In spite of everything that had happened, all the damage and destruction he had witnessed, his tone was still dismissive. Nino’s revenge hadn’t been enough to pierce his thick shell of overblown sense of privilege. She was about to blister his ears when they were interrupted.
“You may have provided for your other child, but have you acknowledged him? Or is it a her?”
Matteo was standing in the doorway of the parlor. He was dressed in the same breeches she’d helped him into that morning. He’d somehow managed to throw a shirt over his shoulders, but left it hanging open over his bandaged chest.
“Son, you’re awake,” Aldo said, twisting to face the door.
Matteo nodded slowly and then turned to smile weakly at Isobel before looking back to his father. “And you still haven’t said whether or not I have a brother or a sister.”
Aldo frowned. “That doesn’t matter. I’ve already told you, the child is provided for.”
Matteo came inside and sat next to Isobel on the settee. “And what kind of life do they have?”
His father’s mouth firmed. “A perfectly decent one. One of my tenant farmers took the babe. He and his wife had no children at the time. It was a good fit for him.”
“Him?” Matteo narrowed his eyes at his father. “My brother is going to be a tenant farmer? On an estate I will someday inherit?”
His mouth twisted in distaste.
The count tsked. “He’s a bastard. I’ve made arrangements for him. He’ll get his own plot someday,” he said with the air of someone who felt truly magnanimous.
“That’s not good enough. He should get his fair share.”
“He is getting what he deserves. Few illegitimate children are so lucky.”
“And whose fault is it that the boy isn’t legitimate?” Matteo said, forgetting himself and throwing up his bandaged hands before wincing.
Aldo swore. “What did you expect me to do? Marry his mother?”
“Why not?” Matteo yelled.
The Conte looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You don’t marry a domestic,” he said incredulously.
“I did,” he replied quietly.
Isobel turned to Matteo, slipping her hand behind his back to rub it in small circles.
Aldo passed a hand over his face “A governess is different. Her father was a gentleman.”
She suppressed an ironic smile.
“Well, at least you acknowledge that much,” Matteo said quietly.
Rubbing his face with both hands, Aldo sighed loudly. “We can discuss this later. You need your rest. I’m going to go home.”
Matteo leaned forward. “I think that’s a good idea.”
Sighing, Aldo rose. “I’ll call again tomorrow.”
“No. I think it would be a good idea if you went home to Italy.”
His father stared at him, hurt deepening the grooves on either side of his mouth.
“It’s for the best, father,” Matteo continued.
“But you’re still injured...”
Matteo glanced at Isobel. “I’ll be in good hands. In fact, I’ll probably heal much better if we’re on our own,” he added gently. “Once I’m able to travel we’ll follow.”
His father frowned. “When?” he asked.
“Soon,” Matteo sighed, giving her a sideways glance. “The climate of this country doesn’t suit me.”
Inhaling deeply, Aldo finally nodded. “All right, but you’ll come directly home once you’re able?”
“We will see,” Matteo said slowly.
They said their goodbyes, but Matteo stopped Aldo at the doorway.
“Father, we’re not done talking about my brother yet,” he added.
Aldo sighed loudly, his shoulders slumping before he nodded.
Once he was gone, there was silence. Matteo just stood there, looking at the doorway for several moments.
Isobel marched up to him. “Bed. Now.”
He smiled slightly. “Yes, madame witch. Your wish is my command.”
***
Upstairs, Isobel changed Matteo’s bandages with quick efficiency. He was quiet, his face grave throughout the procedure. When she tried to give him a healing tonic, one she hoped would help repair the musculature of his hands, he shook his head.
“Darling, what’s wrong?”
Matteo cocked his head at her, giving her a wry glance. He gestured down at himself with a quick motion of his head.
She sighed. “The scarring will improve. In time, you’ll be able to walk normally. My grandmother’s poultices will help keep the skin soft and pliant enough to stretch. This tonic will help the damaged muscles. There’s every chance you may regain some use in your hands. You mustn’t give up hope.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. No more tonics. I don’t deserve hope...or to get better.”
Isobel kneeled in front of him. “Of course you do. It’s normal to grow despondent when you’re facing a long recovery.”
“This isn’t melancholia. This,” he held up his hands, “is penance. I did so many horrible things, in reality I deserve so much worse. And you...you deserve only the best. Your freedom—and a man to love who isn’t tainted. Someone who’s not disfigured. That’s one of the reasons I asked my father to go on ahead. As soon as he departs for Italy, you can leave.”