Glittering Promises (17 page)

I studied her. “What did you lose?”

Her chocolate-brown eyes centered on me. “My youth. My vitality.”

“You are still young and beautiful,” I said, hoping to somehow reassure her with my shallow words. “And you live here,” I said, lifting up my hands, waving outward.

“I’d sell it to you tonight, if you offered,” she said, a hint of an honest offer in her tone.

Again I blinked slowly, my eyes roving over the horizon from left to right, from olive grove to vineyard. How my father longed for such fruitful land as this, all his life! “You jest,” I said.

“I do not. To wander for a time on tour, as you Americans call it… To see the world, meet other intriguing people… What more could one ask for?”

I took a breath, then two. She was right. At one point in my life, I might have dreamed of such a trip as I’d taken but, awakening, would have considered myself mad for my imagination. And yet here I was, looking at this sublime land…

Green-gold grass waved in a gentle breeze. The hum of bees reached my ears, bouncing from lavender branch to lavender branch. The sun, while warm, was tolerable in the shade. And the breeze smelled of sage, equally piquant with spice. “I would trade you,” I said. “My American wealth. The expectations of my father. For this.” I waved forward. “A solid piece of land that produces what one plants. The incredible smells on this breeze. A place to sit with friends.”

She laughed under her breath. “We all bear our own cross, do we not?”

“I suppose,” I answered easily, pausing. “But what is to keep you here? You have people to manage your land, your house. Have you not traveled yourself?”

“France, once,” she said with a shrug. “Some in Spain.” She leveled her dark gaze on me. “But it is Africa I’d love to see. And America.”

I smiled. “Well, if you ever reach America’s shores, you’d always be welcome as my guest,” I said.

A slow smile spread across her face, her eyes glinting with mystery. “I’d enjoy such a visit. I would wish to see where a woman like my friend Cora, the suffragette, chooses to abide.”

I lifted my glass of water, and she chinked hers against it. “
Salute
,” she said quietly, her eyes again lost to the horizon.

To your health
, the toast meant. And I thought that here, in this place of rest, surrounded by family, I should feel healthy. But so much pulled at me. My father’s continuing demands and the nagging feeling that I was not measuring up to what was required to run the mine, that I might never measure up. My sister’s ill-begotten relationship with Andrew Morgan and what I could do about it before it was too late. And most of all…Will.

My eyes moved to him again as he laughed at Antonio’s antics. It was good to see him smile, even if it wasn’t at me. Would he ever smile at me again? Would he forgive me for not saying yes to his proposal? Or even give me another chance to explain my hesitation? Would he ask again?

But it was up to him. Suffragette though I might be, in matters of the heart, a lady waited for a man to pursue her, not the other way around.

No matter how lowborn that lady might be.

~William~

Will and Hugh climbed the hill, each of them lugging a picnic basket over his arm. Ahead of them, Cora and Eleonora walked arm in arm, apparently already fast friends in the two days they’d been at the villa. They were the first in the entire group to crest the trail they’d been climbing for the better part of an hour. “It wasn’t enough, making us prune our hostess’s vineyards all morning, McCabe?” Hugh panted. “You had to make us climb a mountain, too?”

“Signora Eleonora says it’s the prettiest view in Toscana. I wasn’t about to miss that,” Will returned.

“Thankfully for you, there’s a carrot waiting,” Hugh grunted, nodding ahead at the women as they turned to each other and laughed. “Or rather, two. The prettiest girl from America with the prettiest girl in Italy. It’s rather sly of you, really, McCabe,” he said, sidling Will a look of reproach. “What man wouldn’t follow along after them?”

Will wanted to deny it, put it down in some way, but he couldn’t truthfully argue. Their trail leaders were indeed lovely. He looked back, to make sure the others still followed. They did, although they’d fallen behind. But Antonio and Pascal brought up the rear. Not that it felt dangerous at all here. Out on a warm summer afternoon, hiking the green hills of Tuscany, looking for just the right picnic spot…it was almost possible to forget about his concerns of the past and his fear of the future. Of the black, oily thought that he had ruined his chances with Cora and couldn’t for the life of him find his way back to her. Every time he thought about reaching out to her, starting a conversation, it burned. Or felt wrong.

