The Vision of a Viscountess (The Widowers of the Aristocracy Book 2)

by Linda Rae Sande

  If Marianne experienced any queasiness, she was quick to move to the side of the ship and stare out at the horizon. Although she didn’t wear her spectacles very often, she kept them handy in the event the captain was on deck and able to see her, at which point she made sure to don the ugly eyewear. Now that she was no longer on the ship, she thought to only wear them when no one else was around.

  “What are your first impressions?” Jasper asked, his gaze sweeping the tops of the almond trees to the Greek temples beyond.

  “I feel as if I have stepped back in time thousands of years,” Marianne replied, her bespectacled gaze following her husband’s. She slowly surveyed her surroundings, as if she was memorizing them for future reference. Then she removed her spectacles and took Jasper’s proffered arm.

  Even before they reached the door leading into Signora Romano’s courtyard, it swung open and a dark-haired beauty emerged to regard them with a brilliant smile. “Welcome to Casa Romano,” she said as she dipped a curtsy, her sprigged muslin gown looking as if it had just been made by a modiste in Paris.

  Jasper gave a leg as Marianne curtsied. “Thank you, my lady,” he replied. “May I present my wife, Marianne Henley? And I am Jasper Henley.”

  Chiara Romano regarded her guests with a practiced grin as she gave a nod. “I am Signora Romano. Your villa is just there,” she said as she waved to where their guide was helping a young man unload their trunks. The door to the villa’s courtyard was already open, and a young woman stood beyond it, peeking about the edge as if she was spying on them. “Please forgive my niece. Angela will act as your lady’s maid during your stay and is simply curious,” she said to Marianne. “Another of my nieces, Tamara, will be the housemaid during your stay. If she does her work correctly, you shouldn’t notice her.”

  Allowing a tentative grin in the young woman’s direction, Marianne was rather surprised to see her servant couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen years old. From what Jasper had told her at the start of their trip, she expected her lady’s maid to be a much older woman. “May we see it?” Marianne asked. The daylight was waning, and she feared it would be too dark to tour their villa without the use of candle lamps.

  “But of course,” Chiara replied. She led them to where her niece stood, the young woman curtsying before saying, “Buonasera, my lady, my lord.”

  “Buonasera, Signorina Angela,” Marianne replied. “I am Marianne Henley, and this is my husband, Viscount Henley.”

  Angela’s eyes widened, and it became apparent she was attempting to sort Marianne’s words. “I am... honored to meet you, my lady.” Although she struggled with the English pronunciations, it was apparent she had been learning the language.

  The older woman gave the girl some instructions in Italian, and Marianne was able to understand something having to do with luggage.

  “I was told you might require a valet on this trip, Lord Henley. My son, David, will be available, probably tomorrow should you need his services,” the older woman said as she continued their tour. “He is on his way here from school.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” Jasper replied, a bit uncertain as to how to bring up the matter of James. At the time the arrangements had been made for the villa, he and James were the only two in need of accommodations. Given Marianne was with him as well, they would require another bedchamber. “My colleague accompanied us on the trip. I was hoping there might be an extra room for him?” When Jasper noticed the older woman looking about, as if she was searching for someone, he added, “He is spending this evening down near the marina.”

  Chiara gave a shrug. “There are plenty of rooms, of course. I shall have Tamara see to fresh linens in the morning. Even though she is to be your maid, you will not see much of her as she is tending to a widow.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Singleton is his name. James Singleton. He’ll be joining us on the morrow for breakfast. Pietro said he would see to transportation for him.”

  Despite not wearing her eyeglasses, Marianne was able to see enough of the villa to know that Signora Romano was a proud property owner. The house was immaculate, the clear glass windows spotless, and the tile floors so clean, Marianne thought she could make out her reflection in their surface. “How is it your window panes are so large?” she asked in awe, when she realized there were only four mullions for each window when similar-sized windows in England required nine or more.

