14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

R afael clenched his jaw, quelling the urge to snap at Isabella for her untimely interruption. Just as the perfect words had begun to take shape on his tongue, the delicate balance of the moment shattered like fine crystal.

He drew a steadying breath, willing his frustration to ebb away. It would not do to let his sister see him so vexed. With an effort, he turned to face her, a tight smile plastered across his face. "Yes, Isabella? What is it?"

She clutched at his arm, her dark eyes alight with barely contained excitement. "Oh Rafael, I've had the most wonderful idea!" Her voice was breathy, the words tumbling out in an eager rush.

Despite himself, Rafael felt his annoyance begin to soften at the sight of her animated features. Isabella had always possessed an irrepressible zest for life, an innate ability to find joy and wonder in even the bleakest of circumstances. It was a trait he'd often envied, especially in the dark days following their father's death and their exile to England.

"An idea, you say?" He arched a brow, feigning interest. "And what, pray tell, might that be?"

Isabella clasped her hands together, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "Well, I was just thinking... About the vineyards, I mean. And how we might go about restoring them to their former glory."

Rafael stiffened, a frisson of unease snaking down his spine. He'd been grappling with that very dilemma for weeks now, poring over ledgers and accounts until his vision blurred and his head pounded. The vineyards were the lifeblood of their estate, the key to their family's future. And yet, for all his efforts, he'd made frustratingly little headway.

"Go on," he said cautiously, bracing himself for whatever harebrained scheme his sister had concocted.

Isabella took a deep breath, her expression turning solemn. "I think we should ask the Conte Bardolino for his help."

Rafael blinked, certain he must have misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

"The Conte," Isabella repeated patiently. "He's been telling me all about his vineyards back in Italy. The man's practically a walking encyclopaedia when it comes to viticulture." Her eyes sparkled with admiration. "Just think of the invaluable advice he could offer us!"

A muscle ticked in Rafael's jaw as he fought to contain the sudden surge of jealousy that coursed through him. The mere thought of the suave, silver-tongued Italian nobleman who had followed Clarissa to Portugal made his blood boil. And yet, much as he loathed to admit it, Isabella had a point.

The Conte's sprawling estate was renowned throughout Europe for producing some of the finest wines in all of Italy. If anyone possessed the knowledge and expertise to help revive their ailing vineyards, it was him, despite his youth.

Still, the idea of asking for assistance galled Rafael to his very core. He was a proud man, accustomed to relying on his own wits and resourcefulness to navigate life's challenges. The notion of seeking aid from an outsider - especially one as insufferably charming as the Conte - felt like a bitter pill to swallow.

He drew in a slow, steadying breath, weighing his options. As much as it pained him to concede defeat, he knew he had to put his personal feelings aside for the sake of the estate. For the sake of his family's future.

"Very well," he ground out, the words tasting like ashes on his tongue. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to hear what the man has to say."

Isabella beamed at him, her face alight with triumph. "Oh, Rafael, thank you! You won't regret this, I promise you."

He managed a tight smile in return, even as a sense of foreboding settled like a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach. Somehow, he had a feeling he would come to rue this decision. But for now, all he could do was grit his teeth and pray that the Conte's advice would prove as invaluable as Isabella seemed to believe.

Rafael approached the Conte with a heavy heart, his footsteps dragging as if weighed down by the sheer force of his reluctance. He found the man lounging in a comfortable chair on the terrace, resplendent in a finely tailored suit of deep burgundy silk that gleamed in the afternoon sun.

"Conte," Rafael began, his voice stiff with formality. "Might I have a word?"

The Conte turned to face him, a genial smile playing across his lips. "But of course, Captain de Silva. How may I be of assistance?"

Rafael swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat like thorns. "It's about our vineyards," he said at last, the admission wrenching itself from his unwilling lips. "I understand you have some...expertise in this area."

The Conte's eyes lit up with keen interest. "Ah, yes! I have been blessed with the opportunity to cultivate some of the finest vineyards in all of Italy. It would be my great pleasure to share what knowledge I have gleaned with you."

