by The Bargain
"Perhaps days!" Ashleigh grinned.
"Aha! See how quickly you attune yourself to life in Livorno? Well, I'm off, my dear. Enjoy your breakfast, and I'll have Giovanni join you in about an hour. I think he's planning some kind of picnic on the beach before this last spell of warm weather we're enjoying disappears... I shall see you later." With a whisper of silken skirts, Maria left the room.
* * * * *
In the days that followed, Ashleigh spent as much time with the children as Maria would allow, for her mother-in-law had summoned her own personal physician to examine the mother-to-be, and the two of them had devised a set schedule of rest periods Ashleigh had to promise to adhere to; and she did, though often reluctantly, for she quickly found her time with the youngsters a thing of joy. From picnics on the beach to romps in the garden with Finn and Lady Dimples—each of whom immediately exhibited a love of children equal to that of their mistress—she plunged headlong into activities she could share with the youngsters, activities that quickly became the mainstay of her life in Livorno. While dinner was always a formal affair for the adults, in the contessa's dining room, Ashleigh almost always shared other mealtimes with the children, frequently joining them in their upstairs dining room for an easy, relaxed meal accompanied by much laughter as the youngsters attempted to teach her bits and pieces of Italian. And not a night passed wherein Ashleigh couldn't be found in the playroom, sitting on the floor in a circle of little ones, reading them a bedtime story in slow, carefully articulated English.
Sometimes they were joined by Megan and Patrick, as in their excursions to the stables, where the children laughed to see the tall lady and her even taller gentleman towering over the stout little ponies they helped saddle and lead about, and Patrick quickly became a favorite, especially with the older boys, to whom he told stories of America and its Indians, or tales of the sea.
At other times it was Maria and Ashleigh who shared with the youngsters the pleasures of outings in town or of leading the children in little Italian canti—the melodies of some of these surprising Ashleigh by their familiarity until Maria reminded her she had once been a child to whom a woman then named Mary had sung the songs.
The "old grandfather," as he was lovingly called in Italian by the children—Giovanni—grew especially fond of Ashleigh, often treating her as just one more of the children he adored. He took to calling her la duchessa piccola, the little duchess, and with Ashleigh's laughing consent, the children soon followed suit.
And so the days and weeks passed, October giving way to a chilly November, and that, to an even colder December. Patrick and Megan were married three weeks before Christmas, for Patrick, much to Father Umberto's delight, had decided to take instruction in the Roman faith, and he and Megan wanted to wait until his conversion was a fact before stating their vows at the high altar.
It was a candlelight ceremony, with two of Maria's children officiating as altar boys, and when the children's choir, made up of a dozen more of Maria's band, began singing the "Ave Maria," Ashleigh found herself weeping softly as she stood behind Megan and Patrick at the rail, her heart nearly full to bursting.
During these months the relationship between Maria and Ashleigh grew ever closer, and a day rarely passed without the two of them spending some time together apart from the others. Sometimes it was a quiet breakfast shared downstairs before a toasty fire, before the rest of the household was awake; often it was a peaceful walk through the gardens on afternoons when the sun was strong enough to offset the chilly breezes from the sea; occasionally they sipped a mug of hot, mulled wine together before the fireplace in Maria's private sitting room after the children were in bed and Patrick and Megan were off somewhere spending time together as lovers are wont to do.
It was during one of these late-night talks in mid-December, when Megan and Patrick were away on their honeymoon—at the contessa's villa on the isle of Capri—that their conversation at last touched on the one topic they'd somehow been avoiding until now. It began when Maria noticed Ashleigh staring silently into the fire, a sad, pensive look on her face.
"You are thinking of him, aren't you, cara?" the older woman said gently.
Nodding, Ashleigh slowly turned to look at Maria, in the chair beside her. "You always seem to know what I'm thinking," she said.
Maria smiled. "In this case it didn't take too much intuition to determine what could change your expression from one of gay exuberance—when we were discussing our Christmas presents for the children a few moments ago—to the one I saw just now. Tell me, you think of him often, no?"
