“That’s the trouble with such scoundrels,” Hugh said, uncharacteristically sober in his response. “They show neither hide nor hair until they want to take yours.”
I shivered, as much from his serious tone as from his words.
“Ahh, there, there,” he said, reaching to pat my hand. “Don’t fret. You are more than protected. No need to fear what happened in Paris or in Nîmes here in this beautiful city. If they attempt another attack, Nario and I’ll simply hold them under this smelly lagoon water until they drown, won’t we, Nario?”
Nario gave him another smile, but I frowned. “You think it odorous? I think it smells uncommonly fine,” I said, inhaling deeply. “Fresh. Teeming with life.”
“You would think that,” he said with a laugh, his brows knitting together high on his forehead. He pushed aside the hair falling into his eyes. “I truly have not met a girl like you before, Cora.” He lifted his hands. “No, no. Don’t get your hackles up. I’m not making a play. I promise. Clearly, you have enough men doing that.”
“Then what?” I said, teasing him now. “Are you my friend, by chance?”
He lifted one brow and perused me. A smile spread across his face. “Yes, maybe it is possible to be friends. Now.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now that I know I couldn’t possibly claim your heart, and you never had any interest in claiming mine.”
“You never wanted my heart, Hugh Morgan.”
He laughed, the sound mostly breath. “True. I simply had my eye on snagging a kiss from those pretty lips.”
“You are incorrigible.”
“Indeed,” he said agreeably. “But you see, that is what is necessary for men and women to be friends. A complete lack of interest in anything other than honesty.”
I pulled off my right glove and trailed my fingers in the water, remembering doing the same on the Gardon beneath the magnificent Pont du Gard, when Felix had been making fun of our grumpy oarsman and Arthur was taking photograph upon photograph of us.… Perhaps Hugh was right. What got in the way of peace, friendship with Will was a constant desire, deep within each of us, for something more. Something that seemed impossibly distant. Was it truly possible? For us ever to be together? Or had my father managed to seal off every avenue of reunion? I wondered how Will was, where he was…how he’d manage to get home. To find employment… Please, Lord, take care of him. Show us both Your way. And what we are to do.
There were many gondolas upon the water. We went under a wooden bridge heavy with foot traffic, men and women carrying boxes and large items on their backs. Then we turned the corner, and a huge white church with several lovely domes on her roof was on our right. We passed what appeared to be the entry point to the Rialto, guarded by walls and a cannon. On our left, a pink and ivory palace appeared, and beside her were two obelisks, a lion atop one and a saint with a crocodile on the other. Farther in, beside the palace, was the most exotic, amazing church I’d ever seen, with onion-shaped domes climbing to the sky above her. And across the small piazza was a huge bell tower. The one Pierre had mentioned? The campanile?
“Oh!” I said, over and over, every time we saw a bit more. It was as if the city herself was coaxing me out, back to life, back to myself.
Our gondolier pulled up alongside a series of small wooden piers, and we got out, smiling our thanks. Pierre pointed up to the obelisks we passed and the statues atop them. “One is of Saint Theodore, the patron saint of the Crusaders and all who go to war; the other, of course, is the winged lion, or Saint Mark.” We followed him, walking past the beautiful arches of the Palazzo Ducale, or the doge’s palace—the duke of Venezia’s home—then out and into the wide expanse of the rectangular piazza, what had to be one of the grandest squares in all of Europe. To our right was a tall, beautiful clock, which appeared to have ceased working, the gilding of her arms, as well as a blue paint, faded by the constant sun and wind and rain. On three sides, the palazzo was lined by huge public buildings and on the fourth, San Marco. We all turned and gazed about us in wonder.
After all we’d seen on our travels, nothing quite rivaled this. I felt like I was on the edge of an empire. In more ways than one, I mused.
Flocks of pigeons landed and waddled around, collecting seeds that tourists threw out for them. Some landed on people’s outstretched arms and hats. I shuddered at the thought. I knew well enough what pigeons roosted in, from back at the farm. It was not charming. It was disgusting.
