A Duke Never Yields (12 page)

“Three hundred. Very long ago. The castle, it was almost new, built by the great lord, the Signore Monteverdi, who . . .”

“Signore Monteverdi! But the castle’s owned by a fellow named Rosseti, isn’t it?”

Morini spooned the tea leaves into the teapot. “Now, is different. Then, is the castle of the Monteverdi. He and the Medici in Firenze, the great prince, they are friends, they make much gold together. The signore’s father, he start the castle, and the signore finish it. He comes with his new bride, the daughter of the Medici . . .”

“A princess!”

“No, not the princess. She is the daughter of his lover, his mistress, not the daughter of the wife. But she is . . . how do you say? The apple of his mouth?”

“His eye, I believe.”

“She is his apple, his best-beloved, and he give her in the marriage to Signore Monteverdi, his great friend, so she will live not far away.” The teakettle sang; Morini took her cloth and wrapped it around the handle and poured the water into the curving blue and yellow teapot. “She is beautiful, she is charming, she is kind and wise. Everybody love the new signora. Signore Monteverdi, he is mad for her, he has the frenzy of love, he adore the stones because she put her feet on them. It is nine months, she give him a beautiful baby son.”

“Of course she does.”

Morini was bustling about, fetching the pot of fresh cream, the sugar, the silver spoon. The air seemed to swirl around her in the warm, fragrant kitchen, made of old stone and old wood. The same stone, the same wood, that this long-ago Signore Monteverdi and his lady would have known; the same hearth that had cooked their food. Abigail laid her hand against the table and traced her finger along the grain.

“The signore is so happy. The baby is strong, the mother is safe. He buy her many jewels, many clothes. His love grow and grow. It fill the castle and the vines and the village below. It is not a year, and the signora’s belly is great again with another baby.”

“Oh, the brute!”

Morini shrugged and poured the tea through the strainer into Abigail’s cup. “He love her. She is young, she is beautiful. Is the way of nature. Her belly grow, the summer come. Her time, it is upon her, and the signore wait in the library all through the night, while she has the labor.”

Abigail’s hand began to tremble as she lifted the teacup to her lips. “I take it this birth was not so straightforward?”

“No, signorina. It is not.” Morini’s voice roughened. “The beautiful signora, she has much pain, much struggle. The sound of her scream, her pain, it fill the castle. The signore wait and he wait in the library, and he hear her screams all the night. He lock the door, he let in nobody.”

“How dreadful! Though of course he had only himself to blame, the unruly satyr.”

Morini shot her a quelling look. “In the morning, there is a tiny baby, a little girl, but the mother . . . the dear signora . . .” She choked and swallowed.

“Bled out, I suppose. The poor thing.” Abigail bowed her head. “And her babies never even knew her.”

“She is carry to Firenze, where the Medici and the signore, they put her in the tomb in the Duomo and have a great . . . a marble . . .” She shaped her hands.

“A statue?”

“Yes! A statue for her tomb. Is very beautiful, they say. And the little girl . . .”

“Did she live?”

Morini eased herself into the chair opposite Abigail. “She live.”

“I suppose Signore Monteverdi hated her for it. Your great men are all alike, blaming everyone but themselves, holding grudges and whatnot. You’d think a simple mea culpa would kill them . . .”

“No, he is not hating her. He love her. All the love he is having for the signora, he give to her. He say, the signora give her her spirit, she is like the signora reborn.”

Abigail frowned. “Isn’t that a little . . . well . . .” She twirled her finger in an expressive circle.

“She look exactly like the signora, her mother. Leonora, he name her, just like his bride. She is beautiful. She smile, she laugh, all the day she is happy and filling of joy. The signore, he spend every minute with her.”

“Do you know, I rather dread to hear what comes next,” said Abigail, drinking her tea.

Morini’s eyes drifted to the wall behind Abigail, as if she could see the castle’s ancient occupants dancing in the distance. “The years, they pass, and the Signorina Leonora grow and grow, until she is nearly a woman. The most beautiful girl in all Toscana. When she is turning sixteen, the signore, he take her to Firenze, they stay with his old friend the Medici.”

“Oh, haven’t those two fallen out by now and poisoned each other?” Abigail said dryly.

