Beloved (29 page)

When the Curé finished, he quickly disappeared into the sacristy. Richard waited for the small group of worshippers to leave, then went to the carved wooden door through which the priest had passed and knocked twice. He heard running footsteps and the door was suddenly flung open by one of the altar boys, his face stained with tears. Before Richard could stop him, the child ran past him and out through the front of the church.

The Curé was on the far side of the room, standing in front of an open chest as he removed his stole. He turned and looked at Richard, and with a smirk, turned back.

“Yes?” His voice was cold.

“I’m Richard Magniet.” For all his attempted disinterest, Richard noticed that the man’s hands were trembling as he folded the embroidered strip of satin. Richard also noted that he had failed to kiss the piece of fabric before placing it in the chest.

“I know who you are. What is it you want?” His voice quavered.
What has that damned Bonelli woman told this somberly dressed patron of hers?

“I want to discuss Signora Bonelli’s children.”

The Curé slammed down the lid of the chest with relief. Apparently the man had not come to defend her honor, such as it was. He laughed softly to himself as he turned to face Richard. Not so long ago that rich man’s whore had been on her knees before him, ready to repent.

“What’s to discuss?” he asked, calmly. “They’re dead, are they not?” He folded his hands across his belly, offering a benign, and at the same time sarcastic, smile.

Richard’s grey eyes turned as cold as granite. He moved toward the Curé and the man immediately retreated to the opposite side of the heavy wooden table that sat in the middle of the room.

“Yes, they’re dead. What I want to know is why you didn’t allow them to be properly buried.”

Tilting his head back, the Curé assumed an air of dignity that was a total contradiction of his physical appearance.

“Tell me, Monsieur
,
why are you so concerned? Are you perhaps their father?”

Richard was growing angrier by the moment. The muscles tightened in his jaw.

“No, I’m sorry to say I’m not.”

“Then what business is it of yours?”

“You know very well that Signora Bonelli works for me.”

“Signora Bonelli works for many men, Monsieur
,
and usually on her back.”

Instantly, Richard reached across and grabbed him by the front of his robe, twisting the cloth tightly as he jerked him halfway across the table, easily pulling the little man off his feet.

“You try my patience, Father,” Richard said slowly between clenched teeth.

The Curé tried to pry Richard’s fingers loose, but it was no use. His face began to flush scarlet with both anger and embarrassment.

“Richard?” The surprised voice came from the doorway.

Richard turned to see his brother standing there, a shocked expression on his face. He looked back at the Curé whose face had suddenly gone deathly pale. Richard waited another moment before releasing him, finally shoving him back so hard the man nearly fell against the wall. He turned to his brother, straightening his coat.

“My Lord Abbot,” the Curé said breathlessly as he scrambled to his feet.

“Is there a problem? Perhaps I can be of some help?” Robert offered. He looked from one man to the other, but the look he was directing at Richard carried with it a plea to leave things as they were and come away.

Richard looked back at the Curé. “Just a little difference of opinion” he said, pointedly. “We
will
continue our discussion later.” Richard’s words assured him the matter would not be forgotten.

“Come,” he said, joining Robert at the door. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Very well.” Robert looked back over his shoulder at the Curé. “I’ll call on you the day after tomorrow, Father, if that’s convenient?”

“Oh…yes…of course,” the Curé stammered.
What in heaven’s name is the Abbot of Montmajour doing in this godforsaken place?

When the brothers were gone the priest fell to his knees, his head on the table, his hands tightly clasped in an unfamiliar attitude of sincere prayer.

Richard walked quickly up the narrow street until he came to the low wall that overlooked the sea, Robert at his side. Richard stopped, taking a deep breath as he looked across the strait to the outline of Sardinia. The waves silently lapped against the base of the limestone cliff two hundred feet below in a relentless attempt to undermine the entire promontory on which the city had been built.

“What, if I may ask, was that all about?” Robert said quietly.

Richard looked at his brother, then reached out and hugged him warmly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Robert smiled.

“Arabella’s children drowned three days ago. The Curé refused to bury in consecrated ground.”

