Et si je savais que mon amour soit heureuse? Me servirait-il raison suffisante
Que je fasse durer encore ma vie?
—Avezard
And knowing my Love content, is that alone reason to endure?
Octobre 1756
Bonifacio
It was late October and the midday sun bathed the southern tip of the island in a bright clear light. Richard had been back at sea for a little over a month, and Arabella’s day was spent, as were all the others when he was away: the children were down for a nap and she was working in the little garden outside the kitchen door.
The three years in Richard’s employ had been the happiest and most carefree Arabella had ever known. The position as housekeeper had taken her away from her sordid existence at the inn and given her back her children. Though Richard spent the majority of his time at sea, when he was home she did everything in her power to please him. He, in turn, seemed to enjoy the children and always treated her with unfailing kindness.
The sound of the mule’s hooves as it scrambled up the steep cobbled path to the cottage attracted her attention. There was rarely any reason to bring an animal larger than a donkey up the steep, narrow track. She rushed to the front of the house, opening the gate just as the breathless rider flung himself from his exhausted mount and stumbled into the courtyard.
“Signora! It’s Signore di Magniet!”
“What?” She grabbed the young man by the shoulders. “What is it?”
“He’s been hurt…badly. Some of the men are bringing him up.”
She pushed past him, running out of the courtyard and across the track to the low stone wall. Looking down, she could see the two-wheeled cart just beginning the climb. There were five men surrounding it, pushing, urging the plodding donkey on, as they yelled directions at each other.
Knowing it would be a few minutes before they could complete the climb, she ran back into the house, pushing furniture to one side or the other so that the path was cleared to Richard’s bedroom. She threw back the curtains and opened the window and the shutters, then pulled the heavy bedcovers back from his bed. Taking a fresh linen sheet from the wooden chest at the foot of the bed and folding it double, she threw it across the bed.
Arabella hurried back through the house to the kitchen, calling out the door for Tomas and Alfredo. Then she gathered a pile of rags and dipped a large pitcher full of water, quickly fillimg the big copper kettle and hung it over the small fire that was burning in the fireplace. She added more wood.
As the two men came in from the yard, she was heading toward Richard’s room. She shouted back over her shoulder, sending them to the front of the house to see if they could help.
Arabella joined them by the time the cart arrived and she took over immediately, giving directions to the group of men as they lifted Richard and carried him to his room.
“What happened?” she asked as she led them through the house.
“The ship was attacked by the English just off Ibiza five days ago. Half the crew was killed. Monsieur Magniet was wounded, but he seemed all right until yesterday. Then he collapsed.”
Richard was unconscious. Arabella, eyeing his filthy torn shirt and breeches, threw an additional old coverlet across the bed before they laid him down. She began to cut off the remains of his clothing, leaving only the gold chain he always wore. The men stood silently around the bed, nervously watching as she deftly parted the dirty fabric with a sharp knife.
“Help me,” she said. “Lift him.”
They did as they were told and she pulled the pieces of material out from under his body. Next she carefully began sliding the knife under the layers of blood-encrusted bandages that circled his chest and stomach. As she slowly pulled the stiff material away from his skin, the men turned their heads, partly from the stench of the old bandage and partly from the ghastly appearance of the wound.
“Tomas, get the hot water from the kitchen,” she said briskly.
Anxious to be excused, Tomas left instantly. He was back in moments with a kettle of warm water. Arabella began to gently cleanse Richard’s body, slowly working her way toward the angry red gash that ran from the left side of his chest to just in front of his hip bone. The men in the room, uncomfortable witnessing her ministrations, turned to go.
“Wait,” she said, not looking up. “Two of you will have to stay to help me.”
There was an unvoiced agreement and all but two of the men filed out of the room. Tomas and Alfredo remained, awaiting Arabella’s directions.
As she painstakingly washed the dirt and dried blood from the area surrounding the cut, she was able to better gauge the seriousness of the wound. The bandaging had been carelessly done and she could see that the upper part of the slash had gone clear to the bone, his ribs apparently deflecting the blow. There was still a little bleeding in that area. Along his side, the flesh had started to mend in places, but she didn’t like the look of it and wondered how deeply he’d been cut below his ribs and if there was any internal damage.
When she laid wet clean rags over the wound, Richard groaned softly, but he did not regain consciousness. She could feel the fever in the heat of his body and see the infection in the tightly stretched skin on both sides of the lower portion of the gash. She was loath to disturb the already closing flesh, hoping against hope that his body would be strong enough to fight off the contamination.
Arabella had the men lift him as she pulled the coverlet and the remains of his clothing and bandages out from under him. They laid him back down gently and she covered him with another linen sheet. Richard hadn’t moved since she started to wash his wound. She lay her hand against his face and once again felt the tremendous heat of his fever. For the moment there was nothing more she could do.
