, freeing the figures he could now visualize so clearly. He could see everything but their faces, although he knew those would be revealed in time. For now, he would work the bodies, the limbs, the folds of the togas, the details of their sandals. So much to do.
And so he worked, and then worked some more. The marble gave way under his fingers, confirming that his design was exactly what it should be. Marble chips piled on the floor at the feet of the pillars as sweat beaded his brow, but he continued on. He ignored the dust clinging to his skin, pausing only to wipe the sheen from his forehead when his eyes began to sting.
When he finally stopped, the dark of night had slipped into the brightness of sunrise. He set his chisel and hammer aside, his arms and shoulders aching from his efforts. Too awake to return to bed, he found a stool and pulled it in front of the figures and sat there, evaluating what he’d accomplished.
Shortly after the sun had cleared the horizon, Pietro appeared in the doorway, his white hair rumpled, one side of his face creased to match his now-abandoned pillow. He scratched his ass as he approached. “The muse returned, did she?” Pietro eyed the marble chips piled at the foot of the pillars. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Some.” Marco crossed his arms and looked at the stone with satisfaction. “I know everything but the faces. Those I could not see.”
“You saw the rest of clearly enough.” Pietro ran a practiced eye over the shadowed outlines. “The drape of those togas will be something to behold when you finish.”
Marco nodded, pleased Pietro could already tell so much. “When they are done, they will capture the eye
and never let go.” He stood, moving from side to side to examine the roughed in figures from various angles.
This was the part he enjoyed the most, watching the figures emerge from the stone. The muse had done her work well, he decided with satisfaction. What joy he found in his craft. Anyone could be taught to carve stone, to polish it until it shone. But it took hard work, a sometimes painful struggle, and a deep, abiding patience to find what was hidden within the stone.
“How long will it take you to finish?”
He thought of how much progress he’d made last night. “A week, perhaps a day or two more. Then the marble must be polished until it shines.”
“I can help with that when the times comes. You are well on your way, my friend.” Pietro gave the sculpture another admiring look and then yawned, stretching his arms over his head, his back cracking loudly. When he finished, he collected his shoes from where he’d left them beside one wall, and tugged them on. “I’m off to the kitchens to see what’s to be had for breakfast. Should I bring you something?”
“No. I want to rinse off this dust, and then sleep. I’ll eat later.”
“You’re not going to take another bath in the lake, are you?” Pietro shook his head and said in a sour tone, “You’ll thin your skin until it can no longer protect your blood.”
“The Romans believed baths were healthy.”
Pietro snorted. “Romans,” he scoffed. “What do they know?” With that sally, he yawned and shambled toward the stable door, stopping just inside to send Marco a sharp look. “I hope I don’t return to find you holding the daughter of the house again.”
“I will not see her,” Marco said shortly. “I’ve already told you that.”
“That’s what you said the last time, too.”
“The last time, I had not so rudely dismissed her. She will not speak to me now, nor do I blame her.” He’d been brutal, but he’d had to, for his own sake as well as hers. Still, her hurt expression haunted him.
Pietro shook his head. “You are a stubborn fool, but I suppose I must trust you.”
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