Beloved (40 page)

“I love Richard,

Richard loves me

But now he’s sailing on the sea.

When he comes home

I’ll be his wife

And I’ll be happy all my life.”

Est-ce la main de Dieu ou la main d’Homme qui t’arrache de moi?

Ou peut-être bien, la main tendre de la Femme?

—Trentier

Is it the hand of Man or God that takes me from thee?

Or perhaps the gentle hand of Woman?

Juin 1759

Corsica

“Now you will do exactly as Signora Polizano asks, won’t you?” Richard brought her fingers to his lips. “I’ll be back for you just before supper.”

“But…” Arabella wanted to object, but to what? She wasn’t sure.

“Promise me?” Richard insisted.

“Oh, all right. But in return, you must promise to tell me what all this is about. Tonight!”

Richard hesitated, his expression serious. Then suddenly it changed to a broad grin.

“Very well. Tonight.”

With that he left the elegant dressmaker’s shop, abandoning Arabella to the six women who seemed intent on measuring her for a fine lady’s wardrobe. Why, Arabella couldn’t imagine.

Richard had been very mysterious about insisting she accompany him to Porto Vecchio. And the trip itself had been a whirlwind of new experiences, one after another, that had barely left her time to catch her breath.

To begin with, Arabella had never been aboard a ship except when it was docked. Fortunately, the motion of the sea had ceased to bother her after the first hour and she’d enjoyed the voyage. And seeing Richard among his crew had been a revelation. For the first time since she’d known him, she understood his love of the ships. He seemed comfortable there, at home among the men whose respect had little to do with him being the owner’s son.

But at the dressmaker’s, Arabella felt terribly uncomfortable—having women fussing over her, doing the work she’d always done for herself, making her an entire wardrobe for which she had absolutely no need. Where would she wear such elegant silks in Bonifacio? To tend the garden? To bake the bread?

Arabella smiled to herself. She was sitting in a chair with her knitting, just outside the kitchen door, watching the sun set and recalling every moment of that fairytale trip.

Richard had confessed his plans that night over supper in the elegant little hôtel where they’d spent the night. He announced that he intended to take her to Napoli to see the opera and more important, to show her that the Neopolitan gentlemen were something less than they were rumored to be. He also told her he was confident that once she discovered the truth, she would be happy to marry him. She knew he was teasing her, using that as yet another reason to convince her to become his wife. She hadn’t the heart to tell him that the only thing that prevented her accepting his many rather creative proposals was the love she knew he still had for Christina.

It was on that trip she’d begun to realize just how much Richard had changed since they’d lost the children. He spent a great deal more time at home and wrote often when he traveled. He was much more attentive to her in a thousand little ways, and she was coming to understand that his offer to make her his wife came not merely from Robert’s suggestion, but because he truly cared for her. While she still believed Christina would always come first in Richard’s heart, Arabella was beginning to hope that she could make him happy.

It was then she’d begun to wonder if she could still bear him children. She’d carefully avoided the possibility of pregnancy in all their time together, not wanting to burden him with bastard offspring, which would surely embarrass his family. But if he truly wished to marry her, would he not want children? She was thirty-four, Richard twenty-nine. Was it too late to think of starting another family?

The last color began to fade from the evening sky. It was warm and a soft breeze ruffled her skirt, occasionally floating a strand of hair across her eyes as her fingers forced her needles in and out of the soft grey wool. She was finishing the sleeves of a sweater she was making for Richard, something to keep him warm that winter aboard ship.

“Signora
?
”

Startled, she looked up and realized Alfredo was standing in the doorway.

“Would you like some tea? And a light?”

“Tea, yes, but I can do without the light.” She smiled up at the kindly old man. The two of them had become great friends over the years.

When Alfredo returned with her cup, she invited him to sit awhile, but he’d promised to speak with Tomas so, instead, bade her goodnight.

