Nicholas: The Lords of Satyr (5 page)

J
ane knelt on the brick path that wound through her aunt’s garden and jabbed her small spade into the soil, loosening and turning. She discovered a sickly patch of variegated applemint and lifted it.

“Poor dear. Not to worry. I’ll fix you right up. I wonder, which of the mulches would you prefer?”

“Do they ever talk back?” a girlish voice teased from behind her.

Jane gave a start and glanced over her shoulder to find her younger sister, Emma, grinning at her.

She smiled and shrugged, casually moving so her body shielded the bed where she’d been working. “If they could, I imagine they’d be denouncing our aunt’s previous gardener. He neglected them shamefully.”

“But they’re improving under your care,” said Emma, craning to see Jane’s handiwork.

Jane was unsurprised to notice that Emma held a book in her skirts. She motioned toward it, hoping to divert her sister’s attention. “What do you have there?”

Emma held up the leather-bound tome and opened it to a particular passage she’d marked with a strip of velvet.

“It’s Carl Linnaeus’
Philosophia Botanica.
I have decided to attempt to plant a floral clock such as he describes. Just imagine being able to tell the time simply from the blooming and fading cycle of a blossom.”

Jane’s brows rose. “The horologium florae? Many of the plants he suggests for the clock are wildflowers, are they not? Will you be able to locate them all here in Tivoli?”

Emma shook her head. “’Tis unlikely. But I’ve begun a survey to determine the opening and closing hours of native Italian plants. In place of any plants I cannot collect to match the twelve Linnaeus describes, I shall find substitutes that reflect the same timing!”

“Brilliant!” Jane enthused. Both sisters were intensely fond of botany. While Jane’s interest lent itself to actual tactile work among plants, Emma’s tended toward a more scholarly endeavor.

“Read to me while I finish up here,” Jane invited. “I’ve forgotten precisely which plants the clock calls for.”

Emma situated herself on an ironwork bench and began reading aloud.

Jane positioned herself so her interaction with the plants couldn’t easily be observed. There were some secrets she must keep safe, even from Emma.

Under her care, loam enriched. Tendrils sprouted and curled lovingly around her fingers. Weeds shrank away. Foxglove and orange blossoms sprang to life. Wilting snapdragons perked and brightened, their color intensifying as if by magic.

If only she could work such magic for her sister.

For she was deeply worried about Emma. Of what she might become—a creature like herself, possessed of an unnatural strangeness that must be hidden.

In mere months, Emma would reach her thirteenth year. For Jane, the change from girl to woman at thirteen had naturally meant moving from padded stays into the restriction of corsets. But at the same time that society had dictated her body be forced to morph into an hourglass shape, another equally unstoppable metamorphosis had begun within her.

Though Emma knew nothing of Jane’s bizarre abilities, their mother had. And that knowledge had caused everything to change between them. Her mother had stopped loving her, stopped touching her, and had watched her with new wariness. Jane had soon learned to conceal much of what she was.

Concealment. The word put her in mind of the lord with the pale blue eyes who had visited her tent at Villa d’Este.

She arched her back, stretching.

“Jane!”

At their aunt Izabel’s summons, the sisters exchanged hunted looks.

Emma jumped up and pulled at Jane’s arm. “Let’s hide.”

Jane forced a teasing grin to her lips. “Save yourself. Go finish your reading elsewhere. It’s me she wants.”

“Jane!” the shrill voice called again, nearer this time.

Emma mimed a face of comical terror and then grabbed her book and scampered away.

Jane understood her sister’s feelings completely. With reluctance she stood and removed her apron.

Her aunt tsked in annoyance when she saw her.

“Your fascination with this grubby garden is beyond my understanding. Just look at you. Filthy!”

Izabel smoothed Jane’s hair into place, and Jane let her. She tried to pretend such brusque assistance was offered with familial kindness.

“Disgraceful color. But there’s naught to be done about it, I suppose,” said Izabel.

Jane ignored the insult. Her pale blond hair, pointed chin, and fair English skin were very like her mother’s. While Emma had inherited their father’s ash-brown hair and eyes, Jane mirrored nothing of him.

Izabel dipped her handkerchief into the small garden fountain. When she returned, it was to scrub dirt from Jane’s cheek with dimpled, beringed hands.

Jane had avoided the touch of others for years, out of necessity. She only permitted it when it was unavoidable or to earn necessary coin in her fortunetelling.

“What does my appearance matter?” she asked, ducking away. “I have no plans to venture out.”

Slapping the soiled cloth onto the stone rim of the fountain, Izabel frowned, etching lines around her lips. “We have a guest. Or, rather,
you
have a guest.”

“Who?” Jane asked warily.

“You shall see. It will come as a welcome surprise, I’m sure.”

With trepidation, Jane followed her aunt into the salotto. There she found her father waiting, along with a signore who was becoming all too familiar to her.

Both men stood when the ladies passed through the tall white and gold doors.

