Authors: Katherine Kingsley
Half an hour later a light tap came at the door and Jane stepped back from the chair where she'd been arranging Callie's hair. “Michael is here to take you downstairs, miss. He's a footman.” She sounded slightly breathless and Callie, amused, thought that maybe Jane harbored a secret fondness for the man. And why shouldn't she? Jane was young and passably pretty and probably dreamt of a husband and children.
For an awful moment, Callie wondered if she might have a husband and children of her own, but something deep inside her told her that wasn't the case. She doubted she'd ever had yearnings in that direction, at least not for a husband.
“Thank you, Jane. Oh, dear. I feel as if I'm being sent into the lion's den.” She tried not to think about the knot in her stomach.
“You mustn't think that, miss. His lordship is everything that's kind—he helped my family no end when my father hurt his back in the fields and couldn't provide for us. He may seem a trifle forbidding, but then, he's nobility, isn't he? Underneath he has a heart of gold, although he probably wouldn't want anyone thinking so. The nobility's funny that way.”
She regarded Callie solemnly as if reviewing her handiwork. “I'm no lady's maid, but you do look very nice. The blue of the dress suits you.” Handing Callie a light wrap, she opened the door. “Miss Magnus is ready to go down now, Michael,” she said, flushing lightly as she regarded her heart's desire. “She's still weak, so be sure you keep a hand under her elbow.”
“Don't you worry, Janie. I won't let any harm come to Miss Magnus. This way, miss. We'll take it nice and slow.”
Callie, who was beginning to feel like a small child in the hands of two nursemaids, obediently let Michael support her, only because she did feel slightly wobbly on her feet. As they progressed down the wide hall to the great staircase that led down to a vast marble hall, Callie tried to absorb the grandeur around her. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined she was residing in such a magnificent house. Enormous portraits of men, women, and children in various period dress lined the walls. Everywhere she looked she saw fine furniture, carvings, tapestries, ceramics, and paintings. Stanton Abbey was fit for a king.
“Here we are, miss,” Michael said, finally stopping in front of a double door paneled in rich mahogany. “This is the library. His lordship will be in shortly. Please make yourself comfortable.”
He opened one side of the doors and Callie stifled a gasp. The room was immense, sporting a billiards table and a pianoforte as well as a harp and comfortably arranged furniture, but what gave Callie real joy was the library itself. The walls of the room held bookshelves from top to bottom, every inch of available space filled. Callie might not know much about herself, but somehow she knew that she loved books with a deep and abiding passion. Her nervousness forgotten, she slowly made her way around the room, running her fingers down leather-bound spines as if she were reacquainting herself with old friends.
Shakespeare, Milton, Thomas Moore, all the great English poets lined the shelves, as well as Jane Austen, which surprised her, since Callie had always thought of Austen as an author for women. Apollonius, Plautus, Virgil, and Ovid in the original Greek or Latin were stocked in another. Even Omar Khayyám and Li Po in translation graced the collection and many more like them. And that was just in the small section she'd managed to scan.
Adam Carlyle apparently was a man who enjoyed his literature, or if not he, then one of his forebears—although, if nothing else, he would have to have added the most recent of the books. Really, she thought, the man was becoming more interesting by the moment. She pulled a volume of Horace from a shelf and began to leaf through it, finding familiar passages and scanning them with pleasure.
“I see you enjoy reading, Miss Magnus.” Adam's voice came from over her left shoulder and she spun around, nearly dropping the book in her surprise. She'd been so absorbed that she hadn't even heard him come in.
“I—yes, I do,” she stammered, flustered by his nearness. Her head came only to the top of his shoulder and she stared at his snowy white cravat for lack of any place better to look. Taking a hasty step backward, she bumped into the bookshelf behind her. In evening dress he was more staggeringly handsome than ever.
Adam took the book from her hand and looked down at it. “You read Latin?” he asked, his tone surprised.
“I do,” she said, as surprised by her ability as he was, but too shaken by his presence to dwell on that mystery.
“Hmm. I imagine you speak Italian as well, having lived in that country. The two languages share many of the same roots.” He gazed down at her in a most disconcerting fashion, as if attempting to see inside her head to discover what else might be there.
