Summer of Fire

by Kitty Pilgrim

  Suddenly terribly weary, he undid his laces, kicked off his shoes, and draped his jacket carefully on the valet stand. Then he vaulted up onto the mattress in a single bound. He stretched out and allowed his mind to drift off to sleep, hoping that if he had a dream, a volcano would not be part of it.

  CLIFFMERE LIBRARY

  Sinclair followed Cordelia into the empty library and turned and shut the thick oak door behind them. Alone at last. Finally, there was a moment when he could say what he wanted to her, without interruption.

  She had no idea what was on his mind and walked over to the large map table to leaf through a book. He looked around the room, summoning his muses to help him. The wisdom of the ages filled the shelves: Plato and Aristotle, Socrates and Aquinas, Hume and Locke, Thoreau—all champions of humanity, all great thinkers of the past. But this moment was about the future—his future.

  Sinclair walked over and took her hand, kneeling down on the carpet in front of her, his left knee creaking. The floor was surprisingly hard, something he hadn’t anticipated. One part of his brain was amused at himself, subconsciously noting all the details of the moment.

  He looked up into her startled eyes. She seemed so vulnerable, and he pressed her hand between both of his.

  “John, what are you doing?” she asked, but the query seemed half-hearted. She knew full well. Her eyes were round and expectant.

  “Delia, I can’t go another day without knowing … this uncertainty between us has gone on entirely too long, and I blame myself for being so hesitant.”

  “Yes, John?” her irises were huge.

  “You see … I was so afraid you would refuse. And that would absolutely kill me. I just don’t know what I would do … but I’m hoping that, even with all my flaws, you might find something in me that you could love forever. So what I am asking is if you will marry me … if that would be acceptable …?”

  He faltered to a stop. The delivery wasn’t great, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “Of course I will marry you,” she said with tears in her eyes.

  He exhaled and stood up. Thank goodness it went as well as it did. Proposing was a highly overrated event—at least for the man.

  Yet, there was something else he had to do. Of course! The ring!

  “I’m afraid Scotland Yard has confiscated the diamond I had for you,” he told her.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

  “All I have is that ancient Roman ring. We could use that, at least for now. It is a betrothal ring.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” she said rather magnanimously.

  He felt around in his pocket and found the small gold Roman band from Capri. The ancient artifact gleamed in the dim light.

  Part of him didn’t want to use such a tainted object. After all, it had been in the possession of Salvatore Mondragone. But then he thought back to the original owner. Some man had given this to his bride during the Roman Imperium. Certainly two millenia of history would outweigh the recent transgressions of a petty crook.

  She extended her hand, so he could place it on her finger. He turned it sideways, anxious not to drop it in his clumsiness. It slid on, big and bulky but sufficient for now. Then he lifted her fingers and kissed the back of her hand.

  “Delia, you have made me so happy,” he said and meant it.

  She stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her cheek felt cool when it pressed against his. He turned her face and sought her mouth. And this time, when he kissed her, it was different—much more tender—like they truly belonged to each other. The perfunctory engagement kiss lengthened. He had a vague impression that time ebbed and flowed as they stayed in each other’s arms.

  After a while, he let go and walked over to the corner where Sir Mark Skye-Russell had placed his old gramophone. It was an original American Sonora. Sinclair opened the wooden case and cranked the handle with deliberate care. Cordelia watched, absolutely charmed.

  “That phonograph was a gift to Sir Mark from my great-great-grandfather.”

  “I know,” he said. “I wanted to celebrate our engagement with the family, even if they are in absentia.”

  A wax record was already on the turntable, and he placed the needle gently on the exterior edge as it started to rotate. The same recording was always there—a favorite of Sir Mark’s—one of the most popular songs of 1918, the year he died. It was Henry Burr’s “I’m Sorry I Made You Cry.”

  Sinclair held out his arms, and she walked slowly over to him, tears of joy shining in her eyes.

