After Sofia's jars were filled, Randolph and Elizabeth were offered oven-hot bread dipped in fresh-squeezed olive oil. Randolph accepted his in the spirit of being a good guest, but his first bite showed him that he had been honored with a matchless delicacy, the local equivalent of the first strawberries of spring. When he finished the first piece, he accepted a second, then a third, to the unconcealed satisfaction of his hosts.
As Elizabeth took a proper leave, a lengthy business, Randolph wondered how many members of the local English colony had experienced such simple pleasures. Probably very few. It was impossible to imagine the likes of Mrs. Bertram enjoying "unrefined" rural life. And had it not been for Elizabeth, he would have seen only the usual sights, met only socially prominent Neapolitans, and never known what he was missing.
Bread and oil takes the edge from an appetite, and after they left the farm, they decided to delay their midday meal and visit Balzano, a nearby hilltop town with a famous church. The inside of the church was dim after the bright sunshine, and Randolph paused in the door while his eyes adjusted. Vaguely aware that several people stood in front of the altar, he inhaled the scents of wax and incense.
"Look," Elizabeth murmured, "they've erected the presepio."
He followed her down the aisle and discovered that the figures he had assumed to be local worshipers were wooden statues, life-size, lovingly painted, and very old. The grouping formed a Nativity scene featuring Mary, Joseph, two shepherds, the Three Kings, and a family of sheep.
Softly his companion explained, "You see how the manger is empty? That is because the Child has not yet been born. During the service tonight, a real infant will be placed in the manger. They say it was St. Francis of Assisi who invented the presepio. He enacted it with a real mother and father and their babe, to remind people that Christmas was a season for holy celebration rather than profane pleasures."
"A most effective demonstration of the fact that the origin of the word 'holiday' is 'holy day,' " Randolph agreed. "Tonight, by candlelight, it will seem very real."
After viewing the rest of the church, they decided to stroll through the narrow medieval streets before leaving the town. As they neared the bustling market square, they were intercepted by an enterprising peddler who pulled a handful of small figurines from his basket and pressed them on Elizabeth, along with a torrent of enthusiastic words.
"These are pastori, figures for a Nativity scene," Elizabeth explained. She handed one to Randolph. "You might find them interesting. They are made of lapis Solaris."
He accepted it from her, seeing only a rather crudely formed Madonna. "Stone of the sun?"
"Yes, the material holds light and will glow in the dark for hours. It was invented by an alchemist who was searching for the philosopher's stone. He never found that, but lapis Solaris became very popular for rosaries and crucifixes and the like."
Randolph regarded the small figure thoughtfully. "I'm not sure if the basic idea is sublime or ridiculous."
"Both." Elizabeth's lovely hazel eyes danced. "Because he can see that we are inglesi of rare discernment, he will offer us a complete presepio of lapis Solaris for a price so low that it will shame him before all of Balzano if we tell anyone."
Suddenly the ground moved beneath their feet, a subtle, disquieting shift that made the peddler's figurines chatter together in their basket. Randolph tensed, though this was not the first tremor he had experienced since his arrival. He doubted that he would ever get used to them, though Elizabeth and the peddler seemed unconcerned by the earth's betrayal.
As the tremor faded, the peddler spoke to Elizabeth with a smile and a triumphant lift of his hand. She burst out laughing. "He says that his price for the complete presepio is so low that God Himself was shocked, and that is why the earth moved."
Randolph joined her laughter. He had already observed that the local peddlers had an audacity that would make a gypsy horse coper blush. He decided that this peddler deserved to make a sale, but for the honor of the English, Randolph bargained over the price for the next quarter hour.
When they were done, the peddler wrapped the set in an old rag and presented it to Randolph with a flourish. As they walked away, Elizabeth said, "Well done. You brought him down to half the original asking price."
"Which I estimate is at least double what the things are worth," Randolph said with amusement. He removed the top figurine from the bundle. It was the Bambino. "Why do I have the feeling that this was made in Birmingham?"
