“Si, Signora,”
said Cerelia, nodding.
“Yes, my lady,”
prompted Viviana from the sidelines.
Cerelia laughed. “Yes, my lady,” she agreed. “We will be sure to send your feathers flying.”
The elder girl had given one of her paddles to Felise and was showing her how to use it. Lady Alice gave the last two paddles to the youngest, and moved them into place behind the elder children. Little Diana was hopping up and down excitedly, but she looked just as confused as Nicolo.
“I shall keep score,” cried Lady Alice over her shoulder as she left them. “Contessa, I fear my feet hurt and I wish to sit on that bench just there. Will you indulge me?”
She left Viviana little choice, other than to appear inhospitable. “Yes, of course,” she said, falling into step. “But the little ones, they cannot play this batting game, can they?”
“Oh, heavens, no!” Lady Alice agreed. “In two minutes’ time, they will have thrown down their battledores and wandered off to chase one of Uncle Ches’s cats or poke about in the shrubbery. But if we do not give them any, they will whine and cry until we wish we had.”
Viviana could not argue with her strategy. “You are very kind to visit,” she said quietly. “My children were growing bored with hide-and-seek in the maze.”
“It isn’t even much of a maze, is it?” Lady Alice admitted, her gaze running over it. “More like hide-and-
peek,
I should say. The thing looks on the verge of death.”
Viviana found herself laughing. “Your uncle says there was a blight last year,” she answered. “Much of it had to be cut back.”
“One all!” cried Lady Alice suddenly. “Lottie, watch Felise’s toes!”
In her next breath, she returned to their discussion of the shrubs. Then she turned the topic to the coming holidays, and after that, to the unseasonable temperatures. But all the while, Viviana knew Lady Alice had had another purpose in coming to Hill Court.
Finally, Viviana had had enough of the suspense. “Lady Alice,” she said quietly. “Why have you come here? Not, I think, to talk of the weather?”
Smiling benignly, Alice turned on the bench to face her. “To let the children play,” she repeated. “And also to invite you to join Mamma and me for luncheon tomorrow at Arlington Park.”
“Ah, to luncheon!” said Viviana. “But I think you must know, Lady Alice, of the incident which occurred this morning in your brother’s study.”
Lady Alice clasped her hands in her lap for a moment. “I apologize, Contessa, on my brother’s behalf.”
“Do you indeed?” said Viviana a little mordantly. “Are you quite sure?”
Alice’s brows knotted. “Quite sure that I apologize?”
“On your brother’s behalf.”
The smile did not fade. “By the time Mamma has had done with him, yes, I am sure he will be quite penitent indeed.”
“Oh, dear.” Viviana bit her lip. “She must be frightfully angry.”
Alice shrugged. “Three-two, Chris!” she called across the lawn. “Do
not
elbow your sister!” At once, she returned her attention to Viviana. “Mamma has been reduced to mere mortification now, I think. Her bosom bow, Lady Tatton, has gone haring back to London with her oh-so-eligible niece in tow, whilst Quin has already penned the announcement ending their betrothal, and sent it on a fast horse ahead of them. By tomorrow, it will be in the London papers.”
“Oh, Dio!”
whispered Viviana, pinching hard at the bridge of her nose.
“Contessa?” Alice asked. “Are you quite all right?”
No, she was not all right. She had a terrible headache coming on. And what she utterly could not fathom was the sense of relief which was surging through her just now. Quin’s betrothal was ended. An innocent young woman had been humiliated, perhaps even devastated. It was hardly a thing to feel good about.
“Miss Hamilton has jilted him, then?” she managed to whisper.
“Oh, yes!” said Alice. “Though she insisted to Mamma that she had meant to do it anyway. Indeed, she claims that was her very reason for asking Aunt Charlotte to show her the way to his study.”
“I cannot believe that.”
Lady Alice smiled tightly. “Well, in any case, Quin seems almost relieved, though he will never admit it. Of course, this is all for the best, if you ask me.”
“Oh, Lady Alice, you cannot mean it!” said Viviana. “Consider the embarrassment to your family, and to that poor girl!”
Again, the shrug. “Miss Hamilton would have been incapable of making Quin toe the mark,” she said. “And that is what he needs; someone whom he cannot bully or wheedle. A man cannot be cowed by a woman he does not love. Besides, what of the embarrassment to
you,
Contessa Bergonzi?”
