The Bride Wore Scarlet

The Bride Wore Scarlet

Liz Carlyle

Contents

Prologue

Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

London, 1837

T
he lamps were turned low in the dark, old-fashioned house in Wellclose Square, the servants gliding like silent specters, eyes downcast as they moved through passageways musty with the scents of liniment and camphor—and of what might have been death drawing nigh.

Above, in the mistress's grand suite, the fire that was laid from September to June had been banked for the evening, and the circle of plaguing visitors—teary-eyed relations, gloomy priests, and nattering medical men—had finally been sent away with a sharp, if somewhat diminished, tongue-lashing.

She lay now like a spun-glass ornament in a box of cotton wool, all but lost in the massive medieval bed that had seen seven generations of her family pass from this world to the next, its walnut finish gone as black with age as once the old woman's hair had been. But age had not lessened the hook in her nose, the fire in her eyes—or the indomitability of her will, much to the consternation of her family.

Against the costly, hand-embroidered silk of her nightdress, she clutched a rosary of jet to her heart, and pondered the hope of her dynasty. She was old, had been old for thirty years—or perhaps had been born old, as so many of her kind were. But it would not do, the old woman knew, to go leaving things unsaid. Hard decisions unmade. Never had she shirked her duty.

And still, though she had known with the heart of a warrior and the head of a shopkeeper what must eventually be done, she had put off the choice for nearly a decade now.

Oh, this was not her time; she was almost certain—despite her eight-and-eighty years, and the despair of the doctors who paraded daily round what they believed to be her deathbed.

But they might be right. And she might—just
might
—be wrong.

To have admitted that possibility aloud, however—ah, now that was the thing most likely to choke the last breath of life from Sofia Josephina Castelli.

“Maria!” she said sharply, holding out her hand. “Take my rosary, and fetch me the child.”

“
Sì, signora
.” Her companion rose slowly on knees that creaked a little now. “Which child?”

“Which child?” the old woman echoed incredulously. “
The
child. The one. And bring me
i tarocchi.
Just one last time I . . . I wish to be sure of what I do.”

In years past, Maria would have chided her, and perhaps reminded her of the family's censure. But Maria, too, was growing older now, and weary of fighting the old woman. More significantly, however, Maria was a Vittorio—a close cousin—and she knew what was expected. She, perhaps better than anyone, understood that plans must be made. Obligations met. And that the debt which was owed to one's blood must be paid.

Maria went to the bellpull and sent a servant off to do the mistress's bidding, then crossed to the massive wardrobe to extract the
signora
's small, ebony wood casket, which was hinged and bound with hammered copper so old it was worn nearly smooth now.

She carried it to the bed, but the old woman waved her off again. “Purify the cards for me, Maria,” she ordered. “Just this once,
sì
?”

“But of course,
signora
.”

Dutifully, Maria went to the small bedside chest. Taking a pinch of dried herbs from each of four porcelain urns, she dropped them into a shallow brass bowl and set them aflame with a candle. Extracting a pack of cards from the casket, she passed them four times through the white smoke, calling down the elements of wind, water, earth, and fire to guide her hand.

“
Buono
, Maria,
buono
,” the old woman rasped when it was done. “
Molte grazie.
”

Maria laid the cards upon the counterpane beside her. But at that instant, the door flew open, and a leggy, raven-haired girl in a starched white smock rushed in.

“Nonna, Nonna!” she said, throwing herself against the bed. “They said I mightn't come up!”

“But now you are here, Anaïs,
no
?” The old woman set a hand on the child's head, but looked past her, to the woman in gray who still lingered on the threshold, her hands clasped uncertainly.

The governess dropped her gaze, and bobbed a faint curtsy. “Good evening, Signora Castelli. Signora Vittorio.”

“
Buona sera
, Miss Adams,” said the old woman. “I wish to be alone with my great-granddaughter. You will excuse us, I think?”

“Yes, of course, but I . . .” The governess was looking at the cards a little disapprovingly.

“You will excuse us,” the old woman repeated, this time with a steely hauteur that belied her frail form.

“Yes, madam.” The door shut swiftly.

Maria had returned to the side table, and was clearing the contents from the galleried silver tray on which the old woman's uneaten dinner of beef tea and boiled custard had been carried up. Eyes solemn, the girl had set her elbows to the bed and leaned over it, her chin propped pensively in one hand.

“Come,
cara mia
, climb up.” The
signora
stroked her fingers down the child's wild tangle of black curls. “As you did when you were a
bambina, sì
?”

The earnest little face twisted. “But Papa said I mustn't bother you,” she said. “That you weren't well.”

The old woman laughed, a raspy wheeze. “Come,
cara
, you will not hurt me,” she said. “Is that what they told you? Come, curl up beside me and let us study
i tarocchi
together. Maria has found us a tray, see?”

Soon they were settled against the pillows together, the old woman having dragged herself up in bed a few inches with Maria's help. Only her left hand, fisted against the pain, betrayed what the movement cost her.

Perched on the edge of the mattress with her long, coltish legs curled beneath her, the child took the pack, cutting and shuffling over and over like a diminutive cardsharp.

The old woman wheezed with laughter again. “
Basta, basta
, Anaïs,” she finally said. “Do not wear them out, for you will have need of them someday. Now,
a sinistra.
Three stacks. Just as always.”

The girl cut the cards into threes across the silver, moving each time to the left. “There, Nonna Sofia,” she said. “Will you tell my future now?”

“Your future is blessed,” the old woman insisted, catching the child's chin between her thumb and forefinger. “
Sì
, I will read for you, child. And the cards will say what always they say.”

“But you have never told me
what
they say,” the child protested, her full bottom lip edging out a tad further. “You just talk to yourself, Nonna. And I cannot make it out.”

