La Vie, sans toi, ma Bien Aimée? Comment puis-je supporter?
—Carvajel
Life without you, my Heart? Is it possible?
Juillet 1753
Arles
Christina lay her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath of air heavily laden with all the smells of the city. When she opened her eyes again she saw the clear blue sky overhead, with a few gulls circling high above the red-tiled rooftops and was overwhelmed by a giddy sensation of freedom. It was the first time she’d left Guy’s house on her own since they were married. For an instant she wished she could direct her driver to turn left and take her across the Rhône and through the countryside to Beauvu, back to Richard. But knowing he was no longer there dampened her desire to escape the city.
The driver turned right instead, taking her past the ancient theater to the street that circled the huge arena. As the carriage followed the curve of structure, she looked up at tier after tier of stone arches, admiring the ambitious Romans who’d built the imposing edifice nearly eighteen hundred years before, when Arles itself had been an important provincial capital.
On the far side of the arena, the carriage turned into a narrow street and pulled up before an impressive set of wooden doors with heavy brass handles in the shape of elephant heads. The footman pulled the bell. And as a servant swung the doors wide, he helped Christina from the carriage.
She entered a courtyard filled with riotous color. Everywhere she looked flowers bloomed in large pots, often escaping their containers and cascading over the sides and onto the ground. There seemed to be no formality in the arrangement of the different types of plants, but the overall effect was one of uninhibited celebration. Maryse came out to greet her.
“Oh, I’m so happy you’ve come,” she said, taking Christina by the arm.
“I’m pleased you invited me, Madame.”
“Come now, I hope we’ll become great friends. You must call me Maryse.”
“Then you must call me Christina,” she answered, feeling that her initial response to this woman had been the right one.
Maryse’s home was elegant, a haven of light and soft pastel colors. The entry hall was floored with white marble and the paneling painted a pale shade of green. Maryse led her upstairs and into the salon overlooking the courtyard.
“It’s beautiful!” Christina exclaimed. The room was decorated exclusively in shades of pink, blue and ivory. On the walls were murals depicting Oriental dancers striking graceful poses amid flocks of exotically plumed birds. The carpet beneath her feet echoed the graceful curves of the birds’ feathers.
“I’m glad you like it. I had the designs copied from a book given to me by my mother.”
Christina remembered what Maryse had said to Estelle Layglon. “Is it true? Is your grandfather really a king?”
Maryse laughed. “It’s true. But the King of Siam has hundreds of wives and my mother was one of many, many daughters. She was sent to the court at Versailles, the gift of one king to another.”
Maryse saw the expression on Christina’s face. “Oh, she wasn’t unhappy to be there—my mother had quite a sense of adventure. But you know how it is at court, the liaisons move and shift like eddies in a river. And there is no room for children in that milieu, so I ended up here in Arles, with my father’s cousin, Madame Dijol.”
Christina didn’t know what to say. To abandon a young girl in a brothel…and yet Maryse’s story reminded her of something, something from the past that she couldn’t quite remember.
Maryse noticed the far away expression on Christina’s face and mistook it for deep concern.
“Oh, please,” said Maryse, placing her hand on Christina’s arm in an effort to reassure her. “You mustn’t think I’ve had a difficult life. I was very fortunate and I was always treated very well. Can you imagine how awful it would have been to remain at court? Believe me, I’m very happy with my life.”
Christina studied her new friend’s face. She did seem happy.
“And I hope you’ve forgiven me for being so rude to Madame Layglon. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“On the contrary,” Christina insisted, “I think you did a wonderful job, one that needed doing. But…”
“Yes?”
Christina felt her cheeks color. “I suppose what you said did surprise me.”
Maryse smiled. Christina was so young. What must she be now? All of seventeen?
“I apologize. It’s been some time since anyone has felt it necessary to mention my background. It’s common enough knowledge in this town, but no one seems bothered by it these days. Afterall, I married Christien five years ago. Those who considered his choice of brides a scandal seem to have found other things to gossip about.”
A servant arrived a few minutes later, bearing a tray with a plate of exquisite little cakes and a pot of tea, which he set down on the table in front of the women.
“So, you know my history. Would you like to tell me about yourself?” Maryse asked as she poured the steaming green liquid into delicate china cups painted all over with pink roses.