She dismissed the two men from the ship, leaving Tomas to stay with him. She had Alfredo remove the dirty linen while she went into the morning room where Richard kept his modest library. She pulled two of Robert’s handwritten volumes down from the shelf and began leafing through them, sure she knew what she was looking for.
Robert had kept detailed notes of his personal studies over the last twenty years. He’d made two copies of the information, wanting to share with his brother some of the knowledge he’d acquired. Robert was aware of Richard’s interest in the healing arts, and knew he’d have use for many of the more common remedies aboard the ships. Richard shared the books with Arabella, as he had all the others. He’d helped her with her reading and with her French, encouraging her to explore his library, even sending for more volumes he thought might interest her.
She’d been a willing student, but had been particularly interested in Robert’s studies. She had a modest reputation in Bonifacio as a healer and possessed a formidable knowledge of local cures, which she’d learned from her aunt. She’d eagerly added Robert’s information to her own, and had even shared a few local cures with Richard, who had in turn sent them on to his brother.
Arabella found the notation she was looking for and quickly read through it, then went to the kitchen and the small cupboard high on the wall where she kept the herbs and powdered concoctions from Robert’s stores and her own. Gathering the necessary components, she deftly wrapped them in a small scrap of cloth, tying it tightly with a piece of thread. She placed the pouch in the simmering kettle, and went back to Richard.
Tomas was sitting beside the bed, intently watching his master. His worried look immediately told Arabella that Richard’s condition had not changed.
“Tomas, I want you to take the children down to Sophia’s and ask her if she’ll keep them for a few days. Tell her I need to borrow the healing bag and bring it back as quickly as you can.”
Without saying anything, Tomas nodded to her and left. Arabella took his place beside Richard.
It was nearly an hour before Tomas returned and in all that time Richard hadn’t moved. Arabella hurried back to the kitchen. She poured the concen-trated tea into a cup and returned to Richard’s room.
“Thank you. I’m afraid you and Alfredo will be on your own for supper.”
Tomas nodded. “We’ll be fine, Signora,” he said, his voice full of concern. “Will he be all right?”
“We must pray for him, Tomas. We must all pray for him.”
“Si, Signora,” Tomas replied. Then he was gone.
She bent over Richard, removing the cloth from his forehead. He was still burning with fever. She leaned across him and slipped her arm under his shoulders to lift him as best she could, putting the cup to his lips. She tipped it, allowing a small amount of the liquid to flow into his mouth. Nothing happened. She tried a little more. At last he swallowed. She continued with the tea, slowly urging him to take it, until the cup was half empty.
Arabella watched him, not liking the signs she so easily read. He should have regained consciousness, if only for a few minutes. The infection was spreading. If the blade had damaged any internal organs or pierced his intestines, she knew there was little hope he’d recover.
There was nothing more she could do but wait.
In spite of the agony of his body, Richard’s mind was at peace. He was lost in his memories, slowly reliving all his time with Christina, from their earliest childhood. The memories slid by with a tantalizing slowness that allowed him to re-experience every minute of those lost happy hours.
He’d never stopped missing her, never in the three long years since Marco’s death. Never, in all the time that had passed since their one night together, had Richard been able to understand why Christina hadn’t come with him when he left Arles.
Arabella stayed with Richard through the night. His fever seemed to rise with every passing hour. By dawn, his breathing had become labored. She wiped his body down with wine, hoping to at least cool his skin and thereby ease the terrible strain on his body. When that failed to give him any relief, she removed the dressing from his wound.
The swelling in the lower portion of the lesion had increased dramatically. It was obvious that the tissue was terribly infected. Arabella began to think she would have to reopen the wound, and hoping to avoiding such a drastic measure, she started to prepare a poultice of wormwood and mistletoe. When at last she applied the heated compress to his body, Richard groaned and twisted away from the painful pressure, then lay still.
Arabella waited.
As the infection in his body drove his fever even higher, Richard’s dreams of Christina became more disturbing. Her frightened, tear-stained face floated through his mind, but somehow she always seemed to remain just beyond his reach. She was miserable, she begged him for comfort and protection but he was powerless to help her.
Richard’s agitation increased, and Arabella removed the poultice. The knot of infection had not decreased, but had instead grown larger and harder to the touch. She knew that there was only one solution. She called for Tomas and Alfredo to come and help her while she removed the trocar from Sophia’s bag. She hated to reopen the wound, but she knew that his only hope of recov-ery now lay in draining the poison from his body.
Richard began to struggle against the unseen hands that, in his delirium, seemed to be keeping him from his beloved Christina.
The men held him as Arabella inserted the sharp end of the instrument between the newly mended edges of flesh. When it was in place she deftly pressed the center of the shaft, which forced the sharpened smaller tube into the middle of the abscess. The caseous pus oozed from the trocar as the pressure was relieved in the swollen tissue.
That instant of stabbing pain sent a blinding flash of crimson through Richard’s consciousness. Then his body relaxed and he lay still.
