Beneath an Italian Sky

by Stacy Henrie

  “Do you want to help with the sewing today?” Clare asked her.

  Antonina studied her plate and shook her head.

  “Nina?” She waited for the girl to lift her chin. “It’s all right. You don’t have to help.” Maybe being around the other refugee children and their mothers reminded Antonina too much of the family she’d lost. “You can draw or read. Or see if Signora Russo has some dough for you to bake.”

  The girl appeared to consider the options. “I want to see Signora Russo.”

  “I think that sounds fun.” After offering the child a smile, she watched Antonina exit the dining room. Antonina needed to have fun, to laugh, to be carefree. Hopefully in time she would gain back her spirits, but Clare was still concerned. If only Emmett would talk to the girl.

  Clare excused herself a minute or two later. The women would be here soon to start another day of sewing. As she entered the drawing room, she heard footfalls behind her.

  “Is everything all right, Clare?” Emmett’s voice trailed after her. “You were rather quiet at breakfast.”

  She started to nod, then thought better of it. “No,” she said, turning around. “Everything is not all right.” She rubbed at her aching forehead. “Antonina’s nightmares, and yours, are making it difficult to get much sleep.”

  “I should have realized that sooner. I’m sorry.”

  His sincere tone and troubled expression prompted tears of exhaustion to form in her eyes. Clare blinked them back in order to speak. “I appreciate that.”

  “Why don’t you go lie down?” He stepped back, allowing her a clear path to the door. “Nina is fine, and I can wait to leave until after the sewing gets underway.”

  A nap, even one this early, sounded wonderful. Still, Clare hesitated. Her getting more sleep this morning would solve only one problem.

  “I’m worried about her, Emmett. I really thought painting would help her, but instead she woke up crying after having slept through until morning two nights in a row.” Clare glanced toward the door to make sure Mr. Sharpe hadn’t followed them. “I’m wondering if there have been too many changes in too short a time—a new house, a new family. Have you noticed she rarely smiles? Every child, regardless of where they live or what they’ve gone through, needs a reason to smile and an excuse to have fun.”

  He offered what she guessed was meant to be a reassuring look. “I’m confident she’ll come around. It hasn’t even been two weeks since the earthquake. We just need to give her more time to adjust.”

  Instead of inspiring comfort, his optimistic words irritated her. “I don’t agree, not entirely. I think she needs more than time. She needs a way to express her grief. If you would only talk with her . . .”

  “We discussed that, Clare.” Emmett pocketed his hands and frowned down at the rug. “Talking with her is only going to distress her more, not less.”

  “Maybe,” she countered with barely veiled annoyance. “But I still think it’s worth trying.” They were talking in circles, and she felt even more fatigued standing here. “I believe I’ll take you up on your offer to go lie down.” Clare moved toward the door. “I only ask that you not act indifferent toward her sorrow, Emmett.”

  Her next words, ones she was too weary to hold back, slipped from her lips in a whisper. “As you have with me.”

  “You think I’ve felt indifferent toward you?” His hand on her arm halted her retreat.

  As she turned to face him, Clare allowed all of the frustration and hurt of the past to flood her answer. “Yes.”

  “Is that what you believe I feel for you right now?”

  She’d never seen such a look on his face before. It was a strange mixture of disappointment and hope, weariness and resolve. Maybe even a little fear. “Yes,” she repeated, though it held less bite this time. “By and large, I do think you feel indifferent toward me.”

  “Then tell me this, Clare.” The low timbre of his voice sent a pleasant shiver up her back. “Does this feel like indifference?”

  His gaze held hers as he cupped the side of her face, his fingers warm along her jawline and where they brushed the top of her neck. Clare managed to pull in a shaky breath right before he kissed her. Her pulse responded to his touch, though she held the rest of herself still, both eager and afraid of getting lost in his kiss. But when Emmett released her elbow and wrapped his arm around her back, she leaned into him and matched his ardent kiss with her own.

