“I’m afraid not. But with any luck, I’ll be home for Christmas.”
She wasn’t expecting that! Her worst fears were that they might only have a few weeks together in the summer, but to say he wouldn’t be home at all was unthinkable. She pushed away from him.
“But what am I to do all summer without you?”
He couldn’t help but laugh at the note of outrage in her voice. “Work on your
trousseau
?” he offered.
“Richard!”
He didn’t want to tease her. More than anything else in the world he wanted to make her happy.
“Chrissa, do you love me?”
“Of course I do. You know that.”
“And do you know—really know in your heart—how much I love you?”
“Yes,”
“Then you know that I don’t like this time we have to spend apart any more than you do. But I don’t want to be away from you after we’re married, and if that’s what you want, too, then you’re just going to have to be patient with me for one more year.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek before she leaned back against his shoulder again. “It’s just that things are different now. It seems each time I have to say goodbye to you, I miss you ten times more than before. I only feel like half a person when I’m away from you.”
“I know, Sweetheart, believe me, I know.”
Richard’s eyes closed and he wished with all his heart that the last year of their separation was past, that they were wed, and that he could take her in his arms and show her how very much he loved her.
Rien au Paradis, rien sur la Terre, peut me l’arracher;
Puisque c’est l’amour, qui nous a attachés.
—Sauvalle
Nothing in Heaven or Earth can take her from me
For we two are bound by Love.
Juillet 1752
Arles
Richard hadn’t expected to find himself in Arles again until December, but his sister Cybelle’s request that he help her engage a tutor for her children, meshed with an opportunity to help an old friend, and brought him back to Provence in the middle of July. And now he was looking forward to surprising Christina, for he’d said nothing of his impending visit in his letters and had asked his sister not to mention it.
The Marquis’ carriage met them in Arles the day after their ship docked. He would have preferred to ride, but Lauro hadn’t been on a horse in some time and Richard had no wish to reintroduce a saddlesore young man to Cybelle.
Laurenzo Paulo Floriani was a childhood friend, his father a silk merchant in Rome. He’d handled the books and recordkeeping for the business and, being fluent in four languages, conversant in four more, he had assisted his father in negotiations. But his father’s business had suffered serious losses over the past few years and Lauro was forced to seek some sort of position to provide himself a living.
Richard heard of the family’s misfortune through his warehouseman in Naples and had immediately gone to Rome on the pretext of conducting some business in person. He called on the Florianis and made passing mention that he was looking for a tutor for his niece and nephew. Happily, Lauro had been interested.
A year older than Richard, Lauro was tall and slender and fair, with piercing blue eyes and a ready smile. As boys, they’d traveled together for a year and their friendship had endured, though they’d seen little of each other over the past few years. Lauro suspected Richard had come to Rome specifically to offer him the position, but he was so pleased at the prospect that he could only be grateful.
Lauro had not seen Cybelle since she was fourteen and his memories of the beautiful but seemingly cheerless young lady were now—as their inevitable meeting drew near—giving him cause for concern. Was his haste to accept Richard’s offer going to force him into an uncomfortable situation in a family where he wouldn’t be happy?
“Richard, I admit this opportunity seemed heaven sent so I’ve been afraid to question any aspect of it. But tell me, old friend, how
is
your sister?”
Richard, idly straightening the lace at his cuffs, started to reply, but when he saw Lauro’s serious expression, he couldn’t help but laugh.
“What?” Lauro found Richard’s laughter even more worrisome.
“Forgive me, but with that look on your face, it was obvious your inquiry more specifically concerns my sister’s disposition.”
“And?”
“And, I can assure you that she’s changed a great deal.”
Richard couldn’t resist teasing Lauro. It seemed the memory of a younger—and certainly formidable—Cybelle might still give this otherwise self-assured and confident young man pause, even after so many years.
“Put your mind at ease, Lauro. I’m happy to report that love and marriage have worked a miracle in my dear sister. And believe me, it was as much a surprise to me as it will be to you.”
