Lady Charlotte's Christmas Vigil Read online

  Her arms hurt where he gripped them, but she could not look away. The intensity in his eyes held her in thrall. She swallowed hard. “I—”

  When his head lowered, and his eyes focused on her mouth, her thoughts scattered. One remained in focus. He intends to kiss me.

  Chapter 4

  What in God’s name are you about, laying hands on that woman? Salvatore’s better angel filled him with horrified remorse, even as his body ached to explore her every curve. Where is the man to look after her honor? Someone should. Her brother is worthless.

  He watched her scurry away like a frightened deer as soon as he pulled back. The stricken look on her face tore at his heart.

  That thought that he had frightened her disturbed his sleep. His own baser urges disturbed it even more. He awoke the next morning aroused, hot, and disgusted with himself. The woman is a guest under your roof, Salvo. Get a grip on yourself.

  Paolo handed him a cup of coffee, hot and strong, in the lightening gloom of dawn, and guided him to Signora Rossi’s boarding house. Giacomo took breakfast from Paolo, crusty bread and warm coffee, and ate greedily at the doorway while Salvo examined his patient.

  The eyes that blinked up at him from the bed looked clear. The fever had abated.

  “Where is my sister?” the man on the bed rasped, and Salvo counted it in his favor.

  “With my mother, safe and well.” Salvo’s answer seemed to satisfy. The patient drifted off.

  “Better, yes?” Giacomo said, between bites. “I can leave today?”

  “Not today.”

  “Find another nurse,” Giacomo groused. “This one will make it.”

  “Others may not,” Salvo said, the grim lines of his face communicating the depth of the problem.

  “Others?” Giacomo demanded, wide-eyed and alert. Salvo described the cases he had seen, and those Judah described.

  “It has reached the ghetto?” Giacomo asked.

  “No. Judah and the others have sealed off the ghetto from outsiders. His patients are all in San Paolo.”

  “Near Rialto. The market?”

  “Who the hell knows?” Salvo swore. “This English lord,” he shrugged a shoulder toward the earl, “found it in the water. From there, it can seep into any house in Venice.”

  “All we know for sure is, it isn’t ‘miasma,’” Giacomo mused. “Only fools who’ve never lived with it think that.”

  Salvo laughed, a harsh sound with no humor in it.

  “You need me. I’m wasted here,” Giacomo pointed out.

  “One more day. When I’m sure he is no longer contagious, I’ll look for another nurse.”

  “You could bring his sister back.”

  Salvo felt more reluctant to do that than he cared to examine.

  He ordered Paolo to Palazzo del Gardesani next. He needed to check whether Victor had sent another caregiver and instruct them to take precautions. No caregiver answered his call when he opened the door, however. Neither did Uncle Vicente. He ordered Paolo to stay out and entered the musty confines of the Palazzo, with dread like a rock in his belly.

  He found his uncle sprawled atop the faded velvet cover of his massive bed, his head motionless against one of the elaborately carved posts. Dust from the matching canopy had sifted down onto Vicente’s body. He had been dead at least a day. It took longer to find the vagrant hired to look after him. The man lay in the middle of a threadbare Turkish rug in the wine cellar. For a moment, Salvo hoped the man had passed out from drink. The body was cold.

  An hour later, after alerting the authorities and arranging to have the bodies removed, he sat in his study and penned a letter to his cousin Victor, informing him of the death of his grandfather. If Salvo had his way, the bodies of fever victims would be burned far out in the lagoon. The authorities, however, insisted on burial on San Christoforo. The best Salvo could manage was to ensure immediate removal and burial. He informed his cousin of that fact, and also the reason: there was epidemic in the city. Victor wouldn't risk coming to Venice during an epidemic. He would sit, fat and self-satisfied, in his vineyard, and not come to irritate Salvo, or even to mourn.

  Soft sounds at the door drew Salvo’s attention. His heart sped up in anticipation, but he looked up to see his mother, not his attractive guest, with a platter of dried fish, bread, and coffee.

  “You work too hard,” she scolded.

  “So do you,” he said, sipping the coffee.

