A Veil of Vines

by Tillie Cole

  I nodded and made sure to look each employee in the eye. “It’s very nice to meet you all.” I gestured around the beautiful room we were in. “You do an excellent job of maintaining the estate. I have never seen anything like it in my life.”

  The men bowed and the women curtsied at my compliment. Zeno placed his hand on my back again and steered me through a set of glass doors and out onto a large patio. The warm breeze rippled through my hair. To my right was a dining table set for two.

  I made my way toward the table, but stopped when I saw the view. “Beautiful,” I murmured as I moved to lean against the stone balustrade that bordered the patio. Beyond was a panoramic view of the vineyards, acres and acres of full and blooming vines. The moon hung low in the sky, bathing the countryside with its pale blue hue.

  I heard the sound of a chair scraping stone. When I turned, Prince Zeno was holding the chair out for me to sit. Tearing myself from the view, I walked to the table and sat down. Zeno moved opposite and pointed to my hand. “Are you going to let go anytime soon?”

  I stared at him blankly, unsure what he was talking about, until I saw that I was still clutching my bottle of Bella Collina Reserve. A surprised laugh burst from my mouth. I placed the bottle on the table. “I didn’t even realize I was still holding it.”

  “Clearly you do like the vintage,” Zeno replied with a hint of humor in his voice.

  “I don’t think like is a strong enough word.”

  “Then I’m glad I brought you to this estate,” he said softly.

  An awkward silence descended. Fortunately it was interrupted by a female server bearing water and a bottle of white wine. She made to take the merlot, but I put my hand over hers to stop her. “I shall drink this.” She bowed and poured out the wine with an expert hand.

  The next few minutes were occupied by servers bringing bread, Bella Collina’s homegrown olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and finally our appetizer of insalata caprese. The servers excused themselves.

  Once again I was alone with the prince.

  Inhaling deeply, I scanned the grounds and the trellis climbing up the ancient stone walls. I shook my head.

  “Something wrong?” Zeno inquired.

  My eyes snapped to his. “No,” I said. “This is all just . . . so surreal.”

  His head cocked to the side as his bright blue eyes focused on me. “The marriage?” he asked. His voice was tense, as if he were forcing the words.

  I lowered my head and played with the stem of my wine glass. “Yes. But not just that.” I pointed to the vineyard, the mansion, the food. “Everything. Being here is testimony to fact that the monarchy’s abolition may as well never have happened. You are still the prince to these people. These magnificent grounds are worthy of a ruler.”

  “You are the Duchessa di Parma. You are not so unused to this life either.” I looked at Zeno to find a single, challenging brow raised in my direction.

  “I know that. Believe me. As a child in Parma I was always at royal functions. In New York, it was more so. We were the exotic Italian aristocrats who lived on Fifth Avenue. We were even more under the microscope, if that is at all possible.”

  Zeno sighed and tipped his head back, eyes focused on the blanket of stars above. “It is our life. The titles, the status of monarchy may have legally been revoked, but we both know we shall always be someone. You cannot erase that much history from a country in such little time.” He batted his hand. “There will always be rich and poor. And whether they like to admit it or not, the lay public love to have a royal line to admire, to wonder what our lives are like and to look up to.” He let out a short, dismissive laugh. “Or hate, as the case may be. The monarchy is officially gone, yet look at us—a dethroned prince and an American-raised duchessa arranged to be married by our fathers. You can’t get more medieval than that.”

  I swallowed, and realized I felt a sudden kinship with Zeno. He didn’t want to marry me either. I saw by his expression that he too acknowledged we understood one another . . . perfectly.

  “Well, to those in our strange little world, you are about to become king.”

  Zeno seemed to pale. He sat straighter in his seat. “Yes,” was all he could muster in response.

  “I think my parents dream of coming home to Italy one day. They love New York, but home is always home.” I tried to fill the suddenly tense air with idle chatter—it was a much better alternative to strained silence.

