Nothing to Lose: The Pocket Watch Chronicles

by Ceci Giltenan

  “Of course, we can.”

  They picked and ate several handfuls.

  “There is nothing better than juicy blackberries still warm from the sun. They are one of my absolute favorite fruits.” She gave him a cheeky smile. “And you know, my blackberry preserves are almost better than my apricot jam.”

  “Well, then, we’ll come back tomorrow with baskets because I have to taste that.”

  The only thing she really didn’t like about her current circumstances was the heat combined with the layers of clothes she wore. After the first day, she had stopped wearing more than one petticoat and she had no compunction about rolling up her sleeves. But as they walked at the water’s edge, it was just too tempting. She kicked off her shoes, gathered up her skirts, and waded into the cool water.

  “What are you doing?” Benedict asked, an amused expression on his face.

  “Cooling off. Join me.”

  He looked as if he were considering it for a moment. But when he looked poised to decline the invitation, she laughed and splashed water at him with her feet. “Come on. It’s lovely and cool.”

  “I think you’re a very wicked lass,” he said even as he pulled off his shoes and stockings and waded into the water with her.

  From the north end of the island, she could look across the lagoon and see Venice. Until then, she’d become so engrossed with eighteenth-century life, she’d almost forgotten where she was. “I would really love to see Venice. Do you suppose we could go?”

  His brows drew together. “Of course.”

  “Can we go tomorrow?”

  “I thought you said your sourdough will be ready to make bread with tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You promised to show me how to use the bread oven.”

  So the subject dropped.

  ~ * ~

  The next day she did learn to use the bread oven that stood well away from the house. It was easier than she’d expected. She prepared the dough and when it was on its second rise, he showed her how to build a fire in the chamber. When the thick layer of bricks surrounding the oven were hot to the touch on the outside, it was ready. He showed her how to rake out the burning coals. “Then you put the loaves in and the bread bakes as the oven cools.”

  Once the bread was in the oven, Benedict said, “I’m going down to the village. I get milk, butter, and cheese from a farmer there. I can also get fresh beef or fish if you prefer.”

  “Can you wait until the bread is out of the oven, so I can go with you?”

  “No, Sara, I don’t think that’s a good idea. People will wonder who you are, and since we don’t know why you feel you are in danger, we probably shouldn’t make your presence here widely known.”

  This was a bit of a disappointment, but it made sense. “I understand. But you will take me into Venice soon?”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe tomorrow?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She let the subject drop, but the next evening, as they walked along the west side of the island overlooking the lagoon, she asked again. “Oh, Benedict, Venice at sunset is beautiful.”

  He nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  She didn’t want to ask again, but looked at him expectantly, hoping he would take the hint, but he didn’t say anything.

  As much as she wanted to go to Venice, she didn’t push. It had been five days of absolute perfection. She had learned so much about ordinary life in this era, her books would already be richer for it. Then, of course, simply spending time alone with Benedict had been amazing. She grew fonder of him as each day passed. And at some point during the week, she realized that she derived more joy from the fact that he loved her cooking than she did just from cooking alone, and that was saying something.

  She also realized that she’d stopped thinking about her novel early on and that’s what she was here for after all. But perhaps most surprising, was that she’d stopped thinking about Mark.

  A little voice deep within her whispered, maybe that isn’t so unusual. Maybe you’ve stopped thinking about Mark and your writing because Benedict isn’t meant to be the hero in your next book, but the romantic hero of your life. No. She had to stop that line of thinking. She had made too many mistakes before by falling in love with the idea of love, and he had given her no signals that he thought of her as anything more than a houseguest.

  Chapter 7

  Saturday arrived and after a wonderful breakfast of something Sara called “French Toast” with fresh blackberries, Benedict sequestered himself in his study to finish the plans for the new ship he’d been half working on all week. But once again, he couldn’t quite focus. His mind kept drifting to Sara.

  He had never met anyone like her and he’d never eaten so well in his life. His mother’s hatred of all things Venetian also extended to the cuisine. She cooked the food that reminded her of her home and childhood. Her menus were plain but wholesome with little variation. Meat, potatoes, and boiled vegetables. Thus after she returned to Scotland and he was left to fend for himself, the only foods he knew how to cook were those he’d grown up with. His meals consisted mostly of pan fried fish or meat, and potatoes. Over the years, he had grown to love the fresh vegetables that grew so beautifully here and he cooked them to the best of his ability, but that was the extent of his variety.

  Some of what Sara cooked was completely new to him, as the potatoes, ham, and eggs had been. But other dishes would have been served in any of the finest homes or establishments in Venice. He wondered how she could forget her very identity, but not this culinary artistry.

  After barely one week, he knew he was beginning to fall in love with this beautiful girl from nowhere. His growing feelings weren’t only because of her great skill in the kitchen, although that was certainly a gift. Over the week as he showed her around the north end of the Lido, he had become enchanted by her sheer enthusiasm for everything. She took such joy in each new discovery, ripe cherries, plums, and apricots in the orchard; peas, beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, chard, spinach, and melons in his garden; and wild blackberries thickets at the center of the island. Even something as ordinary as searching for eggs in the chicken coop was an adventure for her.

