CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Itinerary.
Genoa and Verona.
Today we leave picturesque Monaco behind and begin our journey through Italy, winding our way along the coast to spend two nights each in both Genoa and Verona. After arrival in Genoa, we shall stroll the streets of the ancient seaport and begin our exploration of the home of the Discoverer of America. A full day in Genoa will allow us to enjoy its sun-drenched slopes, scenic beauty and evidence of its fabled history.
Then it’s on to Verona, the setting for what many consider to be one of Shakespeare’s finest tales. Here we will experience the faded influence of the Roman Empire and the splendor that was the Italian Renaissance.
“I WAS WONDERING, WILLIE...” Marian sat down at the table Willie had commandeered for herself at the far end of the lounge car.
Their party had taken up most of the seating in the car reserved for first-class passengers, much to the annoyance of the occasional traveler who wandered through the car looking, no doubt, for a bit of peace. But with four young women, all talking at nearly the same time and all vying for the attention of a handsome young man, the newest member of their group, an assortment of four other women, including two Americans, and a vile despicable creature, peace was not to be found. At least not here.
Willie looked up from her guidebook and adopted a pleasant tone. “Yes?”
“Actually, we were both wondering...” Jane settled in another seat.
Willie’s gaze slid from one American to the other. “Do I want to know what you were wondering or are we all better off keeping our questions to ourselves?”
The ladies exchanged cautious glances.
Jane drew a deep breath. “No, we don’t think we are. Better off that is.”
“Although I suppose it depends on exactly what you have to say,” Marian said.
“Very well.” It wasn’t hard to guess what had aroused Jane’s and Marian’s curiosity. As much as Willie tried to act as if nothing at all had happened by throwing herself into the role of tour leader, by being as efficient and informative and pleasant as possible, and by avoiding any private moments with Dante, even she was aware she wasn’t quite managing it.
It had been easy to ignore Dante all morning. She’d been busy seeing that her charges were ready to head onward to Italy. They had left Monaco around noon then changed trains for the five-hour trip to Genoa. There was no place to escape on a train but Willie simply made certain she was never alone with him. Not that there wasn’t a great deal she wished to say to him but she wanted, as well, to be calm and serene when she did so. Wanted her words to be well planned. Perfect. Better not to say anything at all for now. She feared the moment she said so much as a single word, everything would come pouring forth in an unending display of anger and heartache, exactly what she would prefer to avoid. And once she started, she might never be able to stop. Besides, she did wish to see just how far he would take his charade. Still, restraint wasn’t easy. Her fury hadn’t abated during the long hours of the night. Nor had her pain.
Willie closed her Murray’s Handbook for Travellers on the Riviera, folded her hands on top of the book and forced a pleasant smile. “What were you wondering?”
“We want to know if you and Mr. Montague have, well, made up,” Marian said.
“Judging from your mood today we suspect you haven’t.” Jane sighed, no doubt at the stupidity of men in general and Dante in particular. “We thought he was going to apologize last night.”
Marian nodded. “We urged him—”
“We insisted.”
“—that he do so.” Marian shook her head. “He looked so miserable.”
“And you did not look substantially better,” Jane added.
Willie drew her brows together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re talking about Mr. Montague’s dreadful behavior in recent days, of course,” Jane said. “And how last night it looked very much like the two of you had words while you were dancing.”
“So we told him to apologize at once.” Marian shook her head in disbelief. “He wanted to wait until today but we said that was not a wise idea.” She eyed Willie thoughtfully. “Apparently, he did not heed our advice.”
“Well?” Jane asked.
“Well what?” Willie arched a brow.
“Are you going to confirm our suspicions?” Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Because I warn you, Willie, our imaginations are probably far more creative than what has actually transpired.”
“One could say whatever has transpired between Mr. Montague and me is no one’s concern but ours.”
“One could certainly say that,” Marian began, “however, when one has friends who are worried, one might feel the need alleviate their anxiety.”
“I assure you there is nothing to worry about,” Willie said with a surprising show of serenity. “I am quite fine and in an excellent mood.”
“Yes, that’s what we thought.” Marian glanced at Jane who nodded. “Although you are being horribly efficient in your best travel hostess manner.”
