Beloved (14 page)

“There must be another solution,” he said, hugging his sister. “I promise you, I’ll do everything I can. You get yourself ready for bed and I’ll go and talk to Father.”

They both stood up. Marco lifted his sister’s chin and smiled at her as he kissed her on the forehead.

“Tina, Richard’s due back tomorrow, and I’m sure he’ll have something to say about this.”

He gave her one last encouraging hug and left.

The old clock in the hall outside her room struck midnight, but Christina was oblivious to the sound of the chimes as she sat staring out the window, the darkness complete but for the glowing coals in the fireplace. Rain had begun falling around nine-thirty, gently at first, but as the hours dragged by the storm developed into a downpour.

Now, in the silence of the sleeping household, the tears of the evening were forgotten and a numbing paralysis slowly engulfed her. She was long past understanding the day’s events. She was simply waiting. She was waiting for Richard. He loved her and she knew that somehow he would be able to save her from the travesty of this incomprehensible marriage to Guy.

Though Richard wasn’t expected back until late the next afternoon, Christina waited.

Marco, in the room next to hers, paced back and forth in front of the fire. He, too, was at a complete loss, unable to understand either the how or the why of what had happened. He was appalled by his father’s callous behavior in agreeing to Guy’s demands, and he was equally dismayed by Guy’s determination to marry Christina, regardless of her feelings. No one had ever imagined Christina with anyone but Richard.

Try as he might, Marco could not believe that Guy actually loved his sister. She came with no sizable dowery. Why then did he want her for a wife? What could possibly be the advantage in having a wife so totally committed to someone else?

In his own room at the front of the house, Guy sat next to the fire, a near empty bottle of brandy beside him and a satisfied smile on his face. He was enormously pleased with himself and equally happy that the question of marrying Christina was finally resolved.

It was too bad she’d reacted so unfavorably to his proposal, but he was confident that by now her father had explained the situation and that she finally understood she was going to become his wife. He supposed it might take her a while to get used to the idea, but he’d convinced himself she would eventually forget about her imagined love for Richard.
He
, at least, recognized it for what it was: a childhood infatuation that she’d not yet managed to outgrow. Afterall, what was so special about Richard?

But Guy knew a great many answers to that question. He quickly turned his thoughts back to Christina.

Marco continued pacing, his mind desperately seeking a solution to his sister’s problem. Through the incessant pounding of the rain, he thought he heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles of the stableyard below. He wondered if it might just be wishful thinking, but he went to the window and through the spattered glass saw a dark figure dismount and lead his horse toward the stable door. Richard? It must be Richard! Marco grabbed his heavy cape and hurried down the stairs, moving as quietly as he could so as not to wake the sleeping household.

The sound of the horse also attracted Christina’s attention. Could it be Richard? Her heart began to pound. When she heard her brother’s door close, followed by his footsteps on the stairs, she threw her shawl around her shoulders, and unmindful of the fact she was wearing nothing but her cotton nightdress and her thin petit point slippers, she hurried down the staircase, just far enough behind Marco that he wouldn’t be aware of her.

Guy, too, was roused by the sound of the heavy front door gently opening and closing twice. He knew everyone must be asleep, and he sat for a moment listening. Finally, he staggered to his feet, unsteady from the amount of liquor he’d consumed. He looked out the front window, wondering if perhaps there were some sort of emergency. He could see no carriage in the drive, no unusual lights at the front of the house, only the dim glow of the two lanterns that burned on either side of the entrance. He went back across the room to the window that overlooked the stableyard. He saw nothing. Then, suddenly, a single light glowed in the door of the servants’ quarters near the stable.

Good weather had hastened the return of Richard’s ship and, as the storm rolled in, the winds had pushed it quickly up the Rhône to Arles. He had foregone the convenience of the townhouse and had ridden steadily through the rain, anxious to get home, to see his family, and, most of all, Christina. She’d be celebrating her seventeenth birthday in three days, and Richard had made up his mind that the time had finally come to make plans for their marriage.

