A Most Unconventional Courtship

by Louise Allen

  Chance stood in the street, craning to see a glimpse of one wide-brimmed hat amongst so many. She had gone. Hell and damnation.

  ‘Signore?’ It was the waiter, black eyes sparkling with interest, obviously torn between his enjoyment of the little drama and worry that the customer might disappear without paying.

  ‘Here.’ Chance dug into his breeches pocket and dropped coins on the table, picked up his cane and hat and hobbled, with as much dignity as he could muster, back down the steps and into the street Alessa had vanished down.

  He had acted to shield her face without thinking beyond the fact that Lady Trevick would surely notice the resemblance between his companion and her new house guests. Alessa’s reaction was completely understandable: one minute he had been assuring her that she could take her place amidst any company, that her working status was nothing to be ashamed of, and the next he had virtually bundled her under the table to hide her from his hostess.

  He would have to find her and explain why—which would mean revealing his suspicions about her relationship to Lady Blackstone before he had properly thought through how he was going to manage the reconciliation. Or before he had done some very basic checking. What if Lady Blackstone’s younger brother proved to be alive and well and living in England and Alessa was a far more distant connection?

  Chance flattened himself against a wall to make room for a minute donkey laden with what appeared to be a pair of doors, so large that only its head and hooves were visible. He was lost already, although he supposed he had not gone so far that he could not retrace his steps. The alleyway opened into a tiny square with a church on one side and a handsome Venetian wellhead in the centre. He leaned against it to take the weight off his leg and contemplated his options.

  Getting back to the Residency seemed an obvious first step—and, if it was possible, to do so without having to walk back along the Liston under the interested gaze of the coffee-shop patrons. Coward, he told himself, and grinned in self-mockery.

  Then he could write and apologise. No, that would be cowardice. He would have to get Roberts to guide him and go and make his peace in person, although he suspected that this time she really would lob the geraniums at him.

  Chance raised his head and scanned the rooftops, finding the domed campanile of the church of Ayios Spyridhon. He could orientate himself on that and find his way back. He walked slowly through the maze of streets, pausing now and then to examine a fragment of glorious carving set into a shop front, or another Venetian wellhead with its inevitable lions of St Mark on guard. His instinct told him to hurry, but he controlled it. Straining his partly healed ankle would be foolish and Alessa would be in no mood to speak to him now.

  He reached the south door into the church and glanced up to his right. As he thought, there was the end of the Spianadha, and beyond it the road that would take him close to the bay and the Residency. People were coming and going through the church. Part of his Anglican upbringing was slightly shocked by this casual use of the space, but, as he watched from the shadows of the porch, he realised that all of them stopped for a moment, bowing or turning towards the altar and the iconostasis, behind which lay the mummified remains of Bishop Spyridhon, as if seeking approval or comfort from their saint.

  Spyridhon could summon storms, they said, had done just that to save the island from the Turkish fleet, and was an all-powerful protector of the Corfiots. Chance doffed his hat and went in into the semi-darkness, rich with incense fumes, lit by myriads of candles reflected in the silver and gold frames of the sad-eyed icons.

  As a man, he knew he could approach the iconostasis and pass through it into the area behind the altar where the saint lay, into the area forbidden to women, but he hesitated to do so. As he stood there a young priest, black bearded and smiling, gestured him forward and ushered him through to the ornate tomb. It seemed one could look through a glass panel in the ornate coffin and see the saint. Chance saw a glimpse of a brown, wrinkled face and stepped back, surprised at how powerful the sight was. He waited, not wanting to offend the priest by hurrying away.

  Another man in western clothes was standing by the casket, his head bowed, apparently in prayer. Two townsmen entered behind him and Chance realised he would have to wait until the praying man moved to avoid jostling him.

  Eventually he raised his head, crossed himself with the elaborate gesture of the Eastern Orthodox rite, and turned to the doorway. Chance followed, but, as they walked down the steps into the body of the church, his ankle gave with a sickening pang. He put out a hand to steady himself and found his arm gripped by the stranger.

