Two Little Lies

Sixteen

The Long Vigil

A lice’s wedding day dawned in an almost magical burst of brilliant blue sky above a sparkling, snow-covered landscape. The snow was neither deep nor destined to last. Instead, it was just enough to dust over the winter’s stiff, ugly grass, and disguise the muddy, rutted roads, like some a fairy-tale carpet of white.

The vicar arrived just after breakfast. Alice and Henry said their vows in Arlington’s withdrawing room in a small, private ceremony, just as his mother had wished. The service was attended only by Quin, his mother, the children, and three of Arlington’s most senior servants. Alice was a beautiful bride in dark blue silk, and her brand-new pearls. Henry looked every inch a gentleman in clothes as fine and well fitted as any Quin had ever seen. Another benefit, no doubt, of their trip to London.

Afterward, Mrs. Prater cried, and kissed the bride and groom. Quin’s mother, too, dabbed discreetly at the corners of her eyes when she thought no one was looking. Quin shook Henry’s hand and kissed his sister’s cheek. The vicar beamed as if it were all his idea. And then the excitement was over, and it was time to go to the more public venue of St. Anne’s. It was Christmas Day.

Quin sat beside his mother in the tiny village church and tried to absorb the significance of the sermon, but his thoughts were admittedly elsewhere. He hoped a bolt from heaven did not strike him dead, but he could think only of Cerelia. Cerelia his daughter, cold and wan and trembling. Though paternal concern was an altogether new experience for Quin, the worry fit him like a well-worn shoe. He slid into it with ease.

When the service was over, the congregation flooded forth into the crystalline sunshine, the adults to quietly chat, and the children to expend their nervous energy in attempting to make snowballs out of what was fast becoming slush. Word of the morning’s marriage had spread through the crowd, and Alice and Henry were soon surrounded by well-wishers. So much for Alice’s wish for total privacy, thought Quin. Arlington Green was too small a village for that. He joined his mother in flanking the happy couple and tried to look pleased—which he most assuredly was. But the worry over Cerelia kept pressing in on him.

Soon, and much to his relief, the crowd about Henry and Alice began to disperse. Quin looked about, realizing that no one from Hill Court had attended the morning service, not even the servants. How very odd. Just then, he saw Lucy Watson winding her way through the crowd, two of her red-haired rapscallions in tow. She came straight at him with obvious purpose.

“Happy Christmas, Lucy,” he said.

“Your lordship.” She greeted him with a perfunctory curtsy. “I was thinking you might have took notice no one’s come down from Chesley’s.”


He looked at her curiously. “I did wonder at it, yes.”

“Well, happen I went by early to give Aunt Effie her Christmas present.” Lucy’s eyes held his, as if she were judging what she might comfortably say. “Things are in a bit of a state up there. Lady Cerelia took bad in the night.”

Panic shot through him. “Bad?” he rasped. “Dear God! How bad?”

Lucy looked solemn. “She’s turned febrile,” she answered. “It came on quick-like. They’ve sent for Dr. Gould, and that’s all I know. But a body might wish to get up there straightaways if—well, if they wished to, my lord. That’s all I’m saying.”

Before Quin could make her any response, Lucy bobbed again quickly and vanished.

It took him but a moment to speak a quiet word in Alice’s ear, shake Henry’s hand, and make his way from the churchyard. He had been anxiously awaiting word from Viviana all morning. Only his concern for Cerelia outweighed his anger that she had not kept her promise.

When he arrived at Hill Court, Basham let him in without surprise. “I’m given to understand that the child became feverish around midnight, my lord,” he said. “Dr. Gould is with her now.”

Without explanation, Quin rushed up the two flights of stairs to Viviana’s bedchamber. He did not knock, but went straight in. The room seemed full of women. The governess—Miss Hevner, he thought—stood alone in one corner, her expression one of grave concern. Cerelia had been moved to her mother’s bed. Viviana was leaned over one side, the old Italian nurse at her elbow.

Bent low over the opposite side, Dr. Gould looked up and, seeing Quin, raised one eyebrow. Then he returned his attention to the wooden tube which he had pressed to Cerelia’s chest and set one ear to it, whilst sticking one finger in his opposite ear. Periodically, he moved the tube around, always keeping his ear against it. At last, he straightened up, placed an elaborate piece of ivory over the end of the tube, and restored it to his leather satchel.

“The heart is strong, but the lungs are growing congested,” he pronounced. “Her pulse is far too fast.”

Cerelia thrashed restlessly in the bed, but her eyes did not open. “What can be done for her?” Viviana whispered, her expression stricken.

