by Caroline Lee
Patting her friend’s hand, Snow smiled again. “That’s right. Your beauty would just be the icing on the cake, dear.” Arabella felt buoyed, like she’d found two new friends. “You would make a fine wife for any man.”
“Even a blind one.” The friends smirked at one another.
“I…” Arabella swallowed past a suddenly full throat. “I don’t think Signore Bellini is interested in a wife, ladies. We’re only friends.”
“We’ll see.” Snow winked. “In the meantime, would you like us to talk to Ella for you?”
Oh that’s right, her apartment. Arabella sighed. All of this talk of Vincenzo—of marrying Vincenzo?—had pushed her worries from her mind. “No, I’ll do it. It does sound like they might be looking for a new apartment, especially if Ella’s expecting. I’m very pleased for her.” And she was; the young couple were darling, and clearly doted on one another. She remembered another young couple like that, a long time ago, and pushed thoughts of Edward from her mind.
The three of them sat and enjoyed their tea, trading stories and memories of Abuela at town functions and the weekly Sunday socials, like the one that they had all missed today. And throughout the afternoon, Arabella did not allow her thoughts to linger on Vincenzo, or on his odd actions today. And she definitely did not allow herself to think about marrying him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vincenzo sat in darkness.
She’d had thick brown hair, given to curl just a bit at the ends. He used to tug her braids when they were both young, and then later he’d relish the chance to run his fingers through her hair as he pulled her pins out one by one. There’d been this spot on her neck, right below her ear, that felt like Heaven and would make her crazy. They’d discovered it by accident on their wedding night.
He could still taste her skin, if he tried hard enough.
Oh yeah, she’d been beautiful. He remembered what his hands looked like against the whiteness of her breasts; remembered the way she’d shout his name as if he was the only person in the world who mattered. And he remembered her smile, big and loving and heart-breaking.
He’d never forgotten her smile.
Vincenzo’s stomach rumbled as he turned the frame over and over in his hands. When was the last time he’d eaten? Gordy had been in yesterday—or last night?—with food, hadn’t he? Had he eaten anything? Vincenzo—or was he still Edward, after all these years?—only remembered the brandy, and the music. The loss, the mourning, filled him until he had to pick up his instrument and let it trickle out, or he’d explode from devastation.
Mrs. Mayor was his Jane, his Arabella. His wife. He’d left her alone, and…well, she’d survived. She’d remarried. She’d allowed another man to raise his son. The son he didn’t know he had.
Growling, he curled his hand around the small frame, wanting to crush the beautiful memories. He had a son. He had a wife. He had a wife who was kind, and generous, and was moved to tears by his music, just like when they’d been kids. He’d spent the last weeks falling in love with his wife, but knowing that she would never love him in return.
What would she think of him, if she knew? What must she think of him, now? A deformed monster of a man? Oh yes, he knew his playing was wonderful, but the rest of him? Ten years ago, because of how he looked, he’d made the decision not to come home. He’d built a new life for himself, just as she had… and that’s how their future had to look, too.
The part of him that was still in control placed the framed photograph of his beautiful wife carefully on the small table, knowing that he couldn’t afford to break it. Not now. And the back of his hand brushed against the brandy decanter.
He’d gone through quite a few of them in the days since the picnic. Five? Was it only five? Or was it more? Gordy occasionally brought him refills when he’d start yelling. He’d slept here at least two nights, drunker than he had any right to be. One more glass wouldn’t hurt.
Oh God, he didn’t even know what day it was. He didn’t even know if it was daytime. Did it matter? It was dark. It was always dark.
Time passed. Maybe he slept there in the chair. Maybe those hadn’t been dreams, but horrible memories of the past. His mind was tormenting him, reminding him of the way she’d looked at the Independence Day celebration when she’d been sixteen. That was the year he’d told her he was going to marry her, and she’d laughed and skipped out of his reach and blown him a kiss. Or the first time he’d kissed her, in her mother’s garden, before she’d gone off to school. Christmases where their small families celebrated together, the snow catching in her eyelashes as she laughed at the clouds.