  “The duke has taken our business to a level my father could never have dreamed of by moving to America. I know that my father understood the sacrifice your father made by becoming the distributor of our wines for North America.” Zeno fidgeted with the napkin on his lap. “And now we must start again, from scratch. My father’s passing brought unease to the investors. King Santo, the great king of both Italy and the vines, died, and the competitors that have always been pushed aside have reared their heads. They are already stealing business from us left, right and center—it began mere days after my father’s death.” His jaw clenched. “It seems the usual buyers don’t think my father’s Midas touch with wines has been passed on to me. I apparently make them nervous. Your father is holding down the fort as best he can in America. Italy is down to me.”

  I knew everything he said was true. It was not so much his father’s passing, rather it was Zeno’s reputation as a lothario and party socialite that required our swift union. He said the buyers weren’t sure of him. I wasn’t either; I was certain my father felt the same. Zeno was completely untested. Of course, I could not voice these thoughts out loud.

  “However, you are here now. A Savona and an Acardi to make the business strong again.” And to convince the investors and buyers of the same thing, I heard in my mind.

  “Yes,” I said. This time I had nothing left to say. I took a bite of my caprese. “I am to stay here for the duration of our courting period, not Florence?”

  Zeno took a long drink of his wine. “I thought it would be best.”

  I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. “And you are to stay here too?”

  Zeno met my eyes. “I have much business to attend to in our estates all over the country, many crisis talks to attend. I will often be absent. There is much to do now that I’ve been strapped tightly into the driver’s seat.”

  “That would be a ‘no,’ then,” I said, a sharp edge to my tone.

  Zeno dropped his knife and ran a hand over his face. This time when he looked at me, there was no pretense. All I saw was agitation and frustration on his handsome face. “Look, Caresa.” He paused, gritting his teeth, then continued, “We both know this whole marriage is for the business. It’s nothing new in our world. Marriages have always been based on social bonds and securing family ties in Europe, since the beginning of time. Nothing has changed. I’m a royal, you’re a duchessa. Let’s not pretend this is anything beyond what it is—a contract to ensure that stability is clearly demonstrated to our business partners, and a solid, appropriate marriage for those in our social circle.” He gestured to the house. “Ancestral money can only get us so far. To keep these estates thriving, we need money by modern-day means. There are no tithes or bribes bringing in the coin. We do what we must to survive and keep our lineages alive. Wine is our key. You and I joined in marriage is what will calm the stormy waters our families have found themselves in.”

  Zeno sat forward and took my hand. “I am not saying this to be cruel. But you seem like an intelligent woman. Surely you do not believe this charade is about love.”

  I laughed. I truly laughed as I removed my hand from his. “I don’t, Zeno. I am very much aware of what this ‘charade’ really is.” I leaned forward too. “And seeing as I have just finished my master’s degree in educational psychology from Columbia, I assure you, your assessment of my perceived intelligence is well-founded.”

  A smirk pulled on Zeno’s lips. “Educational psychology?”

  “Yes.” I bristled. “Had this marriage not been arranged and I wasn’t a duchessa,
it is what I would have devoted my life to. Helping children—or adults—who have learning difficulties. Any problem can be overcome; we just need to find the best way for each person. I would have either worked in that field, or something with horses.”

  Zeno sat back in his chair, looking every inch the royal prince that he was. “Maybe I have underestimated you, Caresa.”

  “Maybe?” I retorted.

  He studied me closely and said in a low voice, “You are extremely beautiful.”

  I tensed, unnerved by the sudden change of topic. He observed me closely, seemingly amused by my cautious expression. “We are a good match in every way that counts,” he said. “Looks, money, status. We both could have done worse.”

  I laughed. Loudly. “So you believe yourself to be very handsome?”

  Zeno took another sip of his wine. “There is no need for false modesties, Caresa. I’m very much of the opinion that we should always say exactly what we think. In private, of course. We both have reputations to protect.”

