Then the scene had changed, and Allegra had seen herself standing at the end of a long aisle, her arm through that of her smiling grandfather as he led her toward a candlelit altar. How lovely! She was to be a bride! As she walked along she strained to make out the identity of her groom, but just as she thought she was close enough to discern his features, a great wind roared through the church, blowing out all the candles and plunging the interior into complete darkness.
“Sing, Allegra!” a voice cried to her from the altar. “Sing, and I shall find you.”
Allegra, her grandfather mysteriously gone from her side, opened her mouth to sing, but nothing happened. She had no voice, no way to signal to her groom.
“Throw coins, Allegra!” a second voice commanded from the altar. “Throw coins, and by their lovely jingle I shall find you.”
Allegra reached into her pockets to find some coins, but all she found there were sugarplums. Dozens and dozens of sugarplums. Desperate, she flung them in the general direction of the altar.
“I’ll tap, Allegra!” called a third voice, this time in Italian. “I’ll tap my little hammer so that you can find me. First I’ll tap on the head of your maestro, and then I shall tap on the head of this silly gamester. Tap, tap, tap, until I find you, mi amore.”
“Bernardo!” Allegra had awakened then, drenched in perspiration, the shoemaker’s name bursting from her lips before she could clap a hand over her mouth. She rested her throbbing head in her hands. “What a terrible nightmare,” she said, moaning as she slid from the bed to get a drink of water from the pitcher that stood on a table at the far side of the bedchamber.
After a leisurely breakfast in bed, as Betty helped her to bathe and dress, Allegra was still troubled by the dream. The first part of it was easily explained, probably nothing more than a delayed reaction to her months of flight round Italy to avoid Bernardo and her rescue by Valerian.
Also easily explained was the groom who wished her to throw money. He could be none other than Gideon. As she had already recognized Bernardo by both his voice and the words “little hammer,” she was puzzled only about the identity of the groom who commanded her to sing.
She would have very much liked to believe that it had been Valerian, but he had time and again warned her against singing—he, who had never so much as heard her hum. “Which probably explains why I couldn’t sing for him—if it was him,” she said aloud as Betty stood behind her, buttoning the last of the buttons on the buttercup-yellow muslin morning gown.
“Pardon, missy?” Betty asked, turning Allegra about to inspect the evenness of the hem. “Who would you be singing to at this hour of the morning?”
“Who indeed?” Allegra answered without answering, moving past Betty to check her appearance in the mirror above the japanned dresser. The reflection that met her eyes pleased her. Betty, bless her, had a wonderful way with long hair, so that Allegra’s ebony tresses had been tamed without losing their vibrant life. The yellow muslin was demurely cut, with two-inch-wide white lace ruching about the neckline that set off her pale skin to advantage.
She looked, even to her own eyes, extremely English—except perhaps for the dancing life in her lively sapphire eyes.
“Do I look presentable, Betty? Do I look like the good granddaughter?” she asked, twirling about, holding her skirt away from her ankles.
“You look beautiful, missy,” Betty replied, although she bit at her lower lip as if there was something about Allegra’s appearance that bothered her. “You forgot all about what I told you last night, didn’t you, missy?”
Allegra blinked three times, then smiled. “Forgot about what, Betty? Did you tell me something upsetting last night?”
Betty exhaled on a deep sigh. “Thank you, missy. For a minute there you had a look in your eyes that—well, never mind me. I’m just getting old, I suppose. I like my place in this household, even if Mrs. Kittredge can be as cheap as meat on a chicken neck. That is—I mean, I wouldn’t want to leave you, missy. Not for worlds.”
“It’s all right, Betty. There is nothing my nonno can do to upset me. I was alone and lost in Italy until he sent for me, and I am not so stupid as to refuse to be grateful. Besides, I am too happy in this beautiful place not to be in charity with the world. I promise I shall be on my very best behavior.”
Allegra skipped across the room to pat the maid’s round cheek, then dashed out the door, eager for luncheon to be over and her meeting with the Baron to begin. She deliberately pushed any lingering thoughts of the past night’s strange dream from her mind.
