She spun. “That’s the only way you would marry me? Is that what they think?”
“I doubt they’ve gone as far as rape and pillage. But they don’t put me past plundering.”
“It’s not funny, Quillan!” She stamped her foot again.
“I’m not laughing.” He pulled her into his arms, dismayed when she started to cry again. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh!” She threw up her hands.
Quillan caught them. “Give it time. They’re shocked and angry.” Especially Flavio, whom he noticed Carina avoided mentioning. “They’ll get used to me.”
“Oh, you don’t know.” She turned away and picked up a blouse from the bed. “Bearing a grudge is an art around here.”
Quillan raised her chin. “They can’t hate me forever.”
“This life and the next.”
Quillan reached for the blouse, draped it under her chin. “Isn’t this the one we fetched off the mountain?”
She nodded.
“You hated me then. But see, I’ve brought you clean around.”
She slid her arms around his waist.
He kissed her, whispering, “T’amo.” Saying “I love you” in her language gave him a warmth that smothered all other concerns. If emotion brought forth Italian, Italian definitely brought emotion. But now was not the time. “I think I’ll wash up.”
“How can you do this?” Her fists came up between them.
“Do what?” He caught her fists in his palms.
“Act as though nothing is wrong?”
What could he tell her? He’d spent most of his life acting as though things didn’t hurt, hiding his fear, his feelings. He wanted to be real with her, as she was with him, but he didn’t know how. He kissed the crown of her head and released her. Then he gathered up his suit and went into the water closet.
Carina stared at the closed door behind which her husband disappeared. Had she missed something? Failed to understand the brutal looks from her brothers, Ti’Giuseppe’s warning? Why did Quillan think this a lark? She had brought him into danger.
She spun and paced the room. She had thought Papa would be gracious even though she had insulted him by not seeking his blessing. She had thought Mamma might be difficult but would come around when she saw their love. She had imagined her brothers playful and adoring as they used to be. Had she changed everything so much?
And then she considered the heart of it. Flavio. She had expected him to marry Divina. Hadn’t she? Or had she known bringing Quillan would be a slap to him? She searched inside, trying to see if there was a motive she had ignored. Yes, she had left with impure intentions. But the Lord had bought her for a price. He had brought her through more than she wanted to think. Even now, when her mind touched all she’d suffered, the hurt was fresh and raw.
No, she hadn’t come home to punish Flavio, hadn’t brought a husband to flaunt in his face. She had only wanted the safety and love of her people. But she had taken wicked delight in Flavio’s shock. “Signore, forgive me.”
One wrong thought now could bring everything down on their heads. God would root out and reveal her darkness. And it was there. A deep-seated satisfaction that she had hurt Flavio as much as he’d hurt her. He might be home right now, brooding on his loss. His fury would have seeped away, leaving the bald pain of love spurned. Despondency would overwhelm him, and he would know that he had caused it. His unfaithfulness had caused it.
“Signore, help me.” She dropped to her knees beside the bed. “I should not gloat, not feel such satisfaction. Let me not take pleasure in his pain. Don’t let me increase it.” For even now thoughts of twisting the knife came to mind. “Am I so wicked? Don’t I know what it is to lose what I love?” She pressed a hand to her belly where she had felt the life of her child and was seized with fear for Quillan. “Signore, protect my husband. Per favore, Dio.”
Quillan then came out looking very presentable. His hair was tied back, revealing the fine bones of his facial features. His broadcloth vest and frock coat did not hide his strong shoulders and muscular form. How handsome and good he was! Surely they would see!
Carina got up from her knees. Now she would dress. Dinner was always formal, but tonight she must show them how right she and Quillan were. She wished her wedding dress had not been ruined but chose it anyway. She had replaced the original lace with an inferior grade and brushed and cleaned all the mud and dust from the sea green silk. She shook it out now from its folds in the trunk and remembered the look in Quillan’s eyes when he’d first seen her in it. Her heart beat a sharp staccato. Signore, I love him so much!
She went into the water closet to change, though she had dressed before him countless times. Here, in her home, she felt shy and young. She brushed her hair and twisted it back at the nape of her neck. When she came out, Quillan caressed her with his eyes. He must know how important this was, this first meal together. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, but before they walked down together she said, “I’ll be in the kitchen with Mamma and the others. You will have to wait with the men.”
“All right.”
She meant it as a warning, but he was trying hard to look unconcerned. Maybe nothing would happen. They went down and separated at the foot of the stairs. Already Carina heard her brothers in the smoking room. Papa would be there, too, but she didn’t hear him. She went through the narrow walkway to the kitchen behind the house and tied a stiff white apron over her dress. “What can I do?”
Her sister-in-law Rosa handed her a knife and a bowl of peppers. Joseph’s wife had been the first to marry into the family and had fought the battle of acceptance because Mamma thought she wasn’t good enough for Joseph. Now, plump and familiar, she moved to a corner with two-year-old Giovanni on her hip and watched Carina as though she were the stranger.
The kitchen was warm with redwood beams and creamy plastered walls. The lamps that hung at regular intervals sent a glow to the ceiling, which reflected back over the long marble worktable and stove. An icebox and pastry safe stood at opposite ends, but most of the beige tile floor was open, making it easy for many women to work together. Even those not working, Nonna in her later years and the mothers of infants, gathered in the kitchen at mealtime.
“Gelsomina has taken a Chinese cook,” Tia Marta said to break the awkward silence.
“No.” Carina glanced from Tia Marta to Mamma, who had stopped crying in order to cook, but made no effort to hide her misery. “Veramente?”
Marta nodded. “It’s true. A male Chinese.”