CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“...AND MR. MONTAGUE AGREES, that given the circumstances and the advice of the contessa, you should all depart for Rome the first thing in the morning.” Willie drew a deep breath. This was so much more difficult than she had anticipated. And a bit unreal, as well, given that everyone was still in their eighteenth-century grab. “And I do hope that when you look back on this journey of adventure we have shared with one another, as you each continue along your own journey of life, you remember this trip fondly.” The oddest lump formed in her throat. “I know I will cherish these days we have spent together always.”
Silence greeted her statement. Surely someone would say something?
“That sounded dreadfully rehearsed,” Harriet said.
“Like something from a guidebook,” Emma added.
Tillie sniffed. “A bad guidebook.”
Geneva crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you saying that you’re not coming with us?”
“First of all,” Willie said firmly. “It was indeed rehearsed. I have been trying to find the best way to say this. This is not something I do lightly, even if I had always intended to do it. But it certainly isn’t easy. And I do cherish the days we have spent together as well as the bonds of friendship we have forged. Second—” she pinned Tillie with a hard look “—I do not employ bad guidebooks.”
“But you were never planning to accompany us to Rome,” Marian said slowly.
Jane frowned. “You intended to abandon us once you had your painting all along.”
“I was going to tell you before I left. I would never simply sneak off in the middle of the night.”
“That makes it so much better.” Tillie glared.
“The situation is...awkward.” Willie struggled for the right words then sighed. “What I haven’t told you is that my finances are, well, precarious. My husband left a great deal of debt. I have managed to pay it all off but there is little left. The sale of the painting will enable me to live adequately for several years. I have an agent who has arranged a private auction for next week. Obviously I need to have the painting back by then.”
Dante stared.
“Your financial state is not a complete surprise,” Marian said with a casual shrug. “You ordered nothing at the House of Worth and you haven’t purchased so much as a single souvenir anywhere.”
“You’ve been on a quest.” Admiration shone in Geneva’s eyes. “How very independent of you. We’re simply disappointed that the object of your quest is ultimately quite practical as opposed to something more exciting—a matter of the heart or something of that nature.”
“You’re still going to sell it?” Disbelief sounded in Dante’s voice. “After everything we’ve been through?”
“Yes, I am. How can you possibly think otherwise?” She glared at him. Certainly he’d been incredibly charming and most endearing and he had helped her reclaim the painting. But why wouldn’t he? He wanted the Portinari as much as she did. “I have not forgiven you, nor have I forgotten how you deceived me. Nothing has changed.”
“Everything has changed!”
It was pointless to argue. Not here and now. She drew a calming breath and looked at Geneva. “It was not a matter of the heart but my grandmother did love that painting. I daresay I would have tried to recover it even if my finances were excellent. I hate to sell it. But—” she paused for a moment then braced herself and continued “—I have few other assets. I really have no choice.”
“You do have a choice,” Dante said in a hard tone. “I have offered you a choice.”
She raised her chin. “Will you give up your claim to the Portinari?”
He hesitated then blew a long breath. “No.”
“And I will not marry anyone to alleviate my financial difficulties.” Willie narrowed her eyes. “I will not be forced into marriage because I have no other choice.”
“There is no forcing about it. I love you and you love me. That is an excellent basis for marriage.”
“There is that,” someone murmured.
“Do you really think this is the time and place to be discussing this?” Willie gestured at the others. “In front of everyone?”
“Why not?” he said sharply. “We’ve discussed nearly everything else in front of them and they’d probably find out everything eventually anyway. They are aware of the situation and they are your friends.”
A murmur of assent washed through the room.
“And mine,” he added.
The wave of agreement was not quite as pronounced. It was most satisfying.
“Marry me, Wilhelmina.”
As much as her heart yearned to say yes, her head pointed out she had married too quickly once before. But she was young and perhaps that was a legitimate excuse. She was no longer a girl. And there was no longer any excuse for making the wrong decision. The truth of the matter was she had only known Dante for a few weeks and he had spent much of that time deceiving her as to his true purpose. Yes, he made her heart flutter and her toes curl and warmed her soul. Once again her head battled with her heart. And how was she to trust her heart? She’d been wrong before. “I will not marry a man I cannot trust.”
“Haven’t I proved how trustworthy I am? I stole a painting for you!”
“Not in the strictest sense of the word, given the contessa’s help,” one of the girls said.
“It was as much in your best interest as it was mine to steal that painting.”
“What more can I do?”
She raised a brow.
