Beneath an Italian Sky Page 12

  Quiet descended between them as Clare added another stick to the flames. A peek at each member of their group revealed everyone was sleeping, even Helena’s baby. Gratitude for the warmth of the fire had her offering another prayer of thanks. Her appreciation lasted until Emmett spoke again.

  “How did you know how to start the fire without matches, Clare?”

  It was the question she’d been dreading all night. Her eyes darted to his, but she couldn’t read the emotion there. Was Emmett angry about her, a high-society lady, acting like a commoner, or merely puzzled that she’d known how to start a fire at all? A muscle in her temple began to throb, along with the increased beating of her pulse. What should she say in answer? If she told him the truth, would it inspire him to be more open too?

  She let out a soft sigh and kept her face pointed toward the fire. Seeing her husband’s reaction to her story might make it more difficult to tell. “My father taught me how to start a fire using two sticks. You twist the one into a groove you make in the other until it forms an ember. He thought it might be a useful skill to know.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Even his neutral tone couldn’t decrease the nervousness growing inside her. Clare fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. There was a thread there she considered pulling. But would it unravel the fabric? The past year she’d felt that way about so many things in her marriage. Jerking too hard on any one thread was liable to undo what was left of the lovely things. Yet some of them had still come undone, and she’d felt powerless to stop them.

  “I wasn’t always an heiress, Emmett.” She left the thread alone and gripped her blanket between her fingers. “I told you once that my family lived in Vermont before we moved to New York City, but I didn’t tell you why.”

  Clare glanced down at the dirtied material of her robe and felt the irony of telling him of her past now, when their wealth and privilege had been temporarily stripped away from them. “My father had apple orchards and a farm, but we were still quite poor most years. I remember as a girl never truly feeling warm from October to May. There were even a handful of times when there was nothing in the larder but a few overly soft apples to eat. Somehow my mother always managed to create something out of nothing, though, so we didn’t go completely hungry.

  “Being their only child, I learned to work at a very young age, both in the kitchen and around the farm. That’s where I learned to ride bareback and how to care for the apples. My father told me I was the best apple picker east of the Mississippi.”

  She paused, but the only sounds to fill in the silence were the soft snores from those sleeping and the occasional pop of the fire. Emmett didn’t speak, but Clare sensed he was watching her. “I was eight years old when my father learned that men’s hair pomade is often made with mashed apples. He began experimenting with recipes of his own, certain if he found the right combination it would change things for us. Eventually it did. When his pomade became a hit, he opened a factory in New York and then another. Just as he had around the farm, he insisted on teaching me how a business was run. By the time I debuted into society, my father was already a millionaire several times over, and I was an heiress, but I never forgot the lessons he taught me.”

  “What did your fellow New Yorkers think of your humble past?”

  A blush crept into her cheeks, though she suspected Emmett couldn’t see it. “The few who know all of it are loyal employees of my father’s. It wasn’t our background that caused the scornful reactions when I debuted; it was the fact that my father was a manufacturer and one who still insists on overseeing the factories himself. Many didn’t care for his somewhat unpolished manners either, or the fact that his millions aren’t old money.”

  “So you came to England to make a match.” He didn’t state it as a question, but Clare still nodded. A minute or so passed before he spoke again. This time his tone held frustration and what might be hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before now?”

  It was her turn to shrug. “I didn’t think it relevant.”

  “Not relevant? At the very least it would have explained why you detest the cold, Clare. Or how you knew how to start the fire tonight.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him gesture at the flames. “I had assumed you’d always led a life similar in many ways to mine.” It almost sounded as if he was talking more to himself than to her. “Now I find that’s not the case.”

  Clare swallowed the lump of guilt in her throat. “I’m sorry. I . . . I should have told you before now that I wasn’t always an heiress.”

  She waited for some acknowledgement—of her apology or that it didn’t matter that she hadn’t begun life as a wealthy heiress—but it didn’t come. If disclosing these confessions upset him because she’d hidden her past, how would Emmett react if or when he learned she was pregnant again and had kept it from him?

  “I think I’ll try to sleep now,” she said in a tight voice.

  “That’s probably wise. I’ll tend the fire.”

  Clare finally looked at him, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking—she hadn’t been able to for a long time. “Are you sure? You need sleep too.”

  “I’ll wake Miriam to tend the fire in a few hours if I can’t stay awake any longer.”

  Nodding, she shifted Antonina so both of them could lie on their sides. “I’m sorry again, Emmett. I should have told you all of that sooner.”

  “Good night, Clare. I hope you’re able to get some sleep.” His words held no malice, but they were still a dismissal.

  Clare bit her lip to keep in the sob that swelled in her mouth. A few tears escaped, though, sliding into the blanket beneath her cheek. If there was ever any reason for Emmett to depart for England as soon as possible, she’d given him one tonight. And yet instead of relief, a strange sense of disappointment washed over her, making her realize just how much she would miss him when he left.

  Somerset, England, December 1907: Twelve months earlier

  Seated in the chair closest to the fire, Clare sipped her tea and listened to the conversation swirling about the drawing room. Emmett’s dog Bran sat on the rug at her feet, his quiet presence as much a comfort as the heat from the hearth. Lady Hadwell, Lady Melinda, and the other two women who’d been invited to tea spoke to and among themselves, excluding her so completely that it was almost as if they didn’t recall Clare was present.