As he rode up the long gravel drive, he saw there were no lights in any of the windows of the house or in the servants’ quarters across the stableyard. He slowed his horse to a walk as he entered the enclosure, hoping he wouldn’t awaken anyone. There was no sense rousing a soundly sleeping servant to accomplish a task he could easily perform for himself. He decided to ask Henri to let him spend the night in the stable. The old stableman would understand his desire to avoid the commotion of waking the entire household at that hour.

He pulled open one of the heavy doors and led his horse through. Lanterns burned dimly down the length of the building, casting a warm glow over the whitewashed stone. Several of the horses whickered and one of the big draft horses turned to watch as Richard looped his reins through the iron ring on the post beside a spacious box stall. He removed his saddlebags and headed straight for Henri’s room.

“Henri?” Richard called as he knocked softly at the door. He knocked again, louder this time, but when there was no reply he unlatched the door and looked in. The room was dark. There was no fire in the hearth, and no sign of the old stableman. Richard went in and lit the fire that had already been laid. He threw his saddlebags on the small rough table that was littered with pieces of harness in various stages of repair. After removing his sodden cloak and hanging it on a hook outside the doorway, he returned to his horse. He was unbuckling the girth when the stable door opened.

Ebert, the coachman’s six year old son, stumbled into the stable. He was clad in his nightshirt, someone’s oversized coat—most likely his father’s—and a pair of wooden clogs. He held the lantern high, lighting his face as he yawned and rubbed awkwardly at his eyes.

“Ebert,” Richard said kindly, smiling at the child who was obviously half asleep. “What are you doing up? Where’s Henri?”

“Gone, Sir, to Arles to stay with his sister. She’s been ill.”

“Well you get yourself back to bed. I’m taking Henri’s room for the night. There’s no reason to wake the house.”

Ebert yawned again. “G’night, Sir,” he mumbled as he turned and slipped back out the door.

“Goodnight.” Richard was smiling to himself as he unsaddled his horse. He remembered when Ebert was born. After four daughters, Albert, the coachman had been thrilled at the arrival of a son.

He smiled broadly. In another two years or so he and Christina would have a son of their own. Soon. As he put up the saddle, the stable door opened again, this time admitting a very wet Marco.

“Richard! Thank God you’ve come.”

Richard turned in surprise. “Marco, what is it? Is Christina all right?” He grabbed the younger man by the shoulders, rather harder than he meant to.

“She’s fine…it’s just that…” He didn’t know where to begin.

“What then? Something’s brought you out in the middle of the night, and in this weather.” Richard released him, giving him a chance to catch his breath.

“Father’s promised her to Guy!” Marco blurted out.

“What?” Richard threw back his head and laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

Richard led the horse to an empty stall, removed the bridle and turned him loose. He slid the door closed and faced Marco, ready for an explanation.

Marco was still very agitated. “You’ve got to do something. Christina’s terribly upset. She swears she won’t go through with it, but Guy’s asked for her and Father’s agreed.”

Marco’s final words struck a chilly chord.

“I don’t understand. Your father knows Christina and I have been promised to each other since we were children. Why would he do something like this?”

Marco ran his hand through his wet hair in frustration. “It’s the business. Ever since that shipment was lost, things haven’t been going well and Guy threatened to call all the notes due at once if Father refused to give his permission.”

Richard relaxed. So that was all there was to it. He laid a reassuring hand on Marco’s shoulder.

“I’ll speak Father in the morning. I’m sure we can find a way to loan Antonio whatever he needs, and that will put an end to it.” He smiled. “Please, don’t worry.”

Finally, he was able to coax a smile from Marco.

“Now you get back to the house, and quietly. I’m spending the night down here.”

They walked together to the door of the stable. Marco smiled at Richard, immeasurably reassured by his presence.

“I’m glad you’re home,” he said, and then started back toward the house, anxious to give his sister the news that Richard had returned.

But Christina had followed her brother. The loosely knit shawl she’d wrapped around herself was little protection from the cold drizzle, but she didn’t seem to be aware of the rain making the thin cotton of her gown cling to her legs. Her delicate slippers were covered with mud and soaked through, but she paid no attention as she ducked behind the crates and barrels stacked beside the building, watching as her brother pushed the door open.