  A noise outside the front door startled them apart. Blushing, Clare darted a glance in the direction of the foyer, half-expecting to find Mr. Sharpe standing there, watching. But the foyer stood empty, at least until the group of sewers and their children entered the villa.

  Clare turned to Emmett, her heart still beating too fast. Had they really just kissed? What did it mean? She wasn’t sure, but there was a tenderness shining in her husband’s light-blue eyes that she hadn’t seen in a very long time. A question hovered there too.

  “You’re right,” she answered. She took a step away from him and ensured her hair was still in place. “That felt nothing like indifference.”

  The grin he sent her way made her middle flutter with near-forgotten emotion. “I’m relieved to hear that.”

  “Buongiorno, ladies.” Clare nodded to each member of the group as they came into the drawing room. “We’ll begin where we ended yesterday.”

  “I suppose I’d best be off,” Emmett said, though he gave her mouth a meaningful glance. Clare blushed again. “Are you going to lie down?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t feel so tired anymore.”

  His answering smile erased the last remnants of her exhaustion. “I’ll see you this afternoon, my dear.” This time, she recognized, his endearment was meant for no one else’s benefit but her own.

  “Until this afternoon,” Clare echoed as he left the room.

  Squaring her shoulders, she faced the sewing group with a real smile and renewed energy. And yet the day now seemed to stretch overly long before her. There would be hours to fill before she saw Emmett again and they could finally talk about what had happened between them.

  Somerset, England, December 1908: Four weeks earlier

  Emmett sipped his drink and studied the holiday decorations tastefully displayed about the drawing room. The bright pine boughs and festoons of ribbon couldn’t help but lift one’s mood and inspire thoughts of good will. He nearly hadn’t come tonight, since people would likely ask why Clare wasn’t with him. But his father had baulked at the idea of Emmett staying home. Their family, including Emmett’s sisters and their spouses, always attended the neighbors’ annual Christmas party. However, it was his mother’s suggestion that being around other people might be good for him, which had swayed his decision in favor of attending. And he was glad he had.

  When their host and hostess asked after Clare, Emmett had simply replied, “The cold is very difficult for her, so she is in Sicily.” The older couple had nodded with sympathy and expressed their delight at his presence. Emmett guessed they were curious as to why he hadn’t gone to Italy with his wife but were too polite to ask.

  Other than having to repeat the reasons for his wife’s absence several more times, he’d enjoyed the conversation at dinner and the superb food. And yet he struggled with frequent bursts of melancholy because he kept thinking of things he wanted to say to Clare—how delicious the current dish was or did she also find it humorous that the gentleman across the table used his napkin so often—only to remember his wife wasn’t there.

  Emmett hadn’t heard from her since receiving her letter that outlined her plans to leave, but he figured she hadn’t actually been in Taormina for long. Hopefully a letter would be forthcoming, along with a fuller explanation as to why she’d left.

  Setting aside his empty glass, he rose to his feet and crossed the room to examine the painting hanging above the mantel. It was a nice picture of the estate, but it lacked some of the texture and details of Clare’s landscapes. Perhaps she would paint
Barksley Hall one day, and they could hang her picture in their own drawing room.

  “Rather odd, isn’t it? For his wife to be gone now,” he heard a woman whisper loudly from somewhere behind him.

  Emmett winced before reminding himself she might not be talking about Clare. Her companion, whose voice he recognized as Lady Melinda’s, responded, “Yes, but most American heiresses are rather odd.”

  His first guess had been correct—they were discussing his wife after all. Emmett started to turn away, not wanting to hear anymore. But Lady Melinda’s next remark bound him in place.

  “I do have it on good authority that she only agreed to marry him because it gave her not only a courtesy title but access to an even more prestigious one when he becomes marquess.” The widow’s tone was cold with judgment and disapproval. It was infuriating, and yet try as he might, Emmett couldn’t make himself walk away. “It’s also been more than a year since their wedding, but no heir has been forthcoming. I wouldn’t be surprised if in the absence of having a child, this trip to Sicily is her preparation for beginning a separate life, away from him. She’ll get to keep his title, after all, wherever she lives.”