“Buon giorno, Signorina Cova,” the visitor told her in greeting. Though his mouth smiled under his dark mustache, his small eyes did not. His checked waistcoat was well fitted and tasteful, his trousers creased. His dark hair was slicked and styled. He was as fastidious and presentable as he was repulsive.

“Buon giorno, Signore Nesta,” Jane replied.

Her hand was briefly enfolded in his cold, dry one. He wanted something from her. She felt it. But what? His touch had been too brief for her to meld yet too long for her to bear.

Her aunt sat a distance away, leaving her the chair closest to their visitor. Jane remained outwardly placid as he examined her in an appraising way, with his head slightly cocked as though attempting to determine her value.

She twitched her skirt in annoyance.

He said something in Italian to her aunt and father, and the three of them laughed. Her grasp of Italian was good, but he’d spoken colloquially and too quickly for her to catch his meaning.

“You’re well since we last met?” he inquired in heavily accented English.

“Yes. And you?” she replied.

“Molto bene, grazie.”

An awkward moment passed.

Her aunt sought to fill it. “The gardens are so colorful this time of year, aren’t they, signore? Jane has such a way with the plants. She’s making our gardens the liveliest in the neighborhood.”

Jane’s eyes widened. Suddenly her gardening skills were of value?

Signore Nesta nodded at Jane. “You would have suggestions to offer for the gardens at my villa, perchance? You must visit.”

Jane opened her mouth to decline, but her aunt stepped on her words.

“Oh, yes, we shall endeavor to visit quite soon.” She frowned at Jane. “Niece, Signore Nesta’s cup needs filling.”

Jane picked up the teapot and perfunctorily filled his cup.

When she leaned forward to hand it to him, Signore Nesta’s eyes dropped from her face to her form. She fought the impulse to cover herself. The lecher!

He smirked. “Salud!” he said, offering a mocking toast as he took the cup.

Though the conversation continued to flow around her, Jane didn’t participate further unless a direct question was put to her.

It occurred to her that Signore Nesta’s attention and avid glances meant one thing. That he wanted to wed her, in order that he might touch her with carnal familiarity.

Though she was uninformed regarding the specifics of what happened between married couples in private, she knew husbands expected to put their hands and lips on their wives. To somehow join their bodies together, producing children.

She didn’t want the signore’s hands or lips on her. In fact, now that she’d ascertained the nature of his interest, she felt physically under threat in his presence. He put her in mind of a particular kind of cuspidate, an ivy that pleased the eye but given enough time overpowered and suffocated every living thing around it.

Signore Nesta certainly knew more of the marriage bed than she. His wife had died bearing a third son to him in less than three years. He was still a young man, and she was very much concerned she was slated to become his next brood mare.

If she must marry someday, she’d prefer a husband who paid her scant attention, or maybe one with impaired sight. Signore Nesta’s gimlet eyes watched her every twitch. For that reason alone, he wouldn’t do.

The very last thing she needed was an observant, interfering husband. Such a man would quickly discern that all wasn’t right with her. He would realize she could do…feel…know…things that others couldn’t. Such a man would denounce her when he learned her secrets and discovered what she’d become.

Because whatever she was—she could no longer believe herself to be truly Human.

L
ate the next morning, Izabel dabbed her prim lips with a crisp napkin and then broke the silence pervading the dining room. “’Tis an incredible stroke of luck.”

Dressed in elegant peach satin, she sat to Jane’s left at one end of the oblong, damask-draped dining table. Jane’s father, who more than filled the delicate chair at the opposite end, looked up at her words.

“We must accept with haste lest the offer be withdrawn,” Izabel went on.

“Umm-hmm,” Jane murmured. Her attention was on the book lying open in her lap, half hidden below the lip of the table.

It was Homer’s
Odyssey
, which she’d enjoyed many times before. But today she studied one particular passage with new interest.

Homer mentioned a curative called allium moly. Hermes had given it to Odysseus as a protection against the magick of Circe the sorceress. Dare she hope it might prove to be the cure for her strangeness?

The idea had come to her yesterday when Emma had read to her from Linnaeus. Both he and the botanist Dioscorides had also spoken of the moly’s curative properties.

They’d described it as the moly she knew, which bore a simple yellow flower. Some termed it lily leek, while to others it was known as sorcerer’s garlic.

She longed to discuss the matter with her sister, though without revealing the reasons for her interest. However, the chair opposite her was empty, since Emma was at lessons with her Italian tutor upstairs.

“Well? Do you not agree?” Izabel’s tone had grown strident.

Jane tore her attention from the book. Alarmed, she realized both her aunt and father were staring at her expectantly. What had she missed?

“Um, I’m not sure….” she ventured. She reached for acroissant, filling her mouth to avoid finishing.

“Suffice it to say we find him satisfactory,” Jane’s aunt informed her. “You must accept him as your husband.”

Homer hit the floor with a muted
thunk
.

