Paxton's War (16 page)

“If you weren't so young and unspoiled, my dear Colleen, I'd offer you a pinch. It's nothing your aunt would admit to, but I can assure that she can testify to the strength of this mixture, though I'll grant that she's far more discreet in its usage than I. I'm afraid I find the mixture—a rich Carolina tobacco blended with special herbal plants grown in our garden—yes, I find it quite irresistible … The bird!
Dio mio!
… I'm about to overcook the blessed bird!”

He ran to the massive hearth that dominated an entire kitchen wall where he opened a cast-iron door in the stone wall next to the open fire and slid out a metal box that served as an oven. Colleen watched him as he juggled his herbs and spices like a chemist. Wigless for the moment, his bald head with its semicircular ring of silver-gray hair glowed with a deep olive complexion. His dark eyes darted and his small hands were in constant motion. His movement was graceful, if somewhat exhausting to observe. He set the steaming fowl in a warming pan, checked a black pot full of sliced squash swimming in a pungent sauce, nodded, then replaced the lid. As he cooked, he prattled on about his proud Italian heritage, his two great-uncles who had been cardinals, his great-great grandfather who had been a duke, and his own father, a successful Venetian merchant who, while Piero was in his teens, had disappeared during a winter storm on the Adriatic. Shortly afterward, his mother had died in a fierce outbreak of the Black Plague. The inheritance had been substantial and, by nature a cultural explorer, Piero found himself drifting from country to country until the lure of America drew him to the colonies, where he finally lost his wanderlust and found a home. The story was told with a good deal of pathos, a degree of self-pity, and a large dose of histrionic humor. Piero spoke whimsically and rapidly as, with flourishingly elaborate strokes, he painted a rich, white sauce over the thin-skinned goose.

Thirty minutes later, Ned, a handsome young male servant with ebony-colored skin, poured wine in silver goblets as dinner was served in the formal dining room, which combined the ambience of a museum and concert hall. There was a still-life painting of grapes ripe with an eerie reality, a tapestry depicting an Arthurian legend, and an impassioned interpretation of the crucifixion in which one could practically hear the cry of agony falling from Jesus' half-opened mouth. In each of the four corners of the room sat musical instruments, themselves notable and moving works of art. A virginal, a small oblong keyboard instrument, had been crafted and painted by Robin as though it were a canvas. A landscape complete with shepherds, maidens, and grazing sheep was depicted with great sensitivity and care for detail on the raised section above the keyboard. A spinet, pianoforte, and harpsichord had been decorated in much the same way, showing scenes of ladies at court and noblemen at play. As dinner began, Colleen, who, seated next to Jason, faced Piero and Robin, decided they were among the most fascinating men she had ever encountered.

She was touched by Robin's gentle manner, and she could see why he had exerted such a strong paternal influence on Jason. His speaking voice was melodious and comforting as he expressed himself precisely and without pretense. Full-faced with expressive green eyes, bushy brows, and plump cheeks, Robin looked decidedly older than his companion. He also exhibited the strange characteristic of blinking very slowly. In fact, the rhythm of his blinking seemed to set the carefully measured pace of his speech. She watched him as he patiently sipped his white, bitter wine while Piero drained a second glass and started on his third.

“The goose is succulent, and the sauce most subtle,” Robin praised his friend's efforts.

“Hear, hear!” agreed a smiling Jason, happy to be back in what he considered his second home.

As the meal was consumed, the two men returned to questioning Jason with the concern and curiosity of caring parents about every aspect of his long sojourn. They both listened with obvious pride, though they expressed their feelings much differently. Upon hearing of Mozart's words of praise for a composition of Jason's, Piero exclaimed, “One genius smiling upon another!” Robin simply nodded with quiet satisfaction. For her part, Colleen felt a trifle neglected.

“You've accomplished a great deal,” Robin told Jason. “I feel well rewarded that whatever faith Piero and I have invested in you has been returned tenfold by virtue of your continued devotion to your art. Naturally, you'll stay with us as long as you like”—Jason had explained the tense situation with his father—“as there could be no place more suitable for your work than the apartment upstairs. I worry only that these troubled times might be an annoying distraction from your true artistry.”

“True artistry,” Colleen spoke up unexpectedly, “must help shape these troubled times.”