Christina looked at the roses. Before she could become swept away by memories, she launched into her own story. She told Maryse of her years in the convent and her singing and her travels, but though she tried to avoid it, Richard’s name crept into her story over and over again. And though she never mentioned how she’d loved him, beyond saying that she thought they would marry, how could she have left him out of her story?
Maryse stopped her now and then to ask a question or share an observation, but for the most part she let Christina talk. She noticed how beautiful the girl was as she spoke, becoming more animated and lovely as her cares seemed to slip away. Maryse was not at all surprised that Richard was so deeply in love with her. And she also noticed how his name became a part of the narrative more and more often as Christina went on. It was obvious she’d loved him. Maryse suspected that, perhaps, she still did.
“I suppose you know that my brother was murdered, but I can assure you that Richard wasn’t responsible.” Christina looked at Maryse. Suddenly, it seemed very important that someone else believe in Richard’s innocence.
“Of course not. He loved your brother.”
“What?”
Maryse quickly made to cover her slip of the tongue. “Why from everything you’ve told me, it was obvious, Christina.”
“Oh, yes. Well, he left after Marco died. I was very unhappy and so my father persuaded me to marry Guy.”
“And are you happy now, my dear?” Maryse asked gently.
“It was difficult in the beginning, but I think perhaps I’m partly to blame.” Christina smiled sadly. “I could have behaved better. It was just so soon after losing Marco and then when Richard left…”
Maryse said nothing and gave Christina a chance to recover. She could see the girl was on the verge of tears.
“Please forgive me.” Christina reached for her handkerchief. “I’m beginning to think that growing up means accepting that the dreams we had as children will never come true. I’m afraid I’m still having a little difficulty with that.” She smiled apologetically.
“Dear girl,” Maryse said, taking Christina’s hand. “I’m afraid that growing up is difficult for all of us, but I promise you, it does get easier.”
There was a knock at the doors and a lovely young woman appeared with Maryse’s children. The three-year-old boy, Albert, was handsome and playful and the little girl, Janine, almost a year old, was quite pleased with herself as she walked to greet her mother, hanging on tightly to her nursemaid’s fingers. Christina was delighted with the children and spent the next hour playing with them. Then Maryse showed her through the rest of the house.
When Christina left that day, she knew she’d found a friend.
It was nearly two weeks before the letter reached Richard.
He was lodging at the Taverno Corso in Bonifacio, at the extreme southern tip of the island of Corsica. The inn was was located on the narrow street that faced the water. It was clean, the food tolerable. Though he was chafing at the inactivity of his exile, Richard had not yet decided to open up the cottage his family owned on the hill above the town’s small harbor. He chose instead to stay along the waterfront, to be at the center of the activity of the family business, and also so he would be there when Christina arrived.
He spent his days going over the logs at the warehouse, arranging business transactions on behalf of his father, and meeting any ships that might arrive on route to or from the south of France. But no word came from Arles and neither did Christina.
The ground floor of the inn was cut deep into the natural limestone of the hillside surrounding the harbor, walled with more stone and neatly whitewashed overall, though the pristine coating, annually renewed, was quickly stained with the smoke from the fireplaces, lanterns and candles. One side of the space had become a long narrow dining room providing meals and convivial drinking company for guests—sailors and residents alike. For centuries, manmade caverns like this one had been used as storehouses for those needing immediate access to the harbor. Over the centuries, some had been adapted by the various businesses that traded along the waterfront.
As the sun slipped behind the hill on the other side of the harbor, the soft glow of lanterns began to flicker in the windows along the water. It was late, a quiet evening with few customers left in the dimly lit dining room. As usual, Richard was working, going over some bills of lading.
He was distracted momentarily by the pretty serving maid as she stopped to light the lantern on the long plank table next to the window where he sat. She pushed it closer to him so he might have more light for his paperwork, then moved on to the next table, the next candle. When she passed his table again, he caught the scent of bergamot. Curious, he watched as she moved around the room, realizing for the first time that from a distance she looked a little like Christina.
Surely, he’d seen her before and he was surprised he hadn’t noticed the resemblance. Her hair under the kerchief she wore was much curlier, but the color in the soft light seemed close to Christina’s rich brown. She was older, certainly, perhaps even a few years older than he was, though it was difficult to judge—so many of the Corsicans led hard lives. A frown crossed his face as he watched her. If Christina didn’t arrive soon, he strongly suspected that half the female population of Bonifacio would begin to resemble her. Reluctantly, he went back to his papers.