“No, they are still the friends, by the grace of God,” said Morini, quite seriously. “Now, the Medici, he has a young man staying at his palazzo, a young Englishman, making his travels. He is a great man in England, they say. A lord. The lord of . . . I forget the name . . . Copperbridge?”

“Haven’t heard of him.”

“He is a great man, a handsome man, tall and strong and brave. He travel to Italy to learn, to study the art.”

“A perfect Renaissance prince. How charming for Leonora! I expect they fell in love directly,” said Abigail.

Morini’s gaze returned, shining, to meet Abigail’s. “Oh, the love! It is instant, like this.” She snapped her fingers. “They are in love, they dance all the night, they cannot take the eyes from the other. Everyone watch them together, everyone is happy. Everyone except . . .”

“Monteverdi, I expect, the old letch.” Abigail sighed. “Men,
really
.”

Morini’s eyebrows lifted. “What is this letch?”

“Generally speaking, a chap who . . . well, never mind. Carry on. I suppose Signore Monteverdi ordered the poor Englishman away, forbade him to visit, locked up sweet Leonora in a nunnery . . .”

Morini’s eyes grew round. “You are hearing the story already?”

“Call it intuition.”

“It is not this nunnery, however,” said Morini, settling back in her chair. “Is only the castle, the Castel sant’Agata, these stones.” She waved her hand at the walls. “But it is prison to Leonora. She is not going outside, she is not leaving her room. The signore, he lock all the doors, he sit in his library, he drink the wine and the grappa . . .”

“But hold on a moment.” Abigail set her teacup in the saucer with a clatter. “Didn’t he have a son, as well? Didn’t he care about the boy at all?”

Morini looked down at her hands, spread like fans across the worn wooden table. “The young Monteverdi, he is like other boys. He is strong and brave, he studies with the tutors, he is sent to Firenze. He love his sister very much.”

“Then he must have felt things dreadfully.”

“He does not say. He try to speak to the signore, to allow the marriage. He is the friend, the great friend of the Englishman, you see.”

“Oh! Well, that’s awkward.”

“But there is not hope. The signorina, she is a prisoner, and the young English lord, he is growing mad with his love, he is desperate. He find a house in the village, he put on the clothes of the peasant, he watch the castle day and night. He find the signorina’s maid when she is outside, he beg her to help.” Morini reached for the teapot and refilled Abigail’s cup. “The maid, she say she will help, she take the signorina a note.”

“Plucky maids! Clandestine correspondence! Oh, marvelous,” said Abigail. “Did she get the note, or did old Monteverdi waylay the maid first?”

“She has the note. She is so happy! She dry her tears, she write back to her English lord. She will change the dress with her maid, they will meet in the night, when the castle is sleeping.”

“Oh, heavens! Say no more, Morini. You must recall my virgin ears.” Abigail paused. “So
did
they? Meet?”

“
Si
, signorina. Young love, it must have its way. All the spring, they meet, they have comfort in the other, until it is June, and the signorina, the poor Leonora, she find out . . .” Morini’s voice trailed off. She looked down at her hands.

“Copperbridge is courting another girl? He’s drinking in the village tavern all night, gambling away his fortune?”

Morini whispered, “She is with child.”

“Oh.” Abigail, who did not generally blush, felt an unaccustomed warmth rise into her cheeks. “Yes, quite. Midnight meetings have that effect, I suppose.”

“Leonora does not want to tell to her lover the baby,” Morini went on, “but the maid, she has much worry, she write a note. The Englishman read the note and he say, it is enough, Leonora must be mine now. They will run away together. He will come at midnight on the evening of the Midsummer, when the castle and the village have the
festa
, and take her away.”

“Midsummer’s Eve! I swoon,” said Abigail. “Did they manage it?”

Morini rose and picked up a fire iron and nudged at the fire. “The signorina, she dress as a servant, she put on her mask. The maid, she steal the key and let out the signorina from her room at midnight, as she has done all the spring. Leonora, she wait in the courtyard for her English lord. She is happy, she is sad. She love her English lord, but she is hurting her father, who love her, too. She is making dishonor for him. Her heart is so soft, so tender.”

“She’s a better woman than I am, by God. I’d have stuck a dagger between his ribs by now,” said Abigail.

