“I know my behavior left her in a precarious position,” Ambler admitted.
They agreed on a plan. Lady Charlotte would go to Rome as soon as it could be arranged. Salvo needed his mother in Venice, but a distant cousin might accompany them to Rome. From there, they could take a ship to London, with the cousin in tow, so Lady Charlotte could arrive in London respectably chaperoned. They agreed it was a neat solution to Lady Charlotte’s dilemma, while still giving her Rome. Everyone would be happy.
Except me. I may never be happy again.
“No, I will not!” Juliana said, swallowing a sob. “I will not help you.”
“I have to pack, sweet girl,” Lottie said. “My brother and your father have arranged transport for tomorrow.” She continued to fold her clothing with elaborate care, but when she pulled open another drawer, what she saw inside made her swallow.
I’ll have to ask Juliana to present these gifts to Mama, Salvo, and the boys.
Juliana paid her no mind.
“But Christmas Eve is in two days,” the girl insisted. “You promised I could wear my costume and bring the infant Jesus to the presepe. You promised we would process to the parlor and read the story and sing." Juliana’s voice rose with every sentence, ending on a wail. "Lord Ambler will be there.”
Will Juliana miss me or will she miss David? A first tendre can cause heartache. Lottie’s own heart had shattered into pieces in Salvo’s office. She had expected a kiss. You expected more than that.
“We don’t always get what we want,” she said, pulling Juliana into her arms. “Sometimes we accept disappointment.” And sometimes we get what we thought we wanted only to find we want something else entirely.
Juliana pushed away, anger marring her innocent face with red blotches. “I don’t accept it. I won’t.” She stomped her foot. “One of them must listen to me.” She swirled away in a flutter of skirts and left Lottie, who had never felt more alone in her life.
She sank down on her bed next to an open portmanteau. She lifted a stocking and glanced around the room. Any minimally competent woman could pack her belongings. At Ambler Manor, a team of servants would see to her things, while she managed the running of the household. She had left the place in the competent hands of a long-time housekeeper, but she supposed she would have many things to put right when she returned. If it were her own house, she would revel in the challenge. But it wasn’t. The house belonged to David now, and soon enough, his wife would have the running of it.
She tossed the unfolded stocking into a trunk that sat open across the room, and fell backward onto the bed. If I were Juliana’s age, I would stomp my feet and cry. I don’t want to leave before Christmas. I want to see her put the infant in the presepe. I want—
What Lottie wanted, or more precisely, who she wanted, Salvatore Caresini, did not want her. You love him. You let yourself fall in love with him. How can you have been so stupid? Asking to stay until after the holy day would make matters worse, make leaving more difficult. She rolled over and, after a twenty-four long hours of stoicism, let the tears flow.
Toto and Carlo pushed past Giacomo and stormed Salvo’s surgery. The elderly gentlemen patient, who had just been given a tonic for a chronic cough, smiled at them benignly. “Fine boys, Dottore.”
Salvo pinned the boys with a paternal glare. They knew to respect his work and place of business. They never came in. He held his chastisement until the old man, bowing and grinning, left them alone.
“What is the meaning—”
“You made her cry!” Toto shouted.
“She’s packing!” Carlo added. “She cried all afternoon. You’re mean. I hate you.”
“Me, too,” his brother said. He punctuated his words by punching his father in the stomach.
Salvo grabbed Toto’s fist and pulled him into an embrace. He put out an arm for Carlo. First Juliana’s tantrum, now this. We haven’t had this many emotional storms in weeks. Not since—
“You like Lady Charlotte?” he asked, pulling Carlo into the circle of his arms.
“Of course we do!” Carlo declared. “She likes us.”
“She reads good stories. Pirates and dragons and horses. I like horses,” Toto explained.
“And she lets us play War in the attic, even after we broke an old statue by accident. She glued it almost as good,” Carlo told him. “She helps Grandma bake and hides some of the cakes where she knows we’ll find them.”
“I thought she made you do your schoolwork,” Salvo said, laughing.
Toto looked somber. “She says that’s our part of the ‘contract.’ I don’t know what a contract is, but she played Skittles with us for a whole hour after I finished all my multiplications.”
“Juliana leaves us alone, too, because Lottie makes her be a lady. Sounds boring, but Juliana likes it,” Carlo told him.
Toto buried his head in his father’s shirt and began to weep. “Don’t make her go away. Please, Papa!”
