Silent in the Sanctuary Read Free Page B

invited me himself. And this is a time of great delicacy.”
    “There is no better time,” Lysander insisted. “You heard Julia. Father and Aunt Hermia are planning some bloody great house party.”
    “Language, Lysander,” I murmured.
    Naturally he ignored me. “Alessandro, our family home is a converted abbey. There is room for a dozen regiments if we wished to invite them. And do not trouble yourself about Father. Plum has invited you, and so have I. And I am sure Julia wishes it as well.”
    Alessandro looked past Lysander to where I sat, his gaze, warm and dark as chestnut honey, catching my own. “This is true, my lady? You wish me to come also?”
    I thought of the weeks I had spent in Alessandro’s company, long sunlit days perfumed with the heady scent of rosemary and punctuated with serene silences broken only by the sleepy drone of bees. I thought of his hand, warm on the curve of my back as he helped me scramble over stone walls to a field where we picnicked on cold slices of chicken and drank sharp white wine so icy it numbed my cheeks. And I thought of what he had told me about his longing to travel, to see something of the world before he grew too comfortable, too settled to leave Florence.
    “Of course,” I said, with a firmness that surprised me. “I think you would like England very much, Alessandro. And you would be very welcome at Bellmont Abbey.”
    He nodded slowly. “Then I come,” he said at last, his eyes lingering on me.
    Lysander whooped and Plum poured out another splash of whiskey into their glasses, calling for a toast to our travels. I returned to my notes, penning a reminder to myself to send out for a timetable. As my hand moved across the page, it shivered a little, marring the creamy expanse with a spot of ink. I drew a deep breath and blotted it, writing on until the page was filled and I reached for another.
    At length, the gentlemen left me, Plum to show Alessandro to his room, Lysander to tell Violante the news of our imminent departure. I was alone with the slow ticking of the mantel clock and the crisp, rustling taffeta sounds of the fire as it burned down to ash. My pen scratched away the minutes, jotting notes to extend our regrets to invitations, requests for accommodation, orders for hampers to be filled with provisions for the journey.
    So immersed was I in my task, I did not hear Morag’s approach—a sure sign of my preoccupation for Morag moves with all the grace of a draught horse.
    “So, we’re for England then,” she said, her chin tipped up smugly.
    “Yes, we are,” I returned, not looking up from my writing paper. “And knowing how little love you have for Italy, I suppose you are pleased at the prospect.”
    She snorted. “I am pleased at the prospect of a decent meal, I am. There is no finer kitchen in England than that at Bellmont Abbey,” she finished loyally.
    “I would not put the matter so strongly, but the food is good,” I conceded. It was plain cooking, for Father refused to employ a French chef. But the food was hearty and well prepared and one never went hungry at the Abbey. Unlike Italy. While I had revelled in the rich, exotic new flavors, Morag had barely subsisted on boiled chicken and rice.
    I returned to my writing and she idled about the room, poking up the fire and plumping the occasional cushion. Finally, I threw down my pen.
    “What do you wish to say, Morag? I can hear you thinking.”
    She looked at me with an affectedly wounded expression. “I was merely being helpful. The drawing room is untidy.”
    “We have maids for that,” I reminded her. “And a porter to answer the door. Why did you admit Count Fornacci this evening?”
    “I was at hand,” she said loftily.
    “Ha. At hand because you strong-armed the porter, I’ll warrant. Whatever you are contemplating, do not. I will not tolerate your meddling.”
    Morag drew herself up to her rather impressively bony height. “I was at hand.” She could be a stubborn