  WEST TERRACE, CLIFFMERE

  Charles knew his way around the estate from past visits, so he cut across the drive, cap-toed oxfords making a loud crunch on the pebbles. Victoria was supposedly in the barn. It would be fun to catch her doing something rustic. A barn might be a very nice place to propose; the simplicity of it appealed to him.

  Despite the bucolic setting, he had dressed carefully. Clothilde had made him promise to wear a certain outfit when he asked Victoria to marry him. She said that women cared about that kind of thing. Personally he found his sister’s fashion dictates amusing, but he had worn the Chesterfield jacket anyway.

  It was a light herringbone wool with a black velvet collar. Clothilde told him that the style—wearing a small strip of black velvet—originated in France, when aristocratic noblemen wore it to mourn the execution of King Louis XVI. She wanted his French heritage to be evident when he proposed.

  In the distance, Charles could see the barn. A truck was backed up to the loading dock. Nervous, he paused in the middle of the border garden and checked his pocket for the box with the ruby ring. He’d rehearsed his speech a dozen times, but it might be good to walk around the garden to get his courage up.

  He turned around and strode past a huge bed of blue delphiniums, thinking of what he was going to say. Once or twice he tried kneeling down, just to get it right. Should he have the ring in his hand, or leave it in the box? Which was the proper way to do it? There was so much to consider.

  Luca Brindisi turned his beautiful chestnut mare onto a cinder track that wound through the fields and into the woods. The air was full of mist, and the horse pranced with skittish energy. The groom at the stables told him his mount was a classic British breed—“warm blood”—a mixture of hot-blooded thoroughbred and cold-blooded draft horse, a perfect temperament for a novice rider.

  Luca cantered through the meadow. He squeezed his heels into the flanks and gathered the reins. The animal immediately stepped up into a gallop. Luca gave a little whoop, and they were flying along the path through the mist.

  LONG BARN, CLIFFMERE

  The old farmworker toted a metal carrier basket of forty-eight eggs into the sorting shed, balancing them carefully. They rattled as he put down the aluminum frame, but none of the shells were broken.

  It was clouding up something awful out there. The radio said it wasn’t a normal situation—and that much he knew. He’d seen volcanic ashfall before, when he was young.

  Marian didn’t seem to realize how bad it could get. If this kept up, they’d probably lose the harvest and half the animals. The dry fog sometimes killed the animals, destroyed the crops, and withered the grass. The effect was immediate. Entire forests could lose their leaves in a single day.

  At least the eggs were all right. He adjusted the metal basket on the conveyer belt. The shells would travel through the automatic washer, and a needle jet spray would rinse them just like a household dishwasher.

  Washing eggs was his least favorite job on the farm. His large clumsy hands were not suited for such delicate work. Some of the eggs would inevitably shatter as he tried to unload. By the end of the morning, he usually had yolks dripping down his clothes.

  The visitor, Clothilde, was a genius at it—she could pack hundreds of eggs in just minutes. When he asked her how she managed it, she told him she was a fashion designer and had developed a light touch from years of sewing.

  A lovely girl, a
nd so was her friend, the princess from Norway. Victoria was just like her pictures in the Sun. But when you got right down to it, Clothilde was prettier than the princess. He’d tell anyone that, if they asked him. But of course, nobody would.

  The farmworker broke off his train of thought. The first batch of eggs made it through the washer and was ready for the cartons. Focused intently on his job, he didn’t see the man walk up behind him.

  “Hold it there,” Mondragone said.

  The farmworker started in surprise, and the eggs broke.

  “Blast,” he cursed.

  The yellow ooze seeped through his fingers. He turned, still holding the shells.

  “Who are you?”

  Mondragone pointed a gun at the bib of his overalls.

  “I need your clothes.”

  The farmworker looked down at his stained coveralls in disbelief.

  “Are you daft? These aren’t worth half a pound.”