He’d lost his eyes years ago, but he could still see. Could still see her, had seen her for the last decade. In the moments before that shell hit the ammunition chest he’d been carrying from the caisson, and everything went red and fiery and then dark and smoky—in the moments before he’d tucked the photograph carefully inside his boot—he’d been seeing her. Touching her photograph. Admiring her beauty, and wondering—as always—how he’d gotten so lucky as to marry the girl he’d loved forever.
And then he’d never seen another thing but darkness. Cursing, Vincenzo downed the rest of the brandy, and slept again. This time he dreamed of his son. Of Eddie, talking to him, pleading with him. But always, always just far enough, just foggy enough, that the words didn’t make sense. He knew the tone, though, and knew that he couldn’t do a damn thing for the boy.
This time, when he woke, he knew he’d been sleeping, at least. That was a small blessing. Wrinkling his nose at his own stench, he sat up—how’d he get to the settee?—and ran his fingers through his hair. God, he was a mess. Stumbling towards his favorite chair, he wondered what time it was. Wondered if it mattered. He fumbled for her photograph in the frame, but couldn’t find it. Must’ve knocked it off the table. Vincenzo muttered a curse when he found the brandy decanter empty. Probably for the best.
He sighed and laid his pounding head against the back of the chair. What was he doing? Trying to drink himself to death? Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea; he’d never cared about his legacy before, but it would make sense that Eddie would inherit his fortune. Vincenzo could die, and his wife and son would be taken care of.
Groaning, he laid his forearm across his face. He’d have to have a lawyer make up a will. God, he was thirsty. Was there more brandy in the parlor? Eddie and Arabella deserved his fortune. After all, they were the reason he had it; if he hadn’t been trying to spare her the pain of having a deformed husband, he wouldn’t have accepted that ticket to London after his discharge. He wouldn’t have played for that orchestra, wouldn’t have accepted their patronage, if he’d gone home instead. No, he owed everything he had to his own cowardice, his inability to go home and face his wife.
But now was even worse. She used to be kind-hearted and fun-loving. A decade of raising his child, of being married to that stick-up-his-rear Milton Mayor had turned her into a shell. A lovely shell only concerned with appearances. What would she say if she knew Edward Hawthorne was still alive? What would she say if she found out he looked like this?
His throat was drier than the Maghreb, which he’d been privileged to experience once. He could feel the sand scratching as he tried to swallow. “Brandy.” He needed a drink. “Gordy!” His bellow wasn’t nearly as forceful as he’d hoped. “Brandy, Gordy. A drink…water, even, God.”
Where the hell was Gordy? Where the hell was he, for that matter? Hell, that was it. Hell. He’d fallen and been trapped in his own fiery darkness, and he wasn’t ever going to escape.
He could leave, though. He could leave Everland, leave the friendly people and the fresh air and bird song and peacefulness that had turned so tangled suddenly. He could go back East, to New York, to catch a steamship to Europe. Or to San Francisco, to see the Orient again. Surely they’d welcome him?
Footsteps told him that his lazy manservant had finally heard his call. “Oh, thank God, Gordy. Brandy!”
The thump of a foot
meeting the door, and then Gordy was in the room. “It’s about time ye joined the living, m’lord.”
“Did you bring me anything to drink?” Vincenzo’s winced at the way his voice croaked. He didn’t sound among the living.
“Aye, although not what I think ye had in mind.” Suddenly the smell of beef stew tickled Vincenzo’s nose, and his stomach cramped. He groaned, wondering when he last ate.
The sound of cutlery being arranged on the table beside him, and then Gordy pressed a cold glass into his hand. “Here, Vincenzo, drink.” From the sound of it, the fool was kneeling right beside his chair, mothering him. Not having the energy to mock Gordy for the worry in his voice, Vincenzo drank. It was water, and not what he’d wanted, but he drank anyhow. By the bottom of the glass, he knew it was what he’d needed.
When he finished, Gordy put a bowl and spoon into his hands, and he began to automatically eat. He ate like a starving man, but Gordy’s beef stew was worth it. His jaw felt stiff, unfamiliar, and his stomach heaved with the first few bites he swallowed. Noise behind him, and the breeze of fresh air, told him that Gordy had opened the room’s two windows.