  The old woman sank into the soft, leather chair across his desk. Memories of Charlotte—Lady Charlotte—there the night before made his pulse increase. She had been asleep and vulnerable when he came in, but so alive when he woke her.

  His mother didn’t notice the direction of his thoughts. Thank God. She responded to his remark.

  “Those boys wear me out, Toto,” she said. “Lottie helps but—”

  “Lady Charlotte has a title, Mama. We must not treat her with disrespect.”

  His mother made a dismissive gesture. “She tells the children to call her Lottie. Am I less worthy of her precious name than they are? She helps very much. She had Carlo and Toto at their schoolwork all morning, and convinced Juliana a lady who one day would manage a household should learn how to bake the Natale cakes. But she won’t be here long.”

  “You’re baking for Christmas? It is yet four weeks away.” With fever in the city, he wondered how much of a holiday Venice would have.

  “Spoken like a man. You think I can manage the baking and the Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve, both at once!” The old woman struggled to rise from the deep nest of the leather chair.

  “Sit, Mama, I have some things to tell you. The fever spreads.” He gave her an abridged account of the extent of the contagion. He wanted her to give his words the full weight of importance, but he didn’t want to panic her. When he outlined his instructions for the household, his mother nodded submissively, but Salvo wasn’t fooled. That will last until it becomes inconvenient.

  “There is more, Mama,” he said. “Uncle Vicente is dead. I found him this morning. Fever kills the old and weak first and fastest. I don’t think he suffered long.”

  Mama Caresini sank into thought, recalling her youth. She did not look surprised at her uncle’s death, but profoundly sorrowful. She regularly regaled Juliana with her tales of Palazzo Gardesani, with its parties, fine clothes, and sparkling jewels. Every year, she recalled Carnevale, long forbidden by the Austrians, with tears, even though Salvo wished she would not. The world of Uncle Vicente was long closed to them.

  “Sad, how it ended,’ she said at last. “He showed me nothing but kindness when I was young. Have you informed Victor?” Her eyes looked bright with unshed tears.

  He pointed to the unfinished letter. “You interrupted me doing just that.”

  “Remind him that half the palazzo is yours, and the contents, too, by rights. Remind him.” A sly look came over the old woman’s face. “Could we buy him out, Salvatore?"

  “We would not want to,” he said firmly. “The palazzo would cost more in repairs than we could find. No. We will take our share and use it to improve this house.” He smiled at her then. “Perhaps we can hire the help you need.”

  A shout from the hallway, a high pitched wail, interrupted them.

  “It’s my turn!” Juliana shouted at her brothers and ran past the study. Sounds of a scuffle came through the closed door.

  Salvo yanked the door open and strode toward the noise.

  “Stop, this instant!” Lady Charlotte exclaimed. She stood in the dining room with a hand raised for attention. One lock of hair had escaped its pins and hung down her face. Her cheeks looked flushed, and her simple, cotton dress stretched across her ample bosom as her breath heaved. “Stop, right now, boys, or we will not finish reading the pirate story before bed.”

  Silence descended. Lady Charlotte lifted her chin. “Now, go to your rooms and give the house some quiet. You might work on your numbers. I promised Juliana we would work on her costume.”
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br />   “But Lottie—“ Carlo began. He saw his father’s scowl and closed his mouth. Both boys turned to go. His daughter, he saw, looked smug.

  “Costume, Juliana?” he asked.

  How can one so small unleash such a storm of emotion?

  Lottie struggled to calm Juliana. The girl’s father, whose shouting had caused the problem to begin with, did not help. The big oaf hasn’t the sense God gave a goat.

  “Listen to me, Juliana, you will have your costume. Whether we attend midnight Mass or not, you will have your costume.”

  “But I am supposed to come down the aisle after the priest,” Juliana sobbed. “Signora Abate said she may even bring a donkey over from the mainland for me to ride. Everyone is supposed to see me.”

  “Perhaps that will still happen,” Lottie said glaring at Caresini to keep him quiet. “Four weeks is a long time.”

  “But Papa said we cannot not go. All he talks about is the sickness.”