Arabella redressed the wound, leaving a thin strip of rag in the incision so it would continue to drain. She hoped she hadn’t waited too long—she knew well the severe damage that could be done to both body and mind by prolonged fever.
“Thank you,” she said wearily to Tomas and Alfredo. “That’s all we can do for now.”
“Signora,” Alfredo said, laying a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Let me stay with him tonight. You’re exhausted. I swear I will call you the moment there is any change at all.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” she said, smiling at his concern. “The next twelve hours are crucial. I must stay.”
As she closed the door behind them, her gaze fell on Richard’s traveling case that had been left near the fireplace. She picked up the worn leather bag and put it on the blanket chest while she unbuckled the straps.
The bag wasn’t full. She tossed the few pieces of soiled clothing on the floor by the door. In the bottom, she found a small bundle of letters. They were yellowed with age and tied with a faded blue ribbon. As she took them from the bag she caught the faint scent of bergamot and knew they must be from Christina. Arabella stood holding them, tempted beyond propriety to untie the slender ribbon and read them. Would those letters be the key to understanding the young woman who—very foolishly to Arabella’s way of thinking—had given up a man as unusual as Richard? Finally, she overcame her curiosity and placed them in the armoire among his things.
The last item in the bag was a small, but weighty pouch of butter-soft burgundy leather. She could tell the bulk was not that of coins, the contents seemed oval and flat. She loosened the cord and slid the tiny portrait out into her hand. She returned to sit by the bed, staring at the likeness.
No wonder he loves her so, Arabella thought, as she studied the perfectly detailed miniature. The delicacy of the work bore mute testimony to the skill of the artist and no doubt to the accuracy of the representation. It was also obvious to Arabella that the quality of the piece meant Christina’s family must be wealthy, perhaps even as wealthy as Richard’s.
In spite of everything, Arabella felt sorry for Christina. How could she have given Richard up? How could she possibly have chosen to marry another man?
Shaking her head in dismay, Arabella set the small oval frame on the bedside table. She carefully turned it toward Richard so it might be the first thing he’d see when he awakened.
Her attention returned to her patient. His breathing was extremely shallow. Lifting the damp cloth from his forehead, she laid her hand in its place. Discouraged by the heat of his skin, she wet the cloth and replaced it. Unconsciously, her fingers sought the comfort of the smooth wooden beads of her rosary in the pocket of her apron.
She sat in the dark, praying for more than an hour before she finally rose to light the candles, casting a soft, warm glow over the room.
“Signore?” she whispered as she touched his cheek. “Richard?”
Dimly, through the fog of his unconscious mind, Richard sensed someone calling him. He didn’t know where he was, but he was surrounded by a warm, comforting light and he was reluctant to leave it. And then, suddenly, he realized that the voice calling him must be Christina’s.
With a supreme effort he stirred and began to pull away from the light. At first, he could barely force his body to respond, but each time she pronounced his name, his determination increased. He felt as if he were moving through a thick fog, held back by a powerful, unseen force. The only sound he was conscious of was Christina calling his name.
And then the fog seemed to clear and he found himself on the deck of the Le Bonheur, staring at the quais at Arles. Christina stood there, sobbing. He called out to her and slowly she looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. He called again, but she could only hold out her arms to him, pleading for him to take her with him.
The ship seemed to be drifting farther and farther from the dock. Richard looked around frantically for someone who could help him stop the ship. The deck was deserted.
“Please, Richard, please…” she called.
And then Richard saw Guy standing behind her, his hands firmly holding her shoulders, the grim look of satisfaction on his face slowly becoming a smile, and then, smug laughter.
“Richard?”
The voice belonged to Arabella, but Richard heard only his beloved Christina.
The tempo of his breathing increased as he became more agitated. “Chrissa?” he whispered weakly.
Again, he heard her call his name. In an agony of frustration, he mustered what little strength he had left and tried to rise, calling her name as loudly as he was able. And then he felt her arms around his neck and her lips against his cheek as the soft scent of bergamot filled his nostrils.
“Richard, Chéri, je suis içi.”
The voice came clearly to him through the haze of illusion and he fell back against the pillows, his body relaxed. He tried to put his arms around her, to hold her close to him, but he could barely lift his right hand to touch her hair.
Arabella continued to whisper softly to him in French. She knew he believed her to be Christina, but she knew, too, that in that very deception lay her only hope of calming him. And so she continued to whisper to him, assuring him that she was there, that she loved him, and that he must rest.
Finally, he quieted but this time, to sleep. Arabella straightened the linen sheet across his body and returned the cool cloth to his head.
Taking his hand in hers, she closed her eyes and began to pray. She couldn’t stop the tears as she began a litany of all the reasons that she had to be grateful to Richard. They were the same as her reasons for loving him.
