The Hidden Blade (28 page)

From Tangier they sailed to Gibraltar, and from there to the isle of Capri, where the ladies took a house for the winter, a white-walled, red-roofed villa perched over a steep cliff that dropped several hundred feet to the cobalt waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea below.

Leighton made himself useful, going to the town of Capri for provisions, making tea and sandwiches, and delivering calling cards and invitations from the ladies to members of the tiny English community on the island.

But a more leisurely pace of life, one that did not have him constantly on the move, gave him too much time to think. Before he left Southampton he had sent a letter to San Francisco. Not to Mother, but to the shipping firm run by Mr. Delany’s family, addressed to Mr. Delany himself, in the hope that it would escape the attention of Sir Curtis’s agents, in case there had been any hired locally to keep an eye out for Leighton’s arrival.

It was a short note, asking his stepfather to tell Mother that he was safe, that he might not be able to write for a while, and that everything he’d said, the last time he had spoken to her, had been bilge and drivel, the farthest thing from his true sentiments.

He had no way of knowing whether his letter had reached its intended recipient. Nor did he dare write any more letters, for fear that should they end up in Sir Curtis’s hands, the postmarks would set Sir Curtis on his trail.

What if Mother never received his note? Would she worry? Would she believe that the lack of communication from him meant that he had stopped caring altogether?

And Mr. Colmes—was he able to escape Sir Curtis’s wrath? And what about Lady Atwood? If ever Sir Curtis were to find out what she had done…

Such thoughts made the heavy sack he carried, full of flour, fish, olive oil, and hothouse tomatoes, feel even heavier. He lugged his load up the final few steps into the villa and handed it into the care of the housekeeper, an elderly woman who was thrilled to not be ferrying the groceries herself up the steep path to the house.

“I make you nice pasta tonight,
signor
,” she said to Leighton in Italian.

“
Grazie
, Signora Mulino,” Leighton answered. He enjoyed her brightly flavored pastas.

The ladies were not home; they must have gone for a visit with some of the British expatriates. Leighton made himself some coffee and went out to the balcony with half a
pan brioche dolce
for his midmorning snack.

He heard Miss Violet’s return well before the latter reached the villa: She sometimes enjoyed scratching the tip of a stick along the garden walls of the other houses she passed. The front door opened and closed. After a few minutes she came out to the balcony and sat down next to him.

Wordlessly he offered her the
pan brioche dolce
, which he hadn’t touched yet. She pulled off a piece and popped it into her mouth, and then another.

When she had eaten enough, he asked, “Did Miss McHenry not come back with you, Miss Violet?”

“No, she has agreed to sit for a portrait. I’m somewhat doubtful of the artist’s skills, but she is always willing to give everyone a chance.”

Leighton nodded. He went and fetched a cup of coffee and handed it to Miss Violet. She accepted with a nod and they sat for a while in companionable silence, watching sunlight ripple on the bright sea.

“You’ve been with us six months now and we haven’t celebrated a birthday for you yet. Have we missed it, by any chance?”

Her question pulled Leighton out of his imagined reunion with Herb. “No, ma’am. We’ve a few months to go until my next birthday.”

“And how old will you be by then?”

Leighton’s coffee cup paused on its way to his lips. They had asked him his age earlier and he had said that he was eighteen. Was it merely a case of forgetfulness on Miss Violet’s part? “Nineteen.”

Miss Violet gave him a baleful look. “Why don’t you tell me the truth instead, Mr. Ashburton? And that isn’t your name, is it?”

Carefully Leighton set his coffee cup aside. “Why the questions, Miss Violet?”

Had she run into someone in town? Was it possible that Sir Curtis had sent an agent to a place as unlikely as Capri? If so, he—or they—most likely would have arrived at the Marina Grande on the northern shore. Could Leighton slip away from the little marina, the Marina Piccola? Would there be a fisherman willing to ferry him directly to the—

“I believe you know that Hazel and I are two of seven daughters born to our parents,” said Miss Violet.

Leighton blinked, not sure what that had to do with anything. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, there were actually eight of us, seven sisters and a brother. His name was Robert, and he ran away from home when he was fifteen—he simply couldn’t take one more day under our father’s thumb. Three years later we found him in the slums of London, suffering from an advanced stage of consumption. He died within the month.

“You look a bit like him. He had dark hair and green eyes and was tall for his age. I don’t remember him that well—he was seven years older than me—but he and Hazel were close. As soon as you walked into that hotel in Southampton, Hazel noticed you.”

He hadn’t noticed anyone. But then, he had been dead tired, his feet full of blisters, and all he’d wanted was a place to take off his shoes, lie down, and close his eyes.

“She listened to you speak to the clerk. When you’d taken the key and left, she turned to me and said, ‘But he’s a child. What is he doing in Southampton by himself?’

“I admit that I did my best to dissuade her. But my sister, as sweet as she is, does not change her mind easily once it has been made up. She saw something of Robert in you and she was determined that no one else should lose a beloved brother the way we had.

“That was why she called you over and asked you about yourself. That was why she offered you a position even though we hadn’t the remotest plan of having anyone else travel with us. That was why she overrode all my objections, despite my certainty she was inviting trouble and we’d be at best robbed blind and in the worst case stabbed in our sleep.”

Leighton’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t realize I gave the impression of a cutthroat.”