  The feeling of being an outsider had become as constant a companion as Bran at her side since she and Emmett had come to live at Hadwell House. Her mother-in-law acted startled whenever she encountered Clare anywhere but in the library or at mealtimes—as if the woman had forgotten she had a daughter-in-law. The marquess rarely spoke to Clare, but when he did, it was always with an air of impatience, even if he was inquiring about her.

  She’d attempted to allay her feelings of loneliness and uselessness by learning what she could about managing a household staff. After all, the plan was for her and Emmett to purchase a townhouse shortly before the start of the season, and Clare would be responsible for the hiring and training of the servants. Her formative years had given her far more education on how to manage a household than other American heiresses received. But Clare had quickly discovered there was a vast difference between the familial ties she had enjoyed with her family’s staff back home and the stiff formalities that existed between mistress and servant at Hadwell House.

  Then there was the seemingly endless array of household rules and regulations she didn’t understand. Anytime she questioned Lady Hadwell, in hopes of better understanding why things were done a certain way, her mother-in-law acted confused and irritated at needing to supply an explanation. Clare had eventually stopped asking and instead worked to memorize the perplexing protocols that came with running a large household staff, so she wouldn’t prove a disappointment to Emmett.

  Time alone with her husband was typically just as elusive. His father kept him busy with estate matters and overseeing the updates to Hadwell House that Clare’s money had
and would continue to provide. She’d been shocked to discover how many repairs were needed. Signs of age and neglect were everywhere in the centuries-old house—watermarked ceilings, unraveling upholstery, wallpaper peeling back in corners, and a roof in desperate need of repair. There was no electricity either, and the only room that offered a regular fire during the day was the library.

  Clare had hoped to turn to painting as a way to fill her largely empty days. But the chilblains she’d developed on her hands from the incessant cold made it difficult for her to hold a paintbrush. Finally, in desperation, she’d asked one of Emmett’s sisters during the woman’s visit what could be done. Her sister-in-law had instructed her on the right way to bind the blisters on her hands and feet. The chilblains were gone now, but Clare hadn’t been able to recreate her desire to put brush to canvas. Until today . . .

  She smiled to herself as she brought her tea cup to her lips. She didn’t even mind not being included in the conversation.

  This morning she’d gone to the village. Clare had given the excuse that the visit was to purchase gifts for Christmas, but her true purpose was to meet with the doctor there. The man had confirmed what Clare herself had suspected for a few weeks—she was going to have a baby.

  The same thrill she’d felt at hearing the doctor’s words wound through her again. She would be a mother next year, and Emmett a father. It was the start to filling the nursery with all of the children Clare longed to have. She also took satisfaction at being able to give an affirmative answer at last to the incessant questions from Emmett’s family and strangers regarding when she was going to produce an heir.

  Movement by the door drew her attention. Emmett stood there, looking quite handsome in his riding clothes. His eyes met hers, and he smiled in a way that made everyone else in the room disappear.

  “Emmett?” his mother said, her tone one of pleasant surprise. “Did you wish to join us?”

  He shook his head as he stepped into the room. “Thank you but not today. I’m going riding and came in search of Bran.” He crossed the room to stand before Clare’s chair. “I suspected I would find the defector here,” he teased. The dog lifted his head and wagged his tail, but he made no move to approach Emmett.

  “I’m afraid these days he prefers teatime to accompanying you on a ride, my lord.”

  “A sure sign you’ve effectively charmed my dog.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek as he added in a murmur, “As you have his master.”

  The praise spoken in that low voice of his inspired a blush of pleasure. “If that were true,” Clare whispered back, her gaze melding with his, “then I could spirit us both away from here without anyone noticing.”

  “Shall I cause a commotion in the foyer that would allow you to slip out?”

  She feigned a sharp look at him. “Don’t tempt me. I’m trying my best to be the consummate wife of a future marquess.”

  “And I love you for it, my dear.” The tender light in his pale-blue eyes spoke as much to his sincerity as the warmth in his voice.

  Thankfully he straightened at that moment, or Clare might have taken his face between her hands and kissed him. She adored flirting with him like this, but it was one thing to do so in private and another entirely to banter this way in the company of others.

  “I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, then called for Bran to join him.

  The dog looked at Clare as if seeking permission. Biting back a laugh, she nodded for him to go with Emmett. “Go on, Bran.” She watched them depart, wishing she could go with them.

  As soon as Emmett left the room, Lady Melinda rose from her place on the settee and came to sit in the armchair across from Clare’s. The young widow visited regularly with Lady Hadwell and Emmett’s sisters whenever they were in residence at Hadwell House. But while she was all smiles and affability to others, Lady Melinda usually treated Clare coolly and with veiled criticism. Clare sensed the widow harbored bitterness towards her and Emmett because he’d chosen to marry someone other than Lady Melinda. This would also account for why the woman seemed eager for Clare to fail in living up to her role as Emmett’s wife.