  After her ordeal, he thought she might be afraid of the water, but he was wrong. He smiled as he remembered the afternoon she’d joyously kicked off her shoes, lifted her skirts scandalously high, and run knee deep into the sea, splashing water at him with her feet.

  Perhaps he’d become jaded. The only women he encountered on a regular basis were those who worked as laborers in the shipyards, beaten down with their mundane existence. Or the women who sometimes accompanied a wealthy client. They were the polished courtesans whose elegant façades and practiced perfection never slipped for an instant.

  But Sara, exuberant, ebullient, beautiful Sara, was as delightfully refreshing as a cool, fresh breeze on a blistering August day.

  The one thing he hadn’t done with her was take her into Venice.

  She wanted to go. She’d asked several times and she’d stare across the lagoon wistfully but so far, he’d made excuses not to.

  He wasn’t sure exactly why but he didn’t want to. He intended to take her…just not yet. Since she had arrived, they’d existed in their own world, away from other people. He had limited their wanderings to the unpopulated north end of the island, avoiding the village of Malamoco, altogether. Other than the farmer from whom he’d purchased butter, milk, and cheese, he hadn’t seen or spoken to another person since he’d returned from the Arsenale on Monday morning. It was as if a delightful enchantment had woven itself around them, which only became stronger as each day passed. And yet, he knew with certainty, the enchantment would break the moment other people entered it.

  So, he had jealously kept her to himself for as long as possible. But the time was coming. They couldn’t stay secreted away forever. Still, there was one last thing he wanted to experience with her before the magic ended. On Saturday evening, she was putting the k
itchen to rights after they’d eaten a supper of soup and fresh baked bread. He lit a lantern and went to the kitchen. She was sweeping the floor and he watched her for a moment from the door. He adored her. He simply couldn’t explain it, but deep down, he believed she was meant for him.

  She looked up and smiled at him. “I’m just finishing up.”

  He smiled back. “Good. Because I want to show you something.” He held out his hand. “Come with me.”

  She nodded eagerly, put the broom by the hearth, and removed her apron. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  They chatted as they walked to the west side of the island.

  When the twinkling lights of Venice came into view, she stopped and sighed, enraptured. “We’ve never been here at night. It’s beautiful. Thank you, Benedict.”

  “Well I’m glad you find it beautiful, but that isn’t all I planned for you to see.”

  “No?”

  He grinned and shook his head. “No.” Because the things she remembered and those she didn’t were seemingly random, he asked, “Do you know what tomorrow is?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “It’s the third Sunday in July, the feast of the Most Holy Redeemer, il Redentore.”

  “Oh.”

  He laughed. “You don’t know what that is.”

  Even in the lantern light, he could see a blush warm her cheeks as she smiled. “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, almost two hundred years ago, in the year 1577, a great plague gripped the city. More than fifty thousand people died. Have you ever heard of the artist, Titian? No, I don’t suppose you’d remember even if you had, but he was among those who died. The Doge at the time promised to build a magnificent church if Venice was freed from that plague. So, when it eventually did end, he commissioned the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer to be built. Look across the water, you can see the Campanile di San Marco, the cathedral tower?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, look to the left. Can you see the long narrow island across from San Marco?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is the Giudecca and it’s where the church was built. First, they laid a foundation stone over which they built a small wooden church. There was also a temporary bridge, created from barges so that the Doge could lead a procession across the water to the tabernacle. Since then, the Doge has made that same procession every year. After Mass is said there is a great celebration throughout Venice. And festivals in Venice are not to be missed.”

  She clasped her hands together. “You’ll take me?”

  Her unbridled excitement at the prospect was endearing. He couldn’t have said “no” if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to show her a Venice as full of life as she was.

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Oh, Benedict, thank you.” She threw her arms around him in a jubilant hug. “I can’t wait. What should I wear? I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight, but I should probably try. Maybe we should go back now.” She took a step towards the path home.

  He put a hand out to stop her, chuckling at her childlike joy. “In a few minutes. But there’s something else I want you to see.”

  Almost as if on cue, a firework exploded over the lagoon.

  “Fireworks?” she said in awe.

  He nodded. “Aye. There’s always a display or fireworks on the evening before il Redentore.

  ~ * ~

  As Sara watched the fireworks explode over eighteenth century Venice, she felt like she should pinch herself. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be a dream. But if it was, the entire week had been. Perhaps the stirring in her belly that she was beginning to feel every time Benedict complimented her cooking, or took her to experience something new…or just sat across the table from her, was part of the dream too.

  But she knew it wasn’t.

  She was falling for Benedict, and that was a disaster waiting to happen. She had to go home. There was a man waiting for her who loved her. And let you go to bed alone while he stayed in the casino to gamble. Just imagine what it would be like for Benedict to take you in his arms and kiss you senseless.

  No, she had to stop this. She had to channel these romantic thoughts about Benedict into Rafe, the hero of her work in progress. And blond-haired, blue-eyed Kyra was the woman he loved.

