“I’m sorry, Signore. Tomas wanted to tell you, but…” Alfredo shrugged. “He is young,” he said, in hopes of excusing the boy’s omission.
“What happened?”
“There was an accident. It happened two days ago.” Alfredo shook his head in dismay. “Signore
?
” The old man’s rheumy eyes were a clear window to the depth of his sorrow. “You must help the Signora. Two days now…she has not slept, she will not eat…” His voice trailed off.
Richard clasped Alfredo’s shoulder briefly and turned back to the house. In the kitchen doorway he stopped, watching Arabella, who was still intently cutting the vegetables. Richard’s form cast a shadow across her work area, but she didn’t look up. Her swollen eyes had nothing at all to do with onions, but he couldn’t comprehend why she was ignoring him. Surely she understood that this was a loss they would have to share.
He walked up behind her slowly. He knew she was aware of his presence, but she kept slicing, her knife coming down hard on the wooden tabletop. He didn’t touch her. He just stood there, looking down at the dark tangle of her hair, the curls dull and unkempt.
“Bella?” His voice, as he pronounced her name, was barely above a whisper, but it conveyed the depth of his own sorrow.
Still, she didn’t respond. He reached for her, gently taking her by the shoulders. The moment she felt the weight of his hands, she froze, every muscle of her body instantly tensed, as though she were about to flee. When his fingers tightened, she shook him off fiercely, and once again began chopping briskly as though the simple, familiar act would somehow keep Richard, and reality, at bay.
“Leave off,” he said quietly, again taking her by the shoulders.
The knife came down hard one more time. Then she stopped. Her fingers slowly uncurled from the handle of the knife. With a muffled sob, she spread her hands on the counter and bowed her head. Reluctantly, she let Richard turn her to him.
When she didn’t look up, he carefully put his arms around her, holding her tightly. For a very long time she didn’t move. Her cheek was pressed against the soft linen of his shirt, but her tear-filled eyes were open, not yet ready to accept the comfort he offered.
At last, the tears came. Her arms hung limp at her sides, until, tentatively she reached for him. Then she clung to him, sobbing out all the grief of the past two days. Richard held her where they stood until her tears were spent.
The sun set. The small fire in the kitchen hearth became nothing but glowing embers. In the dimly lit room, Richard took Arabella by the shoulders and held her away from him. Tenderly, he brushed the wet, tangled strands of hair way from her face.
“Bella?” She wouldn’t look up at him and he didn’t press her. “I want you to do something for me.”
She didn’t resist as he put his arm around her and walked her up out of the kitchen and down the hallway to her room.
“Get ready for bed,” Richard said as he took her nightgown from the armoire and pressed it into her hands. “I’m going to make you some tea.”
When he returned to the kitchen, the lanterns had been lit and Alfredo was adding wood to the fire.
“I’m afraid you and Tomas will be on your own tonight,” he said to the older man.
Alfredo dismissed the thought with a gesture of his hand. “But the Signora… She is better?”
“I’m making her something to help her sleep. Sit down and tell me.”
Richard went to the shelf where Arabella kept her herbs, rummaging through the containers until he found what he was looking for. He poured some powdered mistletoe into the kettle and hung it over the fire.
“No one is sure, Signore. Piero kept talking about his ‘ship’ and the voyages he and Luisa were going to take. They were going to sail out together to meet you, to welcome you home. None of us took him seriously. You know how he loved the ships. We all assumed he was pretending again.”
Alfredo’s voice broke and he was silent for a moment while he wiped the tears from his eyes. “None of us knew, Signore. How could we? The Signora blames herself, but it is not her fault. It is no one’s fault.”
“Go on.”
“Some fishermen found them. There was an old shallop, the bottom rotted out. No one knows where Piero got it, but it couldn’t have stayed afloat for very long.”
For a while the two men said nothing. The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room.
There was still one thing that disturbed Richard.“Why did she bury them here?”