A man dressed like a sailor came through the doorway, made a quiet inquiry of the proprietor, then found his way to where Richard was sitting.
“Signore?”
The man was a stranger, but he was holding a letter addressed to Richard. The handwriting was Robert’s.
“Grazie,” Richard said, taking the letter and handing the man a coin from the small pile on the table in front of him.
The man bowed respectfully and disappeared.
Richard turned the letter over in his hand, broke the seal and unfolded the stiff paper.
3 Juillet, 1753
Beloved Brother,
I hope this finds you well and comfortable in your new circumstances. I’m afraid that I, by necessity, have become the bearer of bad news or at least of news
I know you will find hard to understand—
Christina and Guy were married Saturday last.
I performed the ceremony myself.
Richard, I know this must come as a terrible shock to you, but she hasn’t been herself since Marco died.
We all felt it would be for the best and Christina did not seem to be opposed.
I know you love her, Richard, so I only ask that you join me in praying for her future happiness.
Yours in Christ,
Robert
Richard reread the words, and stood up, staring blankly out the window at the last shimmer of light on the water. He felt as though he’d been hit hard in the stomach. The sting of tears made him blink as he fought off the horrid feeling of emptiness that suddenly engulfed him. His mind was filled with thoughts of Christina—memories of her singing, laughing, the bright playful child he’d always loved. And suddenly, the face he remembered was Christina the woman, on their last night together. How on earth had this happened?
The serving maid was curious about the handsome young man who’d taken up residence at the inn. Though he’d been there almost two weeks, she’d been unable to attract his attention. Everything about him indicated he was a gentleman, yet he was dressed like a common sailor. To be sure, the linen of his shirt was finer than most, perhaps the fabric in his breeches showed little sign of wear, and his tall, black boots were always well polished. But his skin was tanned, and she could sometimes catch a glimpse of a gold chain at his neck. All in all, he was both attractive and mysterious enough to spark her curiosity. And while he had been unfailingly polite to her, it was obvious from the day he arrived that he had other things on his mind, other things that concerned him deeply.
That evening she was watching him as he read the letter. She saw him grow pale, his jaw tightening as he quickly scanned the paper. Then she saw the tears.
She slipped into the kitchen and pulled down a clean apron, quickly tying it around her waist. She adjusted her chemise, loosening the tie just a bit so that the neckline dipped a little lower. Then she tightened her bodice, accentuating her full breasts. She picked up a tray of mugs and returned to the mysterious gentleman’s table. He was still standing at the window, seemingly staring out at nothing. She set down her tray, stepped closer to him and laid her hand on his arm.
“Signore, is there something I can do?” She said it flirtatiously, familiar with the simplest way to turn a man’s mind from distressing thoughts.
Her gentle touch and her husky voice caught Richard’s attention and he looked down at her and smiled sadly. He studied her face a moment, acutely aware of what she was offering. He touched her cheek. She did look like Christina—a little. He hesitated a moment more, then he kissed her.
Neither of them spoke as they climbed the two flights of narrow stairs to Richard’s room. When she immediately made to light the other candles in the shuttered room, he laid a restraining hand on her arm. He set her candle on the table beside the bed. Taking her hand he looked at her for a moment and then leaned over and blew out the flame. She understood. Many men preferred she become someone else for a time.
She waited, while he undressed in the dark. Then he came back to her and began to unlace her bodice. Muffled sounds drifted up from the kitchen below but Richard was silent. She found herself strangely excited by the tremendous strength she sensed beneath his gentleness. She closed her eyes and willingly gave herself up to the fantasy that she was the one that the handsome young stranger wanted.
He only called her Chrissa once that night, but she felt his pain as he tried time and time again to do everything he could to please the woman he loved. Finally, as he lay with his head on her breast, she felt his tears and her heart went out to him. There was nothing she could do but stroke his hair until at last he slept.
At four-thirty in the morning, Richard slipped out of bed and dressed quietly. He paused to look down at the soundly sleeping woman. She looked younger, softer somehow, in the dim light. He sighed as he left a gold coin on the pillow beside her and went out.
