Silent in the Sanctuary (5 page)

Portia regarded him with unmitigated delight, and I could see her mouth opening—to say something wildly inappropriate, I had no doubt. I hurried to divert her.

“Alessandro, this is our sister, Lady Bettiscombe. Portia, my darling, I think we must board now before the train departs without us. The station master looks very cross indeed.”

I looped my arm through hers and she permitted me to steer her onto the train. She said nothing, asked no questions, which made me nervous. A quiet Portia was a dangerous Portia, and it was not until we were comfortably seated and the train had eased out of the station that I permitted myself to relax a little. Alessandro and Plum had taken seats a little distance apart, and Lysander and Violante, after exchanging hasty greetings with Portia had moved even farther away. Lysander was still sulking over his enforced departure, and Violante was too indolent to care where they sat. A foul smell emanated from the basket at Portia’s feet, and I sighed, burying my nose in my handkerchief. If I sniffed very deeply, I could almost forget the odor.

“I cannot believe you brought that monstrosity,” I told her.

Portia gave me a severe look. “You are very cold toward Mr. Pugglesworth, Julia, and I cannot think why. Puggy loves you.”

“Puggy loves no one but you, besides which he is half decayed.”

“He is distinguished,” she corrected. “Besides, I note that you have a similar basket. Have you acquired a souvenir on your travels?”

“Yes. A creature almost as vile as Puggy. She is temperamental and hateful and she loathes me. Yesterday she gnawed the heel from my favorite boot simply because she could.” I nudged her basket with my toe and she snarled in response. “She only understands Italian, so I am trying to teach her English. Quiet, Florence. Tranquillamente.”

“What on earth possessed you to buy her if you hate her so much?” Portia demanded, peering through the wickets of the basket. “All I can see are two eyes that seem to be glowing red. I should be very frightened if I were you, Julia. Sleep with one eye open.”

“I did not buy her,” I told her softly. “She was a gift.”

Portia’s eyes flew to Alessandro’s dark, silken head, thrown back as he laughed at some remark of Plum’s. “Ah. From the enchanting young man. I understand. Tell me, how old is he?”

“Twenty-five.”

She nodded. “Perfect. I could not have chosen better for you myself.”

I set my mouth primly. “I do not know what you are talking about. Alessandro is a friend. The boys have known him for ages. He wanted to see England, and Lysander is too much of a custard to face Father without some distraction. That is all.”

“Indeed?” Portia tipped her head to the side, studying my face. “You know, dearest, even under that delicious veil, I can see your blushes. You have gone quite pink about the nose and ears, like a rabbit. I think that boy likes you. And what’s more, I think you like him, too.”

“Then you are a very silly woman and there is nothing else to say. It is overwarm in here. That is all.”

Portia smiled and patted my arm. “If you say so, my love. If you say so. Now, what news have you had of Brisbane? I saw him last month and I know he has been a frequent guest at Father’s Shakespearean society of late, but I haven’t any recent news of him.”

“You saw him last month?” I picked at the stitching on my glove, careful to keep my voice neutral. “Then you know more of him than I. How did he seem?”

“Very fond of the Oysters Daphne,” she said, her eyes bright with mischief. “He made me send along the receipt for his housekeeper. Julia, mind what you’re doing. You’ve jerked so hard at that thread, you’ve torn the fur right off the cuff.”

I swore under my breath and tucked the ragged edge of the fur into my glove. “You mean you had him to dinner? At your house?”

“Where else would I entertain a friend? Honestly, Julia.”

“Did you dine alone?”

Portia rolled her eyes. “Don’t be feeble. Of course not. Jane was there, and Valerius as well,” she said. I relaxed a little. Valerius was our youngest brother and a passionate student of medicine. His favourite pastime was telling gruesome tales at the dinner table, not exactly an inducement to romance.

Portia poked me suddenly. “You little green-eyed monster,” she whispered. “You’re jealous!”

“Well, of course I am,” I said, sliding my gaze away from hers. “I adore your cook’s Oysters Daphne. I am sorry to have missed them.”

She snorted. “Oh, this has less to do with oysters than with the haunch of a handsome man.” She started laughing then, great cackling peals of laughter. I reached out and twisted a lock of her hair around my finger and jerked sharply.

“Leave it be, Portia.”

