Lucien's Fall Page 27

  A flash of memory hit her like a blow: her hand, white as moonlight against the jet of his hair, the curls leaping around the turn of her finger—

  "Oh, God," Cassandra whispered.

  Her brother Julian leaned closer. "I'm sorry—I didn't quite hear you."

  She put her hand on his sleeve, trying to remember how to arrange her expression normally. "Nothing."

  In the box across the crowded, noisy room, Basilio nodded seriously at something, and his hand settled in a quieting sort of way upon the shoulder of the small woman in front of him. She seemed hardly to notice, but even across such a distance, Cassandra read discomfort in her stiffness.

  Abruptly, Cassandra stood, her limbs quaking. "Julian, I feel quite ill. I must go."

  He leapt to his feet, his arm circling her shoulders. "What is it?"

  She waved a hand, bent to pick up her shawl from the seat, and dropped it when her betraying fingers could not hold on to it. She stared at it, the beads glittering along one edge. It looked like water, she thought distantly, the way it shimmered in a pool on the dark floor of the box. It made her think of another shawl, on another floor, and she closed her eyes against the pain of that memory.

  How could a week have changed her life so utterly? A single week, torn from the hundreds and hundreds that made up her life. Forty times that number had passed since then, and none of them had changed her, turned her inside out, made her into a woman she no longer always recognized.

  Julian swept up the shawl and captured her hands, bending to frown closely. "You're shivering like a wet pup!" Bracing her elbow, he said, "Let's get you home."

  "Yes." She vowed to keep her eyes lowered, but the temptation was too great. One more glance at him. Only one.

  But of course it was the dangerous one. For across that distance, across the milling scores of humanity in the gallery below, Basilio chose that moment to raise his head. Their eyes locked, and Cassandra's heart was flooded with the pain of his gentleness, his passion, his words.

  His love. Yes, his love, most of all.

  She fancied his face went pale, and he hastily removed his hand from the woman's shoulder, as if it burned him.

  It gave her courage. Tossing her bright copper head, she said calmly, "Please take me home, Julian."

  Part Two

  My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,

  And true plain hearts do in the faces rest.

  ~ JOHN DONNE

  Chapter 1

  Eighteen months earlier.…

  Danger arrived in the form of a letter. On that cold and rainy day, Cassandra huddled close to the fire in her sitting room. Her hands were encased in fingerless gloves, her shoulders draped in a thick woolen shawl, her legs covered with a lap robe. Even so, her nose was cold.

  She was supposed to be working, but even with the gloves, her fingers had grown stiff after an hour, and it was not a particularly exciting project, anyway—a rote translation piece for a professor who would pay her well and claim the credit.

  Sipping tea, she stared gloomily at the long windows streaked with a cold March rain. Rain and rain and rain. Ordinarily she didn't mind it, she found stormy weather exhilarating and stimulating. But the sun had not shown itself in nearly a month, and even Cassandra was weary of it. If it went on much longer, they would all have mold dripping from their fingernails. Society matrons would declare green hair to be the only shade for the season. She amused herself for a moment imagining a rout crowded with beauties sporting twists of mold from their coiffures.

  A sniffle in the hallway shattered the amusing picture just as Cassandra was about to embroider it fully— waistcoats brocaded in silk and mildew, perhaps. She sighed and turned. Her maid, Joan, had had a cold for a week.

  "Letter just come for you, my lady."

  "Thank you." At least it was something to break the monotony. Cassandra hoped it might be from her sister Adriana in Ireland, who had once been a very good correspondent—love had made her neglectful. Cassandra tried not to mind.

  At the sight of the thin, elegant writing on the letter, her heart jumped. Even better than Adriana! She had not dared hope for a letter from Italy yet.

  As the maid left, Cassandra put aside her tea and carried the letter to the window seat. It was colder there, but the light was good. For a moment, she only held it up to look at her name written in his beautiful script, letting the simple presence of it enliven her day. Already she felt warmer, as if the paper itself carried beams of Tuscan sunlight that now leaked into the room, buttery and rich. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled the evocative scent of the far-away—sometimes she thought it was the ocean breezes she smelled, at others she thought it might be his cologne.