  The server came to clear our plates and, for the next hour, the prince and I talked about trivial things. It wasn’t unpleasant, yet by the end of the meal, my stomach was in knots. I hadn’t expected a fairytale with this arrangement. For us to instantly fall in love the moment our eyes met. But neither had I expected things to be so clinical. So . . . cold and matter of fact.

  When the last of the cannoli dessert had been eaten, I lowered my napkin and announced, “I am tired. I think I’ll go to bed.” I gave the prince a tight smile. “It’s been a really long day.”

  Zeno got to his feet and offered me his arm once again. I threaded my arm through his, the warmth of his skin radiating through the fine thread of his suit. He watched me warily out of the corner of his eye. He was trying to decipher if he had genuinely hurt me. He hadn’t, of course. I was just numb. Immobilized by sudden waves of sadness.

  Zeno led me back through the house, up the steps of the left staircase and down a wide hallway. Imposing crystal chandeliers hung from the Renaissance-inspired painted ceilings. I wasn’t sure how far back this home went, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if those ceilings had been the work of Michelangelo himself.

  The red carpet was plush and soft under my feet; the air was permeated with the fragrant smell of roses. That was no surprise when every six feet or so a large vase of the white flowers stood proudly on a glass table.

  Zeno stopped at a set of gilded double doors at the end of the hallway. “These are your rooms.”

  I inhaled deeply. Forcing a smile onto my face, I looked up at him. “Thank you for dinner.”

  He gave a curt nod and, in the gentlemanly gesture that had been instilled in him, took my hand and brought it to his lips. He laid a gentle kiss on the back of my hand. “Sleep well, Duchessa. I will not be here when you wake. I have business to attend to in Florence.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  Zeno tensed, then shrugged. “I could be gone for many days. Maybe a week or two. Or more, depending on how things turn out.” He sighed. “It is the wine harvest from this week, Caresa. I must go to the vineyards and show my face. I must show an active interest in all our vineyards. Then there are all the meetings with buyers.”

  I gave a tight smile of understanding. I knew the harvest was the most important time of the year for Savona Wines. Of course I did. It was when my papa was busiest in the US—securing buyers, promoting the new vintages, attending awards ceremonies, celebrations and dinners.

  Zeno didn’t look enthusiastic about his duties. Also, he did not ask me to accompany him. That fact had not escaped me.

  “Okay,” I murmured and turned to open my door.

  “You will have some dinners and fittings, etcetera,” Zeno said. I looked at him over my shoulder. “The festive season is almost upon us. We have several engagements to appear at together: the annual Savona grape-crushing festival, the winter masked ball, and . . .”

  I wondered what he was struggling to say. Zeno rocked on his feet then cleared his throat. “And the coronation dinner.”

  Zeno’s eyes met the floor. The coronation—his ascension to king. Of course, he was not yet the king. He was not really a prince anymore. But in our society, he was now our king, or soon would be, after the coronation.

  “Will that be here?” I inquired.

  Zeno ran his hand over his forehead. “Maybe. I have not yet set a date, but it must happen soon. It” —he took a sobering breath— “it has all happened so quickly that I have not yet had time to contemplate arrangements. Business must come first.”

  He waved his hand theatrically in front of his face, signaling the end of the conversation. “I’ve kept you far too long.” He began to walk away. “I will see you soon. Maria will be your personal secretary. She will inform you of all the engagements we have coming up and organize your new clothes, fittings for the ball, dinners and, of course, the. . . our much-anticipated wedding.”

  I gave a quick nod and went into my room, shutting the door behind me. I leaned against the coldness of the golden panel and closed my eyes. I counted to ten, then opened my eyes.

  The rooms before me were no less grand than the rest of the estate. I walked through the large living space, taking in the elegant white-and-gold walls, running my fingers over the beautiful pieces of furniture. A large doorway led to a bedroom that boasted a huge antique four-poster bed. Floor-to-ceiling French windows opened onto a balcony with a view of the vineyards. But what I loved was that in the far distance I could see the picturesque town of Orvieto. For some reason, I knew it would make me feel less lonely.