"Cynic." Elizabeth chuckled. They had reached the market square, which was crowded with people buying the last ingredients for their holiday feasting. "I'm sure that it was made somewhere in Italy. Glowing religious artifacts are just not very English, are they?"
She stopped by a stall that featured marzipan shaped into exquisite imitation fruits and flowers. Knowing that the confections would be popular with the younger Lennoxes, Randolph bought a large number. While the marzipan was being wrapped in silver paper, Elizabeth suddenly jumped, at the same time giving a smothered squeak.
Alarmed, Randolph asked, "Is something wrong?"
"Just someone pinching me," she explained. "A little harder than usual, or I would scarcely have noticed."
"Someone pinched you? Outrageous!" Indignant, Randolph turned toward the square with the vague idea of calling such impertinence to book, but Elizabeth caught his arm.
"Don't be upset, it was not meant as an insult. Quite the contrary." She smiled at him. "It's one of the things I love about Italy. Even though I am much too thin and not at all in the local style, at least once a day someone will perjure himself by saying or implying that I am beautiful. I doubt there is another place in the world where a plain old spinster is ! made to feel so desirable."
Adding the marzipan fruit to his bundles, Randolph took her arm and began steering her through the crowd. "You do yourself an injustice, Miss Walker. You are not old, and what is thin to a Neapolitan is elegantly slim to an Englishman."
She gave him a startled glance. "Is that a compliment?"
He smiled down at her. "Yes, it is." She looked quite adorable in her astonishment. If they had not been surrounded by people, he would have proposed to her on the spot. What they needed was a place with a little privacy, which shouldn't be hard to arrange. "Shall we ask Vanni to find us a suitably scenic site for a late luncheon? I suspect that Sofia would be outraged if we returned her basket intact."
They had reached the carriage, and as Randolph put his purchases away, Elizabeth and Vanni conferred. Eventually she asked, "What say you to a ruined Roman temple, high on a hill, gloriously private, and possessing a matchless view of Vesuvius?"
"Perfect." Randolph helped her into the carriage, then swung up $ beside her. He was beginning to feel a little nervous. One would think that a man who had twice before proposed marriage would be a little calmer about the prospect, but that didn't seem to be the case. Still, his qualms did not run too deep. At heart he did not believe that Elizabeth would turn him down.
THE trail had been growing narrower and narrower, and finally Vanni pulled the horses to a halt and turned to speak to Elizabeth. She explained
to her companion, "This is as close as a carriage can go. Vanni says the temple is a ten- or fifteen-minute walk along this path."
Lord Randolph nodded agreeably and took the picnic basket in hand. The condition of the path explained why the site was seldom visited. It was narrow and irregular, not much more than a goat track, and had been washed out and repaired more than once. The mountain face rose sheer on the right, then dropped lethally away to the left. Elizabeth went first, keeping close to the rock face and being very careful where she put her feet.
She rounded the last bend in the trail, then stopped, enchanted. The path widened into a large ledge, with a steep wall on the right and a sheer drop on the left. Perhaps a hundred yards long and fifty wide, the site had soil rich enough to support velvety grass and delicate trees. As Vanni had promised, the view of Vesuvius w
as spectacular. But all that was simply a setting for the temple, which looked as if it had floated down on temporary loan from fairyland.
Behind her, Lord Randolph said admiringly, "Anyone who ever built a false ruin would give his left arm to have this instead. It's the ultimate folly."
The small round shrine was built of white marble that held a hint of rose in its translucent depths. A curving wall formed the back half of the building, with dainty Ionic columns completing the front part of the circle. The roof was long gone and vines climbed the columns for an effect that was beautiful, wistful, and altogether romantic.
Elizabeth said, "Do you think we should invite Byron to visit? This deserves to be immortalized in poetry."
