“Oh, yes,” said Alice on a sniff. “He will. But he will be so angry with me.”
Viviana was confused. “He does not…he does not care for you,
cara?”
Alice began to cry in earnest. “He a-a-adores me,” she admitted between sobs. “We have been in love for an age now—since long before I married. But Mamma will make his life a living hell, Vivie. She will say that I am marrying beneath the family.”
“Does it matter so much what she thinks?” asked Viviana. “You love him. Your brother likes him, yes? And your children?”
“Yes, yes, and yes,” sobbed Alice. “I just want Mamma to be happy, too. I just want her to approve. It—it’s silly, isn’t it?”
“Not silly, no,” said Viviana. “But impossible, perhaps, at first. And you do not have time, Alice, to win her favor in this regard. Promise me,
bella,
that you will tell Mr. Herndon tonight? A Christmas wedding would be lovely.”
Alice’s sobs were subsiding. “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” she managed. “The children are going to decorate everything with greenery. It would be perfect—if we had time to call the banns.”
“The banns?” Viviana did not know the word. “Is there no other way one can marry without this calling?”
Alice shrugged. “A special license would enable us to wed quickly and privately,” she said. “Mamma would tolerate that more readily, perhaps? But I’m not sure Henry has the connections to obtain one.”
Viviana cupped Alice’s cheek in her hand. “But your brother would, would he not?” she asked. “You must ask him,
bella,
for his help in this. He will do it, I know.”
“Yes, all right,” said Alice. She was sounding more herself. “Yes, of course Quin will help me. And he might back Mamma down, too. He did so this afternoon, at any rate.”
“Eccellente,”
said Viviana. “Now, you must go to Henry at once, then to your brother. Will you do it?”
Alice nodded. “I have no choice, have I? Yes, I will do it.”
Viviana smiled. “Good, then announce the wedding tonight,” she said. “Do not wait. Your uncle must propose a toast, and pretend it was the reason for this sudden dinner party. Everyone will think it desperately romantic.”
Alice laughed. “They will, won’t they?” she said. “Oh, Viviana, you are so daring.”
Viviana shook her head. “I wish that were true.”
Alice dashed a hand beneath her eyes. “How do I look?”
“Like a bride,” said Viviana with a smile. “A beautiful bride. Now, go. I will follow you down.”
Alice’s news did little to dispel the sense of dread hanging over Viviana. After five minutes, she returned to the withdrawing room to see that Alice and Mr. Herndon were already deep in conversation. Viviana’s attention was distracted, however, when Lucy appeared at the door of the butler’s pantry.
Lucy had been summoned by her aunt to help with tonight’s preparations, and with good reason, perhaps. She was now crooking her finger at Viviana a little frantically.
“What is wrong, Lucy?” asked Viviana. “Does Mrs. Douglass need me?”
“She says to tell you we’re all out of orgeat syrup, miss,” whispered Lucy. “Becky dropped the last bottle in the stillroom floor and it broke in ten thousand pieces! Nigh cut her finger off doing it, too.”
“Oh,
dio!”
said Viviana. “Poor girl! Ought we to put out more wine instead?”
Lucy shook her head. “Lady Charlotte isn’t allowed any by the doctors,” she answered. “And Mrs. Lawson won’t touch it, nor let her family, neither. From a stiff-rumped Methodist family, that one. And none of ’em look to be leaving anytime soon.”
“Yes, I noticed,” said Viviana dryly.
And once Alice’s announcement was made—
if
it was made—another half hour of toasting and gossiping would likely follow. “What else, Lucy, can we serve?”
Lucy looked worried. “Aunt Effie says we’ve lemons, though they might have gone off already.”
“We must have a look,” said Viviana, grateful for a chance to escape.
When they arrived in the stillroom, a ruddy-cheeked kitchen maid was just finished mopping up the last of the orgeat syrup. Lucy pulled out one of the bins to reveal perhaps two dozen lemons in varying degrees of desiccation.
“Disgustoso,”
muttered Viviana.
“Amen to that, miss,” said Lucy.
Just then, Dr. Gould stuck his head into the stillroom. “I hear we have had some misfortune down here,” he said. “How may I help?”
“Well, there’s no help for these lemons,” said Lucy. “The risen Christ himself couldn’t bring ’em back. But Becky’s in the servants’ hall bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”
“She cut her finger,” Viviana clarified. “Could you help Mrs. Douglass dress the wound?”
