THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1794 - CHARLOTTE

  “Barely,” Charlotte lied, hoping her cheeks didn’t appear as flushed as they felt. “Mama asked me to report back to her about his progress. She wants to be sure the fireplace is finished in time for the wedding.”

  “Sometimes I wonder about your mama. She’s far too smart to make such an error.”

  “He’s not an error. He’s quite famous in Italy.”

  “Oh sweetheart, I am famous in Italy and I’m not a sculptor.”

  “How are you—”

  “La, child, how you talk,” Aunt Verity said in a rush. “But I plan on having a word with your mama when next I see her. But in the meantime, you, my dear, must stay away from that man.”

  “But the fireplace—”

  “He can send word via a message. I suppose he can write?”

  She nodded.

  “Then have him send you notes. Meanwhile, you can put your energy into your other duties.”

  “What other duties?”

  Aunt Verity dropped her napkin back into her lap and frowned. “Surely over the last few years you’ve overtaken some of the responsibilities here at Nimway?”

  “Mama was training Caroline to oversee the house. Except for basic housekeeping, I was never included.”

  “Oh dear. That should have changed, although as you’re getting married so soon, I suppose it’s too late.” Aunt Verity sighed and looked around the room. “Your sister did love this house. She glowed whenever she spoke about it.”

  “She did. It made her so happy, although . . . The week before she died, she came into my bedchamber and she looked as if she’d been crying.” Charlotte frowned. “She said she’d dreamed she’d left Nimway and it had upset her. Perhaps she was just realizing how much the house meant to her.”

  “Perhaps,” Aunt Verity said without conviction. “I vow, I wish we might find your sister’s diary. It would answer so many questions. I still cannot reconcile myself with the fact that she was out riding a horse in the middle of the night. You, I would believe, but not her.”

  “We were all shocked. And we’ve looked everywhere for that diary, and it has not been found. I’ve started to wonder if perhaps there wasn’t one.” Charlotte sighed. “Caroline was different after our season in London. I don’t know why, but after that, she seemed secretive. But she was so happy, even more so than usual, that I didn’t ask questions. Now I wish I had.”

  Aunt Verity sighed. “Well until that diary is found, we’ll never know what Caroline was doing, so that is neither here nor there.” She roused herself with an obvious effort and said in a sharper tone. “Come, we should focus on the present, not the past, as difficult as that may be. And you may start by explaining something to me.”

  “Of course.”

  “How is it that your mother thought Caroline the guardian of Nimway, but hasn’t passed that responsibility on to you? My brother has said a female must hold the title of the house, so if Olivia is the current guardian, and Caroline is gone, that must mean you’re next in line.”

  “I don’t have the mark.”

  “What?”

  “The Guardian is always born with an oval mark on the back of her shoulder.”

  Aunt Verity looked horrified. “Do you mean to tell me that the ownership of this magnificent house rests on a happenstance birthmark?”

  Charlotte nodded. “It’s been that way for centuries.”

  Aunt Verity glowered. “And you don’t have this mark, so – Bloody hell.”

  Charlotte blinked. “Aunt Verity!”

  “I know, I know, it’s rude to curse, but really.”

  “I don’t mind it. To be honest, I’d like to travel, for I’ve never been anywhere but here and London. But Robert doesn’t enjoy it. He says coach and ship travel make him ill. But he rides very well.”

  “You cannot ride a horse to the Continent.”

  “I know. No two people want the same thing. I’m sure Robert and I will find a way that satisfies us both.”

  Aunt Verity placed her hand over Charlotte’s. “You are indeed a Harrington. We all suffer from wanderlust. In his day, your Papa vowed he’d never settle down.” She laughed softly, her gaze focused on an image from the past. “One time, he even sh—” She caught herself and pulled back, releasing Charlotte’s hand. “Never mind.”

  “Aunt Verity, please tell me! I know Papa was very different before he married Mama, but he won’t tell us how.”

  “He will, one day, but he won’t thank me for spilling his secrets.”