"Never," Lord Randolph said firmly as he set the picnic basket down. "If Byron wrote of it, the path would become so jammed with people coming to admire and languish that someone would surely fall down the mountain to his death, and it would be our fault. Much better to let it stay Vanni's secret."
The ruins of an old fire proved that the site was not precisely a secret, but certainly it was seldom visited, for the floor of the shrine was entirely covered with drifted leaves. Elizabeth knelt and carefully brushed them away, finding a charming mosaic of birds, flowers, and butterflies. "I wonder what god or goddess was worshiped here."
"A gentle one, I think."
Glancing up, she saw an odd, assessing look on Lord Randolph's face. Inexplicably she shivered, wondering if there was really tension in the air, or just another example of her over active imagination.
Seeing her shiver, he offered his hand to help her up. "In spite of the sunshine, in the shade it is still December."
His hand was warm and strong as he lifted her effortlessly. Elizabeth released his clasp as soon as she was on her feet. Her awareness of Lord Randolph's strength and masculinity was acute and uncomfortable. She decided that it was because, in spite of a week of constant company, they had never been quite so alone.
She moved away from him quickly, knowing that her dignity depended on her ability to remain collected. She would rather throw herself from the cliff than let her companion know of her foolish, hopeless passion. Removing the folded lap rug that protected the contents of the basket, she asked, "Shall we see what Sofia has given us? I think we are going to benefit from her Christmas baking."
"There's enough food for an army, or at least a platoon." Randolph reached in the basket and removed the shallow oval bowl. After investigating the contents, he said, "Eel pie?"
"Very likely. The day before Christmas is meatless, and eels are a tradition," Elizabeth explained as she unpacked the basket. "We also have fresh fruit, two cheeses, braided bread, three kinds of Christmas cakes, pizza rustica—you'll like that, it's sort of a cheese pie with slivered ham, among other things—and enough red wine to wash it all down."
Randolph blinked. "If the laborers are worthy of their hire, I suppose this is an indication of how much she values her olive oil."
"That, plus the fact that she is continually trying to fatten me up. She thinks you are too thin also." Remembering what else Sofia had said about the English milord—all of it complimentary and some of it decidedly improper—Elizabeth concentrated on laying food out on the cloth. What was wrong with her? A simple picnic with a gentleman and she was behaving like one of her own hot-blooded, romantic charges, with every thought revolving around the man at her side.
The incredibly handsome, amiable, interested, courteous man at her side. Stop that! she scolded herself. She was glad to see that her hand did not tremble as she poured wine in the two stone cups provided.
The meal was a leisurely one. As they chatted amiably about the day,
Elizabeth's nervousness subsided. She considered asking Lord Randolph how much longer he intended to stay in Naples, then decided she would rather not know. Later would be soon enough.
After they had eaten, Elizabeth pulled out her tablet and began sketching the temple, though she despaired of doing justice to it. Having seated himself downwind of her, Randolph smoked his pipe in apparent contentment.
Eventually the lengthening shadows caught her attention and she glanced up. "Heavens, it's getting late. You should have stopped me earlier. I lose track of time when I'm drawing." She closed her tablet and slid it and her pencils into the picnic basket. "The weather is so warm that it's hard to remember that this is one of the shortest days of the year, but it will be dark by the time we reach the city."
"Miss Walker . . . Elizabeth . . . there is something I want to say before we start back."
Startled, she sat back on her heels and looked at Lord Randolph. Though he was still seated on the ground, his earlier ease was gone and his lean body was taut with tension. He looked down, fidgeting with his pipe, and she realized that he was using it as an excuse to avoid her eyes.
Taking out his penknife, he started carefully loosening the charred tobacco. "I have enjoyed this last week immensely." He gestured vaguely with his left hand, as if hunting for words, and instead spilled cinders on his fawn-colored breeches. Ruefully he brushed them away, then glanced up at her. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this. I had a speech memorized, but I've entirely forgotten it. Elizabeth, I am very partial to your company, and . . . and I would like to have more of it. Permanently."