She yanked her hair out of my grip and edged aside, a wicked smile still playing about her mouth. “You daft girl, you cannot possibly imagine I want him for myself.”

I shrugged and said nothing.

“Or that he wants me,” she persisted. Still I said nothing. “Oh, I give up. Very well, think what you like. Go on and torture yourself since you seem to enjoy it so. But tell me this, have you had a letter from him since you went away?”

I looked out of the window, staring at the houses whose back gardens ran down to the rail line. “How curious. Someone has pegged out their washing. See the petticoats there? She ought to have hung them inside by the fire. They’ll never dry in this weather.”

Portia pinched my arm. “Avoidance is a coward’s tactic. Tell me all.”

I turned back to her and lifted the veil of my travelling costume, tucking it atop my hat. “Nothing. I know nothing because he has not written. Not a word in five months.”

My sister pursed her lips. “Not a word? Even after he kissed you? That is a shabby way to use a person.”

I waved a hand. “It is all water down the stream now. I have done with him. I doubt I shall meet him again in any case. Our paths are not likely to cross. We have no need of an inquiry agent, and the only relation of his who moves in society is the Duke of Aberdour. And Brisbane has little enough liking for his great-uncle’s company.”

“True enough, I suppose.”

I looked at her closely. “Do not think on it, Portia. It was foolish of me to imagine there was something there. I want only to put it behind me now.”

Portia smiled, a smile that did not touch her eyes. She was speculating. “Of course, my love,” she said finally. “Now I am more convinced than ever that you did a very wise thing.”

“When?”

Portia nodded toward Alessandro. “When you decided to bring home that most delightful souvenir.”

I slapped lightly at her arm. “Stop that at once. He will hear you.”

She shrugged. “And what if he does? I told you before, a lover is precisely the tonic you need. Julia, I was gravely worried about you when you left England. You were ailing after the fire, and I believed very strongly that it was possible you might not ever recover—not physically, but from the trauma your spirit had suffered. You learned some awful truths during that investigation, truths no woman should ever have to learn.” She paused and put a hand over mine. “But you did recover. You are blooming again. You were a sack of bones when you left and pale as new milk. But now—” she ran her eyes over my figure “—now you are buxom and bonny, as the lads like to say. You have your colour back, and your spirit. So, I say, complete the cure, and make that luscious young man your lover.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “I am five years his elder.”

“And very nearly a virgin in spite of your marriage,” she retorted. I poked a finger hard into her ribs and she collapsed again into peals of merry laughter.

“Good God, what are the two of you on about?” Plum demanded from across the compartment.

Portia sobered slightly. “We were wondering what Father has bought us for Christmas.”

Plum regarded her gloomily. “Stockings of coal and switches, I’ll warrant.”

Portia shot me an impish look. “Well, perhaps there will be other goodies to open instead.”

This time I did not bother to pinch her. I merely opened my book and pretended to read.

How like a winter hath my absence been from thee.

—SONNET 97

The journey to Blessingstoke was quickly accomplished. The tiny station was nearly deserted. As it was a Monday, and still nearly four weeks before Christmas, the village folk were about their business, although a peculiarly spicy smell hung in the air, the promise of holiday preparations already begun.

Father had sent a pair of carriages for our party, and a baggage wagon besides. There was a brief tussle over who should have custody of the hamper of food, but Portia prevailed, and I made certain to find a seat in her carriage. Somehow she managed to maneuver Alessandro into our small party, and Plum as well, leaving the newlyweds with the maids and the dogs. When Morag let her out of her basket, Florence perpetrated a small crime against Lysander’s shoe, and I made a mental note to ask Cook to find her a nice marrow bone when we arrived at the Abbey.

No sooner had we left the station than word spread we had arrived. It was possible to watch the news travel down the road, just ahead of the carriages, for as we bowled past, villagers emerged from their cottages to wave. The blacksmith raised a glowing red poker in greeting, and Uncle Fly—the vicar and a very great friend of Father’s—lifted his hat and bellowed his regards. There was a stranger with him, a handsome, well-groomed gentleman who eyed us with interest as we passed. He was soberly but beautifully dressed, and he swept off his hat, making us a pretty little courtesy. His eyes caught mine and I noticed a small smile, only slightly mocking, playing over his lips. His expression was merry, comfortably so, as if laughter was his habit.

