22. A Mother Learns More

CHAPTER 22

A MOTHER LEARNS MORE

M eanwhile, at the Gisborn dowager cottage

Having completed his work in the stables for the morning, Donald hurried back to his cottage, nearly running in his haste to pen a letter.

Of all the conversations the Slater family could have over breakfast on such a cold and rainy day, he could hardly believe the one they’d had that morning.

He was going to return to Sicily. And he had his family’s blessing. Well, he was going with a few charges that might make his travels more difficult—and certainly less private—but he could hardly let that keep him from the letter he needed to write.

Had he asked the week before, when news had first arrived from Catania in the form of a bittersweet letter, he might have had to argue his case. Now... now he had to sort some particulars. Sort the timing.

Pulling a sheet of stationery from the few pieces that remained from his last order, he wrote his usual salutation and stopped, the pen poised so a drop of ink formed and was about to fall. Wincing, Donald pulled the pen aside and set it in its holder. Unfolding the letter he had received the week before, he reread it in its entirety, the Latin words smeared so it was difficult to decipher.

My dearest Donald,

I pray this letter finds you and your family in good health. Ricardo succumbed to the illness I described in my last letter, his poor health made worse with his age. I feel guilt that I wished for God to take him, but he was so sick, and he could hardly breathe—it seemed merciful.

I hated that our Antony had to see him like that, poor boy. My brother’s family has taken him so he might spend time with his cousins until after the affairs have been settled. D’Avalos is helping in that regard, although his advanced age has slowed him.

Worry not for me or our future as Ricardo has left me my dowry and more—the villa here in Catania and the vineyards and castle on Aetna, the D’Avalos villa in Roma, which I intend for Armenia to inhabit, as well as a coach-and-four, a traveling coach, a pair of matched greys, three riding horses (they would benefit from your care), and the furnishings.

Ricardo had no one else to make a claim to the estate, poor man, his brother having died many years ago. I have come to believe D’Avalos agreed with Ricardo’s scheme to marry me so he would end up with the vineyards—he cares nothing for the villa.

I will wear black for the next half-year as is customary here. Beyond that, I have no plans, but perhaps I could bring Antony to England to meet you then? That you still send me letters after six years has me hoping you wish to see me as much as I wish to see you.

If I have this wrong, please write to tell me so. Otherwise, I remain yours always,

Nikky

Donald inhaled softly, his heart clenching upon reading the last line. Nicoletta, Marchesa Montblanc, might have wished death for her aged “husband” as a means of mercy, but Donald had far more selfish reasons for wanting her natural father dead.

About to begin his letter with a message of condolence—he had to consider the rest of what he might say after his earlier conversation with his father—Donald jerked at hearing a knock at his door. A drop of ink plopped onto the pristine stationery, and he cursed.

“Come!” he called out, pushing his chair back so he could turn and discover who was paying a call.

“I don’t wish to interrupt your writing, but I really must speak with you,” his mother said as she made her way to his desk.

Donald blinked. “Mother?” She was dressed much as she had been at breakfast, although she also wore a redingote, carried an umbrella, and had something tucked under one arm. He watched as her gaze swept over his desk. Fairly sure she didn’t read Latin, he made no move to hide Nicoletta’s letter.

“I’ve brought biscuits. I’ll make tea, if you don’t mind,” she said as she moved to the small kitchen at the back of the cottage.

“I don’t mind at all,” Donald replied, moving to join her. “There’s already hot water in the kettle. What’s happened?”

Barbara busied herself with preparing teacups and saucers, her motions quick and efficient. “It’s about the Grand Tour,” she stated.

Donald leaned against the door frame. “Have you and Father changed your minds? About us going?”

Shaking her head, Barbara poured the water into a teapot. “Not at all.” She pulled a folded note from her pocket and held it out to him. “In fact, I invited the Forsters to join us for dinner so we can discuss it then,” she said, referring to Henry, Hannah, and their children. “I am hoping we haven’t waited too long.”

Hesitating before taking the note from her, Donald finally did. He gave a start at seeing the handwriting on the envelope. “When did you receive this?”

Barbara rolled her eyes as she handed him a teacup. “It was delivered a fortnight ago. Your father... he had no idea who it was from because I think he’s forgotten whatever Latin he might have learned at school. With the harvest and all, he quite forgot about it, and then I found it on his desk last night. He doesn’t know I took it.”