Dr. Gould set one hand on Cerelia’s forehead. “Give the willow bark tonic more often,” he said. “Every hour. Spoon it in if you must. When she wakes, give her water or broth, as much as she will take. Should she worsen, send for me. If the fever does not break by tomorrow, we will need to bleed her.”

Solemnly, Viviana nodded. Gould spoke a few quiet, encouraging words to her, then took his leave. If he wondered at Quin’s presence, he gave no sign.

Slowly, the room returned to “normal,” whatever normal was under such dreadful circumstances. The housemaids, who had apparently come to change out the bed linen, finished with the little trundle bed and left. Miss Hevner excused herself, mumbling something about attending to the other children. Signora Rossi, the old nurse, busied herself by uncorking the brown bottles which sat on a tray by the bed and mixing their contents into a mug of water.

Viviana eased herself down into a chair by the bed and did not glance at him. Today, to his shock, she looked every one of her thirty-three years. Though Viviana was a tall, voluptuous woman, just now she gave the impression of being terribly fragile. Her eyes appeared sunken, and rimmed with dark circles. Her hand, clutching the chair’s arm, looked almost birdlike. Her hair was caught back in a bland, very ordinary arrangement, and for the first time he could see the slightest hint of silver glinting against the jet-black of her temples. He wondered if it had appeared overnight. One heard of such things occurring.

Perhaps it was Viviana’s gaunt appearance which tempered his ire, or perhaps it was the sight of Cerelia, so small and still in the massive bed. Whatever the cause, his anger seemed to dissipate, pouring out of him like some terrible, tangible thing and leaving him to feel enervated by grief. Whatever she had done to him, Viviana did not deserve this.

He looked about for a chair and pulled it beside hers. Viviana’s hand still lay on the chair arm, and impulsively, he covered it with his own. “How long has she been like this?”

“She began wheezing just before Dr. Gould arrived last night,” Viviana answered hollowly. “Then the fever came on, and she grew fretful. Around daybreak, there was something…something like una convulsione?”

“Like a fit?”

Viviana nodded, but her gaze never left Cerelia. “Si, like a fit,” she said quietly. “Nicolo had one as a baby. It was the same.”

Quin tried to sound calm, though he was anything but. “She seems so still now. Has she not awakened?”

“A little,” Viviana admitted. “But she talks nonsense and thrashes wildly if we try to hold her or restrain her.”

Just then, Signora Rossi held up a second brown bottle, and said something to Viviana in rapid Italian. “Si, grazie,” Viviana replied, rising. The old woman left the room, taking the bedside tray with her.

Quin followed Viviana as she limped to the opposite side of the bed. She picked up the mug which the nurse had dosed from the brown bottles, and stirred the contents with a spoon.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Signora Rossi has mixed the tonic,” she said, dragging the back of her wrist across her forehead. “We must spoon it in, un po’ per volta— in drips, si?— so that it does not choke her.”

He watched her finish stirring. Her hand was shaking noticeably, and the opposite wrist was bandaged, from her fall the previous evening, most likely. “Viviana, have you had any sleep?”

“Non molto,” she muttered. “Enough.”

Quin frowned. “No sleep, and you can scarcely bear weight on that leg.” Gently, he took the mug from her hand. “Show me how to do this,” he ordered. “Then sit back down and rest.”

She looked up at him in some surprise, her eyes wide and questioning.

“I have a right, Viviana, to help her,” Quin said softly. “Do not refuse me a chance.”

Viviana swallowed hard and nodded. “Just put a little in the spoon,” she said. “Si, like that. And press down on her bottom lip. Sometimes, she will take it. If not, give drips only.”

It was a painstaking process indeed, though Quin did not complain. Viviana watched quietly, saying little. At first, he dribbled it down her chin, and had to hastily wipe it up again. Sometimes he could only press the lip of the spoon against Cerelia’s teeth, and hope for the best. In between the spoons of tonic, he would set the backs of his fingers against her feverish forehead. It was then that one truely realized the grip the illness held on her. Quin began to pray the fever would soon break.

Toward the end, Cerelia began to speak in muttered bursts of Italian, and thrash wildly.

Viviana scooted forward on the edge of her chair, her fingers clutching at the bedcovers. “She has been like this since the spell at dawn,” she said anxiously. “Signora Rossi says it is to be expected, but it…Dio, it frightens me.”

“It frightens me, too,” he admitted, looking pointedly at her. “But Signora Rossi knows best, does she not? You trust her?”

Viviana nodded, and slumped back into her chair. “She is wise,” she agreed. “But she is too old for this. She is…she is stanchissima. Very weary.”


Quin tried to smile. “As are you,” he remarked. “But I am neither, despite any appearance to the contrary.”

