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Two days after Antonina’s distressing experience in Giardini, Emmett and Mr. Sharpe returned to a quiet villa. The drawing room, which Clare had cleverly converted into a sewing room to make clothes for the earthquake victims, sat empty.
“Where is everyone?” Mr. Sharpe asked, looking around as he and Emmett hung up their hats and coats.
The reporter had opted to accompany Emmett and the work gang who were repairing the roads rather than stay behind at the villa with the refugee women and children Clare had enlisted the day before to help with the sewing. Emmett had discovered he didn’t mind the man’s company. In truth, he had grown accustomed to the young man’s near-constant presence and had even learned a few things about Mr. Sharpe that softened his view of the reporter.
Mr. Sharpe also struggled with proving himself to his father, who apparently hadn’t wanted his son to become a reporter. And when the young man wasn’t asking incessant questions or scribbling away in his notebook, he was actually quite funny, with a dry sense of humor Emmett appreciated.
“Clare?” Emmett called out. “Antonina?” Where had they gone? He led the way down to the kitchen, where Signora Russo was pulling something from the oven.
“Ah, Lord Linwood,” she said, looking up. “You and Mr. Sharpe are back.”
Emmett nodded. “Do you know where Lady Linwood and Nina have gone?”
“They are in the garden, painting.” The housekeeper set the dish on the sideboard.
After thanking her, Emmett and Mr. Sharpe headed outside. “Does your wife paint?” the reporter asked.
“Oh, yes. Quite well.”
Emmett thought of the picture of the villa hanging in Clare’s bedroom at Barksley Hall and the one she’d painted of him. What was she painting today?
Near the empty fountain, Clare sat before a canvas and easel. Antonina was perched on the fountain’s stone bench, a brush in her hand too and an expression of total concentration on her young face. Emmett approached the little girl first. “What are you painting, Nina?”
She hopped off the bench and turned her canvas around. A pile of what appeared to be rocks covered the bottom half of her picture. But were they actually rocks?
“Are those . . . stones?” He crouched in front of her.
A brief smile lifted her lips as she nodded. “It is my house, after earthquake.”
Her house after the earthquake? Emmett shot a look of alarm at Clare, but her focus was on her own painting. That meant dealing with this was up to him, but why was Antonina painting a picture of rubble? He struggled for something positive to say. “They do look like stones,” he offered as he rose to his feet.
He moved to stand behind his wife so he could view her painting. As with her others, this painting captured a scene with incredible detail. But the subject concerned him. Emmett recognized what had to be a demolished street in Messina. Rain filtered down onto the ruined buildings and masonry. Off in the right-hand corner a small group of people were heading away from the destruction.
“What do you think?” She swiveled to face Emmett, clearly eager to hear his opinion.
To Emmett’s relief, Mr. Sharpe answered first. “That is remarkable, Lady Linwood. It looks exactly as you and your husband described it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sharpe,” she said as she blushed. Emmett felt a peculiar flicker of jealousy at not having inspired the added color himself.
The reporter leaned forward to point at the tiny people. “Is that your group, fleeing to the countryside?”
“It is.” Clare faced her painting again. “I hoped to capture the feel of that morning.”
“Why?” The question tumbled from Emmett’s mouth before he could stop it.
She frowned and dipped her brush back into the paint. “A wise person recently told me that there are many ways to express grief, even through drawing or painting.” Beneath her adept fingers, the paintbrush added depth to the shadows and textures. “So Nina and I are painting pictures to represent the earthquake.”
Mr. Sharpe walked to where a few of Clare’s other paintings from her time in Sicily sat propped against the nearby stone bench. Before Emmett could go over and view them too, Antonina held up another painting for him to see.
“Look, Emmett.”
The face staring back at him—clearly rendered by Clare’s skillful brush—looked much like the little girl, but Emmett recognized that it was her brother. It wasn’t an exact likeness, and yet it was close enough to set his heart thudding with the memories that filled his nightmares. He pulled in a long breath and pushed it back out.
“How did you . . .” He directed the words to Clare.
His wife shrugged without looking at him. “I sketched something first, using Antonina as a model. When she thought it was close enough to Angelo’s likeness, I painted it.”
Emmett nearly asked if such a thing was wise given all the child had been through. However, as he watched Antonina lovingly study the painting of her brother, he swallowed back the question. Perhaps Clare was right. He didn’t know what they would do with the paintings of rubble, but it was evident how much the portrait of Angelo meant to Antonina. The child didn’t have an actual photograph, so the painting would serve as a way to remember him.
“It’s an outstanding likeness, Clare,” Emmett managed to say with utmost sincerity.