It was Lauro’s turn to laugh, this time with relief. “And when is marriage going to work a similar miracle on you?”
“By the end of next year, I hope. I confess I’m getting a bit impatient. I’ve spent a great deal of time lately reminding myself that Christina is worth waiting for.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. I haven’t heard her sing in several years, but that voice! Like an angel’s. Do you remember when she sang that solo at the opera in Naples?”
How could Richard forget? The entire audience, usually noisy and unruly until the much touted stars of the evening appeared, had been struck dumb by the purity of Christina’s clear soprano—a magical night, one he would remember for a very long time.
“Well, perhaps we can persuade her to sing for you tonight.” But Richard had a question of his own. “I’ve been waiting for a child to grow up. What’s kept you a bachelor this long?”
Lauro smiled, a little sadly Richard thought.
“I don’t know. There was someone once but now…I suppose I haven’t found anyone else I can care about that way, and with the business situation what it is, I haven’t much to offer.”
“I suspect Cybelle will be just full of suggestions.” Richard smiled. “You know how women love matchmaking and my dear sister is no exception. Who knows, maybe what you’ve needed all along is a French girl!”
Lauro laughed. “Perhaps,” he said skeptically, “though I might remind you that your own fair bride-to-be is Italian.”
They arrived at the Marquis’ château late that afternoon. The sunlight slanting through the perfectly spaced trees that lined the drive gave a reassuring feeling of order to the immaculately groomed grounds of the huge estate. Cybelle was lucky to have made such a good marriage and doubly fortunate to be so happy in the match, Richard thought. Lauro was obviously impressed by the elegance of the house and its surroundings and Richard smiled, glad he’d said little about the extent of the Marquis’ wealth. Best to let Lauro evaluate the situation for himself.
Richard left Lauro to get reacquainted with Cybelle and went out to the garden to find Christina. Not seeing her among the roses or near the reflecting pool, he started into the huge maze.
He and Christina had discovered the quickest route to the center on a visit shortly after Cybelle’s marriage and they both enjoyed the privacy offered by the towering hedges that allowed them to imagine themselves the only inhabitants of a fragrant green and peaceful world.
He had made but two turns toward the center when he heard Christina’s voice. She was singing the soprano half of an old Vivaldi duet and humming the contralto parts that had been written for the man. Richard just stopped and stood for a moment, listening. Lauro was right—the voice of an angel.
When she finished the next section, Richard joined in and sang in a deep clear voice, albeit two octaves lower than the notes originally intended for a
castrato
to give voice to. Though he had no real talent for singing, he and Christina often sang together for the pure pleasure of it.
At first Christina thought she’d imagined Richard’s reply to her song, but a moment later she knew it must be him. She brushed the tears from her cheeks, gathered her skirts and flew along the narrow path in a decidedly unladylike manner.
Richard could hear her coming closer, aware she was running by the sound of her voice as she continued the song. He stopped and waited at one of the turns and a few seconds later she rounded it and ran right into him.
He reached out to catch her. She pushed away from him just long enough to regain her balance and then threw her arms around his neck.
Laughing, Richard hugged her tightly, but she didn’t release her hold on him. He sensed the tension in her whole body and knew immediately that something was wrong.
“Chrissa? What is it?” he asked as he took a firm hold on her arms and unwound them from his neck.
Reluctantly, she found her footing again. She knew he’d seen the tears.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
She tried her best to smile. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just surprised to see you.”
“And since when does an unexpected visit bring tears to those beautiful green eyes of yours?” he asked.
Christina knew it would do no good to lie to him. She slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him tightly.
“Richard, please take me with you when you go back to Arles. I want to go home.”
This was unlike Christina. “Come,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders and guiding her back toward the center of the maze. “I think you’d better tell me what this is all about.”