“Lord help us, Vincenzo, it smells like a sty in here.” Gordy wasn’t wrong. “Are ye really back, then? I haven’t seen ye on a bender like this one in years.”
“Depends.” The stew really was delicious. “Is there any brandy left?”
“I’ve hidden it.”
“So there is brandy?”
“What’s all this about, then? Yer wife?”
Vincenzo’s head whipped around. “What about my wife?”
Fabric rubbing against fabric, and Gordy’s footsteps around the room. Probably tidying up. “Nothing. It’s just that the last time ye drank like this was because of her.”
He hadn’t realized that he’d talked so much back then. How much did Gordy know or suspect? Vincenzo sighed, the bowl finally empty.
“Where’s Rajah?”
“The blasted animal had enough sense to stay out of here. Probably couldn’t stand the smell. I let Eddie take him home with him for a few days, until you were feeling better.”
His throat went dry again. “Eddie was here?” His son had been here?
“Aye, twice. Ye’ve been drinkin’ four days now, haven’t ye? Ye’ve missed two of yer lessons with him, and one appointment with Mrs. Mayor. She sent a note ‘round to postpone, on account of takin’ in some orphans temporarily.”
Was that just an excuse to not see him? Vincenzo tried to remember what he’d said at the picnic. Had he offended her? Of course he had; he looked like a monster. Someone who thought that beauty equaled worth would be offended by someone who looked like him. God, he was thirsty.
“And Eddie?” He gave a sigh of relief when he heard Gordy pouring another glass of water, and eagerly took it to drink.
“The first time he came by, I told him ye were ill. He was upset, and yer pet wouldn’t leave him alone. So I asked him to take that greedy animal, figurin’ Mrs. Mayor wouldn’t mind too much. The second time was last evening; he came in here ta see ye, but couldn’t wake ye.” Eddie’s voice, pleading with him… Vincenzo thought it’d been a dream.
The water was clearing his head—or maybe it was the stew. As if reading his mind, Gordy handed him another heaping bowl of it. Around a mouthful of meat, Vincenzo asked, “Is there a lawyer in this town?” He knew what he needed to do.
“No.” Gordy’s response was immediate, and Vincenzo remembered that he’d been spending his evenings at the saloon with the locals. He probably knew all about their new home. Their soon-to-be-ex-home.
“That’s okay. I’ll find one in San Francisco.” He hadn’t known where he was going until he’d opened his mouth. San Francisco, and then on to the Orient. He’d bring a valise and his favorite instrument, and then arrange for workers to move everything else out after him, like he’d done only last month when he’d arrived in Everland.
“Yer going to California? I thought ye’re retired?”
“Me too.” He chewed. “But plans change.” Life plans change. He needed to go, to leave Jane—Arabella—to her peace. He’d arrange money for them, and then they could go back to the lives they wanted. Peaceful. Beautiful. She’d mourned him once, had said her good-byes. She didn’t need a beast of a man suddenly claiming to be her husband. “I need you to go get two tickets to San Francisco.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Vincenzo.” As if punctuating Gordy’s words, the clock in the hall struck three times. “Can it wait ‘til morning?”
Now that he’d made his decision, he didn’t want to wait. But something else bothered him; he couldn’t leave without talking to her, either. He couldn’t walk out of her life again, and then send her money to raise his son, without telling her why. He’d have to meet with her one last time…and try to refrain from kissing her.
“All right. But I’ll want to leave as soon as possible. Today.” He pushed himself to his feet, and felt his knees turn to jelly. Sinking back down into the cushions, he admitted that he needed sleep, real sleep in a bed. “Tomorrow, then. Send a note to Mrs. Mayor and ask her to meet with me tonight. I mean—“ Was it really three in the morning?
“I know what ye mean.” Then Gordy was beside him, moving the cup and bowl out of the way, and taking his elbow. Vincenzo gratefully let the younger man take some of his weight as he was led out of the room and down the hall.
“You made beef stew at three in the morning?”
“I made beef stew yesterday, and the day before. It’s been warmin’ for when ye ever managed to come back to yerself.” Clucking his tongue against his teeth, Gordy shifted one of Vincenzo’s arms over his shoulder.
