Silent in the Sanctuary

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Apparently, she did. But she will not say where she has them hid, and the Abbey is simply too massive to search. She cannot leave with them, and I am sure they will turn up one day.”

  He rested his head on the stone wall behind him, one hand draped over his knee, the fingertips smudged softly black with charcoal. “I ought to have known better. I ought to have behaved better. It was bad form to dally with Brisbane’s fiancée, even if the engagement was a sham.”

  I shrugged. “We are all of us stupid at times. Perfection is dull, my love.” I brandished the sketchbook. “You dropped this outside the drawing room. I thought you might go looking for it.”

  I laid it on the bit of window seat between us. He made no move to touch it but simply looked at me, his eyes half-lidded in pain.

  “I suppose you looked through it.”

  I nodded slowly. “I did. And I’m sorry. Perhaps that is why you behaved so badly with Charlotte. Because you cannot have her.”

  He made a little sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. “No. And now that she carries my brother’s child, I never will.”

  He thumped a fist against the windowpane, the glass shuddering lightly under his hand.

  “Plum, you would never have had her in any case. She loves Lysander. She married him,” I said, my voice low and soothing.

  He looked at me with something like pity. “You still do not understand. I saw her first, I loved her first.”

  I blinked at him. “But how? Lysander came back to Florence already married to her.”

  Plum stared out at the winter landscape, but I knew he was seeing another place and another time. “It was last summer. Lysander and I were in Rome, awaiting your arrival. We went to a church, something about a new organ Lysander wished to hear. She was there, just across the aisle, her head draped in a veil of Venetian lace. I saw only her profile, but it was enough. I sat and listened to the music and worshipped her for an hour. And when it was done, Lysander simply rose and left, complaining about the organist’s sense of timing. He never sensed her, never realised that she was there, like a goddess stepped from Olympus to grace mere mortals with a glance.”

  I suppressed a sigh. It was very like Plum to romanticise his feelings for Violante, and I knew it would be fatal to remind him that she was simply a pretty girl with lovely eyes and indigestion.

  He went on, dreamily. “You cannot imagine what a shock it was to me when Lysander brought her into the room that first night and made his announcement. I have taken a wife, Plum. Come and kiss your sister. And I had to press my lips for the first and only time to that alabaster cheek, knowing she would never be mine.” He roused then, smiling from faraway. “Lysander has always been generous with me. Anything I admired, he gave me freely. But she is the only thing of his I have ever envied, and the only thing I cannot have.”

  “And that is why you have been beastly to him? And cold to Violante? This is what was behind that ludicrous display in the billiard room when you punched him on the nose, is it not?”

  “Julia, you do not know. You cannot imagine the torment—”

  “Eglamour Tarquin Deiphobus March, don’t you dare tell me what I do not know,” I began, rising from my perch. “I know a very great deal about eating your own heart out over someone you cannot have. And do you know what I have learned? It is pathetic and sad. You are a strong, healthy, passably handsome man with a reasonably good intellect, if you would care to use it, and a talent for drawing that Michelangelo himself would have approved. And what do you do with all those virtues? You flirt with betrothed women and moon about over your own sister-in-law. You are maudlin and sentimental, and it is high time you took a rather hard look at yourself and realised you are in danger of becoming ridiculous.”

  He gaped at me, open-mouthed. He did not even attempt to speak.

  “Now, I am about to go and bruise the heart of your friend. If you can have a care for anyone other than yourself, you should make preparations to take him back to Italy. It would be the best thing for the both of you. Alessandro can get on with the business of his life, and you can do something with yourself.”

  He slumped against the window, his brows drawn together. “Like what?”

  I spread my hands. “Restore a church. Learn to quarry marble in Carrara. Go to Greece and build boats. Only for heaven’s sake, do not let this destroy you. You love her now, but in a year or two, when she has had a child and grown fat and content, you will not. You will have replaced the memory of her with a hundred more precious. But you must try.”

  For a long moment he did not move. Then, by way of reply, he held the sketchbook out to me. “Burn it.”

  I took it from him, noting how his fingers trailed over the cover as if to memorise the pages that lay beneath.

  “Are you quite certain?”

  He nodded. “You are right, of course. I must cut her out, painful as that may be. And who knows, perhaps something else may grow there.”

  “And what of Alessandro’s letter?” I ventured.

  He gave a tiny smile. “You were thorough. I ought to give that back to him. He wanted me to read it, to advise him how best to handle his father. A moot point now, if you mean to send him away.”

  I shrugged. “It is better this way. For everyone.” I handed him the letter and took the book away with me. He had been brave enough to ask me to burn it. I was not cruel enough to make him watch.

  After I had burned the sketchbook, waiting until it fell to thin, grey ash, I retrieved a Kashmir shawl from my room and went in search of Alessandro. I finally ran him to ground in the library, gamely working his way through Pride and Prejudice. He sprang to his feet when I entered, smiling broadly.

  I nodded to the book. “How are you enjoying Jane Austen?”

  He waggled his hand from side to side. “She is a little silly, I think.”

  Now I was more certain than ever of my decision. I could not love a man who did not love Jane Austen. “The great Duke of Wellington thought her the greatest literary talent in all of England.”

