Silent in the Sanctuary. Deanna Raybourn

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      “Come along, Alessandro,” I told him. “We’ve only a moment or so to board.”

      “Then let us embark,” he said, bowing from the neck. He offered his arm, and I noticed his other was carefully holding a basket covered with a damask cloth. Luncheon, I thought happily.

      We were seated quickly in a surprisingly comfortable compartment. Violante and Lysander had begun an argument and were quietly hissing at one another. Plum took out his sketchbook to record a face he had seen on the platform. Only Alessandro seemed excited by the journey, his dark eyes flashing as they met mine.

      “I have brought you a gift, a souvenir of my country,” he said softly, placing the basket on my knees. I stared at it.

      “I had thought it was luncheon, but as the basket has just moved on its own, I rather hope it isn’t,” I told him.

      He laughed, a courteously modulated sound. Florentines, I had observed, loved to laugh but only modestly.

      At his urging I lifted the damask cloth and peered into the basket.

      “How very unexpected,” I murmured. “And how kind of you, Alessandro. I don’t suppose you would mind telling me what it is, exactly?”

      This time he laughed fully, throwing back his head and revealing a delightful dimple in his cheek. “Ah, Lady Julia, always you enchant me. It is a dog, what you call in your country an Italian greyhound. Surely you recognise her. Her breed has been painted for centuries.”

      I peered again at the trembling creature nestled against a cushion. She was black and white, large patches, with a wet black nose and eyes like two bits of polished Whitby jet. She lifted her nose out of the basket and sniffed me deeply, then sighed and laid her head back onto her paws.

      “Of course. I see the resemblance now,” I told him, wondering how this frail, ratlike creature could possibly be related to the cosseted pets I had seen gracing the laps of principesse in gilded frames.

      “È ammalata,” Alessandro said apologetically. “She is a little unwell. She does not like the travelling. I put her yesterday into her little basket, and she does not like to come out.”

      “Oh, that is quite all right,” I said, hastily pulling the damask over her nose. “Perhaps she just needs a bit of rest. What is she called?”

      “That is for you to decide.”

      I did not hesitate. “Then I shall call her after my favorite place in all of Italy. I shall call her Florence.”

      Alessandro smiled, a smile a nymph would envy, beautiful curved lips and even white teeth. “You pay the greatest honour to my city, my Firenze. I am glad that you like her. I wanted you to have some token of my appreciation for this kind invitation to your family’s home.”

      Strictly speaking, the invitation had been Plum’s and I noticed that there was no shivering, pointy-faced puppy for him. And as I clutched the basket and looked out of the window, saying my silent farewells to this country I had grown to love so well, I wondered what significance this present carried with it. Alessandro had implied it was a sort of hospitality gift, a way of thanking one’s hosts for opening their home. Still, I could not help but think there was something more pointed in his intentions. And I was not entirely displeased.

      Paris was grey and gloomy, sulking under lowering skies like a petulant schoolgirl. We had tarried a few days to shop and show Alessandro the sights, but none of us forgot for long we were being called home in disgrace. Lysander and Violante had made up their quarrel and spent most of their time cooing and making revoltingly sweet faces at one another. Plum, doubtless irritated at their good humour, sulked until I bought him the most outrageously ugly waistcoat I could find—violet taffeta splashed with orange poppies. He insisted upon wearing it with his fez, and wherever we went, Parisians simply stopped and stared. For his part, Alessandro was subdued. I had thought the glories of Paris would enchant him, but he merely regarded them and made notes in his guidebook. It was not until I found him murmuring Italian endearments to Florence that I realised the poor boy must be homesick. He had never left Italy before, and this trip had been a sudden, wrenching thing. There had been no pleasurable time of anticipation, no peaceful evenings by the fire with maps and guidebooks and lists at hand, no chance to dream of it. I think the reality of the cold grey monuments and the wet streets dampened his spirits as thoroughly as they dampened our hems. I promised myself that he would enjoy Bellmont Abbey and our proper English Christmas, even if it killed me. Of course, I had no way of knowing then that it would indeed kill someone else.

      As a contrast to the dripping skies of Paris, London was lit with sunset when we arrived, the great gold light burnishing the dome of St. Paul’s and lending a kindly glow to the chimney pots and brick houses stacked against each other like so many books in a shop. Even the air smelled sweeter to me here, a sure sign of my besotted state, for London’s air has never been salubrious. I pointed out the important landmarks to Alessandro, promising him we would return after Christmas for a thorough tour. He sat forward in his seat, eagerly pressing his hands to the window, taking in the great city.

      “It is so big,” he said softly. “I never thought to see a city so large.”

      “Yes, it is. And filthy besides, but I love it dearly. Now, we will make our way to the Grand Hotel for the night, and tomorrow we will embark for Blessingstoke. The train journey is not long. Blessingstoke is in Sussex, and the Abbey is quite near to the village proper.”

      Plum leaned across Alessandro to take in the view. “God’s teeth, it hasn’t changed a bit.”

      “Plum, it may be Shakespearean, but it is still an oath. You know how Aunt Hermia feels about profanity.”

      He waved me off with a charcoal-smudged hand. “Auntie Hermia will be so happy to see her prodigal boys, she won’t care if I come draped in rags and swearing like a sailor. I’ll wager the fatted calf is being roasted as we speak.”

      On that point I was forced to agree. Our Aunt Hermia, Father’s youngest sister, had come to live at the Abbey when our mother died from exhaustion. Ten children in sixteen years had been too much for her slight, graceful shape. Aunt Hermia had done her best to instill proper manners and a sense of decorum, but seven hundred years of March eccentricity was too much, even for her iron will. We were civilized, but the veneer was a thin one. In her later years, Aunt Hermia had even come to embrace her own peculiarities, and it was true that her drawing room was the only room in England where ladies were invited to smoke after dinner. Needless to say, Marches were seldom invited to Court.

      “Speaking of returning home,” Plum said, his expression a trifle pained, “I don’t suppose we could stay at March House instead of the Grand Hotel?”

      I blinked at him. “Plum, the arrangements have already been made at the hotel. I hardly think it would be fair to disappoint their expectations. Besides, Father is in Sussex. The house would have been closed up months ago, and I am certainly not going to simply turn up and expect the staff to scurry around, yanking off dust sheets and preparing meals with no warning.”

      “They are servants, Julia,” Plum pointed out with a touch of exasperation. “They will be perfectly content to do whatever is expected of them.”

      I looked at him closely, scrutinising his garments. His coat buttons were loose, a sure sign he had been tugging at them in distraction. It was a nervous habit from boyhood. He dropped buttons in his wake as a May Queen dropped flowers. The maids had long since given up stitching them back СКАЧАТЬ