It was nearly three hours before Richard awakened, but he had no sense of how much time had passed. He opened his eyes slowly, disoriented by the darkness and by his blurred vision. He was conscious of a dull throbbing in the left side of his body. He was also aware of a warm hand clutching his. He looked down and saw the cascade of brown curls against the linen that covered him.
Instantly, the realization that it was Arabella struck him like a blow. He closed his eyes again, momentarily unwilling to accept the fact that he was in his own room on Corsica and that the warm hand holding his was not Christina’s.
He remembered his ship being attacked. He recalled the fighting and being wounded, but his last memory was of the ship and the decimated remains of the crew, limping their way back to Corsica.
Gingerly, he tried moving his left arm, sensing both the pain and the general weakness. It was obvious that he must have collapsed and been delivered home by some of the crew. How long he had been there, he had no way of knowing.
It was quite likely that he owed his life to Arabella. She was the only one on the southern end of the island with any degree of healing skill. He knew, too, that Christina’s presence could only have been the product of his delirium.
His gaze shifted to Arabella. She’d fallen asleep in the chair, her head resting on the bed beside his arm. He saw the rosary and knew his illness must indeed have been grave. He’d never seen Arabella pray and he’d never known her to attend Mass, so he hadn’t thought of her as being religious. If she’d sought divine intercession on his behalf, he knew he must have been close to death.
He slowly pulled his hand from under hers and reached out to stroke her hair.
His touch awakened her and she sat up with a start. Arabella crossed herself and smiled, then offered him a drink of water. Neither of them said anything.
Soon, he drifted off to sleep again, still holding her hand.
The shock of learning that Richard and Maryse had been lovers was more than Christina could bear and so she put it completely out of her thoughts, retreating into the small world of her home and her marriage. Maryse made several attempts to contact her, but Christina returned all of her letters unopened.
She spent the first Christmas of her married life alone with Guy, and while their private celebration was pleasant enough, Christina missed the warmth of the little group of friends and family that had shared so many wonderful holidays at Beauvu. Christina missed Richard.
She also missed her father. She hadn’t seen him since the day she’d left his home for Guy’s. Her beloved Marco was lost to her forever, but one member of her family remained and she knew it was time to make peace.
In the coming months Christina set about trying to repair the damage done to that relationship, she found Antonio distant and withdrawn. He rarely went to his office at the warehouse and seemed to spend most of his time in the salon at his house, staring blankly at the portraits of his family. Try as she might, Christina could not persuade him to visit her, to visit Louis at Beauvu or to see any of his other old friends. She came to have supper with him twice a week, but she could do little beyond giving him a bright recitation of the news of Arles and of Guy’s work in expanding the business. Antonio was either unwilling or unable to respond.
“You’re sure?” Guy asked, tightening his grip on the shirt of the man before him. “There’s no way he could have survived? Absolutely no chance?”
“I’m positive, Monsieur. If you could have seen the wound…” The man was frightened by the look in Guy’s eyes.
Guy released him. He ran his hand distractedly through his hair. Can it be true? And if it is, what now? This could be the turning point in his life and he must be very careful. He pulled a coin from the pocket of his coat and handed it to the man.
“Stay the night. And meet me at the warehouse in the morning. I must have time to think about what you’ve told me.”
Guy left the house and did not return until the next morning. When he came home, he was accompanied by the man who had brought the news. He left him standing in the courtyard and went into the house. Christina was arranging flowers on the table in the entry.
“My dear,” he said as he entered the room, “I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
Christina looked up. It must be her father. Guy was beside her then, taking her in his arms and holding her tightly. A moment later she pushed away.
“What is it?”
He looked at her face, the beautiful skin, the incredible eyes. He stroked her hair.
“Guy, what is it?”
“Sweetheart, it’s Richard.”
Christina felt her heart stop. Is he back? Has he finally returned? Has he come for me, at last?
“Christina, he was hurt…wounded…and I’m afraid…”
“What?”
“He’s dead, Christina. Richard is dead.” Guy held her arms, unwilling to let her go.
She wrenched herself away from him and ran to the other side of the table. It can’t be true. Why is he telling me this horrible lie?
“It’s not true,” she insisted.
“I just found out yesterday. You must believe me. I was as upset as you are.”
“Guy, stop it—don’t do this!” She closed her eyes and put her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the sound of his voice.
Guy went to her again, forced her hands from her head and took her by the shoulders.
“I was afraid you’d feel this way. It doesn’t say much for me, does it? You really should believe me. I’m your husband. I love you.”
Christina just looked at him.
“Well, come along then,” Guy said, sighing. “If you won’t take my word for it, there’s someone else here you can ask.” He took her by the hand and impatiently pulled her along behind him, outside into the courtyard where the sailor stood, his hat in his hand.
“My wife,” Guy said abruptly.
“Madame,” the sailor said, affecting a slight bow.
Christina looked from Guy to the man and back again.
“Tell her what you told me.”
