Gladly Beyond (32 page)

I shot them my hostile, discouraging face. They turned away, but not before I heard something that sounded a lot like ‘batty ray psycho.’ One of them started to hum
Achy Breaky Heart
.

Claire stiffened.

“So, five nannies?” I asked, determined to distract her. I angled us away from the teens.

She shot me a thankful look. “More like six.”

“How much of a hellion were you?”

“Me? Not much. My parents, on the other hand . . .”

“Got it.”

The teenagers drifted off, heading away from us. I watched them go, a warning look in my eyes.

“I think there were actually more than just six, but I don’t remember anyone before Kristin. She was my first nanny. I was four.”

“You liked her?”

“I did. A lot. She was a college student—fine art major, of course. She taught me to read and would cut my peanut butter and honey sandwiches into awesome shapes. Apparently, JB taught her about more than just art, so she was replaced with the elderly Ms. Jones before I started first grade.”

I ran my thumb over the back of her hand as we skirted around the Fountain of Neptune with its Mannerist sculptures.

“Ms. Jones liked merlot significantly more than she liked me, so she didn’t last long,” Claire continued. “Ironically, it was a move from Boston to San Francisco that made her quit, not her drinking problem. Miss Penny was next. My parents were in the middle of this mess with the Getty Museum at the time, so Penny made sure I had a crash course entitled ‘How the World Works’ which was basically a lecture on not sassing back. Though it came back to bite her when she was let go for being too mouthy. Cerise, my fourth nanny, was the ex-con—”

“How did that happen?”

Claire shrugged as we rounded the enormous statue of Cosimo I on his horse, still heading toward Via dei Magazzini in the far left corner of the piazza.

“I’m not sure. Mom and Dad had recovered from the Getty debacle and were deep in the Statue of Liberty project at that point. I had been living with Grammy in Boston, but they brought me back to New York for some reason. I’m not sure why because my memories are of them frazzled and desperate to have me out from underfoot. I think they just hired the first person who applied for the job.”

A huge burst of laughter came from the far end of the piazza. Someone yelled ‘psycho’ in a German accent. Claire tensed but didn’t turn around. My admiration and respect for her had grown ten times larger in the last five minutes. She had more courage—

“Cerise was actually a ton of fun.” Claire tightened her grip on my hand. “Her stories were hilarious. She let me stay up late and eat ice cream straight from the carton. She was more like a big sister than a nanny. She was also a huge country music fan—”

Claire paused, wincing.

I held up a staying hand. “I’m not saying a single word.”

She shrugged. “Yeah. You can guess what Cerise liked to listen to. Despite our differing taste in music, I loved her to pieces. My parents fired her eventually. Apparently, you shouldn’t hire an ex-con and then give her unsupervised access to your art collection—”

“Ah.”

“—which led to them hiring Mrs. Evans-Sharp.”

“The British nanny?”

“Yeah. Totally Mary Poppins until she got upset. Then she swore like a sailor. She was okay. She left when her eldest daughter married.

“Mrs. Henderson was next. She cried a lot and watched period movies over and over. All those lush Merchant-Ivory films from the late Eighties. My parents finally sacked her. By that point, I was fourteen and old enough to help Grammy with her arthritis. So I just moved in with her.”

Claire said everything in a completely matter-of-fact tone. But my heart ached for the lonely, slapdash childhood I could see behind her words.

We neared the entrance to Via dei Magazzini. Though calling it a street was too generous. More like a tight alleyway. From across the piazza, you wouldn’t even know the houses led into it. I could still hear the German teenagers yelling at each other.

“Wait.” Claire pulled me to a stop and then let go of my hand. “I have an idea.”

I lifted my eyebrows.

She darted in front of me. “Does Ethan show up on video, I wonder?”

“
That
, Ms. Raythorn, is a brilliant idea.”

I pulled out my phone, framed her in my screen and hit record.

“Well?”

I nodded my head, still recording. “You are a bonafide genius.”

Claire cocked her head questioningly. But I was focused on the ghostly image of Ethan behind her, walking into Via dei Magazzini.

I stopped recording and showed it to her.

“I
am
a genius.” She grabbed my hand again. “Let’s follow him.”

Claire pulled me out of the bright piazza and into the dim alleyway. Turned around and gestured for me to video again.

Ethan continued to walk away from us, down the dark street.

Claire grinned and hugged my arm when she saw it.

We followed Ethan down the entire length of Via dei Magazzini, heading north toward the Duomo. He turned right onto Via Dante Alighieri and then immediately left onto Via Santa Margherita, leading us deeper and deeper into the narrow medieval alleyways of Florence. Streets that hadn’t changed in a thousand years.

Finally, Ethan stopped in front of the ancient Chiesa di Santa Margherita tucked down a tight lane. The tiny church that Dante Alighieri, along with his beloved Beatrice, had frequented in the thirteenth century. Ethan turned to the camera, staring straight at me. Almost beckoning me forward.

“What? What are you seeing?” Claire leaned from side to side in front of me, scanning the narrow road.

I showed her the video.

She darted a look at the church doorway with its dark, aged-wood awning. Studied the place where Ethan stood.

“Could this get ugly?” she asked.

“Possibly.”

“I mean, this street might as well be called ‘Assassin Alley.’”

“Definitely
mafioso,
” I agreed.

“You can practically feel the history bleeding from the walls.”

“It only needs someone in a doublet and cloak carrying a stiletto—”

“Yeah. Or an angry nobleman out for blood.”

She sucked in a steadying breath. Straightened her shoulders.

“I can do this.” Words said low and not intended for my ears, but I listened anyway.

A burst of loud laughter echoed down narrow walls. I looked back and saw the same group of German teens jostling each other as they walked down the cramped street toward us.