At that, she gave him a faint smile and sank back into the chair, her arms crossed over her chest. He was not sure if he should take the gesture as a sign of recalcitrance or just pure fatigue.

Quin returned to his work. Near the end, his back went a bit stiff from being crooked awkwardly over the bed, but at last all the tonic—well, most of it—was down.

“Bene,” said Viviana with relief, when he set the mug down. “Molto bene.”

Across the bed, he looked at her. The morning sun was flooding in through the windows, bathing her in cool, wintry light. Even in her agony, Viviana was beautiful. But the halo of madonna-like serenity no longer surrounded her; she had become the tormented mother, fearing the worst for her child.

Good God, how he hated to see her this way. Never had he wished to see her suffer. Suddenly, he wanted to snatch back every spiteful thought he’d ever harbored toward her. He was still angry, still felt he’d been wronged. But seeing Cerelia so diminished, he could understand a little better, perhaps, what drove Viviana.

He put away the mug and spoon, and returned to sit beside her. “Viviana, it is Christmas Day,” he said quietly. “Why do you not go spend just a little of it with Felise and Nicolo? I will stay here. I will call you if there is even the slightest change.”

“We have postponed Christmas,” she answered. “We have put it off until…until Cerelia is well again. It was Felise’s idea.”

Quin understood. “I brought some things back from London for the children,” he said. “I—I forgot them. I came straight from church. Shall I ask Basham to send someone to fetch them, just in case?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Si, as you wish.”

But Quin did not rise to go out, or to ring the bell, or to do anything. He was reluctant to leave Cerelia’s beside, even for a moment. Perhaps he was beginning to understand how Viviana felt in that respect, too. There was a sense of the ephemeral in the room; an illogical belief that so long as one remained vigilant, so long as one observed the rise and fall of Cerelia’s chest, and listened to the faint rasp of her breath, the life force would go on. But if one dared turn one’s back…

Viviana ran a hand through her hair and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I am so sorry, Quinten,” she said, staring down at the opulent Oriental carpet. “This is all my fault. I should have been watching her more carefully.”

“Viviana, do not be too harsh with yourself,” he cautioned. “How many children were there? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

Her eyes flashed with frustration. “Si, but only three of them were mine,” she responded. “And to them I owed my undivided attention. Instead, I was—” She jerked to a halt, and shook her head, her lips set in a tight line.

“You were what, Vivie?” he prodded.

A look of disgust flitted across her face. “Gossiping,” she said. “Chattering away with your mother like some foolish—foolish—oh, what is that silly thing, the bird name?”

Quin lifted one brow. “A magpie?”

“Si, like a magpie,” she hissed. “Not paying attention, but thinking only of how to…” Her words fell away, and tears sprang to her eyes.

“How to what, Vivie?” He reverted to her nickname unthinkingly.

Viviana pressed her lips together and shook her head again. “How to impress her,” she whispered. “How to—to make her think that I was a person worthy of…of her good regard.”

“Oh, Vivie!” he said. “Vivie, you do not need the approval of my mother. Not for any reason. And yet, I believe you already have it. I believe you have even managed to cow her a little, which is no bad thing.”

Viviana sniffed a little pitifully. “Is it not?” she asked. “It sounds very bad indeed. I certainly do not think she is a cow.”

At that, he smiled. “Never mind, Viviana,” he said. Then wordlessly, he rose and touched Cerelia’s brow. “What about bathing her in cool water?” he suggested. “Mightn’t that make her feel better?”

Viviana nodded. “Perhaps.”

Quin went to the washstand, and returned with a face flannel and basin of cool water. He bathed her face, her throat, and even her arms. It did indeed seem to make her less restless. At one point, Cerelia’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked at him unseeingly. “Mamma—?” she rasped.

Viviana flew to her side and cradled the child’s face in her hand. “I am here, mia cara bambina,” she whispered. “Mamma is here. Mamma will never leave you.”

Mama will never leave you.

Quin thought again of the threats he had made. He meant them, did he not? But as he looked at Viviana’s elegant, long-fingered hand cradling Cerelia’s feverish cheek, and at the agony in her eyes, he was suddenly not so sure. Would he make Viviana choose between the two? Her home or her child?

Quin shook his head and set the water away. He could not bear to think of it just now. He had been a father for less than one day, and the emotions which that knowledge engendered were overwhelming. All that mattered now, all that could be dealt with, really, was Cerelia’s recovery. Anything beyond that must be set aside. His needs, his wishes, even his vendetta, if he still had one, must be made secondary.

Cerelia fell into a more peaceful slumber, though the bright red flush on her face did not abate. Viviana returned to her chair, and slowly, the minutes ticked by. Eventually, Signor Alessandri came in. As he held and patted Cerelia’s hand, he whispered urgent questions to Viviana in Italian. He seemed too distraught to wonder what Quin was doing there.