Donald studied the address on the front of the missive. Although most of it was legible, the first name was not, the ink having smeared at some point en route from Sicily. The last name, Slater, was clear. “Just a mis-delivery is all,” he said, nonchalantly. “No harm.”

Her shoulders dropping, Barbara regarded him with worry. “I read it.”

His eyes widening, Donald glanced down at the missive and then turned it over. The wax seal had been broken, but then she had mentioned his father had attempted to read it. “I wasn’t aware you could read Latin,” he murmured.

Barbara scoffed. “I’m an earl’s daughter,” she stated, obviously miffed by his comment. “And apparently a very ignorant mother.”

His head jerked up to regard her with shock. “Mother,” he replied quietly.

“When did you meet her?”

About to say something else, Donald hesitated and shrugged. “Uh, January 1833. My first full day in Catania,” he stated. “And you needn’t be concerned about ignorance. I simply chose not to tell anyone.”

Barbara displayed a look of hurt. “But why?” she asked in dismay. “She obviously meant something to you. She was very special to you,” she argued. She glanced about the small kitchen, as if in search of something. “Do you have any brandy?”

Donald disappeared for a moment and returned with a decanter. He poured a small amount in her teacup and then did the same with his own.

“She did mean something special to you, didn’t she?” his mother pressed.

“She did, yes. She does ,” he countered.

“Is she why you haven’t courted anyone here in England?”

Donald sighed and dipped his head. He could deny it, but his mother had no doubt gained a clear idea of what Nicoletta meant to him.

And what he meant to her.

“Yes.”

“You had an affaire with her?”

“Mother!”

“Please, tell me the truth, Donald. She’s a married woman?—”

“Widowed,” he interrupted. “Sort of. And she wasn’t married when I knew her.”

“Widowed?” Her eyes rounded, but she wasn’t to be deterred from making her point. “But she was betrothed. When you had your affaire ?” Barbara guessed.

“Not exactly. Not how you think.” He shook his head. “It’s all a bit complicated, but I didn’t learn she was to marry the marchese until we had spent nearly two months... courting,” he murmured. “I asked for her hand in marriage. I gave her a betrothal ring,” he added.

“She didn’t tell you?” The disbelief was evident in Barbara’s voice.

“She didn’t know , Mother. Her father, or rather the man she had always thought was her father, had made the arrangements with a very old acquaintance of his—another aristocrat who lacked an heir—and she was as surprised as I was when D’Avalos informed me Nicoletta would be marrying in March of that year.” He paused a moment. “Montblanc is her natural father.”

Slumping against the counter, Barbara gripped her cup in both hands and took a sip of her tea, the fight going out of her all at once. “And the boy? Antony?”

Donald resisted the urge to curse. “He is my son,” he admitted. A whoosh of air left his lungs, as if he’d been holding his breath for a very long time. “I was going to marry her, Mother. I was going to send a letter to Father telling him I intended to stay in Catania. Take a position as a clerk to earn my living?—”

“Donald.”

“—but the betrothal to the Marchese Montblanc was announced at a lavish ball at his villa in Catania, and I left to come home. He got his true heir—he was Nikky’s natural father, you see?—”

“What?” she interrupted, nearly spilling her tea.

“—And the fake marriage allowed him to keep his daughter and his grandson close. He gave them everything, and now my son is the Marchese Montblanc.”

Barbara blinked several times. “Oh,” was all she could manage.

Donald chuckled softly. “Antony has Nikky’s dark hair and eyes and....” He allowed the sentence to trail off, obviously happy to speak of his son. After a moment, he disappeared to the front room and returned holding a small item in his hand. He offered it to her. “This was painted last year,” he said. “He was about four years old at the time.”

Barbara gingerly took the oval miniature from him, her eyes widening as she studied the image. “He’s obviously your son,” she murmured. “Except for the dark hair, he looks exactly like you did when you were that age.”

Donald grinned “I’m glad to hear it. I was going to show it to Father. To ask him about it, but I remembered he didn’t know I existed when I was four years old.”

Clutching the miniature to her chest, Barbara didn’t say anything in response, her eyes brightening with tears.

They stood in companionable silence for a time, both drinking their brandy-spiked tea. Donald took the opportunity to read the letter she had brought, gasping softly when the topic of Montblanc’s illness was raised.

Had he received the missive when he should have—a fortnight ago—he would have begun plans then to make the trip to Sicily.

“Does the aristocracy even mean anything there any longer?” Barbara asked quietly.

