The bread, cake, and tins of corned beef that he carried on his back would feel like bricks by midmorning—and like iron ingots by the time they finally stopped for lunch. His thighs would be burning, his breaths coming in gasps, and his arms trembling visibly from holding on to his alpenstock.
And his employers, far from demanding that he look after them, would hasten to pat his cheeks with handkerchiefs that had been dipped in water. Then they would hand him a cup of coffee they had made on the Etna stove, to which a drop of cognac had been added to better revive him.
“How do you manage it?” he asked on the fourth day, fanning himself with his hat.
This day they walked along miles of narrow aqueducts, called levada, that carried water from the western part of the island to the east. There had been sections of the levada that passed through easy countryside, and other sections that required pith helmets, torches, and very sure footing for one to not slide off into the deep ravines the levada skirted.
It was also the first day on which he felt remotely helpful, assisting the ladies across some of the more vertiginous stretches of their path.
“Well, we are half Scotch, for one thing,” said Miss McHenry, “though of course I must admit that we’ve spent most of our lives south of the border.”
“It’s from having been cooped up all our lives,” said Miss Violet. “We are afraid that if we don’t climb every mountain and sail every sea now, we won’t have the time for it later.”
“Our mother passed away before she was our age, you see,” explained Miss McHenry. “Several of our sisters are also no more. And Miss Violet here had a rough winter herself.”
“You had it worse, having to look after both Father and me,” answered Miss Violet. She turned to Leighton. “Our father was never an easy man. He believed his children ought to conduct their lives exactly as he directed: boys doing manly things and girls settling down in marriage. But my sister and I never wanted to go down the path of matrimony, and for that we were considered failures. And the older he—and we—became, the more he considered our lives utterly wasted.”
The more Leighton knew of life, the more he perceived the strictures that ladies must endure. Not just in the paucity of choices in terms of what they could do with their lives, but in the pervasive pressure placed on them to not desire anything else.
“We could have left to live on our own,” said Miss McHenry, a trace of regret in her voice. “We had a sister who married well. Her husband had left her a considerable dower, and when she passed away she provided amply for all her siblings. But our father was vehemently opposed to the idea, even though we were both well past thirty at that point. We acquiesced—we had grown accustomed to yielding to him.”
“We also thought he wouldn’t live much longer,” added Miss Violet.
In the beginning it had seemed that Miss McHenry was the more open of the two; but as it turned out, Miss Violet was far more likely to speak the blunt truth.
“Well, there was that,” admitted Miss McHenry. “But he had the constitution of an ox, and at one point we feared he was going to outlast us all.”
“And it was terrible to think that we had wasted our entire lives as a spiteful old man’s marionettes,” said Miss Violet.
Leighton had not realized it before: He never had to wrestle with any attachment to his captor—it had always been revulsion, pure and simple. But for the ladies it would have been a long and painful struggle, disillusionment alternating with hope that perhaps their father could still change.
“But you outlasted him instead,” he said.
“By the skin of our teeth. At one point Violet was in a bad way. And I thought to myself, if the influenza spared him, but took her…” Miss McHenry drew a deep breath.
Miss Violet patted her hand. “We promised each other that if I recovered, we would leave him and finally start our own lives, whether he survived or not. In the end we didn’t need to test our resolve, but trust me, we would be here today even if he were still fuming daily over his afternoon tea about how nothing is as it was or as it should be.”
Miss McHenry smiled at Leighton. “And now you know how we do it. We are driven by this insatiable desire to see and experience everything. I love every mile of ocean I have crossed and every step I have taken on Madeira, even if I sometimes feel as if my skeleton is about to rattle apart.”
Their guide came and said something to Leighton in Portuguese. Leighton had never studied Portuguese before, but it was similar enough to Italian that during their steamer journey, he had picked up quite a bit from the Portuguese sailors.
He thanked the guide and turned to the misses McHenry. “Senhor Lima says that three miles ahead there is a very nice waterfall.”
“Then let’s not dawdle anymore,” Miss Violet rose. “I do believe we set out from England with the express purpose of seeing every waterfall in the whole wide world.”
The tea set was quite beautiful, the silver teapot at once heavy yet delicate, the silver filigree pattern on the tea glass holders as intricate as the finest lace. Miss McHenry and Miss Violet whispered to each other, debating whether they really ought to acquire anything that was both expensive and liable to break during their travels.
Miss McHenry pointed out that the bottle of Madeira that they had acquired on the island itself had arrived in Tangier—via the Canary Islands, three cities on the coast of Maghreb, an excursion into the Sahara Desert and one to the Atlas Mountains, no less—without any mishap. Miss Violet ceded that particular victory but reminded her just how much trouble it was to lug said bottle of Madeira around for the pleasure of two small sips every evening.
Leighton listened to their exchange with half an ear. All about them, merchants haggled with potential customers and laughed with one another. Grains and spices were weighed and wrapped, yards of wool and silk draped around shoulders to show off their color and texture.
He paid attention because he found everything fascinating. And because ever since his capture in Southampton he couldn’t help but be acutely aware of his surroundings, sometimes excruciatingly so in crowded places.