He gestured expansively, his hands sketching shapes in the air as he spoke. "You see, the key to a thriving vineyard lies in understanding the delicate balance between the earth, the sun, and the vines themselves. With proper drainage and irrigation, strategic planting to optimise sun exposure, and the right trellising techniques, you can coax even the most stubborn grapes to yield a bountiful harvest."

As the Conte spoke, Rafael found himself reluctantly drawn in by the man's obvious passion for his craft. Though he was loath to admit it, the advice seemed sound - and more importantly, actionable.

"I see," he said slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. "And you truly believe these methods could help revive our struggling vines?"

The Conte nodded, obviously enthusiastic. "I have every confidence, Captain. With a little hard work and a touch of Italian know-how, your vineyards will be the talk of Portugal in no time at all."

Despite himself, Rafael felt a flicker of hope kindle in his chest. Perhaps, with the Conte's guidance, they could yet salvage the family legacy from the brink of ruin. It was a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless - and for that, he supposed he owed the man his grudging gratitude.

Over the next few weeks, the once-neglected vineyards began to transform under the Conte's expert guidance. Rafael watched with a mixture of amazement and begrudging respect as the Italian gentleman worked tirelessly alongside the estate's labourers, his fine suits exchanged for practical work clothes and his hands stained with the rich, dark earth.

"Careful now, lads," the Conte called out, his voice carrying across the rows of vines. "Remember, each plant is a delicate thing - treat them with the same care you would a lady, and they'll reward you tenfold."

The workers chuckled at the comparison, but Rafael couldn't help but note the truth in the man's words. With each passing day, the vines seemed to stand a little taller, their leaves a little greener, as if they too were eager to prove their worth.

As he surveyed the progress they'd made, Rafael felt a pang of something that might have been gratitude - or perhaps just a lessening of his earlier resentment. Much as it pained him to admit it, the Conte's presence had been a blessing in disguise. Without his knowledge and tireless efforts, the vineyards might well have been lost for good.

"I must say, Mario," he said gruffly, coming to stand beside the younger man. "Your advice has been... invaluable. I'm not too proud to admit when I've been wrong - and in this case, I was wrong to doubt you."

The Conte turned to him with a warm smile, his eyes glinting with something like understanding. "You are very welcome, my friend. We all have our pride - but sometimes, the greatest strength lies in knowing when to set it aside for the greater good."

Rafael nodded slowly, the words striking a chord within him. Perhaps, he mused, there was a lesson to be learned here - one that went beyond the simple tending of grapes and vines. Perhaps, in the end, it was not weakness to accept help when it was offered, but rather a sign of true wisdom and grace.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Marianne, her vibrant hair gleaming in the sunlight as she knelt among the vines, determinedly pulling weeds. Despite her fine gown, she seemed utterly unconcerned by the dirt and grime, her face alight with a fierce sort of joy as she worked, piling weeds into the basket between her and Clarissa.

Rafael felt a sudden lump in his throat, a wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. That these people - his sister, his friends, even the Marchioness herself - would see fit to join in this labour, to work side by side with his own hands... it was a kindness he had never expected, and one he knew he could never fully repay.

Clearing his throat, he raised his voice to address them all. "I... I cannot thank you enough," he said, his words rough with feeling. "All of you. Your help, your support... it means more than I can say."

Marianne looked up at him, her eyes soft with understanding. Rising gracefully to her feet, she brushed off her skirts and came to stand before him, her head tilted back to meet his gaze.

"Nonsense," she said gently, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. "We're happy to help, Rafael. After all..." She smiled, a glint of mischief in her eye. "That's what family does, isn't it?"

Rafael swallowed hard, feeling a sudden tightness in his chest. Family. The word echoed in his mind, filling him with a warmth he hadn't known in years. Looking around at the faces of those gathered - Lucia and Isabella, Mario, Clarissa, Alex and Marianne, even Mr Dalton - he realised that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he truly understood the meaning of the word.

"Yes," he said softly, his voice rough with emotion. "I suppose it is."

Clarissa wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, squinting against the bright sun as she surveyed the sprawling vineyards before her. The air was thick with the heady scent of ripening grapes, and the gentle rustling of the leaves in the warm breeze was punctuated by the occasional chirp of a bird.