Robert was shocked, both by the news of the children’s deaths and by the Curé’s behavior. He crossed himself in a silent prayer for the dead.

“But why? What reason did he give?”

“I don’t know.” Richard shook his head, and a whisper of a smile crossed his lips. “I was just trying to persuade him to tell me when you arrived.”

Robert looked at Richard. Finally he laughed. It was plain to see his little brother hadn’t changed at all in the years since he’d exiled himself to Corsica.

“How’s Christina?” Richard asked, suddenly serious again. “Is she well?”

“She’s…fine. But tell me, how is Arabella?” Robert deftly changed the subject. “And what’s become of the children?”

“She’s buried them at the cottage. I still don’t know exactly what happened between her and the Curé, but I do know that he said some very cruel and unnecessary things to her when she went to see him.”

“I’m sorry.”

Richard put his arm around his brother. “I’m not sure what kind of a reception you’ll be getting. Arabella is still very upset.”

“Well, perhaps I can help.”

“I hope so. Let’s go back.”

They said little as they passed under the old portcullis and down the ramp, then up the opposite hill along the narrow path to the cottage. When they entered the house, Arabella was there to meet them. She was dressed in fresh clothes and had evidently just washed her hair, for it hung in damp ringlets around her shoulders. She curtsied as Richard introduced Robert.

“You have my sympathy in the loss of your children,” Robert said sincerely. He was struck by her beauty, and by her slight resemblance to Christina.

“Thank you, My Lord,” she said, not looking at him.

“Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Arabella nodded, still avoiding his eyes. “Would you like some breakfast?” she asked Richard.

“Yes, Bella, but I can get it. Are you all right?” He took a step toward her, but she stepped back.

“Thank you. I’m fine.”

“Very well then, we’ll be in the morning room.”

She nodded and returned to the kitchen, leaving Richard staring after her, a puzzled look on his face.

“Signore Roberto!” Alfredo emerged from the hall and immediately threw his arms around Robert. “Or should I say, Monsignor?”

“Alfredo. How good to see you! You’re looking well,” he said, embracing the old man.

“Thank you. And you. I can’t believe it. An Abbot…”

“Sometimes I can’t believe it myself.” Robert laughed. He would be the first to admit that his rise to the position of Abbot of Montmajour had been unusually swift.

“I’ve put your bags in your father’s room,” he said to Robert. He turned to Richard. “Is there anything I can do, Signore
?
”

“Help Bella, will you? She still needs to rest.”

“Of course. But she is much better this morning, Signore. It is good you are home.”

That evening, Robert asked Arabella to join them for dinner. She wanted to refuse, but Richard insisted. She was silent throughout the meal and excused herself as soon as she could. Richard stayed, talking with his brother until it was nearly dark. Robert retired early, pleading fatigue, and at the same time suggesting that perhaps Richard should check on Arabella. Richard bade his brother goodnight and went to the kitchen.

Arabella was not there. The door to the yard was ajar and Richard went out. He found her standing near the old olive tree, staring at the graves.

Richard slipped his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. She leaned against him, grateful just to have him beside her.

“I miss them so,” she said softly.

“I miss them, too.” He pulled her closer, putting his arms around her. “What can I do, Bella? What can I do for
you?
”

“Do you think we could have a stone?”

“Of course.” Such a simple request, he thought. “They’ll each have one. I’ll check into it first thing tomorrow. But what about you?”

Bella looked up into those amazing eyes of his. He was so kind, so very good to her. What more could she want from him than what he’d already given her?

“I’d very much like some of the tea you gave me last night.”

“Done.” He hugged her again.

Robert watched from the window of his father’s bedroom. He’d always felt more like a father to Richard than a brother, no doubt because he was the second child of his father’s first family, and already thirty years old and well-established in the Church by the time Richard was born. Yet he’d spent a great deal of time with the boy as he was growing up and they’d always been very close. He’d wondered if Richard was unhappy away from his home, but as he watched Richard and Arabella together, he began to think that perhaps his brother had made a new life for himself, afterall. Maybe he was even happy. Robert prayed it was so, as he’d prayed every night since Richard left Arles.