  Their hostess angled her head. “Our glass makers are the finest in the world, my lady,” she replied, her heavily-accented English easy to understand. “As well they should be, considering they were the first.”

  Jasper furrowed a brow at hearing the brag, and then remembered Captain St. John’s comment about his spyglass being from Italy. He thought of some of his fellow colleagues at the Royal Society. The optics in Sir Elton’s telescope were from Italy, as were the lenses in Lord Everly’s microscope. “Is there someone in Girgenti who makes eyeglasses?” he asked, thinking he might employ someone to make a more attractive pair for Marianne. “And the frames for the lenses?” He ignored Marianne’s sudden glare in his direction.

  Chiara seemed to consider the question for a time before she finally gave a shake of her head. “I will discover an answer for you. In Venice, surely, and Florence, of course,” she said, her attention on something in her mind’s eye. “Even in Palermo. There are... I don’t know the English word for the man who grinds the lenses,” she started to say, one fist cupped by her other hand and moving about as if she were preparing for a fist fight.

  “Oculist?” Jasper offered.

  “Oculist!” she repeated with a grin. “They are found throughout Italy. They make eyeglasses for the old men who cannot read without them, and the young people who can only see clearly with them, and sunglasses for those who don’t wish to be seen at all.”

  Jasper dared a quick glance in Marianne’s direction. He couldn’t help but notice how her face had taken on a reddish cast at the topic of their conversation. “I apologize, my sweet. We can speak of such things on another day. I am sure you wish to finish the tour.”

  Their hostess allowed a nod. “Follow me, and I shall show you to your rooms.” Chiara turned and led the way through the sprawling casa, pointing out a high-ceilinged parlor and several small bedchambers as both Jasper and Marianne lifted their noses at the scents of baking bread and rich spices that filled the villa. “This room is for his lordship,” Chiara said as she waved into a bedchamber decorated in rich reds and golds and dark, heavy furniture. Against the center of one wall stood a bed mounted on a high, stepped platform. “And this is for her ladyship,” she added as she took a few more steps and opened the door to the mistress suite.

  Despite her inability to see clearly, Marianne could make out that the room was decorated in deep purples and golds. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, half-tempted to lift her eyeglasses to her face.

  “Grazie,” Chiara replied. “My daughter, Signorina Aurora, will be your cook during your visit. She will see to your breakfast before you go to the temples and make dinner for when you return before dark.”

  Jasper sniffed the air. “Whatever she has made for dinner this evening smells delicious,” he said.

  “What about tea?” Marianne asked, thinking she could use a cup. It had been hours since their late breakfast.

  “Are you ill?” Chiara countered.

  Marianne blinked. “Not since I got off the boat,” she replied, realizing she hadn’t felt the least bit queasy since they pulled into port.

  “Ah,” Chiara said as if she suddenly remembered something. “We only drink tea when we are sick,” she explained, “But we have excellent coffee for the afternoons.”

  Nodding her understanding, Marianne couldn’t help the sense of disappointment that settled over her just then. Except for Angela’s company as she dressed in the mornings, she would be alone whilst Jasper worked. Although she had spent years without the company of other women, she had grown to appreciate the aftern
oon teas to which her aunt had escorted her for the ten days prior to her wedding.

  Even if she didn’t participate in the gossip, Marianne found the hours with other women a diversion. Her concerns were no different than those experienced by other ladies of the ton. Her self-doubt was voiced by others, her fear of married life assuaged by claims of happy lives with children and the sense of purpose provided by overseeing servants and participation in charitable endeavors.

  “That would be lovely,” Marianne replied, realizing their hostess was waiting for her response.

  “If you are amenable, I shall be happy to accompany you on your daily tour of the ruins, or to go to town while his lordship does his work,” Chiara offered.

  Marianne’s eyes widened. Could the woman read her mind? “Oh, may I?” she asked as she turned her attention to her husband.