  He smiled politely. “Perhaps she improves upon second reading.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps. I wanted to speak with you.”

  His smile froze, his lips suddenly quite stiff. He swallowed hard and laid down the book. “You are refusing me.”

  I put out my hand to him and he took it. His was warm and firm in mine. “I am. Walk with me in the courtyard and I will try to explain.”

  It was characteristic of his youth that he did so. An older man would have armoured himself in his pride and refused an explanation. Only the young have such a gift for self-torture.

  We moved out into the courtyard arm in arm. The sunshine, after days of mournful grey, was a revelation. The warmer air had melted off most of the snow and what remained was slowly dripping away against the stone. It was cold to be sure, but nothing like what it had been, and I stopped to raise my face to the sun.

  “You are sure you do not wish to come to Italy?” he joked bravely. “We have the sun almost the whole of the year. You do not have to search for it as you do in England.”

  I opened my eyes and smiled at him, taking a moment to memorise the soft black hair touched with bronze, the noble profile, the gentle eyes staring into mine with such sadness, and perhaps the merest touch of relief.

  The wind rose a little just then, scudding a cloud over the face of the sun and throwing the courtyard into shadow.

  “You are shivering. Take my coat,” he insisted, draping the garment over my shoulders. I murmured my thanks and took his arm, leading him toward the iron gate that led to the gardens.

  “You see, Alessandro,” I began slowly, “you come from an old and proud and very dignified family. I too come from an old and proud family, but I am afraid we are a little short on dignity.”

  He opened his mouth to make a polite protest, but I held up a hand. “Oh, do not, I beg you. I know my family for what we are. From the manner of our dress, our speech, our small eccentricities a
nd our grand follies, we are odd. We do not fit the pattern of society, and as a result we are often talked of.”

  He said nothing and I pressed on, gently.

  “I should not suit you, Alessandro, not truly. I keep a pet raven and I speak my mind and I associate with those who are beyond the pale of society, and yet I am very nearly the most conventional member of my family. People are still talking about my cousin Charles’ appearance at a house party last month. He wore his wife’s gown and demanded to be addressed as Carlotta.”

  Alessandro choked back a laugh and I squeezed his arm. “You may think it amusing, but to us, he is family. We will not hide him in the cellars and pretend he does not exist. We will welcome him with open arms, and very likely give him the names of our dressmakers,” I finished, smiling at my own little jest.

  Alessandro’s brow puckered. “But surely such things are better left unknown. I too have the curious cousins, but we do not speak of them.”

  “That is the difficulty, my dear. In your family you do not speak of them. In my family, we celebrate them. In Italy, one must always be conscious of la bella figura, of presenting one’s best self. Among the Marches, we please ourselves and the devil take the rest.”

  His brows lifted slightly and I patted his hand. “You see? I even shock you with my language. We would be very badly suited indeed. Besides,” I said carefully, “I believe your father has plans for you. Exalted ones.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath. “How did you know that?”

  I smiled, not looking into his eyes. His father’s letter had been idiomatic and excessively difficult to translate. I had deciphered perhaps one word in five. But those words were enough. “It is not difficult to guess,” I temporised. “Your father is a judge, is he not?” I hoped I had gotten the translation correct from the letter. Father’s dictionary had been printed two centuries back and mice had nibbled a fair number of holes through the most useful words.

  Alessandro nodded, his lovely mouth turning sulky. “Si. He is an important man in Firenze, with much influence and power.”

  “And he wishes you to be the same, in your time. A very natural ambition for a father, I think.”

  Alessandro scuffed his shoe against a paving stone. “But should a man not be ambitious for himself?”

  “Of course. What is it you would like to do?”

  He dropped my arm then to spread his hands. Like most Italians he was incapable of speaking for any length of time without gesturing.

  “I also want to be a judge, to give justice, to have the power to influence people. But I want to want such things for myself. Why are you smiling at me?”

  “My dear Alessandro, what difference does it make if your father wants these things for you as well? If you want them, take them, and be happy. Life is either far too short or far too long to make yourself miserable.”

  He said nothing as he considered this. I looked through the garden gate, marking the withered vines, the blind stone eyes of the statues, the sharp angles of the hedge maze. It was not grand or even particularly beautiful, but it was my home and I felt a rush of love for the old place so acute, so complete, I nearly wept.

  “Perhaps you are right,” he said slowly.

  I turned back to him and assumed a brisk, governessy tone. It was time for the coup de grâce. “Of course I am. And I will tell you something else I am quite right about—you will need a wife who will understand you, who will present la bella figura and make you proud. I would imagine your father already has someone in mind,” I said, widening my eyes innocently.

  “You are a witch,” he grumbled. “How could you know this?”

  I gave a modest shrug, remembering how his father had described the girl in question. Una belleza perfetta. I wished Alessandro a lifetime of happiness with her. “It is only logical.”

  He rallied, and attempted once more to change my mind. He seized my hands, drawing them to his heart. “I would give up everything for you, Giulia.”

