“Dear God!” Quin felt a surge of hatred, and a sense of dawning horror, too.
Viviana’s words were still soft, but unwavering. It was as if she told a tale she’d reiterated a thousand times. Dispassionately, as if she were far removed from that life, that time, and that place. “I awoke on the garden path in my own blood,” she continued. “Cerelia was on her knees, crying. She was only six. She did not know what to do.”
“Dear God!” he said again, squeezing her hand. “What did you do?”
“What else was there to do?” she asked calmly. “I got up and took her into the house. I asked the housekeeper to fetch a doctor. I told her that Gianpiero had hit me and that I believed my nose was broken. It was. And there was nothing to be done, the doctor said. So I threw away my bloodstained clothes, took a warm bath, then I went back to Cerelia.”
“She must have been terrified.”
Viviana hesitated. “She was,” she admitted. “And she asked me if what Gianpiero said was true, that he was not her father. So I—I told her that it was. What else could I say? She was so sad. She barely understood then, I think. She asked if Gianpiero meant to send her away, and I told her that it did not matter. That whatever happened, we would never be parted. And then I gave her the ring. I told her that Gianpiero smashed the ring because there was magic in it.”
“Magic?” he echoed.
“The magic of love,” said Viviana quietly. “I told her that her
papà,
her—her blood father—gave it to me for her, and that it was an eternal circle of his love for her. I told her that as long as she had the ring, she had the love of her
papà.
It…it sounds so foolish now. But in that moment, she needed something. Something I could not give her. And so…and so I lied.”
“No, you did not lie, Viviana,” he whispered. “You did just the right thing.”
“I tried to do the right thing,” said Viviana sorrowfully. “But like my marriage to Gianpiero, it has turned out all wrong somehow. She…she has developed an unnatural affection for the ring. Can you see why she would wish always to wear it? Why she would do such a foolish thing as go back into the forest after it?”
“I certainly can,” he said grimly.
And it was all the more reason, he feared, why it would be wiser to tell the child the whole truth. Then she would have at least a little something more than a ring to pin her hopes and dreams on. Perhaps he wasn’t much better than an inanimate lump of metal—clearly, that was Viviana’s impression—but at least he could make Cerelia feel loved in the truest sense of the word.
Viviana sighed again, and stood. Moving carefully on her sore leg, she went to the window, then to the desk, her movements restless despite her hampered pace. Back at the window, she set her fingertips to the glass and looked out as if doing so might transport her to a happier time, or a better place.
“And so you know, Quinten, what I have done,” she said quietly. “And you should know the price God has extracted. My nose—it is not just ugly. It is ruined.”
“I think it is still a lovely nose,” he protested, and he meant it.
She turned from the window to face him. “But it is ruined,” she said again. “The—the
cavità.
In my head—the spaces where the air resonates. It is…not right. Something is gone. Changed.”
“Changed?” Quin felt his brow furrow. “What are you saying, Viviana? Is it difficult to breathe?”
She shook her head slowly. “No, no, not that,” she said. “It is difficult to
sing.
My voice,
caro,
it is gone.”
Gone?
His heart skipped a beat. “Vivie, how can this be? You—you sound fine to me.”
She came toward him slowly, her hands outstretched, as if pleading for him to understand. “Talking,
caro,
it is not the same,” she whispered. “I cannot sing. I cannot hold the notes so strongly as before. My vibrato, it does not come as it should, the volume, the resonance, it is…well, not gone, perhaps. But it is mediocre, at best.”
“But what does Uncle Ches say?” he asked. “And your father?”
She shook her head. “They have not yet noticed,” she answered quietly. “But I notice—and they will, too, eventually. In the right room, with the right piece of music.”
“Oh, Vivie,” he said sorrowfully. “Oh, Vivie. Are you sure?”
“É certo,”
she whispered.
And there could be no worse punishment for her, he knew, save to lose her father or one of her children. Yes, he could understand how she might feel God was punishing her. To Viviana, her voice had been her joy. Her greatest pain and pleasure. She had truly lived to sing, and the world had worshiped her for it.
“Vivie,” he whispered. “Could you teach? Could you…could you compose?”