She had been working alongside the others for hours, pruning and tying the vines, her hands scratched and scraped from the unaccustomed activity. It was hard work, but satisfying in a way she had never known before. There was something deeply fulfilling about tending to the land, nurturing the delicate plants that would one day yield the rich, full-bodied wine for which the region was famous.

As she reached for another vine, her fingers brushed against something unexpected. Frowning, she bent closer, pushing aside the leaves to reveal an unripe bunch of grapes, cut too early from the vine, crushed and oozing against the soil. Strange , she thought, her brow furrowing. How did that happen?

She straightened up, scanning the nearby rows with a more critical eye. There, a few feet away - a damaged vine, mangled as though rough hands had torn it from its supports and shredded the delicate leaves. And there, near the end of the row, a pile of discarded pruning shears, as if someone had simply tossed them aside in a fit of pique.

"How odd," she murmured aloud, more to herself than anyone else. "I wonder what could have caused this?"

But even as the words left her lips, a niggling sense of unease began to grow in the pit of her stomach. One crushed bunch of grapes, one damaged vine - it could easily be dismissed as a mere accident. But the shears, left so carelessly behind... that spoke of something more deliberate.

She shook her head, trying to brush aside the troubling thoughts. It was probably nothing, she told herself firmly. A clumsy worker, perhaps, or a wild animal that had wandered into the vineyard in search of a snack. There was no need to worry the others, not when they had already been through so much.

But as she picked up the discarded shears and turned back to her work, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that something wasn't right. And as the days passed and the strange incidents continued - a broken trellis here, a missing basket there - that feeling only grew stronger.

Rafael stormed through the vineyard, his boots crushing the fallen leaves beneath his feet. His eyes blazed with fury as he surveyed the destruction before him - entire rows of vines, once lush and thriving, now lay in ruins, their branches twisted and broken beyond repair. The tool that had done the damage lay discarded on the ground, a simple sickle, brutally sharp. But whose hand had wielded it?

"Who could have done this?" Rafael growled, his fists clenched at his sides. "To attack our very livelihood, our family's legacy..."

Clarissa hurried to keep pace with him, her skirts rustling as she moved. "Rafael, please, you must calm yourself. Anger will not solve this."

He whirled to face her, his expression fierce. "And what would you have me do, Clarissa? Stand by and watch as some coward strikes at the very heart of our home?"

She met his gaze steadily, refusing to be cowed by his temper. "Of course not. But we must be strategic in our response. Rushing in blindly will only make matters worse."

Rafael drew in a deep breath, visibly struggling to rein in his emotions. "You're right, of course. Forgive me, I spoke in haste."

Clarissa laid a gentle hand on his arm. "There is nothing to forgive. Your passion for protecting your family does you credit."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips at her words, but it quickly faded as he turned back to the ruined vines. "What do you suggest, then? How can we hope to catch this saboteur?"

Clarissa considered for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. "Perhaps we could keep watch over the vineyard at night, in shifts. If we catch them in the act..."

Rafael nodded slowly, his eyes gleaming with a new determination. "Yes, that could work. We'll need to be careful, though - whoever is doing this is clearly not afraid to cause harm."

"I'm not afraid," Clarissa declared, lifting her chin. "I'll take the first watch myself."

"Absolutely not," Rafael retorted, his tone brooking no argument. "I won't have you putting yourself in danger, nor any of the other ladies. I'll stand guard tonight, and I'll discuss with the other men in the morning if they are willing to assist me."

Clarissa opened her mouth to protest, but something in his expression stopped her. There was a fierceness there, yes, but also a vulnerability, a desperate need to protect those he loved.

"Very well," she agreed at last, her voice softening. "But promise me you'll be careful, Rafael. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

He reached out to take her hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. "I promise, Clarissa. I won't let any harm come to our family - or to you. I swear it on my life."

But despite Rafael's best efforts, the saboteur remained elusive. Each morning, they would return to the house exhausted and discouraged, only to find fresh damage to the vines. It was as if their enemy was a ghost, slipping in and out unseen, leaving only destruction in their wake.