“Not especially,” Donald replied, glancing up from the letter. “They are still under the Bourbons, so I think they are tolerated, but not much more.”

“But they have property. Villas. Land. Vineyards.”

“Property, yes, most of which has been owned by their families for several centuries,” he explained. “Some longer.”

“Besides her own family, is there anything keeping... Nicoletta is her name?”

“Sí,” he replied, unaware he spoke Italian. “She has inherited the Montblanc villa and furnishings in Catania. Antony has all the entailed properties—a castle on Mount Aetna along with a good deal of farmland,” he explained, remembering the details he had read only a few minutes before his mother’s arrival. “Her dowry was the D’Avalos villa in Rome. Where Lady Morganfield lived until her husband met and married her,” he explained. “Nikky will also end up with several carriages and horses and whatnot,” he went on with a shrug. “And a vineyard, although she thinks her father wants it.”

Barbara’s brows lifted at hearing the list of properties. “So... she is not destitute?”

He chuckled. “Hardly.” He watched as her brows crinkled. “What is it?”

“Did you say Lady Morganfield ?” Barbara asked, surprise evident in her voice.

“Yes. Nicoletta is Lady Morganfield’s niece,” he explained, realizing he should have mentioned her relationship to the marchioness first.

Barbara scoffed. “You might have started with that,” she scolded. Hannah had mentioned Lady Bostwick’s cousin Nikky. Since Elizabeth Carlington Bennett-Jones was the only daughter of Lady Morganfield, it was now obvious this Nikky was the same girl.

Donald couldn’t help but chuckle. “Apologies.”

She once again glanced at the miniature. “Are you going to go and get her? And him?”

Donald blinked. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He had only just learned that morning that Nicoletta’s father had died. That she was a widow in the eyes of those in Catania. “She has to mourn for a time,” he said, remembering what she had written. “After that, I intend to do what I must.”

“Well, don’t wait an entire year ,” his mother said on a huff. “You let her know right now what your intentions are.”

“Mother,” he said, taking a half-step back at hearing her rebuke.

“This boy is yours . You marry her, and you bring them both here,” she demanded, holding out the miniature. “This boy is my grandson.”

Donald blinked. “Yes, ma’am.” He glanced around the cottage, wincing when he remembered the finery displayed in the Montblanc villa in Catania. The velvet drapes, the perfectly matched wallpaper, the gilt chandeliers, and the painted ceilings of the grand ballroom located on the top floor of a villa unlike the others which displayed the elegant rot he had come to associate with most of Catania upon his exit from the city.

Montblanc’s villa had been maintained in a manner befitting a marchese. Perfectly presentable. Professionally painted by skilled artisans. Immaculate in its cleanliness.

He could only imagine how magnificent the castle on the east slopes of Mount Aetna was in comparison.

“Where do you suggest I put her?” Donald asked. “She’s used to living in the equivalent of a palace,” he remarked dryly.

Barbara opened her mouth to respond but found she didn’t have an immediate answer. “We’ll solve that after you tell your father.”

“What?”

“Before you and David and your cousins leave for Europe, you’re going to tell your father.”

Donald inhaled to reply, but decided it better he not say what first came to mind.

His mother would not be happy to learn his father already knew about Nicoletta and Antony.

“If you insist,” he finally replied. “I’ll tell Father everything.”

The air seemed to go out of his mother all at once, and for a moment, he thought she might cry. Instead, her lower lip trembled before she captured it with an eyetooth. “Did you know you left her with child? When you took your leave of Catania?”

He sighed, remembering that day at the Trout Inn when he’d had to explain the situation to his father. “No. But I sorted that I might have...” He sighed. “I knew it was a possibility by the time I reached England,” he finished lamely.

She gave him a quelling glance. “If only your father had done the same,” she murmured quietly.

Knowing better than to respond—Donald had learned long ago the past could not be changed—he lifted the kettle from the stove and refilled her teacup and his own. “You’ll make an excellent grandmother,” he commented.

Inhaling softly, Barbara regarded him with tear-filled eyes. “Only if you bring Antony home,” she whispered.

“I will bring him to England at some point, Mother. I promise you.”

Even if it’s only for a visit , he didn’t add, for now that Nicoletta had been living in Montblanc’s villa and castle for the past six years, it was doubtful she would agree to live in a five-room cottage in Oxfordshire for the rest of her life.

But perhaps she would. He wouldn’t know until she’d had a chance to see the place.