by Stacy Henrie
Chapter 10
An entire week had passed since the earthquake. And yet Clare still hadn’t been able to slip away from the villa, alone, in order to visit the doctor without raising anyone’s suspicions, particularly Mr. Sharpe’s. Her first attempt the day after their return to Taormina had been complicated by Emmett and Antonina’s abrupt return to the villa after going for a walk. Clare’s disappointment at not making it to the doctor had quickly faded, though, after Emmett had outlined his idea for bringing aid to the refugees passing through Giardini.
Unfortunately, after missing out on that first trip to the refugees, Mr. Sharpe had doubled his efforts to follow Clare and Emmett around at all times. He was there at every meal and on the long walks they continued to make from Taormina to Giardini and back. The only time the reporter’s attention was diverted was during the daily interactions with the refugees. Only then, using Emmett as a translator, did Mr. Sharpe turn his observant eye and questioning tongue on others. He’d already catalogued in his little notebook a great number of stories from the earthquake, which he shared each night at dinner. Some of them were miraculous and others were so heartrending they made Clare weep.
The days were blessedly busy with relief work, leaving little time for Clare to worry over the possible fate of her pregnancy or whether Mr. Sharpe actually believed she and Emmett were happy in their marriage. Nights were different. If she wasn’t waking from a bad dream of her own, she was being awakened by Emmett or Antonina and their nightmares.
Anxious to keep their private trauma a secret for as long as possible, Clare would sleep fitfully, afraid she wouldn’t hear the other two before Mr. Sharpe did. One night Emmett volunteered to sleep in the chair in Antonina’s room to give Clare a reprieve, but his own dreaming had woken the girl. So they’d abandoned that plan. He still wouldn’t divulge the details of his nightmare, and Clare had stopped asking. It was evident, though, by the tortured look in his eyes each time she had to wake him that the dream felt much too real.
Her nausea was worse when she was up in the middle of the night. Clare hoped that meant all was proceeding on schedule with her unborn baby. But, after vomiting one night when the other two had gone back to bed, she decided to go belowstairs and make some tea. After that, she prepared it for herself and whoever else couldn’t sleep. In spite of all the nocturnal activities, it appeared Mr. Sharpe was still none the wiser, to Clare’s immense relief.
The lack of real rest was beginning to take its toll on her, though. No amount of home remedies or cold cream could completely erase the dark smudges forming beneath her eyes.
In contrast, Emmett didn’t appear to be affected by little sleep, other than some new lines on his face. If anything, he seemed to have more energy. He worked tirelessly, carrying supplies to the refugees and translating their stories for Mr. Sharpe. Then just yesterday, he’d come up with a long-term plan for assisting the refugees who were currently staying with others in Taormina. He and another British resident of the city would pay a modest wage to any of the male refugees who were willing to repair the roads. The work would begin tomorrow. Emmett had also made arrangements to pay a local cobbler to make shoes for the earthquake victims.
Clare was proud of his efforts. His confidence in himself had grown, even in the short time he’d been away from his father’s domineering presence. She was certain now that Emmett would make an excellent MP in his own right. But would she be there to see it? She still hadn’t decided if she would return to England with him or not. Maybe once she saw the doctor, she would have a better idea of what to do.
Lowering the comb in her hand, she patted the shoulder of the old woman whose black-gray hair Clare had been brushing. She’d come to be known as the “comb lady.” Earlier in the week, she and Miriam and some other women had set up a hair-washing and brushing station for the female refugees. Those who weren’t severely injured were able to have the mud, blood, and stones washed from their hair as well as have it combed.
It was a simple thing, but Clare had seen that first day in Giardini how meaningful it could be to have one’s hair tended to—the way it made these women feel human again. And just like the woman whose hair Clare had combed that day, these other refugees would share their tales of loss as their hair was washed and brushed.
Clare rose slowly to her feet. Her legs were sore after sitting for so long. She looked to where she’d last seen Antonina, passing out bread with Rushford. The girl had grown more and more morose this week, especially each afternoon when they returned to the villa. But every morning, Antonina insisted on coming along to help the refugees. Clare was worried about her. The child’s English vocabulary was increasing each day, but there were still long stretches when Antonina chose not to say much at all.
She spotted Antonina in the crowd and decided to see if the girl wanted to switch tasks. Before Clare could reach her, though, Antonina snapped to attention, her gaze fixed on something or someone up ahead. The child suddenly darted forward, calling out, “Angelo! Angelo!”
Realization slammed into Clare as she hurried after the little girl. Antonina clearly believed her brother might still be alive somehow. Was that why the child had refused to remain behind with someone at the villa while the rest of them visited Giardini? Had she been hoping to find her brother among the refugees? That would explain why, when each day ended in disappointment, Antonina had become more despondent.
“Oh, Nina.” Clare knew how the scene before her would play out.
Sure enough, the girl latched onto the shirt of a tall boy. But when he turned around, Antonina froze. It wasn’t her brother. Even from a distance, Clare saw the total look of dejection that settled on the child’s face before she slumped to her knees with a cry.