For three days her grandfather had pretty much left her to her own devices. For three days the Kittredges had been icily polite to her. But it would appear her lovely, carefree time of adjustment was about to come to an end.
Allegra passed another mirror in the upstairs hallway and glanced into it, wondering if Valerian Fitzhugh would approve of her “English” appearance. Then she shook her head back and squared her shoulders, deliberately pushing thoughts of Valerian—who still insisted upon hiding himself on his estate somewhere just outside a village called Pyecombe—to the back of her mind.
She had made a promise to Betty, a solemn promise between friends she sincerely believed she could keep, but she could not entirely fight off the feeling that she was going to need all of her wits about her for the next few hours.
“YOU ARE IMPERTINENT!”
“No!” Allegra rounded on her grandfather—her black-as-night curls swinging about her shoulders, her eyes flashing blue fire, her cheeks flushed with fury—looking every inch the hot-blooded, emotional Italian. “You are wrong! I am Allegra Crispino. You, Nonno, are impertinent!” She then launched herself into a stream of Italian that, had he been able to understand it, would have had her grandfather’s sparse halo of hair standing on end.
“Knock, knock. A thousand apologies for what I can only see as my untimely interruption. I have arrived at a bad time, haven’t I? Haven’t you fed her yet? She growls more on an empty stomach, you know. My goodness, but I think my ears are burning. Duggy—I’m surprised all the paint hasn’t blistered right off these walls. What’s going on in here that our little Italian fishwife has come to the conclusion that your parents neglected to exchange marriage vows?”
Allegra and the Baron turned as one to see Valerian Fitzhugh lounging against the doorjamb, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle.
“Valerian!” Allegra exclaimed, running to his side to drag him willy-nilly into the room. “It has been so long. I thought we might only see you every death of a pope.”
“Fitzhugh, thank God!” Baron Dugdale bellowed from his seat, his bandaged foot propped on a footstool in front of him. “Odds fish, but I’m glad you’re here. You speak her lingo. Maybe you can talk some sense into the gel.”
Valerian disengaged himself from Allegra’s grasp, not without some difficulty, and sat himself down in the leather chair facing the Baron’s. “Do I have to, Duggy? I have been enjoying my homecoming, believing you and Allegra to be agreeably settled. It would pain me unbearably if you were to undeceive me now by telling me that something is amiss.”
Allegra dropped to her knees in front of him, her yellow muslin skirt billowing out to make her look as if she were sitting in a soft puddle of spring sunshine, and put her hands on his knees. “Valerian, you are this moment to stop amusing yourself at my expense!” she commanded tightly, her grammar slipping a notch in her agitation. “This is a very serious thing we have to discuss.”
Valerian very deliberately wiped the smile from his face. “Oh, we are to be serious, Allegra? What terrible thing has your grandfather done—cut back on your rations?”
“Food! Always it is food with you. Can’t you think of anything else? And don’t be stupid, Valerian. Nonno would never starve me. He would only kill me! He would only tear my heart into little pieces!” She turned her head to shoot a quick, angry look at her grandfather, then continued. “He has ordered me to call myself Crispin. Allegra Crisp
in! He wishes for me to forget I am Italian, to forget my papà!”
Valerian looked down at Allegra, saw the tears standing brightly in her deep blue, soul-wrenching eyes, and then raised his head to confront the Baron. “Is this true, Duggy?”
“Odds bobs, of course it’s true!” the man exclaimed hotly. “Had my solicitor in here yesterday, you know, to change my will, but I couldn’t do it. It stuck in my craw to put the name Crispino in it. What kind of a name is that—Crispino? Damned I-talian nonsense, throwing vowels around like pebbles in a brook. My granddaughter is English. Now, Crispin—that’s a good English name. Nothing to be ashamed of in a Crispin, eh?”
Valerian felt the muscles in his shoulders tightening as he longed to jump up and push his fist squarely into Dennis Dugdale’s ignorant face. Instead, he pinned a small smile on his features. “Being just a bit of a prig, aren’t you, Duggy? I mean, it is only one letter.”
