THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL_1794_CHARLOTTE

by Karen Hawkins

  “It’s good you are making dust.” Pietro nodded wisely. “The stone is talking to you.”

  “Finally,” Marco agreed. “I will carve two women, Greek goddesses, one on each pillar. The mantel will rest above them.”

  Pietro nodded thoughtfully, as if picturing it. “And?”

  “That is all I have now.”

  “So some of the details have not yet revealed themselves. They will come as you proceed.” Pietro grunted his satisfaction. “You are well on your way to getting Mrs. Harrington’s recommendation to the Queen, and we are that much closer to going home.” He leaned against the opposite doorpost and, hands deep in his pocket, he looked out across the stable yard with an air of contentment.

  A fresh breeze blew delightfully cool air through the wide open stable doors, ruffling Pietro’s white hair and tugging at Marco’s shirt. Bees buzzed in the nearby flowers, while butterflies flitted in and out of the field where Diavolo grazed. The scent of lavender and rose wafted from the gardens behind the house, mingling with the smell of fresh hay and oats.

  Past the gardens, Nimway Hall warmed in the sun, sheltered by the ivy that climbed up its stone walls. The graceful sweep of the emerald colored lawn was threaded with white gravel pathways that led to the deep blue lake. Behind the lake, purple and yellow flowers nodded in the gentle breeze.

  “The English know how to garden,” Pietro said grudgingly.

  “They cannot grow grapes.”

  Pietro brightened. “Sorry bastards.”

  Marco’s gaze moved beyond the lake where a large, golden field stretched to Balesboro Wood. “It is beautiful here.”

  Pietro harrumphed. “Not as beautiful as Italy.”

  Marco gave the elderly, cantankerous stonemason an amused look. “You can love more than one place. It will not hurt you.”

  “I have no need for any place other than Italy, and neither do you. Your family must miss you.”

  “Unlike yours,” Marco returned.

  Pietro grinned.

  “I cannot imagine living anywhere else than Italy. It is home. Besides, it is rumored that England is very wet and gray in the winter.”

  “From what I’ve heard, it’s usually wet and gray in the summer, too.” Pietro glanced at the sky. “Cook says it’s been oddly sunny this month.”

  Marco cocked a brow at his servant. “You’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time in Nimway’s kitchen of late. Is it because of this woman?”

  “Someone told her that Italians are good lovers.” Pietro looked smug. “So far, I have not abused her of that notion.”

  “It’s good that we leave soon, before she discovers the truth. She might—” A white horse appeared from the depths of the wood. Marco watched as Charlotte guided the huge animal across the rough ground and onto the path around the lake. Today she wore a riding habit of hunter green, a white froth of lace at her neck, her dark red hair pinned beneath a tall riding hat that sported a pale green band with fluttering ends. Her long skirts flowed across the horse’s white flanks, rippling with the breeze.

  Marco’s heart thrummed when she turned Angelica toward the stables instead of onto the path that curved around the Hall. Charlotte usually rode her horse to the front door where a groom waited to lead animal back to the stables. But on occasion, Charlotte would instead ride her horse to the stables where she’d busy herself brushing the monster beast while ordering the stable hands to feed the animal a ridiculous number of apples. Since the day Marco had arrived, she’d only ridden to the stables once, and that was several days ago.

  Not that he’d watched, of course. He was far too busy for such nonsense. But nothing kept her voice and her low, musical laughter from drifting into his workshop, which had been damned distracting. He’d been so certain that she’d visit him after he’d foolishly invited her to view his work, that he’d caught himself keeping his workshop ridiculously clean.

  But she hadn’t deigned to so much as glance his way, even when she was only a few hundred steps away, which had rankled. Apparently, this project isn’t as important as that damned horse.

  Pietro cursed. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop looking at her in such a way. As if you see a lovely puzzle only you can solve.”

  “You think I cannot solve this puzzle?”

  “I don’t want you to try!” Pietro almost growled. “That woman is not for you.”

  The words hit Marco like icy water. The truth was a bitter tonic, indeed. “You don’t need to tell me that.”