“There’s nothing wrong with efficient. I daresay Miss Granville would heartily approve of my efforts to be competent and capable.”
“For goodness’ sake, Willie.” Marian huffed. “We didn’t want to travel with the efficient Miss Granville, we wished to tour with the spirited Lady Bascombe.”
“You what?” Willie stared.
“You thought we weren’t aware of your past reputation?” Jane scoffed. “How silly of you—of course we were. But after our lengthy stay in England, we had no desire to spend a month traveling with someone unquestionably proper and boring.” Jane smiled. “We wanted you.”
“Miss Granville took it upon herself to make us both aware of your background before we left London.” Marian leaned forward in a confidential manner. “But it did seem to us that far more was made of the incidents she related than should have been which we blame on the relative stuffiness of English society.”
“On the contrary, the blame is entirely mine,” Willie said firmly. “Why, I’ll have you know, I was impetuous and daring and on occasion even shocking. And while I’m not particularly proud of it, I’m not ashamed of it either. I had a great deal of fun. I daresay I would have been considered quite madcap even in America.” Good Lord. Obviously being around Val—a man who was unrepentantly proud of his reputation—had had a horrible influence on her. “Although I have changed a lot since my younger days.” She shrugged. “The revelations that accompany widowhood tend to do that, I believe. At least they did for me. I hope you haven’t been disappointed if I have not been as outrageous as you had hoped.”
“Not at all.” Jane waved off the comment. “We really didn’t want outrageous as much as we wanted someone who wasn’t, oh, stuffy. You’ve suited us well and we’ve become friends, which is so much better than we could have imagined.”
“And because we have come to know you, it’s easy to see that today you are not your usual lighthearted self,” Marian added.
“Nonsense. I am exactly as I always am.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Jane stood and picked up Willie’s guide from the table. She flipped it open and cleared her throat. “On our right,” she said in a poor imitation of an English accent as she gestured to the right-hand windows, “we have the Ligurian Sea, lovely on the surface but deceitful and treacherous beneath the waves.”
Willie snorted back a laugh. “I do not sound like that.”
“And on our left—” Marian rose to her feet and waved at the left-hand windows “—we are passing the charming village of Andora, where one can just make out the ruins of a castle said to be haunted by a papal nuncio who was murdered here some centuries ago. The victim of lies and betrayal.”
“Your accent is no better than Jane’s.”
Jane ignored her. “On the right side, our view of the beautiful Ligurian continues, the sea crashing against the rocky coast with a vengeance known only by those who have been cruelly mistreated and deceived.”
“While here on our left, the small village of Alassio, named for the daughter of an emperor who fled here with her lover, who no doubt treated her quite badly in a devious and vile manner as men are prone to do.” Marian raised a brow. “Do you see a recurring theme here?”
Willie wrinkled her nose. “Possibly.”
Jane sat back and tossed the guidebook onto the table. “You haven’t said two words to Mr. Montague all day and those few you have have been nothing more than polite and rather cold.”
Marian plopped back into her seat. “There’s been none of that flirtatious banter we all so enjoy watching. No sidelong glances, no longing looks.”
Willie scoffed. “I have never looked longingly at him.”
“Perhaps not but he has looked longingly at you.” Jane paused. “He still does.”
“It scarcely matters what he does or doesn’t do,” Willie said staunchly. “I want nothing more to do with him.”
“Really?” Jane studied her closely then chose her words with care. “This has nothing to do with his jealousy of Lord Brookings, does it? One doesn’t use words like treachery or betrayal or lies when it comes to that sort of behavior. No, Mr. Montague has done something else, hasn’t he?”
“I don’t wish to discuss it.”
“Come now, Willie,” Marian said, “you can tell us.”
“No, Marian.” Jane laid her hand on Marian’s arm but her gaze stayed on Willie. “It appears this is far more serious than we had thought. If Willie doesn’t want to talk about it, we shouldn’t persist. But, Willie.” Her gaze met Willie’s directly. “If you change your mind, we are always willing to listen.” She smiled. “And offer sage advice if needed.”
“It’s what friends do and we are your friends.” Marian nodded. “No matter what, we will always be on your side.”
