Silent in the Sanctuary Read Free

mantelpiece and shrugging before stalking from the room. Violante had followed him, accusing him of being embarrassed of her, if I translated correctly. The Napolitana dialect had defeated me almost entirely from the beginning, and I think our inability to understand one another most of the time explained why Violante and I had learned to get on so well.
    Suddenly, Plum cocked his head. “Listen to the silence. Do you suppose one of them has finally done the other a mischief?”
    “Your slang is appalling,” I told him, taking up my needlework again. “And no, I do not think one of them has done murder. I think they have decided to discuss the matter rationally, in a mature, adult fashion.”
    Plum snorted, and Alessandro pretended not to notice, sipping quietly at his whiskey. “Adult? Mature? My dear girl, you have lived with them some weeks now. Have you ever seen them discuss anything in a mature, adult fashion? No, and they will not, not so long as they both enjoy the fillip of excitement that a brisk argument lends to a marriage.”
    I blinked at him. “They are newlyweds. They are in love. I hardly think they need to hurl plates at one another’s heads to enjoy themselves.”
    “Don’t you? Our dear Violante is a southerner, who doubtless took in screaming with her mother’s milk. And Lysander is a fool who has read too much poetry. He mistakes the volume of a raised voice for true depth of feeling. I despair of him.”
    “Do not worry, Lady Julia,” Alessandro put in gently. Giulia, he said, drawing out the syllables like poetry. “To speak loudly, it is simply the way of the southerners. They are very different from those of us bred in the north. We are cooler and more temperate, like the climate.”
    He flashed me a dazzling smile, and I made a feeble effort to return it. “Still, it has gone too quiet,” I commented. “Do you suppose they have made it up?”
    “They have not,” came Ly’s voice, thick with bitterness. He was standing in the doorway, his hair untidy, his colour high with righteous anger, his back stiff with resentment. It was a familiar posture for him these days. “Violante is insisting we obey Father’s summons. She wants to see England and to ‘meet her dear papa’, she says.” He flung himself into the chair next to Plum’s, his expression sour. “Hullo, Alessandro. Sorry you had to hear all of that,” he added with a glance toward the ceiling.
    Alessandro murmured a greeting in return as I studied my brothers, feeling a sudden rush of emotion for the pair of them. Handsome and feckless, they were remarkably similar in appearance, sharing both the striking green eyes of the Marches and the dark hair and pale complexion that had marked our family for centuries. But although their features were similar, their clothes stamped them as very different men. Plum took great pains to search out the most outlandish costumes he could find, outfitting himself in velvet frock coats a hundred years out of fashion, or silk caps that made him look like a rather dashing mushroom.
    Lysander, on the other hand, was a devotee of the spare elegance of Brummell. He never wore any colours other than white or black, and every garment he owned had been fitted a dozen times. He was particular as a pasha, and carried himself with imperious grace. When the pair of them went out together they always attracted attention, doubtless the effect they hoped for. They had a gift for making friends easily, and more times than I could count since my arrival in Italy, we had entered a restaurant or hotel or theatre box only to have my brothers greeted by name and kissed heartily, food and drink pressed upon us as though we were minor royalty. They could be puckishly charming when they wished, and delightful company. Until they were bored or thwarted. Then they were capable of horrifying mischief, although they had behaved themselves well enough since I had joined them.
    I flicked a glance at Alessandro from