  “Good. You know what would happen to your prospects if you seduced the daughter of a noble patron. Not only would the recommendation to royalty disappear, but you would be disgraced, chased from this country, told to never return, and then where would your family be, and—”

  “It will not happen,” Marco said sharply. “I’m not a fool; I will not sabotage my own success.” Which didn’t mean he wasn’t tempted. God knew he was only human and the lush and lovely Charlotte presented a wealth of challenges. But it didn’t take a genius to see the end result of this particular flirtation, no matter how pleasurable. “You need have no worries, she is engaged to wed,” he said sourly. Damn the man to hell and back again, whoever he is.

  “Propio bourno! This, I did not know.” The servant gave a satisfied smile, revealing a row of wine-stained teeth. “When is the blessed event to occur?”

  “In three weeks’ time.” Marco watched as Charlotte neared the fence that lined the far end of the stable yard.

  The sun warmed her auburn hair, bringing out the gold tones. He noticed that as she led the horse, the animal’s gait had changed slightly, as if she were matching Charlotte’s limp. For a moment, it looked as if the two were dancing, horse and rider.

  A stable hand hurried to open the gate, and Charlotte entered the stable yard, still leading her horse. As soon as she handed her horse to a waiting groom, her gaze swung to meet Marco’s.

  For a long moment their gazes locked. Marco’s chest tightened, and he wondered if he should cross the yard and speak to her. To what end? There’s nothing I could or should say. I’ve no reason to speak to her at all.

  Angelica butted her head against Charlotte’s arm, drawing her rider’s attention, and that was that – Charlotte turned away to take care of the demanding animal.

  Marco muttered under his breath about evil creatures.

  “You’re still staring,” Pietro pointed out.

  “Go to hell,” Marco snapped and then wheeled about and went back inside, welcoming the safety of the cool, dark stable.

  Pietro followed. “I don’t understand. She’s not your usual type.”

  “And what is my ‘usual type?’” Marco asked coldly.

  “Tall, stately, and beautiful. This one is pretty, yes, but no more.” The stonemason pursed his lips. “It’s a pity about that limp, too. When she walks, you can see that one hip is higher than the other and—”

  “She is fine as she is,” Marco said coldly, his jaw aching where he clenched it. “I am not so arrogant as to change what God has deemed perfect. You would do well to be the same.”

  The old stonemason cast a pious look heavenward and crossed himself. “I cannot argue with that. But I will say one thing, and you will not like it.”

  “Then do not say it.”

  “You need to hear it.” The old man leaned closer. “Ever since we arrived, you’ve been distracted, moping around the shop, unable to hear the stone when it speaks to you. You cannot work well because you are constantly looking for that woman, wondering about her. You watch her as if you would devour her.”

  “You are exaggerating.”

  “Ha! You know what I think?”

  “No, and I don’t want to.”

  “E’ stato un colpo di fulmine.”

  “Like hell,” Marco snapped. He didn’t believe in colpo di fulmine. Myth held that an Italian man of a passionate nature could, with just one glance at the right woman, be hit with a cons
uming ardor so strong that it would be as if he’d been struck by lightning and his chest split open, his love exposed for all the world to see. The English called it ‘love at first sight,’ which was a pale version of the same foolish myth. “Spare me your ridiculous talk. I feel nothing more than admiration for Charlotte Harrington.”

  By any standard, his admiration was well deserved. His artist’s instincts were intrigued by her fiery color, the delicate yet stubborn line of her jaw, by the bold line of her nose, and the full, sensual line of her lips. But more than her physical attractions, Marco was fascinated by her many expressions, her bravery in facing the challenges of her life, but especially he was intrigued with all the things he didn’t yet know about her. Why did she ride into the woods each day as if pursued by the hounds of hell? Why had she looked so unsettled when she mentioned her coming marriage? But most of all, why was there such sadness behind her amazing blue eyes?

  So far, Pietro had been right about only one thing – Charlotte wasn’t the type of woman who usually caught Marco’s interest.

