by Jane Porter
The music room looked like a formal sitting room with antique chairs and oil paintings on the walls. The baby grand piano near the tall leaded window was the only instrument in the room. On closer inspection Monet discovered that the oil painting hanging over the fireplace was of a young woman playing the harp, while the painting near the piano was of a man playing the violin. So she was in the right room—this had to be the music room—but where were Marcu and the children?
She glanced at her watch. It was a minute past nine now. Perhaps they were still at breakfast.
She walked to the piano and lightly ran her fingers over the keys, not pressing hard enough to create sound. The keys were smooth beneath her touch and she was tempted to sit down and play something—she’d never had formal lessons but she’d learned to play by ear—but wasn’t sure if Marcu would frown on her playing the piano here. He’d once played the piano. He’d been a serious musician, taking lessons and practicing for an hour or more every day. At the palazzo she’d creep into a corner and listen to him practice, amazed by his gift. When he played, he made her feel so much. Maybe it was music that had made her fall in love with him.
“Sorry to be late,” Marcu said in English, as he entered the room, looking sophisticated and impossibly masculine in a black turtleneck sweater and black wool trousers. He didn’t wear the clothes, they wore him, hugging his broad shoulders and narrow waist, while outlining his muscular torso and thighs.
Heat washed through her, and Monet bit down into her lower lip, hating the sudden weakness she felt as Marcu ushered his three shy young children toward her.
The children all had dark glossy hair, but it was the smaller boy, the one who must be Antonio, that was the spitting image of Marcu. The resemblance was so strong it nearly made Monet smile. “Buongiorno,” Monet said huskily in Italian. Good morning.
“These are my children,” Marcu said, switching to Italian as he lined the children up by age. “Matteo, Rocca, and Antonio.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Monet said, approaching Matteo first and shaking his hand. “I am Monet.”
“Signorina Wilde,” Marcu corrected. “I can call you Monet because I have known you many years, but the children must call you Signorina.” He clapped Matteo firmly on the shoulders. “And they will be good for you. They have promised to be obedient and polite and not make things difficult while you are here with them.”
Marcu couldn’t see how the little girl’s face tightened, or how young Antonio blinked hard to hide the fact that his eyes were watering. She felt a pang of sympathy. The children were even more anxious about the change in their child care than she was. “I am only temporary,” she reassured them. “Signorina Sheldon will be back before you know it.”
“I have a great deal to attend to,” Marcu said. “Can I leave them to you, Signorina Wilde? You’re welcome to stay here or go upstairs to the nursery. I’m certain the children will be happy to show you around.”
“We’re fine. Please, don’t worry about us,” Monet assured him, giving him a bright smile. “See you later.”
“We’ll all have dinner tonight,” he answered, heading for the door. “I’ll see you then.”
After Marcu left the music room, there was just silence. The three children gazed at her, clearly uncertain, as well as more than a little curious.
It had been a long time since Monet had spoken Italian but she was sure it wouldn’t take long for it to come back as it was a language she’d spoken daily for years. “Do any of you play?” Monet asked, pointing to the piano.
The children shook their heads.
“Mamma used to play,” the little girl said. “This was her music room.”
“Your father plays for you, doesn’t he?”
They looked at each other, puzzled, before shaking their heads.
“He used to play really well,” Monet said, but this was followed by more silence. Monet gazed back at the children, lips curved, uncertain as how to proceed. She remembered from her past work that if she was too friendly the children would think her weak, and someone to be ignored, but if she didn’t appear somewhat friendly and kind, then they would fear the worst.
“Did you really use to live at our house?” the little girl, Rocca, asked after a moment.
“This one?” Monet asked. “No—”
“No, not here,” Rocca said quickly. “This isn’t our home, this is Nonno and Nonna’s house. Our house is in Palermo.”
“The palazzo?” Monet clarified.
The children nodded.
Monet sat down on the edge of one of the chairs upholstered in gold silk. “I did. I knew your father when I was much younger, and I spent six years at the palazzo. It’s a very beautiful place to live, isn’t it?”
“It’s very old,” Matteo said. “I like more modern houses.”
Monet’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you interested in design?”
“No, but you can’t get good Wi-Fi in the palazzo, at least, not in parts of it,” Matteo said mournfully. “And it’s even worse here. Here there is no internet. I can’t play games with my friends.”
“But you won’t be here forever, and then you’ll be back in Palermo,” Monet replied. “Surely there are fun things about being here. Tell me some of your favorite things to do.”
For a moment no one said anything, and the children looked at each other before Matteo shrugged. “We mostly do nothing. Everyone is very busy.”
“And what about your father?” Monet couldn’t help asking the question.
“He is very busy with work,” Matteo said with a sigh, sounding resigned.
“Papà is important,” Antonio added forlornly. “Everybody needs him.”
The three faces before her looked so woebegone that Monet immediately wondered how much of their father they actually did see. “Well, I hate sitting around doing nothing so the four of us will do lots of fun things. We will need to make a list.” Monet glanced from one young face to another, not certain why they weren’t more enthused. “I would think this is a magical place to spend Christmas.”