“You’ll see the grates all along the piazza,” Pierre said, pointing to the flower-patterned holes in the stone tiles beneath our feet. “Venezia is prone to flooding. They call it acqua alta. So they dug channels beneath the piazza, allowing for the water to flow when it must, then drain away as quickly as possible.”
“What do the Venetians do when it floods?” Lillian asked.
“Use their gondolas all the more,” Pierre said with a smile. “These shops that line the square, the church—all of it closes. But eventually the water recedes. It always does.”
“How awful!” Nell cried. “I’d hate it if this all was lost to the seas!”
Pierre looked about. “I think that a city as old as this is not going to crumble and fade without a fight. Now come, let us go see the church.”
We followed him through the square again, pigeons scattering and flying off like a parting wave, toward the massive church. She reminded me of a ghostly silver cloud, grayed with age, but with glimpses of former grandeur. Above each doorway was a mosaic. One here of warrior saints. The next of the cardinal virtues. Over the central entry was a mosaic of Saint Mark in winged lion glory. We entered beneath that one and climbed two steps into a wide, covered entry, then several more steps up and into the church. I wondered if all the stairs kept the water out.
Once inside, I gaped yet again. Because high above us was dome after dome containing the most elaborate mosaics I’d ever seen, with a predominant theme of gold. So much gold, the domes glittered like a million jewels. The style was clearly influenced by the East, sitting here on the edge of the Ottoman Empire, but with Christian symbols and saints. Below our feet were huge blocks of costly marble and granite in purple, green, red, and white. But it was the ceiling that captured my attention, shimmering even in the dim, strained light.
“They call it Chiesa d’Oro, Church of Gold, for a reason,” Pierre whispered in my ear. He straightened and stood beside me, so near that his fingers grazed mine. “It is magnificent, no?”
“Magnificent, yes,” I said with a smile, hoping it softened the sting as I moved my hand away from his.
“Are you so angry, mon amie?” he whispered, still looking upward, as if we were discussing the artwork above us. “Do you resent me being here?”
I considered his words. Angry and resentful, yes. But was any of it his fault? Not really. It was my father’s. Solely my father’s. And Pierre was being nothing but sweet and respectful, even if he was clearly pressing his suit. “I…I don’t think so. Not with you, Pierre. But I’m afraid it’s coming out that way. Can you forgive me?”
“But of course. You have been through quite an ordeal. It is a testimony to your fortitude that you have carried forward with such grace.”
“You are more than kind, Pierre.” I hesitated, trying to figure out what I could say. And couldn’t. “But, Pierre, I—”
“Non, non,” he said, bringing a finger to his lips, then pointing upward. “Leave it to God, will you not? Here in His house. Ask Him what you might do.”
He slipped away then, ignoring, I thought, my whisperings of his name. His suggestion surprised me. Did he do so because he sought God’s leading too? Or because he knew I might find peace in His answer?
“Miss Kensington?” asked Pascal, gesturing to the others, who were far ahead of us now. He was clearly anxious for us to remain close together, where we could be more easily guarded.
I reached the rest of the group, and together we admired the huge altar screen of gold and icons up front whil
e inhaling air redolent with incense and beeswax. For the first time in what felt like weeks, I tried to settle into prayer, a true communion with my God, rather than the hurried, desperate prayers that had marked most of my journey. I slipped onto a kneeling bench and leaned forward, bowing my head, hoping my clear stance of prayer would shield me from my companions’ interruptions for a moment.
After a breath, then two, then three, I thought I had it.
Lord, Lord, I need You. Please, draw near to me. There is so much for me to sort out…so much for me to decide. So much I don’t understand. What would You have me do? What is right? What is wrong? And is Will the man You’ve placed in my heart? Or is that merely some sort of rebellion against my father, who wishes for me to be close to Pierre instead? Do I hold him at arm’s length because he is not the one You have for me? Or because I do not wish to do as my father asks?
I forced myself to remain steady, quiet, unmoving, trusting that God would see me through. That He would answer me. Breathing in the scents of incense and beeswax. The less desirable, passing scent of perspiring tourists.