  The old man sighed loudly, drawing Marco’s attention once again. “I don’t mean to argue—”

  “Really?”

  “But don’t forget why we’re here. What you stand to lose if you stray from the rules of a commission.”

  “The rules of a commission,” Marco repeated in a bitter tone. “That the satisfaction of the patron is more important than the quality of the art? That the artist is never to assume he is more than a common laborer and never cross the social boundaries established to keep it so?”

  “It is the way things are,” Pietro said stubbornly. “You know that.”

  Marco knew too well the cost of overstepping that line. He looked down at his hands, which were clenched into fists. With a deep, heartfelt sigh, he stretched out his fingers, noting the callouses from holding the chisels and hammer, the dust that had been ground into his fingertips that no amount of soap seemed able to wash away, the cuts and bruises caused by working with stone that was sharp and unwieldy. They weren’t the hands of a person born into the gentry, someone who could court and win a woman like Charlotte Harrington.

  He curled his hands back into fists. “I’ve work to do,” he growled. “Sharpen my chisel. I will need it this afternoon.” Jaw set, Marco tossed aside the dust cover that hid the pillars from sight and examined the work he’d done so far. A figure was beginning to emerge from each pillar, although the specific shape wasn’t yet discernable. But inspiration was coming and even now, the excitement of it flickered through him, his fingers itching to pick up a hammer and chisel and set to work.

  Behind him, Pietro shifted items on one of the long work tables and found the sharpener. Soon the workshop was filled with the sound of metal grinding metal.

  Satisfied the pillars were where they should be, Marco covered them again and cast a satisfied look around the workshop. They were housed in an older portion of the stable complex which branched off the newer building. Together, they formed an L shape. The space was crude, but effective. The ceiling was high, there was a surfeit of natural light from the many windows, and the floor was hard packed dirt, all of which suited his purpose. Several stalls, which he suspected had been used as tack rooms prior to his arrival, had been emptied for his use. Someone furnished the farthest room with a cot, a small stove, and a surprisingly comfortable chair. It was warm during the cool nights, and far from Pietro who snored as if he were the lone angel singing in a heavenly choir.

  “There.” The stonemason placed a newly sharpened chisel into an open leather case. “I can sharpen the others if they need—” His gaze locked on something just past Marco. The old man’s brows knit over his large nose. “What is that?”

  Marco turned. There, sitting in the middle of his work table on a stack of discarded drawings, was the royal mace head, the moonstone catching the early afternoon light where it beamed in one of the windows. “Where in the hell did that come from?”

  “It wasn’t there a few minutes ago.” Pietro rubbed his whiskered chin. “At least, I don’t think it was there. What is it?”

  “It’s the head of a royal mace.”

  “Like a king might use?”

  Or a queen. “Yes.” Marco went to the mace head, gaze falling on the creased pages that rested under the metal base. The edges of the pages were charred. From the top sheet, a familiar face stared back at him.

  Cursing, he moved the mace head aside and picked up the papers. “How did these get here?”

  “They look burned.”

  “They were destroyed, or so I thought,” Marco said grimly. “They should be ashes.” Over the last few days, in an attempt to beguile his muse into revealing the figures in the pillars, he’d free sketched various ideas. The sketches were a tried and true way to stir his imagination.

  But after meeting Charlotte in the dining room, instead of working, he’d caught himself sketching her instead. Over and over. He was a bit irked at how many sketches he’d made.

  Marco flipped through the pages, Charlotte’s familiar face peered back at him in sketch after sketch. In some of them she smiled; in some she flashed a hot, impatient look with fine eyes that sparkled even when sketched with charcoal; in others her mouth was thinned, her chin angled with haughty pride.

  Marco refolded the sketches and turned to his servant. “Did you pull these sketches from the stove?”

  “Of course not!” Pietro huffed. “What are they sketches of?”

  “Nothing of importance,” Marco muttered. He folded the stack in half and carried them back to the stove that heated the work shop. The older man kept the stove going, saying the stables were too cold for his old bones.