“At last her lord come to the courtyard to take her. She say to him, wait, I must say the good-bye. The Englishman say to her no, if you say good-bye, the Monteverdi will never let you go. Then the maid, the maid of the signorina, she run into the courtyard, she say to hurry, the Signore Monteverdi is coming!
Hurry
, she say to them.
Hurry!
But . . .” Morini replaced the fire iron and stared at the coals. “Is too late.”

“Of course it was. All that dithering about. What were they thinking?”

“The signore rush in, he see the lovers. He insult the Englishman, say to him, he is a dog, a mongrel. He will call the guards for to take him to prison. The English say he will not go to prison like a criminal, he is a man of the honor. If the signore wish to have the duel he will meet him.”

“How medieval.”

“The Signorina Leonora, she tell him no, no! She cannot see her lover do the duel with her father. Then Signore Monteverdi, he turn to his daughter and call her terrible names, names of dishonor. So the English lord, he . . . he . . . oh, the good English lord.” Morini shook her head. “He tell Signore Monteverdi his Leonora is the angel from heaven, she is pure, that the sin is all to him. He take out his pistol, he say to the signore, see? I give you my pistol, do what you will to me. And he throw down his pistol to the ground.” She made a motion with her hand. “Right down to the stone of the courtyard.”

“Well, that was downright silly,” said Abigail. “What use is he to Leonora without a pistol?”

“He mean to do the honor, to make himself sacrifice for the lady. And do you know what is happen?”

“Something horrible, I’m sure.”

“The pistol, it
fire
. It hit the ground, and it fire, right into the chest of the old signore.” Morini pointed her finger like a gun, and fired it off against the wall.

“What? That’s impossible!” Abigail leapt to her feet.

“No, signorina. Is possible. It happen. Signore Monteverdi, he fall to the ground, crying the murder. He is dying. With the last of his breath, he curse the poor signorina, he curse my poor Leonora. Her father, the last of his breath, and he curse her and her English lord. He say, they shall never again know the true love, shall never be free, until his soul is revenge.”

Morini’s face was pink, her eyes glittering. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Behind her, the fire gave a little pop of sympathy.

“Oh, Morini,” breathed Abigail. “Oh, signorina.”

“He curse her,” whispered Morini. “She and the English lord, they run into the night, and no one hear the word from them. The young Signore Monteverdi, her brother, he search and search for her. And the castle . . .”

Abigail wiped her cheeks. “What of the castle, Morini?”

“The castle, ever since, it hold the breath. It wait and it wait for the curse to end.”

“The curse? Her father’s curse?” Abigail looked back up at Signorina Morini.

Morini eased herself back into the chair opposite Abigail and reached one hand across the table. “The servants, they leave. The brother, the young signore, he never return. Is only two left, waiting and waiting, until the curse is no more.”

“Two left?” Abigail reached out her own hand and touched Morini’s fingertips. They were solid flesh, real beyond question. “You and Giacomo?”

“
Si
, signorina,” said Morini. Her eyes were still brimming. “Me and Giacomo. I have the indoors, he has the outdoors. I have the ladies, he has the gentlemen.”

“What does that mean?”

“Until the curse is lift. Until the debt, the blood debt of the young lovers, is made to pay.”

“But what is the debt? What must be paid?”

“Signorina, is impossible. You must not ask. For three hundred years, we try and we try, we wait and we wait. Is impossible.”

Abigail leaned forward and took Morini’s other hand in hers. “Please, Morini. Tell me. I swear, I’ll do everything in my power. I’ll bring you justice, I swear it.”

Morini stroked Abigail’s fingertips and looked into her eyes. She sighed, so deeply it seemed to come from the very center of her soul.

“An English, signorina,” she said softly. “An English lord give his true love, pledge his life, to the lady who live in the castle.”

Abigail felt her heartbeat slow, as if time itself were dragging to a halt. “
Which
English lord, Signorina Morini?” she whispered.

Morini closed her eyes and spoke so quietly, the words nearly dissolved into the air before Abigail could hear them.

“Who is to know, until the deed is done, the curse is broken? I say only, the English lord and his lady, to join in faithful love, before the end of the midsummer moon. To give life again, to give back to the Monteverdi the life it lose.”

SEVEN

A
bigail walked back from the stableyard in a daze.