The man could see that Christina was very upset and he suspected a repetition of what her husband had obviously already told her would only make things worse.
“Perhaps I should go…”
“Tell her,” Guy insisted.
“Madame,” the man began nervously. “I regret that I bring such unhappy news, but our ship was attacked and the Baron’s son was wounded…”
Christina shook herself free of Guy. “Where? When?”
“It was just two weeks ago, off the coast of Spain. We had sailed from Barcelona and we were heading for Cartegena. It was an English ship. I don’t know why they attacked us…”
“And so he was wounded, not killed?”
“Yes, wounded. But the wound went bad. We took him to Corsica, but…”
“But he’s not dead, only hurt?”
The man stared at his feet.
“Well?” Christina’s voice was shrill and it echoed in the walled space.
“Madame, forgive me, but it’s not possible he recovered.” He could see she didn’t believe him. “If you had seen the wound. He was cut from here to here…” He indicated the entire left side of his body. “He was unconscious for two days before we reached Bonifacio, and the fever…he could not have recovered. I’m sorry.”
Christina slowly collapsed against Guy. He put his arms around her and motioned for André to see the man to the gate. Then he walked her back into the house. She said nothing.
“Christina, I’m so sorry. You must believe me. I never wanted this to happen.”
When they reached the salon, Guy sat her on the sofa. He knelt in front of her studying her face.
Christina looked at him. He seemed sincerely upset. How is it possible? Richard, my Richard, dead? Somehow, in all the time since he’d left, she had been able to go on, knowing that somewhere he was happy. Somewhere, he was living his life, even if it didn’t include her. She’d always harbored the secret hope that she’d see him again, that he would come back and explain everything to her. Slowly, the tears overflowed.
“Oh, Christina,” said Guy sympathetically. “Please don’t cry. Don’t you see? There’s something good that can come out of all this. Now there’s nothing to come between us. You can love me now, Christina. Completely. Richard will never come between us again.”
Richard sat staring out his bedroom window. It was early evening and the ocean breeze brought with it the heady fragrance of the macchia. It had been four days since his fever had subsided and his body had begun to mend.
He was deeply troubled. The delirium had elicited sweet, but ultimately painful memories of Christina, and when he’d awakened and found that she was not actually with him, the disappointment had forced him into a silent re-evaluation of his current situation on Corsica.
He knew he owed his life to Arabella. He also knew she loved him and perhaps it was that thought that caused him the most pain.
Richard cared deeply for Bella. She and the children had become the center of his life since he’d come to the island. Though he was only home a few months during the year, those months had been peaceful ones because of the care and consideration she’d lavished on him and on his home. The cottage had become a refuge.
But even after three years, he couldn’t bring himself to spend too much time there. Any days spent away from the exhausting labor aboard the ships were still filled with painful memories of Christina.
His thoughts were interrupted by a very soft knock on the door.
“Come,” he said absently.
He heard the door open, and the sound of bare feet on the smooth tiles, accompanied by frantic whispering. Richard smiled. It was the children. They must have returned from their aunt’s where they’d stayed while he was ill.
“Piero, Luisa, come in.”
Two heads appeared around the edge of the chair, looking curiously at Richard. They were both dressed for bed and had apparently escaped their mother’s watchful eye and sneaked into his room. He couldn’t help but laugh.
“Come. It’s all right.”
Luisa looked at him for a moment, then carefully climbed up into his lap. Piero sat down on the stool that supported Richard’s legs.
“Well now, where have you two been?”
“At Auntie Sophia’s,” Piero answered.
Both children were uncharacteristically quiet. Luisa put one of her tiny hands on each of Richard’s cheeks and looked at him solemnly.
“Are you going to die?” she asked.
So that’s it. They’ve been worried about me. “Why are you asking?”
“When Tomas took us to Auntie’s, he said you were very sick and you might die, but we prayed for you every night.”
“Well, thank you, Sweetheart. When I came home I was very sick, but your mama worked hard and she’s made me all well again.”
That seemed to satisfy the child and she lay back against his chest. Richard looked down at her and smiled as he stroked her silky curls, her hair as dark as his own.
“Did someone really cut you with a sword?” Piero asked, his eyes glittering with excitement. “Can we see it?”
Richard pulled open his shirt. “Your mama has it all wrapped up, see? But when the bandages come off, I’ll show you what a good job she did fixing it for me.”
“Why did they hurt you?”
“I don’t know. Some English sailors tried to take our ship from us and we had to fight. I don’t know why it happened.” Richard had not yet talked to anyone who knew what prompted the attack.
“Did you kill them all?”
“We had to kill some of them, and they killed some of us. It was a very bad thing to happen, and there was really no reason for a warship to attack us. We’re only merchants, not soldiers, and so they shouldn’t bother us.”
Piero nodded. Now he, too, was satisfied.
“Here, come and sit beside your sister.” Richard resettled himself, making room on his right knee for Piero. “Now tell me, what have you two been doing?”