  She ran her finger over the black ink that had written her name, Lady Cassandra St. Ives, feeling the faint indentation his pen had made. With her thumb, she brushed the raised letters of the words within the paper, a thick packet this time, words she would read, then read again, and put away, then take out and read again.

  Count Montevarchi. She imagined him to be a stout, short-sighted man, middle aged if she were to judge by the breadth of his studies and travels. He wrote magnificently well, bringing his lovely, faraway world to her.

  The correspondence had begun nearly two years before, when he'd written to praise an essay she'd written on Boccaccio. She'd been quite proud of it, thinking she had captured well the vivid, witty, even bawdy sense of the master, and Count Montevarchi's letter had commented on each of the points she'd thought particularly fine. He'd praised her mightily, which was heady enough.

  Then he had confessed he'd been languishing for over a year after the death of his brothers, and her essay had "broken through the clouds of sorrow over this man's heart and allowed the fresh breeze of laughter to enter." Touched, Cassandra had written back and enclosed a new essay, which she hoped he would find as cheering as the first.

  In return, he'd sent travel articles that he'd written—lush and sensual things that captured exotic and sunny places. They'd exchanged dozens of letters now, sometimes crossing in the mail in their eagerness, letters that became, somehow, very heartfelt. The Count was a thwarted scholar who'd had to don the mantle of his inheritance, returning to the provincial world where his compatriots did not care to discuss poetry. Though she already had a circle of witty and artistic friends, Cassandra had found it easy to express her deepest ambitions to him.

  It was safe. She knew that was a part of the appeal. A confirmed bachelor scholar, a thousand miles or more away, who listened. It was so very rare. And that he should also be a man with a soul painted in the colors of poetry, who responded entirely to her mind instead of her physical presence, made him a very dear friend indeed. He also embodied some of the qualities she would most like to develop in herself. His example had made her braver these past months.

  At last she turned the letter and broke the seal.

  Villa de Montevarchi, Toscana

  2 April 1787

  My Dear Lady Cassandra,

  I have had poor news and find myself driven here tonight to write to you. It is an affair of little importance, a matter of duty I must attend to which gives me no pleasure, so you need not worry it is some awful thing I dare not speak of. Only wearisome.

  I am honored that you enjoyed my essay on Cyprus—and will now urge you again to indulge that longing I sense in you to travel yourself. Why not begin by coming to my Tuscany? Here you would be able to test your bravery under the guidance of a friend. By your writings, I sense you are braver than you know, and since you are a widow, there is none to tell you it is not appropriate. Perhaps it is just the tonic you need to inspire your fine work even more. I will tempt you with the lure of my small collection of Boccaccio manuscripts, which I would enjoy sharing with one who appreciates their worth. Would it not be the deepest pleasure to hold them in your own hands?

  And here is more temptation: I would have wine sent up from my vineyards (truly, you are deprived if you have not drunk
our wines) and have my cook prepare the best of his native dishes to shock your tender English palate. Perhaps we could travel to Firenze for the opera, or picnic by the sea. My land is beautiful, inspiring—I suspect that you would find it most agreeable.

  You spoke again of my poetry. I do labor poorly at the art, and find it a most frustrating pursuit. How to capture the perfection of a moment, when the sunlight falls, just so, across the gray branch of an olive? And yet I am driven to it, again and again, like the painters who come here to revel in the light, driven to attempt to capture God in some small way. The holiness of a child's innocent smile, the way a woman bends her head and shows the soft, clean place on the back of her neck—even the burst of sweetness from a plum, plucked from the tree, its juices sweet and hot from the sun exploding from that tender layer of skin into my mouth! Even now, I hear the music from the kitchen as servants clean up the dinner they have served and make the room ready for morning, and I try to think how to snatch that sound from the air and send it to you. One man is singing, and his voice is as fine as any opera tenor, and now another joins, and another, and there are four of them together, their hands clattering pots and clanging spoons and sweeping, and woven all through it is that song. Down the hill, on the road below the villa, there is a woman laughing, and in my imagination I see her as a gypsy, wild dark hair falling from a fine white face, about to make love to her husband, and I smile that my thoughts should go in such a direction. On my table, a breath of sea-scented wind flutters over the candle and threatens to put me in the dark, and still I labor to capture the music of the night. Imperfectly. Always imperfectly.