  The bathroom was luxurious, with its claw-foot tub and rain shower. My closet already contained my clothes. My toiletries, perfumes and cosmetics were already at the vanity.

  There was nothing left to do.

  Catching sight of the moon through the balcony doors, I walked outside and leaned against the balustrade. I breathed in the freshness of the air, only to hear the sound of a car crunching on gravel. A black town car was disappearing into the distance.

  I expelled a humorless laugh. The prince was hurrying back to Florence.

  He wouldn't even stay a single night.

  Feeling exhausted, I took a shower and climbed into bed. As I reached over to the nightstand to turn off the light, I noticed a picture hanging on the wall beside my bed. A woman, dressed in a regal purple dress, posing for the painter. I didn’t know why, but my eyes were glued to her image. She had the darkest of hair and beautiful brown eyes.

  She was radiant: a former queen of Italy.

  As my eyelids drooped, pulled down by the lure of sleep, I wondered what her life had been like as Queen of Italy. I wondered if she spent days here in the royal country estate.

  But my last thought, as my eyes closed and my world turned to dark, was . . . was she ever happy?

  Chapter Three

  Caresa

  Maria, my secretary, was just rising from her seat as I walked from my bedroom into the living area. I had been at Bella Collina for three days. In those three days, I had been fitted for evening wear and taken to lunches with the aristocrats of the Umbrian area, although not many resided this far out of Florence. And there was still no word from Prince Zeno.

  Maria frowned when she saw me in my running leggings and long-sleeved top. I had thrown my hair up into a high bun and wore absolutely no makeup.

  “I feel the need to get out of this house,” I said as I sat down to tie the laces of my sneakers. “I need a run in the fresh air.”

  “Very well, Duchessa.” Maria gathered her things. “I would keep to the garden paths if I were you. The harvest has begun and the vineyards are busy.”

  I nodded and walked toward the door; Maria followed behind. “I’ll be gone for the next several days. I am needed in Assisi. You don’t have anything pressing until your first ladies’ luncheon.” She cast me a wide smile. “You have time to relax and get to know the estate. The grounds are beautiful, and there will
be lots to see.”

  “And the prince?” I asked, mainly because I thought I should.

  Maria shook her head. “He has had to go to Turin today. I don’t know when he will get back.” She pressed her hand on my arm. “His father was a workaholic. I would prepare yourself for his son to be the same.”

  We reached the main doors and stepped out into the crisp fall air. Maria kissed me on each cheek then bade me farewell.

  I cast a glance around the pathways and decided to go left toward the surrounding forest. I turned on my phone, put in my earphones and let the up-tempo beats of my jogging playlist hit my ears. I pushed my feet as fast as they would go, heart slamming in my chest with the sheer freedom of the run.

  I thought back to yesterday. Maria had given me a stack of glossy brochures to look through. There had been no formal proposal, no engagement ring, yet the wedding preparations were already underway.

  I ran and ran until the pathway gave out. It looped, trying to tempt me back to the mansion, but I wasn’t ready. I looked beyond the pathway. All that lay ahead were fields of vines.

  In an instant, a flash of memory from my childhood came rushing back to me. Of me running through the vineyards in my Parma home, leaves kissing my outstretched fingers as I passed. I picked up my feet and ran through the rows of vines. I tilted my head to feel the midday sun on my skin.

  Song after song played. I kept on running, my speeding feet keeping time with the beat of the music. I ran so far that when I stopped for breath and looked around me, I realized I had absolutely no idea where I was.

  I flicked the earbud headphones from my ears and tried to listen for signs of life. I could hear the harvest continuing in the distance, but nothing close by. I rose to my tiptoes, scouring the area for any sign of activity. Nothing but fields with their rows of green lay before me. Except for what looked like a small cottage about three hundred yards away.

  Walking to the end of the row, I made my way toward the cottage. Hopefully someone would be home.