“That is good to know.” Her spirits lifted. A man had deceived her and toyed with her affections and, yes, broken her heart, but she had friends. Real friends. Women who were concerned about her, who would stand by her regardless of what might happen. Affection for these women washed through her.
“Now then.” Jane’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “What charming, picturesque village fraught with treachery and deceit perpetrated by wicked, heartless men will we be passing next?”
* * *
COULD ONE ASK for better friends than Jane and Marian? The ladies took it upon themselves to keep Willie from any and all inadvertent, private encounters with Dante, closing ranks around her with the precision of a military exercise. From the moment they arrived in Genoa, the Americans were by her side. And that, together with her schedule, would maintain Willie at least for now.
Willie wasn’t at all sure what she had expected, she had studied her guidebooks after all, but Genoa was a bustling seaport with more than a hundred thousand residents. Not as sizable as London by any means but far larger than the rustic village she had expected. Immediately after checking in to the Hotel Continental, the group agreed to a stroll before dinner. Jane had especially wanted to see the monument to Columbus with its marble statue of the explorer together with a female figure representing America and seated figures portraying Geography, Discretion, Steadfastness and Religion on the four corners of the huge square pediment. It was most impressive even if Geneva had felt compelled to point out it was likely Columbus was not actually born in Genoa and, furthermore, the city had turned down his request to fund his voyages; therefore the shrine was the height of irony. Still, it was an imposing monument.
Rosalind decided Bertie would be fully Dante’s responsibility. Which meant Dante was also saddled with the girls, all of whom seemed to find the handsome Mr. Goodwin quite dashing, much to Harriet’s annoyance. Young Bertie, with his brown hair and blue eyes, was indeed charming even if a bit inexperienced. One could almost see the young man’s head swell with every passing moment and every adoring glance from the girls. Apparently, the admiration of not one but four lovely young women stoked the boy’s confidence, as well. He was not nearly as intimidated by Dante as he had been last night—at least according to Harriet’s account of the story. If Willie had been inclined to give Dante credit for anything, and she wasn’t, she might have admired his cleverness at including Bertie in their group. After all, she doubted Harriet had spent any significant time in the young man’s company and now that he was part of their tour, they would be around each other constantly. There was nothing that bred contempt quite as quickly as proximity unless, of course, it was deception, betrayal and treachery.
After a pleasant evening and a fine dinner, everyone retired to their respective rooms. Willie noted a moment of gratitude to young Mr. Goodwin. If not for his presence in Dante’s rooms, the beast would no doubt have knocked on her door late in the night. She had no desire to have it out with him in the corridor of a hotel in the ancestral home of the discoverer of America. Tomorrow perhaps she would be calm enough to confront him. It was obvious today the man was completely confused by her refusal to so much as meet his gaze. Good. The very least he deserved was confusion.
Their full day in Genoa was bright and sunny, with balmy ocean breezes. The city was a fascinating mix of old and new. Ancient winding streets, so narrow one could almost touch the immensely high, brightly colored buildings on either side, climbed upward from the sea to the mountains in the oldest parts of the city. While few of the palaces from the days when Genoa ruled the sea were open for public viewing, one could easily see into the courtyards with their ornate columns and arches, marble arcades and grand stairways. They spent far more time than Willie would have liked in the Palazzo Rosso, a glorious Renaissance palace that now housed the most extensive collection of paintings in the city. Dante enjoyed it and lectured the others on the importance of one artist or another. The man should have been a professor.
The extent to which the past pervaded was all encompassing. And really quite fascinating. Who would have thought she would grow to like history? But one could almost hear the footsteps of those who had come before. The crusaders and explorers, admirals and princes.
A shrine to a saint or the virgin was on every corner. One wondered if that meant there were too many sinners or not enough. There were nearly as many churches or cathedrals—each and every one of them with something of historic or artistic merit. The earliest cathedral was said to occupy the site of a temple of Diana and included columns from the temple itself. It was a wonder some irate divinity didn’t smite them all.