“In these troubled times, dear lady,” Robin replied, “I've learned to avoid discourse concerning politics among friends.”

“And yet such discourses are unavoidable,” Colleen rebutted. “Might I be bold enough to ask the nature of your political sentiments?”

“My, my, Jason,” said Piero. “Your lady friend is a fiery Patriot, there can be no doubt.”

“And you, sir?” she asked the Italian.

“Foreign born and a guest on these shores, I find myself confused by the turn of events,” Piero confessed.

“Neither of us,” Robin spoke deliberately, “is terribly fond of the king's forces breathing down the necks of the fair citizenry of Charleston. Yet what can one person do? I'm afraid we're essentially quite powerless. As you can see, we lead a somewhat insular and quiet, domestic life.”

“But everyone must do whatever he can …” Colleen began her usual impassioned argument, only to be interrupted by Jason.

“Now that we've had dinner, shall we return to the parlor?” he suggested.

“Splendid idea,” Robin agreed.

Piero led the way to the parlor, where Ned set out tea and tiny, delicate chocolate cakes. Seated in the same positions they'd occupied before, their talk lingered on for another half hour as Jason mentioned some of his observations of European banks and businesses.

“Still toying, then,” Robin asked, “with working with your family business?”

“That depends on Father,” Jason said with a shrug. “I hope so.”

“I don't see why you shouldn't,” Robin agreed with a nod of his head. “You're a man with a variety of talents and interests. It's a great blessing to be able to move freely from art to commerce, and back again.”

“As long as we can do so as free citizens.” Colleen returned to her former argument.

No one responded. Piero was tired, and the twinkle in his eyes seemed to be fading fast. Robin, his palms resting on his generous girth snugly covered by a white-and-black-striped vest, was also fatigued.

Surreptitiously, Colleen allowed the toe of her right shoe to glide up and down Jason's calf.

“I dare say,” Robin finally announced, “that the elderly contingency had best be excused for the night. Ned has already prepared your room, Jason, though I suspect that you may want to show Miss McClagan the music library before escorting her home.”

Colleen suddenly felt a surge of gratitude for Robin that overcame her contempt for his indifferent politics. He understood! He was allowing them to be alone! He and Piero kissed her and Jason on both cheeks before leaving the room. “Your return,” Robin said, addressing his protégé, “has already enriched our lives. I can only pray that your artistry grows in whatever direction the gods decree. Good night.”

Piero and Robin retired to their rooms, which, along with the parlor, kitchen, and dining room, were on the first floor. Jason led Colleen to the second story, where, past several spare bedrooms, an elaborately carved double door opened to a large music library. Colleen gasped. The astounding beauty that faced her was almost too rich and varied to be digested. Paintings in gilded frames hung everywhere. The ceiling was frescoed with mermaids, satyrs, and pink-faced cupids. Books and folios—as large a library as Colleen had ever seen—filled a half dozen shelves. Dozens of instruments, strings, lyres, flutes, and brasses lay on tables.

Jason sat at a harpsichord and let his fingers wander over the keys. “I was thirteen when my father decided I should move to Charleston in order to further my education. I studied the usual courses: Latin, Greek, mathematics, philosophy.… and music, which happened to be taught by Piero. I'd never played an instrument, but the school owned a harpsichord, and perceiving how quickly I learned and that I had, as he put it, a natural talent, Piero invited me here.” Remembering, he turned slowly to take in the whole room. “Can anyone imagine how I was affected by the experience? I'd entered a new world, one I never so much as suspected existed. It was as if all the world's artistic riches had been placed in front of me, and I was allowed to pick and choose what I wanted. In the weeks that followed, I spent hour after hour on these instruments, to the neglect of most of the rest of my studies, as my father learned all too soon.”

“And he?…” Colleen prompted.

“He came looking for me. In a rage, he was. The very idea of his son, a Paxton, being interested in music to the exclusion of everything else almost gave him apoplexy. And of course,” he added with a chuckle, “the appearance of Robin and Piero on the scene didn't help. I tried to explain to him that they were perfectly benign, but I might as well have been talking to the Atlantic. He pulled me out of here by my ear, which was red for days afterward. How long ago was that? Ten, eleven years? I remember it as if it were yesterday.”

“But you returned,” Colleen said softly, moved by his story and the fact that he'd confided such intimate details of his youth to her.