As she sipped her tea, her thoughts happily returned to her wonderful trip with Richard, more precisely to their arrival in Napoli. The size and bustle of that amazing city had been overwhelming, but in spite of her excitement, she had been self-conscious, almost to the point of discomfort, in the beautiful clothes Richard had bought for her. Even with his constant reassurances, she was positive that everyone who saw her must know she was only a housekeeper masquerading as a lady.

They stayed with Count Vincente Siracusa and his family, old friends of Richard’s father. Arabella had been speechless when Richard introduced her as his wife. Later that night, when they were alone in their magnificent room, she’d asked him why. He laughed, and said that it was the only way he could be sure she would share his bed during their stay. He’d also insisted that she now had no choice but to consent to becoming his bride or make a liar of him.

Their conversation had taken a brief but serious turn when Richard reminded her he might never be able to claim his title, and more particularly, his estates near Arles. The trouble over Marco’s death might prevent him from ever going home though he would, of course, inherit all his father’s wealth. He had offered, then, to build her a bigger house after they were married. But she saw no reason for it. The cottage was more than they needed and she knew he enjoyed their simple life. Arabella was perfectly content where she was.

So Richard went on about how the prospect of being a Baroness—even a Baroness-in-absentia—wasn’t really all that bad, though there were certain things she would have to be prepared to do such as receive foreign dignitaries. For some reason the prospect of receiving dignitaries at the cottage in Bonifacio, foreign or not, struck them both funny and they had giggled away half the night like a couple of children.

Arabella’s hands fell idle in her lap as she stared at the comet overhead in the night sky, wondering, as she often did, how they had been able to predict its coming. It had been so bright in April. Richard told her it was a sign that if they married before it disappeared, they would live a long and happy life together.

On their second night in Napoli, they’d gone to the opera.

In a fit of panic, Arabella had tried to beg off going. She knew she’d be discovered and that Richard’s friends would know her for what she was. Richard, of course, would have none of what he had termed her “preposterous objections,” and so she’d finally donned the most magnificent of her new dresses, a wheat-colored silk trimmed with an extravagant amount of lace, and presented herself for Richard’s approval.

And he was pleased. She could see it in his eyes. It was then he’d given her a stunning topaz necklace the same color as her gown, and a pair of earrings to match. He told her they’d been his grandmother’s and insisted on fastening the necklace around her throat. She’d tried to refuse the extravagant jewels, but he reminded her that he had no wish to have the Count’s family believe he was unwilling to give his wife appropriate jewelry.

In the end she acquiesced and allowed herself to be whisked into the waiting carriage for what was truly the most magical and enchanted evening of her entire life. Richard, dressed like the Baron’s son he was, and demonstrating the formal manners of the class he was born to, had treated her like a queen and made her feel as though she were the only woman at the gala performance. In the warmth of his tender affection she had finally been able to relax and enjoy herself.

The Teatro San Carlos was a fairyland of crystal and gold, tier after tier of lavishly curtained private boxes, each filled with shimmering points of light reflecting from the mirrored sconces. And the people! Hundreds of them—the most handsome men dressed in elegant clothes accompanying equally beautiful women in their colorful gowns. And though the Count had invited them to share his family box, Richard had made other arrangements.

He’d led Arabella up one of the huge staircases to the box he’d taken for the evening. Then they’d been served an elaborate supper and by the time the performance started, Richard had somehow managed to make her feel completely at ease in the dreamlike surroundings.

The only difficult moment in the entire night came at the end of the performance by some girls from a conservatorio in Venice. When a beautiful young soprano began to sing, it was as though Richard had suddenly seen a ghost. He gripped the railing, his eyes riveted on the singer. The slender young girl with long, brown hair curling softly around her shoulders and down her back had the voice of an angel and a face to match.

Arabella understood. The singer looked very much like the girl in the miniature portrait that sat on the table beside Richard’s bed during his illness. Though he’d put it away when he returned to the ships, she knew it was still at the bottom of the armoire along with those letters tied with ribbon.