“Viviana,” she said without looking at Alice. “Please, call me Viviana. And yes, I was embarrassed. Both by your brother’s behavior, and by my reaction. It was…excessive. I lost my temper. And those servants! I fear they saw everything.”
“Oh, they saw enough to encourage some idle speculation,” Alice agreed. “Without a doubt they saw Aunt Charlotte on the floor. But can they say with utter confidence what had caused her to swoon? No, that they did not see.”
“Grazie a Dio!”
whispered Viviana. “But that won’t stop the rumors.”
“No, it won’t,” agreed Lady Alice. “Which is why you must come to luncheon tomorrow.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
Alice reached for her hand and gave it a swift, reassuring squeeze. “Viviana, tomorrow the announcement of Quin’s ended betrothal will be in the papers,” she said again. “It will not do for it to be put about that the fault was yours. And it
was not.
I believe that.”
Viviana studied her for a moment. “You seem to place a vast deal of faith in one whom you do not know well.”
“Oh, but I know my brother.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Alice’s face colored faintly. “My brother has been unhappy, Contessa, for a very long time,” she answered. “He has lived a hedonistic, careless life, and this notion of marriage has perhaps made matters worse. I wonder if he isn’t regretting…oh, something! I know not what—but I know he is not thinking clearly. I tried to warn him, but he ignored me. He said…he said he just wished for a marriage like mine.”
Viviana lifted one brow. “And what sort was that, pray?”
Alice lifted one shoulder lamely, and looked away. “A marriage made for family and duty,” she said. “A more or less emotionless marriage.”
“I see,” said Viviana. It sounded little better than her own marriage.
Alice turned on the bench to fully face her. “Oh, do say that you will come tomorrow, Viviana!” she implored. “Do give us Hewitts a chance to prove we are not all jaded boors. And I do think that your coming will ensure that there will be less gossip about this morning’s little altercation.”
Viviana shrugged. “I cannot think it matters,” she said. “No one in England knows me now.”
Alice’s brows shot up. “Oh, you are a fool if you believe that,” she responded. “The greatest soprano of our time? London’s own fair
Konstanze?
Yes, my dear, even here in this backwater of Buckinghamshire, we keep up with the world of opera.”
Viviana considered it. It was despicable of Quin to have put her in such a position. But Alice was right. Her name was not unknown. And in a few months, if all went as planned, her father’s name, along with Lord Digleby’s, would be on everyone’s tongue. And there were always her children to consider.
“We must all appear on good terms, Viviana,” Quin’s sister continued. “From now on, my brother will be on his most gentlemanly behavior, or he will be on his way back to London. Because he will take Mamma’s tongue-lashing only so long before he stalks out.”
“I see,” said Viviana quietly. “But your mother…these circumstances cannot but pain her. And I cannot imagine she wishes to befriend me.”
Alice was silent a moment. A stiff breeze sent leaves skirling around their skirt hems, and across the makeshift battledore court. The shuttlecock lifted, and went spinning off-course, making the children shriek with laughter.
Alice watched it all with a muted smile. “I won’t deny that Mamma can be a high stickler,” she answered. “But I’ve already told her that at this point, she’d be better served by accounting you a dear friend.”
Viviana stiffened her spine. “I did nothing to invite your brother’s attentions, Lady Alice,” she said. “And I shan’t be foisted upon anyone socially. I have my own pride. And much as it may surprise you, in my country, we, too, have high standards of deportment.”
Swiftly, Alice laid a hand on Viviane’s arm. “I am sorry,” she said at once. “I did not mean to insult you. Please, can you not at least consider being my friend? I think it perfectly natural, myself. We are going to be living very near one another for a few weeks, and we have a great deal in common.”
Tightly, Viviana nodded. “Yes, all right,” she finally said. “I thank you, Alice, for your offer of friendship. Yes, I shall join you and Lady Wynwood tomorrow. May I ride over? Or is that thought dreadfully unfashionable?”
“Not at all.” Lady Alice leaned nearer, her eyes dancing. “Now, as your new friend, I claim the right to ask you a prying question.”
Viviana turned to face her. “You may ask, by all means.”