She didn’t blush as she had at Mr. Sharpe’s compliment, though the tension left her features. “I think it’s been good for her to paint her own picture too,” she said quietly. “I didn’t tell her what to paint, Emmett. The house is what she chose.” Clare glanced over her shoulder at him. “I, for one, am glad she did. She needs to let her grief out so she can come to terms with it.”
“It was an excellent idea, truly.”
Her eyes met his. “You really think so?”
“I—”
Emmett wasn’t able to finish, because Mr. Sharpe suddenly announced, “Quite the likeness of you, isn’t it, Lord Linwood?” The young man straightened. In his hand, he held the portrait Clare had painted of Emmett.
He stared, uncomprehending, at the picture of himself. How had it come to be here? “You brought it with you?” he finally asked, returning his gaze to Clare.
There was no mistaking who had elicited the blush that reddened her cheeks now. “It’s the only other portrait I’ve completed, so it made sense to bring it along. If I ever choose to do another, with a live model, it’ll be nice to see if my skill has improved.” Her explanations tumbled over each other. When they stopped, she abruptly stood and began gathering up her supplies. “Antonina, let’s clean up and get ready for dinner.”
Emmett and Mr. Sharpe helped them, but Clare insisted on carrying her finished paintings herself, including the one of him. She refused to look at him as the four of them went inside. Not that Emmett minded so much. He was too busy thinking.
Clare had brought the portrait—his portrait—to Sicily. It wasn’t happenstance that she had either. The picture had been hanging in a frame at Hadwell House, not mixed among her other paintings. That meant she had deliberately removed the portrait to bring it with her. What he couldn’t reason out was why.
When they reached her room, she directed them to set her supplies in the hallway. She opened her door as Emmett started down the corridor toward his own room. Something compelled him to look back, though. He found Clare watching him. The look in her eyes was a mixture of awkwardness and regret but also . . . hope. Then she disappeared inside her bedroom.
He’d seen enough, though. Enough to know why she’d brought that particular painting with her—and it changed everything.
Clare still cared for him; she might even still love him. Emmett shook his head in stunned amazement as he entered his room. He didn’t know her reasons for leaving England without him, though he was beginning to suspect they had little to do with his title or wanting to live apart. What he did know was that he’d been given a glimpse into the future and the possibility that it might not be too late for them.
*
Sleep was near impossible for Clare that night. She kept seeing Emmett’s look of surprise when he’d discovered she had brought his portrait with her to Taormina. What reason he had assigned to her actions, she didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure herself what had motivated her to bring the picture along or whether doing so had been a mistake or an excellent idea.
At last she’d finally fallen asleep, only to be awakened some time later by Miriam. The maid had kindly offered to sleep in Antonina’s room for a few nights to allow Clare to get more rest. And, to Clare’s relief, the little girl had gone two whole nights without a nightmare. Until tonight, when she had apparently startled awake and asked for Clare.
By morning, Clare felt turned inside out and upside down with exhaustion and nausea. She’d been so confident that painting pictures would help Antonina continue to sleep well, but it hadn’t. What more could she do to help the girl move through her grief? She hated knowing Antonina was still hurting, especially at night.
Clare didn’t bother hiding the lines under her eyes before going down to breakfast. The source of her fatigue included trying to pretend for Mr. Sharpe’s benefit that everything was fine. In reality, she wasn’t sure from one moment to the next if things were improving or not between her and Emmett. The little girl they’d both come to love was still traumatized by the earthquake, and so was Clare’s husband, though Emmett likely wouldn’t admit it. Then there was the matter of returning to England and joining the campaign trail, which was likely to be a grueling experience. Clare had yet to decide, too, if she ought to risk returning to someplace cold or remain in Sicily. Her head ached from all the ruminating on what to do in each situation.
Emmett offered a cheery “Good morning” and a perfunctory kiss to her cheek when she entered the dining room. On other days, Clare hadn’t minded his now-familiar greeting—there had even been moments when she’d enjoyed it. This morning, however, the playacting grated on her. She let Emmett and Mr. Sharpe do most of the talking as she ate what she needed to in order to assuage her queasiness. Antonina seemed equally out of sorts as Clare. The child mostly picked at her food before asking if she could leave the table.
“Do you want to help with the sewing today?” Clare asked her.
Antonina studied her plate and shook her head.
“Nina?” She waited for the girl to lift her chin. “It’s all right. You don’t have to help.” Maybe being around the other refugee children and their mothers reminded Antonina too much of the family she’d lost. “You can draw or read. Or see if Signora Russo has some dough for you to bake.”
The girl appeared to consider the options. “I want to see Signora Russo.”