“That is not a serious sort of person,” I observed as we rounded the bend in the road, leaving Uncle Fly and his jocular stranger.

Portia snorted. “That is Lucian Snow, Uncle Fly’s new curate. I made his acquaintance when Jane and I were down this summer.”

“Surely you jest. I would never have taken him for a churchman.”

“Father says Uncle Fly is having the devil’s own time with him. He is always haring off to one of the other villages to ‘minister to the flock’.”

“Oh, dear,” I murmured. “I do hope that is not the phrase he uses. How terribly earnest of him.”

“Indeed. I imagine Father will have him to dinner whilst we are in residence. He will certainly invite Uncle Fly, and he can hardly fail to include the curate. Plum, I know you are an atheist, dearest, but do mind your manners and try to be civil, won’t you?”

Plum, whose only interest in Italian churches had been the artworks they so often housed, gave a scornful look. “If Father is kind enough to supply me with game, it would be churlish of me not to join the hunt.”

“That is a terrible metaphor. Mark what I said and behave yourself. Oh, look there. I see the Gypsies are in residence, just in time for the holiday.”

Portia pointed to a cluster of brightly painted caravans in the distance. Tents had been pitched and cooking fires kindled, and at the edge of the encampment a bit of rope had been strung around to keep the horses penned. I imagined the men, sitting comfortably in their shirtsleeves in spite of the crisp air, mending harnesses or patching a bit of tin, while the women tended the children and the simmering pots. As a child I had joined them often, letting them plait flowers into my hair or read my fortune in the dregs of a teacup. But now the sight of the camp brought back other memories, bitter ones I wanted only to forget.

Deliberately, I turned from the window. “Alessandro, tell me how you like England thus far.”

The rest of the drive was spent pleasurably. We pointed out local landmarks to Alessandro, and he admired them enthusiastically. It is always pleasant to hear one’s home praised, but it is particularly gratifying from one whose own home is crowned with such delights as the Duomo, the Uffizi, and of course, David.

Our points of interest were somewhat more modest. We showed Alessandro the edge of the Downs, rolling away in the distance like a pillowy green coverlet coming gently to rest after being shaken by a giant’s hand. We guided his gaze to a bit of Roman road which he complimented effusively—a bit disingenuous on his part, considering that Florence was founded as a siege camp for Caesar’s army. We pointed out the woods—a royal hunting preserve for ten centuries—that stretched to the edge of the formal gardens of Bellmont Abbey.

Just past the gatehouse, the drive turned flat and smooth and I explained to Alessandro that this was where, as children, we had raced pony carts.

“All of you? The Lord March must have owned a herd of ponies for so many children,” he teased.

“No, my dear signore,” Portia corrected, “you misunderstand. We were hitched to the pony carts. Father thought it a very great joke when we were behaving like savages to harness us up and have us race one another down the drive. It worked beautifully, you know. We always slept like babies afterwards.”

Alessandro blinked at her. “I believe you are making a joke to me, Lady Bettiscombe.” He looked at me doubtfully. I shook my head.

“No, I’m afraid she isn’t. Father actually did that. Not all the time, you understand. Only when we were very, very naughty. Ah, here is the Rookery. This dear little house was originally built in the eighteenth century as an hermitage. Unfortunately, the sitting earl at the time quarrelled with his hermit, and the house was left empty for ages. Eventually, it was made into a sort of dower house.”

“It is where we keep the old and decrepit members of the family,” Portia put in helpfully. “We send them there and after a while they die.”

“Portia,” I said, giving her a warning look. Alessandro was beginning to look a bit hunted. She took my meaning at once and hastened to reassure him.

“Oh, it is a very peaceful place. I cannot think of any place I would rather die.” She smiled broadly, baring her pretty, white teeth, and Alessandro returned the smile, still looking a trifle hesitant.

“There,” I said, nodding to a bit of grey stone soaring above the trees. “There is Bellmont Abbey.”

The drive curved then and the trees parted to give a magnificent view of the old place. Seven hundred years earlier, Cistercians had built it as a monument to their order. Austere and simple, it was an elegant complex of buildings, exquisitely framed by the landscape and bordered by a wide moat, carp ponds, and verdant fields beyond. The monks and lay brothers had laboured there for four hundred years, communing with God in peace and tranquillity. Then Henry VIII had come, stomping across England like a petulant child.