She shook her head again. “I am not ready to think of such things,” she answered. “Let me mourn my loss, Quinten.”
Her use of the word “mourn” was entirely correct. Viviana looked as if she had suffered a death.
Were he to think on it for a thousand years, he would not be able to comprehend what this woman had been through during her marriage. One could not, he was sure, unless one had lived the terror. Even now, there was an ice-cold horror in the pit of his stomach and a righteous anger burning in his heart. But if Viviana felt any of that, one could not discern it. Her proud, stoic silence amazed him; her unequivocal acceptance of what fate had dealt her went beyond brave.
Viviana was watching him quietly, as if assessing his mood. “I have no wish for your sympathy, Quinten,” she said. “I just tell you this so you will know that none of this has been easy for me. I have learnt that there are no right answers. And if I have chosen wrongly, I have paid for it.”
There seemed to be nothing more to say. Clearly, Viviana believed in an exacting and punitive God. Perhaps that had been her way of coping.
Ah, well. No matter how much he might wish otherwise, he had not the power to change the past. If he had, Gianpiero Bergonzi would have never even existed. Here in the real world, the world of the present and the difficult, it was time to give Cerelia her medicine. They were also out of cold water. And Viviana clearly had no wish to be comforted, not by him, at any rate.
Unthinkingly, he rang for a servant. When the housemaid arrived, Viviana ordered more broth as well as freshwater. She prepared the tonic from the two brown bottles. Quin straightened Cerelia’s bedcovers, and found her a fresh, cool pillow. They worked together instinctively, as if they had been doing it for years instead of just hours.
Signora Rossi came in with another heavy tray. Together, she and Viviana managed to get both broth and tonic down Cerelia. The child looked perhaps a little more aware, but quickly fell into a deep sleep.
The old nurse surveyed her from the foot of the bed.
“Addormentato,”
she said, hands on her hips. “Now, Contessa, you sleep, too. I get you warm milk.”
Viviana shook her head.
“Grazie,
Signora Rossi,” she said. “But I cannot sleep.”
Quin extracted his watch and glanced at it. Half past three. It would be dark soon. He wondered how many hours Viviana had been awake. Signora Rossi left the room, only to return ten minutes later with a steaming mug. “You drink it,” she said, passing it to Viviana.
“Subito.”
As if to placate the old woman, Viviana took the mug from the tray and slowly sipped it. Quin already knew a cup of warm milk would have no chance at overcoming Viviana’s powerful maternal instincts. She would not sleep until she utterly broke down, of that he was certain.
The old nurse puttered about the room, checking the brown bottles, tucking in the bedcovers, and in general, folding and neatening anything that could be folded or neatened. All the while, however, she kept one eye on Viviana. Perhaps it was the quiet of the room, or perhaps just his overset nerves, but Quin somehow found it soothing to watch the old woman work.
A strange little sound by his elbow soon distracted him. He looked over in some surprise to see that Viviana had indeed drifted off. Her head had fallen to one side, causing her to make a faint, and very sweet, snoring sound on each exhalation.
The old nurse crossed the room and looked her over assessingly.
“Buono,”
she said in satisfaction. “She sleep now.”
“Good Lord,” said Quin.
The old nurse looked at him, then pulled yet a third brown bottle from the pocket of her apron. “She sleeps long,
signore,”
she repeated, wiggling the bottle. “You take her to the small bed now,
per favore.”
It was not a request. Obediently, Quin jumped to his feet and scooped Viviana up, mindful of her bruises. Gingerly, he carried her to the trundle bed. She did not so much as twitch when he laid her down again. Quin wondered what the old woman had given her. Nothing she had not needed, most likely.
The nurse looked at him guardedly. “You, go home now,” she said.
Quin smiled wanly and shook his head. The nurse shook hers, too, as if thinking him a fool, then they sat back down together. And so they kept their vigil together, he and the old woman, until well into the evening. Signora Rossi was not much of a conversationalist, he soon discovered, but she could darn stockings like a house afire. He watched in amazement as she whip-stitched her way through one basketful and started in on another.