  ‘Thank you.’ Even as he spoke he wondered if he was using the right language—despite his fashionable clothes the other man had a distinctly exotic air about him.

  ‘Not at all, my dear fellow.’ The accent was almost perfect, but behind it there was a richness, an undertone that was foreign. ‘Have you turned your ankle? Allow me.’He crooked his elbow companionably and Chance took it, grateful to escape through the north door without falling flat on his face.

  ‘I sprained it badly the other day.’ Chance hobbled up the flight of steps to street level. ‘I appreciate your help, sir, but I believe I can manage now.’

  ‘Might I give you a lift?’ The stranger raised one hand and clicked his fingers. A small open carriage driven by a man in local dress pulled up alongside them. ‘I was going to the Residency, but I can drop you anywhere you choose.’

  ‘That is my destination also. Sir Thomas has taken pity on me in my present unhandy state.’ Chance climbed in and waited for his rescuer to join him before holding out his hand. ‘Benedict Chancellor, Lord Blakeney.’

  ‘Voltar Zagrede, Count—I think you would say—of Kurateni.’ The accent was obvious now, rich and unfamiliar. He waved his hand vaguely towards the bay, to where the mountains of Albania loomed, so close that the sea seemed merely a lake, and they the opposite shore. ‘My lands lie over there. I go to pay my respects to the Lord High Commissioner upon bringing my ship into harbour for a few days. Your navy is very suspicious.’ He chuckled. ‘They think all my people pirates.’

  Chance settled back into the corner of the seat to look at his companion more easily. The Count was tall, lean, dark to the point of being saturnine, and exquisitely dressed in a combination of western fashion and eastern fabrics that Chance thought would cause a stir amongst the London ton. He was not sure he would want to adopt the wide silk cummerbund, but he coveted the Count’s soft leather boots with their embossed detailing. The hilt of a knife protruded from the top of the right one.

  Altogether a style to make that poseur Byron green with envy, Chance mused as Zagrede tossed his luxuriant, oiled, curls back from his eyes and clapped his hat on his head. The ladies at the Residency would be swooning in delight. Just so long as he did not try his charms on Alessa.

  Chapter Seven

  Alessa waited until the men had vanished through the north door before standing up from the shadowy bench she had been resting on and slipping out of the southern one. The child of an Anglican father and a Roman Catholic mother, she had spent her adolescence being firmly escorted to the local Greek Orthodox church by old Agatha, their nearest neighbour. As a result she was not certain which creed held her allegiance, nor whether the labels mattered so very much in any case.

  Certainly she had fallen into the habit of dropping into the church and having a mental conversation with St Spyridhon. Not that she expected this to be anything but one sided, but she found it soothing and a good way of sorting out her true feelings.

  Her first instinct, when she realised that Chance was prepared to be downright ungentlemanly to avoid being seen with her, was to run away. That still seemed a sensible solution, and she had somewhere to run to, which was very much to the point.

  It was almost three months since they had all visited Liapades on the other side of the island. She still owned a cottage there, and a small patch of land that old Agatha cultivated alongside her own. Sh
e should check on Agatha, make sure she needed nothing and was still in good health. Besides, the children were doing well at their lessons and deserved a holiday.

  All excuses, of course, but good ones, she assured herself. She was prudent in removing herself from a man who, despite all his protestations, seemed to want not her welfare, but something else entirely. What other explanation could there be? If Chance truly intended to help her find her English relatives and considered her a lady, why should he need to hide her from Lady Trevick? If, on the other hand, he was set on seducing her ladyship’s laundry maid, that was another matter altogether. Or perhaps he was intent on courting one of the Trevick daughters and dared not be seen with another woman.

  Alessa stood, blinking in the sunlight. No, if that was the case, then all he had to do was explain his interest in her to Lady Trevick and all would be well. As it was, things were far from well. Like a fool she had let herself—what?—trust was the word. Trust and like a man when every instinct should have told her to treat him with the utmost caution. And it hurt. Hurt far more than the simple realisation that she had been a fool ought to.

