by Caroline Lee
Now they stood beside Rojita, Sheriff Cutter, and Micah on the other side of the grave. All of the orphans had managed to stay clean and respectful through the long service, and a few of them were sniffling as they watched—with wide-eyes—the coffin being lowered into the ground.
She squeezed Eddie’s hand, and when he glanced up at her, offered a small smile. He didn’t return the smile, but did squeeze back. She knew that he was remembering Milton’s funeral, although doubted that the tears he’d shed then had been nearly as heartfelt as the tears his friends shed over Abuela’s coffin.
Truthfully, she’d shed a few tears herself over the last few hours. Abuela Zapato had been a grandmother to the entire town; welcoming and full of advice, and always ready with a hug. She’d cared deeply for her neighbors, and for her orphans, and it was a good thing that she’d made sure Rojita and Micah would continue her work. Even as Arabella watched, Micah put his arm around his sister’s shoulders, and she turned to embrace him.
With Abuela gone, Rojita and Hank had definitely decided to stay in the orphanage; she’d confirmed it when she’d made arrangements to care for the two oldest boys. Arabella had immediately stopped by Crowne’s Mercantile, and Ella had been very interested in the prospect of moving into her apartment. Ian, however, was more hesitant, pointing out that with Arabella and Eddie occupying the storeroom, the apartment wasn’t too much bigger than their own. She couldn’t deny that, and left feeling even more disheartened. How were they going to make any money? How would they survive?
The minister droned on, and Arabella tried to concentrate on his words, while offering prayers for Abuela’s soul. It was hard to put aside her problems, but the sweet old woman had done that her entire life. Micah and Hank stepped up to shovel the first bit of dirt into the grave. Tom and Jack followed, as well as other members of the church. Then it was done, and they were all headed back to St. Crispin’s for the funeral supper.
Eddie was strangely quiet throughout the gathering. Arabella wondered if it was because of the funeral, or because he was missing his friends, or if her lectures on how to behave in public had finally taken hold. She remembered what Vincenzo had said during the picnic; had she “warped” her son by teaching him to maintain appearances at all times?
The thought didn’t sit well with her. She’d had a lovely childhood, full of freedom and laughter, and liked to think that Eddie had the same. But she’d changed over the last decade; as she’d gotten older, Milton’s Rules had been the only thing keeping her… Arabella sighed. She wasn’t sure what she’d been trying to do with those Rules, after all. Was the only way to be a worthy person to have beauty or, failing that, propriety? That was snobbish, wasn’t it?
Come to think of it, Milton had been very much the snob. He’d aped his betters at the Science Society, he’d scorned anyone he saw as below him in rank, and he equated beauty and propriety with worth. And he’d taught her to think the same way.
It was a terrible thing for a woman to realize about her dead husband, especially mid-bite of potato salad.
But she didn’t believe that ugly people, or people lacking social graces, were less worthy, did she? She considered Vincenzo to be the creator of the most beautiful music she’d ever imagined…and he went out of his way to show the world that he didn’t conform to society’s rules. The flamboyant silk blindfold; the outrageous expense and mystery surrounding his new house; the fact that he kept a wild African cat—who had eaten absolutely every piece of fresh meat in her home, including the cuts Gordon sent over—as a pet… Everything added up to a man who understood what was expected of him, and very definitely flouted society’s norms.
Maybe because he knew he was never going to go unnoticed? Not with his talent, not with his appearance. Not with his wit, and intelligence and his way of making her feel like she was the most important person in the world when she was with him.
Oh dear. Arabella sighed. She really was in trouble, wasn’t she? Just thinking about him—here, in the church yard, surrounded by her friends—was making her stomach flip over and her knees weak. God forbid she actually do something like imagine him kissing her, because then the heat pooled between her legs and—oh poot, it happened.