But the answer I got wasn’t the one I’d hoped for, prayed for. Nothing clear and succinct. Only a vague sense that I was to wait…and trust.
I wanted answers. If I was to do as Wallace Kensington instructed. If it was wise to accept the wealth already in my name. If I was right to choose Will over Pierre. But instead He seemed to be advocating, pressing me toward pausing, breathing…waiting. And as much as I disliked such an answer, I couldn’t deny the steady, solid rightness of it. Good, I decided as I took a long, deep breath. So much of this summer had such a mad pace. Pressing, pressing, pressing. Why did I give in to it? Why did I not wait on Him? Why did I feel compelled to choose on any front? Why could I not settle in and enjoy this time for what it was—the trip of my life—and see what came of it? On all fronts?
For the first time that day, I felt as if I could breathe. As if this, this was what God was leading me to. Waiting, abiding, resting. Enjoying what was rather than fearing what might be or resenting what had come before.
I opened my eyes and stared up at the gilt crucifix, so overtly gaudy and foreign, it almost interfered with my concentration. But I focused on the body, the image of my Savior, and thought about what He wanted for me. To trust. To rest.
I will wait, I prayed silently. Lead me, Lord. Lead me on.
I rose then, slowly, aware that both Pierre and Pascal were at opposite corners of the kneeling bench behind me, respectfully allowing me to finish, and it thawed my heart all the more. When Pierre took my arm, I allowed it.
After we’d traversed the whole church, Pierre led us up a steep flight of stairs. Up top, we could get close to some of the golden domes and see that they were made of millions of tiny squares, each one meticulously laid. I put my hand across a span and did a quick estimate—there had to be a hundred just in the space of my palm.
“We could visit a mosaic studio,” Pierre said. “Would you like that? The art form is still alive and well here in the city.”
“Truly? I’d love to see such artists at work.” I turned and moved on, as if even more intrigued by the mosaics than I was before, but he stayed right with me.
“It took thousands of men hundreds of years to complete them,” Pierre said, looking up and about when we paused again under the next arch. “I’m told that even now they employ seven mosaic artists solely to repair and tend to them.”
“They’re marvelous,” I said. “It really is the most beautiful church we’ve yet seen.” I dared to look up at him and found him staring at me, his heart in his eyes, full of hope. I felt my heart shift—from guilt? Or desire?—and edged away. I was tired of feeling vulnerable. So very tired of feeling as if I moved with the sea, as if I had no anchor. And Pierre de Richelieu made me feel just that, at times. Weakened. Liable to drift one way and then the other.
We paused beneath another massive arch inlaid with thousands of tiny mosaic tiles and looked up at the image of Christ, hands out, as if welcoming us. “Where do you stand, Pierre, in regard to God?”
He smiled, even as he gazed upward. “Beneath him,” he quipped.
“But in your everyday life,” I pressed, allowing him to take my arm as we moved on. “When you’re not traveling or romancing foreign women,” I said with a smile. “Do you attend church? Do you pray?”
He gave me a playful frown. “This old church has brought to mind very serious questions for you, mon amie.”
“They are serious questions,” I said lightly. “To me.”
He was silent for a few steps and then stopped. “I believe in God. But my life is far too busy to attend more often than on Christmas and Easter.” When he saw my expression, he rushed on. “But that doesn’t mean that I would keep you from going anytime you wish.”
I stared into his eyes and saw the earnest hope within them. The concern that this would be a final dividing line between us. I knew God wanted something different for me than a man who would only be nominally interested in matters of faith. I knew I wanted something different from a man with whom I’d share a life…. Could that be awakened within him? Or was this yet another point of caution?
I hurried ahead of him, across the old wooden walkways the priests and mosaic artists presumably used to light the old chandeliers and tend to the elaborate ceilings. As I turned the corner, I looked down to the church floor, my eyes studying thirteenth-century stones in the image of beautiful flowers and peacocks and urns and geometric patterns. A man caught my eye as I passed a massive column, and I looked back.
