Glittering Promises (33 page)

Andrew stiffened as if unappreciative of the moral lesson, and the others moved off to the next stop in their tour, led by Antonio.

“My, the end of our tour is making you most courageous,” Cora muttered to him as he helped her through another partially disintegrated doorway.

“Yes,” he said, with a smile, “I suppose it has.”

“Are you always so forthright with your tourists?”

“On occasion.” He fell into step beside her. “How is your arm? And your head?”

“Both of them, throbbing,” she admitted. “But I wouldn’t have missed this. It’s been marvelous. All of it has been marvelous, Will. Every step of this tour.” She paused and looked out over the plains beyond the villa, where farmers had divided the rich, volcanic soil into neat plots of land, planted with alternating crops. “Other than our personal losses,” she said, tearing up a little, “it’s been grand.”

He smiled, took her good hand, and looked into her eyes. “Grand?” he said wryly. “We’ve seen too much conflict, even beyond our losses, for that ‘grand” assessment, haven’t we?”

“Conflict is a part of all our lives, is it not?” she asked. “I admit, we’ve seen a greater share than I’d care to in the future, but…” She shook her head and looked at the ground, then back at him. “One learns a great deal about others in the heat of such conflict, do they not?”

“They do,” he said with a nod. There was something in her eyes, something new when she looked at him. It was as if she had decided something integral, something that settled her inside. Whatever it was, he wanted to know more. He wished he could send the others on to tour the Villa d’Este while he found a quiet trattoria in which to speak with her at length. What had happened?

CHAPTER 30

~Cora~

We arrived at Tivoli, a town perched high on a hill above Hadrian’s Villa and noticeably cooler. There was a lovely breeze that rustled through the Roman pines all about us and through the open windows of the Villa d’ Este, an estate we toured—a sprawling, beautiful building full of frescoes, built by a wealthy Roman cardinal in the Middle Ages. Afterward, we moved out to the patio that extended over the gardens for luncheon, and I found myself counting the steps, more than anxious for some refreshment and a respite, feeling overtaxed.

I was holding Will’s arm when I saw Pierre first, rising with two others to greet us as we approached. I paused, and Will looked down at me, then back at him. That was when I noticed the red roses in a hundred tiny vases, up and down the two long tables, and even one in his lapel. To the side was a long wall with forty different heads—gargoyles and wolves and distorted men—each opening their mouth in a wide “O” to spew water into the fountain trough below them.

Will’s arm tensed beneath my hand. “What is he doing here?” He spit it out, accusation in his tone, as if I’d invited him myself.

“I have no idea,” I said, even then knowing he was here for me. Only me.

Pierre’s eyes never left me as we approached. “Pierre,” I said, the question in his name alone.

“Cora,” he said, taking my hand and giving me a slight bow.

Our host, Signore Abramo Biotti, a bulbous, merry fat man, came up beside us. “When I heard your group was coming to visit the villa today,” he said in a thick Italian accent, “I knew that my friend Richelieu would appreciate an invitation too.”

“He’s never one to miss an opportunity,” Will said, halfheartedly shaking Pierre’s hand.

“Did you see all you wanted of the villa?” asked Signore Biotti, waving upward at it.

“Indeed. It was most generous of you to allow us to traipse through your home,” Will said.

“Please,” he said, waving dismissively, then setting his hand on his chest. “It is my pleasure. You have come on a fine day, my friends.” He looked to the rest of our group. “After luncheon, we intend to start the grand fountain, a spectacle that hasn’t been seen in over a century.” He waved down the steep embankment behind him. “Once, this entire hillside was one of the finest gardens of Italia. Visitors came from far and wide to see its exquisite layout and observe the fountains, fed by its own diverted aqueducts.” His mouth opened in wonder as he gazed outward, as if he were seeing it for the first time himself. “There truly hasn’t been anything in Italia like it since.”

Pierre clapped Signore Biotti on the shoulder with familiarity and grinned us. “Nothing like a passionate Italian,” he said, then made the introductions all around. It was almost as if Pierre were more the host than Biotti was. I stiffened in frustration. Hadn’t Will and I suffered enough strife over the last few days without Pierre interfering here? But the more I heard, the more I was certain. It was he who invited us to come to the table, he who decided who would sit where.