  She settled the basket in the crook of her arm and turned off into a courtyard. As she expected, Dr Theo Stephanopolis was sitting in the shade of his vine arbour, benevolently scrutinising four small boys who were all painfully struggling with the series of sums he had chalked up on a board. Demetri was scowling ferociously, his tongue stuck out with the effort of calculation.

  ‘Kyria Alessa, welcome.’ The old schoolmaster stood up, and his little class scrambled to their feet, grinning in welcome and relief at the interruption to their task. ‘Is all well?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Doctor. But I have come to collect Demetri. We must go to the cottage for a few weeks.’ Behind his teacher Demetri was shoving his slate and pencil into his leather satchel, pulling faces at his less fortunate classmates. Alessa caught his mood and felt her spirits lift. But even so, not far under the surface, there was a dull ache of disappointment. Almost, she thought, as she wrote a note for him to run to the Residency with, a feeling of mourning, as though she had lost something.

  ‘Explain that I will let them know when I am able to take laundry again,’ she called after the boy as he took to his heels. ‘And, Demetri—don’t say where we are going!’

  Chance found to his amusement that the Residency ladies were completely under the Count’s spell and that even Lady Blackstone was willing to be charmed. As for Miss Blackstone, she had obviously dismissed Chance as unworthy of her lures, and was batting her eyelashes demurely at the exotic visitor.

  The Misses Trevick, who felt they had prior claim on the Count, were regarding Miss Blackstone suspiciously as Chance slipped away to find the steward and request the loan of a small carriage to take him back into the town. One was not available until later in the afternoon, much to Mr Williams’s chagrin at being so disobliging, for Sir Thomas had taken out the larger, and Mr Harrison the smaller.

  Chance shrugged. An interval for Alessa to recover her temper would probably be a good thing, however much he wanted to rush over there and explain. He strolled back on to the terrace to find Lady Trevick explaining that the Residency was about to decamp to a summer villa at Paleokastritsa on the opposite side of the island.

  ‘Such an enchanting spot,’ she enthused. ‘They say Odysseus landed there. Sir Thomas is having a proper road built across to it, as it will make an ideal summer resort.’

  She spotted Chance sliding into one of the lounging chairs. ‘Do say you will be fit to travel, Lord Blakeney! We are all determined on it. The old road is very rough, but you may ride where the carriage would jolt too much.’

  ‘You are most kind, but I would not wish to intrude. I have already presumed on Sir Thomas’s hospitality and your care too long.’ Damnation! The Blackstones are obviously intent on going, Alessa will be here…

  ‘Not at all. Do consider it, my lord, your company would be greatly valued.’

  ‘Thank you, but I am not certain I feel up to the journey. Perhaps I could see how I am tomorrow?’ It galled him to pretend weakness in front of the Count, who directed a look of manly sympathy in his direction that made him grind his teeth.

  ‘But of course.’ Lady Trevick smiled understandingly and Chance was allowed to sink back into obscurity behind his newspaper while the girls flirted chastely with Count Kurateni.

  Chance was aware of something very like butterflies in his stomach as the Residency groom reined in the small gig as close to Alessa’s courtyard as he could get. In order to make her understand, he was going to have to explain his theory about Lady Blackstone before he could test it any further, and he risked all the disappointment Alessa must surely feel if he proved to be wrong.

  Perhaps, he wondered as he began to climb the stairs, a more resolute man would endure being misunderstood for however long it took to prove the matter. If that were the case, then he was weak. He was also, he realised as he arrived outside her door at last, ankle throbbing, dangerously close to falling in love with her.

  The idea was such a shock that he stood there, stock still, one hand raised to knock, for a good minute. If she had opened the door in his face, he was sure he would have blurted it out, there and then. But, thank God, she did not.

  Chance dragged a hand through his hair as though to reorganise his brain, and knocked. Silence. He tried again, then shamelessly applied his ear to the door panels. Nothing. It seemed impossible. He had rehearsed exactly what he was going to say—up to the point when that thunderbolt had struck him just now—and it had never occurred to him for a minute that Alessa would not be at home to hear him.