Soon, Chesley popped in to tut-tut at Viviana and pat the child’s knee fondly. Signora Rossi returned with a more water, some warm broth, and the ubiquitous brown bottles. Together, with Viviana cradling the child, they managed to persuade her to sip a little of the broth. Cerelia’s eyes, however, were still distant and glassy. She was not really awake.

When that was done, Viviana spoke to the nurse her in firm, rapid Italian. She was sending the woman away, as best Quin could make out. Signora Rossi gave her a dark look and went out.

“She sleeps now,” said Viviana. “For an hour or two, at least.”

Quin motioned at the empty trundle bed. “As you should do,” he advised. “If Cerelia needs you, I promise to wake you at once.”

Viviana shook her head. “It is time again for the tonic.”

Quin attempted to take the medicine bottles from her. A minor squabble ensued, which resulted in Viviana’s agreeing to sit on the bed to take the weight from her bruised leg. They were both on edge, both frightened. And so the afternoon approached. As if by agreement, they took turns bathing and dosing Cerelia. Her restless thrashing would abate, then return. At its worst, Cerelia cried out for her mother and clawed wildly at the air.

When at last it stopped, Viviana sat back down and rested her forehead on the bed. “Oh, Dio, my poor baby!” she said. “Why did I not watch her? What was she thinking, to go back to that place alone?”

“She had lost her ring,” he said quietly. “She must have wanted it desperately.”

“She was not supposed to wear it!” said Viviana. “Why was I not more strict? Why in God’s name did I ever give it to her? Had I not done so, none of this would have happened.”


Again, he covered her hand with his. “Her magic ring, she called it,” he said. “I think, Viviana, that it comforted her.”

“Si, it comforted her,” said Viviana bitterly. “But life is not all comfort, is it? I told her a fairy tale, and I let her believe it. Better I should have told her the truth.”

Quin sat back down and turned in his chair to face her. “Why did you give her the ring, Viviana?” he asked. “May I not be allowed to know?”

She shook her head. “It is so very hard to explain, Quinten,” she answered. “You feel that I have wronged you, and perhaps I have done so. I…I do not know. But if I have done so, then know, caro, that God has already punished me for it. You need not trouble yourself.”

“Vivie, you are talking nonsense,” he said. “This is not about punishment.”

But Viviana was not listening. Her gaze had turned inward. “Perhaps Cerelia’s sickness means that he still punishes me,” she whispered. “I thought it was over, but I look at her, so frail and small, and I cannot but wonder.”

He set his hands on her shoulders, and gave her a little shake. “Vivie, what on earth are you talking about? God is not punishing you. And what has any of this to do with the ring?”

Her gaze returned to him, sharp and piercing. “You once asked me, Quinten, if Papà quarreled with Gianpiero over me,” she whispered.

“And I should still like to know,” he admitted.

She swallowed hard, and nodded. “Many years ago, Gianpiero wished to take me as his mistress.” Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear her. “Papà and I lived on his estate, and I could not escape his attentions. He was…relentless. My life became a misery. Wherever I traveled on the Continent, wherever I sang, there he would be. Smiling so charmingly. Papà became worried, and finally, he sent me away.”

“To Uncle Ches, you mean?”

She nodded again. “Si, to England,” she answered. “To the one place Gianpiero had little influence.”

He waited for her to speak, and when she did not, he said, “Go on, Viviana. Please.”

She gave a sharp sigh. “Gianpiero was enraged when he found me gone,” she said. “He cut Papà off—not just financially, but artistically. But Papà would not relent. Many months passed. Then a year. As time went on, and none of his tricks availed him of what he wished, Gianpiero became charming again. He proposed marriage. He begged Papà’s forgiveness. And so I went home, and I told him the truth. That I did not love him, and never would, and that I carried a child. But I pledged to be a good and faithful wife if he would give my child his name. The rest, caro, you know.”

Quin felt faintly ill, as if the room were spinning round him. “Good God, Viviana,” he whispered. “Why did you not come to me and tell me?”

“You did not want me,” she said simply. There was no anger in her words.

He gripped her shoulders tighter. “Viviana, you know that is not so.”

“You did not wish to marry me,” she corrected. “Do not lie and say you did, Quinten.”

He looked at her grimly, but said nothing.

Viviana continued speaking. “You did not want to wed me—but would you have taken care of me?” she mused, her voice distant now. “Si, caro, probably. But how could I dishonor my father with a bastard child, after all he had sacrificed? He had given up his security, his career—all this, so that I might keep my precious honor. So that I could be more than just a rich man’s mistress. Oh, Quinten, how could I let him see that I had squandered his gift?”