“Maybe,” Matteo said, shoulders shrugging. “We used to come in summer. This is the first time we’ve come for Christmas.”
Monet hid her surprise. From the way Marcu had described taking her to the children in the Alpine castello, one would have thought this was their annual tradition. “I didn’t realize. I thought you came here every year.”
“No. But Papà says it’s going to be a different Christmas this year,” Rocca said, before glancing at her brothers. “We don’t know what that means.”
Monet felt a heavy, sinking sensation in her chest. Had Marcu not yet told them that he was leaving them for the Christmas holidays? But she couldn’t bear to think of that, not yet. “When were you last here? In the summer?”
“No. It’s been a long time,” Matteo said.
“I didn’t even remember it,” Rocca said.
“Me, either,” Antonio said.
“That’s because you’ve never been here before,” Matteo said to Antonio before glancing at Monet.
“Papà didn’t want to come here after Mamma died. It was her house. We inherited it when Nonno and Nonna died. They are all gone now.”
“Inherited means it’s ours now,” Rocca said gravely.
Monet folded her hands. “It must be very hard for you, not having your mother.”
There was a beat of silence. “We don’t remember her very much,” Rocca answered. “I should because I’m five, but it’s been too long. Papà says she loved us.”
“I am sure she did.” Monet scooted over in the upholstered chair and patted the golden silk cushion. “Won’t you tell me about her? The parts that you remember... Or the parts that you have been told?”
“She was beautiful,” the little girl said, taking a seat on the couch but leaving space between her and Mon
et. “I look like her. Papà said we have the same eyes, and the same nose and smile. There are pictures of her in the gallery. We can show them to you.”
“Oh, I’d like that very much,” Monet answered. “Could we do that now? I’d love to explore your castello. It’s very big and I’m afraid without your help I’ll get lost.”
The children escorted her down the long corridor lined with ancestral portraits. Monet half smiled at the portraits, nearly all with long hair, black curls on both the men and women, and lots of velvet and ruffles, along with rings and necklaces, brooches and headbands, but what was one to expect when the family in question dated back centuries?
As the children led the way down the hall, the portraits became more modern, and the clothing became contemporary, until at last they came to a gold-framed oil of an elegant young woman with dark blond hair and wide brown eyes. She had a pale, creamy complexion, high cheekbones and a long aquiline nose. Her honey-colored hair was drawn back and her expression was rather aloof, and Monet wondered if that was really her personality or if the portrait painter had chosen that cool, detached expression for her.
“Mamma,” Antonio announced.
“She is very lovely,” Monet said. “I just wish she was smiling here. I’d love to know if she had a dimple like Rocca’s.”
“She didn’t,” Marcu said decisively, his deep voice coming from behind them.
Monet hadn’t realized he’d joined them in the corridor and she stiffened in surprise, wondering how long he’d been standing there listening to them.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her gaze again taking in his soft turtleneck and the well-tailored black trousers. He looked incredibly physically fit, as well as handsome and wealthy and altogether too powerful, which made her pulse race, and her stomach tighten with knots of apprehension, but also knots of something else.
She didn’t want to contemplate the something else.
She wasn’t here for something else.
He’d essentially forced her to come do a job so that he could be with yet another woman that wasn’t her. She shouldn’t respond to him. And she most definitely shouldn’t care for him. After all these years, she shouldn’t care that she wasn’t the right woman for him and that she would never be the right one, and yet still, it stung. She didn’t know if it was her pride, or that something else, but the fact that he could so easily dismiss her as someone valuable, and worthy of being kept and cherished, still made her ache.
She turned away as he approached, focusing instead on the children’s faces, curious to see how they’d respond to his surprise visit. They didn’t rush toward him, but then, Marcu and his brother and sisters hadn’t rushed toward their father, either. They’d always greeted each other with kindness and civility, but control and discipline were always evident, just as they were now.
“I’m surprised you are still on this floor of the castello. You haven’t made it very far in your tour,” Marcu said.
“We have weeks to discover everything,” Monet said lightly. “It’s nice just to chat and get to know each other.” She looked at him. “And I thought we weren’t going to see you until dinner. Have you decided to join our tour?”
“My office is on the other side of that wall. I’m finding it difficult concentrating with all the chatter.”
Monet saw Rocca’s expression fall and it made her angry. Marcu seemed determined to disappoint his children. “Or maybe you were hoping to join us on our tour.” She looked at the children. “Where should we go next?”
“The ballroom!” Rocca said.
“We’re going to the ballroom,” Monet said to Marcu with an arch of one eyebrow. “Would you care to join us?”
Rocca glanced up at him hopefully but he gave a swift decisive shake of his head. “I have too much work to do,” he said.
Again Monet felt a wash of anger. Did he really have that much work to do? Or was he simply avoiding his children? It seemed to her, from all he’d told her, that he wanted as little to do with them as possible. It made no sense. Marcu had once been the most loving, considerate, and selfless of all the Ubertos. He’d been so patient with his younger brother and sisters, generous with his time, always available for a game or to listen and give a bit of advice.
