by Tillie Cole
Zeno viewed me skeptically, but then edged toward the light and began to read. I moved to stand next to Achille, who was frozen beside me. But he never took his eyes off Zeno. I slipped my hand through Achille’s and squeezed it tightly. I heard his breath catch, but I stayed focused on Zeno. And I saw the moment his face turned ash-white. His hands shook, then he tensed, every muscle in him strained.
Then he read it again. He read the whole letter twice through before lifting his head. “No,” he said, his voice low and laced with venom. “What is this?” he snapped and held up the letter. “This isn’t true.” Zeno shook his head, and I felt Achille begin to shake. But it wasn’t in fear or sorrow; it was in anger. I could feel the heat of rage radiating from him.
“This is false!” Zeno spat.
“My father doesn’t lie,” Achille said through tightly clenched teeth. “He would never lie.”
Zeno held the letter in the air as his face reddened further. “Well, according to this, he isn’t your father!”
“Zeno!” I shouted, moving to stand in front of Achille, who was breathing far too fast. Zeno was still glaring at Achille, and Achille at him. I looked between them. I was a fool to have never seen the resemblance before now. Because they were most certainly brothers. So similar in certain ways, so alike in looks. “Zeno. Look at him. You have the same eyes, the same height, build . . . God, Zeno, he’s your brother. You have to see it! His father didn’t lie. Why would he lie?”
“To get money? Status for his only, slow son after he’d died? Because he hated my father? Any of those things!”
“He would not,” Achille said. I flinched at how low and menacing his voice sounded. He was my quiet, shy and timid man. He never spoke in such a way.
Zeno took a step forward. “You are not my goddamned brother! Your father was a malicious liar, and you’re both nothing!” He screwed the letter up in his hands and threw it to the floor.
That was all it took to make Achille snap. As the balled-up paper hit the other side of the room, Achille ran around me and tackled Zeno to the ground. They hit the floor with a thud, and Achille plowed his fist into Zeno’s face. But they were evenly matched in strength and height, and before long Zeno returned the blow.
Blood spattered on the floor as they grappled and punched. “Stop! Stop!” I yelled, rushing forward to try and pull them apart. But Achille and Zeno were men possessed, raining blows on one another. “STOP!” I yelled as loudly as I could, catching Achille’s arm enough to pull him slightly back, breaking them apart.
Zeno scrambled to his feet and wiped the blood from his cut lip and nose. His hair was disheveled, and his suit was ripped beyond repair. His eyes were wild as he pointed at Achille and snapped, “Get your things and get the hell off my land. You are not my brother and will get no money from me! You’re lucky your father is dead, or I would sue him for defamation. Now, get the hell out!”
Zeno fled through the door, and I had to brace myself in front of Achille to stop him from running after him. He wriggled from my hold, rushed to the corner of the room and picked up his father’s letter. He placed it on the bed and tried to straighten the pages.
And that’s what broke me most of all. A bloodied and bruised confused man trying desperately to hold on to the only father he had ever known, the one who had just told him he wasn’t his father after all. Smears of blood began staining the pages. I rushed over and gently guided his hands from the letter. He looked at me, eyes glassy and wild. His lip was cut, and a bruise was already beginning to form on his swelling eye. “My letter,” he rasped, so softly it destroyed me. “I need to save the letter.”
“I know,” I said gently. “But you’re staining it with blood.” Achille drew back his hands as if the letter was suddenly a burning page. He stood in the middle of the room, looking around, completely lost. He struggled for breath as his tears continued to fall.
Leaving the letter, I stood before him and cupped his cheeks. He couldn’t look at me first, but then drew a breath and met my eyes. “We’ll leave,” I said. He gave me a blank look. “My family have a villa on the outskirts of Parma. We’ll take your father’s old car and leave tonight. We need to give it some time and work out what to do. We’ll get away. Just you and me. We’ll get Sebastian and Eliza to watch the horses. Okay?”