Ashleigh's smile was tinged with sadness. "A day doesn't go by that I don't think of him. Oh, don't take me wrongly, Maria. You and the children and my life here at the villa have been wonderful, and there are many hours when I am totally immersed in this—" she gestured to the walls around them "—but..."
"But your heart longs for him," Maria said quietly. "I know... for so it has been with me, every day, if you can believe it, for all these long years. Child, adolescent, or man fully grown, he has never been far from my thoughts."
Maria paused and reached her hand suddenly into the neckline of her dressing gown where she withdrew a delicate gold chain with a locket attached to it. Cradling the locket in the palm of her hand, she tilted it forward to reveal a miniature of a small boy with chestnut curls and vivid turquoise eyes.
"Oh!" gasped Ashleigh, recognizing at once whose portrait it was, and recalling where she had seen its mate. "You placed the miniature of Brett's father on his pillow!"
Maria nodded. "It took some daring and not a little courage, too, I can tell you. Giovanni helped me sneak into the garden at Ravensford Hall that night—he was among the men Gregorio sent with me when I made my clandestine visits to Kent—but it was I, dressed in seaman's trousers, who scaled the ivy-covered wall beneath my son's window and placed his father's portrait where he'd find it. I know it was crazy. I only knew I wanted him to have something... some memento of the... happier past...."
She sighed. "Ah, it was the hardest thing to bear, I think, losing Brett... harder, even, than the loss I felt with Edward, or with Gregorio's death. Death, after a while, brings an acceptance of a kind. One comes to terms with it. But to fully accept the loss of a living child—or in your case, a husband you love—knowing he is still... somewhere, living, laughing, feeling pain, perhaps healthy, perhaps not..." She shrugged, giving Ashleigh a look that was meant to be resigned, but succeeded more in appearing helpless—and infinitely sad.
Ashleigh nodded thoughtfully and took a sip from the mug she held between her hands. "Have you given up hope of ever seeing him again, then?"
"Oh, no." Maria smiled. "One can always hope! Miracles do happen, you know. Look at my children. They were thought to be among the hopeless once. But here they are, aren't they? Loved, cared for... and happy, I think."
"Oh, how can you doubt it?" cried Ashleigh. "Maria, when they found you—or, rather, when you found them—they became the most fortunate, happiest children alive!" She paused in thought for a moment, and her hand moved absently to her belly, which had grown quite rounded by now, visible even beneath the Empire cut of her gowns. "I can only wish this little one I carry to be as fortunate as they, after... after she arrives."
"Ah, so it is to be a young lady, is it?"
Ashleigh's smile was wistful. "I have prayed that it will be a girl, yes. For if it were to be a boy, I..." She looked into Maria's eyes, her expression troubled. "Oh, Maria, I cannot think but that a boy needs a father by his side when he is growing up! And this wee babe will have none!" As if ashamed of this emotional outburst, Ashleigh dropped her eyes and stared into the contents of her mug, then added softly, "Yes, I want it to be a girl."
The contessa was silent for a moment, then reached to place a gentle hand on Ashleigh's arm. "He may try to find you, you know... just as he did once—no, twice—before, as I recall. We, Gregorio and I, had word through my husband's war connections, that Brett is highly pla
ced in certain... official functions of the Foreign Office—naval reconnaissance, I think, was the term Gregorio used. As such, not to mention the many private means at his disposal through his vast personal wealth and connections, he could probably trace you here if he chose—especially now that peace has come." Maria shifted slightly. "Tell me, Ashleigh, what will you do if he comes for you?"
Ashleigh raised startled blue eyes to her. "Why, I—I don't really know! I hadn't thought about it, actually. Indeed, most of my thoughts since leaving London have been bent on resigning myself to the idea that I shall never see Brett again."
"Hmm," said Maria. "Yes, I can understand that. But I will tell you something, my dearest. Even as a small boy, my son was a determined fellow, knowing, from the time he could express it, exactly what he wanted and rarely veering from a course that would obtain it for him. And, over the years, the reports I've had of him seem to have borne that characteristic out, being true of the man he has become as well.
