A Veil of Vines

by Tillie Cole

  And know that as your eyes read these words, I am bursting with pride. You are the best winemaker I have ever known, one of the greatest people—with your kind heart and soul—but your reading always held you back. I failed in not taking you into the world more, instead staying close to our vineyard. I know, that even when you read this, what your every day will entail. You are a man who will live a simple life. You will always get by because you always have done. You order your life in a way that you don’t have to read or write. You will live off the land or rely on Eliza and Sebastian like we always did, so that your trips into town are limited and you don’t have to worry about appearing slow or strange to strangers.

  And I confess that I had a hand in that. Not because I didn’t want you to better yourself, I did, but because I was so out of my depth with your challenges. But I was also protecting you. Making sure we stayed at the vineyard, just me and my son.

  And that was for a good reason too.

  You may be wondering what that reason was. And I will get to that, Achille, I promise. But first, there are some things you do not know about your mother, about your mother and me. Things that I kept from you to protect you. To protect your mother’s memory.

  Your mother was everything to me. Abrielle was the very reason I breathed. She was the dawn and the dusk and all the hours in between. We were soul mates, split-aparts, but we were not without our problems.

  You see, Achille, when I met your mother, we were young. The moment I laid my eyes on her, time stopped. When I met her in Orvieto, singing Christmas hymns around the tree on Christmas Eve, with the snow falling around her beautiful face, I knew I had found home. Abrielle glanced up from her hymnbook and looked across the tree, and I knew she had found her home in me too. People like to say that love at first sight is a myth, that instant love is for the pages of a fantasy book.

  But it isn’t. I lived it. Your mother and I were proof of that fact.

  We were married two months later, and she moved into my home at the vineyard. Your mother was a dressage champion, and she quickly became the standout rider in King Santo’s dressage and show jumping team.

  She loved her life, playing out her passion, and I loved mine. It wasn’t long before we wanted a child of our own. We wanted a child to complete our family . . .

  But that wasn’t meant to be. We tried, Achille. For years we tried, and despite the love we had for one another, the fact that we were not producing a child became a plague between us. The depression your mother sank into took her to a lonely and desperate place. A place to which I could not follow.

  We sought out help, answers to what the problem was. And the findings were straightforward. The problem was me. I couldn’t have children, Achille. I, the man who loved your mother with everything that I was, could not give my soul mate the one thing she desired most.

  I couldn’t give her you.

  I know you, son. I know as you read this you will question if you have understood my words correctly. And you have. I couldn’t have children, and my heart broke as I helplessly watched your mother drift further and further away from me, drowning in waves of sadness.

  We lost our way. We lived together, slept beside each other every night, but we weren’t okay, we weren’t us. We were lost in the heavy rain . . . and that’s when your mother was taken on a championship tour with the king.

  I couldn’t leave the vineyard because of the harvest. And she didn’t want to stay. So she went. She went and won every competition she entered, becoming renowned in the equine community and acclaimed in her sport. But her victories, her beauty and her spirit also managed to win the king’s affection. In that year, King Santo barely came home, instead choosing to travel with the team. The queen stayed behind with the young prince.

  King Santo never came home because of your mother, Achille. King Santo became infatuated with my Abrielle, and, it still pains me to say, she became affectionate toward him too.

  I do not blame your mother, Achille. She was young and sad and far from home. And although he never held her heart as I did, I knew that she loved him too. When your mother came home she told me everything at once. Her tears were thick and full as she confessed her infidelity.

  It took me a while, but I forgave her. I loved her. She was my split-apart. And I was hers. And despite the crack in my heart her affair caused, it brought your mother back to me. Gone was the pain, and gone was the sadness. I had my Abrielle back. I chose to forgive her. Many wouldn’t, but it was my heart and my pain, and I chose the heavy route of forgiveness.

  She won her final championship, then came home for good. She told the king they were over, and I finally had her back.

  Then a month later we discovered she was pregnant. It wasn’t a medical miracle. We both knew how she was with child, and it wasn’t my doing. We knew whose baby she carried. I struggled at first, son. It was a dagger to my heart. But when you were born, all of that pain became filled with the greatest of light. When I held you in my arms and you looked into my eyes, I knew I was your papa. You were my son.

  And then my Abrielle died. Right in front of me, she died with tears of sadness in her eyes. But not before she told you she loved you and that I was your father. She knew I would love you. She knew you would be safe. She believed her death, the reason we were being torn apart, was because she was being punished. She thought death and not getting to know her son was the punishment for straying.

  I never believed that. And I still don’t. Because nothing, not even death, could take her from me. She stayed with me through you. You looked so much like her, son. Your mannerisms, your shyness, your kindness were all your mother. Though you carried your father’s eyes. His height and his broadness. The older you got, the more I saw him within you.

  And then you befriended Zeno. You became best friends with your brother, as if the fates had pushed you together, a winemaker’s son and the prince— as if destiny had always known you should have been close. And you loved Zeno like a brother. My shy little boy had found someone he could be himself with. You cherished his visits as you played out on the track.