  I smiled at him gently. “But you must understand. I should never want a man to give up anything for me. I should want him to feel in winning me he has won the whole world. Now, go back to Italy, marry your lovely signorina, and have a good life. And when you are quite old and sitting on the terrace of your palazzo, sipping a fine chianti you have grown in your very own vineyards, I want you to think of me sometimes and smile mysteriously so that your grandchildren will demand to know what you are thinking of.”

  He laughed then and reached out, as if to embrace me, then thought better of it and took my hand. “It was a beautiful dream,” he said, his voice laced with resignation.

  “It was a beautiful dream indeed,” I agreed.

  He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, and when he had done, I pressed it to his cheek. Then, slowly, we made our way into the Abbey and went our separate ways.

  It was destined to be a day of partings. I left Alessandro in the library, meaning to retire to my room to repair my toilette before luncheon. The wind had risen at the last minute, loosening hairpins and whipping colour into my cheeks. A few moments with my hairbrush and a pot of face cream were all I needed, but just as I set foot on the staircase I noticed Charlotte descending. She was dressed for travel and carrying her small portmanteau. She saw me and lifted her pointed little chin.

  “I mean to go,” she warned. I blinked at her and she skirted around me, never slowing her pace. I followed her through the cloister and out to the inner ward, arriving just in time to see Aquinas appear.

  “The carriage is ready, Mrs. King,” he informed her.

  “Good. The sooner I am quit of this bloody place the better,” she muttered.

  Aquinas caught sight of me then and hurried to my side. “My lady, Mrs. King requested transportation to Blessingstoke. You were not to be found, and since the carriage was placed at Sir Cedric’s disposal earlier, I thought it acceptable to extend the same courtesy to Mrs. King. His lordship left no instructions.”

  I sighed. It was bad enough Cedric had left with Lucy and Emma. What would Father say when he learned I had let Charlotte go as well? Still, I was rather inclined to view the situation as one of his own making. “If Father wanted anyone detained, he ought to have said so. Besides, we have no right to hold anyone against their will. We are not the law.”

  I had spoken softly, but Charlotte overheard this last part. She gave me a broad smile and extended her hand.

  I shook it, not quite willingly. Charlotte could be a likeable rogue, but she was insubstantial. She had recreated herself so many times I was not certain where her fictions left off and the woman began.

  Her smile deepened to one of genuine warmth. “Do not be like that. We got on well enough, didn’t we? I am fond of you, my lady, for all your money and fancy ways,” she said pertly.

  I returned her smile and inclined my head. “Mrs. King, I will wish you a pleasant journey.”

  She gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “I am sure. But go I must. I would rather not meet your lover again.”

  Her expression was bland, but her eyes were sharp with malice and anticipation. She was waiting for me to sputter in outrage, to deny, to throw her out of the house in my fury.

  And in a flash of blessed inspiration, I realised why. The Tear of Jaipur.

  I turned to Aquinas. “Fetch Morag. Tell her to come at once.” He withdrew and I smiled sweetly at Charlotte. “I shall be only too happy to permit you to leave, as soon as your bag and your person have been searched.”

  The following minutes were not wholly pleasant. In spite of her ladylike demeanour and her delicate looks, she raged, she spluttered and cursed us all. She scratched and kicked and Aquinas sustained a rather nasty bite on his thumb. But at last we managed to lock her in the boot room with Morag. There were ominous sounds, bumps and thumps and all manner of swearing. After a very long interlude, Charlotte emerged, hair straggling down her back, clothes askew, clutching her portmanteau.

  “Nothing, my lady,” Morag advis
ed me, rolling down her cuffs and pinning them neatly into place. It was a testament to her efficiency and her brutality that she had not a hair out of place.

  “In that case, you are free to leave, Mrs. King. Farewell,” I told her pleasantly.

  By way of reply she turned on her heel and fairly ran from the Abbey. Aquinas slammed the door behind her and the three of us stared at one another in bemusement.

  I glanced at the tall case clock. “Lord, I must fly. I shall be late for luncheon as it is. Thank you both. I know Mrs. King was a trial, but she is gone now and we need not think on her again. She is a thief and a liar and we are well rid of her.”

  “And she didn’t even leave a tip,” Morag put in bitterly.

  THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

  And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, And thereby hangs a tale.

  —As You Like It

  If that day was one of partings, the following was one of homecomings. Father and Brisbane returned just after tea, exhausted and in identically vile moods, although they seemed to have made up their quarrel after a fashion. They made straight for Father’s study and the whiskey bottle in spite of the hour. Father poured out a large measure for them both, a daintier portion for me.

  “Aquinas informs me we have lost four guests,” Father said mildly.

  I bristled a little at the implied criticism. “They were determined to go, Father. I had no authority to hold them.” Brisbane’s mouth opened and I held up a hand. “And I took the precaution of having Charlotte searched. The Tear of Jaipur was nowhere to be found, and I am certain Morag was painfully thorough. She must have cached the stone somewhere before she came to the Abbey.”

  “And now I have missed the opportunity to follow her whilst she retrieves it,” he said sourly.

  “Then you ought to have stayed with her,” I returned. He raised a brow at the tartness of my tone, but said nothing.