“I don’t know,” Alfredo said, shaking his head. “Tomas and I went with her to Sainte Marie Majeure to see the Curé, but he insisted on seeing her alone. She was with him nearly an hour and when she came out…” The old man stopped, recalling Arabella’s mysterious behavior after she met with the priest.
“Yes… What?” Richard prompted.
“Something happened in there, Signore. When she came out she was…different…as she was when you returned. She hasn’t spoken to either of us since she asked us to dig the graves.” Alfredo looked up at Richard. “We tried, Signore, but she wouldn’t speak. She’s fed us and taken care of things here, but she…” He gestured helplessly.
“It’s all right, Alfredo,” Richard said, putting his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of her. She’ll be better after she sleeps.”
“It was a terrible shock to us all, Signore,” Alfredo said, rising from the table. “Is there anything we can do for you? Do you wish me to heat water for a bath?”
“No, thank you. I’ll bathe in the morning.”
“Take care of her, Signore
,
” Alfredo said as he went out the door.
Richard returned to Arabella’s room with the tea. She was standing in the middle of the old Persian rug, her hairbrush in her hand, staring blankly at the open door to the dressing room where she’d made a bedroom for Piero and Luisa. He walked past her and closed the door. She slowly sank down onto the stool in front of the fireplace, staring silently into the empty hearth as she sipped the tea.
Richard took the brush from her and began to run it through the dark, tangled mass of her thick curls. She didn’t resist. She didn’t speak. She just continued to stare at nothing.
The tea worked its magic quickly and in less than half an hour, Arabella began to nod. Richard set the brush aside and helped her to bed. As he pulled the bed covers over her, her hand covered his. He looked down at her, longing to offer some words of comfort, but there were none.
“Don’t go…”
“I’ll be right here,” he said, and he leaned over and kissed her forehead. When he straightened up, her eyes were closed. Arabella was asleep.
He blew out the candle on the table beside the bed and went back to the chair in front of the fireplace. He sat down and pulled off his boots, propped his feet up on the stool and settled back, prepared for a long vigil.
It was sometime after midnight before Richard finally fell asleep in the chair.
Arabella slept for seven hours. The tea and her exhaustion combined to allow her a deep sleep, one undisturbed by any reminders of the events of the past two days. When at last she awoke, she was disoriented and it took her several minutes to regain her perspective. When she did, she was consumed by a terrible feeling of desolation that was mercifully tempered by the long hours of dreamless sleep.
She looked beyond the foot of the bed and saw Richard there, apparently asleep in the chair. A wave of pity swept over her. Poor Richard. What had he come home to? She knew how much he cared for the children. There was no doubt in her mind that his loss would seem to him to be very nearly as great as her own.
Quietly, she got out of bed, wrapped her shawl around herself and went to the fireplace, wondering for a moment if she should start a fire to take the chill off the room. But then what did it matter? She turned back to Richard.
He was awake and watching her.
With only the soft moonlight for illumination, she could clearly read the pain on his face. She felt the tears burn behind her eyes and then slide down her cheeks.
Richard reached out and took her hand, gently pulling her down onto his lap and cradling her head against his shoulder. He wished with all his heart that there was some way to comfort her. As his cheek rested against the softness of her hair, he caught the scent of bergamot. Christina. Richard closed his eyes tightly against his own tears.
All the loss! The stupid senseless loss.
“Tell me,” Richard said softly.
Arabella was silent a few moments more, then began. “About a week ago, Piero began talking about finally having a ship of his own. He told anyone who would listen how he and Luisa were going to make their ship seaworthy and go off on a great adventure. He wanted to have the ship ready so he could sail out to meet you when you returned.
“None of us paid any attention. You know how he was about the ships. We all thought it was some new flight of imagination. Yet, every day, he and Luisa would go off to play and we wouldn’t see them again until supper.” She stopped a moment, remembering how happy they had been, how excited about “their ship.”
“I knew you were due back this week and I was baking, and cleaning and making plans to butcher one of the goats, grateful the children hadn’t been underfoot because there was so much to do. Tuesday morning they came to me, wanting to take some food with them because they were off to take their ship on its ‘maiden voyage.’ Piero was so proud.”