  Marco opened the iron door, tossed the sketches into the flames, and watched them burn. As the last paper curled into ashes, he closed the stove door. “Last night I tossed them into the fire, but someone retrieved them before they were destroyed.”

  The stonemason’s wrinkled face creased into a frown. “Do you think one of the grooms might have been here? I’ve never seen any of them in the workshop, but we haven’t been locking the doors.”

  “Why would they pull sketches from the fire?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps Miss Harrington asked them to do it. You’re not one to share your ideas. Maybe she wanted more information about the carvings than you’ve given her.”

  “That is ludicrous,” Marco scoffed. “She wouldn’t—” He frowned. “The last time I spoke to her was in the dining room. She started to pick up some drawings I’d tossed to the floor. I took them from her and threw them in the fire, much as I did these.”

  “Well, then. There you have it.” Pietro seemed to think that solved everything.

  But it didn’t make sense, not when Marco had invited her to come and see his work for herself. Scowling, he returned to his work table where the sunshine poured through the window and warmed the metal claw to a rich gold. It made Marco think of the golden threads he’d seen in Charlotte’s auburn hair as she stood in the sunshine. She might be avoiding him as if he were the plague, but when she looked at him, he felt as if she were hoping he’d do something more than stare back. What does she want from me? That I should speak to her? Reach out in some way? But to what end?

  If she wanted to speak with him, she had only to come here. What was keeping her away? Perhaps the answer was simple pride. She was engaged, after all, as much as he hated the thought. So to justify visiting his work shop, she would need a good reason. The mace head could provide just that.

  That is possible. It’s very possible, in fact. And although he knew he shouldn’t be, the idea pleased him. He may not have solved the mystery of the singed sketches, but he was fairly sure he knew why the moonstone was now on his work table.

  “You’re smiling.”

  Marco banished his smile. “Was I? I was just thinking of what you said. The last time I saw the moonstone, Charlotte had it.”

  “Charlotte?” Pietro’s attention was no longer on
the mace head.

  Marco could have bitten his own tongue. “I meant Miss Harrington, of course,” he amended himself coolly.

  The old man muttered a string of curses and wagged his gnarled finger in warning. “You must finish this project as soon as possible.”

  Marco scowled. “I will not rush my work.”

  “Just carve some cherubs holding a—a—Oh hell, I don’t know, a garland of flowers, or a vase, or some such nonsense, and be done with it.”

  “No. This commission is too important and my work must be perfect.”

  Pietro looked as if he had a million other things to say, none of them good, but after a moment, he said glumly, “You’re right. It must be perfect.”

  “And it will be. While I work, you can go to the kitchens and bring us some lunch. And stop worrying about Miss Harrington. Instead, you should worry about yourself. You’re the one flirting with a powerful woman. If you anger Cook, then for the rest of our stay we will be eating burned, moldy toast and undercooked gristle.”

  “I will keep her happy.” Pietro hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t need me here?”

  “I’m positive. Go. I’ve things to do.”

  Pietro was already heading for the door, smoothing back his hair as he went. Marco watched the old stonemason make his way toward Nimway, his step growing livelier as he neared the kitchens.

  Laughing softly, Marco returned to his work table. He pushed the moonstone out of the way, and opened his folio and removed the drawings he’d made of the pillars.

  His gaze flickered back to the fire and his thoughts returned to the sketches he’d burned. It was a pity he hadn’t kept at least one of the drawings. When he returned to Italy, it would be all he had to remember Charlotte by—

  Thunk! The moonstone fell onto a small pot, knocking it over. Black ink splashed onto the table, soaking into the thirsty foolscap, and pooling around a line of charcoal pencils. Cursing, Marco grabbed his folio just before the river of ink reached it, and stuck it high on a shelf.

  Damn it all, he didn’t need this mess! Cursing to the high heavens, he picked up the soaked papers and carefully carried them to the stove where he tossed them inside, slamming the door for good measure. He pulled a rag from a stack kept nearby and, muttering about cursed moonstones, he washed his hands in a water bucket by the door.