She was going to see him tonight. Gordy sent a note this morning, telling her that Vincenzo had been ill—she felt a little guilty for not following up with his strange behavior at the picnic, but she’d been busy with the boys—but that he wanted to see her again. She looked forward to sitting with him and chatting into the evening. Perhaps she could even convince him to sit beside her on the bench in the wisteria grotto? She remembered how their knees had touched, there, and the heat in her chest increased at the memory
She and Eddie made their excuses soon after they’d cleared their plates, and headed for home. Home, which was now the cramped room behind the bookstore, with their empty apartment echoing above them. Eddie gripped her hand tightly, staring at the ground, and she finally asked him, “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Do you want to talk about it?”
“Maybe.” He was silent until they reached the garden—the perfect garden full of Milton’s beautiful choices—and then he sighed. “I stole something from Signore Bellini the other day.”
Well. That wasn’t what she was expecting to hear, but ten years of motherhood had taught her not to turn down opportunities to teach. “You mean you took something without permission?”
He stomped into the building, and Rajah bounded towards them. Eddie didn’t throw himself down and start to scratch the serval’s belly, though. Instead, he just patted the large cat’s head and sat down at the table, which was a sign he wanted to talk. The big cat followed and put his head on the boy’s thighs for more scratches. “He was sleeping in his music room. Gordy let me in, and told me he couldn’t do my lesson, but I wanted to see him anyhow. I…” He looked down, pretending great interest in the happy noises Rajah was making as he enjoyed the scratches. “I missed him.”
“I understand, sweetheart.”
“He didn’t smell sick. He smelled like the men do at the saloon, and he was sleeping on the settee in the middle of the day.” She raised a brow over this news, and sat down beside him. “I tried to get him to wake up, but he just kept mumbling. And then I looked over at his favorite chair, and the little table, and…”
He glanced up at her, and she did her best to look interested and encouraging. If he was confessing something, she wanted him to feel comfortable telling her the truth, even if that truth was going to get him into trouble.
“I saw…this, Mother.” Eddie was wearing his suit, since Abuela’s funeral had been formal. He patted the serval one last time, reached into the jacket pocket, and pulled something out. She saw a flash of silver, and her heart clenched to think that he’d taken something valuable from an unconscious—drunk or otherwise—man.
But then he put it on the table in front of her, and she stopped breathing. It was a little silver frame, with a photograph of a woman inside. “See, Mother? It was just sitting there, and I thought…I thought maybe you knew her, or something. She looks an awful lot like you, don’t you think?”
The woman in the photograph didn’t look like her. That was her. Arabella remembered that dress—remembered when she’d be able to fit into that dress. She remembered the day the photograph had been taken. She remembered the way Edward had tucked it between the pages of his little Bible before he’d kissed her goodbye the last time.
Her hands shaking slightly, Arabella forced herself to pick up the frame. She couldn’t help but trace the curve of the beautiful woman’s cheek. The woman in this picture was perfect, but she didn’t care; there was the hint of mischief in her expression, and her hair was coming out of her braid, and she didn’t care. Arabella knew, because…because she remembered not caring. She remembered what it was like to not worry every day about her appearance, or her reputation.
The woman in the photograph blurred, and it took a moment for Arabella to realize it was because of the tea
rs in her eyes. “Mother?” Eddie sounded concerned, and as soon as she could drag her attention away from the photograph, she’d assure him that everything was okay.
“Mother, are you all right?”
Where had Vincenzo gotten this photograph? Where had he gotten her photograph? Had Edward lost it, or given it away? Her fingers tightened around the frame as an awful thought came to her; had Vincenzo taken it from her husband’s body? Had he stolen it?
She wanted to run to him, to demand answers from him. But instead, she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths and force herself to think rationally. She knew him. He was an honorable man. He wouldn’t have stolen something this important from her Edward; there had to be a good explanation for why he had her photograph, especially since he couldn’t see it. There had to be.
And then she stopped breathing again, when a truly horrible, wonderful hint of a suspicion flittered past her mind. His laugh had seemed so familiar, his discussions so engaging. What if…?
“Mother?”
She took a deep breath. No. No, there had to be a reasonable explanation for all of this. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was just surprised. She does look like me, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah.” Her son’s head was cocked to one side, and he was staring at her. “She looks like how you used to look, when I was younger.”