  Somehow he found the strength to finally move. Emmett strode to the opposite side of the room, not wishing to hear anymore. What he’d heard already stung badly enough. Could there be any truth to Lady Melinda’s words? He didn’t want to believe them, but he’d been gone from Hadwell House for weeks now. Weeks in which his wife had likely seen and spoken with the widow. Would Clare have taken the other woman into her confidence?

  He tugged at his collar in a vain effort to loosen it. Clare and Lady Melinda hadn’t struck him as being friends, especially since the widow appeared to still be bitter over Emmett’s choice of a wife. He could even believe that she’d take pleasure from his potential unhappiness with Clare. Melinda had been that way as a girl—it was one of the reasons Emmett had never considered marriage to her. If she couldn’t have what she wanted, then she sought to disrupt the happiness of those who did.

  Still, her explanations regarding Clare’s actions couldn’t be devoid of any amount of truth, could they? Surely there was a grain of fact somewhere among the possible embellishments. But which of her statements were truth and which were not?

  Had Clare truly only married him for his title? Emmett didn’t want to consider it. And yet it was the first thing since Clare’s last letter that made any amount of sense. If she’d chosen him solely for a title, then there was little reason for her to stay in England with him, especially when they hadn’t yet been able to have a family of their own. Many of his married acquaintances began living separate lives, once the requisite heir and spare were born. Might Clare be doing the same, giving up on the idea of children now that she had his title but couldn’t stay pregnant?

  The possibilities hurt his head. Worst of all, the likelihood that his wife hadn’t married him for love hurt his heart. Too angry and confused to remain at the party, he found his mother and informed her that he was leaving early. Then he made his excuses to the host and hostess.

  As he climbed into the carriage for the ride home, Emmett reminded himself that the gnawing ache inside him would eventually fade away. He knew this from experience. And right now, that future event was the only thing for which he felt any degree of confidence.

  Chapter 12

  Leaning against his shovel, Emmett swiped his forehead with the edge of his dirty sleeve. He’d thought it fairly hard work overseeing the distribution of shoes and clothing to the refugees as well as the delivery of food and water to those working on repairing the roads. But after that, he’d volunteered to help with the actual road work when one of the refugees caught a cold, and he realized that this type of labor made his other duties seem like child’s play. Yet no amount of aching muscles or sweaty shirts could dampen his good mood.

  “You’re grinning again, Lord Linwood. Like a chap pleased with his place in the world.” Mr. Sharpe handed Emmett a full ladle of water. The reporter was on drink duty this afternoon. “Or perhaps like a man who received a rather ardent kiss from his wife this morning.”

  Emmett choked on the cool liquid. When he was done sputtering, he handed back the ladle. “I didn’t realize you were watching,” he said in slightly hoarse voice.

  “Only for a moment.” Mr. Sharpe chuckled and dipped the ladle back into the bucket before offering it to Emmett a second time.

  His throat was sore from coughing, but he declined a second drink. “Will you write about what you saw?”

  “I might.” Mr. Sharpe shrugged. “That largely depends on the direction of my story.”

  “And which direction do you plan to take?”

  “Afraid that’s undecided at present.” The reporter moved on with the water bucket, leaving Emmett to muse over his answer.

  So far, the young man had sent only one story to his editor in London, and that one, according to his explanation, had been about Emmett and Clare’s experiences during the earthquake in Messina. Why Mr. Sharpe hadn’t yet come up with a story about the Linwoods as a happy couple, Emmett didn’t know. Perhaps some news stories took longer to write. Besides, the story about the earthquake was very of the moment. A story about the Linwoods as a happy couple could be published at any time.

  Emmett found that thoughts about what Mr. Sharpe would write bothered him far less now. Perhaps that was because the kiss the reporter had caught a glimpse of that morning had been real—it had nothing to do with fooling him. It had been about Emmett convincing his wife that he didn’t feel indifferent toward her, not in the slightest. And given the way Clare had responded, he felt certain she wasn’t indifferent toward him either.