  He walked slowly down to the next landing. What had she said, when he had woken up? Her neighbour had helped her with his unconscious body. Mrs Reed…Roades…No, Street. He banged on the door. Again, total silence.

  Reluctantly Chance descended to the entrance hall. He would be reduced to asking the steward at the Residency, and that would take some tact if the man were not to wonder at his motives.

  ‘Kyrios?’ He turned. A slatternly looking woman with a child at her side had opened the door and was looking at him.

  ‘Kyria Alessa?’

  The woman stared. ‘She…go. Away. Many days.’ That appeared to exhaust her stock of English.

  Gone? Chance stared back, every modern Greek phrase deserting him for a moment, leaving only the classical tongue of the schoolroom. He made himself focus. ‘Yati? Poo? Pote?’

  The woman shrugged, obviously unable to answer Why, Where or When, and apparently not much caring either. Chance found a coin in his pocket and gave it to her. ‘Efharisto.’ Thanks for nothing, he thought savagely as he limped back to the gig.

  Lady Trevick was seated in the shade of the veranda, her daughters dutifully at their embroidery at her side, when he returned to the Residency. ‘Ma’am, I feel much more myself. If your most kind offer is still open, I would be delighted to accompany you to Paleokastritsa.’ And I will flirt with all the young ladies and get over this ridiculous feeling that one of my limbs is missing.

  Instantly he was the centre of attention. Lady Trevick was graciously pleased, her daughters clapped their hands and declared it to be delightful, and his presence the very thing to make their house party complete.

  Three days later Alessa leaned on the rickety gate that separated her plot of land from her neighbour’s. ‘Hérete, Agatha.’

  ‘Hérete.’ The old woman grinned back, revealing a few teeth and rather more gum. She was the nearest thing Alessa had to a grandmother. Opinionated, independent and fiercely dismissive of all the invaders who occupied her island, she refused to speak any of their languages and attempts to address her in Italian, French or English were met with a blank stare. Alessa suspected she understood more than she let on, but never risked the experiment.

  ‘So.’ She grounded her hoe and waddled over. ‘You look better than when you arrived, child.’

  ‘I feel better.’ Alessa had thrown he
rself into ferocious cleaning, imagining that she was sweeping Chance out along with the dirt and the spiders. It had almost worked—she only thought of him now at night when the children were tucked up and sleeping and when the moon streamed through her un-shuttered window.

  It would be early for the ladies and gentlemen gathered at the Residency, she had thought, turning restlessly in her efforts to sleep. They would be dancing and flirting, or perhaps playing cards, or one of the young ladies would be displaying her skill at the piano or harp. For a while Chance had held out the lure of joining that sort of society. Almost, she had begun to weaken, think perhaps it would be better to swallow her pride, find herself an easier life. Thank heavens she had discovered his insincerity before she had let herself be drawn in.

  But how could she have overestimated him so? She thought herself a good judge of character. It was finding how wrong she was about that which had plunged her into such a black mood, of course; no one liked realising that they had been a fool. Even Kate, travelling with them because Fred’s unit was taking its turn to guard the Residency, had taken the hint and had not ventured to tease.

  Agatha was still regarding her quizzically, her little black eyes screwed up against the morning sunlight. ‘Tell me about him, then.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This man your friend talks about. The one she says strips off so well.’

  ‘Agatha!’

  The old woman shrugged unrepentantly. ‘What good is a man to a young woman if he doesn’t have the—’

  ‘Agatha!’ It was almost a shriek this time. ‘His lordship is a very good-looking man with a healthy body. I was looking after his sprained ankle, that is all. Anything else is none of my business.’

  ‘Pah! You need a husband, one who has lots of—’ She broke off to illustrate her point with a graphic gesture that had Alessa blushing. ‘You can pretend to be one of those silly cow-eyed little prudes, but how is that going to help you get him?’