32. Mournful Thoughts

CHAPTER 32

MOURNFUL THOUGHTS

E arlier that day, at Villa Montblanc in Via dei Crociferi

The sense of despair Nicoletta had felt during the three weeks since Montblanc’s funeral had finally begun to settle into a sort of numbness. The number of aristocratic callers who stopped by to pay their respects had dwindled to one or two a day. At least they acknowledged her son as the new Marchese Montblanc, promising him their allegiance should a situation arise requiring it.

She couldn’t think of what that might be given the status of noble families in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. Most of the peers pretended nothing had changed despite the Bourbons having taken control. At least their lands hadn’t been confiscated, and what small fortunes they still possessed could be hidden away.

Nicoletta had done everything her true father had advised whilst he suffered the last few weeks of his life. She had hidden jewels and gold in small chests beneath floorboards, sewn money into the hems of several gowns, and even stuffed coins into the crown of her bed’s canopy.

“You have sent word to Signore Slater?” he had asked between labored breaths.

“I have,” she acknowledged. “But I only told him you were ill.”

She remembered the pained expression he displayed upon hearing her words. “I will be dead before he arrives,” he complained. “I wished to see him again.”

Surprised at hearing his words, Nicoletta asked why.

“He promised to wait for you?—”

“And he has,” she assured him.

“I wished to give him my blessing. To marry you,” he struggled to get out. “To be a father to his son.”

“Shh,” she had responded, holding a finger to her lips.

“You needn’t mourn me for a year, mia bella . Wear black if you must, but let your heart be his.”

“Ricardo,” she gently scolded. “Of course I shall mourn you.”

The closer Ricardo Malgeri came to death, the less guarded he was about keeping their secret. When he called her figlia— daughter — in the presence of a servant, the lady’s maid had directed a look of sorrow in Nicoletta’s direction.

“He knows not what he says,” the maid murmured when her mistress visibly winced. “Poor man.”

At least she had taken comfort in the knowledge Ricardo wanted her to marry Donald. Wanted Antony to know his natural father. As to when they would meet, though, she hadn’t a guess.

Until that morning when Trimarco, the butler, brought her the morning’s post. Atop all the white envelopes bearing words of sympathy and sorrow was a letter from England.

A letter from Donald.

My dearest Nikky,

Please accept my sincerest condolences on the loss of your beloved father. I know what he has meant to you these past six years, and I mourn his loss for our son and for you.

I received your letter this morning, and a few hours later, was given another in which you wrote of Montblanc’s illness. Please know that if I had been in possession of it when it should have been delivered, I would have made arrangements to travel immediately.

Given this latest news, I will depart for London in a week and board a ship as soon as passage can be arranged.

Although my father and I have kept you a secret from my family all these years, my mother now knows.

Everything.

Since I cannot expect you to come to England—it would not be fair to you or to Antony—she insists on coming with me. Since my father would not let her go without him, he is going as well.

With two cousins and my younger brother wanting to embark on their Grand Tours, they are joining us, too.

There is much to discuss once I reach you, but know that my love for you has not waned. I still want you to be my wife and hope that we may be wed when your mourning period is over.

Please give my love to Antony. I look forward to meeting him as much as I look forward to seeing you again.

With all my love,

Don

Tears of relief had begun streaming down her face as she read her lover’s words. A glimmer of happiness replaced the numbness. Despite having told Trimarco she would not be accepting callers this day, she rang for her lady’s maid and dressed in her very best day gown, its silk bell skirt wide and its waist tucked in tight beneath her bosom. Her hairstyle, far more simple than the elaborate coiffures she had worn when Montblanc was alive, featured a lock of hair resting on one shoulder. No gray strands marred the raven black hair, and although she was noticeably older, her skin didn’t display the lines around her eyes or mouth that Armenia complained about these days.

When she regarded her reflection in the cheval mirror, she recalled how concerned she had been about Donald seeing her naked the very first time she had invited him to her bedchamber. How worried she had been that he might think her too fleshy.

Well, she was more so now, although she hadn’t eaten as much as Montblanc had encouraged her to do so over the years.

The thought of her father didn’t bring tears to her eyes as it would have the day before, but it did have her thinking of Antony.

Anxious for her son’s company, she had gone up to the schoolroom to find him with his tutor. He had already learned his numbers and how to write his name on a slate, but he tended to vex the older gentleman with his requests to learn English.

“I will see to your English,” she told him in English, giving the tutor an apologetic glance.

“He is distracted today,” the tutor complained. “He keeps saying someone is coming to meet him.”

She gave her son a smirk. For the past year, Montblanc had been telling him he had another grandfather and a grandmother that he would one day meet. She had sometimes read him the letters from Donald, the boy curious about life in England. “Perhaps I should take him out for some air. The Prince of Biscari gardens?” she suggested, knowing he liked the labyrinth.

Antony’s eyes lit up. “Can we?”

“I’ll be sure he is ready for lessons on Monday,” she promised as the tutor closed his leather satchel. “ Buona giornata .”

A few minutes after the older gentleman had departed the schoolroom, she and Antony were on their way to his bedchamber to see to a coat when the butler appeared with word they had callers.

“I knew someone was coming,” Antony said, interrupting the servant.

“I’ve put them in the parlor,” Trimarco said as Antony took off at a run down the corridor. “Should I deliver tea?”

“Antony!” Nicoletta called out in a scold. “No running in the house.” She turned back to the butler. “Tea, sí ,” she said before hurrying after the boy. She soon slowed her own steps in an effort to collect her thoughts and make sure her gown wasn’t mussed from her visit to the schoolroom.

She gave a start when she saw how Antony stood in the corridor facing the parlor, noting how his eyes widened and his face displayed surprise.

When she heard him say, “Nonno? Nonna?” she came to a halt behind him and nearly burst into tears.