Ten others wandered in from the gardens and joined us at the long, dramatic table set symbolically with Pierre’s red roses. We soon learned, via translation, that they’d been invited for this test of the grand fountain. But I felt that they were more a hired supporting cast in Pierre’s latest play.

“It has taken us years to clear it,” Biotti said, winding pasta onto his fork with the aid of a soupspoon, returning to his topic of favor, the fountain. “The brush and trees. Then we had to repair the tiles that had broken away, and
then
,” he said, lifting his fork, mouth full, “we had to go to work on the aqueduct.”

“I guess it was leaking in a hundred different places,” Pierre said.

“Two hundred,” Biotti muttered, still chewing.

I absorbed that with surprise. I had no idea what all it took to maintain a fountain, but it certainly sounded comprehensive. And expensive. It was no wonder the place had fallen into disrepair.

“How is it, Pierre,” Will said, picking up his wine goblet, “that you know our host?”

“My father and he once did a great deal of business together,” Pierre said, picking up his own goblet. “And now I hope to pick up where my father left off.”

Signore Biotti laughed at this, winding yet another bite of pasta on his fork. It was delicious, I thought: linguine in a sauce bright with tomato and lemon and basil. And our host seemed to be enjoying it more than all the rest of us combined. I found his mood contagious. He obviously adored his home and was eager to share it. No matter how Pierre had finagled an invitation and how he might’ve decorated the tables just for me, I didn’t want another argument between him and Will to interrupt it. I simply was too tired to deal with it.

Thankfully, Will let it go, and conversation moved on to other subjects—the state of the government and their lackadaisical approach to European expansion of imports, a ball to be held in one of the noblemen’s homes the following week, and so it went. As the food settled in my stomach, I closed my eyes and felt the lovely breeze cool my face.

“Ahh, the little bird with the broken wing is settling in for a nap, I see,” said Signore Biotti.

My eyes flew open in embarrassment as all eyes turned to me.

“No, no,” he said, lifting a hand of approval. “After you see the fountain, you shall rest, little bird. In the villa.” He sat back in his chair, finished eating at last, and patted his chest. “Nothing like a siesta at Villa d’ Este to invigorate the body.” With the last of his sentence his hands turned to fists, and he lifted them in the air.

I smiled. “I confess, that does sound lovely.”

“She was only discharged yesterday from hospital,” Pierre said lowly to our host, a note of accusation in his tone as his eyes moved to Will.

“Shall we see the fountain now?” I asked Signore Biotti sweetly, quickly intervening. “I, for one, cannot wait.”

Signore Biotti set down his napkin, his eyes alight. “Yes, yes, let’s!” He rose, and the rest of the table rose after him. Then we moved down the walkway and learned that the fountain beside us was called a Hundred Fountains, even though only about twenty appeared to be doing as they ought—casting small rainbows of water above. As we turned the corner, Lillian gasped. Above us was a tiny skyline, like a miniature model of an ancient city, broken in places, all of it eroded, but still breathtaking.

Will smiled. “It’s a representation of Roma,” he said to the group. “See there? Even a little Hadrian’s Column, which should have more meaning to you all now.”

Lillian clapped her gloved hands. “Oh, it’s marvelous,” she enthused. “Were I a small girl, I’d want to take my dolls up there and play amongst them.”

“I’m certain that sculpture has seen its fair share of small girls over the centuries,” Signore Biotti said, offering her his arm and then patting her hand in a fatherly way. His eyes grew distant. “For many decades this estate was abandoned. Can you imagine? Goatherds brought their flocks through here to eat the foliage. Perhaps their little sisters came along to play.”

I noticed the fine mosaic paving beneath my feet—chunky tiles of purple porphyry, green granite, and more that, when a leaky fountain allowed its bounty to spread, made it look like a virtual treasure trove of rare stone. I gazed around me and considered the estate anew. It truly must’ve been magnificent back in its heyday; the thought made me admire Signore Biotti’s endeavors to restore it all the more.

Beside us, flowing down open channels, was water. And as we rounded the bend, we saw an ancient figure of Diana, moss-covered and rising from the center of a half-moon of grotto dug out of the very cliff. “Yes, yes,” Biotti said dismissively. “It’s grand. But you must go down there, below, to see the big fountain in all its glory. If it works, I should say. No promises, no promises.”