Salvo squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t thought he could be more heartsick, but his boys’ sorrow added to his own. He sat them down on his examining couch and crouched down on his heels in front of them.
“Listen to me. I like her, too.” Too damned much. “She doesn’t belong to us. She only meant to visit us for a little while, while her brother got well. As you can see, Lord Ambler has recovered, and it is time for them to leave.”
Carlo opened his mouth to object, but Salvo overrode him. “She stopped here briefly to study art, not to care for unruly boys. Now, she wants to continue. She longs to see Rome. We have to let her.”
“If she wants to go, why is she crying?” Toto asked, looking at his father with teary eyes.
Salvo fell backward and bumped onto his seat on the floor. Why, indeed? No one seemed happy here.
“Talk to her, Papa. Ask her if she has to go. Ask her if she can stay for Christmas. Tell her I made a gift for her,” Carlo said. Two pairs of eyes looked at him expectantly. His heart stuttered.
“I won’t promise anything, but I will figure out why she is crying,” Salvo told them. His boys jumped down and threw themselves at him, knocking him to the carpet and covering him with kisses.
Perhaps I need to have another talk with Ambler.
Lottie pulled on her gloves and tied her bonnet. Picking up her reticule, she made her slow way down the central stairs toward the foyer. She felt like a woman going to her own funeral. No matter how many times she told herself to stop being dramatic, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was about to leave all hope of happiness behind.
David's and Salvo’s voices drifted up the stairs. She paused on the landing to listen to their orders to the boatmen who would see them to the mainland and the coach for Rome.
Rome! The word no longer reverberated with anticipation. Her constant refrain since childhood fell flat. Why doesn’t the word fill me with the joy it once did?
The boy’s voices chimed in with the older men. They sound happy. They must be glad to see the disciplinarian leaving. Now they can be as terrible as they please. Will Juliana be as glad to see me go? She plucked up her courage, raised her chin, and descended.
“Lottie, what took you so long?” David demanded. “We’ve been waiting.”
He isn’t wearing his coat and hat. Why isn’t he ready to go?
David stepped aside, and Salvo, who was wearing a coat, took her hand. “May I speak with you, Lady Charlotte?” he asked.
She looked at David, who grinned back like a great looby. “Talk to the man, Lottie. If you don’t like what he has to say, just tell me, and we’ll be on our way.” As if to confirm his statement, men continued to carry trunks out the door. Many trunks.
She looked up into Salvo’s eyes. The intensity made her shiver. What do I see? Fear? Determination? Passion? Something gentler? Hope rose.
Salvo led her to the fundamenta, the walkway along the canal. He glanced back once. “A little further, where we can’t be overheard,” he said.
“What is it Salv—Dr. Caresini
?” she murmured.
“I hope, after what I say, you will use my name again, Lady Charlotte, but let me speak first.”
She waited for him. Her heart beat too fast for her to speak, in any case.
“My family believes you are not happy to leave. Your brother concurs.”
“I know Juliana wants me to stay for Christmas Eve, but she’ll be fine without me. She—“
“Not Christmas. They want you to stay.” He ran an impatient hand through his hair, mussing all those glorious, black curls. “Let me rephrase that. I want you to stay.”
“You want me to wait to go to Rome until all the fever patients recover?”
“No, no. I want you to go to Rome.”
She shook her head in confusion. “Stay or go; which is it?”
“I want you to go to Rome.”
Her heart sank. She studied her feet in despair.
“With me.” Her head jerked up and she found Salvo searching her face, as if he were looking for the meaning of life. Perhaps he was.
“But, that is impossible,” she gasped, without tearing her eyes from his. Impossible, but oh, how dear a thought.
“I am bungling this.” He took one of her tiny hands in his, his long graceful fingers caressing her palm. “I am asking you to travel to Rome in the company of your betrothed… Me.”
“Betrothed? Marriage?” She stared at him, but her confusion was temporary. She felt the joy rise up from deep inside, and burst out into the open. His smile echoed hers.
“But, travel?” she asked.
“Lottie, I want you to have Rome. You must have Rome,” he said, his serious expression warming her heart. “I want you to know your dream before you settle down to manage an unruly household and a thoughtless lump of a husband.”
“Husband,” she repeated. She felt her cheeks heat and knew she must be turning rosy red.