“Only one letter? Only one letter! Stupido!” Allegra hopped to her feet, her bosom heaving in her agitation as she began to pace. “It is not only a letter! I am my papà’s daughter as well as my madre’s. He would ask me to give up my papà, Valerian, as if that sainted man never existed. No! I will not have it. Viaggio come un baule. I have traveled like a trunk, taken a trip from Italy to England, and gained nothing from the experience! I do not call having my heart stepped upon a gain. No! I have made up my mind, and you cannot change it. I am very sorry for it, for I have come to like this place, and I will miss Betty, to whom I have broken my solemn promise, but I must return to Italy.”
“Tell her she can’t do that, Valerian,” the Baron piped up, trying to move his unwieldly bulk about in the chair so that he could see Allegra, who had moved to the window. “Tell her she has to stay with me. A plum, Valerian—I’m giving her a plum. Doesn’t the child understand that?”
“Basta!” Valerian watched as Allegra reversed her direction, to run back to her grandfather. Leaning down so that her hands rested on the armrests on either side of him, she spoke directly into his face. “A plum is money, Nonno. Only money. And you are giving it to me only in order to spite your sister and her children. I had thought it might be different—hoped it might be different—but it is not. You are a horrible, hateful old man, just like Valerian said, and I hope that when you do meet Saint Peter, he orders you thrown into the deepest, darkest pit in all of Hades.”
The Baron cringed, as if trying to burrow into the back of the chair, and swallowed hard. “Now, Allegra,” he began in a small voice, “you must remember. I am not a well man. I could die at any time. Did—did Fitzhugh really say that?”
“Never mind what he said!” Still hovering over him, her eyes shooting sparks of blue fire, she said, slowly and distinctly, “In Italy we have a saying. Quando nascono sono tutti belli, quando si maritano, tutti buoni e quando muoiono, tutti santi. What I have said, Nonno, is that people, when they are born, all are beautiful; when they marry, they are all good; and when they die, they are all saints.”
“That—that’s a very nice saying, Allegra,” the Baron squeaked, still trying to burrow into the back of the chair. “Fitzhugh? You still there?” he called softly, as if for help.
“No, Nonno, it is not nice. Not all babies are beautiful, nor are all brides good. Most especially, death does not turn a sinner into a saint. We would all like to believe it to be so, but it is not true. You, Nonno, have made yourself a bid for sainthood, but you have failed. You are a terrible, nasty, self-serving old sinner. Dying won’t change that, or make the world remember you differently.
“Now I know why my madre could leave this beautiful Brighton. And now I know why she sometimes cried at night. Not for you, Nonno—it could never have been for you. She cried for Brighton. For her beloved England. I have enough English blood in my veins to love this place myself. But you ask too much, Nonno, and you do not ask it for the right reasons. Now do you understand?”
Valerian, who had just moments earlier believed Allegra might completely lose control of her emotions and begin throwing things, settled back in his own chair and clapped his hands together softly. “I may live to be proud of you yet, imp,” he said as Allegra whirled about to face him.
She was suddenly all smiles as she turned her head in Valerian’s direction. “Then you agree with me, Valerian?”
He rose to stand looking down at her. “Do I agree that you should be allowed to return to Italy? No, I cannot agree with that, for it is a very long swim and I doubt you can afford to pay for your passage. Do I agree that you should be allowed to keep the surname given to you by your father? Yes, I most certainly do. Lastly, do I agree that your grandfather, your nonno, is a sure candidate for an eternity of hellfire and brimstone? Oh, yes, imp, I most assuredly do agree. I might even go so far as to say I endorse it.”
“You too, Fitzhugh?” The Baron’s bottom lip jutted out and he allowed his chin—both his chins—to fall onto his egg-stained cravat. “Odds fish, I never thought one little letter could cause such a fuss. I am a fool, Allegra. A stupid, stubborn old fool. Very well, then. You may keep your name—and my fortune. Only please, granddaughter—don’t leave me. You’re the only member of my Mary that I have left.”
The old man’s self-pitying tone was Allegra’s undoing. Abandoning her threatening stance, she threw herself at the Baron’s neck, giving him a resounding kiss on the cheek. “Ah, Nonno, I am such a terrible person myself. Truly, I did not mean it when I said you had the scruples of a hungry shark. Nor do I really wish for your big toe to blow up like a pig bladder and burst, or for a wart the size of a melon to grow on the very tip of your nose, or for—”
“I think the Baron accepts your apology, imp,” Valerian interrupted. “You don’t have to give him a recital of all the nastiness you were wishing on him when I arrived.”