“You’re smart not to go with us,” Monet flashed back, giving him a sunny smile. “We’re going to the ballroom to dance. So, no waltzes for you, Signor Uberto.”
“I’d prefer the children to go outside for their morning walk,” Marcu said.
“Is that what they usually do, signor?”
“Yes. Exercise every morning after breakfast.”
“Is there a certain number of push-ups they are to do, too?” she retorted.
He growled something indecipherable under his breath. “Don’t challenge me,” he said in English, “and never in front of them.”
“Why don’t you join us for a bit? You can tell me your rules and expectations that way.”
“The children know.”
She bit back her protest. He might still be gorgeous but he’d become incredibly unlikable. She executed a quick curtsy. “Very well, sir. Have a good day, sir.”
“Monet.” His voice held a hint of warning.
She stepped closer to him, and dropped her voice, ensuring that the children wouldn’t hear as she replied in hushed English. “I’ve only been here a few hours, Marcu, but it seems to me that the children don’t need a new mother, but rather they need a new father.”
His hand reached out to clasp her arm. “Not acceptable.”
She lifted her chin and her eyes met his. “Don’t like it? Fire me.”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“No, what I want is the kind Marcu. The one that loved his family and didn’t punish them for loving him.” Their gazes locked and held, his blue eyes glittering with anger. He was beautiful and cold and frightening, but she was just as tough, and just as fierce, and she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. He was the one who demanded she come here. He claimed he needed help—her help. Well then, he was going to get it, whether he liked it or not.
Suddenly the hard pressure of his hand wrapped around her arm eased. A shadow darkened his eyes. “I’m not a monster.”
“No? Then don’t act like one,” she said as his hand dropped. Her arm tingled from his touch, but she ignored the crazy sensations ricocheting through her and turned to the children, holding out a hand to Rocca, and then to Antonio. “Lead the way. I’m anxious to see what a ballroom would look like in this magnificent castello.”
The children obliged, walking her out of the picture gallery, and down two floors, through the main entrance of the house, and down a side corridor, where they passed through a stone archway into a stunning room with a gold-stenciled ceiling and fresco-covered walls. The floor featured a marble parquet pattern and three enormous chandeliers lined the ceiling and tall windows filled the room with sunlight.
“Ooh, this is beautiful,” Monet said. “I have a feeling this room has hosted some glorious parties, don’t you think?”
“Mamma’s coming-out ball was in this room,” Rocca said proudly. “And Nonno’s mother’s ball, too. Papà said the balls are usually in the summer because the weather is so beautiful then.”
“Well, I think this is beautiful any time of year,” Monet answered. “But maybe we should fetch your coats and get some fresh air. It’s sunny and beautiful right now.”
“And cold,” Rocca said. “I miss Sicily.”
“You’ll be back to Sicily before you know it,” Monet countered cheerfully, “which is why you should make the most of your visit here while you can. What could we do later after we go for a walk? Is there anything you’ve been wanting to do?”
The children glanced at each other and shook their heads.
Monet led them from the ballroom so they could head upst
airs to change for their walk. “What about the Christmas market?” she asked. “The Marché Vert Noël in Aosta is supposed to be one of the best in Italy.”
“I don’t think we can go,” Matteo said gruffly as they reached the second floor.
“Why not?” Monet asked, pausing on the landing to wait for Antonio to catch up. “There’s delicious food, and bands that play music at night. We could look at the handicrafts and sample sweets.”
Rocca scrunched her nose. “We’d have to get permission from Papà and he only ever says yes to us walking and hiking and doing sporty things. He believes the two best things for us are reading and exercise.” She huffed a breath. “I hate it, though.”
“Reading and exercise?” Monet asked.
“Yes, because I can’t read very good yet, and Antonio can’t read at all. He doesn’t even know most of his letters.”
“But he will when he’s older. You will all be excellent readers,” Monet said, “because reading is fun—”
“Papà says life isn’t mean to be fun,” Matteo interrupted. “Life is serious, which is why we must be serious, too.”
Monet had to hold her breath to keep her frustration in, and it crossed her mind as they reached the nursery door that maybe she really was needed here for Christmas, and the reason had nothing to do with Marcu needing a wife, but everything to do with Marcu embracing his children.
* * *
Although they were all to have dinner together that night, Marcu couldn’t join them at the last minute and Monet had dinner with the children in the dining room. They’d finished the meal and were now enjoying their dessert, a delicious budino with salted caramel, and the children were happily dipping their spoons into the custard layer topped with a salty-sweet caramel sauce.
“I did some reading while you were reading this afternoon and I discovered that during the Middle Ages, this valley was one of the main passages through the Alps, and you couldn’t pass through without paying a toll, which gave those who lived here power and money,” Monet said, reaching for her coffee. “Castles like this one were built overlooking the valley so the nobleman could see who was approaching, and then he could stop the traveler and demand a toll. Savvy nobles could earn a lot of money monitoring traffic in and out of the valley.”