Achille was breathing hard, but he nodded, curling his cheek into my palm. I melted, tears streaming down my cheeks as he sought out my comfort. I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to his. “I need to go change and grab some things. You pack a bag. I will return soon, then we’ll go. Okay?”
“Okay,” he whispered. He drew back his head and searched my face. The sorrow in his blue gaze was heartbreaking. “We’ll get through this, amore,” I said. I kissed him on the non-cut side of his lips and whispered, “I love you.”
He kissed me back. “I love you forever.”
Ti amo per sempre.
I forced myself to back away and ran back toward the house. I wondered what excuse Zeno had given the guests, if he had even returned at all. But I didn’t care; I just kept running. Once in my room, I threw on some jeans and a sweater and packed as much as I could in a bag. I put on my coat and boots and headed back to the cottage. Thoughts of Zeno so angry, and Achille so hurt, swirled in my head with every step. The two of them fighting, hitting each other, spurred on by mutual pain.
It was a mess.
It was all such a mess.
When I entered Achille’s house, it was silent. “Achille?” I called out, rushing to check every room. I ran out to the barn, then the stables, searching for where he could be.
And then I noticed his father’s old car was missing from the garage behind the barn. I shook my head, backing toward the house. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have left me. He wouldn’t have gone without me.
I burst back through his house, my heart cracking as the truth began to set in. And then I saw a piece of paper on a pillow on his bed, the pillow I slept on . . . beside a single white rose. My feet were leaden as I walked toward it, my personal green mile.
With trembling hands, I reached down and turned it over, and I dropped to the floor in a confused swirl of devastation and pride. Achille had written—he had never written before—but the untidily formed words cut me in two.
My love,
I’m sorry.
I love you forever.
Achille.
A sob ripped from my throat as I was ravaged by a sadness so consuming I wasn’t sure I’d survive. He had left, the other half of my soul had left, and he had taken my heart with him too. All I could think of was how much pain he must have been in as he went. And where had he gone? Who else did he have? He was so alone.
I cried and I cried until my throat was raw and my chest ached. Eventually I lifted off the ground and walked back to the mansion. As I arrived at my balcony, Zeno was leaning against the balustrade. He took one look at me, at my crying face, and a strange expression flashed across his face. I almost believed it was one of shared sadness, and maybe regret too, but when he schooled his features back to his usual cold expression, I knew I must have been mistaken.
As I walked past him, I said, “He left.”
I was just about through my doors when Zeno said, “Good. Maybe now you’ll actually start doing your duty and forget him. We are getting married whether either of us likes it or not. It is what we must do. And it is about time you stopped fooling yourself into thinking you could run away into the sunset with a poor winemaker. It will never happen, Duchessa, not for the likes of us.”
With that he left.
Achille had left too.
And as I curled up on my bed, clutching the rose that Achille had brought me, I reread the letter he had written me. I read it until sleep took me, giving me a temporary reprieve from the unbearable pain in my heart.
Chapter Fourteen
One week later . . .
Caresa
“Duchessa, you look beautiful.”
I stared a
t my reflection in the floor-length mirror, yet I felt nothing. I was numb. I had been numb for the past seven days, since he’d left me. Today was the final dress fitting for my wedding day. It was strange really—here I was dressed exactly as I’d always envisioned, in my dream lace dress with long sleeves, a corseted waist and a flowing silk skirt. And wearing the floor-length veil adorned with silken vines that I had wanted since I was a child. Today should have been the happiest of my life.
It felt like the worst. I was in a nightmare I couldn’t escape from, and the hero I wanted to come and save me had left me alone. I had cried for seven days straight. Now there was just a deep, dark sense of nothing.
Maria, Julietta and her assistant lost themselves in the excitement, taking pictures for any last-minute alterations that would be made this week. But I stayed silent. I wasn’t sure what I could say anyhow.
“Wait until your parents see this, Duchessa! They get in next week, yes?” Julietta asked as she began to unzip me from the dress.