Arabella began to cry again and Richard pulled his handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to her. She took it, but when she noticed the delicate embroidery, she realized it was one Christina had made for him, the intricate work so much finer than her own. He always carried one of Christina’s gifts with him. They were never used, only carried as a memento, and Arabella had laundered them with the utmost care over the years. She looked up at him, wondering if he really intended for her to use it.
“Richard…I can’t…”
He took it from her and wiped her cheeks, then pressed it back into her hand, realizing that was the first time he could remember her calling him by his given name.
“If only I’d been here…”
Arabella’s fingers on his lips silenced him. “Let me finish.” She took a deep breath and continued. “When they didn’t return that afternoon, Alfredo and Tomas went looking for them. Some fishermen found them the next morning. Apparently Piero had found an old boat somewhere. He’d patched it, but it wasn’t enough. How could it have been? He was just a little boy.”
She was silent for a moment before she could bring herself to go on. “No one knows how they got it into the water, but the men assured me that it couldn’t have stayed afloat for long.”
He took her hand. “Bella, what happened at the church?”
She pulled away from him as if he’d struck her. She was on her feet before he realized what she was doing, but he was right behind her, catching her arm and spinning her around to face him.
“Surely, I haven’t said anything to make you this angry?”
Her expression softened, but only slightly.
“Then tell me, what did the Curé say?” Richard relaxed his grip on her arm, sliding his hand down to take hers.
Arabella just looked at him, studying his face, wondering how much she should say. Could it serve any useful purpose to share her shame with him? No, she thought, it would only make him angry. Still, she had no intention of lying about what that pig of a priest had said to her.
“He said,” and she looked Richard right in the eye as she repeated the Curé’s words, “That I was a whore and even though I was now a rich man’s whore, he’d have no whorespawn buried in the consecrated ground of his church.”
Richard just looked at her. She saw the flash of fury in his eyes and for a moment she was frightened. Finally, he pulled her to him and held her tightly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against the softness of her hair. “And I’m glad you brought them home.”
Richard put her back to bed. She slept, but he could not. He bathed, and shaved, all the while trying to imagine what might have prompted the Curé’s brutal treatment of Arabella. Human decency, not to mention Christian charity, demanded at least civil treatment—if not compassionate concern—for any mother who had lost her children, no matter what her background or circumstances. That anyone who had known Arabella for most of her life could behave so callously toward her was beyond Richard’s comprehension, and that a priest could act in such a way toward anyone at all was unforgivable.
Richard finished dressing just as the sky began to turn a pale shade of rose. He left the cottage quietly and headed for the
Haute Ville
. The few others abroad at that hour were making their way up the enormous cobbled ramp that led to the drawbridge at the old gate to the city. Richard walked briskly, passing under the portcullis and heading toward the church.
He arrived at Sainte Marie Majeure while Mass was still being said. He knelt and crossed himself, but then, instead of taking a place on the wooden benches beside the others, he remained standing at the rear of the church. It was the first time Richard had been inside a church since leaving Arles.
He watched the Curé as he performed his office. The man looked to be in his fifties. He seemed thin except for a pot belly that was emphasized by his vestments. When he turned his back to the altar, Richard studied his face. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes bulged, accenting his narrow beaked nose and the sour line of his mouth. It was a face that seemed totally devoid of kindness and, for some reason Richard couldn’t quite put his finger on, a face that seemed to reflect a certain air of dissipation.
As the Curé stepped down to deliver the host to the small group of communicants kneeling at the railing, he looked up, and when he saw Richard he nearly dropped the ciborium. Only the quick altar boy saved the moment by steadying the gleaming silver chalice. Nervously, the Curé continued.
Richard had never met the man, never even seen him before, and he found it hard to understand why he should be the cause of such a strange reaction. But of course Richard was not unknown in Bonifacio and it was quite possible the man associated him with Arabella.
Good
. Richard waited patiently for Mass to be over.