Miss McHenry was about to capitulate to Miss Violet’s argument in favor of practicality when Leighton saw the shabbily dressed boy slinking through the bazaar. As the misses McHenry moved on from stall to stall, the boy came closer and closer.
A poor boy who appeared unlikely to afford the wares wasn’t necessarily a criminal. But this boy had lingered too long to be an apprentice on an errand for his master, or a houseboy sent by the cook to buy a handful of prunes for the evening’s tagine.
Leighton caught the pickpocket by the wrist as the latter reached toward Miss Violet’s reticule. The boy jerked, stilled, and stared at Leighton, his eyes huge with fear. He was Leighton’s age, but almost half a foot shorter, with chapped lips and hollow cheeks, a boy who probably didn’t eat every meal—or even every day.
Still holding on to the boy’s hand, Leighton dug into a hidden pocket in his waistcoat with his free hand and extracted two three-falus copper pieces.
The boy only looked more afraid when the coins dropped in his palm.
Leighton let go of his wrist. “Salaam.”
The boy gaped at him another moment. Before he could get away, their guide clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Is this lowlife bothering you, sir?”
The misses McHenry always introduced Leighton as their nephew, and he was thus treated as a patron, rather than a fellow servant.
“No, not at all,” he said.
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure. Let him go. He is harmless.”
The guide glared at the boy before releasing him.
Leighton exhaled. In his most desperate hour, had Miss McHenry not smiled up at him and said, Of course we are still in need of a young man like you,he too might now be a petty criminal, existing at the edge of hunger.
There but for the grace of God go I.
Leaving his employers for a moment, he returned to the merch
ant who had the gleaming silver-and-glass tea set for sale. After some negotiation, they settled on a price. Later that day he returned with sufficient coins and purchased the entire set.
He wanted to give his present to Miss McHenry after dinner. But he felt too shy. The same the next evening. At the end of their stay in Tangier, he packed away the tea set in his luggage.
He would say nothing of it to Miss McHenry until it was time for him to leave their employment.
From Tangier they sailed to Gibraltar, and from there to the isle of Capri, where the ladies took a house for the winter, a white-walled, red-roofed villa perched over a steep cliff that dropped several hundred feet to the cobalt waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea below.
Leighton made himself useful, going to the town of Capri for provisions, making tea and sandwiches, and delivering calling cards and invitations from the ladies to members of the tiny English community on the island.
But a more leisurely pace of life, one that did not have him constantly on the move, gave him too much time to think. Before he left Southampton he had sent a letter to San Francisco. Not to Mother, but to the shipping firm run by Mr. Delany’s family, addressed to Mr. Delany himself, in the hope that it would escape the attention of Sir Curtis’s agents, in case there had been any hired locally to keep an eye out for Leighton’s arrival.
It was a short note, asking his stepfather to tell Mother that he was safe, that he might not be able to write for a while, and that everything he’d said, the last time he had spoken to her, had been bilge and drivel, the farthest thing from his true sentiments.
He had no way of knowing whether his letter had reached its intended recipient. Nor did he dare write any more letters, for fear that should they end up in Sir Curtis’s hands, the postmarks would set Sir Curtis on his trail.
What if Mother never received his note? Would she worry? Would she believe that the lack of communication from him meant that he had stopped caring altogether?
And Mr. Colmes—was he able to escape Sir Curtis’s wrath? And what about Lady Atwood? If ever Sir Curtis were to find out what she had done…
Such thoughts made the heavy sack he carried, full of flour, fish, olive oil, and hothouse tomatoes, feel even heavier. He lugged his load up the final few steps into the villa and handed it into the care of the housekeeper, an elderly woman who was thrilled to not be ferrying the groceries herself up the steep path to the house.
“I make you nice pasta tonight, signor,” she said to Leighton in Italian.
“Grazie, Signora Mulino,” Leighton answered. He enjoyed her brightly flavored pastas.
The ladies were not home; they must have gone for a visit with some of the British expatriates. Leighton made himself some coffee and went out to the balcony with half a pan brioche dolce for his midmorning snack.
He heard Miss Violet’s return well before the latter reached the villa: She sometimes enjoyed scratching the tip of a stick along the garden walls of the other houses she passed. The front door opened and closed. After a few minutes she came out to the balcony and sat down next to him.
Wordlessly he offered her the pan brioche dolce, which he hadn’t touched yet. She pulled off a piece and popped it into her mouth, and then another.
When she had eaten enough, he asked, “Did Miss McHenry not come back with you, Miss Violet?”
“No, she has agreed to sit for a portrait. I’m somewhat doubtful of the artist’s skills, but she is always willing to give everyone a chance.”
Leighton nodded. He went and fetched a cup of coffee and handed it to Miss Violet. She accepted with a nod and they sat for a while in companionable silence, watching sunlight ripple on the bright sea.
“You’ve been with us six months now and we haven’t celebrated a birthday for you yet. Have we missed it, by any chance?”
Her question pulled Leighton out of his imagined reunion with Herb. “No, ma’am. We’ve a few months to go until my next birthday.”
“And how old will you be by then?”