  And, as my father always said, to what purpose?

  Ah, you see how melancholy lies upon me tonight. Let me banish it now by saying yes, you are brave, dear lady. Brave enough to carve that life you envisioned, brave enough to hold salons and gather like minds to you—as you have gathered mine. It is a gift, and I thank you for sharing it with me.

  Come to Tuscany, my lady. Breathe new winds.

  Your humble servant,

  Basilio

  Cassandra's eyes were inexplicably damp as she finished reading. She held the letter in her lap and looked out at the gray, wet world beyond.

  Test your bravery.

  Did she dare?

  View More (from Kindle)

  View More (from Kindle App)

  See all books at BarbaraSamuel.com

  DANCING

  MOON

  (Excerpt)

  by

  Barbara Samuel

  PROLOGUE

  Arkansas

  Spring, 1844

  In her high bed, with its counterpane of white chenille, Tess Fallon burned. She thrashed and tossed, fighting the kindly slave who tended her wounds with a poultice made of some foreign herb.

  No, not foreign, Tess remembered. The plants were native here, only foreign to her. The slave, a woman named Marie, wrapped long lengths of cotton soaked in the mixture over Tess’s back and arm and breast. The fabric cooled her hot wounds.

  But one wound would not heal. The newly seeded babe in her belly was lost. Blessedly lost. Tess wished to bear no child to a man—even a native Irishman from her own village—who could horsewhip other human beings. Including his own wife when she dared to interfere.

  A candle burned at the bedside and the poultice was gone. Tess lifted her head at Marie’s urging. “Come on, chile, you got to drink this now. You got to drink.”

  Water spilled on her lips. Tess thought to let it fall, but her mouth opened of its own accord to catch the liquid. Cool and sweet, drawn straight from the brook. It soothed her fever-parched throat. With a gasp, she breathed in, and drank again, deeply.

  “That’s right,” Marie murmured. “Drink, chile.”

  Tess dropped back to the pillow and looked at Marie. The slave was impossibly round, as people never were in Ireland, with large breasts and a full face and ageless black skin, smooth as a stone in spite of her fifty odd years. “How is Sonia?” Tess asked.

  “She’s alive, thanks to you.”

  Tess nodded. Relieved to hear the news that Sonia had survived, she fell into a slumber unmarred by Seamus McKenzie, or bullwhips, or hunger, or pain.

  When next she awoke, she began to plan.

  Chapter 1

  Arkansas River Valley

  Fall, 1844

  Tess gratefully jumped down from the wagon of the Spanish traders. “Are you coming, Sonia?” she asked.

  The pregnant slave nodded slowly. Her skin looked dull. “In a minute,” she said. “Let me just stretch out my back.”

  “There is no hurry,” said one of the wives of the traders, a woman with hair as black as coal. Her eyes were kind as she took Sonia’s arm. “Walk a little.” Over her shoulder, she said something in Spanish to her husband, a lean man with a thin mustache.

  He turned his lips down in agreement. “No hurry.”

  Wearily, Tess headed over the grass toward the river. Her body ached, not only from the long, long journey from Independence, Missouri, down the Santa Fe trail to this flat, plain land. She ducked into a thick stand of cottonwood trees that would offer privacy. Tess tended to the needs of her body, then unable to resist the lure of cold, fresh water, she moved toward the bank of the river. She splashed her face, feeling grit sluice away.

  A sharp, long cry pierced the stillness. Tess froze, listening. There were all manner of beasts in this new place, not like in Ireland, where cows and dogs and cats gave the only music. Here she had seen bears and wolves and a small dog they called a coyote that was most frightening of all.