His jaw tightened. “I will not relinquish my claim to my painting.”
“Then there is nothing more to discuss.” Her heart twisted. For a moment she had thought, perhaps, for her...
“There’s a great deal more to discuss!” He drew a deep breath.
“You could offer to buy it from her,” Rosalind suggested.
“No!” Willie and Dante said in unison.
Willie shook her head. “I’ll not give up my painting to him and I will not take his money.”
“I refuse to pay for something that rightfully belongs to us.” Dante huffed.
“Then you both deserve to be dreadfully unhappy for the rest of your days,” Rosalind snapped.
“So much for sisterly support!”
“Might I make a suggestion?” Geneva said cautiously.
“Geneva dear.” Panic shone in Marian’s eyes and she grabbed Geneva’s arm. “Perhaps it might be best to keep our thoughts to ourselves.”
“On the contrary, Marian.” Willie clasped her hands in front of her. “Geneva is both clever and observant. I would very much like to hear what she has to say.”
“As would I,” Dante added.
Marian’s gaze shifted between Willie and Dante then she sighed and nodded at her daughter.
Geneva rose to her feet, the others leaning out of the way of her skirts. “If one looks at this logically and rationally, here are the salient points.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “One, Lady Bascombe received the painting from her grandmother and intends to sell it to provide income necessary to live. Which is quite admirable of her and one should give her credit for that.
“Two, Mr. Montague wants the painting to save his museum and, more important, his grandfather’s legacy. He, furthermore, believes it rightfully belongs to his family. Regardless of who the painting truly belongs to, his intentions too are commendable.
“Three, Mr. Montague wants to marry Lady Bascombe for reasons of affection but the fact remains that by marrying her, he will acquire the painting anyway. Which does put his desire to marry her as well as his declarations of affection into question.” Geneva glanced at Dante. “Sorry.”
Dante shrugged.
“Four, she does not wish to marry simply because she has to do so for financial reasons. We all understand that.” Geneva glanced around the room. The younger women nodded. “And regardless of questions of affection, the fact remains that she would enter into marriage with nothing, except the painting, of course. She has few assets and I assume no dowry, given her age?” She glanced at Willie who saw no reason to deny it, although she did think the reference to her age was unnecessary. “And while I am certain all of the mothers here would prefer their daughters marry wealth, I am just as sure that none of them want those daughters to bring nothing whatsoever to marriage. In this day and age, it does not seem a good way to begin.”
“I had a substantial inheritance of my own,” Marian said under her breath.
“I didn’t.” Jane paused. “But then my husband had nothing to speak of either.”
“And five, there is the question of trust. Mr. Montague joined this tour under false pretenses because he suspected Lady Bascombe intended to reclaim the painting while in Venice.”
“We never said anything about that.” Suspicion furrowed Dante’s brow.
“I might have mentioned it.” Harriet winced.
“Much like you didn’t tell us you intended to leave after you had your painting,” Jane said pointedly.
“It’s not the same thing at all.” Willie squared her shoulders. “Yes, I agreed to host this tour as a way to travel to Venice but I have not shirked my responsibilities in any way. Indeed, I think I’ve done a rather brilliant job and I am seriously considering escorting more tours for the Lady Travelers Society.”
“I’d join your tour.” Bertie grinned. Willie had almost forgotten he was there.
“It does seem to me the two of you need to decide what you want more.” Geneva looked at Willie. “The painting and with it the means to your independence. Or Mr. Montague.” She turned to Dante. “Your choice is just as simple. The painting and its worth to your grandfather’s legacy. Or Lady Bascombe.”
“Well put, Geneva.” Rosalind nodded. “I would suggest that the two of you consider Geneva’s summation. You both need to decide what you really want and what you are willing to give up to get it. Fortunately, you have time. It will take us—” she thought for a moment “—four days, I believe, to return to London. And your auction, Willie, is two days after that?”
“Three,” Willie said.
“More than enough time for the both of you to stop being so stubborn.” Rosalind pinned Willie with a firm look. “Remember you cooperated quite nicely to acquire the Portinari.” She turned to her brother. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed.
“Now then, if we are to leave for London the first thing in the morning,” Rosalind continued, “we should probably retire for the night.”
“Wait.” Willie stared. “You’re not going to Rome?”
“Of course not.” Rosalind shrugged. “Neither, I assume, is my brother.”
“Absolutely not,” Dante said with a short laugh. “I intend to accompany Lady Bascombe back to London.”
Marian and Jane traded glances.