If breathing was not automatic, Elizabeth would have expired on the spot. At first she just stared at him in disbelief. Then his eyes met hers, hope and uncertainty in the depths, and she realized that he meant what he said.
A stab of pain cut through her, anguish as intense as when she had heard of William's death. Amazingly, Lord Randolph wanted her to become his mistress. It was the best offer she would ever get—and she, Elizabeth acknowledged miserably, was too much a child of the vicarage to agree.
Tears started in her eyes and she blinked fiercely, refusing to let them overflow. Her voice a choked whisper, she said, "I'm sorry, my lord, but I couldn't possibly accept."
The hope in his eyes flickered and died, replaced first by hurt, then withdrawal. He had never worn the mask of the cool English gentleman with her before, but he donned it now. "No, of course you couldn't. My apologies, Miss Walker, it was just a foolish fancy."
He put his pipe and penknife in his pocket and stood, then lifted the basket. "Pray forgive me if I have embarrassed you. Come, it is time we J left. The afternoon is almost over."
It wasn't just the afternoon that was over, but their friendship; Elizabeth knew from his expression that she would never see Lord Randolph after today. She scrambled to her feet unassisted, ignoring his proffered hand. Desiring him and racked with her own loneliness, she daren't touch him, for doing so would cause her to break down entirely.
Wordlessly she led the way back to the path, waging the battle of her life with her conscience. She was sure that his offer sprang not from casual immorality but from a lonely man's yearning for companionship. If he were free to marry, he would ask a younger, prettier woman, but she guessed that he was too honorable to destroy a marriageable girl's chance for respectability.
There was no risk of that with someone like Elizabeth, who had been on the shelf for years. Yet he must care a little for her as well, for he could have his choice of a thousand more likely mistresses.
She had known that she loved him, yet had not realized how much until now, when she found herself seriously considering abandoning the training of a lifetime so that she could give him the comfort he sought. But as Elizabeth picked her way along the narrow path, Lord Randolph silent behind her, she knew that her motives were only partly altruistic.
Yes, she wanted to ease his loneliness, but she also wanted to ease her own. She wanted his kindness and wry humor and beautiful body. And almost as much, she wanted to resurrect the Elizabeth Walker she had been before "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" had worn her hope away.
Intent on her despairing thoughts, she did not feel the first warning tremor, did not take the action that might have saved her. Her fi
rst awareness that something was wrong came when she staggered, almost losing her balance. For an instant she wondered if she had drunk too much wine, or whether her thoughts were making her light-headed.
Disaster unfolded with excruciating slowness. The ground heaved and a low, terrifying rumble filled the air, the vibrations so intense her skin lingled.
The path began to crumble beneath her feet. Elizabeth tried to scramble to safety, but it was too late, there was nothing left to cling to. She screamed as she pitched sideways from the cliff, falling helplessly. How far was it to the rocks below? And would she feel the shattering of her bones?
Randolph's deep voice shouted, "Elizabeth!" Between one heartbeat and the next, powerful arms seized her and dragged her back to solid ground. She slammed into the rocky path with rib-bruising force.
As she gasped for breath, Randolph pulled her farther from the edge, then threw himself over her, his body shielding her from a torrent of falling earth and gravel. In the midst of chaos and confusion, her sharpest awareness was of Randolph's closeness, the warmth and strength that enfolded her. If they were both going to die, she thought dizzily, she was glad that it would be in his arms.
The earth tremor was an eternity of fear that must have lasted less than a minute. When the ground had steadied and the last of the rumbling died away, Randolph lifted himself away, gravel showering from him. His voice ragged, he asked urgently, "Elizabeth, are you all right?"
Shakily she pushed herself to a sitting position and straightened her glasses, which by some miracle had not fallen off. "I think so. Thanks to you." She inhaled some dust and doubled over coughing. When she could speak again, she continued, "Thank you doesn't seem strong enough. I thought my hour had come. How are you?"