  “He won’t tell us anything. And now Caroline will never know it.” Charlotte’s heart ached, the rush of sadness swallowing her once again. “Her death has changed everything. People never tell you that when a sibling dies, you change, too. You’re no longer the oldest or the youngest or the only. Your place in life, in the family, changes. Both John and I felt it. But I . . . I was no longer a twin. That always made me feel special, and with her, I was never alone. When Caroline left, she took that with her, too.”

  “Oh my dear!” Aunt Verity reached over and captured Charlotte’s hand. “It’s been hard on the entire family. Harder than I’d realized. But you must realize that while you’ll miss Caroline, you are still you, our wild, untamed Charlotte.”

  “Wild and untamed.” Charlotte had to laugh, though the sound was bitter. “Mama wishes I weren’t either of those. I’ve been trying to be better for my parents. They were so devastated when Caroline died.”

  Aunt Verity’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “But so were you. And changing yourself, or tying to, just to please others, is not the answer.”

  “I’m just trying to be better.”

  “Better implies that you weren’t good before, and you were. You must be true to yourself, whatever you do. And if this marriage is what you would do if Caroline were still here, then by all means, continue with it. But if you’re merely trying to distract your mama with a wedding or you think to become whatever it is you believe Caroline was to your parents, then you are making a grave error, one that will only end in tragedy for both you and Robert.”

  Was that what she was doing? Was she trying to take Caroline’s place? Charlotte looked at the delicate teacup resting in its saucer and wondered what she’d be doing if Caroline were still here.

  Aunt Verity tsked. “Look what I’ve done! I’ve made you sad. See what happens when I’m distracted by a handsome man? I start lecturing you on every topic possible! Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Tell me, what did you think of the blue silk gown? I do believe that was my favorite.” Aunt Verity, always ready to talk fashion, went off into raptures over some of the materials and stitches while Charlotte smiled and nodded.

  Every once in a while, Charlotte pretended to cough so she could glance out the window where they’d seen Marco walking from the lake. Aunt Verity had forbidden Charlotte to see him again, which was unfair in the extreme. Just the thought of it made her hands curls into fists. Why shouldn’t she see him? She was well able to take care of herself. True, she’d allowed her guard to slip in the past, but that was only more reason for her to challenge herself to regain her control. Seeing him again would be good for her. Even Aunt Verity would agree, if she were thinking straight. But of course, who would think straight after seeing Marco like that?

  She remembered how he looked, walking from the lake. She’d felt those arms about her, had felt the heat of his skin on hers. Her chest tightened, as if there wasn’t enough air in the entire world to fill her lungs.

  Meanwhile, Aunt Verity was now discussing the merits of silk wool to combed wool, her voice slow and soft as she yawned between words.

  Charlotte’s gaze moved back to the windows. Marco would be in his shop by now, working. She wondered if he’d made much progress on the fireplace pillars. What does he have planned for those? He was being so secretive when I visited him, and I let him. Before Caroline died, I’d have never allowed him, or anyone else, to put me off like that.

  She bit her lip. Good God, how I’ve changed. A
unt Verity was right; she’d been trying her best to make her mother and father happy, to follow in her sister’s footsteps and be – well, the good child. She’d tried so hard that she’d actually done it, never realizing what she was giving up.

  She couldn’t be both sedate and lively, both quiet and loud, both perfectly behaved and wildly passionate. I can’t be both Caroline and Charlotte. I can only be me.

  A gentle snore pulled Charlotte’s attention to her aunt, who was now snoozing peacefully, her empty teacup resting in her lap under her relaxed hand, her shawl puddled on the floor near her feet.

  Charlotte retrieved the teacup and placed it back on the tray, and then she collected the dropped shawl and spread it over her snoring aunt. “Thank you,” Charlotte whispered. She kissed Aunt Verity’s powdered cheek and then tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  In the hallway, she caught sight of Simmons speaking with two footmen. He dismissed them and then joined her. “An, miss. There you are. I take it Lady Barton is asleep?”

  “Just now.”