He walked along the waterfront, busy at that hour as the last of the fishing boats prepared to go out for the day’s catch, and finally turned up the steep cobbled street that led to the Haute Ville.
The twelfth century fortress of the Citadel loomed dark and forbidding against the hint of dawn that was beginning to turn the eastern sky the palest shade of pink. But Richard walked on. The cool morning air helped clear his head. Christina and Guy were married. He couldn’t understand it. Claude’s words echoed in his mind, and he reminded himself how young she was and that she was probably incapable of making the decision to follow him. Yet it was no child he’d made love to that night in the barn.
Beyond the pain and the grief, he was bewildered by the strange turn of events. He’d been so sure of her love for so many years that he’d never once entertained any thoughts of a future that didn’t include her. His beloved Christina had probably made what seemed to her a logical choice, and yet he felt very uneasy about it. For one thing, he was unsure of Guy. Why did Guy suddenly decide he wanted Christina? There was something going on that Richard simply couldn’t fathom and it worried him.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the soft scent of the macchia that covered the hills surrounding the harbor. It was the signature scent of the island and it always recalled his childhood—happy times spent with friends and family in that idyllic setting. He knew there was now no choice but to turn his thoughts from what he’d lost and make some sort of plans for the future—a future without the woman he loved.
At the top of the steep street, in the saddle at the narrowest point of the ridge on that side of the peninsula, Richard crossed the path and stopped at the low limestone wall to gaze down on the sea more than a hundred feet below. The gulls were beginning to make lazy circles in the early light above the limestone columns rising a short distance from shore. Instead of turning right toward the ancient citadel and the Haute Ville, he turned abruptly to the left where the narrow cobbled track ran north along the cliff. He followed the path up the hill and reached the top just as the sun emerged from the sea.
Richard’s grandfather had built the cottage in the style of the countryside, of sturdy limestone that glowed a warm shade of pink in the rosy morning light. The building stood alone on the ridge of the hill, walled all around with more limestone laid shoulder high. He stopped beside the formidable gate posts and looked down at the harbor below, his eyes following the small boats of the fishermen as the last of them made their way out the long narrow entrance to the harbor.
He took the key from the pouch at his waist, and slipped it into the heavy lock. In spite of the rusted exterior, the mechanism was well oiled and it turned smoothly. He swung the wooden gate open, the aged hinges moving soundlessly. He crossed the small courtyard, fit the smaller key into the door and went in.
The house was maintained, aired and cleaned monthly, though neither Richard nor any of the rest of the family had used it in more than eight years. He had fond memories of time spent there as a child, and as he walked slowly from room to room glancing at the covered furniture, he made a decision. He would reopen the cottage.
He went into his old bedroom and threw open the window and shutters to the sun and the fresh sea air. He stood there a moment, looking out across the strait to the misty outline of the northern coast of Sardinia.
Richard knew that the trouble with Marco’s murder might well prevent him from ever going home again, but he could still sail on any of his father’s ships that weren’t bound for Arles. He thought it might be good to be at sea again, knowing the hard work aboard ship would help keep his mind off his loss. Returning from the ships to the cottage would give him a sense of permanence, a home away from home.
The decision made, Richard closed up the house and headed back down to the harbor.
He stopped for breakfast at one of the other taverns on the wharf, then returned to the Taverna Corso. The serving maid was clearing the tables from the morning meal. When she saw him, she smiled.
“Could I speak to you, upstairs?” he asked quietly.
“I’ll be along in a minute,” she replied, picking up a tray of dishes and carrying them toward the kitchen. What does he want? Surely I’ve done nothing wrong, yet he left early without so much as a word. She was apprehensive, though she knew there was no reason for it.
When Richard returned to his room the shutters were open, filling the small space with light dancing off the water below. There, on the pillow of the neatly made bed was the gold coin. He picked it up, frowning as he closed his fingers around the worn metal.
There was a soft knock at the door.
“Come in and close the door, please.”
She stood facing him, hoping he didn’t find the sight of her by daylight disappointing in some way.
“It seems that I owe you an apology,” he said holding out the coin.
“No, Signore,” she said, blushing prettily.
“I didn’t want you to misunderstand what happened last night.”
“As I recall, it was my doing,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes.
