Winterwood (2 page)

Lavinia was only twenty-two and her recent harrowing experience had not ruined her beauty. She had been used all her life to being looked at and admired, especially since she had put her hair up and come out. She and Robin had been known as the handsome twins, not celebrated for their retiring qualities. It was Robin who had been the spendthrift and the gambler. She had been merely foolhardy.

Since the trial, however, she had wanted only to escape notice. Cousin Marion had been perfectly right in insisting that she wear colorless clothes and keep herself in the background.

But for the opera… Alone in Cousin Marion’s bedroom, Lavinia had riffled through the wardrobe and seized on a rose-pink satin. It was a beautiful dress and would fit her, Lavinia knew. For all her cosseting of herself, Cousin Marion was not the type to put on weight. She was small-waisted and as flat as a board. Lavinia would fill out the bodice better than she would. And the color would be perfect for her.

Actually, it had been less a desire to take revenge on Cousin Marion than a madness caused by the spell of the ancient city that had seized her. She must dress to suit its beauty.

If the dress, why not jewels, too?

After a moment she had decided to leave her own modest pearls unchanged, but she found the key to Cousin Marion’s jewel box and took out those delectable diamond earrings, long graceful pendants that swung from tiny crescents, and had the greatest pleasure in putting them on. They had been a perfect foil for her upswept fair hair, her glowing cheeks and the gleaming rose of her gown. She believed she had never looked better.

It was foolish to let a dress, and a borrowed one at that, be so important. But it had been like coming alive again. Lavinia had called gaily for Gianetta and burst into laughter when she saw the girl’s amazed face.

“But,
signorina
—pardon, milady—” Then her brown finger pointed in horror. “It is the
Signora’s
gown!”

Lavinia had twirled the billowing skirts.

“Doesn’t it look wonderful, Gianetta? Don’t I look wonderful?”

The girl had clasped her hands in admiration.

“Ah,
molto bella, molto bella!”

She knew that the man in the neighboring box at the opera had noticed her gown. It had been because of the way it had set off her looks that he had looked so long at her. She wasn’t in the least sorry for her audacity, even though a long stare from a stranger in a theater could mean nothing except a temporary lift to her morale.

She was thankful, however, that Cousin Marion had not missed the gown, which had been safely returned to the wardrobe that morning. She was also delighted to have some time to herself. She meant to stroll around the Piazza, looking in the shop windows, small treasure troves whose contents were far beyond her reach, and perhaps being wildly extravagant and drinking morning chocolate at Florian’s.

She didn’t admit that she hoped she would see the family of last night again. The child had said something about feeding the pigeons. But who knew at what time she would do this, or if the unknown Eliza had recovered from her stomach trouble?

There were the usual small knots of sightseers in the Piazza. The predominant language was English, or perhaps that was because the English seemed to have the most carrying voices. Certainly, the gentlemen in their tweed jackets and caps, and the ladies in muslin or organdy, holding parasols to protect their delicate skins from the fierce Italian sun, looked exactly like people one would see at summer country parties at home. It was a pity, Lavinia thought, that the English sprinkled the globe so completely.

However, in spite of the familiar look of the people, the Piazza San Marco was delightfully foreign. When Lavinia had tired of her window-shopping, she allowed herself to be seated at one of the tables outside Florian’s by a waiter with a seductive smile and a friendly,
“Buon giorno, signorina!”
And then, showing off his English, “It is a beautiful day.”

Lavinia agreed that it was, and unashamedly enjoyed the waiter’s admiration. He must see, by her neat prim dress, that she wasn’t one of the wealthy English, yet he still paid her the tribute of devoted attention. And it
was
a beautiful day. Where, in England, could one see such blue skies, or be diverted by such scenes? Or indeed sit alone at a café table without undue attention being paid her? She was simply comfortably regarded as one of the mad foreigners, but a very pretty one. She was astonished to find herself feeling almost happy.

She had finished her chocolate before she saw the girl in the wheelchair. She was sitting in the middle of the Piazza surrounded by fluttering pigeons. Apart from the pigeons she seemed to be completely alone.

Lavinia looked among the strollers for her father, that tall dark-haired man, or her mother, or even someone in maid’s uniform who seemed to be attached to her. There was no one. Even from this distance Lavinia could see the child’s tenseness. Her hands were gripping the sides of her chair. Her small shoulders looked rigid. She seemed to be on the verge of tears.