Eventually, the moon rose, and Quin began to light the lamps and build up the fire. Viviana still did not stir. Cerelia, however, seemed more restless, and yet some of the brilliance seemed to have left her cheeks. At one point, he rose and pressed the backs of his fingers to her forehead. Was it cooler? Or was it his imagination?
“Si,”
said Signora Rossi, looking up from her darning. “She heals.”
She heals.
Lord God, he prayed the old woman was right.
At eight, there was a soft knock at the door, and Miss Hevner came in. Niccolo was balanced on her hip, and Felise was beside her. Both children were dressed for bed. “Oh, I beg your pardon, your lordship,” said the governess when she saw him. “The children wished to say good night to Cerelia and their mother.”
Signora Rossi tilted her head toward the trundle bed.
“Stare tranquillo,”
cautioned the old woman. “Your Mamma, she needs sleep.”
Dutifully, the children tiptoed across the room and knelt to kiss their mother’s cheek. When that was done, Felise went to the bigger bed, crawled in beside Cerelia, and began to play with a strand of her sister’s hair.
The old nurse glanced up from her sewing. “Careful,
carissima.”
The child looked at her earnestly. “Is she getting better,
Tata?”
“Oh,
si,”
said Signora Rossi. “She gets better. By Monday, you will have your Christmas. And by Thursday, she will chase you round the house and pull
your
hair.”
Felise laughed softly. Nicolo had crawled onto the big bed, too. He curled himself into a ball near Cerelia’s knees and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
“Come, children,” said Miss Hevner quietly. “We should return to our own rooms now.”
Felise looked reluctant. “What if Cerelia has bad dreams?” she asked. “We always sleep together if we have bad dreams.”
Signora Rossi jerked her head toward the door. “Go,
carissima,”
she ordered. “I sleep with you if bad dreams come.”
The little girl bubbled with laugher.
“Tata,
you cannot fit into my bed!”
The old woman shrugged. “Then I break it down,” she answered.
“Boom!
We sleep on the floor.”
Both children erupted into giggles, but quickly slapped their hands over their mouths. Miss Hevner opened the door and crooked a finger. Nicolo crawled on all fours so that he might kiss his sister’s cheek. Then, with obvious reluctance, they slid from the bed and padded across the room, bottom lips protruding.
They were a family, he realized. Felise and Nicolo possessed an abiding and guileless love for their elder sister. He doubted very much whether they cared how Cerelia had been conceived or who her father was. They were a family, and they loved one another. They were there for one another.
His own childhood would have been a miserable existence indeed without his elder sister. They had been close in age and the best of friends. Perhaps this was what Viviana meant when she said that Cerelia needed a family?
So he was left to ask himself if these were the people from whom he would willing take Cerelia. Even if the law would permit it—which, despite his bold words, he was not at all sure of—it was such a foolish, foolish notion. Family came first. Family was everything.
Quin might have been blood kin, but he was not a part of their family. He was just an outsider looking in, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter what manner of threats he leveled at Viviana, he could not replace this, could he? He could not replace what Cerelia would lose. He would have to be a selfish bastard even to try, and his selfishness had already done harm enough.
He realized in some surprise that he had drifted back to the bed and was stroking Cerelia’s hair. Signora Rossi gave him another chary look. “You go home now,
signore,”
she said again, her tone more kindly this time. “Come again
domattina.
Tomorrow morning,
si?”
Just then, Viviana made a soft, groaning sound from behind him. He turned to see her languidly stretch one arm. She would be awake soon. Nurse Rossi was clearly here to stay. There really was no need for him to remain.
He wondered again what the old woman thought of his presence in the room. He really did not care. He bent down, and kissed Cerelia lightly on the forehead. His lips came away feeling…not cool. But not hot, either.
“Domattina,”
said the old woman again. “She will be awake then.”
Quin looked at her uncertainly. “You…you are quite certain?”
The old woman nodded.
“Di sicuro,”
she answered. “Weak,
signore,
like a kitten, eh? But awake to the world.”
Quin prayed to God she was right. He went to the door, stopping long enough to bow to her.
“Grazie,
then, Signora Rossi,” he said. “I shall bid you
buona notte.”