This was not the response he expected. “Perhaps we’re both responsible then, but it would please me if you would take this as an offer of my appreciation.” He took her hand, pressing the coin into it.
She hesitated, looking at Richard and then at the coin. She felt her cheeks flush again as she tried to think of something other than his grey eyes. She found herself wishing he would take her in his arms again and hold her as he had the night before, but she knew that was foolish. A gentleman like this one had only one use for a woman like her. Her fingers closed around the coin. She knew he would feel better for having paid her and she needed the money.
“Grazie, Signore,” she said softly.
“I must apologize, but I don’t know your name.”
“Arabella, but I’m called Bella.” She wasn’t sure why she felt so awkward with him. There had been so many others and this one, for all his manners and gentleness was not much different. And yet she knew he was.
“It’s a lovely name, Bella.” It was difficult to talk to her when she refused to look at him. He turned and looked out the window at the busy harbor. He was suddenly quite anxious to settle the matter and sail.
“I have a cottage here in Bonifacio, and I was thinking of using it. Is there any chance that you might be interested in becoming my housekeeper?” He turned back to her, curious to see her reaction.
Arabella looked up, surprised. A generous offer to be sure, but he wasn’t smiling. His eyes were unreadable and for a moment she was unsure. She longed to get away from the inn and the transients she was forced to spend her time with, but until that moment no suitable options had ever presented themselves. She had no doubt at all that this man would prove a much kinder master than the innkeeper.
“Signore, I don’t know what to say. I would be so grateful.”
Richard walked over to her and put his hands on her shoulders.
“There’s something I want you to understand. I’m asking you to keep my house, not share my bed. What happened last night will not happen again.”
“Are you married, Signore?” she asked, though she knew the answer. When she’d cleaned his room that morning, she’d found Robert’s letter. She did not read French well, but could translate most of the brief message.
“No,” he said, releasing her. “I’m not married. But neither am I looking for a mistress.”
“I understand, Signore. I would be honored to work for you.” She dipped into a respectful curtsy.
“Good. Can you finish up here today? I could take you up to the house in the morning.”
“Si, Signore.” She curtsied again, wondering what she had done to deserve such a miracle.
Arabella would never know how big a part the scent of bergamot had played in what had happened to her in the last twelve hours.
Richard set up an open account for Arabella with Gérrard at the warehouse. He made arrangements for Alfredo, the old caretaker, and his grandson, Tomas, to move back into the servants’ quarters at the cottage. He gave Arabella Robert’s old room and saw that she was reasonably settled in her new circumstances.
Three days later, Richard sailed.
Guy waited for his carriage on the steps in front of Madame Dijol’s. He paced back and forth impatiently, taking no notice of the liveried footmen who stood at the door. Over the last two days all the troubles he’d discarded in favor of debauchery had raised themselves from the pool of alcohol in which he’d attempted to drown them and proceeded to remind him they must be dealt with.
He hadn’t been surprised when that mouse of a man, Layglon, had been too timid to invest in his enterprise, but when the fat pig of a baker refused to participate, he’d flown into a rage. Christina had spent an inordinate amount of time with the whore, and he’d encouraged her, thinking it would insure his success.
At home things had been going well. Christina seemed happy and he felt sure he was making progress at securing a place for himself in her affections.
His driver arrived and he settled himself gingerly in consideration of his aching muscles and his pounding head. He smiled sardonically, admitting to himself that the last two days’ entertainment had surely cost him a pretty penny but the time spent in the company of people whose names and faces he could no longer remember had done little to distract him from his worries. Certainly nothing had been resolved and it was imperative he find a solution. He’d already signed the papers to purchase the factory in Venice, so sure had he been of Chabannier’s participation.
Guy needed a great deal of money and he needed it soon.
Christina settled into her life with Guy and now, three months into her marriage, she found that she was beginning to enjoy being the mistress of her own house.
With Maryse’s help—and Guy’s permission—she had even begun to redo some of the rooms, to give them the warmth and beauty they so badly needed. The house was a little larger than her father’s and she found herself caught up in all the plans entailed in making it her own. Guy didn’t seem to object and had, in fact, encouraged her.
She still missed Richard terribly, but she found that if she kept herself busy, there was little enough time left in which to recall her loss, except of course at night when sleep brought with it dreams…and tears. And though in the silent moments of the night she ached for Richard, she was beginning to make peace with her situation.