On an impulse, Lavinia sprang up and went across to her, “Forgive me, dear, but are you in trouble?”

The girl wore a pink cotton sunbonnet that obscured her face. When she lifted her head sharply to see who had spoken to her, Lavinia saw, not the tear-streaked face she had expected, but a vixenish one.

“Who are you? Why are you speaking to me?”

“I wondered at your being here alone. Can you manage that conveyance by yourself?”

“No, I can’t,” the girl snapped. “What is it to do with you?”

“Well”—the child was so angry that she was almost amusing, a cross little doll with a flushed face and blazing tawny eyes—“aren’t you pleased to hear someone speaking your own language, for one thing?”

“I should have known at once that you were English.” The bright eyes swept over Lavinia’s plain gown with contempt. “Who is in your charge?”

“A quite elderly lady,” Lavinia answered agreeably. “Or she would seem elderly to you. But she has gone to have morning coffee with friends, so I have all this time to myself.” Slyly she added, “Have you let your maid have time off, too?”

“Oh, that tiresome Eliza’s ill. And my brother, who promised to stay with me, ran off. Papa will be furious when he hears.”

“Is the sun too hot for you? Shall I move your chair away?”

“No, don’t touch it. I’m perfectly comfortable.”

“If you will forgive me for saying so, you look very flushed. I think it is the heat.”

The girl pressed her hands to her cheeks.

“It’s none of your business.”

“But is it good for you to be so hot? I wish you would let me move you into the shade. Perhaps an ice—”

The tawny eyes were furious, like a trapped fox’s.

“Are you being
sorry
for me? Because I don’t like people to be sorry for me. I’m perfectly all right until Edward comes back.”

“Then why don’t you look at me?” Lavinia asked. “You only gaze over my head as if I’m not here. You did better in the opera last night.”

The startled gaze did, then, meet Lavinia’s.

“I’ve never seen you before! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I realize I looked better then than I do now. I was in the next box.”

“That lady was
you!”

Lavinia smoothed her gray poplin skirts.

“I suppose I don’t look much like her now.”

Interest had taken the place of hostility in the child’s eyes.

“No, you don’t. Why are you so dull-looking now? Are you a servant?”

“In a way, yes. Well, yes, I am completely. Though I hate to admit it. Just as you won’t admit that you hate being helpless in that chair.”

The girl suddenly said, abruptly, “I had been crying. I never let people see me cry.”

Lavinia had to feel a reluctant sympathy.

“Neither do I. My name is Lavinia Hurst. I know yours is Flora because I overheard it last night. I couldn’t help hearing. And your brother is Edward.”

“My mother calls him Teddy—like a baby. Whose was the dress?”

“The dress?”

“That beautiful one you were wearing. Did you steal it?”

This was no child. She was a prematurely old woman, her thin face, its delicate bones much too close to the surface, precocious and observant.

“No, I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it.”

Flora looked disappointed. “Oh.”

“In a way, I suppose it was stealing because I hadn’t asked permission.”

“From your mistress?”

“Yes.”

“Is she hateful?”

It was surprising what a relief it was to talk to someone, even a child. “She is, at times.”

“What will she say if she finds out about the dress?”

“She won’t find out. I smuggled it back safely this morning. The earrings I wore were hers, too. Oh, goodness!”

“What is it, Miss Hurst?”

“I’ve forgotten to put the earrings back. They’re still in my bedroom. Oh dear, if Cousin Marion finds out—”

“What will happen?” Flora asked with the greatest interest.

“I don’t know. I’m quite sure she’d like to cast me in a dungeon.”

“Or make you walk the Bridge of Sighs.”

“Or send me to the ga—” Lavinia cut the word off abruptly, the game suddenly no longer a game.

“The gallows? Is she as horrid as that?” Flora obviously reveled in disaster. “Then let’s think of a punishment for her. I know—Oh,
Papa!”

A shadow had fallen across them. Lavinia looked up swiftly to see the man standing there, and knew that this was exactly what she had hoped would happen when she had crossed over to Flora. She hadn’t been so deeply concerned about the child’s distress. It had merely been fortuitous.

He had a square dark face, a stubborn and slightly brooding face with that jutting forehead and the dark clever eyes.