“Yes, I should be glad to.”
With Dr. Gould dispatched, Viviana returned to the lemons. “Give me a knife, Lucy,” she said. “You make the sugar water. There must surely be enough life in these lemons for a little lemonade.”
Lucy looked dubious, but drew a knife from one of the drawers. “I reckon we can try, miss.”
Ten minutes later, Viviana had hacked and quartered and dissected every lemon in the bin. Lucy managed to wring them dry, salvaging just enough juice for a gallon of strong, sweet lemonade. The ruddy-cheeked housemaid reappeared, and at Viviana’s instruction, carried the tray up to the withdrawing room.
Viviana collapsed into a slatted chair at the small wooden worktable and propped her face in her hand.
“Dio,
what next?” she asked. “Lucy, have we any wine in here?”
“Just the cooking sort, miss,” said Lucy. “And some of Aunt Effie’s dandelion. But oughtn’t you get back upstairs?”
“Yes,” said Viviana. “I ought. But pour us something anyway.”
Lucy frowned disapprovingly. “I’ll have to fetch glasses from the—”
“A mug,” Viviana interjected, holding up her hand. “A jam jar. Anything. Just don’t open that door to the outside world for a few moments, and I shall be forever in your debt.”
“That bad, is it, miss?” asked Lucy, taking down a pair of jars from the cupboard.
Viviana managed a smile. “My nerves are rubbed raw,” she admitted. “But for the most part, I’ve no one to blame but myself.”
Lucy set down a stout, brown jug and drew up a chair. “Lord Wynwood again, is it, miss?”
Viviana shrugged. “Oh, it is a little bit of everything, I daresay,” she answered as Lucy poured. “But had I known he would be living here, in such proximity to Chesley…well, I hope I would have had sense enough not have come.”
“You hope not, miss?” Lucy gently pressed. “But you’re not sure?”
Viviana picked up her jar and pensively swirled the wine around in the bottom. “Lucy, I am not very sure of much anymore,” she admitted. “But yes, I am sure I would never have come here.”
“Well, you know what I think, miss,” said Lucy warningly. “Besides, your husband’s in the grave now, so there’s no harming him.”
Viviana felt her heart lurch. “I know what you are suggesting,” she said quietly. “But I cannot risk making my daughter the subject of gossip. And what if…what if Wynwood won’t forgive me? What if the things I assumed all those years ago were just wrong?”
Lucy patted her hand. “Mind you, miss, I’m not saying they
were
wrong,” she answered. “I think you had the right of it back then. Mr. Hewitt was young, rich, and a little spoilt. He might not have done right by you. But to keep such a secret now? I don’t know…”
For a moment, they sipped their wine in silence. “I saw your eldest in the village last week, miss,” said Lucy when she spoke again. “I’ve got worries in that direction, too.”
Viviana’s eyes widened. “Worries? Of what sort?”
Lucy shrugged. “Well, she favors you in the face, miss,” she said. “But that mess of coppery brown hair? It’s not brown, and it’s not red, and it’s not quite blond, either. And from the back, miss, she looks the spit and image of Lady Alice when she was young. It mightn’t be long, miss, before someone besides me notices, too, if you take my meaning.”
Viviana froze. In her husband’s family, where dark hair and eyes were so common, Cerelia’s unusual shade of brown had been often remarked upon. And Lucy was right, now that Viviana considered it. Their coloring was shockingly similar.
When Viviana looked up from her wine, Lucy was studying her face rather intently. “Your nose has been broken, hasn’t it, miss, since we last knew one another?” she remarked, as if determined to change the subject. “A nasty break, too, if I don’t miss my guess.”
Reflexively, Viviana touched it. “Yes, I broke it,” she confessed. “Ugly, is it not?”
“Oh, no, miss!” said Lucy. “I think it gives you—”
“Do not say it!” Viviana’s hand came up. “I beg you!”
“Say what, miss?”
“That it gives me
character,”
said Viviana.
“Per amor di Dio!
I shall scream at the next English person who tells me that.”
“All right, then.” Lucy grinned. “I won’t say it.”
Viviana felt her mouth curl at one corner. “No, but you are thinking it.”
Together, they laughed. It felt good, Viviana realized. Some of the strain fell away. She finished the last of her wine and made a face. “What is this, Lucy?” she asked. “It’s perfectly dreadful, you know.”
Lucy just grinned, and poured her more. “I told you it was Aunt Effie’s dandelion wine.”