“Yes,” I replied. I was making sure I listened to them just enough to answer any questions.
“They will be in love!” Julietta said happily, clearly pleased with her work. As she should be—the dress and veil were exquisite. If I were in any mood to feel excited about such a thing, I would share in her joy of a job well done.
I changed into a robe as they packed everything up. I sat down, sipping a caffè as I stared into the flames of the fire that had been lit in my bedroom. It was coming up to Christmas now, and the house staff had decorated my rooms. They smelled of pine and cinnamon from the heavily decorated tree, and the crackling fire was never allowed to die.
Maria came and sat beside me. “Contessa Florentino has called, Duchessa. She would like to arrange a lunch sometime this week.” Pia. Pia wanted to see me.
I placed down my cup and shook my head. “No thank you. Please decline. I won’t be making any engagements this week.”
Maria sighed in frustration. “You cancelled all the ones from last week, Duchessa. And now this week too? It is Christmas soon, and the city expects you to make an appearance. You should have been in Florence days ago. There are festive parties to attend. Our society expects your presence at these functions due to you being their future queen.”
“Zeno can go in my stead,” I said and curled my legs onto the chair. I turned toward the fire, hugging my waist.
“The king will not leave either. I think he is waiting for you.”
I flinched as Maria called Zeno “king”. The word made me think of Santo, and the mess he made when he seduced Abrielle Bandini and took her from her husband. When he had a child and refused to acknowledge him as an heir, because our precious society deemed it inappropriate. Then what she said sank in. “Zeno is still here?”
“He has not left in a week either. You both left the ball and have been hiding in your rooms for a week. You are worrying us all. The king will only see his secretary.” Maria moved closer. “She said he had been injured. Maybe by fighting. He wouldn’t say.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said vaguely, then turned to stare again at the flames.
“Well, your parents are due to arrive next week. Will you be going to the palazzo to meet them or continue hiding here?”
“I don’t want to leave here,” I mumbled. In case he returns.
“The king has cancelled the Christmas banquet at the palazzo, but the wedding is set for the Duomo on New Year’s Eve, and you will have to be there a few days before. There is only so much time I can buy you both.” Maria got to her feet and, in a surprising move, laid her hand on my head. The affectionate gesture brought tears to my eyes. I had been so closed off, so devoid of affection since he left, that I didn’t realize what someone’s caring touch would do to me.
Maria kissed my head. “I know these marriages can be hard, especially on one as young as you. Societal marriages have a way of seeming cold and routine. All any bride wants for her big day is to be loved and have butterflies swirl in her stomach when her eyes land on her groom.” She stepped away, leaving the tears tracking down my cheeks. “But the king is a good man. And the fact that he has stayed here when you are feeling so low is testimony to how fond he has grown of you.”
Maria turned for the door. “I’ll clear your week. But from next week, Duchessa, you must make more of an effort.”
The moment she left me alone, I broke apart, wondering how I had got to this moment. And Zeno? Why was he still here? I had not spoken to him once since that night.
Seeing the time was almost eleven o’clock, I got up from the chair and got dressed. I pulled on Abrielle’s jodhpurs, a pair of short boots and a sweater. Wrapping myself up in a scarf, coat and gloves, I left my balcony and began the walk over to Achille’s home. As with every day since he had left, the closer I got to the cottage, the more mixed my feelings became. I loved this place, found comfort in its small walls, but not seeing Achille in the fields or in the barn was a dagger to the heart.
Yet every day I came. Every day I lived in hope that he would return.
I pushed through the gate and checked the house. It was empty, like every day this week, but it was clean and waiting for his return. I had made sure of it.
Not needing to stay there, I went to the barn and unlocked the doors. I heard the eager sounds of hooves on stall floors, and the briefest of smiles came to my lips. When I arrived at the stables, Nico and Rosa had their heads over the doors. I patted each one on their necks, kissing their noses. “You ready to come out? Sorry I’m late today, I had an appointment I couldn’t get out of.” I released them into the paddock and put out some hay. The grass was hidden beneath a light layer of snow and difficult for them to eat.