“I think that sounds fun.” After offering the child a smile, she watched Antonina exit the dining room. Antonina needed to have fun, to laugh, to be carefree. Hopefully in time she would gain back her spirits, but Clare was still concerned. If only Emmett would talk to the girl.
Clare excused herself a minute or two later. The women would be here soon to start another day of sewing. As she entered the drawing room, she heard footfalls behind her.
“Is everything all right, Clare?” Emmett’s voice trailed after her. “You were rather quiet at breakfast.”
She started to nod, then thought better of it. “No,” she said, turning around. “Everything is not all right.” She rubbed at her aching forehead. “Antonina’s nightmares, and yours, are making it difficult to get much sleep.”
“I should have realized that sooner. I’m sorry.”
His sincere tone and troubled expression prompted tears of exhaustion to form in her eyes. Clare blinked them back in order to speak. “I appreciate that.”
“Why don’t you go lie down?” He stepped back, allowing her a clear path to the door. “Nina is fine, and I can wait to leave until after the sewing gets underway.”
A nap, even one this early, sounded wonderful. Still, Clare hesitated. Her getting more sleep this morning would solve only one problem.
“I’m worried about her, Emmett. I really thought painting would help her, but instead she woke up crying after having slept through until morning two nights in a row.” Clare glanced toward the door to make sure Mr. Sharpe hadn’t followed them. “I’m wondering if there have been too many changes in too short a time—a new house, a new family. Have you noticed she rarely smiles? Every child, regardless of where they live or what they’ve gone through, needs a reason to smile and an excuse to have fun.”
He offered what she guessed was meant to be a reassuring look. “I’m confident she’ll come around. It hasn’t even been two weeks since the earthquake. We just need to give her more time to adjust.”
Instead of inspiring comfort, his optimistic words irritated her. “I don’t agree, not entirely. I think she needs more than time. She needs a way to express her grief. If you would only talk with her . . .”
“We discussed that, Clare.” Emmett pocketed his hands and frowned down at the rug. “Talking with her is only going to distress her more, not less.”
“Maybe,” she countered with barely veiled annoyance. “But I still think it’s worth trying.” They were talking in circles, and she felt even more fatigued standing here. “I believe I’ll take you up on your offer to go lie down.” Clare moved toward the door. “I only ask that you not act indifferent toward her sorrow, Emmett.”
Her next words, ones she was too weary to hold back, slipped from her lips in a whisper. “As you have with me.”
“You think I’ve felt indifferent toward you?” His hand on her arm halted her retreat.
As she turned to face him, Clare allowed all of the frustration and hurt of the past to flood her answer. “Yes.”
“Is that what you believe I feel for you right now?”
She’d never seen such a look on his face before. It was a strange mixture of disappointment and hope, weariness and resolve. Maybe even a little fear. “Yes,” she repeated, though it held less bite this time. “By and large, I do think you feel indifferent toward me.”
“Then tell me this, Clare.” The low timbre of his voice sent a pleasant shiver up her back. “Does this feel like indifference?”
His gaze held hers as he cupped the side of her face, his fingers warm along her jawline and where they brushed the top of her neck. Clare managed to pull in a shaky breath right before he kissed her. Her pulse responded to his touch, though she held the rest of herself still, both eager and afraid of getting lost in his kiss. But when Emmett released her elbow and wrapped his arm around her back, she leaned into him and matched his ardent kiss with her own.
A noise outside the front door startled them apart. Blushing, Clare darted a glance in the direction of the foyer, half-expecting to find Mr. Sharpe standing there, watching. But the foyer stood empty, at least until the group of sewers and their children entered the villa.
Clare turned to Emmett, her heart still beating too fast. Had they really just kissed? What did it mean? She wasn’t sure, but there was a tenderness shining in her husband’s light-blue eyes that she hadn’t seen in a very long time. A question hovered there too.
“You’re right,” she answered. She took a step away from him and ensured her hair was still in place. “That felt nothing like indifference.”
The grin he sent her way made her middle flutter with near-forgotten emotion. “I’m relieved to hear that.”
“Buongiorno, ladies.” Clare nodded to each member of the group as they came into the drawing room. “We’ll begin where we ended yesterday.”
“I suppose I’d best be off,” Emmett said, though he gave her mouth a meaningful glance. Clare blushed again. “Are you going to lie down?”
She shook her head. “I don’t feel so tired anymore.”
His answering smile erased the last remnants of her exhaustion. “I’ll see you this afternoon, my dear.” This time, she recognized, his endearment was meant for no one else’s benefit but her own.
“Until this afternoon,” Clare echoed as he left the room.