  It came again, a whooping, terrifying sound, as high and eerie as a banshee’s wail. That was no animal. Her mouth went dry.

  Indians.

  A shard of terror stabbed her, making her heart stop for a breathless second. She heard the horses, and an abbreviated scream, and more whoops, all undercut by the soft, soothing chuckle of the river behind her.

  She thought of Sonia, and scrambled to her feet. Oh, no. Not this. They had come through too much, come too far. Grabbing her skirts, she ran through the cover of the trees, staying low. Near a small scrubby bush, she knelt to look out.

  A swarm of black-haired savages, beautiful and terrifying at once, with their long limbs and paint, had already done their work. The trader’s wife lay on the ground, her head bloody, the black hair gone. Before Tess’s horrified eyes, the wagon master was stabbed viciously, and the Indian who did it gave forth a blood curdling cry.

  Tess looked for Sonia and saw her hiding behind a wagon wheel, in the shadows. For the moment, she seemed safe.

  An older Indian, with hair as long as Tess’s own and shining in the sun like the wings of some great bird, gave an order. The others circled toward him.

  Sonia crouched where she was, and Tess could see her rigid grip on the wagon wheel. Just then, one of the warriors rounded the wagon one more time. The instant he spied Sonia, she rolled backward, out of his reach, and broke for the trees where Tess hid.

  The Indian lifted his bow and fired cleanly. Tess screamed when the arrow pierced Sonia’s skirt. Sonia stumbled another three steps, then fell to her knees. The warrior swung down gracefully from his pony. Sun glinted on his knife.

  As long as she lived, Tess knew she would never forget the look of him, painted with bright color like the ancient warriors of her own land, who’d fought nearly naked like this, covered only in paint. She would never forget the cold way he moved toward Sonia, his knife upraised, his face as calm as if he were going to butcher a pig.

  His was the face of a soldier, accustomed to war and killing. But Tess had learned to fight herself. She thought of her body painted blue like her ancestors, and grabbed a thick branch from the ground.

  She bolted from her hiding place, making a high, wild sound of her own, wielding the huge stick in front of her. Before she reached him, the Indian had squatted by Sonia, grabbing her head roughly in one hand as he lifted his knife with the other.

>   Tess swung her club, and it caught him on the shoulder, knocking his knife away. He scrambled for the weapon and sprang to his feet. Tess ran straight at him, swinging the club. He lunged at her, slicing the thick wool of her traveling costume as if it were bread. She lunged back, thrusting the branch out before her, and hit him in the chest. He grunted, then ducked her next swing, and gave a swipe with his knife that nearly slashed her face.

  A blind, red rage was upon her. She could hear only the race of her blood, the grunt of the warrior, and the harsh grate of her breath.

  To the death, she would fight him. She had come too far, had fought too hard, to give up now.

  * * *

  Joaquín Morales was the first man to get to the edge of the mesa. It was nearly dusk of an October day. Bitter wind, the scourge of the high plains, swept the desolate scene below. He halted and held up his hand silently to signal the two men with him. All three paused at the edge of the bluff.

  Joaquín stared grimly. An overturned wagon had spilled bags of trade goods and camp supplies into the yellow grass nearby a stand of cottonwoods. The last rays of sunlight came over the Rockies to the west, shadowing ground churned by the feet of many horses. Bodies were strewn over a wide area. Even at a distance of a hundred yards, Joaquín could see two had been scalped. Arrows protruded from the bodies of the others.

  “Reckon it’s the Arapaho,” Raúl said. It wasn’t a question. He lifted his head and scanned the horizon, squinting against the light.

  “Damned Armijo.” The curse came from the third man, Roger St. John, late of the British army.

  Joaquín nodded. Armijo, governor of Nuevo Mexico, had been warned some weeks before to release kidnapped Indian captives. He had not even bothered with a reply.

  Now the Indians had taken their revenge.