And towering in the southern skies over the harbor the great lighthouse rose nearly four hundred feet into the sky. A suggestion that they climb to the top was met with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
It was late afternoon when they arrived at the Cathedral of San Lorenzo, a massive structure that had been built and rebuilt and altered for the past six hundred years. The facade was constructed of black-and-white marble so as to give the building a striped effect. Had it not been so imposing, Willie would have considered it rather whimsical in appearance. Still, in spite of the works of art and relics to be found within its walls, she reminded the others—as she had done every time they entered a church—that this was a place of worship and they should be restrained and respectful. Suitably subdued, they filed into the cathedral and immediately scattered. Willie noted Dante following Harriet and Bertie, who were probably just excited to see one of the many frescoes by Renaissance masters and not merely eager to escape the ever-watchful eyes of Harriet’s family. They would keep his attention for a while.
It was indeed a remarkable building. Dante would surely appreciate the cathedral’s frescoes and sculptures. Art here was part of the very character of the structure. Willie craned her neck to study the fresco in the vaulted ceiling of the choir. As much as she was not particularly interested in anything of an artistic nature, the paintings depicting the martyrdom of San Lorenzo were mesmerizing. Even from this distance, the life-size figures were finely detailed and quite extraordinary. She could see how, possibly, someone might be fascinated by works like this as well as by the men who created them.
“Might we talk for a moment?” Dante asked in a hushed voice beside her.
Blast it all. She’d been so busy staring at the fresco, she hadn’t heard him approach. “We’re in a church, Mr. Montague, a place of worship. This is neither the time nor the place.”
“Yes, of course but—”
“And I am deep in the appreciation of art, Mr. Montague. Art!” Her voice was louder than she had intended, and she drew a calming breath, then directed her attention to him. “Surely you understand art? How one can be taken with a painting?”
“Yes, I do. I didn’t expect that you...”
She narrowed her eyes. “That I what?”
“Well, you did say you were not especially fond of art.”
“I wasn’t.” She shrugged. “Now I am.”
“I find that hard to believe,” he said slowly.
“Believe what you want. But we are in Italy, the heart of the Renaissance. Some of the most magnificent works of civilized man were created during that period.” Thank God she continued to study her guidebooks. She sounded shockingly well-versed. “The painting above is the work of Lazzaro Tavarone, considered late Renaissance. He was a native of Genoa, although he also painted in Spain.”
Dante stared.
“Close your mouth, Mr. Montague. That look is not at all becoming.” She turned to leave but he grabbed her arm.
“Are you angry with me?”
“Why?” Her jaw tightened. “What have you done?”
“Nothing.” His voice rang with confused innocence. It would have been most effective had she not known the truth. “If this is about the other night—”
“It’s not.” She cast a pointed look at his hand on her arm and he released her.
“Because I thought it was remarkable. I thought—” his gaze searched hers “—it was a beginning.”
“You were wrong,” she said sharply, ignoring the awful hurt that stabbed through her as she said the words.
“If this is about Bertie—”
“It’s not.” Panic warred with anger within her. Another few moments and she would lose all control and tell him what she thought of him. Tell him how much he had devastated her. And she would do so at the top of her lungs right here surrounded by sacred relics and the ghosts of saints and martyrs. And would no doubt immediately be struck by a thunderbolt from the heavens and eventual eternal damnation. “If you will excuse me.”
“At least tell me what I have done.” The plaintive note in his voice nearly pulled her up short but she didn’t so much as hesitate in her march down the aisle to the front of the church. The significance was not lost on her.
“Willie.” He was right behind her.
She whirled to face him. “I can’t believe a man of your intelligence cannot ascertain that for himself!”
“Lady Bascombe.” Geneva appeared beside them, righteous indignation in her eyes and apparently oblivious to what she’d interrupted. Willie could have kissed her.
She summoned a measure of calm. “What is it, Geneva?”
“Did you know they have the ashes of Saint John the Baptist here?”
Willie nodded. It was in one of her guidebooks.
“They have a special chapel and that’s where the ashes are. But—” Geneva paused for dramatic effect “—women are not allowed inside. Can you imagine such a thing?”
“It’s probably some sort of superstition,” Dante offered.
“No, it’s retribution.” The girl fairly quivered with outrage. “Because a woman—Salome—demanded John the Baptist’s head.”