“Here it is!” their hostess cried, splaying her hands out and twirling. Will was caught for a moment, so taken aback by the glorious image of her, that it took him a bit to comprehend what she meant.

“Be still my heart,” Hugh growled, shoving past Will to come alongside Eleonora. Will shook his head—he knew exactly what the man meant. She was as captivating as Cora, as beautiful in her sultry dark looks as Cora was in her blonde beauty.

A few steps farther along the path, and he could see what Eleonora referenced. They had entered the barest remains of a castle high on a hill. Little but the base stones of small rooms and walls peeked from the tall grasses, the rest likely plundered long ago for other building projects in the region. He glanced at Eleonora again, then dared to meet Cora’s eyes for the briefest moment before fully taking in the view. They’d driven for an hour to this place, then climbed for another hour, Eleonora cajoling them upward, farther, higher, as if she’d forgotten exactly where it was. But from the glint in her eyes, he could see that she’d known all along.

“From here, the Masonis ruled much of eastern Toscana for centuries,” she said.

“The Masonis?” Cora asked, her pale eyebrows lifting. “Your family?”

“Indeed,” Eleonora said, lifting the wooden lid on the basket Antonio brought her. The older man was huffing and red-faced. She pulled out a blanket, shook it out, and spread it across the grass, then promptly plopped down. “From here, they could see any enemies approaching for miles.”

Will spread out another blanket and gestured for Cora to sit. “So when did they lose it?” she asked.

“A hundred years ago,” Eleonora said with a shrug, “give or take. Times changed, fortunes were lost. My ancestors had to sell off much of the property, and this land hadn’t been cultivated for generations. In the end, they chose wrongly. A terribly, rocky plot of land only good for a few rows of grapes. If it had not been for my husband…” She lifted a dark brow and shook her head. “We would’ve been beggars.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Felix said, tossing her a wry grin. “Your suitors must have been lined up to the next town.”

“Ah, there were plenty of poor boys with handsome smiles,” she tossed back. “But only ugly, old, rich suitors…” She shrugged.

“But now you are your own woman,” Cora said, sitting down on a blanket beside Lillian. “Free to choose whomever you want.”

“
If
I want,” Eleonora said.

“
If
you want,” Cora repeated with a firm nod.

Will sat down and wondered about their exchange. He felt the heat of a blush. Had she spoken to Eleonora about his proposal? Of her turning him down?

He forced his dark thoughts away, focusing instead on the view, attempting to appreciate the moment, the day, not what had come before or might be ahead. This place had its own unique beauty, here. The hills were steeper, which was advantageous in times of war, but less so in times of peace. And it seemed more arid, perhaps part of the reason there had been less “cultivation,” as Eleonora said. But to let it go… “Who owns this property now, Eleonora?”

She arched a pretty dark brow, and he noticed how it made her big brown eyes seem even more comely. “I don’t know. There is never anyone about to ask. No one for miles.” She opened the basket again, as Antonio settled beside her, and brought out a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth napkin. Then cheese and grapes, the standard lunch in Toscana.

“How long has it been since you visited?” Cora asked. Her color was high, and she looked more beautiful than ever. Will forced himself to look away.

“A good many years. I used to love coming here on picnics as a child. Playing about the ruins of the walls, imagining the full castle and the like. My father liked it too.”

Cora was silent a moment. Then, “Did it pain him? That his ancestors had to sell this part of the property?”

Eleonora pursed her lips and frowned. “Pain him?” She shook her head, and a tendril of dark-brown hair pulled loose from her bun, down beside her neck. “I think not. He very much enjoyed his last years at Villa Masoni. To him, the day was what was offered, not what wasn’t.”

Will studied Cora for a moment, guessing that her mind was on her parents and the changes her mine was making in Dunnigan. But he was glad for Eleonora’s words. He hoped they sank in. What more could anyone do than to appreciate what one had for the day, rather than fret about what was lost yesterday or what might be lost tomorrow?

His eyes moved back to their hostess. She was about his age, far too young to be a widow. How was it that she was still alone? Even an independent girl like her? And why was he taking such an interest?

She rested a hand on her chest and looked to the horizon. She looked like something out of a painting.