The younger man had always been a bit of a mother hen when it came to him being discomposed. Unfortunately, though, he usually knew exactly what Vincenzo needed. Vincenzo inhaled deeply. “I really do smell, don’t I?”
“I was just wishin’ I was sick, so I didn’t have ta smell ye.” Vincenzo chuckled at the joke, but then winced at the sound. “Can ye manage ta undress yerself while I fill the bath, or will ye fall over?”
Sinking thankfully to the bed, Vincenzo made a rude noise of dismissal, and began to peel off his socks. Where had his shoes and vest gone, anyway? “I’m going to sleep—“
“—after the bath, though, right?” Gordy’s voice drifted from behind the screen, amid the splash of water.
“I can’t sleep smelling like this.” What he’d been doing for the last four days hadn’t been sleep. “And you pack our things. I’ll have someone come pack up the rest of the house after we’re gone. Remember to pack Rajah’s bed, he’s picky about where he sleeps.”
A measured tread told him that Gordy had come around the screen to look at him. He could feel his friend’s stare. “Ye’re leaving Everland? For good?”
“I’m thinking Japan again, and maybe India. The Brits there still like good music.” He pulled off his suspenders, waiting for Gordy to react. To say something. He didn’t disappoint.
“I’m not going.”
“Of course you are. Who else is going to make sure I don’t fall on my face getting on the ship in San Francisco?”
“Ye can manage yerself. I’m not going with ye this time, Vincenzo. I mean it.”
It began to sink in that maybe the stubborn Scot really did mean it. Still, Vincenzo scoffed and began to unbutton his shirt.
“Ye don’t understand. I didn’t have friends when ye caught me. I barely remember my mother. Ye’ve been my only family for almost a decade. Here, though, there are nice people. People who care, who could be my friends. Yer friends, Vincenzo. Ye’d know that, if ye’d gotten to know any of them.”
“Oh, I know enough,” he muttered, trying to figure out why the last button wouldn’t come undone.
“I’m stayin’.”
“Et tu, Brute?” The damn button finally ripped free, and pinged against something on the other side of the room.
“—An’ speakin’ French
at me isn’t going to ta change my mind.”
“It was Latin, you dolt. It means ‘you too, Brutus?’ Julius Caesar said it when his friend betrayed—“
“I don’t care, Vincenzo.” It suddenly occurred to him that Gordy wasn’t in the mood for teasing; his tone had gone hard. “I haven’t betrayed anyone. I’ve followed ye around for years, watchin’ over ye! But ye said we were done, that we’d make a home here. That’s what I’m ready for. Everland is a nice place.”
“You sound like a travel advertisement.”
“Get in the damn bathtub.” Gordy didn’t sound like he was smiling, which was a bad sign. “An’ try not to drown. I’ll bring yer sorry carcass more food, and then ye’ll sleep.” A yawn caught Vincenzo by surprise as he pulled off his shirt. “An’ I’ll get yer ticket when the station opens in the morning.
Vincenzo stood, struggling out of his pants. A hot bath and more food sounded divine. “I’ll pay you until the end of the month, if you’ll pack up the house for me.”
After a long moment, Gordy’s “Aye” sounded like he was being strangled. It’d probably been a dumb idea, to spring it on him like that, but Vincenzo’s mind was a muddle. Things would make sense after a bath.
Vincenzo sunk down into the steaming water, and felt the poisons from the last several days seep out of him. A few moments later, he heard Gordy stomp out of the room with ill grace, and he told himself that he deserved the guilt that swept through him. He’d abandoned his wife, abandoned his son, and now was abandoning the man who’d been closer than family all these years.
But it was for the best; it had to be for the best. They were all better off without him.
CHAPTER NINE
Arabella watched her son watch his friends. Jack and Tom had been surprisingly easy houseguests for the last few days; more subdued than she usually gave the pair credit for, and polite. Maybe it was the weight of losing their grandmother, or maybe it was the presence of Vincenzo’s odd pet—another surprise houseguest. Whatever the reason, they’d been pleasant, sweet boys.