“That, too, shall be rectified,” said the old woman. “Cousin Maria is going to begin work on your language as of tomorrow—only proper Tuscan, Maria, not that hash one hears round the docks.”

“If you wish it,
signora
.” Maria inclined her head. “Of course.”

“But Miss Adams says a young lady needs only French,” said Anaïs, systematically restacking the cards without being told.

“Ah, and what would such a fainthearted creature know of the world, Anaïs?” the old woman murmured, watching her small hands work. “Nothing—
nothing
—of your world, I would wager. The life you will have,
cara mia
, is beyond her mortal comprehension.”

“What's
mortal comprehension
?” The child furrowed her brow.

With a trembling hand, the old woman tucked a springy black curl behind the child's ear. “
Non importa
,” she said. “Come,
cara
, lay out the cards for me. You know how 'tis done,
sì
?”

Solemnly, the girl nodded, and began to lay the cards out on the silver tray, forming first a large circle, then crossing it down the center with seven cards.

“Draw a chair near, Maria.” The old woman spoke in a warning tone. “You will bear witness to this.”

As the chair legs bumped over the floorboards, the old woman turned the first of the crossed cards.

Maria fell into her chair with a little groan, and shut her eyes. “It should be Armand,” she whispered, crossing herself. “They are twins,
signora
! This should be his destiny.”

The old woman squinted at her a little nastily. “
Should
be,
sì
,” she echoed, “but
is not.
Here, Maria, you see it as clearly as I. And you have seen it before. Time and again. It never changes.
La Regina di Spade
. Always in the cross of seven.”

“The Queen of Swords,” the child translated, reaching out to gingerly touch the card, which depicted a woman in red wearing a golden crown and bearing a gold-hilted sword in her right hand. “Am I the queen, then, Nonna?”

“
Sì, cara mia.
” The old woman managed a weak smile. “A queen of righteousness and honor.”

“But she is a
girl
.” Maria had begun to wring her lace handkerchief.

“The queen usually is,” said the old woman dryly. “For Armand's part, he is destined for other things. To be beautiful. To make us rich.”

“We are already rich,” said Maria a little sourly.

“To make us rich
er
,” the old woman corrected.

“Aren't I beautiful, Nonna?” said the child a little wistfully.

The old woman shook her head, scrubbing her long white tresses on the pillow slip. “
Non, cara
, you are not. You are something altogether different.”

The girl's lower lip came out a fraction. “Nonna, will anyone marry me?” she asked. “I heard Nellie whispering to Nate that you could tell.”

“Bah, Nellie is a foolish scullery maid.” Maria gave a dismissive toss of her hand.

“
Sì
, Nellie is
un imbecille
,” said the old woman evenly. “And Nathaniel needs to cease his flirting. But yes, child. You will marry. You will marry a good, strong Tuscan boy. This I have seen many times in my cards.”

“How? I don't know any boys from Tuscany.”

“Ah, but you will,” said the old woman, flipping the adjacent card. “See, here he waits. For you, Anaïs, and only you. A prince of peace in a coat of scarlet,
le Re di Dischi
.”

“The King of Pentacles,” said Maria softly.

“
Sì
, a man of inner strength who holds the future in his hand.” The old woman turned her black gaze upon the child. “Here, do you see? Your prince has transcended the mystical and is serene and powerful. You are destined to be his partner. His helpmeet.”

The child screwed up her face. “I don't understand, Nonna.”

“No, no,” the old woman murmured. “But have patience, child. You will.”

Without further explanation, the old woman slowly turned the next card, and began to speak in a voice more distant.

“Ah,
Catulo
.” Her voice was more distant than warm. “The card of victory hard won. You will choose your battles carefully, Anaïs, and bear your bleeding wounds proudly.”

Maria cut her gaze away. “
Dio mio!
” she whispered.

The old woman ignored her, and kept turning. “
Dischi
,” she said. “The six of Pentacles. You have much effort ahead,
cara
. Much to learn. Many transformations to make. You must be
shaped
before you may go through the white gates to your next life.”

“But that man is a blacksmith,” said the child. “See? He is hammering on an anvil.”

“
Sì
, beating his plowshare into a sword, belike,” said Maria bitterly. “Come, Sofia, think what you do! This is no life for a lady—an
English
lady.”

The old woman turned a beady eye on her cousin. “What choice have I, Maria?” she asked sharply. “Time and again you have seen the child's cards. God has given her an important task. Something she is destined to do. Turn the next, Anaïs.”

The girl flicked over the next card to reveal the depiction of an angel loading golden discs into a large trunk.

“
Dischi
,” muttered the old woman. “And the next?”

Again the child turned. Maria had twisted the handkerchief into a knot now.

“The warrior Venturio,” said the old woman with a sense of finality. “Ah, Anaïs, you begin a long journey.”

“But Nonna, where do I go?” asked the girl, surveying the cards almost warily. “Will you go with me?”

For a long moment, the old woman said nothing, guilt plucking at her heartstrings. “No, Maria will go, child,” she said, falling back into her cloud of feather pillows. “For I cannot. May God forgive me.”

But Maria just glared at her from the bedside chair.

“Nonna,” the child whispered, “are you dying?”

“No, no,
bella
,” said the old woman. “Not for a few years yet, unless God changes His mind.” Then she exhaled a shuddering breath. “But I think we need not turn more cards just now.”

“No, we needn't,” said Maria. “For your mind is made up.”

“No, my cousin. Fate has decided.” The old woman closed her eyes, and let her hands fall limp on the coverlet. “And tomorrow, Maria, you will write to Giovanni Vittorio. He owes me this as my blood kin. You will tell him what had been decided. Which child will be given. Promise me.”