Glittering Promises (22 page)

She nodded, and he pulled her closer, stroking her back. “He’s going to be all right. Just as your papa pulled through, so will Wallace. You’ll see. The man’s too ornery to give up yet. He has fortunes to run, suffragettes to back, suitors to run off.”

She giggled and looked up at him, a handkerchief to her nose.

They both belatedly recognized the sounds of a Kodak, the clicking they remembered so well from their time with Arthur Stapleton, and looked down the hallway. Three reporters were there, two on their knees, taking their photograph, one doing so standing. How long had they been there?

“Hey!” Will cried, pushing Cora behind him as the reporters continued to advance, calling out in Italian, taking more photographs as fast as they could. “
Fatela finita ora!”
Will shouted.
Stop it, right now.

“We only ask you a few questions, Signore McCabe,” said one in broken English.

Mr. Grunthall showed up then, on the run, looking disheveled and aghast. He rounded the three men and stood between them and Will and Cora. “You may only interview Miss Diehl Kensington or Mr. McCabe with an appointment through me,” he said in English, standing upright and straightening his coat. He looked over his shoulder at Will, mouthing a command for him to usher Cora out the other way.

Will nodded and put his arm around her, leading her quickly away, even as they heard another photograph being made. She was in no shape to grant an interview this morning, not after being up all night. None of them were. Was that where Grunthall had been? Shielding the others?

Obviously, someone had tipped off a reporter that the elusive Kensingtons and Morgans were in Siena. Now that the journalists were on their trail, they’d be nearly impossible to escape.

~Cora~

We were nearing the back exit when I heard Vivian’s cry.

I paused and turned, looking down the long white hall to where my sister stood.

There was no mistaking her tone, nor the expression on my brother’s face as he pulled her into his arms.

“No, no, no, no,” I said, prying loose of Will’s grip and practically running to my siblings while at the same time, inside, my heart seemed to thud slowly, as if asleep, separate.

Tears were running down Vivian’s face. Andrew appeared and hovered, awkwardly, when she didn’t turn to him. Felix’s eyes, always filled with such mischief, held only pain, bewilderment. Gradually, I could hear others weeping, down the hall. Lillian? Grunthall, behind me, pleading with the reporters to have some common decency in this dark hour…

“Cora,” Vivian said, reaching out to take hold of my hand.

“Don’t say it,” I whispered. “Don’t say it,” I repeated more loudly. “It’s impossible.”

“Cora,” Will began.

“No. There’s too much…I haven’t…we didn’t…we never…”

Tears choked my throat closed.

My father was dead.

And I had to get away.

CHAPTER 18

~Cora~

I ran blindly.

I couldn’t breathe, and yet I couldn’t stop either, turning one corner and then the other. If only I could gain a little distance, find a little space, I might wake from this nightmare.

With each step, I knew I was playing the fool. That I needed Will or a guard with me, that Nathan Hawke might be waiting for just this sort of opportunity. And yet Hawke was likely far away in Rome, right? My mind was spinning, my heart crying out for a moment alone, a moment to try and make sense of the insensible.

He’s dead…he’s dead… How can he be dead?

It was impossible. How could Wallace Kensington be dead?

I turned one corner and then the next, running again when a group of men came my way down one alleyway, then another when I heard my name called in the distance.

I arrived in a small piazza outside a massive cathedral that towered above me. Ornate gothic adornments clung to each crevice. Gold and bright mosaics filled each arch. Behind the grand medieval structure, a massive bell tower climbed to the sky in alternating colors of white and black marble.

The duomo. The city’s cathedral.

We’d planned to tour Siena in full but hadn’t had the opportunity yet. There was something about the grand, sprawling church that called to me, welcomed me, like the arms of a warm grandmother waiting to cradle me as I wept.

“
Stai bene figliola
?” asked an older woman in concern. “
Dov’e’ la tua famiglia
?” She was practically as wide as she was tall, and she paused beside me, looking about as if I was a small child and she was searching for my mama or papa to look after me. Which only made me cry harder.