  Lottie tried her most soothing voice. “If we must we might have a pageant here.”

  Juliana wailed all the more. “How can I be the Holy Virgin and never leave this house? Who will watch?” Her voice rose on every word, the shrillness bordering on hysteria. Lottie took drastic action. She pulled the girl into her arms. Juliana sank against her shoulder and sobbed, her warm body snuggled close, while Lottie murmured soothing trifles in her ear.

  “Now,” Lottie said when the sobs subsided. “You must wash your face. Today, we will try different arrangements for your hair to see what works the best under a veil.” The distraction worked.

  “But we need a veil,” the girl said.

  “I have some ideas about that, but one step at a time. Today, your hair. Run up and put cold water on your eyes to reduce the puffiness. I’ll be up as soon as I talk with your father.”

  Juliana gasped and covered her eyes with her palms momentarily, before running to the stairs.

  “She will not be attending any public services this month,” Caresini growled moments later when Lottie suggested he soften his approach. “She may as well accept it.”

  “Do you want four weeks of hysteria? She’s been warned. Let’s leave it at that. A girl’s heart breaks easily.” Another thought struck Lottie. “Do you mean to keep your mother and children from Mass for a month? I’m not Catholic, but that is a serious matter, even in the Church of England. More so here, I think.”

  Grim determination on the man’s face gave her the answer.

  “Is it as bad as that?” she asked, her voice sounding rough to her ears.

  “Worse. Uncle Vicente died alone and still in his clothes on top of the bedcovers. I found the vagrant we hired dead in the wine cellar with every sign of fever.”

  He lost his uncle. All other thoughts fled. Lottie reached out and touched his arm. “I’m so sorry. How could it happen so fast? You just looked in on him three days ago.”

  He covered her hand with his to hold it in place. “The old and the weak have few defenses.”

  “Like your mother.”

  “And children. I have to keep them safe.”

  “Will there be a funeral?”

  He shrugged. “The bodies are being removed to San Christoforo Island and will be buried as soon as possible, perhaps today, although dark is falling so perhaps not. The priest will say the Mass for the Dead tomorrow.”

  “But the family will not go,” she murmured, considering the problem.

  “His worthless grandson will not come near the lagoon if there is fever. I will go, but I won’t let Mama or the children anywhere near.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Lottie said, without considering her words. Once spoken, however, she knew them to be right. Caresini looked ready to argue, but she cut him off. “I am neither old, nor weak, nor a child. I follow your instructions to drink only boiled water and avoid canal water. I will stand back and not approach the corpse. I will go with you. Your uncle deserves at least two mourners.”

  Caresini rubbed his rough thumb over her hand where it lay on his arm. After a long pause, he nodded. She would go.

  The straight line of Charlotte’s back held Salvo’s eyes like a magnet, as the gondola bobbed across the lagoon toward San Christoforo. In the sun-drenched quiet of the morning, he allowed thoughts of his reluctant guest, and the sheer joy of being out on the water, to chase the gloom of the past week away for a few moments. The coming funeral would pull him back soon enough.

  She turned and smiled back at him. A lock of hair that had escaped from its bonds flew across her cheek. In this grim world of illness and death, she personified health and vigor.

  “The air will be fresher out on the lagoon, will it not?” she said, raising her voice above the shouts of boatmen, and the sound of bragosso boat full of unloaded cargo running into the stones of the Rialto.

  He nodded in response, but he knew he smiled, because the joy of it went deep into his heart. God, what a glorious woman!

  The vigor of her mind matched her body. While they moved down the Grand Canal, she kept up the conversation, leaping from comments about this or that church to questions about types of boats, costume, or the banners hanging from palazzos. Her excitement rose as they swept past the Church of the Carmelites, left the canal, and sailed into the open water of the lagoon. Even the aquatic reeds along the shore caught her attention.

  When a purple heron rose from the reeds near the Isola San Secondo, she rose halfway from her seat, exclaiming in awe. He had to reach up and tug her shawl.

  “Have a care! We’ll capsize.”