  “I will awaken her. She’ll be much more comfortable in her own bed chamber. I’ll let Miss Hull know that her ladyship is on her way up to—"

  “No, thank you.”

  He paused, surprise flittering over his thin face. “No?”

  “There’s no need to send word to Miss Hull. Lady Barton will stay in the sitting room and enjoy her nap to the fullest.”

  A pained expression crossed the butler’s face. “Miss, please. I’m sure Lady Barton would agree with me; it’s not genteel to sleep on a settee in the middle of the day—”

  “Phooey.”

  “I—I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. I said ‘Phooey.’ If my aunt – or anyone else for that matter – wants to nap on a settee in the sitting room in the middle of the day or at any other time, then they should be left alone to do so.”

  “I—Yes, miss,” he said stiffly, looking as if he’d swallowed a lemon.

  “Post a footman by the door so Lady Barton isn’t disturbed.”

  “Yes, miss. Will that be all?”

  “No, there’s one more thing. Bring some fresh ink to the library, please. I’ve letters to write. Two, in fact.”

  Simmons bowed. “I’ll see to it right away.”

  By the time the butler had fetched a fresh pot of ink from where it was kept locked in a cabinet in the pantry, and had carried it to the library, Charlotte was already sitting behind the desk, her hands folded in front of her, ready to compose two of the most difficult letters she’d ever written.

  Chapter 8

  The muse came to him in the dark hours of the night, whispering him awake with clarity of vision that had him stumbling from his bed, yanking on his breeches, and reaching for his tools before he was properly awake. He did as he always did when the muse came and let the image flow from his mind to his fingers without question, without pausing to consider anything but the feel of the marble giving away under the sharp edge of the chisel.

  In his dream, he’d seen the two figures that would hold up the mantelpiece. The caryatids would be rounded of face and limb, their outer arms cocked to add dimension. Neoclassical in design, bold in simplicity, they would wear elegantly draped togas, with jewels set into the leather of their sandals, and a smooth, shimmering whiteness on their arms, calves, and breasts. The toga, thin and revealing, would show more than it covered, baring one breast before hanging over their bodies, clinging to every curve.

  It would be a masterpiece. He knew it even as he chiseled the rock, freeing the caryatids he could now see so clearly. He knew everything but their faces, although he was sure those would be revealed in time. For now, he would work the bodies, the limbs, the folds of the togas. So much to do.

  And so he worked, and then worked some more. The marble gave way under his fingers, confirming that his design was exactly what it should be. Marble chips piled on the floor at the feet of the pillars as sweat beaded his brow, but he continued on. Dust clung to his skin, but he ignored it, pausing only to wipe the sheen from his forehead when his eyes began to sting.

  When he finally stopped, the dark of night had slipped into the brightness of sunrise. He set his chisel and hammer aside, his arms and shoulders aching from his efforts, the hammer handle wet with sweat from his hands. Marco, too awake to return to bed, found a stool and pulled it in front of the figures, evaluating what he’d accomplished.

  Shortly after the sun had cleared the horizon, Pietro appeared in the doorway, his white hair rumpled, one side of his face ceased to match his now-abandoned pillow. He scratched his ass as he approached. “The muse returned, did she?”

  “She did.”

  Pietro eyed the stone chips piled at the foot of the pillars. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

  “Some.” Marco crossed his arms and looked at the stone with satisfaction. “I know everything but the faces. Those I could not see.”

  “Well, you saw the rest of clearly enough, praise be.” Pietro ran a practiced eye over the shadowed outlines. “I can already see them peeking out through the stone. Two women, by the looks of it. I’m surprised; I thought you might make lions or even dragons.”

  “Never.”

  Pietro shrugged. “You must remain true to your vision.”

  Marco nodded in agreement, moving so that he could examine the roughed in figures from various angles. This was the part he enjoyed the most, seeing the figures emerging from the stone. Right now, they were only clearly visible to him, but soon others would see what he already saw. The muse had done her work well, he decided. He wished he could share his vision, but it would be best to let the stone speak for itself.