Piero’s face brightened. “Uncle Aldo let me go fishing with him. He caught a fish this big!” As Piero spread his arms wide, he nearly toppled over backward, but Richard caught his arm.
“My goodness, what a big fish! What did you do with it?”
“Auntie Sophia cooked it, Luisa helped, and then we ate it!” He clapped his hands together in delight.
Richard laughed again. There was another knock on the door.
“Come.”
This time it was Alfredo.
“There you are, you rascals! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Alfredo did his best to sound very stern, but it was no secret he adored them. He quickly lit the candles for Richard, then collected the children.
“I’m sorry, Signore.”
“It’s all right. They just wanted to check on me.”
“Well, it’s time for bed. Your mother is waiting for you to come and say your prayers.” Alfredo reached down to lift Luisa off of Richard’s lap, but she threw her arms around Richard’s neck.
“I love you, Richard,” she said, planting a very wet kiss on his cheek.
“I love you, too, Sweetheart.”
Piero leaned over and kissed him. “Goodnight. Can we come tomorrow?”
“Of course you can.”
He closed his eyes, thinking of the children he would never have with Christina. He wondered how they might have looked. Like Piero and Luisa? Afterall, Arabella did resemble Christina. But then he had no idea whether their father bore any resemblance to him. Arabella had never mentioned him other than to say that he was dead. She’d been reluctant to say more, and Richard hadn’t pressed.
Bella. What was he to do about Bella?
“Signore?” Arabella was standing behind him. She knew he hadn’t heard her come in.
The tenderness of his wound prevented him turning to her. “What is it, Bella?”
He sounds tired, she thought. He’d been strangely silent and moody for the past four days and she attributed it to his anger at being deceived into thinking Christina was with him when he was so ill.
“I know you’re angry with me…”
“Bella…” Richard sighed.
“Let me finish. I know it was wrong of me to mislead you while you were so ill, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was so afraid of losing you…” She hesitated, blinking back tears. “I’m sorry if you were disappointed to find Christina wasn’t with you…”
Richard clenched his teeth, reminded of how much he was hurting her. Then, slowly, he reached up and took her hand. He pulled her around in front of him and down onto the stool. He saw tears in her eyes.
“Oh, Bella. Please don’t.”
“I’m so sorry I lied to you. Can you ever forgive me?”
“It’s I who needs your forgiveness.” His smile was sad. “I’ve treated you so unfairly.”
Arabella’s hazel eyes snapped. Her mood changed completely as she realized his silence was due to self-pity.
“You can’t be serious,” she said, incredulously.
Richard looked at her for a long moment, then laid his head back against the chair and shifted his gaze to the window.
Arabella continued. “Have you forgotten where I was and what I was when we met? I couldn’t even have my children with me. Do you think I’m less happy here with you?” She stood up, her hands on her hips as she looked down at him in exasperation. “I don’t imagine myself to be any more or any less that what I am. At my age I’m not much of a prospective bride for any man, much less a gentleman such as you. But I have a lovely home for myself and my children and a gentle and considerate lover. What more could any woman in my position possibly ask for?”
At her reference to a considerate lover, Richard’s eyes flashed back to her, piercing hers as he tried to detect any sarcasm in her words.
“Don’t look at me like that. Do you think that I don’t know it’s Christina you’re making love to every time we’re together?”
Richard looked away again, unwilling to acknowledge the truth. And that, in turn, made Arabella painfully aware of the depth of the guilt he was feeling. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She sat down again and gently laid her hand on his.
“You’re wrong,” she said softly. “I’m flattered you can think of me as that beautiful young woman.” She gestured toward Christina’s tiny portrait on the table beside the bed.
Richard’s eyes went to the filigree gilt frame. It was the first thing he’d seen when the fever had passed. She must have found it in his things and put it there. He knew he had no choice but to take her at her word. Arabella was an uncommonly strong woman and he knew the time had come for him to let her deal with their relationship on her own terms.
“Please believe me, Signore. I’m quite content with things as they are.” She reached out to him.
The news of Richard’s death shattered Christina and she withdrew into the safe haven of her memories. And while she didn’t seem to be shedding any tears, Guy was unable to persuade her to allow him to give her any comfort. It made him angry, but he deemed it best to let her grief run its course before he pressed her further.
Guy felt vaguely unsettled himself. He was more irritable than usual and he had difficulty concentrating on his work, and it was in that frame of mind that he received a small note tucked between the pages of his shipment records. “He has recovered” was all it said.
Guy had paid informants on all the Baron’s ships, ostensibly to keep an eye on his cargo, but in reality they kept track of Richard for him. Having married Christina, he had no wish to have to confront Richard should he attempt to contact her or try to return for her.
