“Well, Mr. Shepard, if you ever look to sell them, look here first.” The man held out his hand. “Corbaley’s the name.”
Quillan shook. “Well, I don’t imagine I’ll be looking to sell. These animals have been with me awhile, except for the gelding. Picked that one up when I lost this black’s twin.”
“A real twin?”
Quillan nodded. “Lost him in an avalanche.”
“Darn shame.”
Quillan felt a twinge, but the ache had passed. Together they led horses and wagon to the doors where Carina waited.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Miss DiGratia,” Corbaley said.
“Actually, she’s with me.” Quillan gave Carina a hand into the box that replaced the spring seat. “And it’s Mrs. Shepard.”
“Well.” Corbaley smiled. “I hadn’t heard. Felicitations.”
Quillan had to smile. If only. He mounted the box and snapped the lines. They lurched forward and he remembered the canvas. “Pull that canvas up over you, Carina.”
She did, and it tented her well enough. When they arrived at the DiGratia house, Quillan stopped outside the courtyard. The gates were closed, but he jumped down and unfastened the wrought-iron catch. Instead of taking the team and wagon in, he helped Carina down and gave her his arm. Together they walked through the courtyard to the door.
Dr. DiGratia opened it himself, reading the situation clearly enough. His frown was infused with indignation and grudging respect. He had to know Quillan could have kept her.
Quillan spoke first. “Dr. DiGratia, I’d like permission to see my wife.”
“See?” He quirked one arched eyebrow.
“See.” Let him read into that anything he liked.
Carina’s father stood a long time without speaking. Then he said, “It was also for your sake that I denied you before. You’re the cause of a broken contract.”
“The contract was broken before me, with better cause.”
“I know nothing of that.” Dr. DiGratia turned his gaze briefly on Carina. “I only know that my daughter begged leave for a time, distraught, yes. Against my better judgment, I let her travel. But nothing was said about breaking a valid contract to which I gave permission. As far as I’m concerned, that’s grounds to annul your claim.”
Annul his claim? After last night, after all their nights, their days, their struggle, their love? Annul the fact that they were one flesh, inseparable, indivisible except by death? “I request permission to see my wife.”
“I deny it. You have no business with her. I spoke with the priest. He’s looking into it.”
“Papa!” Carina’s voice broke. “How could you?”
“It is my responsibility.” He held himself stiffly, in firm control of his emotions.
Quillan admired his determination, and the irony was not lost on him. Hadn’t he told Carina again and again that the marriage was flawed, as he was flawed? Here was yet more proof. Quillan dropped his chin. “I don’t want to be at odds with you. But Carina is legally my wife.”
“There are things beyond the law. Moral codes.”
Quillan bristled. There was nothing immoral in his love for Carina, and it inflamed him to hear it.
Dr. DiGratia drew himself up imperiously. “I suggest you go.”
“Why, Papa?” Carina caught her father’s arm.
“Because you are my daughter. Now go inside.”
Quillan saw Carina stiffen, knew she would refuse. He said softly, “Go, Carina. This isn’t over yet.”
She looked up at him, confused and torn. He didn’t want her to be hurt. But for the life of him, he didn’t know what else to do. Carina went inside. Dr. DiGratia only looked at him, then followed his daughter inside and closed the door.
I am the vine, ye are the branches.
“I don’t understand,” Quillan said to the closed door.
NINETEEN
Matthew 8:20:
The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head. What man am I to long for that which Christ himself denied? What right have I to hearth and home when Jesus bled and died?
—Quillan
FIFULLY, CARINA DRESSED. It was two days since Quillan had brought her home. Papa had willfully ignored her pleas and arguments, and now she was expected to accompany them to the Garibaldi Hotel for a ball in honor of some accomplishment of its namesake. Since everything Giuseppe Garibaldi, the unifier of Italy, had ever done was considered grounds for celebration, there was hardly a date that couldn’t suffice for some gala.
She looked at the dress Mamma had lovingly provided. Carina had to admit its stylish cut and lace-flounced bustle would set her off elegantly. If she could walk in on Quillan’s arm, she would be the happiest woman of all. But of course that was impossible.
Frustrated, she slid her arms into the dress, bowing inside it, then swooping up to let it descend over her in a white lacy cloud. She reached behind and started on the buttons. “Come in,” she called at the tap on the door.
Maria, the maid Mamma had retained from the mission, came in. Silently, she finished the row of buttons to Carina’s neck, then seated her at the maple vanity—no easy trick with the volume of her bustle. Then Maria brushed her hair, drawing out the tangles until it shone and crackled. Carina suffered it silently, upset by the attractive twists and rolls that Maria formed to enhance her beauty.
She didn’t want to look beautiful if Quillan were not there to see. What did she care that the other men would find her so? The other men and Flavio. She burned at the thought. She had not spoken with him since he made his threat, but she knew he would be there tonight. Was there any chance she could avoid him?
It was all so absurd. She should leave. Yet the thought of losing all her family was more than she could bear. Quillan had said it; to know she had broken Mamma’s heart, pained Papa, to never see Ti’Giuseppe, just as she had missed Nonna’s last days . . . She couldn’t do it. They were too much a part of her.
But wasn’t Quillan? Of course he was! And more. Oh, Signore, it’s too much for me.
“Miss is unhappy?”
Maria’s voice startled Carina. But she looked at her own face in the mirror. As Quillan said, it was there for all the world to see. She sighed. “Unhappy and frustrated and confused.”
“I will pray for you.” Simple words from a simple heart.
“Maybe God will hear you.”
“God will hear.” Maria’s hands brought up the last strands of hair, worked them into a braid, and intertwined the braid with the roll on one side. She tucked it in with pearl hairpins. The effect was masterful and lovely.
Carina wanted to cry.
“It will be all right, miss.”
Quillan’s words. But it wasn’t all right. She should be with her husband, and more and more she knew it.