"Knowing this, I suggest, darling, that you begin thinking on the possibility he might turn up. I suggest it very strongly, and urge you, with all the love a mother could have for a daughter—for I do love you, Ashleigh, as much as if you were my own—to decide what you will do when he does."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It was the coldest winter in memory. Late in 1814 and continuing on into January of the New Year, a monumental deep freeze had settled over the face of England, blanketing the land in snow and ice. London was no exception, and for the first time anyone could recall, the Thames was frozen solid, immobilizing river traffic and the commerce it affected.
But Londoners were hardy souls and made the best of the situation. Soon, a number of fairs and temporary marketplaces appeared directly on the ice, with vendors erecting booths that offered everything from roasted chestnuts to hot cider and sausage rolls. Children and adults alike skated across the ice in a holiday mood, playing games of tag, gossiping with their neighbors, dancing about the great bonfires set right on the surface of the ice that had frozen thick enough to withstand their blaze.
It was early evening on the second Saturday of the New Year. A pair of enterprising fishermen's sons had managed to cut a hole in the ice and were now busy casting their baited hooks into the freezing, dark water below.
"'Ats it Jamie, play 'er out right careful like, and mind yer 'ands! They'd freeze right ter yer mittens if yer wuz ter get 'em wet!"
"I know whut I'm about 'Arry," said his companion as he carefully lowered his line into the swirling waters at the bottom of the hole. "'Ere, bring 'at lantern closer, would yer?"
Jamie waited as Harry complied, and when the fish line was sufficiently lowered to meet with the acceptance of both, the two boys, who looked to be about fourteen or fifteen, settled back on their haunches to await their first catch. While they waited, they looked about them, taking in the busy scene on the river.
Several dozen yards away, a string of children were playing "snap the whip" as they skated along on crudely fashioned, homemade wooden skates resembling clogs, in contrast to the more sophisticated variety some of the wealthy had purchased from the Dutch merchants who were able to make it through before the river froze over in December. On the far bank a horse-drawn sleigh skidded merrily by, lit by the glow of several small bonfires along the bank. The air was filled with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, people calling to one another, and laughing lovers, strolling two by two under the dark, frozen sky.
Not too far from where the young fishermen squatted, there was the booth of a bookseller who, quick to size up the situation, had closed up his shop on Fleet Street, which was too cold these days to be heated by its single iron stove anyway, and moved his wares out here on the ice.
Suddenly the boy named Jamie whistled softly. "Blimey, if it ain't 'at toff all London's buzzin' about, 'Arry! Whut's 'is name, now? You know, the devilish 'andsome one whut just got wed, an' now they say 'is wife left 'im an' 'e's always in a black, killin' mood."
Harry, too intent on his fishing line to glance in the direction of the bookseller's booth, merely mumbled, "The 'andsome one? Oh, 'at'd be Lord... Lord Somethin'-or-Other...um...ah, I've got it! Lord Byron! Wed just last week, 'e wuz."
"No, no," muttered Jamie, "not 'im! 'At one's got a crippled foot, I 'eard, an' this bloke's tall an' fit, by the looks of 'im. 'Ere, 'Arry, give a look. 'E's standin' right over there... an' bloomin' broodin', too, by 'is dark looks."
Harry finally deigned to cast a glance in the direction pointed out by his companion, and when he did, he saw the dark silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man, bareheaded and wearing a greatcoat, as he stood beside the bookseller's booth, outlined from behind by the light of yet another bonfire.
"Oh, 'im!" muttered Harry. "'E ain't just no lord—'e's a duke! Raven-Somethin'-or-Other. Oh, I'd mind me own business if I wuz you, Jamie! 'E's a mean one these days. They say 'e's killed two men in duels just fer lookin' at 'im crosst-wise!"
Jamie's mouth gaped wide at this revelation, and when the tall man laid aside the book he'd been holding and took a few steps closer to where they were squatting, both boys busily involved themselves in their ice fishing.