  Then one day the king turned up to my vineyard and saw you both playing in the field beyond. It was the first time I had seen him since your mother died. One look into my eyes and he knew I knew about their affair. He knew we had had a son. And when you came running toward the vineyard, with Zeno in tow, I saw the moment he knew you were his. You and Zeno, laughing side by side. Similar in both hair color and eyes. Same height, same build, same smile.

  Both Santo’s.

  He pulled me aside and demanded the truth. So I told him. It was the scariest day of my life. I feared he would take you from me. I saw in his eyes that he still loved your mother, still grieved for her. We shared in that pain. And then here you were, their perfect mix. A piece of Abrielle living on his land, with his blood running through your veins.

  King Santo returned to the mansion with Zeno. Days later, Zeno was sent back to Florence, and a week after that, the queen returned to Austria. She never came back.

  Because King Santo had told her of you and how you were a rightful prince. He told his wife that he wanted to publicly declare you as his. He wanted Zeno to have his brother in his life. He . . . he was happy you were his, son. He wanted to know you. He wanted to love you.

  But his brother Roberto and his advisers warned him against it. His reputation would be ruined. His wife would be humiliated. I was so angry at him when he chose to listen to them and deny you. But then he never left the estate. He began to visit you frequently. And every time he came, he fell more and more in love with you. And I could see you liked him too.

  When your schooling became difficult for you, I asked him for his help. Rumors of how you looked like him had already begun to spread throughout the school you attended when he tried to intervene. He pulled you out, and I trusted him when he said it was because he wanted what was best for you. It quickly became clear that he was hiding you. My beautiful boy was being kept away,
a secret, so his affair wouldn’t be exposed. And I am ashamed that I allowed it. I know now that I gave in to your request to not return to school because I also wanted to protect your mother. But I was wrong to do so. The king loved you, yet he could not rise against the blue-blood world he ruled to accept you.

  Then you became indispensable to him because you were my heir. You would follow me in making the Bella Collina merlot. And you were better than me. I believed the king loved you like a son, but he knew keeping you from reading and writing would encourage you to stay at the vineyard. I could see you wanted that too. But I failed you. I liked you working by my side; I cherished each day. So I let it happen. I will regret that forever. Sometimes I wonder if I was as selfish as the king, keeping you sheltered so I could keep you as my son.

  I will always be your father, Achille. You were mine and I raised you the best I could, but you have a right to know the truth. I never told you when I was alive as I knew you weren’t ready. You lived in the small world the king and I had created for you, and I knew you wouldn’t be ready to hear this truth until you took it upon yourself to seek out more. I knew someday the boy I raised would conquer his demons. I didn’t know how or when, but I knew he would. And when that day came, I knew you would finally be ready to hear the truth.

  To accept your birthright.

  Achille, my son, you are a Savona. For all intents and purposes, you are an ancestral prince of Italy. You were always better than me—sweeter, kinder, and more talented. You are not merely a son of a common winemaker, but a bearer of blue blood from centuries’ breeding of kings and queens.

  To me, you will always be my son. But you need to know the truth.

  I love you.

  Your mother loved you

  As did the king.

  Be great, my son. Be the prince you were born to be.

  Your proud father.

  As I read the last word, with my heart torn into shreds, I realized I couldn’t move. So I sat there on the bed, with shaking hands and tears streaming down my cheeks. Because everything I had ever known was a lie.

  For the first time in weeks, I wished I had never met Caresa. Because Caresa had brought me the gift of words and books. But she had also brought me this truth, this truth I didn’t want.

  So I’d just sit here some more . . . and at some point, when I could muster the courage, I would move . . .

  . . . and do what?

  I had absolutely no clue.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Caresa

  “I think you’re convincing them. Brava,” Zeno whispered as he spun me around the ballroom, all of the guests looking on with smiles on their faces. My cheeks ached from the smile I wore as we waltzed around the room.

  I wanted to step back and tell them all that this whole thing was a joke. I wanted Achille to walk through the main doors. Wearing a suit and tie with a mask adorning his face. I wanted to dance with him as if he were my prince. The prince I loved and adored and wanted to be betrothed to.

  When the song came to an end, I bowed at Zeno as the crowd clapped and flooded the floor to dance again. As the people rushed between us, all twirling in one direction, I turned and walked in the other. Zeno didn’t even try and stop me as I fled for the main doors.

  Pia took hold of my hand as I passed her, bringing me to a stop. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I just need to go to my rooms for a moment. If anyone asks, tell them I have gone for fresh air.”

  “Caresa,” she went to say, about to tell me again that I didn’t have to do this. But I shook my head, silently begging her to not start. She released my arm.

  I ducked out of the large doors and went straight up to my rooms. As soon as I was safely inside, I pressed my hand over my corset and tried to breathe. I walked into the living room, feeling a breeze coming from my bedroom. I moved into my bedroom to see my balcony doors open. My heart raced. “Achille?” I whispered, searching my bathroom and closet. They were empty. But he had been here, I was sure.

  Then I caught a familiar sight on my pillow. A single white rose lay where I slept. But as I looked around the room again, something didn’t feel right within me. Why didn’t he stay? Why didn’t he wait for me?