  The muzzle floated up to the level of his eyes and the soft thud of a 9mm bullet passed through his brain. The blood speckled the eggs with crimson.

  The man stayed on his feet for a second, mouth open, staring into space, then his knees collapsed, and he fell heavily to the floor.

  Mondragone put his gun back in the holster. The farmworker lay on the floor with eggshells still in his gnarled work-worn hands. The green Cliffmere overalls were large enough to fit over what he was wearing. Mondragone bent down and began stripping the overalls off the warm corpse.

  Clothilde propelled herself across the stable yard toward the barn. The rubber wheels of her chair moved smoothly over the wooden planks. She had no trouble with mobility ever since the farmworker laid a platform of lumber across the gravel. Now she could get to the barn by herself.

  She stopped a moment to rest and glanced up at the sky. The day was getting cloudy, foggy. There wasn’t much they could do about the lettuce and other vegetables, but at least the eggs would be salvaged. As she approached the open doorway of the barn, something wasn’t quite right. The egg washing machine was not on. Usually at this distance she could hear it doing the rinse.

  “Hello?” she called, maneuvering her wheelchair over the doorsill.

  There was silence. Perhaps the farmhand was delayed, or he might be out with the cattle.

  Clothilde wheeled herself forward. There was a funny smell—sharp and familiar, like firecrackers on Bastille Day, or that time they went hunting for grouse up in Brittany. Her brain identified it—gunpowder!

  Even before she saw anything, she knew a pistol had been fired. She stopped rolling her chair, unwilling to go farther. Then she saw the pale naked leg sticking out from the other side of the counter. All she could see was a bare foot and shin. It was a man’s leg.

  Some instinct of self-preservation made her look away. She froze, her hands poised over the wheels of her chair. Breathing was impossible, and the air would not fill her lungs. It felt like her heart would burst into her throat.

  “Are you OK?” she called over to the farmhand.

  She had no idea why she spoke to the man. There was no logic to it. Maybe she had the irrational hope she could bring him back. But it was useless. She knew he was dead.

  From the courtyard, Mondragone watched the girl propel her chair into the barn. He stood undecided, fingering the pistol in his pocket, then walked into the barn and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. Before him was a silent tableau. The girl was sitting in her chair, staring at the dead man’s leg. Her hands were suspended over the wheels, motionless.

  Mondragone came up behind her stealthily. She had all the outward appearance of shock—her eyes glazed, her breathing rapid and distressed. The rhythms of a murder scene were predictable. The scream would come at any second now.

  Mondragone sprang and clamped his hand down over her nose and mouth, cutting off her ability to make a sound. She started violently like an animal that had been captured, thrashing with her upper body. He tightened his grip, pressing his fingers against the warm flesh of her face. A quick twist would be all it would take to snap her neck.

  He was prepared for a struggle, but she stopped after a moment. Her beautiful pale gray eyes looked up at him with terror and then fluttered shut. She fainted right under his hands.

  Surprised, he let her go and stepped back, wiping the moisture from her mouth onto his overalls. Her head lolled back, eyelashes brushing her cheek.

  Mondragone aimed the pistol at her forehead. The girl’s eyebrows were light blond and beautifully arched. He aimed right in between and readied himself to pull the trigger.

  Charles crossed the courtyard and walked toward the open barn door.

  “Halloooo,” he called, his voice echoing.

  Some chickens fussed in the courtyard, but nobody else answered. Suddenly, an unusual feeling of danger flooded over him, a ripple of goose bumps on his arm. It was a familiar sensation, and he always trusted it. There was danger here.

  He approached the open doorway cautiously.

  Mondragone paused and listened carefully. A man’s voice called out in the yard. Footsteps approached. He looked down at the girl, still unconscious. He’d better not attract attention by shooting her. Instead he ducked out of sight behind the large aluminum egg washing machine and waited. Within seconds, an outline of a man was visible in the barn doorway. It was a perfect backlit silhouette, the man’s features obscured.