When she was younger, and worried less. She forced a watery smile and ruffled his hair. “You’re still ‘younger’, Eddie.” He smiled in return. “You know it was wrong to take this without permission, don’t you?”
“Sorry, Mother.”
“I have an appointment with Signore Bellini this evening. I’ll explain that you didn’t mean any harm, but I’ll let him decide what to do, okay?”
Eddie looked worried for a moment, as he scratched under Rajah’s chin, but then sighed and nodded. She liked that he understood his responsibility, but didn’t let it show. She was still too focused on the conversation she’d have with Vincenzo—was that his real name?—tonight.
Tonight, she was going to get some answers.
What time was it? He groaned, and rolled over in his big bed. The clock had struck four before he’d gotten out of the bath last night, and then there’d been more food…and then? It must’ve been close to dawn before he’d fallen back asleep.
Vincenzo scratched his bare chest, and wondered if Gordy had any food ready, whatever time it was. His stomach felt hollow, which was probably the truth. Had it really been four days? Four days since that picnic with Jane? Four days since his whole world had changed? Four days of brandy and mournful music and not nearly enough sleep. Thank God for Gordy and his mothering.
With another groan, he forced himself out of bed and stumbled to his chair where Gordy always laid out his clothes. Sure enough, there they were, and Vincenzo had to sit down to pull everything on. He was so weak, it was appalling. But well-deserved. Absolutely everything he was feeling right now was well-deserved.
Arabella Mayor was his Jane. His Jane that he’d run off and left, left to raise his child. His blood began to pound behind his empty eyes, and he groaned, knowing he was in for a hell of a headache. Bending over to pull on his socks didn’t help, either, and he had to stop to rub at his temples for a minute.
A yawn caught him by surprise as he buttoned up his shirt, and he stopped to scratch at his beard. The thing was thick and bushy, and hid most of his face. He’d worn it for years, on purpose; partly to cover the burn marks that trailed up his right cheek, and partly to act as a disguise. None of his audience could argue that he wasn’t a beast, to look at him. But what about Jane—Arabella? The explosion had altered his voice, sure, and of course his face…that had to be why she didn’t recognize him.
Well, he decided as he pulled on his jacket, he could help fix some of that. He had every intention of seeing her tonight—assuming it was still the following day—and explaining things. He had to explain things to her, so that she’d understand. Understand when she received the money he planned on sending her, and the will he was going to have written up in San Francisco. Understand why he’d left her, and why he had to leave her again.
A small part of him wondered if she would understand. And an even smaller part of him hoped that she wouldn’t—that she wanted him, no matter what he looked like.
The smell of something baking led him down the hall and into the dining room. He’d lived here only a few short weeks, but already this place was home. He had the floor-plan memorized, he knew where everything was. The sound of Gordy talking to himself through the door to the kitchen was like a morning welcome; not having Rajah twining between his legs made him feel off-balance. Yeah, this was home, and he was going to leave it. For her. Again.
So that she didn’t have to be married to him. Again.
“There ye are.” Gordy’s voice grew louder as he came out of the kitchen. “I’ve been hoping ye’d get up soon. The chicken is never as good after it’s been warmed.”
“What time is it?”
“A little after four, I figure. Yer appointment with Mrs. Mayor is tonight.”
“Do you think you could manage to shave me before then?”
“A shave? Like, the whole thing?” He’d been wearing the beard since before Gordy had met him, and it had only gotten wilder over the years.
“I figured it’s time to lose the bramble bush.” So that maybe Jane could believe him when he confessed his past sins.
“Aye, sure. It’s about time she sees what she’s getting.” The last part was faint, and Vincenzo figured the other man had gone back into the kitchen. There could only be one she that Gordy meant, judging from the other man’s sly remarks about the time Vincenzo had been spending with Mrs. Mayor. But Gordy was wrong; he didn’t want to shave off his beard so that Jane could see what she was getting, but rather so that she could see who she was losing. Or doing without, or whatever. She’d appreciate it, he was sure.