Richard was the Baron’s son, someday to be Baron himself, guaranteeing him a certain amount of consideration from the law enforcement quarter if he did choose to return. As a deterrent, Guy had made sure the warrants for Richard’s arrest in connection with Marco’s murder remained current. Of course this persistence on Guy’s part continued to cost him considerable sums of money, but through his efforts to maintain a network of informants, he’d also managed to glean some very damaging information about several of the judicial officials. This he held close against future need.
All reports indicated that Richard had made no attempts to return to Arles or to contact Christina. Apparently he’d taken up with some tavern slut on Corsica and seemed to have forgotten his childhood sweetheart.
Guy found a strange sort of comfort in knowing Richard was still alive, in part because Christina thought him dead. There was no reason she should ever know otherwise and to insure it, Guy had intercepted her letters of condolence to the Baron and to Richard’s siblings. He then had them answered in such a way as to make her believe that while they all appreciated her concern, the family had definite wishes that the unfortunate situation of Richard, which had brought such grief to them all, be forgotten.
Those forged replies from Richard’s family only added to Christina’s grief and she became even more withdrawn. Guy tried to rouse her, but when that failed, he began to spend more and more nights away from home. Finally, two weeks after the unfortunate news about Richard and the morning after a particularly unpleasant incident with a dark-haired boy at Madame Dijol’s, Guy came home determined to confront his wife.
Christina was in the salon, only vaguely aware of the cheery fire that countered the chill of the afternoon rain. She was trying her best to concentrate, to read a book of poems she’d discovered in Guy’s library. The subject of most of the verse was love—and that, of course, made her think of Richard.
Guy came into the room and quietly shut the doors behind him. Christina turned, surprised by the intrusion.
“Christina,” he said evenly.
“You startled me,” she said, wondering why he was home in the middle of the afternoon, or at all for that matter. She hadn’t seen him in four days.
Guy came to stand in front of her, his back to her as he stared into the fire. After a moment he turned and faced her squarely.
“I’ve come to some decisions over the past few days,” he said firmly. “Your behavior in the matter of Richard’s death is unseemly. It has gone on far too long. I’ve tried my best to be patient with you, but I’ve had enough. You’re denying me my rights and I’ll no longer tolerate it.”
Christina could smell the liquor on his breath and she knew his moods often turned ugly when he drank. She was unsure what she could do to placate him.
“I’m sorry…” she began, but he interrupted her.
“And so you should be. He was my friend, too, but you, my dear, are carrying this to extremes. What will people think? It might be argued that you still harbor some very strong feelings for a man not your husband.”
“Guy, you know that Richard and I were very close…”
Guy laughed. “Oh, yes, my dear, I remember exactly how close you were that night in the barn.”
Christina blushed furiously. “Am I not allowed to grieve, then?” she asked defiantly.
“Grieve? I think the time for grieving is past, don’t you? Now is the time for celebration.”
She looked at him in confusion.
“There is no longer anything standing in the way of you loving me.” He pulled her to her feet and kissed her roughly. When she failed to react as he imagined she should, he pulled back and looked at her. He touched her cheek, then he began to smile.
“Christina, Christina. Sometimes I think you just refuse to allow yourself to respond to my lovemaking. For heaven’s sake, use your imagination. It can be that way between us—the way it was between you and Richard that night—better, in fact, if you would just try.”
Did Guy really think he could ever be the lover Richard had been?
“It’s not so very difficult, you know.” But when Christina’s expression remained unchanged, Guy sighed in exasperation. “You see,” he said, gesturing toward the window, “Rain, just as it rained that night.” He went over and pulled the heavy drapes closed against the grey afternoon light. The room was plunged into darkness but for the flickering flames. Guy took her by the shoulders, turning her toward the fire.
“And we have a cozy fire. Is it not like that night? Or is it also necessary for me to send you out in your nightgown until you’re soaked through?” He pulled off his coat and waistcoat and began to loosen the lace at his throat.
Christina knew he might very well send her outside in her nightclothes in his present state of agitation. She had to calm him down. She gently put her hands against his shirt before he could begin to unbutton it if, in fact, that was what he intended.
“Forgive me, husband,” she said tentatively.
“That’s much better.” Guy smiled. “If you’ll just relax, you may find that I can show you things your friend Richard never even imagined.”
He kissed her slowly and then with more passion and she could feel the excitement running through his lean body. Surely he wasn’t going to try to make love to her right there? The thought caused her to tense up and Guy felt it.
“What now?” he asked impatiently.
“You don’t mean to…I mean…here?… now?”
Guy found he was beginning to enjoy the frightened look in her eyes.
“Of course, my dear. Why not? We’re married. There’s no sin in it. Or are you suggesting that I will have to find an actual stable to take you in? Is that the only thing that can kindle your passion?”
“No, of course not…it’s just…”
“It’s just what?”
She looked at him helplessly and Guy’s impatience overcame his judgment.
“All right. Take off your clothes.”
“What? Guy, please…”
“Take them off or by God, I’ll do it myself!”