She came down the stairs after changing clothes in anticipation of spending the afternoon with Maryse. When she reached the entry hall, Guy came through the front door.
He looked worn and tired, but when he saw her, he smiled. “Christina, are you going out, my dear?”
The stale smell of alcohol and cigars soured his breath and Christina tried to hide her distaste. “I was just on my way to Madame Chabannier’s.”
Guy looked at her for a moment, then turned abruptly and went into the library. “You won’t be seeing her any more,” Guy said as he threw himself down into the chair, his back to the door.
“What?” Christina followed him into the room.
He looked up at her as though he’d forgotten what he’d just said. He remembered—Chabannier. The baker was no longer a part of his plans.
“I said, you won’t be seeing her anymore.”
“But why ever not?”
“Her husband is not investing. You no longer need to spend time with her.”
So that was it. Christina went to him, standing behind the chair and placing her hands on his shoulders sympathetically. Poor Guy. She knew he’d spent a great deal of time on his project.
“I’m sorry your plans didn’t work out, but my friendship with Madame Chabannier has nothing to do with your business ventures.”
Guy took her hands and drew her fingers to his lips, kissing them. He closed his eyes. She was so sweet, so good. Even though he was still suffering the effects of the past two days, his breathing quickened as he responded to the touch of her skin.
“Christina…” His voice was just above a whisper. He pressed his head against the back of the chair and looked up at her. “I just can’t have you associating with a woman like that.”
“But why?”
Guy suddenly wanted to be closer to her, to feel her against him and look into those wonderful eyes of hers. He stood up, but when he took a step toward her, she backed away. He stopped.
“She came from a brothel,” he said patiently. “And I don’t want you associating with a whore.” He took another step toward his wife. Again she backed away. He felt his rising passion begin to turn to anger. What is the matter with her? Wasn’t that plain enough? He tried to master his emotions. He just wanted to hold her.
“Guy, I know about her background. That was a long time ago and I don’t see what difference it makes now.”
“Don’t you understand? I’m trying to protect you. It’s my duty as your husband. I’m sure that if you were really aware of her background, you wouldn’t be so anxious to call her your friend.”
“But I do know,” Christina insisted.
“Indeed?”
“She grew up in a brothel. She was…” Christina faltered. Could she say it? “She was…just what you said. A whore.” Was that what he wanted her to say?
“She told you that?” He looked at her suspiciously.
Christina nodded. She was unable to understand what difference any of this could make to Guy. If the entire city of Arles had chosen to ignore Maryse’s background and treat her as a respected member of the community, why was this suddenly upsetting him?
He reached out for her and pulled her against him before she could resist.
“Poor Christina. So innocent,” he said into the softness of her hair. “Did your new found friend also tell you that she was Richard’s whore?”
Christina tried to push away, but he held her tightly.
“Oh, but it’s quite true, my dear. I believe he even made a considerable contribution to her income for the better part of three years.”
Christina pulled away from him and this time he let her go. When he saw the shocked look on her face, he smiled.
“And she must have been quite fond of him because he spent the night with her just three days before her wedding.”
“Why are you saying these things?”
“Because…” he said patiently, “you need to learn that you can’t trust just anyone. You must be very careful who you choose for a friend.”
Christina, unable to believe him, but equally unable to understand why he would want to tell her such a lie, fled the room.
“If you don’t believe me,” he called after her, “why not ask her yourself?” Guy poured himself a drink. He’d just thought of a solution to his business problem. Perhaps it was time to apply a little more pressure to his father-in-law.
Christina flung herself from her carriage before the footman could reach her, and rang the bell herself. When the doors opened for her, she rushed across the courtyard and up the steps. Maryse opened the door just as she arrived.
“Is it true?” she asked breathlessly.
Maryse was confused by Christina’s tears and the desperation in her voice.
“Christina, what is it? Is what true?”
“Was Richard your lover?”
Maryse’s expression of dismay told Christina all she needed to know. She whirled and fled down the steps and back across the courtyard to her carriage.
“Christina, please, you don’t understand…” Maryse followed her, but by the time she reached the street, the carriage had gone.
The weather was extremely good that fall, and when Richard’s ship docked at Bonifacio again in December, it was over a week ahead of schedule.