A slow, lazy smile curved her mouth. “How well did you know my brother, Viviana, when last you were in London?”
Viviana held her gaze quite steadily for a moment, and considered her question. “I think, Lady Alice,” she finally said, “that perhaps I did not know him at all.”
In which Lord Wynwood’s refuge is Discovered.
A
t half past eleven the following morning, the Earl of Wynwood put on his boots and breeches and stalked off toward his stables. It was, he had decided, a good day to begin the visits to some of his larger tenant farms. He had no real wish to do so; it still felt as if he were usurping his father’s role. But there was another, more overriding reason than duty which prompted his burning desire to escape.
Today Viviana—Contessa Bergonzi—was to take luncheon with his mother and his sister. It was Alice’s crackbrained notion. But his mother had fallen in with it, albeit witheringly, after hearing Alice’s reasoning. A part of him knew Alice was right, and he was grateful that his mother and sister were trying to mitigate the damage his temper had caused. Nonetheless, it made him feel like a fool.
When he reached the stables, Quin saddled his own horse with quick, impatient motions, and rode off in a cloud of dust. He expected to make a long day of it. In his saddlebag, he carried a slice of bread, a hunk of cheddar, and a flask full of Alasdair’s best whisky, the latter having been accidentally left behind by his hastily departing houseguest. Alasdair’s loss might as well be his gain, Quin had decided, since he had a strong suspicion that wind was blowing the other way where marriage was concerned.
Yes, Quin had every notion that, as soon as decency permitted it, Alasdair would be placing his betrothal announcement in the
Times.
Well, he wished him happy. Quin had not wanted to marry anyway. He was far better off with Alasdair’s whisky than Alasdair’s woman, if that’s what it really was coming to. He worried, though, about Esmée. Would Alasdair be good to her? He hoped so. He prayed so. He had no choice but to trust that Esmée knew what she was doing.
Quin had enough trouble managing the women he was not wedded to; his mother, his sister, and Viviana Alessandri. As to his mother, Quin had decided a heart-to-heart talk was in order. He had decided that marriage—or at least a rushed marriage—was not for him. She would not take the news well, and he dreaded it. She really did not deserve to be hurt. But this disaster with Esmée had made him realize that he needed more time to sort out his own mind. And he simply could not think straight when Viviana Alessandri was in the same country, let alone the same
village,
as he.
Ah, Viviana. Now, there was a woman he had once considered wedding. Another lifetime and another world ago. She had stunned him when she had first proposed marriage. Yet once the shock had passed, and he had lain sated and happy in her arms, the wheels of his mind had begun to turn.
She had wished to marry him.
And he had known, even then, that to live without her would have been an unbearable hell. But he had been so young, his mind had known little beyond that nebulous truth. He’d had no notion how one even went about getting married.
Stripling that he was, he’d always assumed his parents would find him some pretty, dutiful girl of good breeding, hammer out the details, and present him with a fait accompli. To him, it was rather like buying a broodmare at Tattersall’s—and he didn’t even have to do the haggling. And by then, he’d seen enough of Town ways to know that that was how his new London friends saw it, too.
Viviana’s proposal had thrown him badly off-balance. Although it had been a little frightening, the question had sent a world of possibilities whirling through his imagination. He could have Viviana forever. In a way which would bind her to him for all eternity. But he had wanted more than her name on a license and her head on his pillow. He had wanted the one thing Viviana had never given him. He had wanted her heart. So he had asked her the question which had been eating him alive.
Do you love me, Viviana?
She had admitted that she did not. In the space of that quiet, husky whisper, all the fragile, half-formed notions flying about in his head had crashed back down to earth again, shattering and splintering like so much spun glass. He had known it, of course. Viviana had resisted his overtures for months. And when he had finally managed to bed her—an inane euphemism if ever there was one, for there had been no bed involved—still, she had resisted.
After that maddening taste of her, Quin had had to lay siege to Viviana’s stage door for another two weeks. And then he had been permitted to take her to supper. Another two weeks, and finally she had agreed to move out of that convent of a boardinghouse in which she had been living. No, she had never loved him. She had tolerated him. Been amused and sexually satisfied by him. But never, ever had she given herself to him.