Leighton’s coffee cup paused on its way to his lips. They had asked him his age earlier and he had said that he was eighteen. Was it merely a case of forgetfulness on Miss Violet’s part? “Nineteen.”
Miss Violet gave him a baleful look. “Why don’t you tell me the truth instead, Mr. Ashburton? And that isn’t your name, is it?”
Carefully Leighton set his coffee cup aside. “Why the questions, Miss Violet?”
Had she run into someone in town? Was it possible that Sir Curtis had sent an agent to a place as unlikely as Capri? If so, he—or they—most likely would have arrived at the Marina Grande on the northern shore. Could Leighton slip away from the little marina, the Marina Piccola? Would there be a fisherman willing to ferry him directly to the—
“I believe you know that Hazel and I are two of seven daughters born to our parents,” said Miss Violet.
Leighton blinked, not sure what that had to do with anything. “Yes, I do.”
“Well, there were actually eight of us, seven sisters and a brother. His name was Robert, and he ran away from home when he was fifteen—he simply couldn’t take one more day under our father’s thumb. Three years later we found him in the slums of London, suffering from an advanced stage of consumption. He died within the month.
“You look a bit like him. He had dark hair and green eyes and was tall for his age. I don’t remember him that well—he was seven years older than me—but he and Hazel were close. As soon as you walked into that hotel in Southampton, Hazel noticed you.”
He hadn’t noticed anyone. But then, he had been dead tired, his feet full of blisters, and all he’d wanted was a place to take off his shoes, lie down, and close his eyes.
“She listened to you speak to the clerk. When you’d taken the key and left, she turned to me and said, ‘But he’s a child. What is he doing in Southampton by himself?’
“I admit that I did my best to dissuade her. But my sister, as sweet as she is, does not change her mind easily once it has been made up. She saw something of Robert in you and she was determined that no one else should lose a beloved brother the way we had.
“That was why she called you over and asked you about yourself. That was why she offered you a position even though we hadn’t the remotest plan of having anyone else travel with us. That was why she overrode all my objections, despite my certainty she was inviting trouble and we’d be at best robbed blind and in the worst case stabbed in our sleep.”
Leighton’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t realize I gave the impression of a cutthroat.”
Miss Violet chuckled. “No, you gave the impression of tremendous dignity and reserve. But I always prefer to suspect villainy everywhere and in everyone—it saves the trouble of being disappointed later.”
She took a sip of her coffee. “You must be wondering why I am telling you all this now.”
He did—with a sense of foreboding. Truths were like icebergs, capable of causing unlimited wreckage. He was afraid of the truth Miss Violet was about to reveal.
“We hadn’t planned on staying so long anywhere, for winter or not,” she went on. “Our original plan was to continue to the Levant, Egypt, and then India. But Hazel hasn’t been feeling well of late.”
“Oh,” said Leighton, his stomach sinking. “I thought she just needed to recover from all the traveling.”
“That’s what she had told me at first. But now I think it’s far worse than she lets on. And I don’t believe she’s gone to have her portrait painted. For something like that she doesn’t need to persuade me to go home—I’d have gladly stayed to keep her company. I think she just wanted me gone so she could visit a physician without my knowledge.”
Miss Violet clasped her hands together. “I don’t know what is going to happen. We might have to go to Naples for her treatment. And if her condition worsens beyond a certain point, we might have to return to England. One has to go home for certain things.”
If Miss McHenry were found to be dying, she meant.
Leighton’s throat tightened—he had become even fonder of the sisters than he’d realized. “Is she really in such a serious condition?”
“Well, keep in mind that I’m a pessimist. But yes, she could be. Should the worst happen, I want to know how I could do right by you. But I can’t do that if I know nothing of your background—we both thought you’d have opened up to us by now, but you are quite the tight-lipped young man.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you and Miss McHenry. I do. It’s just that I’ve become used to not saying anything to those I care about—the less they know, the less trouble I would cause them.”
“But you did run away from home?”
Leighton carefully considered how to answer Miss Violet’s question while giving away the minimum amount of information. But then he opened his mouth and out poured all the words he had kept inside since Father’s passing. He told her about Starling Manor, about the two men who loved each other and adored him, about those long idyllic summer days that he still dared not think too much or too often about, the memories so bright and sharp they were like daggers in his chest.
Of Father’s death and its aftermath he gave a spare account, and he elided over most of Sir Curtis’s cruelties, ending with, “And then I left—and met you and Miss McHenry. The rest you know.”
Miss Violet leaned forward and took his hands. “I’m so sorry about everything that’s happened to you.”
He squeezed her hands, feeling the heat of tears in his eyes. “My father’s death would never not be a tragedy, but I have been unbelievably fortunate. When I most needed it, always someone has stepped in and saved me.”
“And that is as it should be,” said Miss Violet firmly. “I’m glad Hazel asked you to come, I’m glad you agreed, and I’m glad that I was wrong about everything.”
She smiled at him. He smiled back.
For a moment there was nothing but sunshine in his heart, but anxiety returned all too soon. “What about Miss McHenry? I want to help you look after her, but I don’t think I dare go back to England.”
The Hidden Blade: A Prequel to My Beautiful Enemy (Heart of Blade) Page 19