The agony in her voice cut into his heart. “I…I do not know, Viviana,” he said. “I am sorry.”

Beneath his hands, he felt her shoulders sag. “In the end, perhaps it was not a wise choice which I made,” she went on, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Better I should have borne my child alone, perhaps, than make my devil’s bargain with Gianpiero. Fallen women are not necessarily shunned—not in opera. Papà would have survived. We would not have been well received in society, but we would not, I think, have starved.”

We would not have starved? Good Lord, how had it even come close to that? He hated to hear her speak of it, hated to think of the choices his blind stupidity had forced her to make, even if she had chosen unwisely.

God in heaven, how he wished he had never made love to her. Never touched her. No, not even once. He should rather have given up his sweetest memories, and even Cerelia, than to know what Viviana had been faced with. Men fathered children, and walked away—if that was their wish. Women bore their children and were bound by duty for the rest of their lives. Those were the horrible, ugly truths.

Restless and on edge, he got up and began to pace the room. Viviana sat stoically at her place by the bed. Once, Cerelia made a sound, and he went to her before Viviana could spring to her feet. The bedcovers were tangled around the child’s foot. Mechanically, he straightened them, then wiped her brow and throat with cool water again. Something in his heart clenched each time he looked at her. She was so small and so pretty.

He let his eyes drift over her, and wondered again how he had missed all the signs. Her face was Viviana’s, yes, but her dark blue eyes—oh, they were his. And her hair? Unmistakably Alice’s; not just the color, but the luster, texture, and thickness. She had Alice’s slender shoulders and long legs, too. Her lovely coltishness would remain into womanhood, he was sure, as his sister’s had done. Cerelia would never have Vivie’s lush, exotic sumptuousness, but she would be a beauty. And a tone-deaf beauty, too, for she had no musical skill whatsoever—and he knew too well whence that deficiency had come.

Dear God. Such thoughts put into stark perspective a part of fatherhood which he had never stopped to consider. He had given parts of himself to her. Lord, he hoped it was mostly the good parts. He hoped Cerelia had not inherited his amazingly poor judgment. He hoped she had not his mother’s sweet tooth, or his father’s bad heart. He hoped she would be lively and curious to a great old age, like his aunt Charlotte. He hoped she would take from Uncle Ches the fine qualities of consideration and kindness. He prayed to God she would never wake up as Quin had done, caught in a life of emptiness and bitterness, before he’d yet turned thirty.

With slow, deliberate motions, he folded the face flannel and draped it over the basin of cool water. A housemaid slipped in after a faint knock and set down a tray of sandwiches and fruit. Viviana thanked her, and she went out again. Neither of them paid the food any heed.

“You were telling me, Viviana, about the ring,” he said quietly. “Cerelia told me Bergonzi damaged it. May I ask why?”

Absently, Viviana began to fidget with the ring she wore; a wide band of gold set with small diamonds.

“Vivie?” he said again.

Her head jerked up, her eyes shining with tears. “Gianpiero always knew where the ring had come from,” she whispered. “I did not tell him, Quin. And he did not ask. But he knew. I kept it, you see, just as you asked.”

“Did…did you ever wear it, Vivie?” It was not the question he wished to ask—had she ever missed him?—but it would do.

She shook her head, and began to twist the diamond band round and round on her finger. “Not at first,” she said. “I put it away, for in the beginning, I tried to love my husband. I tried very hard. But the years came and went, and I could not love him in the way he wished. He grew bitter, and his bitterness deepened until it maddened him. Toward the end, he took lovers, kept mistresses. I—I did not care. And that made him all the angrier.”


He returned to her side. “Oh, Viviana,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

She shrugged. “It did not kill me,” she said. “In any case, after Nicolo, we began to live apart, more or less. Cerelia and I were happier, I think, though Felise was less so. I lived my own life. And one day, I just…I just put the ring back on. I cannot say why. I just wanted to wear something bright and pretty. I wore it off and on for months. I did not think Gianpiero would notice or care. Certainly he said nothing.”

“But he did care?” said Quin quietly.

Weakly, she nodded. “One Sunday afternoon, I was reading with Cerelia on a bench in the garden. Gianpiero came out to say that he was going away again. He was to spend a fortnight at our villa on Lake Como with his mistress. His tone was cold, very ugly. For some reason, Cerelia took it into her head that this time he was not coming back. Felise always felt his absences most keenly, but he never paid any attention to Cerelia. And yet she was the one who began to cry and to beg him not to go away. I think…I think she did it for Felise.”

“What happened, Vivie?”

