[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (36 page)

It roused her. Blinking, she looked at him. "Did you tell her?"

"Who?" he whispered, touching her face gently. "Tell her what?"

"Cassandra," she said clearly. "My vision was real. The Lady called me to be a nun, and I was too weak to stand up to my father." Her eyes drifted closed, but her breath seemed strong enough. "No greater love than this…"

"Oh, God!" he cried, and buried his face against her neck. "Oh, God, forgive us all."

But now she was rousing herself. "No, Basilio, you are not listening." She pushed away from him, then pulled off the cloth. "I am only weak from a fast I undertook to see the truth of this situation." She showed him her arm, the small cut still bleeding but not so much as it had seemed. "See? I had the razor on my arm, and The Lady appeared to tell me it was not so dire as that."

Visions again. He scowled. "What are you talking about, Analise?"

She raised out of the water, and put her hand on his face. "We must go to France and annul the marriage.

I have the name of a man who will do it quickly. Then I will find refuge in a convent, and you will come back and claim your love." She splashed out of the fountain in her bare feet, her black hair stuck to her back and hips. "Come, I must eat to regain my strength."

"You have a
name
?" Basilio asked. "From where?"

She looked over her shoulder and spoke slowly, as if to a dim-witted child. "From the Lady, I told you.

Mary." Catching his expression, she laughed. "Ah, I forgot. You do not believe in visions. But that does not matter. I do." She paused, very seriously. "We must act quickly, my friend, and there is something very specific you must do in order to secure my safety from my father. Will you trust me?"

He frowned. "I suppose."

"It will not be easy, but we must go tonight."

"But—"

"Trust me, Basilio. Trust the Lady. She has not failed us yet. This is for you, this part."

In the morning, Robert Wicklow arrived at Cassandra's house very early. She had not even awakened yet, but when Joan told her that he was most insistent about speaking with her, she had him shown to her salon, and quickly dressed.

Concerned, she ordered chocolate to be brought, and hurried in to see him. Her fears were not alleviated when she saw his face, haggard and gray with the mark of no sleep. "God! Who died?"

He turned with a heavy expression. "Sit down, Cassandra," he said. "Your brothers will be here shortly, but first I must apologize to you for my own part in this."

"In what?" Dread built in her chest, spreading to her belly, and she put her hands around herself. "What are you talking about?"

"I cannot marry you," he said. "That was what she was trying to tell me last night, and had I not allowed my pride to intervene, I would have listened."

"Who said? Analise, you mean?"

But there was a commotion just then, and Cassandra knew it was bad news the moment she saw both of her brothers together, early in the morning, their faces grave as they entered the salon. Sunlight streamed in the windows behind them, illuminating the same gray expressions as marked Robert's countenance.

She put a hand to her ribs. "What?" she cried, thinking it must be Phoebe—or perhaps Adriana. A carriage accident, perhaps, or bandits, or—

"Sit down," Gabriel said, not unkindly. "Let me pour you some chocolate."

"No!" She stood her ground. "Tell me! Who is it?"

Julian took her arm and led her to the divan. "Not your sisters," he said.

Her eyes flew to his face, praying—oh, God, not—"Basilio?" she whispered, and was barely able to get the word out.

"No." He swallowed. "His wife. She tried to kill herself last night."

"Analise?" A cold knot formed in her chest. It was nearly worse to hear this. Her hands began to tremble.

"But she… it is a mortal sin."

"Yes. But she is very young, and she thought—" Julian broke off and looked at Gabriel for help.

Gabriel poured chocolate and pressed the cup into her hand. "She thought it would be a kindness. She thought she had been wrong in not defying her father and taking her vows, and she believed"—he glanced over his shoulder—"that she had created—"

Robert said, "I did not listen to her."

Cassandra doubled over. "Stop!" she cried, putting her face into her hands. A low, wild sound came from her throat, and even as it appalled her—now they would know, would see the heart of things—she could not stop it. She jumped up, guilt an animal that threatened to devour her whole, and Basilio, too.

She put her hands in her loose hair, clutching it away from her face, pacing the floor in an attempt to regain control. "She is alive?"

Gabriel offered the answer. "Yes. He arrived in time, and saved her life."

A tumble of visions swelled over her eyes, and she whirled, resumed pacing.

It did not help. Her mind echoed with ricocheting images—that sweet, beautiful,
innocent
face, pale white, near death. Because of her. Because of Basilio. Because they had—she halted with a moan, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. "Oh, God!" she cried. "What have we done?"

And she sank to the floor, consumed by sorrow and guilt, her eyes dry even as she began to tremble from head to toe. She could not think of what to say, how to sweep her emotional storm beneath a carpet this time, and only raised miserable eyes to her brothers. "What have we done?" she whispered.

It was Gabriel who came to her, putting his long arms around her shoulders, pulling her into his gentle, soothing embrace, stroking her hair, her back. "She told him she wanted to be a nun. That if she had been stronger, none of this would have happened, that all of you would have had what you wanted." He pressed a cheek against her hair. "All of you are blaming yourselves for it. And none of you are to blame." Very, very gently, he stroked her hair. "He is worthy of loving, Cassandra. I always knew, when you fell, it would be to some very great passion. You mustn't regret it. He loves you. She loves you. And you love them both."

