Viviana nodded. “Perhaps.”
Quin went to the washstand, and returned with a face flannel and basin of cool water. He bathed her face, her throat, and even her arms. It did indeed seem to make her less restless. At one point, Cerelia’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked at him unseeingly. “Mamma—?” she rasped.
Viviana flew to her side and cradled the child’s face in her hand. “I am here,
mia cara bambina,”
she whispered. “Mamma is here. Mamma will never leave you.”
Mama will never leave you.
Quin thought again of the threats he had made. He meant them, did he not? But as he looked at Viviana’s elegant, long-fingered hand cradling Cerelia’s feverish cheek, and at the agony in her eyes, he was suddenly not so sure.
Would
he make Viviana choose between the two? Her home or her child?
Quin shook his head and set the water away. He could not bear to think of it just now. He had been a father for less than one day, and the emotions which that knowledge engendered were overwhelming. All that mattered now, all that could be dealt with, really, was Cerelia’s recovery. Anything beyond that must be set aside. His needs, his wishes, even his vendetta, if he still had one, must be made secondary.
Cerelia fell into a more peaceful slumber, though the bright red flush on her face did not abate. Viviana returned to her chair, and slowly, the minutes ticked by. Eventually, Signor Alessandri came in. As he held and patted Cerelia’s hand, he whispered urgent questions to Viviana in Italian. He seemed too distraught to wonder what Quin was doing there.
Soon, Chesley popped in to
tut-tut
at Viviana and pat the child’s knee fondly. Signora Rossi returned with a more water, some warm broth, and the ubiquitous brown bottles. Together, with Viviana cradling the child, they managed to persuade her to sip a little of the broth. Cerelia’s eyes, however, were still distant and glassy. She was not really awake.
When that was done, Viviana spoke to the nurse her in firm, rapid Italian. She was sending the woman away, as best Quin could make out. Signora Rossi gave her a dark look and went out.
“She sleeps now,” said Viviana. “For an hour or two, at least.”
Quin motioned at the empty trundle bed. “As you should do,” he advised. “If Cerelia needs you, I promise to wake you at once.”
Viviana shook her head. “It is time again for the tonic.”
Quin attempted to take the medicine bottles from her. A minor squabble ensued, which resulted in Viviana’s agreeing to sit on the bed to take the weight from her bruised leg. They were both on edge, both frightened. And so the afternoon approached. As if by agreement, they took turns bathing and dosing Cerelia. Her restless thrashing would abate, then return. At its worst, Cerelia cried out for her mother and clawed wildly at the air.
When at last it stopped, Viviana sat back down and rested her forehead on the bed. “Oh,
Dio,
my poor baby!” she said. “Why did I not watch her? What was she thinking, to go back to that place alone?”
“She had lost her ring,” he said quietly. “She must have wanted it desperately.”
“She was not supposed to wear it!” said Viviana. “Why was I not more strict? Why in God’s name did I ever give it to her? Had I not done so, none of this would have happened.”
Again, he covered her hand with his. “Her magic ring, she called it,” he said. “I think, Viviana, that it comforted her.”
“Si,
it comforted her,” said Viviana bitterly. “But life is not all comfort, is it? I told her a fairy tale, and I let her believe it. Better I should have told her the truth.”
Quin sat back down and turned in his chair to face her. “Why did you give her the ring, Viviana?” he asked. “May I not be allowed to know?”
She shook her head. “It is so very hard to explain, Quinten,” she answered. “You feel that I have wronged you, and perhaps I have done so. I…I do not know. But if I have done so, then know,
caro,
that God has already punished me for it. You need not trouble yourself.”
“Vivie, you are talking nonsense,” he said. “This is not about punishment.”
But Viviana was not listening. Her gaze had turned inward. “Perhaps Cerelia’s sickness means that he still punishes me,” she whispered. “I thought it was over, but I look at her, so frail and small, and I cannot but wonder.”
He set his hands on her shoulders, and gave her a little shake. “Vivie, what on earth are you talking about? God is not punishing you. And what has any of this to do with the ring?”
Her gaze returned to him, sharp and piercing. “You once asked me, Quinten, if
Papà
quarreled with Gianpiero over me,” she whispered.