Allegra stepped back from the chair, smoothed her hair, and folded her hands together in front of her, somehow managing to look as innocent as a novitiate about to take the veil. “You’re right, of course, Valerian, although I know my behavior was most shameful.” She looked up, her sapphire eyes twinkling so that he could see a flash of her usual fire peeping out at him. “But I was much provoked, wasn’t I, Valerian?”
“Yes, imp. You were much provoked,” Valerian agreed as Allegra once more took up what seemed to be her usual position, perched on the edge of the Baron’s footstool. He looked piercingly at the older man. “Now tell us, Duggy, do you have any more little surprises in store for your granddaughter, or can I leave now, secure in the knowledge that Allegra won’t be wishing for a very large, very heavy brick house to fall on your head any time soon? Italian curses can be the very devil, you know.”
The Baron made a great business out of picking a stray piece of breakfast ham from the folds of his cravat. “Well, boy, now that you mention it—there is one other thing. That’s why I sent for you in the first place. You will help me, just to show that the gel here was wrong and you don’t really think I’m a bad man?”
Allegra smiled in delight, for anything that would keep Valerian—who had championed her plea to retain her identity—nearby could not possibly serve to upset her.
The Baron coughed once, and continued. “It’s Aggie, Valerian. She’s cutting up stiff about taking Allegra here to her dressmaker and all those other places women go to spend my money. Seems to think the girl’s figure is an embarrassment, or some such drivel. Isobel offered to escort her cousin, but I’m not so daft as to let that one have the dressing of her.”
Valerian conjured up a mind picture of the underfed, overdressed Isobel of the crooked teeth. “Really,” he said, desperately trying not to pay attention to the comical face Allegra was making at that moment.
“Think about it, Valerian. M’niece considers herself a beauty, you know, when even an old man like me can see she’s as scrawny as a wind-burned dead tree, so it’s sure as check she thinks Allegra here is some freak of nature. Why, I heard her just yesterday, telling Aggie that what this girl here
needs is to have her hair all cut off and gowns that button to her chin.”
Valerian looked down at Allegra, seeing the creamy expanse of skin that peeped out above the neckline of her gown and feeling a sharp shaft of envy at the familiarity with which her heavy black curls caressed her gently sloping shoulders. “Madness,” he said softly.
“Madness, indeed! And I won’t have it, you understand!” he ended, slapping his knee for emphasis, which set up a terrible throbbing in his badly swollen toe. “Damme, but that hurts like the very devil! Valerian—you have to do something. We’re to go to the Pavilion Thursday night!”
Valerian reluctantly tore his attention away from Allegra’s bodice, which rose and fell ever so slightly with her every breath. “I’m afraid I don’t have a cure for gout stuffed in my pocket, Duggy. Sorry.” Valerian refused to even seriously consider the Baron’s outrageous request concerning Allegra. It was too dangerous, for both of them.
Allegra, for her part, had become awash with several different emotions as her grandfather spoke. She knew herself to be tinglingly aware of Valerian’s presence, standing as he was, so close behind her that if she were only to lean back the slightest bit, her spine would make contact with his knee.
She had been thrilled to think that a reason had been found to keep Valerian by her side, then immediately confused to think that she wanted him by her side for any other reason than to torment him for bringing her to England and then abandoning her.
She had been hurt, but only mildly, as she listened to her female relatives’ opinions of her. She had been also hurt, most severely, by Valerian’s obtuse and most obvious skirting of the Baron’s request for assistance. And lastly, she had been struck by her grandfather’s obvious pain.
Putting all else aside, she asked, “Are you eating the ciliegie, Nonno—that is, lots and lots of cherries? Deep red cherries are the best kind. There was a music master we met once in Gargano who swore by them to relieve the swelling of gout. Zia Agnes surely has you eating cherries. And no pepper, Nonno. Pepper is very bad for your toe, I think.”
The chaotic Miss Crispino Page 8