  Surely that meant there was hope for them and their marriage. That, even after everything that had happened, they could work things out. He’d talk to Clare about it when he returned to the villa later. And perhaps they would share another memorable kiss too. His earlier grin returned to his face despite the hot, tiring work.

  Sometime later a shout from up ahead drew Emmett’s attention. He lifted his head to see one of the refugees on the ground, an agonized expression on the man’s face. Dropping his shovel, Emmett hurried forward to see what was wrong. The man had an ugly laceration on his leg from getting too close to one of the workers using a pickaxe. Mr. Sharpe brought over the water, and Emmett used it to wash the wound. Someone handed him a handkerchief, which he tied around the man’s leg.

  “We need to get you to the doctor,” he told him in Italian. The man answered with a grim nod.

  Emmett and Mr. Sharpe propped the injured man between them and set off for town. Another worker ran ahead to procure a cart. The walk was slow, and judging by the man’s ashen face, very painful. But he managed to stay conscious. By the time they reached the outskirts of Taormina, there was a cart waiting for them. They loaded the injured man into the back, and Emmett scrambled in beside him so he could apply pressure to the wound. The reporter climbed onto the seat next to the driver and told him to take them to the nearest doctor.

  To Emmett’s surprise, the doctor turned out to be American. Dr. Muller, as he introduced himself, directed the three of them to carry the man inside and set him on the examination table. They were then instructed to sit in the outer room.

  Emmett wasn’t sure how long they waited before the doctor exited the examining room. “He should be just fine,” Dr. Muller announced as he removed his glasses and rubbed them with a cloth. “Once you take him to where he’s staying, he’ll need to keep off that leg for at least a week.”

  At Emmett’s question about payment, the doctor shook his head. “I’m glad I could help, and that it wasn’t more serious.”

  “Grazie, Lord Linwood,” the wounded man murmured when Emmett and Mr. Sharpe helped him back out to the cart.

  Dr. Muller followed them. “Did I hear him call you Lord Linwood?”

  “You did,” Emmett replied. He wasn’t sure how the doctor recognized his name.

  The
doctor made no further comment until after they’d assisted the man into the cart and the driver knew where to take him. “I met your wife, Lady Linwood, the other day,” Dr. Muller explained.

  Why had Clare seen a doctor? Was she ill and hadn’t told him? “I see.”

  “Now, you don’t need to worry any more than she has,” the doctor said in a kind voice. “Even with her other miscarriages, I’m inclined to believe this baby is going to be all right. If her pregnancy could survive an earthquake, it can surely survive to full term this time.”

  Clare was pregnant? Emmett felt the shock bleeding into his expression. Aware of Mr. Sharpe’s gaze—though, thankfully, the reporter wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said—he wiped his hand down his face, hoping to hide his astonishment. How long had his wife known she was expecting?

  Dr. Muller’s next words provided Emmett with the answer. “The more I’ve thought on the advice that doctor in England gave her, the more I think it was sound. Maybe a warmer climate has been the answer all along.”

  That doctor in England . . .

  Comprehension pummeled through him, as swift and painful as a hard fist to his stomach. Emmett drew in a ragged breath. Clare had seen a doctor before coming to Sicily, which meant she’d known she was pregnant even then. And yet she hadn’t bothered to tell him.

  He bid the doctor good day. Hopefully the man didn’t hear the anger behind the cordial words. It wasn’t the doctor’s fault Clare had kept a secret from her husband. Another secret.

  Bits of memory flickered through Emmett’s mind as he set off at a fast walk back toward the work gang. Mr. Sharpe was blessedly silent as he rushed to keep up. No wonder Emmett had suspected Clare of withholding something else after her confession about her childhood. There had also been a number of times when he had asked after her health and she’d appeared startled or panicked by the innocent question. Her response, when he’d found her unconscious by the well, also made sudden sense now. His wife had been afraid that something might have happened to the baby—their baby.