Arabella had to admit she’d been hurt. It was enough to make her think that, in spite of everything, she couldn’t marry him. But then her own heart went out to him and the look he gave her when she reached for his hand had been so full of gratitude she knew she was the one he wanted.

She had made the decision then: if she could get pregnant, she would agree to marry him.

She smiled to herself, wondering if that had been the night she’d conceived, for even now she carried Richard’s child. She hadn’t told him about the baby, but she’d promised that when he returned, if he still wanted her, she would marry him. The child would be her wedding gift to the man she loved.

As spring faded into summer, Robert agonized over Christina’s situation. She was emotionally unstable when she returned to Guy’s house, but there was nothing he could do to prevent her leaving the abbey. Christina didn’t seem to mind going with Guy, though Robert realized it was because she’d convinced herself that the past seven years had never happened. She believed herself to be a seventeen year old girl awaiting the return of the young man she intended to marry, and she had no objection to doing it in the home of one of her childhood friends.

Robert’s first thought, naturally, was to contact Richard. But he was sure any mention of Christina’s distress would bring his brother back to Arles and therefore, quite possibly, to difficulties concerning Marco’s murder. He also knew there was no guarantee Richard would be able to coax her back to reality. After all, she’d believed Richard dead before she slipped away into the past. There was no way of knowing how she would react were he to suddenly appear.

One sleepless summer night, Robert reviewed his conversation with Guy yet again. Something about Guy’s explanation still disturbed him. Then, suddenly, it came to him and the pieces fell into place. Guy said Christina had been upset because Richard killed Marco. Yet Christina had told Robert she knew Richard couldn’t have killed her brother because he’d spent the night with her. That was it! The hole in Guy’s story gaped open and demanded Robert take some kind of action.

At four the next morning, between Matins and Lauds, Robert sat down and wrote to his brother.

17 Juillet 1759

Beloved Brother,

May God forgive me what I do, but conscience demands I inform you of the situation. Christina is in difficulties, the nature of which I am not at liberty to discuss. I can only say that if you still have any feelings for her, you may be able to help her now.

I know if you decide to return to Arles it will put you in great personal danger but I promise you I’ll do everything in my power to insure your safety while you’re here.

I await your reply.

May God guide you.

Robert

He read the letter over several times before he finally folded it and sealed it, carefully pressing the ring of his office into the purple wax.

“Yes, My Lord Abbot, it is a great treasure indeed,” Dom Christophe said quietly, as the two men examined the newly acquired Greek manuscripts. “But with Dom Donello ill and Dom Alberron away, there’s no one with an adequate knowledge of this ancient dialect who can accomplish the translation. Except, of course, for yourself, but I fear that your duties do not permit you the time…”

“No, indeed they do not,” Robert agreed. “Well, I shall just have to find someone who is capable. These pieces are too valuable to be ignored. Those Orphic scholars had some interesting ideas about our souls.” Robert smiled at Dom Christophe as he bowed slightly in deference to his Abbot’s wishes.

Such a bright young man, Robert thought. What promise! Robert looked up when he heard the rapid slap of sandals on the stone floor of the scriptorium. Dom Louis made his way quickly past the row of monks, bent over their desks in front of the high windows.

“A message for you, My Lord,” he said, handing Robert a modest size leather packet.

Robert frowned, realizing it must be from Richard. But it was too soon for his brother to have received his letter, much less to have replied. He opened the packet and pulled out the folded paper. The seal, his own family crest, had been broken. Robert looked questioningly at Dom Louis.

The man shrugged. “It was brought by one of those disreputable types from the ships. I suppose we cannot expect it should arrive intact.”

Robert returned to his office and unfolded his brother’s letter, still disturbed by the broken seal.

20 Juin
Majorca

Brother mine,

I hope that this finds you well and perhaps in the mood for a bit of travel, for I am happy to report that I have finally been able to convince Arabella to marry me. We shall make an uncle of you yet!