  Jasper blinked. One moment he had thought Marianne was about to cry, and the next, her entire countenance had brightened with the prospect of spending time in the company of their hostess. “Of course,” he replied. He turned his attention to Signora Romano. “But if she discovers any Roman artifacts, you will inform me,” he ordered, his manner only half serious.

  The woman allowed a wide smile. “So you can claim to have made the discovery? I think not, my lord,” she teased.

  Grinning, Jasper rolled his eyes. Then he suddenly sobered. “I suppose you have been host to many like me. Archaeologists who claim they only wish to study and then plunder your ruins.”

  Her chin rising a fraction, Chiara Romano’s expression hardened. “Ever since the Duke of Serradifalco started his excavations, we have been visited by all manner of men.”

  Jasper couldn’t help but hear the bitterness in her voice. Domenico Antonio Lo Faso Pietrasanta, Duke of Serradifalco, had hired a large team of laborers to assist in excavating and restoring some of the temples. He had ceased his work in 1812 though, although his efforts continued in other parts of Sicily. “I am not here to plunder,” Jasper said with a shake of his head. “I am here to... to document. To study, and to write about my findings. But if I find a complete mosaic in danger of being lost to floods or to thieves, I shall do what I must to preserve it,” he warned.

  Their hostess considered his words for a moment. “Preserve it? Where?” she asked, obviously suspicious.

  “Why, a museum, of course,” Jasper replied. “I care not which one, as long as they promise to keep it safe.” Realizing now would be a good time to gift a bottle of the scotch he had been given by Marianne’s father, he held up a finger, hurried to one of the trunks, and fished a bottle from inside. “I wish to give you a token of our gratitude for allowing us to stay in your home.” He held out the bottle to the rather startled hostess.

  Chiara finally took it and allowed a nod. “Grazie. If I am asked as to the reason for your visit, that is what I shall say. Not that it will matter much. You will find you are welcomed by most on the island,” she said. “Especially if you give away liquor like this,” she added with a grin. “The British were well received here during the war. Better than the others who fought to control our island,” she continued, just as a chime sounded from somewhere else in the villa. “Dinner is served, my lord, my lady.”

  Marianne’s eyes widened. “But, I haven’t changed for dinner,” she protested.

  “You needn’t, my love,” Jasper whispered. “It’s just the two of us,” he added with an arched brow.

  Looking to their hostess as if she were seeking permission to forgo a change into dinner clothes, Marianne was relieved to see Signora Romano give a non-committal shrug. “If you’re sure,” she replied.

  Jasper took her gloved hand and placed it on his arm. “I am.” He turned his attention to their hostess. “Lead the way, my lady,” he said with a grin.

  Signora Romano did as she was told, and once she saw that they were seated in the elegant dining room, she took her leave of the villa with the promise that Angela would see to Marianne once they finished dinner.

  Chapter 14

  Conversations Can Clear Up Misconceptions

  A few minutes later

  For the first time since their wedding, Jasper and Marianne ate a meal without the company of others. Marianne continued her practice of remaining quiet during dinner. On the ship, she had only spoken when asked a question.

  “This dish is excellent,” Jasper commented, hoping to draw out his wife. Not having eaten a dinner with a lone woman since his first wife’s death, he found he was at a loss as to what to say.

  “Indeed. I’ve never eaten anything like it,” Marianne replied, referring to the caponata the young lady named Aurora had delivered to the table when they took their seats. She could make out the main ingredient, eggplant, but couldn’t identify the spices that made up the sweet and sour flavors. After a long pause, Marianne lifted her gaze to find Jasper regarding her. “What is it?” She set down her fork and straightened in her chair.

  “Do you like it?”

  Marianne blinked. “I do.”

  “The wine is made locally,” Jasper said as he lifted his crystal goblet, his expression changing when he noticed how clear the glass appeared. Not a single bubble marred the goblet.

  “Have you met the vintner?”

  Jasper blinked before giving his head a shake. “No. But then, I’ve not been to this part of Italy before.” He couldn’t help but notice she didn’t say if she liked the wine or not. “Do you like it?”