Christina knew it was useless to argue. She turned away from him and began to unhook the front panel of her gown, but he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back.
“Christina,” he said, taking her chin in none too gently. “Don’t turn away from me. I find it rather stimulating to watch you undress. It’s all really quite simple, you know. You’re beautiful. You excite me. You should enjoy that knowledge and make use of it…hmm?”
Guy pulled his shirt free of his breeches and began unbuttoning it slowly, first the cuffs, then the buttons under the lace. As Christina removed her bodice and started to untie her skirts, Guy began to walk around her, admiring the pale glow of her skin, warmed, now, by the firelight. Then he reached to unpin her hair and Christina jumped.
“Now, now…” he whispered softly against her ear. “Your hair must be down. You remember? It was down, and quite wet as I recall.”
She turned, frightened, and he laughed.
“I think we can forgo the water, can’t we?” He continued to take down her hair and then to comb through it with his fingers.
Finally, Christina stepped out of her underskirts and Guy flung them aside, leaving her only her corselet and her chemise. She stood in front of him, staring at the floor.
“Christina, look at me.” She looked up and he saw her fear. “Don’t you find me attractive, wife? Others have, you know. Many others.” He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the chair.
She was too frightened to answer. All the memories of their first night together conspired to keep her mute.
“Touch me,” he commanded and she raised her trembling fingers to his chest. He closed his eyes, thinking of those hands, those strong, dark hands.
His skin felt warm to Christina. Too warm. He stepped closer to her and began to unlace her corselet. He kissed her throat and the tops of her breasts as he did so, but it had no effect on her. She stood motionless. She could only pray he wouldn’t hurt her. Not that. Not again.
He reached down and slid her chemise up over her hips, pulling her tightly against him.
“Do you remember?” he whispered breathlessly against her ear. “Do you remember that night?” He pulled the chemise up and over her head. “I remember, Christina. It was as though those hands were my hands…” he said softly as he ran his fingers lightly down her neck and over her breasts.
He touched the soft curve of her stomach and the fullness of her hips. Then he slid one hand between her legs, but much to Christina’s surprise, he did it gently.
Momentarily relieved, Christina closed her eyes and Guy mistook it for a sign that she was surrendering to his touch. Encouraged, he leaned forward and kissed her shoulder.
“That’s right. Give yourself over to the sensations, Christina.” He took her hands and put them at his waist.
She knew what he wanted, but her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t work the buttons.
Guy interpreted her agitation as excitement. He took her hands in his and kissed them.
“Perhaps we should prolong this a little. Would you prefer that?” He smiled at her, then leaned down and ran his wet mouth over her breasts, first one and then the other.
Christina began to tremble, wishing she could forget. She knew the tears were coming and she also knew she mustn’t cry. As long as he didn’t hurt her she could endure him.
He kissed her, long and hard. When he looked at her, she saw the glitter of excitement in his eyes and she tried to smile. Very slowly he made her turn around. He pushed her hair forward and over her shoulders, baring her back. For a moment, he didn’t touch her, he just looked at her. The curve of her back, the firelight on her skin… He was more excited than he’d been since that night when he’d seen the two of them together. It was perfect. He’d always known it could be like this.
He started at her shoulders, running his fingers slowly down to her shoulder blades, then down her sides to her waist. His thumbs lingered a moment in the twin dimples at the base of her spine as his fingers wrapped around her hips. He remembered Richard’s hands there—moving, caressing.
There was a brief knock and before either of them could move, the door opened. If looks could kill, Agnes would have surely been struck dead in that moment when her eyes met her master’s. Christina would have moved, but Guy’s strong hands held her firmly. Agnes’s retreat was instantaneous and Guy returned his attention back to Christina, thinking again of Richard’s hands as he slowly began to caress the twin globes of her buttocks. He moved closer, pressing himself against her.
“Oh, my love,” he whispered. “There’s so very much I want to show you.”
On November first, All Saint’s Day, an incredible earthquake struck Lisbon. The aftershocks, the fifty foot tidal wave and the fires that followed left more than sixty thousand dead. One of Richard’s ships was destroyed and all but three of the crew killed. Though the quake was felt in Corsica, it took nearly two weeks for the news of the disaster to reach them.
The damage to the rest of his father’s fleet was minimal and business went on as usual during the next six months while Richard allowed himself to recover from his wound and regain his strength. He spent most of his time with the children, teaching Piero to tie knots, helping him with his reading, and taking both of the children aboard his ships when they docked.
The four of them seemed very much a family then. Richard began to play the harpsichord in the evenings, which surprised Arabella. She had assumed he didn’t play, for in all the time she’d known him, she’d never once seen him touch the instrument. He made beautiful music for them and they in turn taught him some of the folk songs of the island. It was a warm and happy time for all of them.
Finally, Richard grew restless and went back to the sea. But each time he returned to his makeshift family on Corsica, he stayed a little longer.