When the horses were happy, I went into the barn and took a deep breath. Today was the date Achille was meant to have started the bottling of the merlot. He wasn’t here, so I would have to do. He had talked me through the process weeks ago, and promised that he would let me help him when the time came. This year’s vintage, in Achille’s estimation, would be his greatest yet. I wouldn’t let all this destroy the wine.
This wine was his passion, his life. It needed to be done.
“Right.” I took off my gloves. I started the fire and tried to warm up the vast space. And then I began. I sorted the now-corrected labels and gathered the empty bottles and corks that would be used. I got the sanitation fluid and siphon and began the arduous task of cleaning the wine bottles. It took me hours, but I didn’t stop. I needed to keep going.
As I finished cleaning the last bottle, someone coughed from the doorway. I lifted my head. Zeno walked into the barn, his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. He was wearing a sweater, scarf and gloves. Like this, he looked just like everybody else. No suit, no attitude, just . . . normal.
But my anger toward him was still simmering. For how he treated Achille, calling him slow, insulting his late father so brutally. For trying to ruin the letter, and for casting him from his land like he was nothing.
“What do you want?” I asked tersely.
Zeno stopped dead. I waited for him to hiss something back, but he bowed his head in defeat. “I didn’t come here to fight with you, Caresa.” I didn’t say anything in response. Zeno stepped forward, looking at what I had been doing, at the bottles that had been cleaned. “What are you doing?”
“Bottling,” I said tightly, then carried on with my task, washing away the sanitizing solution and preparing the siphon to get the aged wine from the barrels.
“You know how to do this?”
Zeno came to stand beside me, watching me with interest. I nodded. “Achille taught me before . . .” He left, I wanted to say. But if I did, I knew I would lose control of my anger and take it out on Zeno.
“He taught you the entire process for the merlot?”
I nodded again, then dropped the siphon I was holding. I rested my back against the counter, remembering when Achille had prepared lunch and made coffee for me in those first few days. I
had to quickly rid myself of those thoughts. If I let them, they would drown me in sadness.
And I had a job to do.
Zeno rested his back beside me and stared out of the barn doors at the lightly falling snow. “You are here everyday?”
“Yes,” I replied. “The horses need caring for, and I knew today was the first day of bottling. I knew . . . I knew Achille would want this done. He cares for this wine like no one would ever understand. It is his entire life.” I flicked my eyes up to Zeno. “It is all he has in the entire world. Without this, he would be so lost. The outside world overwhelms him. You . . . you read in the letter that his father kept him sheltered, and why. So your father wouldn’t be suspected of being Achille’s papa.” I swallowed back the burgeoning lump in my throat. “If he doesn’t come back . . . if he doesn’t ever return . . . he would want this year’s wine completed.”
I looked right at Zeno. He was looking back at me with an unreadable expression on his face. “He believes this wine will be the greatest yet,” I said. “Though I’m sure anything he produces would be great.” I shook my head. “You have no idea of the kind of man he is, Zeno. He cares so much, he loves so much and so deeply that I’ve never seen anything like it.” A tear fell down my cheek as I whispered, “He just wants so desperately to be loved back. He deserves to be loved back. He doesn’t deserve all of these blows life keeps giving him—never knowing his mother, his father dying young, and now all of this.” I studied Zeno. “You are not so dissimilar, you know. You have both lost your fathers, never truly got to know your mothers. And you both have had to shoulder these burdens alone.” I wiped away the tear and stared at the ground. “But Achille doesn’t have the tools you do to cope with things. And he should. Because if anyone deserves happiness and love, it’s him. It’ll always be him.”
Zeno didn’t say anything for the longest time, until he ran a hand down his face and whispered, “You love him, Caresa. You truly love Achille.”