One of them noticed Claire and elbowed his friend. The friend’s head snapped forward, a hunting dog on the scent.

It didn’t take a detective to know they had been following us.

One of them started humming
Achy Breaky Heart
. Another laughed.

All of me tensed, half hoping the teens would get physical. My body itched for a fight—a physical way to combat Claire’s demons. She tugged on my arm, giving her head a small shake.
Please don’t make a scene.

The teens came nearer, shoving each other, pinging off the stone walls like bouncy balls.

Grimacing, I wrapped an arm around Claire’s waist, pulling her into the alcove of the church door. Twisting us, so her shoulders were to the wood, using my body to shield her from prying eyes behind us.

But as we moved, everything swooped inward.

Day turned to night. Rain sparkled on the pavement.

Please doona be late, Caro-lass. I must see you.

Twenty-Five

E
than stared into the darkness.

Light rain pattered against his caped great coat, dripping off the brim of his hat. He slouched against the wooden door of the church behind him, surveying the narrow lane. Though even calling it an alleyway might be too generous.

Did I mention that my friend, Beatrice, was to be married? I think to see her tomorrow evening . . .

Caro’s words echoed in his mind. She
had
to have meant this place. The church Dante Alighieri and his beloved Beatrice had frequented before she married another man.

Ethan took a fortifying breath.

Or had Caro meant something entirely different? That she would play Beatrice to his Dante, turning away from him to marry the man her family, such as it was, had chosen?

Please don’t let that be our fate . . .

The night shimmered. Dim lantern light flickered down the alleyway from Via del Corso to his right, leaving faint streaks of gold on the wet cobblestones.

One week. It had been one week since Ethan had seen Caro, talked to her.

He pushed against the gloom . . . but a solitary Shakespearean line kept thrumming—

How like a winter hath my absence been from thee . . .

Without Caro, the world felt
less-than
. Bleak. Colorless.

Would she come? She had never risked such a clandestine meeting before . . .

And what would he do if she didn’t come?

Footsteps echoed to his left. Ethan pressed back into the sheltering blackness of the doorway. Waiting.

An achingly familiar shadow slipped into the narrow street.

At the last second, Ethan snagged her elbow, dragging her into the door alcove.

She squeaked, whirling on him.

“Hush. ‘Tis only me, lass.”

“Ethan.” His name a benediction. She instantly collapsed against him. Boneless.

He spun her around, tucking deep into the shadows. Protecting her with his body from even the most prying eyes. Not that anyone was out.

She was slight and trembled in his arms. It took Ethan a moment to fully realize . . .

He was
holding
her. His Caro. Snugged firmly against his chest.

Heaven and damnation.

The rain continued on heedless behind him, pattering on the pavement.

“Were you followed?” He whispered against her hair. Paused to breathe her in. Lemon and clean soap.

“No. I waited for Mary to go to sleep and then slipped down the servants’ stairs.”

“It terrifies me that you risk so much—”

“No more than you,” she countered, nestling further in his arms. “Blackford sends you away then? Lady Albany said as much . . .”

“Yes. I am to return to Edinburgh. A Scottish merchant ship leaves Pisa Monday next. His Grace has insisted I be aboard.”

“He releases you?”

“No. He will retain my services—”

“But he has not confronted you?”

“Nothing beyond his snubbing at the opera last week.”

Ethan gathered her close. She felt fragile. Bird-like. Smaller than she appeared.

As if the force of being
her
somehow amplified the actual space she inhabited, rendering her larger-than-life to the eye.

But in his arms, she became just Caro. Delicate. Soft.

“Lady Albany has given me an ultimatum,” she whispered into the dark. “I am to marry Blackford or she will cast me off—”

Ethan hissed through clenched teeth. “Blackford moves in shadows. Pushing us both around like so many chess pieces.”

“I am
so
eternally weary of being a pawn for others’ ambitions.” She sagged her weight against him. Her unwavering trust as humbling as it was overwhelming.

Silence. The rain drummed a soothing rhythm.

“Whatever are we to do, Ethan?” Her voice a whisper of sound against his chest. She wrapped her fingers into his waistcoat. “I hate this feeling of helplessness.”

“We are hardly helpless, lass.” He pulled back to look down at her face, a suggestion of eyes and mouth in the dim light.

“But Blackford—”

“He is merely a human being. He does not own us. We are not his subjects.”

“I cannot bear the thought of losing you, Ethan.” Low. Determined. “A life without you—”

“It shallna happen.” His voice filled with Scottish heather and gorse. “I canna part from you.
Love alters not . . . even to the edge of doom
. . . remember that,
m‘aingeal
.”

“What shall we do?”

“We live in more enlightened times where a man might make his way. I have a cousin in Boston—”

“In America?”

“Precisely. It is a young country, full of possibility. A good place to start anew.”

“But how? Surely you would need some capital—”

“My cousin . . . he has a good heart. He will help, though I would be poor until I could establish my practice as a doctor.” Ethan tracing the shadowy line of her jaw with his thumb. “A man in that situation would be needing a wife, lass.”

Caro sucked in a sharp breath. “But your mother? Your sister? How could we leave them to Blackford’s displeasure?”

“Where there is a will, there is a way. I have a small sum set aside for now. Enough to get us to America. It may take time, but I will send for my mother and sister as soon as I gather the funds—”

“No.” Caro placed a gloved finger over his lips. “I could not bear it if anything happened to them.”

Ethan’s heart plummeted.

“You will not away with me then, lass?”

Caro laughed, soft as the rain on the pavement behind them. “You misunderstand me, love. I will go anywhere with you. But I want your entire happiness, and you will not be happy if your mother and sister are left to suffer—”