“And I should still like to know,” he admitted.
She swallowed hard, and nodded. “Many years ago, Gianpiero wished to take me as his mistress.” Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear her.
“Papà
and I lived on his estate, and I could not escape his attentions. He was…relentless. My life became a misery. Wherever I traveled on the Continent, wherever I sang, there he would be. Smiling so charmingly.
Papà
became worried, and finally, he sent me away.”
“To Uncle Ches, you mean?”
She nodded again.
“Si,
to England,” she answered. “To the one place Gianpiero had little influence.”
He waited for her to speak, and when she did not, he said, “Go on, Viviana. Please.”
She gave a sharp sigh. “Gianpiero was enraged when he found me gone,” she said. “He cut
Papà
off—not just financially, but artistically. But
Papà
would not relent. Many months passed. Then a year. As time went on, and none of his tricks availed him of what he wished, Gianpiero became charming again. He proposed marriage. He begged
Papà
’s forgiveness. And so I went home, and I told him the truth. That I did not love him, and never would, and that I carried a child. But I pledged to be a good and faithful wife if he would give my child his name. The rest,
caro,
you know.”
Quin felt faintly ill, as if the room were spinning round him. “Good God, Viviana,” he whispered. “Why did you not come to me and tell me?”
“You did not want me,” she said simply. There was no anger in her words.
He gripped her shoulders tighter. “Viviana, you know that is not so.”
“You did not wish to marry me,” she corrected. “Do not lie and say you did, Quinten.”
He looked at her grimly, but said nothing.
Viviana continued speaking. “You did not want to wed me—but would you have taken care of me?” she mused, her voice distant now.
“Si, caro,
probably. But how could I dishonor my father with a bastard child, after all he had sacrificed? He had given up his security, his career—all this, so that I might keep my precious honor. So that I could be more than just a rich man’s mistress. Oh, Quinten, how could I let him see that I had squandered his gift?”
The agony in her voice cut into his heart. “I…I do not know, Viviana,” he said. “I am sorry.”
Beneath his hands, he felt her shoulders sag. “In the end, perhaps it was not a wise choice which I made,” she went on, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Better I should have borne my child alone, perhaps, than make my devil’s bargain with Gianpiero. Fallen women are not necessarily shunned—not in opera.
Papà
would have survived. We would not have been well received in society, but we would not, I think, have starved.”
We would not have starved?
Good Lord, how had it even come close to that? He hated to hear her speak of it, hated to think of the choices his blind stupidity had forced her to make, even if she had chosen unwisely.
God in heaven, how he wished he had never made love to her. Never touched her. No, not even once. He should rather have given up his sweetest memories, and even Cerelia, than to know what Viviana had been faced with. Men fathered children, and walked away—if that was their wish. Women bore their children and were bound by duty for the rest of their lives. Those were the horrible, ugly truths.
Restless and on edge, he got up and began to pace the room. Viviana sat stoically at her place by the bed. Once, Cerelia made a sound, and he went to her before Viviana could spring to her feet. The bedcovers were tangled around the child’s foot. Mechanically, he straightened them, then wiped her brow and throat with cool water again. Something in his heart clenched each time he looked at her. She was so small and so pretty.
He let his eyes drift over her, and wondered again how he had missed all the signs. Her face was Viviana’s, yes, but her dark blue eyes—oh, they were his. And her hair? Unmistakably Alice’s; not just the color, but the luster, texture, and thickness. She had Alice’s slender shoulders and long legs, too. Her lovely coltishness would remain into womanhood, he was sure, as his sister’s had done. Cerelia would never have Vivie’s lush, exotic sumptuousness, but she would be a beauty. And a tone-deaf beauty, too, for she had no musical skill whatsoever—and he knew too well whence that deficiency had come.
Dear God. Such thoughts put into stark perspective a part of fatherhood which he had never stopped to consider.
He had given parts of himself to her.
Lord, he hoped it was mostly the good parts. He hoped Cerelia had not inherited his amazingly poor judgment. He hoped she had not his mother’s sweet tooth, or his father’s bad heart. He hoped she would be lively and curious to a great old age, like his aunt Charlotte. He hoped she would take from Uncle Ches the fine qualities of consideration and kindness. He prayed to God she would never wake up as Quin had done, caught in a life of emptiness and bitterness, before he’d yet turned thirty.