Clare rushed toward her. “Antonina!” She gathered the girl onto her lap and rocked her back and forth.
“Not him . . . Clare,” Antonina said between sobs. “Not him.”
“I know. And I’m so sorry, sweetheart. So very, very sorry.”
They had attracted some attention, including that of Mr. Sharpe. The reporter came over. “Who is Angelo?”
“Her brother,” Clare responded in a tight voice. She climbed to her feet, then helped Antonina stand as well before putting her arm protectively around the girl’s shoulders. “I need to take her back to the villa. Have you seen Lord Linwood?”
For once the young man didn’t ask any additional questions. Instead he pointed back toward Taormina. “They’re determining where to start work on the roads.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Sharpe gave her a nod, as if he understood her gratitude was for more than telling her where to find Emmett. After locating Miriam, Clare explained that she and Antonina were heading back early. The maid took one look at them and volunteered to come too, in the event either of them needed anything. Clare shared their plan a second time with Rushford and the Russos. Then, with Clare holding tight to the child’s hand, the three of them began the trek back to Taormina.
They came upon Emmett a short while later. “Heading back already?” he said when he saw them.
Clare nodded. “Antonina isn’t . . . feeling well.”
“What’s wrong?” His expression immediately changed from curiosity to concern.
Clare had Miriam take the child in hand and motioned for Emmett to move a few feet away. “She thought she saw Angelo today,” she explained in a quiet voice. “It wasn’t him, of course, but she was so upset. I think she’s been hoping all week to find him among the refugees.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” Emmett frowned and glanced back in Antonina’s direction. “She knows he isn’t still alive.”
Clare shrugged. “Knowing something doesn’t stop you from hoping it will be different.”
His gaze returned to hers. Did Emmett sense that she was talking about more than Antonina and the girl’s hopes regarding her brother?
Clare had been given many opportunities to observe her husband the past week, and over
and over, she’d seen glimpses of the man she had married. She’d seen him in the way Emmett interacted with the refugees, in the way he listened to them and reverently repeated their stories to Mr. Sharpe. She’d seen him when he had made Antonina chuckle one afternoon as he told the girl a story. She’d seen him in his request for simple dinners because it meant less work for Signora Russo after baking bread for the refugees.
In those moments, she had seen the man who’d loved her, not her money. The man who would surely weather and feel every difficulty with her. And yet things were still complicated between them. Emmett hadn’t grieved with her or wanted her to stay at Barksley Hall. He didn’t even really need her to come back to England with him—he needed her money and perhaps her smiling show of support to make him look like a better candidate. But none of that had anything to do with her.
“I’m worried,” she said, interrupting the yawning silence between them. “She isn’t sleeping well, and now this.” Looking around, Clare lowered her voice even more. “I think you need to speak with her, Emmett.”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Other than Rushford, you’re the only other person who was there with her. With Angelo. If you were to talk to her about that morning—”
Emmett shook his head, his jaw set in a firm line. “I don’t see what difference that would make. It would only upset her more.”
Why was he so stubborn when it came to talking about hard things? Why couldn’t he see that doing so could be healing for both him and Antonina? Clare pressed her lips over the questions. She didn’t wish to argue in front of others.
“Is there something else we can do for her?” Emmett asked.
Despite his reticence, Clare knew how much he cared about Antonina. “I’ll think about it.”
“I will too.”
She offered him a brief smile, relieved that at least with Antonina, she wasn’t left to manage things entirely on her own. “We’ll see you later then.” She took a step toward Miriam and Antonina.
Emmett’s hand on her elbow stopped her. “Would you like me to walk her back?”
“No,” she said, though she was touched by his offer. “You’ve just begun your project here.”
“If you’re sure.” He lowered his arm, but he continued to peer at her. “Nina is lucky to have someone as kind and attentive as you to be her mother now.”
The warmth of his tone and the compliment behind his words poked anew at Clare’s buried hopes. She hurried to avert her face as they returned to Antonina’s side. She didn’t want Emmett seeing the sheen of moisture forming on her lower lashes. But the tears were hard to contain, especially when Emmett crouched down in front of Antonina, murmured reassurances to the girl in Italian, and gave her a hug.
Yes, dear little one, Clare thought as she, Antonina, and Miriam began the long walk back to the villa. What we know to be true and what we still hope for can be nearly impossible to reconcile.
*
It wasn’t until they neared Taormina that Clare realized the fortuitous opportunity she’d been given. There was no Mr. Sharpe following them, and even Emmett was occupied for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe now she could finally see the doctor. She’d learned shortly after returning to Sicily that there was an American doctor in town.
Clare peered down at Antonina. The child hadn’t spoken since the incident in Giardini. Would the girl prefer to go straight to the villa with Miriam or remain with Clare? After the emotionally taxing incident, she suspected Antonina would wish to stay with her, wherever she went. Hopefully a visit to the doctor wouldn’t take long.
Making up her mind, Clare turned to Miriam. “I’d like to stop by the doctor’s before going to the villa.” The maid already knew Clare hadn’t yet been able to go and had even expressed concern that her mistress not wait much longer.