“Italian is a beautiful language,” she replied, stepping slightly to the left, wishing he'd give her room to breathe.
“Credo che La sto rendendo nervosa, il che non era la mia intenzione—all' opposto,”
he said.
“Oh, no, I do not become nervous as easily as that,” she lied, for her knees were shaking beneath her dress.
“So you understand Italian. Do you not speak it?”
“Lo parlo abbastanza per farmi intendere.”
The words slipped out of her mouth as easily as if they'd been English. Maybe she really
had
lived in Italy, she thought, her eyes widening with astonishment that she might have actually hit on the truth without realizing it.
“You speak it sufficiently indeed, and I understand you very well. You are a constant source of surprise, Miss Magnus.” He slipped the book back onto the shelf. “You must forgive me for being slightly delayed. I had a small but unexpected business matter to see to. May I offer you a glass of ratafia?”
“Thank you,” she said, relieved when he crossed the room and put a more reasonable distance between them. She didn't think he had any idea of what a formidable presence he was.
The rain had started again, pattering against the windows, the sound muted by the drawn draperies, but comforting somehow.
He walked back to her and handed her a glass, his fingers brushing hers as she took it. Callie nearly jumped out of her skin at the unexpected contact.
“Please do sit down. My steward, Nigel Dryden, will be joining us for dinner, but I assure you that you'll find him easy and pleasant company. I was most gratified that you accepted my invitation.” He rubbed the side of his mouth, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I must apologize again for distressing you this morning. How is your head feeling?” he asked as he took an armchair next to the sofa.
“Very much improved, thank you,” she said, gratefully sinking onto the comfortable sofa, grateful also that someone else would be at dinner to deflect Adam's attention from her. “I feel so foolish for being such a trial. I usually enjoy extremely good health.” For all she knew that was an out-and-out lie, but she thought it sounded reassuring.
“I am delighted to hear it. I cannot wonder that you flourished in a warm, sunny climate. Our English weather has been known to bring down people with the constitution of an ox. I trust you have not felt the damp too badly with all the recent rain?”
Callie couldn't believe they were discussing health and the weather given their previous difficult conversations, but she was very happy to be on safe ground. “I haven't felt the damp at all. For such a large house Stanton Abbey is surprisingly draft-free. You are fortunate to live in such a splendid home.”
“I cannot claim any responsibility for the splendor,” he said. “That is the accumulated work of generations of Carlyles.” He gestured around him. “The family took possession of the abbey in the sixteenth century and spent their time adding to the structure and collecting as many treasures as they could. My job has been to try to keep up what they amassed in both property and possessions.”
“My goodness,” Callie said, fascinated. “That sounds an expensive proposition, but a worthy one.”
“Expensive? Not really. The land produces enough income to cover the maintenance and then some. The problem is more the expenditure of time that is required. I am not one to leave the running of my property to others, although I could not do without my steward to oversee the daily details.” He glanced up over his shoulder. “Speaking of whom, here he is now. Nigel, allow me to introduce you to Miss Magnus. Miss Magnus, Nigel Dryden.”
Callie looked up abruptly and took in a tall man with light brown hair and pleasantly arranged features who smiled down at her as if he couldn't be happier to make her acquaintance. He was as different in manner from Adam Carlyle as was possible, and she couldn't help smiling in return as he lightly took her hand and bowed over it.
“Miss Magnus,” he said, his bright green eyes sparkling. “I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. May I also say that I am delighted to see you looking so well after your unfortunate ordeal?”
“You are very kind, Mr. Dryden,” she murmured, liking him immediately, something she couldn't say about his employer.
“Not at all; we have all been deeply anxious to see you returned to health, no one more so than Lord Vale. Indeed, your welfare has been foremost on his mind this last week.”
“Lord Vale has also been very kind,” she said, her smile fading. “I have promised him that I will do my utmost to repay that kindness by making a full recovery as quickly as possible and taking myself off his hands as soon as I can.”