  “Very much,” she replied, her relief obvious at the sight of their cook entering with a tray on which two steaming bowls were perched.

  Aurora set the soup before them, dipping a curtsy before heading for the door. She turned around when Jasper asked, “Mi scusi. What is it called?”

  The young woman gave a slight shake of her head, her gaze darting to Marianne. When Marianne realized she didn’t understand the question, she repeated it in Italian.

  Aurora nodded. “Maccu.” She seemed to struggle for a moment before adding, “Fava beans.”

  Marianne said, “Grazie,” before the raven-haired Aurora had a chance to escape to the kitchen. With her heart-shaped face, dark eyes, dark brows, full lips, and perfectly shaped nose, Aurora would be an exotic beauty should she ever appear in a London ballroom. “She’s beautiful,” Marianne whispered as she leaned forward a bit, as if she didn’t want anyone else but Jasper to hear her comment.

  The viscount blinked. “I hadn’t noticed,” he replied with a shrug, his attention on his soup.

  Marianne allowed a sound of disbelief, which had Jasper grinning. “Yes, all right, she is... but she is not who I would be caught with kissing in the gardens.”

  Dimpling, Marianne felt an odd tug in her chest at hearing his comment. “She isn’t married,” she added, as if the tidbit of information was important.

  “How do you know?”

  “She was introduced as Signorina Aurora. Not Signora,” Marianne replied. Her eyes widened. “Is Mr. Singleton married?”

  Jasper’s eyes darted to the side. “I’m quite sure he is not,” he hedged. In fact, he had begun to suspect his colleague had no interest in women. At least, not in that way.

  “Are you saying it like that because you married unexpectedly?” Marianne asked.

  “I... I am,” Jasper finally acknowledged, not about to suggest the real reason. “May I ask why you wondered?” he added, his brows furrowing as if in worry. Had Marianne developed a tendré for his colleague during their time on board ship?

  Marianne dared a glance in the direction of the door to the kitchen. “No reason,” she responded, “Other than he could do worse than an Italian wife who can cook.”

  Jasper dropped his spoon into his soup and stared at Marianne, a bit relieved at hearing her interest in Singleton’s marital status had nothing to do with her. “Are you attempting to play matchmaker?” he asked, his face displaying a bit of shock and a lot of amusement. He suddenly angled his head. “Although... I could use a new cook in London. I shall hav
e to pension Mr. Grimes soon. He’s getting on in years, you see, and I can’t say as I don’t expect the kitchen to go up in flames at times.”

  Her eyes widening with her own shock, Marianne managed an, “Oh, dear,” in response. She hadn’t yet met any of the servants of his townhouse and now wondered if there would be one to go home to if Mr. Grimes really did set the kitchen afire.

  Another long pause ensued before the two started to ask a question at the same time. They both dipped their heads and grinned. “You first,” Jasper said.

  Marianne sighed. “Will you have time to take me on a tour of the ruins before you begin your work with Dr.Jones?”

  “I shall do so tomorrow,” he assured her. “I wish to see them, too. But the day after, I really must begin my work at the old Roman city. It’s not far from here, according to Pietro. Dr. Jones mentioned in his letters that the temperatures may grow too hot to work without benefit of a sun shade, at least in the afternoons. When the scirocco winds start...”

  “Scirocco?” Marianne repeated, her brows furrowing with concern.

  “Strong, hot winds that come here from Africa,” he clarified.

  Marianne’s eyes widened. “Africa?” she repeated. “Isn’t that far away?”

  Jasper shook his head. “Only a hundred miles. Apparently, when the winds are blowing, the air grows much warmer here on Sicily. Then the almond harvest will start, and the hillsides will be covered with men shaking the trees and women picking up the shells from the ground. When that happens, I will have to give up any laborers Dr. Jones has hired for our dig, for they will be required for the harvest.”

  Marianne nodded her understanding. “What will we do then?”

  “I’ll take you to Rome.”

  Marianne’s eyes widened. “What will you do there?”