He wondered what his life would have been like had he never had that first perfect taste of her. Of course, he had relived that fateful evening a thousand times, sometimes wishing to God it had never happened. And sometimes clinging to every shred of remembrance as a dying man might cling to life.
It had been the opening night of
Fidelio,
and the soprano who was to sing the role of Marzelline had fallen suddenly ill. Viviana was the understudy. Viviana’s dresser had been unable to cover her heavy tresses with the elaborate wig which the role required. Quin had sat quietly in one corner, watching their futile efforts, for at the time, a visit to her dressing room was the only intimacy Viviana would permit him.
But Quin had been as determined to have Viviana as her dresser had been determined to have Viviana’s hair stuffed under that bloody wig. Both had seemed a hopeless case. He had been following her like some besotted pup for almost a month. And the dresser was having even less luck, for the wig had been made for a woman with something less than Viviana’s long, heavy tresses.
In a fit of frustration, the dresser snatched up the scissors, and, at Viviana’s acquiescent nod, chopped off a good ten inches. The hair fell in a puddle about Viviana’s chair. The wig was fitted. And when no one was looking, Quin had stolen the ringlet of Viviana’s hair and folded it carefully into his handkerchief. By the next morning, Viviana was the toast of London. And, so far as Quin was concerned, his mistress.
Before her dresser’s act of desperation, Viviana’s hair had been an inky cascade of curls reaching to her waist. Afterward, it had looked like a hacked-up mess. Quin had not minded. They could have shaved Viviana bald, and he likely would not have cared, so long as he could still gaze into her eyes. He had believed himself capable of seeing into her soul.
Oh, what a foolish, foolish boy he had been. So green. So gullible. Viviana had no soul. Her feigned reluctance, her ingenuous demeanor, that utterly guileless way she had of looking at him; yes, all of it had been one grand illusion. She had toyed with Quin as a cat might a mouse—an especially stupid mouse. And in the end, she had ripped out his guts with her claws, just as cats were wont to do.
Ah, but he was wasting him time again, just thinking of her. The first cottage was coming into view now. He could see a stout, maternal-looking woman standing by the tidy front fence, stretching freshly laundered linens across it. Dear old Mrs. Chandler. He lifted his hand and waved. Her face broke out into a smile.
Quin felt his heart warm. Thank God. At least someone was glad to see him.
Perhaps this tenant business was not so bad after all. He looked beyond the large, tidy cottage to the barns and outbuildings beyond. The old granary appeared to be crumbling a bit.
Mrs. Chandler pinned up the last of her laundry and hastened through the garden gate toward him. “Now young Mr. Quin,” she chided, hands on her hips. “In the village all of a se’night, and no time to visit me?”
He gave her a diffident smile, and took the plump, callused hand she extended. “Mrs. Chandler!” he said warmly. “I hope I find you well?”
“Aye, well enough,” she said. “But Philip’s inside with a sprained ankle and a sore temper. Will ye come in and sit with him a bit?”
“To be sure,” said Quin, tying his reins to the fence.
Mrs. Chandler pulled open the gate and motioned him through.
“Your granary, Mrs. Chandler,” he mused as they went up the garden path. “It looks like the witchert wall is falling in at the southerly corner.”
“Oh, aye, ’tis in a sorry state,” she agreed, cutting a swift, sidelong glance at him. “D’ye mean to fix it this year?”
He stopped on the path and appraised her. “Well, yes,” he said. “What choice have we?”
She gave a small, sour smile. “Aye, well, ye can put it off another year, I daresay,” she replied. “But Philip’s been after getting it fixed these last two—and this year we lost a good deal o’ the harvest to the heavy rain. No one has any use for moldy corn, eh?”
Quin was surprised. He had always believed his father a perfectionist. Why had Chandler’s granary been let go? It certainly was not a matter of money; the estate was extremely profitable. Perhaps too profitable?
Quin thought back to the long list of repairs Herndon had pressed upon him almost as soon as he had arrived. Perhaps it was time to actually
read
it. Suddenly the needs of the estate and its tenants seemed not just nebulous annoyances, but very real—and reasonable—concerns. He set one hand on Mrs. Chandler’s shoulder.
“I shall have Herndon out here tomorrow,” he said.
Mrs. Chandler beamed and pulled open the door.