“Yes. Against his wishes, I came back.” Abruptly, he rose, led her to a far corner of the room, and invited her to sit next to him on the bench facing an exquisite virginal. “I gave my first recital three months later on this instrument,” he said, chording absentmindedly.

Colleen sat silently and studied the mural painted on the raised board above the strings. A golden-headed Apollo, his long, thick hair knotted at the nape of his neck, held a milk-white lyre on his lap. His fingers stroked the strings, his small mouth was open, his head lifted in song. His eyes were enraptured as he sat beneath the giant palm tree of Delos, surrounded by his faithful muses, nymphs posed in pirouettes, their arms raised above their Titian curls as they danced in nearly transparent yellow frocks. The beardless, soft-skinned god himself was naked.

The chords took on shape and definition. A melody, soft, sinuous, and haunting, crept in. Looking at the painting of blue-eyed Apollo, listening to the surging melody, a warmth passed from Colleen's neck to her breasts, from her breasts to her thighs, until at last she was filled with the rhythm of the sweetly measured music.

“You were irritated,” Jason finally said as he continued to play, “because we didn't discuss your poetry.”

Colleen was surprised at how well he read her mind. “How did you know that?”

“The look on your face. The way your lips pursed. The tension in your arms and hands. But there's really no need to worry, you know. Robin and Piero are sincere souls who recognized your intelligence and wit.”

“I so much wanted to tell them,” Colleen confessed. “I wanted to feel part of this world … of your world.”

“I understand,” he whispered, and then he let the flowing notes speak for him. His fingers flying over the keyboard, he looked into her eyes and felt the words returning to his lips. “I love you,” he wanted to say, just as he had said in the ravine. He held his tongue, though, reminding himself that the time spent with Colleen, and the powerful infatuation, must soon come to an end.

With the sound of music ringing through the room, Colleen found herself first humming, then finding words that fit the newborn melody with a natural grace:

Like gentle Apollo whose selfsame song

Lingers on my lips so soft. How long

The strains of your love play upon my heart

Pierced by cupid's quivering dart …

At that point, words and music ceased, and despite Jason's reservations, he turned to Colleen and took her hands in his. “Your words, my music,” he whispered.

Slowly, Colleen moved his hands to cup her breasts and gently leaned forward to bring her lips to his. And in the kiss that followed, there were words and music enough to send their souls soaring beyond words and music, to a place where ecstasy reigned, and love was the lord of all.

Chapter 11

Sleep was impossible. Stimulated yet frustrated by the evening's events, Colleen tossed and turned. The May night was uncomfortably hot and humid, especially in the small, dainty bedroom of her aunt's home from which she watched row after row of restless clouds race across a full yellow moon. Clad only in a thin cotton chemise, she was covered with perspiration. She wiped her forehead, cheeks, arms, and neck with a damp towel, but nothing relieved the sticky persistence of the cloying night.

She could still taste the sweetness of Jason's moist lips against hers, still feel the agony of being left by him at her aunt's door, the memory of the secret ravine, and dawn in his arms in her very own bed. She wanted him again, and the separation from him was difficult and painful. Why was he at Piero and Robin's and she at Rianne's? What would he say if she threw on a cloak, raced over to his patrons' home, rapped on the door, and insisted that they sleep together that night and every night thereafter for the rest of their lives?

No, such foolishness must be avoided. Proper ladies were forbidden to comport themselves thus. Proper ladies were to sit daintily at elegant dinner parties, listen attentively, and register wonder as worldly gentlemen impressed them with their erudition and influence. Despite what Jason had said to her in the library, was he really any different? He and his friends were the most fascinating, most cultured creatures Colleen had ever met, yet they looked upon her as though she were a precious porcelain doll, incapable of speech, not to mention thought. And what of their politics? They spoke as if the war were but a trifle compared to their protégé's musical career. And what stance had Jason himself taken in that particular discussion? The one he usually took—perching somewhere on a fence, nodding agreeably, arguing with no one, hiding behind a façade of affability and diplomatic restraint. When, oh, when—Colleen asked herself as a ragged line of lightning cut the sky and, seconds later, distant thunder boomed—would he declare his true sentiments? How could he possibly restrain his' feelings so long? How could he not defend his homeland? How could she love a man who didn't love freedom as deeply as she?