“I think that’s wise, my lady.” She looked at Antonina walking silently beside Clare. “Do you want me to take her back to the villa?”
Clare shook her head. “No, I think she’ll want me close by. Will you sit with her while I visit with the doctor, though?”
“Of course, my lady.”
She smiled in gratitude as they turned the corner onto the next street. Eagerness and a fresh knot of nerves added energy to Clare’s footsteps. When the three of them reached the man’s office, Dr. Muller informed her there was one patient ahead of her.
Antonina sat on Miriam’s lap in one of the chairs set up for waiting. But Clare couldn’t sit, preferring to pace the tiny space instead. Finally the person ahead of her exited, and the doctor motioned for her to enter the examining room. She stepped inside and took a seat in the chair he indicated.
“What may I do for you, Lady Linwood?” he asked after Clare had introduced herself.
She blew out her breath slowly. Would he think her negligent for not coming sooner? Regardless, she told herself, she was here now. She shared the history of her previous pregnancies, how far along she believed she was this time, and the doctor’s advice she’d received back in England that a warmer climate might increase her chances of avoiding another miscarriage.
“I’m hoping his counsel proves correct,” she said, staring down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “There’s one more thing you need to know.” Clare lifted her chin to look directly at the man. “I was in Messina last week, during the earthquake.”
Dr. Muller stared with open mouth at her. “I’ve treated a number of the earthquake victims this week. Very few of them walked away unscathed. But you were not injured at all?”
Clare briefly described the events of those two days. “I would have come sooner when I arrived back in Taormina, but . . . well, it wasn’t possible before today. I’ve still been ill in the morning and at night, and I’m hoping that means everything is still progressing.”
“It may.”
His noncommittal response left her feeling unnerved once more, but Clare did her best to remain calm. Once the examination was complete and she was again seated in the chair, she waited with thudding heart for the doctor’s diagnosis. He took a moment to remove the glasses he’d put on and wipe them with a cloth he pulled from his pocket. His silence was tortuous.
“I believe thanks may be in order, Lady Linwood,” he said at last. “To both that preceptive doctor in Britain and the Good Lord in heaven.”
It was Clare’s turn to gape at him. Did he mean what she hoped? “Are you saying that I’m . . .”
“You are indeed still pregnant.” He finally gave her a smile as he put away his glasses.
Too overcome to speak, she pressed her hand to her mouth.
“That being said,” the doctor moved toward the door, “you need far more rest, especially after surviving last week’s quake.”
Clare nodded as she climbed to her feet. “Speaking of rest, my husband and I have taken in a little girl who lost her family in the earthquake. She has nightmares nearly every night.”
“Unfortunately, that is all too common after experiencing something traumatic. Has she shown any other signs of distress? Complaints of pain? Lack of appetite?”
Clare tried to remember. Most meals she concentrated so completely on appearing to be friendly with her husband in front of Mr. Sharpe that she was unable to notice much else. But it seemed there’d been a handful of times this week when she’d caught Antonina pushing her food around her plate instead of eating it.
“She hasn’t complained of being in any physical pain, though she has shown some lack of appetite. Today has been particularly difficult for her,” Clare admitted. “I think she’s secretly been hoping her older brother is still alive and that she’ll find him among the refugees passing through Giardini. She thought she saw him in the crowd this afternoon.”
The doctor’s face reflected compassion. “It wasn’t him, though, was it?”
Clare shook her head. “She was so distraught.”
“I might suggest finding other ways to involve her in the relief wo
rk.” Dr. Muller opened the door a few inches before turning back to her. “The nightmares and lack of appetite, while difficult to manage, will likely fade with time. Especially if she’s given opportunities to express her fears and grief.”
If only Emmett could hear the man’s advice. “So allowing her to talk about it will help her?”
“When she wants to. Talking, writing, drawing.” The doctor waved his hand in the air. “There are many ways to mourn.”
She followed him out the door. Seeing her, Antonina jumped off Miriam’s lap and rushed forward to claim Clare’s hand again. Clare sent a questioning look in the maid’s direction, but Miriam gave a quick shake of her head. Antonina didn’t know the reason they were here.
“Is this the child?” Dr. Muller asked.
“Yes, this is Antonina.”
He crouched beside the girl and asked something in Italian. Antonina glanced up at Clare, then nodded. After a moment, the doctor straightened. “Though I can’t say for certain, she appears to be in good health. And she feels safe with you, which is important after such a frightening ordeal.”
“How do you know she feels safe?”
Dr. Muller smiled at them both. “Because that nod of hers was in answer to my question if she liked living with you.”
Clare tucked the child against her side as a feeling of love and thankfulness washed through her. Surely this was what it felt like to be a mother. She gave Antonina a smile. “Shall we head to the villa now?”
“Yes.” The girl squeezed her hand.
“Thank you for everything, Dr. Muller.”
“You are most welcome, Lady Linwood. Remember to get more rest.”
“I will.” She wasn’t sure how, but she would figure out a way to rest more and help Antonina with her grief too.