Viviana was near a state of nervous agitation by the time she left her luncheon at Arlington Park, though she had schooled herself carefully to hide it. This time, she had arrived at the front door of Wynwood’s grand estate in the company of Lord Chesley’s favorite groom. After thanking Lady Alice for her thoughtfulness, Viviana remounted with the groom’s assistance, then reined her horse around to face him.
“Thank you,” she said to the young man. “You may return to the stables now. I mean to ride on a good deal further, and take the air.”
The groom furrowed his brow. “Are you sure, my lady?” he asked. “I was told I was to wait.”
“And so you have,” said Viviana over one shoulder. She had already started toward the bridle path. “But I would feel guilty keeping you longer from you duties.”
With one last look of reluctance, the young man touched his hat brim and urged his horse on past her. Viviana watched him go, slowly exhaling. For the first time since leaving the stables that morning, she felt as if she could breathe again. Inside, she felt as tight as a clock coil, as if someone had stuck a key into her brain and wound her almost to the breaking point. She wanted to ride fast and hard away from Arlington—and away from Hill Court, too.
Luncheon had seemed interminable. Lady Wynwood had been stiff and exceedingly formal, her expression perpetually dyspeptic. Viviana had responded by behaving with chilly civility, until she realized how desperately Lady Alice was struggling to maintain the illusion of harmony in front of the servants. Viviana had forced herself to warm toward Quin’s mother. The lady herself had not followed suit. Or perhaps it was her usual demeanor. With the English, one could never be sure.
In any case, Viviana now had no wish to return to the confines of the house. What she needed, she decided, was a thundering ride with the cold air in her face. No one had need of her at Hill Court. The children were at their lessons today. Lord Chesley was meeting his steward. And
Papà,
well, he was in another world altogether: the world of music, the only place in which he was ever truly happy. Viviana had no wish to disturb him. She remembered too well his misery when, for a year and a half, he had had no work at all, a deprivation which was due to her stubbornness—and to Gianpiero’s cruelty.
But she would not think of Gianpiero, and add that trouble to those which already weighed on her mind. She trailed slowly after the groom, who had all but vanished into the trees. After a quarter mile, she reached the path which split to the north. This path, Chesley had warned, was isolated. She would have to ride many miles before reaching a farm or village. Perfect, then. Isolation was just what she longed for.
The path, when she turned onto it, narrowed almost immediately. Here, the branches hung lower, and the tree trunks edged nearer, giving one the impression of being embraced, almost sheltered from the temporal world beyond the forest. Drawing the cold air deep into her lungs, Viviana set her mount, a spirited bay gelding, at a brisk pace and plunged into the shadowy depths. Here, the air was still, the ethereal silence broken by nothing save the muffled beats of the gelding’s hooves, allowing Viviana to clear her head of all but the horse’s graceful movements.
But the forest’s embrace did not last. Some three miles later, her humor much improved, Viviana felt the sun dapple her face and looked up to see the trees thinning. She could see that the path curved slightly, then melted into a narrow farm lane but a few feet ahead. The gelding, tired of trotting sedately through the trees, danced sideways into the wintry sunshine and tossed his head with an impatient snort.
Narrowing her eyes against sudden brilliance, Viviana looked down an undulating stretch of road which was as close to straight as one was apt to find in this part of England. To either side lay open pasture, dotted by an occasional copse of trees. Far in the distance, the dilapidated roof of an old barn or cow byre peeked over the horizon.
Again, the horse tossed his head. Viviana could see his point. It really was a very empty road. And in the end, the temptation was too much. Viviana checked her grip on the reins, then touched him lightly with her crop.
The gelding sprang like a shot, leaping from a dead stop to a thundering gallop so fast Viviana lost her breath. Along the gelding’s powerful thigh, her skirts billowed and whipped. Vaguely, she knew it was folly to give such a horse his head, but prudence seemed to have escaped her. The intensity of the horse’s raw physical power felt liberating. The rush of cold air cleared her head and tore at her hair.
Viviana leaned low over his withers, urging him forward. On and on they went, the gelding flying over the rolling hillocks, his powerful legs eating up the distance. Viviana felt the cashmere scarf around her neck loosen, then tear away. Her hat lifted buoyantly, but held fast, caught by its pin. In the wintry air, the tang of horse sweat was sharp, the chimera of escape exhilarating.