Brett jammed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and gave the scene of revelry and merrymaking around him a final, scornful glance. It was no use. No matter how he tried to distract himself from the images that haunted him these days, nothing worked. Tonight he'd forsaken the feverish rounds of partying, gambling, drinking and, yes, even fighting—though the rumors of duels were just that: exaggerations growing out of the city's appetite for gossip fed by its lively imagination. But he'd certainly thrown himself into all kinds of wild activity every night for the past several months; only tonight, he'd thought to immerse himself in the gay crowds of common folk out here on the river, hoping it would be different from the distractions he'd tried to summon among the ton. But there was no difference. No matter where he went, even in the thickest of crowds, he was alone. Completely and utterly alone.
Where was she now? Was she safely ensconced in Patrick's home in America, beginning at last the decent, new life she'd longed for while a menial at the brothel? Or was she hiding out somewhere on the Continent with her brother, awaiting the end of the conflict with America before chancing it across the Atlantic?
Inside the pocket of the greatcoat, Brett's fingers closed around a folded letter he'd received a few days ago from Simon Allerton, an agent who sometimes acted as a messenger for those involved in the more clandestine dealings of the Foreign Office. The letter said a schooner had been spotted off the Leghorn... a schooner flying a Dutch flag, but bearing the inscription Ashleigh Anne. Was it Patrick's ship? And if so, what were they doing in Italy where there were still too many of Napoleon's brothers and other sympathizers about? Didn't Patrick realize that area of the world could become a powder keg if some of the whisperings about Elba were true?
Brett shook his head and smiled grimly to himself. But, of course, Patrick couldn't know that. Few in the Foreign Office believed the rumors themselves. And it was highly unlikely, after all. Where would Napoleon gather an army on that remote little island?
Still, Carlton House was interested, as were Whitehall and the Admiralty, and as soon as this damnable deep freeze was over, certain reconnaissance ships would be leaving the London Hole to do a bit of "unofficial" investigating. It was Brett's choice as to whether he wished to be on one of them. On the other hand, he could simply head south as a private citizen. It would certainly leave him more autonomy in dealing with his private situation if this Ashleigh Anne did prove to be Patrick's ship.
Did he want to find her? That was the question that had plagued him ever since he received Allerton's letter. Damn! He should have been quit of her by now! Why couldn't he keep her out of his mind?
And if he found her again, what did he plan to do with her? It had been months since he'd been awakened by those dreams of some fitting revenge. Lately, the nightly images had been of a d
ifferent sort—of Ashleigh laughing as she bent her slender frame over Irish Night's neck and raced her across the flats... of Ashleigh looking incomparably lovely in a wedding gown of silk and old lace... of Ashleigh raising solemn, wide blue eyes to his and saying, "It meant everything to me."
Somewhere there was an answer to the riddle she presented. Somehow he knew he had to discover why he hated her and longed for her in the same breath, why he couldn't seem to think of her as a she-devil without simultaneously, in his heart, if he was honest with himself, believing she was an angel, the epitome of the kind of woman he wanted by his side, to bear him children, to grow old with....
But she had left him, dammit! Just when he'd begun to think there was a chance—that perhaps he'd been wrong about things....
A few soft flakes of snow began to fall, and Brett left off his ruminations and turned toward the near bank of the river where his carriage waited. His tall form melted into the darkness as he walked, a solitary figure in the night.
* * * * *
Wearing a midnight-blue velvet, hooded cloak lined with ermine, Ashleigh snuggled against the cold in a deep wing chair Giovanni had set out for her on the southern veranda. From around the corner of the east wing she could hear the children breaking into fits of giggles as they readied their "surprise." Smiling, she shoved her small, gloved hands more deeply into her ermine muff—like the velvet cloak, a Christmas present from Patrick and Megan. Her smile broadened as she recalled the newlyweds' note accompanying the gift when it arrived on Christmas Eve: "Blue velvet to match your eyes, ermine to match your soul—for it was once a fur forbidden to all except royalty, and you are such to us. Happy Christmas, princess—we love you!"