In the very center of the maze was a little knot garden with a fountain surrounded by marble benches where Christina had spent a great deal of time over the past two weeks because it afforded her a chance to avoid Cybelle’s lectures.
“Chrissa…?”
With a determined shake of her head, she lifted her chin and looked him right in the eye. “Very well, then. Have you ever been with a whore?” When she saw his surprise, she lost her nerve and looked away, biting her lip.
“What?”
Something in his voice made her suspicious and she hated herself for it. “I asked if you’ve ever been with a whore.” This time she spoke softly, her voice trembling. She couldn’t look at him.
“And exactly who is it you call whore, Chrissa?” Richard was determined to find who had been planting these thoughts in such surprisingly fertile ground.
Christina was beginning to wish she’d never asked the question. She began to pluck nervously at the tucked ribbons on the front of her skirts.
“I ask you again, who is it you call whore?”
“Oh, Richard, I don’t know. Cybelle says there are women who sell themselves to men.”
“To what purpose?” he said abruptly.
Christina looked up in confusion.
“To what purpose do these ‘whores’ sell themselves to men?” He pressed her to answer. He seriously doubted that Christina knew exactly what she was talking about.
She blushed furiously. “They sell themselves to men for doing what is done between husband and wife.” There, she’d said it. Why was he making her say these things?
“And why do you suppose they might sell the use of their bodies to men?”
“For pleasure?” she ventured unsteadily. She hadn’t really thought about it. It was whispered among the girls at her school that this thing between men and women was pleasurable, and truly it felt wonderful whenever Richard held her or kissed her, but Christina couldn’t imagine anyone else touching her.
The transparency of her expression made it easy for Richard to read her thoughts and he waited until he was sure that she, herself, questioned the answer she’d given.
“Chrissa,” he said, framing her face with his hands. “You are one of the sweetest, kindest people on this earth. It’s not like you to be so uncharitable toward someone less fortunate. Please believe me when I tell you that you misjudge these women.”
Tears filled her eyes and she leaned against him.
“Do you think that other women don’t share your feelings? That they don’t want to be loved, too? Count your blessings, Chrissa. Your father didn’t sell you to a brothel at the age of nine or ten, or even younger, just so you could be sold again to the highest bidder.”
Christina pushed away from him.
Fathers selling their children?
“But why?”
“Usually for food, for bread to feed others who are hungry. But I’m sure there are as many reasons as there are people. The daughter of a Siamese princess ended up in a brothel just by virtue of the fact she was unwanted at Court.”
Christina saw the distant look in Richard’s eyes, though it passed in an instant.
“Did you know her?”
“I knew her.”
“And did you love her?” The words were out before she could call them back and they hung in the silence between them for a long time before he answered.
“I was kind to her, Chrissa. Would you have me be otherwise?” He lay his fingers gently against her cheek, then carefully brushed the stray hairs away from her face.
Christina watched him, realizing there was a lot she didn’t know about the man she loved. It frightened her a little.
“Sweetheart, I’ve never loved anyone but you. Is it really so easy to doubt me?”
Christina looked down and shook her head. He did love her, she knew that. And she loved him. And at that moment she knew for certain that no one and no thing would ever come between them.
When she looked up, he kissed her.
Raymond was away from the château on business and so the four of them had a pleasant, intimate dinner in the library. Christina, Richard and Lauro laughed over old stories and shared memories. Cybelle was either unwilling or unable to join in, though it didn’t seem to inhibit the others. Christina agreed to sing for them after the meal, but Richard excused himself first, asking to speak with Cybelle alone.
Cybelle had a good idea what he wanted to say and she was ready for him. But as she watched him usher the others out of the room, she could only think how devastatingly handsome he’d become. It was perhaps the first time she’d really seen him as a man rather than as her little brother, and she was astonished at his air of self-possession.
And he has yet to celebrate his twenty-second birthday. It’s no wonder that poor, innocent Christina is so blinded by love that she can’t see the truth!