We turned and took the stairs he indicated, descending even more. Already I lamented all those we’d already descended, knowing I’d have to climb them again. Normally, it would be no issue, but my arm and head were truly throbbing, and I had little on my mind other than that promised nap in an airy room.

I had my hand on Will’s arm, and Pierre scurried down the steps to catch up with us. I suppressed a groan and considered pleading my headache and returning to the villa now, entering a room where no one could disturb me.

“These gardens were truly the wonder of Italy. Amongst wonders, of course,” Pierre said, slowing beside us. “There was once a fountain with great clockworks that would ring out at the top of the hour, but Signore Biotti hasn’t gotten to that yet. If he did, he’d make a veritable fortune in visitor’s fees. Or at least have the grandest plaything for his parties.” He moved forward and pointed out a hole in my path, as if I or Will might not have seen it, and we circumvented it.

At last we reached the bottom, joining the other guests at the far end of the rectangular, still pool and looking upward.

Signore Biotti appeared on the floor above us, leaning on a balustrade that sprawled the curved length of it. I winced, worried that the old stone would give way beneath his great girth. But he was rising then, lifting his arms and crying, “This is the day! This is a fine day, an historical day in the history of Tivoli! A hint of things to come!” With that, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

We waited. And waited.

And just when Hugh and Felix both opened their mouths—presumably to break the tension with a wisecrack—we heard the water above us on the next level. With a tremendous rush, it spewed in a ten-foot-wide flow over one edge and down into the pool via twin waterfalls. A moment later, four waterspouts sprayed from the upper pool, and then three seconds later, water flowed from a second waterfall into the pool directly before us. I sucked in my breath, amazed at the sense of history unfolding directly before me. We heard a grumbling beneath our feet and felt a corresponding vibration. Then, two giant waterspouts rose, twenty feet high. We all cheered.

We stared in awe at the wonder of it, and Will stepped over to the nearest waterspout, plainly curious about how it all was working on gravity alone. Pierre leaned down and said lowly, “Do you like it,
mon ange
? Because I would gladly build you a replica as a wedding gift on our estate in Paris.”

“A wedding gift,” I said, turning to him in puzzlement.

But he was dropping to one knee and sliding a ring out from an inside pocket beneath that red rose corsage, all the while never dropping my gaze. He held my hand, and I felt Will catch sight of us and freeze, while everyone else turned from the spectacle of the fountain to the spectacle of us.

“Cora Diehl Kensington,” Pierre said, love and earnestness in every line of his face. “You have stolen my heart as I pray I have stolen yours. Will you do me the distinct honor of becoming my bride?”

I stared down at him as his eyes searched mine. I could sense everyone around us holding their breath. Only the fountain moved in that second.

I licked my lips. “Pierre! I…I cannot,” I whispered.

Pierre’s brows moved into a frown. “You…cannot? Certainly, you can,
mon ange
. Just think about what we could be together. Is this not the finest conclusion?”

“I cannot,” I numbly repeated as if in a daze.

“You cannot,” he repeated, rising, his face looking like I’d never seen it before, hard and…bitter. “Why?”

“Because,” I said, “I’m going to marry Will.”

CHAPTER 31

~Cora~

Felix let out a surprised cry and then bent backward in joyous laughter. He clapped slowly, a smile spreading across his face, but the others were shocked and uncertain as to what was proper in such an awkward situation. Pierre stared at me, stunned and hurt…and judging by the expression on his face, more than a little angry.

Will moved toward me, and the others parted the way for him. “Cora,” he said softly. I wrenched my gaze from Pierre, hoping my expression told him how sorry I was as I turned to the man I loved most. The man who had claimed my heart from the start and was so right for me, in so many ways, took my good hand.

“Is it true?” he said in little more than a whisper, his eyes rife with hope. He led me a short distance away, still shaking his head. “You needn’t allow his offer to—”

“No,” I interrupted, unable to keep from smiling. “It’s true. I choose you, Will. My heart has always known it, and today, I know it’s right to give in to my heart’s desire. It’s you, William McCabe. I will marry you.” A thought struck me. “Unless you’ve thought better of—”