As the days stretched on with no sign of the culprit, Rafael's frustration mounted. Clarissa could see it in the tense set of his jaw, the way his fists clenched at his sides as he surveyed the ruined vines.

"I don't understand it," he growled, raking a hand through his hair. "How can they keep evading us like this? It's as if they know our every move before we make it. How can they know where we will patrol, and when? We make a new plan each evening!"

Clarissa laid a gentle hand on his arm, feeling the coiled tension beneath his skin. "We're doing everything we can, Rafael. Perhaps... perhaps it's time to accept that this may be beyond our control."

He turned to look at her, his sea-green eyes stormy with emotion. "I can't accept that, Clarissa. This land, this vineyard... it's my family's legacy. I won't let it be destroyed by some cowardly saboteur."

"I know," she murmured, her heart aching for him. "But we can't go on like this forever. We need to find another way."

Rafael sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "You're right, of course. I just... I feel so helpless. What kind of man am I if I can't even protect what's mine?"

Clarissa cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. "You are a good man, Rafael de Silva. A brave, honourable, loving man. And we will find a way through this, together. I promise you that."

He leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he drew strength from her presence. When he opened them again, there was a new resolve there, a glimmer of hope amid the despair.

"Together," he repeated, his voice rough with emotion. "I like the sound of that."

Across the sun-dappled vineyard, Clarissa spotted Isabella and Conte Bardolino deep in conversation. Mario was gesticulating animatedly, no doubt sharing more of his vast knowledge of viticulture. Isabella, her dark hair coming loose from its pins, was listening intently, her eyes bright with keen interest.

Clarissa nudged Rafael gently. "Look at those two. Thick as thieves, aren't they?"

Rafael followed her gaze, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Indeed. I confess, I had my reservations about the Conte at first, but he's proven himself to be a true friend."

"More than a friend, I think," Clarissa murmured, watching as Isabella laid a hand on the Conte's arm, her laughter carrying across the vineyard. "Have you noticed the way they look at each other?"

Rafael's eyebrows shot up. "You don't think...?"

"I do," Clarissa grinned. "I think Mario is quite smitten with your sister. And unless I'm very much mistaken, the feeling is entirely mutual."

"Hm." Rafael looked uncertain. "Isabella is only just seventeen…"

"And Mario is barely twenty," Clarissa pointed out. "I think they are very well suited, Rafael. Don't you? I know your mother agrees with me."

"Does she, indeed!" His brows flew up, and he looked again at Mario and Isabella. "Perhaps I should have a conversation with my mother on the matter. Before things become any more serious."

"You should probably talk to Isabella about it too," Clarissa pointed out teasingly. "She does, after all, have a mind and opinions of her own."

"You are correct, indeed." Rafael bowed over her hand. "If you will excuse me. Isabella!" He called to his sister, who sighed and rolled her eyes, but left the Conte's side obediently to come to him, and the two of them made their way back up to the castle.

"Clarissa." Mario came to her side and offered his arm, and she put her hand on it with a smile.

"Thank you. I'm tired, and it's a steep walk back up there!"

"But worth the view when one arrives."

"Indeed. A different sort of beauty to your home on the lake, but lovely nonetheless, don't you think?"

"A place I am growing to love almost as much as Bardolino," Mario agreed, his eyes fixed on the brother and sister walking ahead of them. "Tell me… do I have a chance, Clarissa?"

"A chance?" she queried.

"Of pressing my suit successfully?"

For one brief instant, Clarissa thought he was hinting at proposing to her , but immediately she saw that his lovesick gaze had never strayed from Isabella.

"Of course you do!" she exclaimed. "Any woman would be lucky to have you… but in this specific case, I do believe your affections are returned in full measure."

"You do?"

They had reached the stone archway into the castle courtyard, through which Rafael and Isabella had passed a moment earlier before going out of sight. Clarissa laughed, stopping and turning to look at Mario.

"Yes, indeed I do."

He fell on her neck with cries of delight in Italian, hugging her tightly and exclaiming that he hoped soon to call her his sister, as he had once hoped before, but this way should be so much better, ensuring the happiness of all concerned. Clarissa laughed and hugged him back.

"You are a little precipitate there, I think," she replied.

"We shall see!"