  I rushed across the bedroom and saw the light in his cottage was on. I struggled with what to do. The ball was nowhere near over. I was dressed in a gown and mask. But I ripped off the mask, and despite the snow and the fact that my arms were bare, I ran off the balcony and toward Achille.

  My breath was bursts of white as I ran as fast as I could, slipping on the icy ground in my vintage Renaissance-inspired heels. It felt like it took forever to get there, and with each step I took, I felt an ominous feeling settling in my stomach. Something wasn’t right with Achille. I could sense it. He was easy to predict. Ordinarily, he would have waited for me in my bedroom. But he hadn’t stayed, which made me think something was most definitely wrong.

  I pushed past his gate and through his front door, my chest raw from breathing in the winter air. His fire was unlit, making the small room feel cold and dark. “Achille?” I called out as I dashed through to his bedroom.

  I froze in the doorway. He sat on the edge of his bed, holding a letter in his hand. My stomach dropped when I saw that he was deathly still but for the torrent of tears that was flooding down his cheeks. His face was so pale I was sure he was ill. I lurched forward and dropped to my knees before him. “Achille? Amore? What’s wrong?”

  I reached out and placed my palms on either side of his face. He was stone cold. My hands became drenched from his tears. Tears of sympathy built in my eyes too as I waited with bated breath for him to speak. He slowly lifted his head and worked his mouth . . . but nothing came out.

  I watched him struggling to find something to say, when instead, he just handed me the letter. I took it from his trembling hands. “You want me to read it?” Achille nodded his head. His eyes locked on mine, as if he were searching for some kind of relief, some respite from whatever was haunting him.

  “Okay, amore,” I soothed. I sat back on the floor and began to read. And with every new line my emotions became a kaleidoscope—sorrow, happiness, intense shock and sadness . . . and then . . . then . . .

  “No,” I whispered as his father’s secret was revealed. “Achille . . .” I read of King Santo and Zeno, of Achille being pulled out of school and why, and with every word scanned, my heart shattered apart, fleeing my chest piece by piece and leaving a darkness in its wake.

  When I had finished the last line, I dropped the letter to my side. Achille was still a statue on the bed. But his eyes were on mine—desperate and hurt and soul-shatteringly destroyed. “Amore,” I said as I wrapped him in my arms and held him close. His response was delayed, shock still clearly setting in. Then with a pained sob, he launched into me, his arms around my waist and his head in the crook between my neck and shoulder. And he fell apart as he purged the pain and hurt from his body. The knowledge that he was King Santo’s son.

  Achille was a prince.

  My Achille . . . was born a prince.

  “Shh.” I brushed my hand over his hair. I was so wrapped up in comforting my Achille, that I didn’t hear the footsteps enter the house. I didn’t hear someone move into the doorway of Achille’s room until a voice spoke.

  “Well, it’s nice to know that my suspicions were correct.”

  Achille and I froze to the spot at the sound of Zeno’s deep voice.

  Achille sniffed and moved his head so he could sit back. I gathered my composure and got to my feet. I turned to face Zeno, who was crowding the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. “Not now,” I said tersely, wiping the tears from my eyes.

  Zeno raised a single eyebrow. “You leave the masked ball not even halfway through the party to come and screw your bit on the side, and you think that’s okay?”

  “Stop it,” I snapped and watched a smirk form on Zeno’s lips.

  “Despite you thinking you can do whatever you wish, Caresa,
our guests were questioning where the future queen was. It didn’t take me long to work it out when your balcony doors were open . . . again.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “You think I didn’t know you were sleeping with Achille? I have surveillance cameras, Caresa, and not to mention you’re not exactly discreet when you run over to his cottage at midnight, or he to your rooms.” Zeno flicked his chin. “But this ends now. We are to be married in a matter of weeks, and this has to end. You’ve had your fun and I’ve had mine. We have the aristocrats of Italy waiting for you to come back. It is your duty.”

  The blood that was rushing through my veins like rapids turned red hot. “I am not coming back. You can tell them what you want. Tell them I’m ill, or whatever you like, but I’m not coming back. Achille needs me.”

  Zeno opened his mouth to argue, and I felt Achille get to his feet behind me and take the letter from my hand. I hadn’t even realized I was still holding it. Zeno stood straighter and gave Achille a questioning look. I looked back at Achille. His eyes were red raw and swollen from crying.

  “Read it,” Achille said, offering the letter to Zeno. Zeno’s eyebrows drew together. He looked at me, then Achille. And for the first time, I saw it. I saw it as clear as day.

  Their resemblance, it was there. Their hair color was the same. Their eye color was exactly the same. Even the way the way Zeno’s forehead creased with confusion was the same as Achille’s.

  “Read what?” Zeno asked suspiciously. I thought of what he was about to discover. About his father, about why he was taken away, and the fact that Achille was his brother. It wasn’t just Achille who was going to be torn apart tonight. Zeno’s world was about to be blown to pieces too.

  “Read it,” I found myself saying, after Zeno hadn’t moved and the silence became too loud. I took the letter from Achille and gave it to Zeno. “You need to read it.”