“But you lived on your estate, not his?” Vivian asked, accepting a clump of grapes from Andrew, who was sitting beside her. “It was always ‘Villa Masoni’?”

“Ah, yes,” she said. “I became the last of the Masoni family when my cousin died four years ago. My late husband”—she paused to cross herself at the mention of him—“had land but no name of record in Toscana. My father saw fit to join our fortunes. Toscana always favors the families that have been here for generations, regardless of their wealth.”

Will frowned, adding up the years. She’d been perhaps sixteen or seventeen when she was married.

“You did not take your husband’s name?” Antonio said, clearly confused.

“I did for a time. Legally, I am Eleonora Masoni Triguetti. But I no longer go by that.”

“I see,” Will’s old friend said lightly. It was progressive of her, and Will doubted that many in patriarchal Italy would understand. And yet as she was the last living heir to the Masoni name, how could they not honor her choice?

Eleonora brought out a bottle of wine and then took out a corkscrew. He could see from the distinctive-shaped green bottle, pinched at the sides, that it was from her vineyard. She smiled over at him, following his gaze, and lifted it. “My great-great grandfather had hands gnarled by…” She paused, searching for the right English word. “Rheumatism?” Her expression eased when Will nodded. “And holding the bottle troubled him. He resolved it this way—by designing and having his own bottles manufactured in Murano.”

Will smiled back at her. “Ingenious.”

He saw Cora stiffen a little at their warm exchange, but he didn’t mind that either. Perhaps Cora needed to see that he was attractive to others…

“Ingenious. Or lazy.” Eleonora laughed lightly as she passed the tool and bottle over to Antonio’s outstretched hands. Her face turned back to the horizon. “In his time, the vineyard was vast. My father intended to return it to its height of glory with the help of my late husband’s infusion of cash. But he died shortly after our marriage, and then my husband took ill.”

“Could you not invest in fulfilling that dream now?” Cora said, accepting a small glass of wine. Will could see the longing in her eyes. The burning desire to do the same for Alan Diehl, make something of the land he and his father had put so much of their lives into. But was that one of the obstacles that would keep them apart? Forever?

“I could,” Eleonora said, reaching into the basket and pulling out a tray of cured sausage and a bowl of olives. The more she pulled out, the more Will understood why those baskets had been so heavy. But every morsel was more delicious than the last, so there was no room for complaint. “I intend for the vineyard to be at capacity within five years. I have an excellent vintner on staff, as well as a wonderful—how do you call it—man who manages the land?”

“Foreman,” Antonio supplied. “Is that Mr. Triguetti?”

She nodded as she sliced the hard sausage, oily and red under the summer sun. “A second cousin. But I have plans for my fortune other than making more wine. All of Toscana produces wine,” she said with a grin. “I wish to help others. Build an orphanage. Assist young widows to find a trade.” She looked over to Cora. “That is what drew me to you. Your kindness to that woman in Turino.”

“I assure you, I’ve passed far too many others. You simply caught me at my best.”

“No,” Eleonora said. “I see the goodness in you. And I knew I wanted to know you better.” She waved at the others. “You and your family and friends. I knew I could consider you all friends, by that one act of Cora’s.”

“Well, here’s to Cora,” Hugh said, lifting his cup.

“To Cora,” some of the others said, lifting their own.

“Or perhaps you saw our need, just as you see others’,” Cora said lightly, casting her a grateful smile. “We are sincerely grateful for your hospitality.”

“Please,” Eleonora said, tossing out a hand, “it is nothing.”

“It is much to us.”

“Well, you are welcome to stay as long as you like. Here we are, two independent women, free to make our own way in this big, beautiful world. It is a lovely place to find yourself in, no? No man,” she said, lifting a teasing brow at Hugh and Felix, “shall ever dictate how we live our lives again.” She lifted her cup, and Cora lifted hers to meet her toast, clinking them together.

“That’s the spirit!” Felix said, plopping down beside Cora. “That’s what the world needs! More women in charge! So we men can relax at last.” He rolled onto his back, his hands knit beneath his neck.

“As if you’ve toiled in the mines all these years, poor, dear brother,” Vivian sniffed.

“Truly. You have no idea the burdens I’ve borne,” he said with a dramatic sigh.