  She sat down, but twisted around to talk to him. “Sorry, sorry! Did you see that? He’s so big, and that rust color on his neck… Beautiful!” She beamed at him. “What is on that island?” she asked, pointing.

  “Secondo? Not much. It was a monastery until Napoleon expelled the Dominicans. The Austrians store gunpowder there.”

  “Explosives and birds?” She asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “Something like that.”

  She looked thoughtful when she turned around. Her questions grew fewer while Paolo guided the boat forward.

  She subsided for a time, giving Salvo the opportunity to watch her in repose. He saw a woman who was a lady to her marrow. Aristocratic breeding shone from her graceful posture, the proud tilt to her head, and the understated taste of her gown. In his anxiety to move her away from the sick man and the bad news that followed, he had little time to consider the woman’s background. This morning, watching and wanting, one thing seemed clear.

  She’s above your touch, Salvo.

  Life had given him few opportunities to interact with English gentlewomen. The wild and dissolute youths England had unleashed on Italy since the Corsican’s defeat, yes, but little contact with their sheltered ladies. Something about this one, attractive though she was, had bothered him from the beginning, but he when he tried to think what it might be, it slipped away. For now, he contented himself with watching the erect line of her back, covered by a cashmere shawl as soft and expensive as its wearer.

  Far above your touch.

  Long moments later, a trio of black terns flew past, low in the water, following a school of fish, awaiting an opportunity to dive.

  Lady Charlotte grinned at him. “How can you stay in the city when you have this paradise at your doorstep?” she demanded. Just as quickly as it appeared, her smile fled. “You can’t though, can you? I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.”

  “Don’t be. I come to the outer islands when I can. In summer, I bring the boys to fish. Juliana likes birds also, did you know that?”

  She tilted her head, as if absorbing a new thought. “Interesting. I’ll have to remember that.” She turned to look ahead. Ahead, San Christoforo approached.

  Paolo deftly maneuvered their craft into a dock. Salvo rose and climbed out. He looked down to find Lady Charlotte lost in thought.

  She shook herself back to present and glanced up at him, her smile a bit sad. He thought, perhaps, she had recalled the
ir errand. She lifted her hand to be assisted up, but managed to make even struggling from a gondola look graceful.

  Salvo frowned. The thought that had flittered on the edge of his mind for several days now resurfaced, steadied, and came into focus. The question came out unbidden: “Tell me, Lady Charlotte, how is it you come to be in Venice without a chaperone or companion?”

  Chapter 5

  Now? He wants to air my dirty linen in public now?

  Their errand had cast Charlotte’s day in the shade. The doctor’s question darkened it further. Her body stiffened and she raised her chin to give him a haughty glare to squelch his impertinence. From the look on his face, she didn’t succeed. Arrogant man!

  “We’re here to pay respect to your uncle, Dr. Caresini. Could we postpone personal discussions until we have done our duty?” A pain shot up her cheek from clenching her jaw.

  The doctor hesitated before nodding and offering her his elbow.

  Charlotte looked at the arm and back at his face. Is this the man who threw me over his shoulder at Signora Rossi’s? Don’t be a ninny, Lottie. He’s finally noticed you’re a lady. She put her arm where he bid, as her mother taught her, and walked with what dignity she could manage to the church.

  The funeral mass, a rushed and furtive affair of mumbled Latin, lasted twenty minutes. Paolo joined them, along with a nervous little man introduced as a city official. No one else came. Damp and gloom permeated the church, small and plain by Venice standards, and Charlotte hurried to step out into the sun when the priest finished. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders against the wind. November had passed into December. In England, the wind would be colder, and rain a daily threat.

  At least here, there is sun, she thought, when they stood in the cemetery. The sad bundle that was Vicente Gardesano lay wrapped in oiled cloth on the bare ground next to a gaping hole. No attempt had been made to move the body into the church for the mass. Charlotte stood a distance away, as did Paolo and the bureaucrat, while Salvo went near. Even the priest looked reluctant, murmuring the prayers in a rush and bolting from the cemetery. Two gravediggers stepped up to finish the gruesome task.