With slow, deliberate motions, he folded the face flannel and draped it over the basin of cool water. A housemaid slipped in after a faint knock and set down a tray of sandwiches and fruit. Viviana thanked her, and she went out again. Neither of them paid the food any heed.
“You were telling me, Viviana, about the ring,” he said quietly. “Cerelia told me Bergonzi damaged it. May I ask why?”
Absently, Viviana began to fidget with the ring she wore; a wide band of gold set with small diamonds.
“Vivie?” he said again.
Her head jerked up, her eyes shining with tears. “Gianpiero always knew where the ring had come from,” she whispered. “I did not tell him, Quin. And he did not ask. But he knew. I kept it, you see, just as you asked.”
“Did…did you ever wear it, Vivie?” It was not the question he wished to ask—had she ever missed him?—but it would do.
She shook her head, and began to twist the diamond band round and round on her finger. “Not at first,” she said. “I put it away, for in the beginning, I tried to love my husband. I tried very hard. But the years came and went, and I could not love him in the way he wished. He grew bitter, and his bitterness deepened until it maddened him. Toward the end, he took lovers, kept mistresses. I—I did not care. And that made him all the angrier.”
He returned to her side. “Oh, Viviana,” he said. “I am so sorry.”
She shrugged. “It did not kill me,” she said. “In any case, after Nicolo, we began to live apart, more or less. Cerelia and I were happier, I think, though Felise was less so. I lived my own life. And one day, I just…I just put the ring back on. I cannot say why. I just wanted to wear something bright and pretty. I wore it off and on for months. I did not think Gianpiero would notice or care. Certainly he said nothing.”
“But he did care?” said Quin quietly.
Weakly, she nodded. “One Sunday afternoon, I was reading with Cerelia on a bench in the garden. Gianpiero came out to say that he was going away again. He was to spend a fortnight at our villa on Lake Como with his mistress. His tone was cold, very ugly. For some reason, Cerelia took it into her head that this time he was not coming back. Felise always felt his absences most keenly, but he never paid any attention to Cerelia. And yet she was the one who began to cry and to beg him not to go away. I think…I think she did it for Felise.”
“What happened, Vivie?”
“Gianpiero went wild with fury.” Viviana held up her hands as if uttering a plea to heaven. “Like an animal. Never have I seen the like. He spit, and called Cerelia a little
monella—si,
a greedy little brat—and worse. The harder she cried, the uglier his insults became.”
“Bastard!”
“Finally, he jerked me off the bench by my arm and said, ‘Oh, poor little brat! She is crying for her
papà!’
Then he tore the ring from my finger and hurled it at her. ‘There, Cerelia,’ he said. ‘There is your
papà.
I am not he. Take this precious ring,
cara mia,
to England and see if you can find him, eh?’”
“Dear God.”
“At first, Cerelia did not understand,” Viviana whispered. “She got down in the grass and found the ring, and tried to put it back on my hand. Gianpiero turned around. His face—
Dio mio,
his face! It was like a mask of rage. He came back and snatched the ring from her grasp. There had been stonemasons in the garden, repairing a wall. They left a—a big hammer. He took it and he smashed the ring on the stones.
“Again and again, he smashed it, and with such strength as you have never seen. He kept screaming at Cerelia, saying that he was not her
papà.
And that I was a faithless bitch. That he hated us all.”
Her words fell away on a note of uncertainty. She would not look directly at him. Quin dipped his head, trying to catch her eyes. “What happened after that, Vivie?”
Viviana said nothing. She looked at the floor and blinked her eyes rapidly.
Quin took her hand in his. “If you wish to say no more, I will understand.”
Her chin came up, and her gaze snapped to his, sorrowful, yet angry. “I asked him to give me back the ring, so that Cerelia might have it,” she whispered. “And he struck me.”
At first, he thought he’d misunderstood. “What do you mean,
struck
you?”
Viviana looked at him unflinchingly. “He hit me,” she answered. “But this time, it was not the palm of his hand, or a leather strap, as was his habit. This time, it was his fist. And this time, it left bruises I could no longer hide.”