“We’re coming too,” Jane said.
“I thought you wished to see Rome?” Willie looked around the room. “All of you.”
“Rome is the eternal city. I suspect it will always be there.” Jane glanced at the twins and they nodded. “We would much rather see what happens in London.”
“We have been together for this entire quest,” Marian began, “not that we knew it was a quest at the time. But not seeing it through with you to the end would be like reading an entire book and discovering the last chapter was ripped out.” Her jaw set. “We are going with you to London and there will be no more discussion about it.”
Willie’s gaze shifted from Jane to Marian and Geneva and the other girls. Her spirits inched upward a fraction. These were her friends and would stand beside her. It did indeed feel as if, once again, she were marching into battle.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Dante said.
Her gaze locked with his. She wasn’t at all sure why she was fighting him. Why she refused to give up. She could marry him and share the painting. But it did seem like giving up. To going back to being the type of woman who had no sense of responsibility and assumed others would take care of her. A woman no one assumed could be counted on. A woman who slid through life like a gondola on a canal. No, if she was going to be the woman she wanted to be, the woman these girls seemed to think she already was, she needed to do it on her own terms. She shook her head. “I don’t have an answer right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t be wrong about this, Dante. I made a mistake once and I will not make the same mistake again.”
“It’s the second time I’ve asked.” His tone hardened. “One would think you’d have an answer by now.”
“A great deal has happened since the first time you asked,” she snapped.
“Very well then, I withdraw the question.” He turned and started for the door.
“Can he do that?” Shock rang in Emma’s voice.
“Apparently,” Tillie said.
“I shall see everyone in the morning. Good evening.” Dante was out the door before Willie could say another word, snapping it closed sharply behind him.
Willie’s jaw clenched. Yes, she would become the woman she wanted to be.
No matter how high the price.
* * *
THEY WERE RETURNING very nearly the way they’d come. Venice to the western Italian coast then along the coast to France, north to Paris and across the channel to London. The journey was at once endless and yet not nearly as long as Willie needed. The more she pondered the question of what to do about Dante, the more confused she grew.
There was no doubt in her mind that she did indeed love him. That he was a good man and that more than likely she could trust him. Geneva had laid out the various considerations quite well. But how could Willie put her faith in a man who was unwilling to put her above the possession of a painting? As much as he claimed to love her, it was impossible to move past the thought that the Portinari was more important to him than she was.
One might say she was in the same position but one would be wrong. For Willie, in spite of its sentimental value, the painting was nothing more than the means to an end. The only way she had to keep her head above the swirling waters of financial ruin. If another means of survival were to present itself, she’d grab it at once.
It would be so very easy to give in. To exchange the painting for a life married to the man she loved. But what kind of future could they have together? She would always wonder if she was no more than second in his life. And wouldn’t he question if they were together because she had no choice? She had been married once to a man who—while claiming to love her—never put her above all else. And really, wasn’t that the very definition of love?
“It’s not at all fun, you know,” Willie said in a sharper manner than she intended.
Beside her, on the train to Genoa, Rosalind looked up from her magazine. “What is not at all fun?”
“Trying to live up to principles you didn’t know you had.”
“Congratulations, my dear.” Rosalind turned her attention back to her magazine. “You are learning two lessons most of us learned when we became adults. First—it is far easier to talk about one’s principles than to live up to them.”
“And the second?”
“Life, for the most part, is not fun. Oh, it might be most amusing but fun is secondary, a bonus if you will. You and your husband spent your lives having a great deal of fun without regard to responsibility or rules or, for that matter, principles in general.” She turned a page. “Now you are discovering the difficulty of doing what you think is right. Right is not the least bit easy. Or fun.”
Willie rubbed her forehead. Her head had throbbed on and off since they left Venice. “What should I do?”
Rosalind sighed and met Willie’s gaze. “I do so love to give advice, and it’s usually quite good, but I have no idea what you should do. However, I do wish you and my brother would at least speak to each other.”
“We agreed not to deal with the matter of ownership of the painting until we were back in London. Beyond that—” Willie shook her head and tried to ignore the lump in her throat “—we have nothing to talk about.”
“Are you still in love with him?”
“Apparently.”
Rosalind studied her. “Men rule the world, Willie. There’s nothing to be done about it, it’s simply the way things are. It is only in these little matters of dignity that we have any say at all.”
Willie stared. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”
“It’s simple, my dear.” Rosalind smiled, opened her magazine and turned her attention to it. “Do nothing.”