Squaring her shoulders, she faced the sewing group with a real smile and renewed energy. And yet the day now seemed to stretch overly long before her. There would be hours to fill before she saw Emmett again and they could finally talk about what had happened between them.
Somerset, England, December 1908: Four weeks earlier
Emmett sipped his drink and studied the holiday decorations tastefully displayed about the drawing room. The bright pine boughs and festoons of ribbon couldn’t help but lift one’s mood and inspire thoughts of good will. He nearly hadn’t come tonight, since people would likely ask why Clare wasn’t with him. But his father had baulked at the idea of Emmett staying home. Their family, including Emmett’s sisters and their spouses, always attended the neighbors’ annual Christmas party. However, it was his mother’s suggestion that being around other people might be good for him, which had swayed his decision in favor of attending. And he was glad he had.
When their host and hostess asked after Clare, Emmett had simply replied, “The cold is very difficult for her, so she is in Sicily.” The older couple had nodded with sympathy and expressed their delight at his presence. Emmett guessed they were curious as to why he hadn’t gone to Italy with his wife but were too polite to ask.
Other than having to repeat the reasons for his wife’s absence several more times, he’d enjoyed the conversation at dinner and the superb food. And yet he struggled with frequent bursts of melancholy because he kept thinking of things he wanted to say to Clare—how delicious the current dish was or did she also find it humorous that the gentleman across the table used his napkin so often—only to remember his wife wasn’t there.
Emmett hadn’t heard from her since receiving her letter that outlined her plans to leave, but he figured she hadn’t actually been in Taormina for long. Hopefully a letter would be forthcoming, along with a fuller explanation as to why she’d left.
Setting aside his empty glass, he rose to his feet and crossed the room to examine the painting hanging above the mantel. It was a nice picture of the estate, but it lacked some of the texture and details of Clare’s landscapes. Perhaps she would paint Barksley Hall one day, and they could hang her picture in their own drawing room.
“Rather odd, isn’t it? For his wife to be gone now,” he heard a woman whisper loudly from somewhere behind him.
Emmett winced before reminding himself she might not be talking about Clare. Her companion, whose voice he recognized as Lady Melinda’s, responded, “Yes, but most American heiresses are rather odd.”
His first guess had been correct—they were discussing his wife after all. Emmett started to turn away, not wanting to hear anymore. But Lady Melinda’s next remark bound him in place.
“I do have it on good authority that she only agreed to marry him because it gave her not only a courtesy title but access to an even more prestigious one when he becomes marquess.” The widow’s tone was cold with judgment and disapproval. It was infuriating, and yet try as he might, Emmett couldn’t make himself walk away. “It’s also been more than a year since their wedding, but no heir has been forthcoming. I wouldn’t be surprised if in the absence of having a child, this trip to Sicily is her preparation for beginning a separate life, away from him. She’ll get to keep his title, after all, wherever she lives.”
Somehow he found the strength to finally move. Emmett strode to the opposite side of the room, not wishing to hear anymore. What he’d heard already stung badly enough. Could there be any truth to Lady Melinda’s words? He didn’t want to believe them, but he’d been gone from Hadwell House for weeks now. Weeks in which his wife had likely seen and spoken with the widow. Would Clare have taken the other woman into her confidence?
He tugged at his collar in a vain effort to loosen it. Clare and Lady Melinda hadn’t struck him as being friends, especially since the widow appeared to still be bitter over Emmett’s choice of a wife. He could even believe that she’d take pleasure from his potential unhappiness with Clare. Melinda had been that way as a girl—it was one of the reasons Emmett had never considered marriage to her. If she couldn’t have what she wanted, then she sought to disrupt the happiness of those who did.
Still, her explanations regarding Clare’s actions couldn’t be devoid of any amount of truth, could they? Surely there was a grain of fact somewhere among the possible embellishments. But which of her statements were truth and which were not?
Had Clare truly only married him for his title? Emmett didn’t want to consider it. And yet it was the first thing since Clare’s last letter that made any amount of sense. If she’d chosen him solely for a title, then there was little reason for her to stay in England with him, especially when they hadn’t yet been able to have a family of their own. Many of his married acquaintances began living separate lives, once the requisite heir and spare were born. Might Clare be doing the same, giving up on the idea of children now that she had his title but couldn’t stay pregnant?
The possibilities hurt his head. Worst of all, the likelihood that his wife hadn’t married him for love hurt his heart. Too angry and confused to remain at the party, he found his mother and informed her that he was leaving early. Then he made his excuses to the host and hostess.
As he climbed into the carriage for the ride home, Emmett reminded himself that the gnawing ache inside him would eventually fade away. He knew this from experience. And right now, that future event was the only thing for which he felt any degree of confidence.