Richard bade the crew goodbye and went to talk with Gérrard at the warehouse.
“Monsieur de Magniet! You have returned to us early!”
“Only by a week, but we were very fortunate.” Richard laid the manifests on the desk. “So tell me, how are things at the cottage?”
Gérrard shook his head.
“What is it? Has there been a problem?” For the first time since his departure, Richard was concerned. He really hadn’t given Arabella much preparation for managing the cottage.
“No, no,” Gérrard said quickly. “There has been no problem. It is just that Signora Bonelli…”
“Yes?” Lord, had he made a mistake in hiring Arabella?
Gérrard laughed at the worried expression on Richard’s face. “The woman astounds me! She gets by on so little. I must admit I was a bit skeptical of your choice.” He looked sheepishly at Richard. “There was talk, Monsieur. The woman was…”
“I know what she was, Gérrard. My concern is with what she’s become. Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem.” Gérrard realized he was giving Richard the wrong impression and hurried to correct it. “She seems an excellent manager and Alfredo reports that the three of them have gotten along splendidly. He’s very impressed.” Gérrard laughed again. “I also understand she’s a skillful cook, so you can see why Alfredo and his grandson are so happy with your choice.”
Richard laughed, relieved. “Good. I’m going up. I’ll go over these with you in the morning.”
“As you wish. Welcome home, Monsieur.”
“Thank you.”
Richard took the steep zigzagging stone stairs that led up the hillside just beyond the warehouse, enjoying the climb to the foot of the imposing Citadel. The weather was crisp, but the breeze was warmed by the afternoon sun and Richard found himself feeling as though he’d come home.
When he entered the courtyard at the cottage, he was surprised to find a small boy, about four years old, playing in the dirt with a crudely carved wooden boat.
“Well, hello there,” Richard said, squatting down beside the child.
The little boy brushed his light brown hair out of his face and looked at Richard. Then he stood up, and with a last glance back over his shoulder, ran around the side of the house. Richard picked up the abandoned boat and followed.
Arabella was standing in the kitchen yard with a huge pot of steaming laundry, stirring it with one hand while the other balanced a dark-haired little girl on her hip who looked to be about two years old. The little boy ran to her, hiding behind her skirts, peeking out as Richard approached.
“Bella?”
Arabella spun around, a horrified look on her face. “Signore!” She dropped the wooden paddle into the pot, and quickly set the little girl on her feet.
“You’re early! I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you for another week!” Nervously, she wiped her hands on her apron.
“I can see that,” Richard said, smiling.
“Signore, please, forgive me. These are my children, but I swear to you that they’re only with me during the day, and only when you’re gone.”
“Bella…”
“On my life, I swear, I didn’t think you’d mind. My sister keeps them for me, you see, and I really thought that it would be all right to have them with me here, during the day…”
Arabella was frantic. She shouldn’t have had the children there, but she missed them so, and it didn’t hurt anything. She prayed she hadn’t made him angry. If she had to go back to the inn…She closed her eyes, muttering a brief prayer as she tried to stop the tears.
Just then, Alfredo came around the end of the solar wall.
“Signore! Welcome home.” The old man rested his shovel against the stone and came to take Richard’s bag. Then he noticed the expression on Arabella’s face, and realized what had happened.
“Signore, it is my fault. I told the Signora it would be all right with you if she had the children with her during the day. Forgive me. Was it a mistake?”
“No, of course not.” Richard knelt down and motioned to the little girl who had released her mother’s skirt and taken a step toward him.
“Come,” he said gently.
She watched him for a moment, then, apparently deciding it was safe, went to him. Richard scooped her up in the crook of his arm and stood up.
“Well, a beautiful young lady like you must have a name.”
The little girl nodded, her fingers in her mouth.
“Will you tell me?”
She studied him a moment and then, deciding he was trustworthy, leaned close to his ear and whispered something.
“Luisa? What a pretty name. Do you want to know my name?”
Fingers back in her mouth, she nodded again. Richard whispered into her ear this time, and she laughed, clapping her tiny hands together in delight. She leaned close to his ear again, and this time it was Richard’s turn to laugh.
“I think you’re right,” he said to her, confidentially. “It seems this young lady objects to my ‘fragrance’ so I’d best bathe before supper. Bella, please join me for the meal this evening.” He passed Luisa to her mother and went into the house.