He felt for his chair, and sank into it gratefully. There was a cup of lukewarm coffee. Apparently Gordy had heard him up and about, and had poured it for him. The other man had years of experience taking care of him, that was for sure.
Sighing, Vincenzo resisted the urge to rub his temples again. He was going to leave his home? Leave Gordy, who’d been his only friend—his lifeline—for so long? Because she didn’t like ugly things? Because she wouldn’t want to be married to a monster?
Was he not giving her enough credit? Maybe she could overcome that. He scoffed and took another gulp of coffee. Overcome it? He’d left her. She’d had to marry Milton, for God’s sakes. She wasn’t going to overcome that. She’d probably beg him to leave her in peace.
Gordy shuffled back into the room and placed a plate in front of him. Vincenzo inhaled the rich scents of Gordy’s famous cream chicken, buttermilk biscuits, and potatoes au gratin. Just the sort of heavy, filling meal a man might need when recovering from a liquid diet.
When he reached for his knife, though, his hand brushed against paper. He picked it up, and felt the shape of a ticket. A train ticket. A single train ticket. Gordy was silent, across the way, only the sound of the cutlery telling Vincenzo that his friend was there. “What time do I leave?”
“First thing tomorrow morning.” Gordy was sullen, and he couldn’t blame the other man. They’d been together for years.
But he only said “Good” and attacked his potatoes, which tasted ashier than usual.
“Are ye sure I can’t convince ye to stay?”
“Trust me, it’s for the best if I leave Everland.”
“This is about Mrs. Mayor, isn’t it?” Vincenzo carefully used the biscuit to sop up some of the cream. “She likes ye, ye dolt.”
She might like him now, but what about tomorrow? “There are plenty of things that Mrs. Mayor doesn’t realize about me.”
Gordy made a little incredulous scoffing noise, and Vincenzo heard him chewing. Then, around a mouthful of whatever, his friend said thoughtfully, “Ye know, I didn’t expect you to
run from trouble.”
This time it was Vincenzo’s turn to snort derisively. “Then you don’t know me nearly as well as you think.” Gordy grunted, questioning. “I’ve been running for longer than you know me.”
“Aye, I know that. A blind man could see that. I just wanted to know if ye could see it, too.”
“See what?”
“That ye run. Ye’ve run throughout Europe, and the Orient, too. Ye ran from yer past anytime it got hard. Ye let them all deride ye, and then adore ye when they hear ye play, but ye never actually get close to any of ‘em. Ye’ve entertained ladies, but as soon as they start ta think long-term, we’re movin’ on to another city.”
Vincenzo thought about his friend’s words while he chewed. Finally, he nodded and swallowed. “So I’ve been running from my past. There’s nothing unusual about that. If you looked like I did, you’d run too.”
“Who cares how ye look?” Gordy sounded exasperated. “The people who matter don’t, only ye.” Him, and Arabella Mayor. “We’re all runnin’ from something, Vincenzo. Hell, I’ve been runnin’ most of my life. But a man’s gotta know when he’s run far enough. When it’s time to stop runnin’.” Silence, and then the clink of cutlery. Then, a more subdued: “I figured we were done running.”
The chicken wasn’t nearly as good as it usually was. Or maybe it was guilt that was making the meat hard to swallow. Vincenzo put down his fork, and rested his forehead in his palm. “I’m sorry, Gordy. I can’t stop. Not yet.” A deep breath. “I’ll talk to Arabella tonight, and then I’m leaving tomorrow. With or without you.”
“Yer runnin’ again, you mean.”
“Yes. Yes!” He thumped his fist down on the table, and tried his damnedest to glare at his friend. “I’m running. Only it’s the same running I’ve been doing for ten years, so it’s no different, really.” Standing, he threw his napkin on his plate. “I’m going to my music room for a bit.” Some Bach would help ease the nearly overwhelming frustration and guilt. “And hopefully by this evening you’ll be at peace with my decision.”