  “May I say you’re looking well, Lady Linwood?” As usual, the widow’s words sounded pleasant enough, but there was a distinct chill behind them. Lady Melinda took a sip of tea before continuing. “Our English way of life must be appealing to you.”

  Clare wasn’t about to share her real thoughts on the subject. “I can understand why Emmett loves it here.”

  “This place is in his blood as much as it is for the rest of us.”

  The excluding way the woman talked grated on Clare, but she wouldn’t insult her mother-in-law’s guest. “It’s important to feel fondly about one’s home.” Though Clare couldn’t imagine ever feeling that way about Hadwell House. It didn’t feel like home to her.

  “I must say, Lady Linwood,” Lady Melinda intoned next, setting her cup in its saucer, “that for a marriage based solely on money, yours does seem to have its moments of happiness.”

  Clare’s eyes widened in surprise, though she wasn’t sure which part of the woman’s statement she found more shocking—Lady Melinda’s knowing, confidential tone that implied she knew the family’s secrets or the idea that Emmett would have married for money only.

  The widow chortled when Clare remained silent, but her laugh rang false and snide. “Certainly I haven’t shared anything you did not already know. I once heard the marquess congratulate his son for doing what he’d been asked to do in finding himself a wealthy wife.”

  It couldn’t be true. Clare hadn’t imagined Emmett’s love, before or since their wedding. Lady Melinda must have misunderstood what she’d overheard. Or the widow was falsifying her story in another effort to undermine Clare’s confidence.

  Clare swallowed any nigglings of fear regarding her and Emmett with her next sip of tea. As a couple, they were happy. And unbeknownst to Lady Melinda, that happiness had and would continue to last for more than brief moments. Especially once Clare told her husband that she was pregnant.

  “Your concern is unwarranted,” Clare said calmly. “Though Emmett and I do appreciate your desire for our happiness.”

  The widow’s mouth pursed as if she’d tasted something sour. “Of course.” She nodded and stood regally before returning to her former seat.

  Clare sighed with relief when she realized the conversation had continued to flow without interruption around her. No one else had heard Lady Melinda’s allegation. But Clare had.

  She lowered her teacup to her lap, no longer able to stomach the drink. If only she’d been able to go with Emmett earlier, then she would have missed the unpleasant conversation with the widow. Because, in spite of her own reassurances, it was still going to take time to completely erase the other woman’s accusation and triumphant tone from Clare’s memory. Hopefully when she did, the tiny seed of doubt she sensed had sprouted inside her would be expunged too.

  Chapter 7

  Emmett found the fact that he had slept at all to be remarkable. The hard earth beneath him, the chilly air on his back, and everything his wife had confessed about her past had kept him awake for hours. Eventually he’d started to doze, though, so he had woken Miriam and asked if she would keep the fire going while he tried to get a little sleep.

  Sometime later he jerked awake, feeling disoriented. Why was he lying on the ground instead of in his hotel room? Emmett sat up and took in the sight of the fire, the lightening sky, and the other people, all sleeping, save for him and Miriam. Remembering rushed back then, overwhelming his thoughts with all the horror and pain from the day before.

  He staggered to his feet as his stomach rumbled with gnawing hunger. “I’m going to get some water,” he quietly told the maid, “and see if I can’t find more oranges for breakfast. You’re welcome to sleep until I return. The fire will be fine until then.”

  The fire still burned strong, its presence truly a miracle. Without it they might not have survived the cold night. Emmett coul
d admit it was a godsend that Clare had known how to start it.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Miriam immediately curled up in her blanket and closed her eyes.

  Hefting the empty bucket, Emmett set off for the well. The air felt frigid away from the fire’s heat. He shivered as he reached the edge of the field. It had already been twenty-four hours since the earthquake, and yet the eleven of them were still homeless and without true relief from their injuries and hunger. Emmett wasn’t sure Helena’s baby and husband would survive another night out in the open countryside.

  Perhaps it was time for all of them to venture back into Messina and see if they could find a reliable means of transport. It seemed the only way to leave the ravished city behind, unless they walked to Taormina. Emmett dismissed that idea at once. Most of their group was in no condition to walk more than thirty miles. Besides, he didn’t know how damaged the other city was at present. No matter where they went, he might be leading them into an equally precarious situation. But he didn’t want to leave the island altogether without first seeing if his grandfather’s villa was still standing. Clare would likely wish to do the same.

  Thinking of Clare, he recalled what she’d shared with him last night. Emmett still couldn’t believe his heiress wife had once lived as a poor farm child. Some of the shock and anger he’d felt after her confession churned anew inside him as he walked. Why hadn’t she told him about her past sooner? Was it because she feared he would judge her? Or had Clare kept her secret because she trusted him so little?

  Emmett had asked himself these same questions over and over again as he’d lain awake through most of the night. He didn’t judge Clare for her humble beginnings; he simply wished she’d told him, at the very least, before their wedding. What had bothered—and hurt—him most of all, though, was the idea that Clare didn’t trust him enough to tell him sooner. And since she’d withheld this information even during the early days of their marriage, when all had seemed rosy and hopeful between them, he couldn’t help wondering if she’d ever truly trusted him at all.