“Gianpiero went wild with fury.” Viviana held up her hands as if uttering a plea to heaven. “Like an animal. Never have I seen the like. He spit, and called Cerelia a little monella—si, a greedy little brat—and worse. The harder she cried, the uglier his insults became.”

“Bastard!”

“Finally, he jerked me off the bench by my arm and said, ‘Oh, poor little brat! She is crying for her papà!’ Then he tore the ring from my finger and hurled it at her. ‘There, Cerelia,’ he said. ‘There is your papà. I am not he. Take this precious ring, cara mia, to England and see if you can find him, eh?’”

“Dear God.”

“At first, Cerelia did not understand,” Viviana whispered. “She got down in the grass and found the ring, and tried to put it back on my hand. Gianpiero turned around. His face—Dio mio, his face! It was like a mask of rage. He came back and snatched the ring from her grasp. There had been stonemasons in the garden, repairing a wall. They left a—a big hammer. He took it and he smashed the ring on the stones.

“Again and again, he smashed it, and with such strength as you have never seen. He kept screaming at Cerelia, saying that he was not her papà. And that I was a faithless bitch. That he hated us all.”

Her words fell away on a note of uncertainty. She would not look directly at him. Quin dipped his head, trying to catch her eyes. “What happened after that, Vivie?”

Viviana said nothing. She looked at the floor and blinked her eyes rapidly.

Quin took her hand in his. “If you wish to say no more, I will understand.”

Her chin came up, and her gaze snapped to his, sorrowful, yet angry. “I asked him to give me back the ring, so that Cerelia might have it,” she whispered. “And he struck me.”

At first, he thought he’d misunderstood. “What do you mean, struck you?”

Viviana looked at him unflinchingly. “He hit me,” she answered. “But this time, it was not the palm of his hand, or a leather strap, as was his habit. This time, it was his fist. And this time, it left bruises I could no longer hide.”

“Dear God!” Quin felt a surge of hatred, and a sense of dawning horror, too.

Viviana’s words were still soft, but unwavering. It was as if she told a tale she’d reiterated a thousand times. Dispassionately, as if she were far removed from that life, that time, and that place. “I awoke on the garden path in my own blood,” she continued. “Cerelia was on her knees, crying. She was only six. She did not know what to do.”

“Dear God!” he said again, squeezing her hand. “What did you do?”

“What else was there to do?” she asked calmly. “I got up and took her into the house. I asked the housekeeper to fetch a doctor. I told her that Gianpiero had hit me and that I believed my nose was broken. It was. And there was nothing to be done, the doctor said. So I threw away my bloodstained clothes, took a warm bath, then I went back to Cerelia.”

“She must have been terrified.”

Viviana hesitated. “She was,” she admitted. “And she asked me if what Gianpiero said was true, that he was not her father. So I—I told her that it was. What else could I say? She was so sad. She barely understood then, I think. She asked if Gianpiero meant to send her away, and I told her that it did not matter. That whatever happened, we would never be parted. And then I gave her the ring. I told her that Gianpiero smashed the ring because there was magic in it.”

“Magic?” he echoed.

“The magic of love,” said Viviana quietly. “I told her that her papà, her—her blood father—gave it to me for her, and that it was an eternal circle of his love for her. I told her that as long as she had the ring, she had the love of her papà. It…it sounds so foolish now. But in that moment, she needed something. Something I could not give her. And so…and so I lied.”

“No, you did not lie, Viviana,” he whispered. “You did just the right thing.”

“I tried to do the right thing,” said Viviana sorrowfully. “But like my marriage to Gianpiero, it has turned out all wrong somehow. She…she has developed an unnatural affection for the ring. Can you see why she would wish always to wear it? Why she would do such a foolish thing as go back into the forest after it?”

“I certainly can,” he said grimly.

And it was all the more reason, he feared, why it would be wiser to tell the child the whole truth. Then she would have at least a little something more than a ring to pin her hopes and dreams on. Perhaps he wasn’t much better than an inanimate lump of metal—clearly, that was Viviana’s impression—but at least he could make Cerelia feel loved in the truest sense of the word.

Viviana sighed again, and stood. Moving carefully on her sore leg, she went to the window, then to the desk, her movements restless despite her hampered pace. Back at the window, she set her fingertips to the glass and looked out as if doing so might transport her to a happier time, or a better place.

“And so you know, Quinten, what I have done,” she said quietly. “And you should know the price God has extracted. My nose—it is not just ugly. It is ruined.”

“I think it is still a lovely nose,” he protested, and he meant it.

She turned from the window to face him. “But it is ruined,” she said again. “The—the cavità. In my head—the spaces where the air resonates. It is…not right. Something is gone. Changed.”

