Silent in the Sanctuary. Deanna Raybourn
dozens of them in Florence.”
I scribbled a few notes, including a reminder to instruct Morag to find the engraving of Byron I had purchased in Siena. It would make a perfect Christmas present for Father. He would enjoy throwing darts at it immensely.
Suddenly, I looked up to find my brothers staring at me with identical expressions of bemusement.
“What?” I demanded. “Have you thought of something I ought to have?”
“You have become efficient,” Lysander said brutally. “You are making a list. I always thought you the most normal of my sisters, and yet here you are, organising, just like the rest of them. I wager you could arrange a military campaign to shame Napoléon if you had a mind to.”
I shrugged. “At least I would not have forgotten the greatcoats on the Russian front. Now, Plum has proposed Alessandro join us in England.”
Lysander sat bolt upright, grasping Alessandro’s hand in his own. “My friend, is this true? You would come to England with us?”
Alessandro looked from Lysander to me, his expression nonplussed. “As I already expressed to your kind brother and sister, I am reluctant, my friend. Your father, the Lord March, he has not invited me himself. And this is a time of great delicacy.”
“There is no better time,” Lysander insisted. “You heard Julia. Father and Aunt Hermia are planning some bloody great house party.”
“Language, Lysander,” I murmured.
Naturally he ignored me. “Alessandro, our family home is a converted abbey. There is room for a dozen regiments if we wished to invite them. And do not trouble yourself about Father. Plum has invited you, and so have I. And I am sure Julia wishes it as well.”
Alessandro looked past Lysander to where I sat, his gaze, warm and dark as chestnut honey, catching my own. “This is true, my lady? You wish me to come also?”
I thought of the weeks I had spent in Alessandro’s company, long sunlit days perfumed with the heady scent of rosemary and punctuated with serene silences broken only by the sleepy drone of bees. I thought of his hand, warm on the curve of my back as he helped me scramble over stone walls to a field where we picnicked on cold slices of chicken and drank sharp white wine so icy it numbed my cheeks. And I thought of what he had told me about his longing to travel, to see something of the world before he grew too comfortable, too settled to leave Florence.
“Of course,” I said, with a firmness that surprised me. “I think you would like England very much, Alessandro. And you would be very welcome at Bellmont Abbey.”
He nodded slowly. “Then I come,” he said at last, his eyes lingering on me.
Lysander whooped and Plum poured out another splash of whiskey into their glasses, calling for a toast to our travels. I returned to my notes, penning a reminder to myself to send out for a timetable. As my hand moved across the page, it shivered a little, marring the creamy expanse with a spot of ink. I drew a deep breath and blotted it, writing on until the page was filled and I reached for another.
At length, the gentlemen left me, Plum to show Alessandro to his room, Lysander to tell Violante the news of our imminent departure. I was alone with the slow ticking of the mantel clock and the crisp, rustling taffeta sounds of the fire as it burned down to ash. My pen scratched away the minutes, jotting notes to extend our regrets to invitations, requests for accommodation, orders for hampers to be filled with provisions for the journey.
So immersed was I in my task, I did not hear Morag’s approach—a sure sign of my preoccupation for Morag moves with all the grace of a draught horse.
“So, we’re for England then,” she said, her chin tipped up smugly.
“Yes, we are,” I returned, not looking up from my writing paper. “And knowing how little love you have for Italy, I suppose you are pleased at the prospect.”
She snorted. “I am pleased at the prospect of a decent meal, I am. There is no finer kitchen in England than that at Bellmont Abbey,” she finished loyally.
“I would not put the matter so strongly, but the food is good,” I conceded. It was plain cooking, for Father refused to employ a French chef. But the food was hearty and well prepared and one never went hungry at the Abbey. Unlike Italy. While I had revelled in the rich, exotic new flavors, Morag had barely subsisted on boiled chicken and rice.
I returned to my writing and she idled about the room, poking up the fire and plumping the occasional cushion. Finally, I threw down my pen.
“What do you wish to say, Morag? I can hear you thinking.”
She looked at me with an affectedly wounded expression. “I was merely being helpful. The drawing room is untidy.”
“We have maids for that,” I reminded her. “And a porter to answer the door. Why did you admit Count Fornacci this evening?”
“I was at hand,” she said loftily.
“Ha. At hand because you strong-armed the porter, I’ll warrant. Whatever you are contemplating, do not. I will not tolerate your meddling.”
Morag drew herself up to her rather impressively bony height. “I was at hand.” She could be a stubborn creature, as I had often had occasion to notice. I sighed and waved her away, taking up my pen again.
“Of course,” she said slowly, “I could not help but notice that his excellency, Count Four-not-cheese, is coming back to England with us.”
“Fornacci, Fornacci,” I told her again, knowing even as I did so I might as well try to teach a dog to sing. “And yes, he is coming to England with us. He wishes to travel, and it is a perfect opportunity for him to spend time in a proper English home. My brothers invited him.”
“And you did not encourage him?” she demanded, her eyes slyly triumphant.
“Well, naturally I had to approve the invitation, as it were. It would have been rude not to do so.”
I scrawled out a list of details that must not be forgotten before our departure. The heel of my scarlet evening slipper required mending, and I had left Plum’s favourite little travelling clock with the watchmaker to have the hour hand repaired and the glass replaced. Violante had thrown it at Lysander and dented the hands badly.
Morag continued to loom over the desk, contented as a cat. I could almost see the canary feathers trailing from her lips.
“Morag, if you have something to say, do so. If not, leave me in peace. I am in no mood to be trifled with.”
“I have nothing to say, nothing to say at all,” she said, moving slowly to the door. She paused, her hand on the knob. “Although, if I were to say something, I would probably ask you how you think Mr. Brisbane will like the notion of you coming home with that young man.”
A pause, no longer than a quickened heartbeat.
“Morag, Mr. Brisbane’s feelings are no concern of mine, nor of yours. I shall retire in a quarter of an hour. See that the bed is warmed. It was chilly last night, and I shall blame you if I take a cold.”
She made a harrumphing noise and left me then, thudding along the marble floors in her heavily soled shoes. I waited until she was out of earshot before folding my arms on the desk and dropping my head onto them. Nicholas Brisbane. The private inquiry agent who had investigated my husband’s death. I had not thought of him in months.
Or, to be entirely accurate, I had suppressed any thought of him ruthlessly. I had smothered any thoughts of him stillborn, not permitting myself the indulgence of even the memory of him. There had been something between us, something indefinable, but there, I had been certain of it. But nearly five months had passed without word from him, and I had begun to think I had imagined it, had imagined the moments that had flashed between us like an electrical current, had imagined the one searing moment on Hampstead Heath when we had both of us reached beyond ourselves and clung to one another