“I suppose that’s the price to be paid—” Willie’s narrowed gaze shifted to Dante “—for betrayal and treachery.”
“But it’s not fair that we all have to pay.” Geneva huffed. “I have certainly never demanded some man’s head on a platter.”
“And let us hope you never need to, although one can certainly understand the temptation.” Willie shot a chilling look at Dante then took Geneva’s elbow and steered her toward the front of the church.
Geneva leaned close and spoke softly. “You’re still angry at him, aren’t you?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Willie said lightly. “Did your mother say something?”
“Mother didn’t have to. It’s obvious you’re angry. The other girls have been talking about it. And it’s just as obvious that he has no idea why.”
Willie glanced at her. “You really aren’t upset about not being able to go into the chapel, are you?”
“Oh, I think it’s unconscionable. It is nearly the twentieth century after all.” Geneva shrugged. “But as it looked to me that you were about to smack Mr. Montague at any minute, I thought it best to provide a distraction and initiate a rescue.”
Willie choked back a laugh. “You are a clever girl.”
Geneva grinned.
“You don’t think he knows what he’s done?”
“Lady Bascombe, I have two older brothers. I have seen that look on the face of a man before.” She hesitated. “I really don’t think it’s fair, you know.”
“Not being allowed into the chapel?” Willie asked in an effort to steer Geneva in another direction. “I’m afraid there is nothing we can do about it.”
“Not that, although it isn’t fair, but Mr. Montague not knowing why you’re mad at him.”
“Probably not.” Willie’s jaw tightened. “But he prides himself on his intelligence. Let him figure it out.” The question was—when would he manage to do so? Regardless, she intended to be prepared when he finally confessed all. Forewarned was certainly forearmed in this case. Indeed, at the moment, it did seem she had all the cards.
Now she had to determine exactly how she wished to play them.
* * *
THIS TRICK OF getting nine—now ten—people from place to place was proving easier and easier. Perhaps Willie would indeed continue escorting travelers for the Lady Travelers Society. There were worse ways to spend one’s life than traveling the world. Certainly Willie’s Italian was little better than her French—she would have to work on that—but Geneva and the twins spoke it rather well. The train trip to Verona was uneventful and surprisingly calm, although there were undercurrents ebbing throughout the entire party.
Harriet was not happy with Bertie, who did seem most apologetic even if he did not desist flirting with the other girls entirely. At some point Willie might want to warn Harriet that men who were overly flirtatious in their youth rarely abandoned that tendency in later life. Although one probably couldn’t blame the boy. The twins showered him with endless attention and Geneva was an excellent conversationalist and extremely engaging when the discussion was a matter of intellectual interest. Bertie was far smarter than he had first appeared, and it was hard not to see that he and Geneva seemed to have more in common than he and Harriet did. Which might or might not have been noticed by Harriet but was certainly noted by both Marian and Rosalind—to one’s dismay and the other’s delight. As much as Marian longed for a prestigious match for her daughter, the youngest son of an earl with no prospect of a title was not what she had in mind, although Willie would wager she would have overlooked that discrepancy if the boy was heir to a tidy fortune.
Rosalind was not the least bit pleased with Dante for inviting the young man to join their party and did not waver in her surveillance of her daughter. Dante acted as if nothing whatsoever had happened between him and Willie, which suited Willie, although whenever her gaze accidently strayed in his direction, he was inevitably studying her. She refused to acknowledge him. He could simmer in his own confusion—and hopefully guilt—for all she cared.
Willie and the others continued to marvel at the lack of rhyme or reason for the curious itinerary planned by the absent Mrs. Vanderflute. But there was no disputing Verona was all Willie had ever imagined an ageless Italian town to be with its brick and stucco, red-roofed buildings and cobblestone streets. Like Genoa, Verona was a mix of the ages but here the influence of ancient Rome was still apparent and blended with the glory days of the Renaissance when Verona was under control of Venice. There were certainly charming villages and evidence of ancient Rome’s reach in her own country but Willie had never paid much attention. It was simply part of the fabric of Britain. But the Americans were captivated and their enthusiasm was contagious. Willie did wish she had paid more attention to her studies in school but history in a book had been dry and deadly. Here it was alive.