At that, she crumpled. For the first time in her life, she let another person witness her pain, because it flowed from her in vast, unstoppable waves, grief and sorrow and guilt, all mixed together with relief—

she had not died!—and a vast, strange love. Through it Gabriel held her, a rope in the vastness of the uncharted territory of emotions. When she was spent, he led her to bed, rinsed a cloth with cold water, and put it on her eyes.

"You see," he said, holding her hand. "You were honorable, both of you, and it saved her life. If he had not arrived when he did, she would have bled to death."

"I cannot believe she would attempt suicide. She is so devout!"

He smiled sadly, wisdom in his pale green eyes. "She is young. All young girls wish to be martyrs to something."

That brought a fresh wash of tears, and Cassandra clutched his hand tightly. "Oh, what if she had succeeded!"

"She did not."

Cassandra tried to capture a sense of herself, her old self, before this new one had emerged. "I did not ever think to love that way."

"I know. Nor did Julian—and he fell as hard as you."

"And what of you, Gabriel? I thought it would be you."

A flicker crossed his eyes, but was hidden quickly in a smile. "I love them all. Tall and short, blond and brown, white and black, rich and poor. That is my place in the world."

She smiled wanly. "Where is she this morning? Analise, I mean."

"He is taking her home to Italy."

She let go of a breath. "Good." It didn't seem enough, so she repeated it, drifting in the aftermath of her storm. "Good."

Hours later, when the worst of her storm was over, Joan tiptoed into the chamber. "Milady?" she said, and again, more urgently. "Milady, there's a letter for you. It came from his man."

Cassandra sat up and took the note, her hands trembling a little as she broke the seal. But it was not Basilio's hand on the paper. It was written in Italian, in a strong, bold handwriting that was as beautiful and surprising as the young woman who'd written it.

My dearest Cassandra,

Do not listen to the rumors of my attempted suicide. The story is not what it seems, but the world
must believe it to be true, for all our sakes. My father must believe it to be absolutely true.

You must not marry. Wait for Basilio, who loves you more than the sun, as you love him, as I love
God.

Analise

Gabriel, roused by Cassandra's sharp intake of breath, sat up. He blinked his long eyes like a cat. "Are you all right?"

She folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her bodice, close to her heart. "Yes," she said. "I'm very well."

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,

And pain itself seems sweet when springing

From thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells that nought on earth can break,

Till lips that know the charm have spoken,

This heart, howe'er the world may wake

Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken

By thee, thee, only thee.

THOMAS MOORE

Autumn, 1788

Cassandra sat alone in her walled garden, as she had most afternoons through the long autumn.

Overhead the leaves fluttered orange and yellow and red; on the ground spread a carpet of the same.

Sitting at her white-painted iron table, rocks weighting her papers, she wrote intently, transcribing the exuberant Italian of Boccaccio into equally exuberant English. This fine October day, surrounded with the colors of autumn, she wrote, "The Tenth Day, where tales are told of those who have acted liberally or munificently in Love Affairs or Other Matters." It made her smile.

The translation was nearly complete, and with the help of a powerful admirer of her work, she had procured the interest of a publisher who was willing to present the book as that of a woman. Of Cassandra herself. She did not allow her mind to dwell upon the possible reactions of the public to the work. There would be those who were scandalized, and those who scorned the work because it was the efforts of a mere female, and others who would say she had not done it right or according to the standards they would have set, or any number of criticisms which really just meant that Cassandra had not done the translation the way they would have done it.

But she was finally brave enough to do it anyway, to risk the possibility of ridicule on something heartfelt, to risk being honest. Basilio and Analise had given her that.

A cloud passed over the sun, and as if called by the sudden lack of light, a wind whipped through the garden, scattering leaves against the tree trunks and the legs of the table. With a cry, Cassandra held down the sheet upon which she worked. It was time to go in, though she was reluctant to do so.

"Would you like some assistance?"

Cassandra started at her brother's voice. Julian, his cheeks made ruddy by the autumn air, reached for the rock holding her notes in place.

"Thank you. If it's going to gale, I'm afraid I'll have to go inside."

"I've come to whisk you out of your moldy study anyway," he said, gathering the ink pot and a pile of scribblings. "You've been entirely too lacking on the social scene, and they're all asking about you."

Cassandra scowled, but did not answer until they were inside. Depositing the materials on her cluttered desk, she shook her head. "Thank you, Julian, but I find I do not wish to make small talk out in the world. They're all so bloody curious and gossipy."

"Such language!" he said mockingly, and grinned.

Grinned. Julian.

"What are you about today, sir? You've Gabriel's mischievous look about you. Am I to be the butt of a practical joke?"

He laughed softly, taking the pen from her hand. "I have a surprise for you, that's all. Go don your prettiest gown and come with me. Not a word more."

She inclined her head, smiling a little at the spark of the devil in his eyes. She remembered a famous swordsman was due to visit, to duel with the king, and perhaps Gabriel had been matched with him for public sport. Or maybe there was some wicked party she would enjoy.