“What the devil?” Her father ducked his head under the crisp tablecloth to see what had caused the noise, leaving Jane to stare at her aunt.

“My w—what?” Jane asked faintly.

“Your husband, girl! What do you think I have been going on about for the past ten minutes?” Izabel picked up a serving spoon, surreptitiously admiring her reflection in its polished silver before she dipped it into the soup.

“Signore Nesta has offered?” Jane squeaked, fighting panic.

“No, not Nesta!” scolded Izabel. The ladle clinked to the table, as though adding an exclamation point to her annoyance.

“Someone else wishes to be my husband?”

“Not just someone,” her aunt continued. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward to divulge her precious nugget of information. “’Tis Lord Nicholas Satyr!”

Jane’s head jerked back. The man from the tent? He wanted to marry her? Her mind sought to bend itself around the news and couldn’t.

“Impossible.”

Izabel’s lips thinned. “A gentleman of wealth and standing has requested your hand in marriage and you say ‘impossible’?”

Bewildered, Jane shook her head. “It must be some sort of jest. He doesn’t even know me.”

“He claims a prior acquaintance,” said her aunt.

Jane was shocked into silence by this information. Had he seen through her disguise at Villa d’Este last week? Still, why now did he press his suit after twenty minutes of conversation with her at a fair?

“He came here?” she asked.

“And visited your father this very morning.”

Her head swiveled to her father.

“He’s titled, at least,” he mumbled into his plate.

“Yes, the name of Satyr had long been inscribed in the Libro d’Oro della Nobiltà Italiana,” added Izabel. “You will do no better for a husband.”

That the man’s family was listed in the registers of Italian nobility maintained at the offices of the Consulta Araldica made his offer for her even more absurd.

Jane ladled soup from the tureen into her bowl and strove for a rational tone. “But I’m not ready to marry quite yet.”

“You wish to be a burden upon our household until your dotage?” asked her aunt.

No
, Jane wanted to scream. What she wanted was to be accepted by her family for who she was—what she was. To be loved. But she no longer hoped for such things. Experience had taught her not to expect them. Even her own dear mother had found her too abnormal to love. Her father had ignored her because she wasn’t a son. Now she sought only freedom for herself and Emma.

“I sensed no attraction between us,” Jane murmured almost to herself.

Her aunt’s brows slammed together. “I thought you didn’t know him.”

A vision of the man from the tent—naked, engaging in carnal activity with an unknown woman—crept into her mind and was instantly banished.

“Only the barest facts. He’s a libertine, isn’t he?” Jane hazarded.

Izabel shrugged. “Should he prove so, as his wife you will be perfectly situated to influence him into curbing his ways.”

“He doesn’t strike me as a man easily influenced.”

“Again, you show the lie in your claim to be unacquainted with him,” said her aunt.

Her father frowned, appearing to suddenly awaken from a trance. “Is there some reason Satyr presses for this marriage?”

“Presses?” Jane echoed.

“He asks for a wedding within days,” her aunt informed her.

“Have you been meeting him on the sly?” her father barked. His eyes fell to Jane’s slim waist, and his hand fisted around his table knife upon which was speared a piece of venison.

Jane leaped to her feet and threw her napkin to the table. “No! I simply cannot accept him, and certainly not so soon.”

Her aunt rose more slowly. “You most certainly shall accept him, or it will go ill for you.”

“Now, Izzy,” her father chimed in, belatedly attempting to calm the waters. He flapped his hands, birdlike, in an up-and-down motion indicating they should be seated. Izabel sank to her chair, and Jane followed suit.

“What’s your objection to Satyr?” he asked Jane.

“I know nothing about him!” she very nearly shouted. “What are his habits, his conversation, his reason for wanting to wed me? Too many things to enumerate.”

Her aunt’s palm slammed the table, making the silver rattle. “Goose. What does it matter? As his wife, you will join one of the wealthiest families in Italy.” Her tone altered. “But I won’t force you. If you prefer to take Signore Nesta to husband, then so be it.”

“N—Nesta?” Instantly Jane saw new merit in Lord Satyr’s proposal.

“Are you a magpie? You must know he wants you,” said her aunt. “Don’t you desire a home of your own? A family of your own?”

Jane recalled that Lord Satyr had brothers who lived in proximity to him. Did they have families? Would the extended Satyr clan provide Emma and her with the welcome and acceptance their current situation lacked? He was wealthy, her aunt had said. Emma would have fine clothes, schooling. Safety.

Her heart clenched. She would do anything to keep her sister from harm. Anything. Even this.

“All right,” Jane said quietly. “If I must marry, I’ll have Lord Satyr. If he is serious. But—”

“There’s nothing more to discuss on the matter,” said Izabel.

Jane rushed on. “But I will only agree to wed him if you and father will allow Emma to come and live with me in his home.”

Without consulting Jane’s father, Izabel gave a curt nod. It was painfully obvious who now made the decisions concerning the girls’ futures. “We will inform Lord Satyr of your consent.”