Carina entered the house quietly and crept past the drawing room where Alice was playing the piano. Her maid, Rose, was waiting in the bedroom and she undressed and climbed into the bathtub. She lay soaking in the warm water and by the time she returned to the bedroom it was six o’clock. Without much interest, she picked out a gown of blue crêpe and stood while Rose fixed the lacing on her corset. Then she went to sit at the dressing table.
Rose brushed her hair with long, smooth strokes as thoughts went tearing round her head. Oliver had said Alice was to travel with her as chaperone and Carina was swept by resentment on her aunt’s behalf. Why should poor Alice have to journey halfway across the continent at his behest? What did Oliver think would happen to her if the house were closed?
‘Your aunt’s given up so much to care for you. She’s still a young woman. I hope she finds happiness for herself one day.’
Carina recalled the words of her friend, Harry Carstairs. For sure he was referring to Sir Anthony Farne, a widower from Northumberland. He had become a frequent visitor to Mount Street and, for the first time in her life, Alice was in love. Harry’s understanding of human nature was uncluttered by experience, but, for once, Carina agreed with him. If their courtship foundered, then she would be to blame.
How had it all gone so wrong? She should have listened to Alice, but it was too late now. She had to think herself out of this mess and an idea took shape in her mind. She would ask Harry to speak to Robert Danby. They belonged to the same club and he might be able to extract an apology. Oliver wouldn’t be able to send her away then. What was it Danby had called her? An unscrupulous hussy? Carina shook her head hopelessly. Lord Danby’s priority was to save his own skin and he would never back down.
Two oval miniatures stood on the table and Carina picked up the one of her father and held it to her lips. It brought back to her the grief she suffered when he died. She had wanted to run with the pain and coped in the only way she knew how. She was young, her spirit of survival strong, and she had pursued everything and anything that filled the void inside. Living on the bright edge of life, nothing mattered so much that it could hurt her again – and this was the result.
Carina put the miniature down and studied the portrait of her mother. Sonia Temple had the expression of a woman who knew her own mind. How would she advise her daughter, she wondered? Would her mother tell her to submit to Oliver?
You will go to Sicily. The knowledge came to Carina with an absolute certainty she had experienced before. For as long as she could remember, she had been susceptible to a sixth sense – a voice in her head telling her what would happen. Her premonitions were rarely wrong and she drew a surprised breath.
‘Are you feeling unwell, ma’am?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Carina saw Rose’s worried face in the glass and forced a smile. ‘I will write my journal and ring when I’m ready.’
Rose left the room and Carina pressed her hands to her cheeks. It was so unfair, but life was unfair and self-pity never helped anyone. Alice had been both sister and mother to her. She was the most important person in her life and, if the outcome of this afternoon couldn’t be undone, then she must come first.
So, why not go to Sicily? Her grandmother – the Contessa Denuzio – was eighty and a visit long overdue. Once Carina was safely in Palermo, Alice could return to England while she stayed on under the contessa’s protection. There was one condition. She would let it be known this was her decision and had nothing to do with Lord Danby or Oliver Temple. A winter in the Mediterranean was hardly a life sentence, after all. Hadn’t Byron and Shelley taken refuge in warmer, friendlier climes when society turned against them?
Lord knew, she was weary of London. Hot houses smelled sweet, but they suffocated you if you stayed in them too long. Alice was her closest companion and Carina had few girlfriends. Young women of her age were mostly concerned with the pursuit of a wealthy husband while her ambition was to be a poet. She read every piece of verse she could lay her hands on and knew most of the Romantics by heart. Carina wasn’t sure that she was any good, but Alice had always encouraged her.
There was time before dinner and she went over to the bureau and took a small bound volume from the drawer. She held it under her nose, smelling the soft leather, before she began to turn the pages. Along with a first edition of Byron’s Childe Harold, her journal was her most treasured possession. Quotations were interspersed with scatterings of verse and she skipped to the first blank page. Picking up a pen, she stroked the feathered end against her cheek. Then she dipped the nib in the inkwell and began to write.
If I am to trace the footsteps of my hero on his Pilgrimage—
Here, she broke off and neatly scored through the line. She thought for a moment and then wrote beneath:
Remember thee, remember thee!
When exiled far in Sicily,
O false uncle, doubt thee not
A fiend like thee is best forgot!
Her mood brightened for the first time that day. Writing stilled the clamour in her head and she felt calmer. She blew on the ink and closed the journal, returning it to the drawer before she rang the bell for Rose. It was time to finish dressing and go down for dinner.