Arabella, at a total loss, curtsied. “Si, Signore.”
Both Alfredo and Arabella stood staring after him.
When supper was ready, Arabella called Richard, but when she returned to the morning room with the tray of their food, he wasn’t there. She served the meal and sat down to wait.
Arabella was worried. While preparing their meal she’d decided she would beg him to let her stay, even if it meant never seeing the children. The extra money she made would at least assure them of a good home and adequate food. She was also saving against the day she would be able to send them to school and putting aside a little, as well, for a dowry for Luisa. Arabella was determined that neither of her children would be forced to live as she had.
Richard came through the door and Arabella was instantly on her feet, then dropped into a curtsy.
“Signore.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t find a shirt,” he said, fastening the button at his wrist.
“Forgive me, Signore. I was mending some things, and airing your room. I don’t have everything back in place yet. I will do it tonight.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not important.”
He pulled out her chair for her, and reluctantly, Arabella sat down. It made her feel strange when he treated her so formally. Richard poured her glass full of wine, then his own.
“Bella, tell me about these children of yours.”
“Signore, I’m sorry. I should have told you before, truly, but I was afraid you wouldn’t want me to work for you. This job is very important to me. Please, if you want, I won’t see the children at all, but I want to work for you, Signore. Please.”
“Bella, I’m not upset about the children,” Richard said as he put down his fork and reached for her hand. “I just wish you’d told me. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have them here with you all the time.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Why don’t you move into my mother’s room? Her dressing room is large and should make a nice room for the children.”
“Signore!” Arabella was astonished.
“Bella, I’m happy to have them here, really. Get Tomas and Alfredo to build some beds for you and buy whatever else you need. Please.”
“I don’t know what to say.” She was stunned by his generosity.
“There’s nothing to say. I’ll be leaving again in two weeks, so let’s see if we can’t get them settled before then.”
It was late, but Richard wasn’t asleep. The rain fell softly against the roof tiles and an occasional thunderclap could be heard in the distance. But it wasn’t the weather that kept him awake. The inactivity of the past few days had allowed him too much time to think, and his thoughts were of Christina.
For the past three months, the hard labor aboard ship had occupied both his mind and his body during the day, and most nights, exhausted, he’d been able to sleep. But after four days at home on Corsica, his mind was once again filled with painful memories. The knowledge that Christina had wed another man haunted him. Neither the hard work on the ships nor his new home on Corsica could distract him. Even the lovely Arabella and her precious children somehow seemed to remain outside his heart.
It had been raining since the middle of the afternoon, but Alfredo had built a fire that evening, which had thoroughly warmed the room. The stone walls held the heat and even now, long after the fire had burned itself out, the room was still much warmer than Richard was accustomed to.
He lay staring into the darkness, his naked body barely covered by the linen sheet. Preoccupied with thoughts of Christina, he nonetheless heard the soft tapping on his door.
“Come,” he said quietly.
The door opened and Arabella entered, the halo of her soft brown curls illuminated by the dim light in the hall. She closed the door behind her, and then crossed the room silently. As she passed the foot of the bed, the draft from the window brought the sharp scent of bergamot to Richard.
“Bella?” he said, sitting up. “Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she whispered as she stood beside the bed.
Richard waited. For a full minute she just looked at him. Then, very slowly, she slipped her robe from her shoulders. It fell to the floor, leaving her naked, her pale skin glowing in the dim light.
His breathing quickened. He tried to see her face. Reaching out, he gently took her trembling hand in his.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked softly.
“I’m sure,” she whispered.
As she bent down to kiss him, her ample breasts brushed his chest. Their lips met and Richard slid his arm around her, gently pulling her down beside him.
Later he lay holding her, his cheek against the softness of her citron scented hair.
“Signore?”
“Hmmm?”
“Do I please you?” she asked, fingering the gold chain around his neck.
“Of course you please me, Bella.”
“I mean here, now, in this way?” she said, raising up on one elbow in an effort to see his face.
He ran his fingers gently over her breasts, then pushed the soft curls back from her face. “Yes, in this way, too. But I’m not sure this is right for you. You deserve more than I can ever give you.”
“What you give me is so much more than I deserve.”
“I can’t ask this of you…”
“Then let me ask it of you.” Arabella’s mouth covered his.