Even the twins were impressed when they arrived at the Grand Hotel de Londres, a palace built nearly four hundred years ago. Tillie announced that Mozart had once stayed here according to her guidebook. Tillie had only begun looking at a guidebook in recent days. Willie’s guide noted there had been any number of auspicious events at the hotel, including the coronations of kings and signing of treaties. She was finding her books more and more interesting. Even in one’s hotel room, one had the oddest sense of everyone who had come before. Besides, immersing oneself in history in a place like this was an excellent way to keep one’s mind occupied and off despicable cads.
The group settled into their accommodations then gathered to begin their exploration of the city. But it wasn’t just the evidence of the Roman past or the faded grandeur of the Renaissance palaces that permeated the atmosphere here. There was an annoying sense of romance in the air, which could be laid firmly at the feet of one of England’s native sons.
“Verona.” Harriet sighed as they strolled down the street. She cast a pointed look at Bertie. “The home of Romeo and Juliet. Isn’t it perfect?”
The other girls murmured their agreement.
“Romeo was a Montague too,” Emma said, with a flirtatious smile at Dante. She’d been dividing her attention between Bertie and Dante since they’d arrived in Italy. Of course, Dante had looked well turned out in his formal attire on their last night in Monte Carlo. Quite dashing really. One couldn’t blame the girl for developing a crush on an older man. Willie knew any number of couples whose age differences were far greater than Emma and Dante’s. It was most annoying. To his credit, Dante did his best not to encourage her. In that alone he might have had a streak of decency.
“Do remember, ladies,” Jane said, “they were fictional.”
“And they did not end well,” Rosalind added in a grim manner, aiming a pointed look first at her daughter and then at Bertie.
“I’m not so sure about Juliet being fictional,” Tillie said, reading from her guidebook. “It says right here that the tomb of Juliet...oh.”
Emma peered over her sister’s shoulder. “It says the author won’t mention the tomb of Juliet as it is a dreadful fraud.” She frowned. “But he also says the real tomb was destroyed long ago.” She looked at her mother. “That makes no sense if indeed Juliet wasn’t real.”
“It’s not our country, dear,” Jane murmured.
Surely Willie had not been nearly as susceptible to romantic nonsense about star-crossed lovers at their age? Although it was very nearly at the age the girls were now that she had made the foolish decision to run off and marry George so perhaps her memories weren’t entirely accurate. And she had thought herself in love.
Still, if one was going to lose one’s heart in an affair that would not end well, perhaps there was not a more beautiful place than Verona in which to do it. Fortunately, as Willie’s heart had already been shattered, she would not succumb to the temptation of romance that shimmered in the very air around them, although that was absurd. She was no doubt mistaken. Still, it did seem the ancient city conspired to remind her of Dante should she for a moment put him out of her mind.
They weren’t ten minutes from the hotel when they happened upon a piazza with a larger-than-life statue of Dante Alighieri. It was in these grand houses that he had apparently taken refuge after being banished from Florence. The figure carved in marble was of a fine-looking scholarly man. Everyone thought it most amusing although Dante did seem somewhat smug at encountering a statue of the poet he was named after. Perhaps he had failed to notice the pigeons roosting on the head of that particular Dante.
Admittedly, he might have the tiniest reason to be smug. He was certainly in his element. Dante was as well versed in architecture as he was in art and one couldn’t take two steps here without tripping over a painting or sculpture by names Willie couldn’t pronounce that all tended to sound the same. The man never failed to turn an answer into a lecture and didn’t hesitate to flaunt his knowledge whenever possible. As much as she hated to admit it, his explanations were fascinating and while she pretended not to listen, she did. Odd how much more interesting and engaging he sounded now than when they first met. She was truly enjoying the frescoes and marble reliefs, intricately painted domed ceilings of the religious and public buildings, and the oddly compelling church-like spires of Verona’s ornate tombs. Although, by their second day in Verona, she would rather see anything as long as it wasn’t yet another Madonna-and-child painting. Perhaps her unbending adherence to their schedule was at least partially to blame for her growing impatience. Marian had grumbled about the relentless pace and the diabolical itinerary while Jane had mentioned that Willie herself was beginning to be a bit cranky.