His attention, at first, was all for Flora.

“What are you doing here? Where is Eliza?”

“Oh, she’s sick still; isn’t it tiresome? Mamma said I would have to stay indoors, but I told Edward to bring me. Don’t scold, Papa. He was perfectly able to. He’s very strong. But he got tired of feeding the pigeons and ran off. He did it deliberately to tease me. He’s really a thoroughly wicked boy. But it serves him right—I’m to have an ice, and he’s not”

“An ice?” The man’s eyes were on Lavinia. “Perhaps you will remember your manners, Flora, and introduce me to your friend.”

Flora gave a peal of laughter.

“She’s not a friend, Papa. She’s only a servant. She’s Miss Hurst, and her mistress—” Flora’s voice became uncertain as she watched her father’s expression. “I don’t mean she’s a servant all the time. Last night she was at the opera. What do you think, Papa? She was the lady in the next box to us. Doesn’t that surprise you?”

“On the contrary,” the man’s voice was cool, “it doesn’t surprise me at all. I recognize her perfectly.” He gave a small bow. “How do you do, Miss Hurst. I am Daniel Meryon. Allow me to thank you for rescuing my capricious daughter. And what was this about an ice? May I have the pleasure of ordering them for you? And joining you?”

“Oh, Papa, you’re not angry after all.”

“Let us say, not with Miss Hurst. I’ll deal with you and Edward later. Did you enjoy the opera, Miss Hurst?”

“Oh, very much,” Lavinia answered composedly, “though I confess that of Mozart’s works I prefer
Cosi fan Tutte.
All the same, I’ve never heard a better Queen of the Night Only once, at Covent Garden—” She stopped, aghast. Could she ever learn to be anything but herself? Instead of keeping to her role of self-effacing companion, as soon as she was with an attractive man she was prattling like a debutante.

His voice was perfectly polite.

“You are a music lover, Miss Hurst?”

She nodded. “I am, but unfortunately lately I haven’t had much opportunity to go to concerts. Last night my cousin wasn’t feeling up to going out, so I went with our maid. Do you enjoy opera, Mr. Meryon?”

“Not in the least. But my wife does, and Flora, I hope, will.”

“Oh, I adore it, Papa. When can I have a gown like the one Miss Hurst stole—I mean, borrowed—”

Lavinia resisted a desire to slap Flora sharply.

“Your daughter means the one I was wearing last night. It was my cousin’s. She has a more complete wardrobe than I have. Fortunately, we are the same size.”

There was no doubt about his interest now. Although Lavinia had known it was there all the time beneath his polite fencing. Her heart was beating rapidly. She had never known such brilliant sunshine, such wonderful architecture, such well-mannered tourists, even such charming pigeons as these that had their habitat in the Piazza San Marco. She had never felt so radiantly alive—nor so aware of potential danger and heartbreak. She had faced that judge, in the criminal court, with his old lizard-wrinkled skin and hooded eyes, with far more equanimity than she was now facing Daniel Meryon. Which was quite unreasonable, for Daniel wasn’t going to sentence her dearly loved brother to death or imprisonment. And after today she would never see him again.

“I should explain that I am acting as companion to my cousin,” she said, deliberately heightening his interest. For it must be quite an intriguing situation to even a highly sophisticated man to find that the beauty of the previous evening was one of that obscure race of women, a paid companion, meant to be useful but invisible. Her eyes were dancing. “Flora is speaking the complete truth when she says I am a servant. But that doesn’t mean I’m not able to enjoy all these new sights and sounds. I was taking a morning stroll in this quite fascinating square when I came across your daughter in distress. Now if you will excuse me, I must go back to the hotel in case my cousin has returned.”

“But you were going to have an ice with us!” Flora exclaimed indignantly. “Are you running away from Papa? You had time to stay before he came.”

“Flora is a martinet,” said Daniel Meryon easily. “I’m afraid you’ll have to obey her. And were you, by any chance, running away from me?”

He had such an inquisitive face. It would be very difficult to conceal anything from him. On the other hand, it would be a quite irresistible game to try. Across the years she could hear her governess’ voice, “I’m sorry, my lady, but I can’t control Miss Lavinia. If she sets her heart on anything, she intends to get it, willy-nilly,” and Mamma’s resigned answer, “We can only hope life will teach her.”