“Dandelion? Like the—the little flowers? It has no fruit?”
Lucy shook her head. “Just the flower heads, with water, yeast, and sugar,” she said. “Along with orange and lemon juice.”
Viviana found it horrifying—and yet strangely funny. She gave the wine a little sniff, then pushed it away.
“Non più!
I cannot drink any more.”
Lucy smiled. “Well, at least your nose still works, miss,” she said. “No harm was done, right?”
“No,” she said quietly. “No harm was done.” But that, she knew, was a lie. Great harm had been done, and she was suffering for it.
Lucy was watching her face. “What happened to your nose, miss? Was it an accident?”
Viviana had perhaps had a little more of the bizarre dandelion wine than was wise. She was also growing weary of maintaining the façade of a happy marriage. “That depends on your definition of ‘accident,’ I daresay,” she answered.
A knowing look flashed across Lucy’s face. Viviana realized that she had said too much. She neither wanted nor deserved anyone’s sympathy. Not even Lucy’s.
“Was it your husband, miss?” she asked, her voice quiet. “Was it that Gianpiero? If it was, then, well, I reckon I’m glad he’s dead.”
Viviana did not answer that. Instead, she drew her chair a little closer to the table. “Lucy, there is something I wish to tell you about my husband,” she said. “And then, I wish never to speak of it again.”
“As you wish, miss,” she answered. “I’m not one to be pushy, as I hope you know.”
But Viviana had been wrong to leave this matter hanging unexplained for so many years. Lucy had been a good and trustworthy servant—and yes, a friend, too. If she was given to idle talk, she would have told all that she knew a long time ago. “Gianpiero was my father’s patron, Lucy,” she said. “Do you know what that means?”
Lucy shook her head.
“He provided financial backing for my father’s artistic endeavors,” Viviana said. “He had great influence in Venice and all over Europe, too. In the world of opera, Gianpiero could decide who ate and who starved, Lucy. Do you understand?”
“Like a steward or a butler?” asked Lucy. “He could hire you, or turn you off?”
“Something like that,” Viviana responded. “We lived in a villa on the edge of his estate. Eventually, Gianpiero began to pay a marked attention to me. He—he made it plain he wished me to be his mistress. I was appalled, as was my father. It created a terrible rift between Gianpiero and my father.”
“Ooh, he sounds like a bad egg, miss,” said Lucy chidingly.
“A bad egg?” asked Viviana.
“It’s an expression, miss,” said Lucy. “He was a nasty sort of fellow.”
“Nasty, yes,” said Viviana. “He could be. Yet he could also charm the birds from the trees if he wished it. But my father was very protective of me. When Gianpiero began to press me to return his—his affections, my father sent me away and asked Lord Chesley to help me find a place in an English opera company.”
Lucy nodded. “And that’s when you came to me,” she said. “I always knew, miss, that you carried a heavy weight.”
“Yes, Gianpiero became very angry,” she said. “As soon as he realized I was gone, he tried to break my father financially, but
Papà
would not relent. Finally, after many long months had passed, they had a reconciliation of sorts. Gianpiero offered marriage.
Papà
left the decision to me.”
“Aye, and it seemed the best thing to do, did it, miss?”
“It ensured my father could return to the work he loved,” said Viviana. “And so I went home, and I told Gianpiero that I carried a child. I thought that, one way or another, telling the truth would end it.”
“But did you tell him about Lord Wynwood, miss?”
“I said only that he was a wealthy Englishman,” Viviana answered quietly. “Gianpiero was enraged, to be sure. But he married me. And now he is dead, so I suppose there is no point in dwelling on the past, is there?”
“Still, I am sorry for your children, miss,” said Lucy soberly. “My little ones do love their father.”
“My daughters saw little of Gianpiero,” she said a little hollowly. “He was not fond of children.”
“But he took care of the child you carried,” said Lucy. “He kept his bargain, in that way, at least.”
Viviana hesitated. “In the end, yes.”
Lucy lifted one brow. “What do you mean, miss, ‘in the end’?”
She swallowed hard and looked about the tidy stillroom, wondering in some surprise that she was actually speaking of it aloud. But Lucy was the only person who knew the truth, and Viviana was beginning to think she might well go mad from keeping it bottled inside.
“As soon as our vows were spoken, Lucy, he took me away,” she answered. “To a villa in the south of France. And there he told me that if the child was a boy, he meant to forswear it and leave it with the nuns to raise.”