Well, who would have imagined such a thing? Just because that vile loathsome creature had apparently decided that if she wasn’t going to talk to him then he wasn’t going to attempt to talk to her. Not that she had any desire to talk to him at the moment. But he claimed to be a man in love. Hah! A man truly in love would certainly not give up this easily. It had only been four days after all. Not unless his declaration of love was a lie too. The knife that had lodged in her heart when she’d learned his true purpose twisted. Hard.
After a long day of ornate churches, ancient monuments and fourteenth-century palaces turned museums, Willie steered her weary group to the ancient Roman arena, said to rival the Colosseum in Rome. Oh, it was in some disrepair, much of the outer wall had crumbled, but all in all it was in adequate shape for something built nearly two thousand years ago. At least the vendors who had set up their wares in the shelter of the arcade around the perimeter of the building seemed confident in the integrity of the structure. And apparently it was still used for theatrical performances, as well. The sound projection was said to be as good as any contemporary theater.
Willie was not alone in being somewhat ill-tempered at this point. Harriet had been sniping at Bertie all day, culminating in a spat just before they entered the arena, much to Rosalind’s barely concealed glee.
They meandered into the arena and for a moment, Willie could have sworn she heard the cheers of audiences long dead and gone to dust, although it was more likely the groans of her band of tired travelers. Harriet and the other girls immediately climbed the steps to the first tier of seats and collapsed. Jane, Rosalind and Marian declared their intention not to climb so much as a single step that wasn’t necessary and instead wandered aimlessly around the interior of the arena, idly examining the ancient structure. Dante and Bertie stood some distance away, engaged in earnest conversation probably about Bertie’s quarrel with Harriet given the way the young man kept looking at her. Willie did hope the poor boy wasn’t asking Dante for advice.
After a minute or two, Bertie approached the girls sitting some five feet above him, Dante lingering a few steps behind.
Bertie cleared his throat. “‘But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief.’”
The girls exchanged suspicious glances.
“What do you want?” Harriet snapped.
“I am making a—” Bertie glanced at Dante who nodded “—a grand romantic gesture in the city where star-crossed lovers pledged their eternal love.”
“He does know they died, doesn’t he?” Geneva said to the twins.
“I wouldn’t wager on it.” Tillie scoffed.
“But he is terribly dashing,” Emma said with a sigh.
Bertie glanced at Dante, who nodded. Obviously he was giving the boy the benefit of his questionable wisdom regarding women. Oh, this should be good.
Bertie began again. “‘She speaks. O, speak again, bright angel for thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head as is a winged messenger of heaven.’”
“That’s not the next line,” Tillie said under her breath to her sister.
Emma shrugged.
Harriet stood, stepped to the edge of the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. “Go on.”
“‘Unto the white upturned wondering eyes of...of...’” Bertie cast a helpless look at Dante.
“‘Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him,’” Dante said in a stage whisper.
Bertie tried again. “‘Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him and...and...’”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Rosalind approached her brother with all the fury of a hen protecting her chick. “This has nothing to do with you and I would suggest you stay out of it!”
“I am trying to help the only other male in sight,” Dante said sharply. “And I don’t care if you like it or not. There comes a time, sister dear, that men have to stand together or we shall all surely perish under the weight of an elegantly shod female foot!”
“And well deserved I might add! You are scarcely one to give advice.” She nodded pointedly at Willie. “Might I suggest you resolve your own problems before you try to solve anyone else’s!”
He stared at her then nodded. “You’re absolutely right.” Dante turned to Willie. “Lady Bascombe, if I might have a word?”
For a long moment Willie stared at him. Why not have it out with him here and now? Hadn’t she been considering exactly what she wanted to say for the past four days? Even so, she wasn’t at all sure she was ready. She didn’t want to reflect later on what she should have said now. This was her one opportunity to salvage a tiny bit of her dignity. Still, there would never be a perfect time. Besides, she was tired of wondering what he would say to her. What possible justification he could have for his deceit.
Once again the cheers of the absent crowd rang in her ears.
“Why, Mr. Montague.” She cast him a brilliant smile. “I would be delighted.”