Miss Violet chuckled. “No, you gave the impression of tremendous dignity and reserve. But I always prefer to suspect villainy everywhere and in everyone—it saves the trouble of being disappointed later.”

She took a sip of her coffee. “You must be wondering why I am telling you all this now.”

He did—with a sense of foreboding. Truths were like icebergs, capable of causing unlimited wreckage. He was afraid of the truth Miss Violet was about to reveal.

“We hadn’t planned on staying so long anywhere, for winter or not,” she went on. “Our original plan was to continue to the Levant, Egypt, and then India. But Hazel hasn’t been feeling well of late.”

“Oh,” said Leighton, his stomach sinking. “I thought she just needed to recover from all the traveling.”

“That’s what she had told me at first. But now I think it’s far worse than she lets on. And I don’t believe she’s gone to have her portrait painted. For something like that she doesn’t need to persuade me to go home—I’d have gladly stayed to keep her company. I think she just wanted me gone so she could visit a physician without my knowledge.”

Miss Violet clasped her hands together. “I don’t know what is going to happen. We might have to go to Naples for her treatment. And if her condition worsens beyond a certain point, we might have to return to England. One has to go home for certain things.”

If Miss McHenry were found to be dying, she meant.

Leighton’s throat tightened—he had become even fonder of the sisters than he’d realized. “Is she really in such a serious condition?”

“Well, keep in mind that I’m a pessimist. But yes, she could be. Should the worst happen, I want to know how I could do right by you. But I can’t do that if I know nothing of your background—we both thought you’d have opened up to us by now, but you are quite the tight-lipped young man.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you and Miss McHenry. I do. It’s just that I’ve become used to not saying anything to those I care about—the less they know, the less trouble I would cause them.”

“But you did run away from home?”

Leighton carefully considered how to answer Miss Violet’s question while giving away the minimum amount of information. But then he opened his mouth and out poured all the words he had kept inside since Father’s passing. He told her about Starling Manor, about the two men who loved each other and adored him, about those long idyllic summer days that he still dared not think too much or too often about, the memories so bright and sharp they were like daggers in his chest.

Of Father’s death and its aftermath he gave a spare account, and he elided over most of Sir Curtis’s cruelties, ending with, “And then I left—and met you and Miss McHenry. The rest you know.”

Miss Violet leaned forward and took his hands. “I’m so sorry about everything that’s happened to you.”

He squeezed her hands, feeling the heat of tears in his eyes. “My father’s death would never not be a tragedy, but I have been unbelievably fortunate. When I most needed it, always someone has stepped in and saved me.”

“And that is as it should be,” said Miss Violet firmly. “I’m glad Hazel asked you to come, I’m glad you agreed, and I’m glad that I was wrong about everything.”

She smiled at him. He smiled back.

For a moment there was nothing but sunshine in his heart, but anxiety returned all too soon. “What about Miss McHenry? I want to help you look after her, but I don’t think I dare go back to England.”

Miss Violet took a deep breath. “If that day comes, I will take care of Hazel—goodness knows she has taken enough care of me through the years. You, young man, you will keep going east, toward your friend and your family. Toward everything that has kept your hope alive all these years.”

Leighton unearthed the Moroccan tea set from his luggage and polished it until the silver glowed. That afternoon he served tea to the ladies from the exquisite set.

Miss McHenry gasped. “Violet, didn’t we see a set exactly like this in Tangier? What a coincidence that they should have it in this house, more than a thousand miles away.”

Miss Violet raised a brow at Leighton.

He swallowed, still feeling shy. “It isn’t a coincidence. I bought the set that day in the bazaar…for you.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” exclaimed Miss McHenry. Then she grinned mischievously. “But I’m so glad you did—after we left Morocco I used to think about this tea set and wish I’d gone ahead with the purchase, the devil with practical concerns.”

Leighton lifted the gleaming teapot to pour into glasses set in the silver-filigree holders. “Well, now it’s all yours.”

Puzzlement came into Miss McHenry’s eyes. “But if you’ve had it all this time, why are you giving it to me today, instead of, say, last Christmas?”

For Christmas he had given Miss Violet a bottle of limoncello and Miss McHenry a small oil painting of her favorite vista on Capri, purchased from a local artist.

“Because—a gift not given is like a book not opened.”

Miss McHenry gave him a quizzical look, but did not press him for a more clear-cut answer. “Very profound, my dear. Now do let us raise these very, very pretty glasses and have a toast.”

“What shall we toast?” Miss Violet asked.

Miss McHenry grinned from ear to ear. “That an old woman’s burgeoning hypochondria turned out to be just that, a whole lot of well-stirred nonsense.”

Miss Violet blinked. “Do you mean—”

“Yes!” cried Miss McHenry exuberantly. “I know you’ve been worried about my health. And I’ve been scaring myself with thoughts of tumors and whatnot. But today I saw the finest internist in Naples—”

“You went to
Naples
?”

Miss McHenry chortled. “Well, actually I paid for him to come to Capri, to the house of our artist friend—and he declared me in fine health, except for the ulcers that I’ve developed in the course of our travels. Now I shall have to eat much more carefully. No more indulging in strong coffee or spicy food—alas that I discovered both so late. But if I coddle my stomach with porridge and plain broth, he sees no reason why I shouldn’t live to be ninety.”