Nigel exchanged a quick and inscrutable glance with Adam that Callie couldn't fathom. “One cannot rush one's recovery, Miss Magnus. Nature must take its course, and I know that Lord Vale is in no hurry to see you go.” He deftly changed the subject. “Speaking of courses, I understand that Cook has made a superb effort this evening. We are to have turtle soup followed by turbot, roast hare, and all manner of vegetables and puddings.” He patted his flat stomach. “I for one have a prodigious appetite. I plan to make a glutton of myself.”
Callie sat through dinner in near-silence, content to listen to the two men speak quietly between themselves; she was left in peace to concentrate on her meal. She sipped a little claret mixed with water as she ate, and the combination of good food and drink, as well as the lack of attention on herself, helped her to relax. She absorbed her surroundings, admiring the fine art on the walls, the precise, unobtrusive service provided by the footmen, the gleaming silver and crystal and china and starched linen. Stanton Abbey's household ran like clockwork; she couldn't help but be impressed at the orderliness of it all.
Somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind she had a memory of meals that were anything but quiet, of lively conversation and servants who thought nothing of inserting their views whether invited to or not. The memory, nothing more than a vague, amorphous wisp, and as impossible to catch hold of, was all tied up with the Italianate house with the high walls and bougainvillea.
She pressed her fingers against her forehead, trying to bring the picture into focus but without success. No matter how hard she tried, it kept slipping away.
“Miss Magnus? Callie?”
She looked up with a start as Adam's voice penetrated the fog in her head. “Yes?” she replied, blinking as the image disappeared. Callie … He'd called her that before, only this morning, and she'd felt remarkably reassured by hearing the sound of her true name.
“Are you feeling unwell? Has your headache returned?” Adam's voice held that gentle, soothing note that somehow always managed to resonate within her whether she wanted it to or not.
“No … no, I am fine.” She forced a smile. “A trifle tired, perhaps. I was just thinking of home,” she said before she realized the words had slipped out. She felt like melting through the floor.
Adam shot her a keen look. “Yes? What were you thinking? You speak so rarely of your past. Perhaps you might feel better if you talk of your home.”
Callie released a sigh. “It's—it's painful for me to remember. That time is gone.”
Gone in more ways than one
, she thought. She was tired of prevaricating, but she didn't know what else to do. Maybe she'd be better off by weaving an elaborate story, one that Adam would never think to challenge her on. She'd managed to produce some Italian, after all, which would substantiate her imaginary narrative.
“I miss my home,” she said, trying to think how best to assuage his curiosity without giving him any reason to question her more thoroughly. Her silence hadn't helped her in the least, only causing him to question her more closely. “I miss the deep blue of the sea, the rosy-tinted fingers of dawn rising over it, the sighing of the wind in the cypress and olive trees, the low cooing of the doves in their cotes and the sweet smell of jasmine on the warm night air. I miss the noise of the market as the fishermen bring their catch in, the teeming stalls of fruits and vegetables, the unfettered enthusiasm of the local people, who always have something to say about everything possible.”
Somehow in her heart she knew that what she said was true. She just didn't know why. “Stanton is lovely, at least as much of it as I've seen from my window, but it's not the same—I suppose I'm not accustomed to the scenery of the English countryside. Perhaps when I'm more acclimated …” She trailed off, an ache for what she'd just described squeezing her heart. And still she didn't know why.
“I've never been to Italy, but you paint a most charming picture,” Nigel said. “How fortunate you were to live in such a beautiful place. What was it called?”
“Er … Ravello,” she said, seizing on the first word that came to mind. But even as she spoke, she knew it was wrong. The scene she'd portrayed felt right, but like something she'd read in a book somewhere.
“Ravello. Yes, I've heard of it. Have you not considered returning?” Nigel asked gently, looking at her with sympathy.
“No,” she said, feeling alarmingly like crying, as if she'd suffered a deep loss in that sad place in her heart. “I cannot go back.”
“Well, then,” Adam said, smiling at her, “we must introduce you to the beauty of England. Stanton has much to offer in that regard. Perhaps if the weather has cleared tomorrow, and providing you feel strong enough, you would like to take a stroll around the grounds? I would be happy to accompany you.”