  What joy he found in his craft. Anyone could be taught to carve stone, to polish it until it shone. But it took hard work, a sometimes painful struggle, and a deep, abiding patience to find what was hidden in the stone.

  “How long will it take you to finish?”

  He thought of how much progress he’d made just last night. “A week, perhaps a day or two more. But then the marble must be polished until it shines.”

  “I can help with that when the time comes. You are well on your way, my friend.” Pietro gave the sculpture another admiring look and then yawned, stretching his arms over his head and revealing his stomach. “I’m off to the kitchens to see what’s to be had for breakfast. Should I bring you something?”

  “No. I want to rinse off this dust, and then sleep. I’ll eat later.”

  “You’re not going to take another bath, are you? You had one just yesterday. In the lake, no less.” Pietro shook his head and said in a sour tone, “You’ll thin your skin until it can no longer protect your blood.”

  “The Romans believed baths were healthy.”

  Pietro snorted. “There are no more true Romans, as they all died from bathing too often.” With that sally, he yawned and shambled toward the stable door, but he stopped just inside. “Is it safe if I leave? I don’t wish to return to find you holding the lady of the house yet again.”

  “I will not see her again,” Marco said shortly.

  “That’s what you said last time.”

  “Last time, I had not so rudely dismissed her. She will not speak to me now, nor do I blame her.” He’d been brutal, but he’d had to, for his own sake as well as hers.

  But if he closed his eyes right now, he would still see her hurt expression.

  Pietro shook his head. “You are a stubborn fool. But I suppose I must trust you.”

  “Go to the kitchen before Cook decides to give your breakfast to a handsome footman who is not such a horrible pain in the morning.”

  The stonemason grinned. “No footman can replace me. But still, I’m hungry, so I’ll go.”

  “Good. When you do, take that moonstone with you and deliver it to the butler. Tell him it was brought to us by mistake.”

  Pietro grimaced.

  Marco lifted a brow. “You don’t like Simmons?”

 
“He thinks I spend too much time in the kitchens. Cook laughs at him, but I think he has an interest there and is jealous.”

  “It’s more likely he hates seeing his winter stores depleted by an outsider, for you eat more than any two people I know. Now go, and don’t hurry back. I’ve a wish to see my pillow before the half hour is done and you always make so much noise I cannot sleep.”

  Grinning, Pietro took the moonstone and left.

  Marco shoved the stool aside and crossed the room to examine his work more closely. Every time he looked, he noticed new details – the soft curve of the thighs, the fullness of the breasts, the places where folds had been roughed in. Slowly, the forms were appearing, and they were even better than he’d hoped.

  He traced his fingers along the line of a shoulder, and realized the two figures had the same width. He stepped back and compared them, surprised to find them identical in every measurement. When he’d dreamed about the figures, he’d thought them sisters. But now he realized that they were representations of the same woman, but in different poses. She was magnificent, this creature. In his minds’ eye, he could see the turn of her ankle, the delicate hollows that lay along her collarbone, the roundness of her arms, and the length of her curvaceous thigh. When men see you, they will fall in love.

  He thought about working some more, but knew he was too tired and might make a mistake. So instead, he found a clean rag and went out into the sunshine. He slapped the dust from his hair, shirt, and breeches with the rag. Shimmering and white, the marble dust swirled in the air and then disappeared, the distinctive scent mixing with that of fresh hay and morning dew.

  When he finished, he tossed the rag back into his workshop and pulled his shirt over his head, and then strode behind the stables to the well. He tossed the shirt over a nearby shrub, and cranked up a pail of fresh, icy water. He poured the bucket over his head, gasping at the cold water. It took several more buckets, but finally the water ran clear, the dust and sweat washed away. He used one last bucket of water to rinse his shirt.

  When he finished, he replaced the bucket on the hook, wrung out his shirt, and slung it over his shoulder. Then, he headed back to the workshop, cold and wet, the thought of sleep beckoning. Despite his refreshing bath, his eyes blurred with tiredness, his shoulders and arms aching with fatigue.