  Mondragone aimed the pistol at the head—a certain kill. Taking this shot was as easy as a shooting range. Suddenly the silhouette was moving. The man raced toward the inert girl.

  “Clothilde!”

  Mondragone tracked him with professional skill, the pistol reestablishing aim. The man flew over to the girl who was slumped unconscious in the wheelchair. As he reached her, something impeded him; he tripped and stumbled over the dead man’s leg and fell, sprawling, just as Mondragone fired the gun.

  Mondragone hurried out the side door of the barn, wearing the dead man’s coveralls. This was turning into a debacle. He’d better grab what he could and leave. Tito was waiting for him, along with the chauffeur, at the estate entrance. But first he needed to go inside the house to find the necklace. The French doors on the west terrace were open. He slipped inside.

  CHINOISERIE BEDROOM, CLIFFMERE

  The volcano was shooting off projectiles—and he had to save the boys! Jude opened his eyes, and the gold silk underside of a bed canopy came into focus. He was at Cliffmere, not Mount Etna.

  But there was something about that audible pop in his dream that was real. It was a pistol shot. Was someone shooting pheasants or grouse or whatever they did on these big estates? But they wouldn’t be doing that so close to the house.

  “Never a dull moment,” he mumbled and put on his shoes.

  It was time to investigate. The French windows to his room opened out to the terrace. The glass-paneled door swung open with a rusty squeal. Jude walked across the lawn and down the garden steps, crunching his way across the gravel in the courtyard.

  The wide barn door was open. Inside, his eyes had to adjust to the dim interior. But something struck him as wrong, although he could not put his finger on exactly what. It was the silence, or a faint smell, that registered in his subconscious.

  He started forward, and then he saw her—a beautiful blond angel, slumped in a wheelchair, eyes closed. She was the most ethereal girl he had ever seen, slim and pale, with white-gold hair that curled around her face in perfect soft waves. Jude ran over and picked up her limp hand. She was alive, her skin warm.

  TUDOR BEDROOM, WEST WING, CLIFFMERE

  In the brief moment between sleep and waking, the Contessa Brindisi thought of Capri: the sun, the beautiful breeze, and the shimmering sea.

  She opened her eyes and knew it was not real; the room was dark, and there was a cool dampness in the air. The heavy, red brocade curtains and the scent of greenery from the open window reminded her that she was in England.

  Brindy stretched and looked over on
the bedside table for a clock, but there was nothing but a vase of white roses. The drapes were closed over full-length windows, but she could see a sliver of light between the two panels. It was time to rise.

  Brindy pushed off the covers. Sinclair was supposed to come to Cliffmere today, along with Luca. It would be a perfect day.

  Now, where was her robe? She scanned around for it.

  A faint glimmer caught her attention.

  Someone was standing in the corner of the room.

  Brindy sat bolt upright. She blinked a few times to make sure it wasn’t a trick of the light.

  The curtain billowed, and a narrow shaft from the window fell on the intruder’s face. It was a man! He was large with a bulky build. The green Cliffmere overalls identified him as one of the farmworkers.

  Brindy gasped in outrage at the intrusion.

  “How dare you.”

  “Don’t move,” the man said.

  The hands seemed to be reaching out for her, but then she saw he was bracing a pistol, aiming right at her head.

  He had a thick accent. A wave of fear stopped her heart. He was Italian, Neapolitan? Suddenly, she recognized him.

  “Cyclops,” she said, and the word came out as an accusation.

  The meaning was clear. He had come to kill her! Brindy found herself surprisingly unafraid. She had only one reaction. Mondragone must not find her son.

  “You killed my grandmother,” she said. “Why?”

  He said nothing, dark eyes glimmering in the half-light.

  For some reason, she felt perfectly calm. This man was a street thug and nothing more. He stood before her, gross and vulgar.