As soon as Marco came back out and disappeared around the end of the wall, Christina slipped from her hiding place. Richard had just removed his pistol and belt and hung them on the hook over his cape. He was replacing the ankh dagger his father had given him in its scabbard when Christina threw herself at his back, her arms clinging to his waist. The impact caused the dagger to slip from his fingers and fall to the floor, unnoticed.

“Oh, Richard,” she cried, collapsing against him. All the suppressed tears erupted in a flood.

“Chrissa!” He was surprised. He pried her arms loose and turned to hug her tightly, then held her at arm’s length. She was wet to the skin and her teeth were chattering.

“Come, you’re soaked,” he said gently as he led her to Henri’s room. “What on earth is going on?”

The heat from the fire had warmed the small room, which now smelled distinctly of straw and leather. He stood her in front of the blazing hearth and slipped the sodden shawl from her shoulders, wringing it out onto the dusty stone before hanging it on a nail. Christina stood there shivering, watching Richard’s every move with a look of desperation on her pale face. He returned to her and lifted her chin, looking into her fearful, red-rimmed eyes.

“Now is this any way to greet me? You look like a half-drowned kitten.”

The tears began again and Richard, sorry he’d teased her, once again took her in his arms.

“Chrissa, hush. Everything’s all right.” He stroked her wet hair.

Christina began to relax. He smelled of salt and of the sea. He smelled like Richard.

The dampness of her gown finally bled through his linen shirt, reminding him how wet she was. He began to look around the room for something to dry her with, then went to the bed and picked up the old coverlet that was folded neatly at the foot. He returned, holding it open.

“Now then, off with it.”

For a moment she just stared at him blankly, then looked down as she realized he must mean her nightdress. She looked back up at him, startled.

“Richard!”

He couldn’t help but smile at her shocked reaction. “This is no time for modesty. You’ll catch your death if you don’t warm up.”

Christina was embarrassed. Chastely turning her back to him, she slipped the soaked gown over her head. Immediately he wrapped her in the coverlet and turned her back to face him.

“There. Isn’t that better?” He put his arms around her again and began rubbing her back vigorously. Her waist-length hair was so wet that it quickly began to soak the coverlet. His eyes scanned the room again for something else with which he could dry it. There was nothing but the pile of rags under the table, none of which looked too clean.

Releasing her, he pulled off his shirt and turning her toward the fire, began toweling her hair with it. Christina stared into the flames, content for that moment with Richard’s nearness.

Though he was too inebriated to make sense of what he was seeing, the activity in the stableyard had convinced Guy that something was going on and he’d left his room shortly after Marco and Christina left the house. Drunk as he was, and moving slowly, he reached the entrance to the stableyard just as Marco was leaving. He flattened himself against the wall, concealing himself in the shadows. The younger man had not seen him. Guy turned the corner of the building just as the stable door closed behind Christina.

Marco returned to the house. He entered quietly, hoping he could still avoid detection. He was grateful for the Baron’s habit of doing without a nightman, a practice Marco had previously thought strange for such a large house. He went up the stairs and down the hall to his sister’s room, his footsteps adequately muffled by the thick oriental carpets. He knocked softly on her door. When there was no reply, he knocked again. Thinking perhaps she’d fallen asleep, he pressed the door handle and went into her room.

“Tina?” By the dim light of the glowing embers in the fireplace he could see that her bed was empty, and though it was turned down, it had not been slept in. He realized that she must have seen Richard, too, and gone down to the stable, though he thought it strange that he hadn’t passed her either coming or going. He left her room and headed back down the stairs.

Richard seated Christina on the rickety little stool in front of the fire and ladled some of the water from the iron kettle into a wooden grain bucket. He removed her slippers and let her soak her nearly numb feet in the warm water. He rummaged through Henri’s things and found a half empty bottle of brandy. He wiped the mouth of the bottle with his fingers and handed it to her. She swallowed the burning liquid obediently as he knelt and dried her feet gently with his shirt, rubbing them in an effort to warm her.