Mama. Papa. Father…

“I’m all right,” I said, knowing she didn’t understand English, breaking away and hurriedly climbing the steps as I pulled a handkerchief from my purse and blew my nose.

A man was exiting the cathedral. He held the door open for me, looking as concerned as the old woman, but I rushed past him before he could ask me a question.

Inside, the customary cool and hush welcomed me, but the visual impact of the interior held no measure of restfulness. The stacked granite alternated in black and white on every column. And before me, on the ground, was a marble mosaic, each section depicting biblical scenes or moments in Siena’s celebrated history. I tried to concentrate on them, to get my whirling thoughts to settle, but over and over again my mind returned to my father.

He’s dead. Wallace Kensington is dead. We didn’t make our peace. Would we have, ever? Would we have ever found a relationship based on anything but…maneuvering?

I stared at a vast marble carving in the floor, white inlaid in black, depicting what I guessed was the Slaughter of the Innocents. Mothers crying out for their babes. Children in soldiers’ arms. Swords. Bloodshed. Weeping. Above them were archways. The artwork had been done in such a way that it appeared three-dimensional, as if the arches actually descended, out and away, beneath my very feet. And in a way, I felt as if I were floating, ethereal, separate from this place.

I looked beyond it to the next, seeking a peacock Will had told me about, until I found it in the side nave. Sideways, his feathers spread wide, his eye wide and unseeing.

When we’d visited a church in Torcello, outside of Venice, Will had said that the peacock was an ancient symbol found in many churches. The people believed that it was a symbol for Christ. They thought the flesh of a peacock did not rot once it was dead and buried. He’d said we’d see many of them in other churches as we traveled, and it’d become a game of sorts, to be the first to spot one.

A peacock’s body did rot, of course. But it set me to thinking about how we all died, but as believers, rose again. Was Wallace in heaven now? Looking about, bewildered? No longer a king in his own kingdom, but kneeling at the King’s feet? Had he truly known the Savior? Or was he in some other place, far darker?

Tears came again, unbidden, my heart heavy with all the conversations I might have had, should have had, with Wallace Kensington. My stomach turned so violently I thought I might retch. Conversations I’d never have the opportunity to have again. So much wasted time, so much effort in jockeying for position, power…

I moved on. Ahead was a prayer bench before a cascading group of candles, and a small woman, head bent in prayer. I went and knelt beside her, peering up at the figure of the Virgin Mary and her baby; mother in adoration, child at peace. The woman beside me finished her prayer and shuffled off, leaving me alone on the bench. For a moment, I felt as if I were the only person in the entire cathedral, so quiet it was. And with each breath I took, my stomach gradually eased. Candle flames danced in a draft I could not feel. Shafts of light illuminated dancing dust mites.

My eyes moved back to the sculpture of mother and child. The child that had grown into the Son of Man.
Our Kinsman Redeemer
, as my papa had always referred to Him.

Lord Jesus, Redeemer
, I prayed, bowing my head against my clasped hands.
I am so lost. How could You take him now? When we had so much left to resolve, negotiate? How am I to be a Kensington if he is not here to teach me?

The tears came again then.

I felt as if I’d been cast off the decks of the
Olympic
and set upon the waves to swim to an unknown shore. All my newfound confidence, my understanding of my place in this world, had abruptly disappeared the moment I saw Viv’s face and knew what she had to say.
Father is dead. Dead…dead.

I blew my nose into my handkerchief again, staring up at the sculpture, my eyes tracing the lines of the woman’s hand on the baby’s back. To the child’s eyes.

“
You
knew,” I whispered. “What it was like to belong to one family, and another one altogether.” The thought made me smile through my tears.

Still I remained as another woman came to pray beside me and an older man lowered himself heavily to the bench on my other side. How had Jesus managed it, belonging to one family and yet to another Father? How did He keep it straight, to Whom He belonged, through it all?

I shoved away from the rail and moved along, gazing up to the sun streaming through the windows, thinking about it. He knew that He belonged to His heavenly Father. All along, He never lost track of that. It was His truest identity, from start to finish.
As it is ours.