Richard took the tea to Arabella’s room. She was wearing a cotton gown he’d brought her from Lisbon. The lace around the shoulders was lavish, worked in a delicate pattern of flowers, and trimmed with pink silk ribbon. It was a gown he would have loved to have seen on Christina. Perhaps Arabella had known that, for the only times he had seen her wear it were on the nights she’d come to his bed.

“Come, sit.” He seated her on the stool in front of the fireplace and stood brushing her hair, as he had the night before.

“Bella, you mustn’t be so hard on Robert. He cares about you.”

She stiffened. “As a priest?”

“As a priest and as my brother and…” he added, “As your friend. You two have been writing to each other for nearly four years. I can’t help believing you would have treated him differently if he’d arrived a week ago.”

“A week ago my children were still alive.”

“I know that and I’m sorry,” he said, resting his hands on her shoulders. “But surely it’s not Robert’s fault that we’ve lost them?”

Her shoulders slumped. “No. It’s not.”

“My brother is one of the kindest, most compassionate men I’ve ever known. He’s been like a father to me. Please don’t blame him for what someone else has done to you.”

She didn’t answer. She just nodded her head and Richard realized she was crying. He pulled her to her feet and took her in his arms.

“Forgive me, Bella. I don’t mean to make you cry. I never have.”

She laid her fingers against his lips to stop the words, then she kissed him. “Richard, will you make love to me?”

He smiled down at her, a sad smile, but he brushed the soft, brown curls away from her face and kissed her again.

Richard was gentle with her, but there was an underlying desperation to their union, a reaffirmation that they were still alive, and Arabella was crying when it was over. He held her tightly, stroking her hair, kissing her lightly on the forehead, saying nothing. At long last she slept.

He was still holding her when she woke several hours later.

“Richard…” she whispered frantically.

He wasn’t asleep. “What is it?”

“Go back to your own room!”

“What?”

“You can’t stay here.”

“Bella, are you dreaming? What’s wrong?”

“No, I’m not dreaming. Your brother is here, have you forgotten?”

“Here?” Richard looked around the room, teasing her.

But she was serious. “Please…” she whispered.

“Bella, I’m sorry. Why are you worried about my brother?”

“What will he think if he finds out you’re sleeping with me?”

“What does it matter what he thinks? Where I sleep isn’t my brother’s concern.”

“Please?” Arabella put her hand to his cheek.

“All right.” He kissed her, then shook his head and laughed softly as he gathered his clothes.

Arabella was up before dawn. She rekindled the fire in the hearth and put the kettle on to boil. Then she started a good-sized fire in her oven. It was her day to bake and she intended to have fresh bread for the morning meal.

As she stood kneading the dough on the big wooden table, the door to the yard opened. She looked up in surprise. It was Robert.

“Arabella…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I’m just surprised to see you up so early.”

“Habit,” Robert said, smiling. “One I find impossible to break after all these years, even on the rare occasion when the opportunity presents itself.”

“Can I get you something?” she offered. “Some tea? Or perhaps some of that Turkish coffee your brother’s so fond of?”

“Coffee would be wonderful, but please, don’t let me interrupt your work.”

“Nonsense,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Sit down.” She got the bag of beans down from the shelf and scooped some into the mortar and began grinding. She poured it into a smaller kettle and filled it with hot water, then hung it beside the larger one over the fire.

Robert sat down in one of the chairs at the table where she was working. The sky was just beginning to show the first hint of color and Arabella was making her dough by the light of the candles in the fixture that hung over the table. The yellow flames cast a warm glow on her face and highlighted the soft curls she’d pinned up on top of her head, out of her way.

She looked up and noticed Robert studying her. “Is something wrong?”

Robert smiled. “No. You’re very lovely, Arabella.”

She shook her head and a cynical smile crossed her face, but she didn’t look up from her dough. “Do you make a habit of admiring women, my Lord Abbot?” Her tone was almost flirtatious, but it was impossible to miss the sarcasm.