I froze.
The man from Paris, from Nîmes, from Vienna. Here. In this church. Staring up at Lillian and Nell.
“You!” I yelled, the word reverberating around the hushed, cavernous sanctuary.
“Cora?” Pierre asked, turning to look where I did as he passed by the column.
But the man was on the move, hidden now from his view.
“Pierre,” I cried, hurriedly turning him around and pushing him toward the stairwell. “It’s him, Pierre. The kidnapper.” We got to the other side of the column and leaned over the railing, just glimpsing the man as he rushed out the front door.
“Remain here,” he said, “with the girls.” He broke into a run, bumping past an elderly man and dodging two women as he gestured frantically to the detectives and guards.
I went to the girls, took both by the hand, and pulled them into the biggest room, which was milling with people. No one would dare grab them here, now.
“Cora?” Nell asked.
“Cora, what is it?” Lil said.
“Nothing, nothing,” I said, pasting on a smile. “I only wanted to be certain you saw the diorama here of the basilica. Is it not amazing? The detail?”
“Yes,” Nell said. “But why so excited about it in miniature when we’re in the actual, grand building?” she asked, gesturing around us.
“I’m just amazed at the detail,” I said, walking around to the other side. “Look at how they’ve formed the columns!”
“Cora,” Lil said, hands on her hips. “What has gotten into you? And where are the others?” she asked, looking around.
“All right,” I said, giving up, leaning in closer toward them. “Here’s the truth of it. Remember the man who attacked us in Paris, and me in Nîmes? The one who was in charge? I saw him in Vienna. We didn’t want to alarm you. But I just saw him here, below us.”
Nell gasped and put her gloved hand in front of her rosebud lips, while Lil’s eyes rounded in alarm.
“Rest assured, our men are in pursuit of him as we speak. Perhaps even now, they’ve corralled him at last and our shadow will cease to follow us, haunt us.” I scanned the crowd, and my eyes rested with some relief on one burly guard looking about, an expression of pure consternation on his face as he spoke to Mr. Morgan and my father. At least they all hadn’t disappeared.
“Why would he be here?” Nell whispered. “Did he think he could get one of us in this crow
ded place?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we’re staying here until Pierre or Antonio comes for us.”
But just as I said that, the large tour group returned downstairs, leaving us almost alone. I looked around in alarm. Even the big guard and our fathers were no longer in view. Had they given chase too? Vivian and Andrew, Hugh and Felix had to be halfway around the church by now, exploring the narrow tunnels that intersected the entire upper floor, too far away to hear our call. I left the girls behind me and went to the stairwell, hoping I’d see Pierre coming.
What I saw instead stopped my heart.
Our attacker. With another man behind him.
I backed up and closed the door, sliding the bolt across. A priest ten feet away started shouting at me in Italian, but I ignored him, scurrying over to the girls. “Go!” I cried. “Run! They’re coming!”
We lifted our skirts and ran down the tunnel, then across a narrow wooden bridge that took us around the edge and toward the very back of the basilica. I kept looking for places to hide, other avenues of escape, but saw nothing. Our best chance was to find the others—or another large group.
I glanced over my shoulder as we turned a corner and gasped…the men were still after us. And gaining. “Go, Nell, go!” I said as the girl slowed, panting. Where were those other guards? Had they joined Pierre in the chase somewhere outside? Had the man slipped away and doubled back without them recognizing it? I turned and slammed a flimsy wooden door shut, latching it with a rotten crossbeam, knowing it’d take our pursuers less than a minute to get through it.
Visions of them in Paris, coming through the door with an axe, ran through my head as I urged the girls forward. The next passageway stretched ahead of us, dark and eerie, as I heard the splintering of wood behind me. “Go, Lil!” I cried, my hands on Nell’s shoulders. We ran into the darkness, praying it would lead us to an escape, but then I saw Lillian pulled to the right and Nell to the left, their cries quickly muffled just as rough hands took hold of me, too. I writhed and fought my attacker, until I made out his voice.
Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2) Page 30