“Changed?” Quin felt his brow furrow. “What are you saying, Viviana? Is it difficult to breathe?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, no, not that,” she said. “It is difficult to sing. My voice, caro, it is gone.”

Gone? His heart skipped a beat. “Vivie, how can this be? You—you sound fine to me.”

She came toward him slowly, her hands outstretched, as if pleading for him to understand. “Talking, caro, it is not the same,” she whispered. “I cannot sing. I cannot hold the notes so strongly as before. My vibrato, it does not come as it should, the volume, the resonance, it is…well, not gone, perhaps. But it is mediocre, at best.”

“But what does Uncle Ches say?” he asked. “And your father?”


She shook her head. “They have not yet noticed,” she answered quietly. “But I notice—and they will, too, eventually. In the right room, with the right piece of music.”

“Oh, Vivie,” he said sorrowfully. “Oh, Vivie. Are you sure?”

“é certo,” she whispered.

And there could be no worse punishment for her, he knew, save to lose her father or one of her children. Yes, he could understand how she might feel God was punishing her. To Viviana, her voice had been her joy. Her greatest pain and pleasure. She had truly lived to sing, and the world had worshiped her for it.

“Vivie,” he whispered. “Could you teach? Could you…could you compose?”

She shook her head again. “I am not ready to think of such things,” she answered. “Let me mourn my loss, Quinten.”

Her use of the word “mourn” was entirely correct. Viviana looked as if she had suffered a death.

Were he to think on it for a thousand years, he would not be able to comprehend what this woman had been through during her marriage. One could not, he was sure, unless one had lived the terror. Even now, there was an ice-cold horror in the pit of his stomach and a righteous anger burning in his heart. But if Viviana felt any of that, one could not discern it. Her proud, stoic silence amazed him; her unequivocal acceptance of what fate had dealt her went beyond brave.

Viviana was watching him quietly, as if assessing his mood. “I have no wish for your sympathy, Quinten,” she said. “I just tell you this so you will know that none of this has been easy for me. I have learnt that there are no right answers. And if I have chosen wrongly, I have paid for it.”

There seemed to be nothing more to say. Clearly, Viviana believed in an exacting and punitive God. Perhaps that had been her way of coping.

Ah, well. No matter how much he might wish otherwise, he had not the power to change the past. If he had, Gianpiero Bergonzi would have never even existed. Here in the real world, the world of the present and the difficult, it was time to give Cerelia her medicine. They were also out of cold water. And Viviana clearly had no wish to be comforted, not by him, at any rate.

Unthinkingly, he rang for a servant. When the housemaid arrived, Viviana ordered more broth as well as freshwater. She prepared the tonic from the two brown bottles. Quin straightened Cerelia’s bedcovers, and found her a fresh, cool pillow. They worked together instinctively, as if they had been doing it for years instead of just hours.

Signora Rossi came in with another heavy tray. Together, she and Viviana managed to get both broth and tonic down Cerelia. The child looked perhaps a little more aware, but quickly fell into a deep sleep.

The old nurse surveyed her from the foot of the bed. “Addormentato,” she said, hands on her hips. “Now, Contessa, you sleep, too. I get you warm milk.”

Viviana shook her head. “Grazie, Signora Rossi,” she said. “But I cannot sleep.”

Quin extracted his watch and glanced at it. Half past three. It would be dark soon. He wondered how many hours Viviana had been awake. Signora Rossi left the room, only to return ten minutes later with a steaming mug. “You drink it,” she said, passing it to Viviana. “Subito.”

As if to placate the old woman, Viviana took the mug from the tray and slowly sipped it. Quin already knew a cup of warm milk would have no chance at overcoming Viviana’s powerful maternal instincts. She would not sleep until she utterly broke down, of that he was certain.

The old nurse puttered about the room, checking the brown bottles, tucking in the bedcovers, and in general, folding and neatening anything that could be folded or neatened. All the while, however, she kept one eye on Viviana. Perhaps it was the quiet of the room, or perhaps just his overset nerves, but Quin somehow found it soothing to watch the old woman work.

A strange little sound by his elbow soon distracted him. He looked over in some surprise to see that Viviana had indeed drifted off. Her head had fallen to one side, causing her to make a faint, and very sweet, snoring sound on each exhalation.

The old nurse crossed the room and looked her over assessingly. “Buono,” she said in satisfaction. “She sleep now.”

“Good Lord,” said Quin.

The old nurse looked at him, then pulled yet a third brown bottle from the pocket of her apron. “She sleeps long, signore,” she repeated, wiggling the bottle. “You take her to the small bed now, per favore.”