He pulled her into an embrace, pushing back her bonnet and laying her head against his shoulder. She let the feeling of being cherished seep deep into her bones. She slid her hands up his chest to wrap around his neck and pull him closer.
He whispered next to her ear. “Will you go to Rome with me? We can arrange to be married there. I have your brother’s approval, even for the religious difference.” He pushed back a few inches and searched her face. “Will that matter to you?”
“It doesn’t,” Lottie answered. “We’ll manage the difference.”
“So, you will come? Properly chaperoned, of course.”
“Chaperoned?” she mumbled, puzzled.
He turned her in his arms. Juliana, Toto, and Carlo stood several yards away, anxious looks on their faces. They were all dressed for travel. David stood behind them, grinning. When Lottie turned around, the children started forward.
“You need to answer quickly. Will you marry me and come to Rome with us?”
“No.”
Salvo recoiled, and the children stopped in their tracks.
“But you have to,” Juliana insisted.
“We want you to say yes,” Carlo and Toto added at the same time.
He grasped each of her arms. “No?” he asked, over the voices of the children.
“No,” Lottie repeated. She looked directly at his face. “No, we are not leaving this morning. No, I won’t miss Christmas here.”
The children began to cheer.
“First, we will celebrate the holy day,” she went on, “and then we will celebrate a wedding.” Joy lit his face.
“Then we will all go to Rome,” she concluded.
The happiness in Salvo’s eyes flooded her soul. He pulled her into his arms and, at long last, kissed her, well and thoroughly, to the cheering of their family.
“Buon Natale, Lottie,” he said, when they came up for air. He rested his forehead against hers.
“Happy Christmas, Salvo,” she said in return, brushing an errant curl from his forehead.
“The happiest ever,” he murmured, and he leaned in for another kiss.
Author’s Note
Venice suffered frequent epidemics throughout its history but the one featured in this story is fictional. Putrid fever and its variants (camp fever, spotted fever, jail fever) are common names for what we now call typhus. That disease, however, has an ugly cousin, easily confused. Typhoid fever takes its name from “typhus” because the symptoms (high fever, rash, pain, chills, low blood pressure, and so on) are similar, although typhoid fever is likely to include abdominal pain. Both were, and still are, generally rampant in areas of poor sanitation. Typhus is spread by lice; typhoid is spread by feces-infested water.
I elected to describe typhoid, and use the term “putrid fever,” in my story based on the belief that in 1818, doctors were able to distinguish differences in the course of fevers, but not necessarily diagnose and treat them as specifically as they could later in the century. The first specific description of typhoid fever was recorded in France in1829. Treatment of the patient in 1818 would have been no different, given the available tools—rest and fever reduction.
Typhoid fever is a bacterial infection; the specific bacterium, Salmonella Typhi, has a 10-30 percent mortality rate, and, like most fevers, is hardest on the oldest and youngest. While suffering the disease once offers no long-term immunity, studies have shown that where the bacteria exist in the environment, immunities may be lifelong, as Salvo’s assistant Giacomo claimed.
About Caroline Warfield
Traveler, poet, librarian, technology manager—award winning author Caroline Warfield has been many things (even a nun), but above all she is a romantic. Having retired to the urban wilds of eastern Pennsylvania, she reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows while she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.
More from Caroline Warfield
The Dangerous Series (Regency Era)
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Dangerous Works
A little Greek is one thing; the art of love is another. Only Andrew ever tried to teach Georgiana both.
Dangerous Weakness
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Dangerous Secrets
When Jamie fled to Rome to hide his shame he didn’t expect a vicar’s daughter and imp of a niece to take over his life. Will his secrets destroy their chance at love?
A Dangerous Nativity
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The Children of Empire Series (1832-1840)
Three cousins torn apart by lies and deceit work their way back home from the far corners of empire.
The Renegade Wife
A desperate woman on the run with her children finds shelter with a reclusive businessman in the Canadian wilderness. But now she’s gone again. Can he save her before time runs out?
The Reluctant Wife
A disgraced Bengal army officer finds himself responsible for two unexpected daughters and a headstrong, interfering,—but attractive—widow. This time, failure is not an option.
The Unexpected Wife
The Duke of Murnane seeks escape in service to the crown in the drug ridden, contentious port of Canton, only to find his problems waiting at the end of the earth. Can love bring him back? (Available May, 2018)
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Lady Charlotte's Christmas Vigil Page 7