Chin in hand, I turned around slowly, repeating that thought in my mind.
My truest identity…
I shook my head. By some miracle, we were all His children, first and foremost. Forever claimed. My eyes rested on the cross.

Slowly, I sank to my knees.

Forever claimed.

A priest hurried up to me, reaching for my arm, but I waved him off. “I’m all right,” I said dimly. “I’m all right.” Tears poured down my face again as I stared at the cross. “I’m all right,” I whispered.

I recognized that he was backing away—probably wondering if I was mad—but I couldn’t take my eyes off the cross. Peace seeped through me, saturating me as if I’d become a living sponge, filling me so full I thought I might burst.

It mattered not from where I’d come. It mattered not what I’d accomplish in the future. All summer long I’d sought to fit in with the Kensingtons, gain their acceptance, and yet hold on to my Diehl heritage. But all along I’d missed the heritage that truly mattered. And that was as a child of God.

I looked up at the figure on the cross, and all I saw in His eyes was peace. Understanding. Love. How long had I missed this blessed assurance? No matter what I gained, what I lost, He was with me through it all. Unchanging. Unbreakable. Unending.

I forced myself to rise, to move. I walked past the high, ornately carved pulpit and looked up into the dome, admiring it as the high noon sun sent streaming columns of light through its windows. A few steps farther, and I slipped into a pew and knelt again, leaning my forehead against my clenched hands, wanting to remember what the Lord had given me here. Cement it in my mind and heart as I faced the future.

The last time I’d prayed in a church like this was in Venice. And the Lord had spoken so clearly, telling me to wait and trust. For this, I decided, this moment of clarity, understanding. Now, all I wished was to thank Him. Thank Him for drawing close, for giving me direction, just when I thought all was lost.

A man slipped into the pew beside me, uncomfortably close. Then another from the other side. Both bent their heads, as if in prayer, but they were too close. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and a shiver went down my spine. Were they dangerous? I straightened and then stood, and they did too, with me. The one closest to the end let me out, giving me a friendly smile, but then he seemed to follow me as I circled the altar again.

“There you are, Cora,” Felix said in relief, grabbing my elbow. “We’ve been looking everywhere—”

He’d surprised me so much I let out a soft cry and yanked away.

“What’s the matter?” he said, eyes narrowing. He looked over my shoulder. “You.
Lexington
. Are you
following
my sister?” So Felix knew the men? “You’ll have to make an appointment with Simon Grunthall if you wish to speak to her.” He pulled me along toward the front door of the cathedral.

“Just doing a little scouting,” said the stranger, pulling out a pad of paper and pencil and jotting something down as the lighter-haired man joined him. “Didn’t know Copper Cora had a religious streak. That’s a new bent.”

I blinked in surprise, even as I digested the fact that not one, but two American journalists had already found me. And…Copper Cora? I’d heard Grunthall use that, but were others? I had a nickname?

“C-copper Cora?” I stuttered.

“It’s catchy, isn’t it?” said Mr. Lexington. He ran his fingers down the lapel of his jacket as if proud of himself. “I coined it. I realize that there’s a fair bit of gold in Dunnigan too. But it just doesn’t have the same ring.”

“You didn’t coin it,” said the other journalist, pulling out his own pad of paper. “Jefferson did. Miss Cora, care to make a statement about what you think of this cathedral? Are you a churchgoing girl, back at home? Was it Wallace Kensington’s death that sent you running here? Terrible thing, that. Please accept my con—”

“C’mon, Cora,” Felix said, taking my arm and leading me out of the church, the journalists catching up to us in seconds, running down the stairs on either side of us.

At the bottom, Mr. Lexington turned, practically running backward before us, peppering me with questions. “Please. Give a guy a break. I’m only looking for a fresh angle. Are you a Catholic or a Protestant?”

“Protes—” I said.

“Miss Kensington will respond to you if you have an appointment,” Felix interrupted.

“What flavor?” said the man, nearly tripping and narrowly recovering his balance.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“What flavor of Protestant? You know, Methodist, Lutheran, Presby—”

“No more,” growled Felix. “You fellows have no sense of propriety. We’ve just endured a terrible loss!”