  She imagined Rafe and Kyra sitting on the rocks watching the fireworks. He cupped Sara’s cheeks in his hands, gently tilting her head as he lowered his lips to meet hers.

  ~ * ~

  Sara found the trip to Venice the next day nothing short of magical.

  Benedict had urged her to wear a pale-blue silk damask, close-bodied gown, the style of which Sara recognized as robe à l'anglaise.

  “Are you sure it’s appropriate?” Sara knew there were sumptuary laws in much of Europe in the eighteenth century that would prevent a commoner from dressing in such finery. “You said you weren’t a nobleman and I’m certainly not a member of the gentry. Is it acceptable for me to wear this?”

  “Maybe you are a member of the nobility. You might be a British earl’s daughter for all we know.”

  “I’m pretty confident I’m not.”

  “Well, it’s of no importance anyway. Wealth matters in Venice nearly as much as title does. Here, the attire of affluent merchants and businessmen is not restricted by sumptuary laws.”

  “Yes, but I’m not affluent.”

  “For someone with no memories, you are overly certain of things. The shift you were wearing when I found you was made of silk. Besides, you will be with me.”

  She didn’t offer any further argument. She truly did want to wear the beautiful dress. She didn’t have a corset, but the gown fit beautifully without it. Still, once she had it on, she realized that the dress revealed a fairly large portion of her décolletage. She looked among Mrs. MacIan’s things for a fichu, a little kerchief that women wore around their neck that tucked into the bodice of a dress to make it more modest. But it was to no avail.

  Just own it, Sara, she told herself. She went downstairs, head up, appearing as confident as she could until Benedict saw her.

  His mouth fell open and she felt a hot blush rise. Her hand fluttered to her neck, trying to conceal what felt like an acre of exposed skin.

  “Sara, you are breathtaking.”

  “Thank you, but I feel…I feel…well, the neckline is a bit low. I couldn’t find a fichu.”

  “My mother probably didn’t leave one. And the neckline isn’t too low by Venetian standards. But I did find this in a trunk.” He handed her a beautiful lace shawl. “It’s Burano lace.” He gave her a sad smile. “Another gift from my father that my mother rejected.”

  Sara took it reverently in her hands. “It’s simply gorgeous.”

  “I thought you might want to wear it on your head. I don’t have any hats or head coverings of any sort left of hers. And it will provide a little extra coverage.”

  Benedict himself looked rather sharp. Since she’d arrived, she’d only seen him dressed in breeches, boots, and a shirt. Now he wore a suit, complete with stockings, shoes with silver buckles, and a tricorn hat. He looked very much the gentleman.

  They walked to the small dock where Benedict had two boats moored, a batela and a gondola. Surprisingly, the black, flat-bottomed gondola looked much like those still used in Venice. The batela was a slightly larger flat-bottomed sailboat that could also be rowed.

  “If the wind is right, it’s much faster to sail across the lagoon and if I’m just going to the shipyard, it is what I nearly always use. It takes between twenty and thirty minutes to row across the lagoon, depending on conditions, but the gondola is easier to maneuver within the canals. Today, we’ll use it.”

  He helped settle her into the felze, the gondola’s cabin, before handing her his coat and hat. “Would you mind holding these? It’s much easier to row without being constricted by a dress jacket.”

  He took his place, standing on the back of the gon
dola, pushed off from the dock, and began rowing them across the lagoon.

  It was breathtakingly romantic. She imagined Rafe and Kyra doing the same thing only in an open gondola, like the ones in Venice now. She tried to imagine their conversation. But after a few moments, she mentally set the novel aside. She wanted to enjoy this ride herself.

  ~ * ~

  That afternoon and evening, as they wandered the familiar streets of Venice, Benedict felt as if he were seeing them for the first time. He guessed, in a sense, it was like a first time, because he was seeing it all through her sharp eyes. Something new, things that he normally took no notice of, caught her attention every few hundred yards. The windows of bookstores and tailors’ shops, the food vendors, puppet shows, and street performers enthralled and delighted her. Even just watching the other people around them while they had coffee at a café on San Marco Square was rich entertainment for her.

  As the hour grew late, and the revelers more raucous, Sara clearly grew weary. Benedict guided her away from San Marco square and in no time, they were back at the place where he had moored the gondola.

  “Are we leaving?” she asked.

  “Aye. Things will only get wilder as the night goes on. It isn’t the place for an innocent young lady. Besides, you are already over-tired.”

  “I’m not,” she said, even as she stifled a yawn.

  “I beg to differ. But even if you aren’t tired, I am. Tomorrow I will need to go to the shipyard. As much as I would like to stay with you, I can’t ignore my business.”

  “I’m sorry, Benedict. Of course, you can’t. Yes, I suppose it is time to go home.”

  Home.

  She had said the word.

  All week she had referred to it as his house or the house.

  But just now she had called it home. Perhaps she, too, was beginning to imagine spending the rest of her life with him.

  Chapter 8