It was not a request. Obediently, Quin jumped to his feet and scooped Viviana up, mindful of her bruises. Gingerly, he carried her to the trundle bed. She did not so much as twitch when he laid her down again. Quin wondered what the old woman had given her. Nothing she had not needed, most likely.

The nurse looked at him guardedly. “You, go home now,” she said.

Quin smiled wanly and shook his head. The nurse shook hers, too, as if thinking him a fool, then they sat back down together. And so they kept their vigil together, he and the old woman, until well into the evening. Signora Rossi was not much of a conversationalist, he soon discovered, but she could darn stockings like a house afire. He watched in amazement as she whip-stitched her way through one basketful and started in on another.

Eventually, the moon rose, and Quin began to light the lamps and build up the fire. Viviana still did not stir. Cerelia, however, seemed more restless, and yet some of the brilliance seemed to have left her cheeks. At one point, he rose and pressed the backs of his fingers to her forehead. Was it cooler? Or was it his imagination?

“Si,” said Signora Rossi, looking up from her darning. “She heals.”

She heals. Lord God, he prayed the old woman was right.

At eight, there was a soft knock at the door, and Miss Hevner came in. Niccolo was balanced on her hip, and Felise was beside her. Both children were dressed for bed. “Oh, I beg your pardon, your lordship,” said the governess when she saw him. “The children wished to say good night to Cerelia and their mother.”

Signora Rossi tilted her head toward the trundle bed. “Stare tranquillo,” cautioned the old woman. “Your Mamma, she needs sleep.”

Dutifully, the children tiptoed across the room and knelt to kiss their mother’s cheek. When that was done, Felise went to the bigger bed, crawled in beside Cerelia, and began to play with a strand of her sister’s hair.

The old nurse glanced up from her sewing. “Careful, carissima.”

The child looked at her earnestly. “Is she getting better, Tata?”

“Oh, si,” said Signora Rossi. “She gets better. By Monday, you will have your Christmas. And by Thursday, she will chase you round the house and pull your hair.”

Felise laughed softly. Nicolo had crawled onto the big bed, too. He curled himself into a ball near Cerelia’s knees and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

“Come, children,” said Miss Hevner quietly. “We should return to our own rooms now.”

Felise looked reluctant. “What if Cerelia has bad dreams?” she asked. “We always sleep together if we have bad dreams.”

Signora Rossi jerked her head toward the door. “Go, carissima,” she ordered. “I sleep with you if bad dreams come.”

The little girl bubbled with laugher. “Tata, you cannot fit into my bed!”

The old woman shrugged. “Then I break it down,” she answered. “Boom! We sleep on the floor.”

Both children erupted into giggles, but quickly slapped their hands over their mouths. Miss Hevner opened the door and crooked a finger. Nicolo crawled on all fours so that he might kiss his sister’s cheek. Then, with obvious reluctance, they slid from the bed and padded across the room, bottom lips protruding.


They were a family, he realized. Felise and Nicolo possessed an abiding and guileless love for their elder sister. He doubted very much whether they cared how Cerelia had been conceived or who her father was. They were a family, and they loved one another. They were there for one another.

His own childhood would have been a miserable existence indeed without his elder sister. They had been close in age and the best of friends. Perhaps this was what Viviana meant when she said that Cerelia needed a family?

So he was left to ask himself if these were the people from whom he would willing take Cerelia. Even if the law would permit it—which, despite his bold words, he was not at all sure of—it was such a foolish, foolish notion. Family came first. Family was everything.

Quin might have been blood kin, but he was not a part of their family. He was just an outsider looking in, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter what manner of threats he leveled at Viviana, he could not replace this, could he? He could not replace what Cerelia would lose. He would have to be a selfish bastard even to try, and his selfishness had already done harm enough.

He realized in some surprise that he had drifted back to the bed and was stroking Cerelia’s hair. Signora Rossi gave him another chary look. “You go home now, signore,” she said again, her tone more kindly this time. “Come again domattina. Tomorrow morning, si?”

Just then, Viviana made a soft, groaning sound from behind him. He turned to see her languidly stretch one arm. She would be awake soon. Nurse Rossi was clearly here to stay. There really was no need for him to remain.

He wondered again what the old woman thought of his presence in the room. He really did not care. He bent down, and kissed Cerelia lightly on the forehead. His lips came away feeling…not cool. But not hot, either.

“Domattina,” said the old woman again. “She will be awake then.”

Quin looked at her uncertainly. “You…you are quite certain?”

The old woman nodded. “Di sicuro,” she answered. “Weak, signore, like a kitten, eh? But awake to the world.”

Quin prayed to God she was right. He went to the door, stopping long enough to bow to her. “Grazie, then, Signora Rossi,” he said. “I shall bid you buona notte.”