Page 139 of Dark Tides
“Not her!” Sarah swore. “She’s going to marry Sir James Avery, and give him the son he wants. Matteo will be an English boy. You’ll never see either of them again. She’ll marry him—an Englishman, far richer and grander than you will ever be—and she’ll never ever come back here.”
DECEMBER 1670, LONDON
Livia shivered in the stern of the little skiff as it crossed the river, a cold wind blowing in from the sea, the water stairs at Avery House glittering with frost, the garden a monochrome of tree trunks, white on one side and black with damp on the other, the twigs and the boughs outlined, as if a limner had been through the orchard to make every branch a thing of startling beauty.
“Here,” Livia said, putting a penny begrudgingly into the man’s hand.
“You’re welcome, my pretty,” he taunted her, and let the boat rock as she stepped from it to climb up the stairs, her boots making dark tracks in the white frost of the steps.
“I shan’t be long, you can wait,” she said.
“You hiring me to wait?” he asked hopefully.
“No! Of course not! Why should I pay for you to do nothing? But if you wait, I shall come in a moment and pay you to take me back to Savoury Dock when I’m ready.”
“I’ll wait unless I’m called away,” he said, resentfully. “I’ll wait for free and then I’m sure it’ll be my honor to escort you home. To Savoury Dock—known for its aroma. To the Reekie Wharf—known for its elegance.”
“Chiudi la bocca,”she muttered under her breath, and turned to walk through the garden. Ahead of her a robin gripped a swinging bough, sang to her, a sound of piercing sweetness. Livia did not hear it, did not see the tip-tilted bright head. The statue of the sleeping fawn was curled at the foot of a gnarled apple tree, drifted snow waswhite on the white marble of its back. Livia strode past it, eyes on the blank windows of the house.
Glib, the footman, had reported that the staff had been instructed to light fires, air the linen, and open the shutters and that the master would return within the week, but Livia had heard nothing from Sir James himself, neither letter, nor invitation. She did not know why he had not invited her to his house, not written to her again from Northallerton and sent no present. She had been hoping for a diamond ring as a Christmas gift and a betrothal. She had received nothing. Livia gritted her teeth and walked up the beautiful terrace, sparkling with frost in the hard bright sunshine of winter.
She felt no gladness when she saw that the curtains of his study were drawn open. She felt no joy when she saw the back of his head and shoulders as he sat at his desk. She raised one dark gloved hand and rapped on the window. He jumped at the sudden knock, turned and saw an ominous figure in a dark dress; she saw the shock on his face, and then he recognized her.
He rose to his feet and opened the tall glass door. “Livia,” he said weakly. “What a surprise.”
She marched in.
DECEMBER 1670, VENICE
Sarah woke late, to a silent house, and went apprehensively downstairs. The beautiful hall was the same as always. Sarah had the strange feeling that she must have dreamed the night before, but when she turned to glance at the front door she saw it was bolted tight. She was imprisoned in the quiet house.
Felipe’s mother Signora Russo had a milky hot drink ready for her, and bread and jam to eat in the dining room, but when Sarah took her seat at the table, the woman stood and watched her, as if she were on guard. Felipe Russo came up the stairs from the water gate, directly from Mass at the local church, holy water still wet on his forehead, said one quiet word, and his mother left the room.
He took a seat opposite her. “You told me last night that the Nobildonna would not come back here,” he started abruptly. “You told me she was to marry an Englishman.”
“You told me last night you might as well drown me in the water gate,” she said defiantly.
He gave her a quick warm smile. “You know I would not. But what you said about Livia: was it a desperate lie to save your skin?” he asked.
She hesitated before answering him. “No. It’s more than that. I’ve never met anyone like Livia in my life before, so I can’t say what she might do. I don’t know what promises she has made to you. But truly, when I left she looked very much as if she were planning to marry an English baronet—he’s called Sir James Avery. At first, she said that she had come to live with us, that she wanted an English family, she wanted nothing but to share our life. Then she started to complain that we aren’t rich enough for her, the warehouse is too small, in a poor part of town, a long way from the City. She said that my uncle Rob had led her on to think we’re grander than we are.” She flushed. “We’re working people,” she said. “My grandma sells herbs and possets to apothecaries, Ma runs a little wharf.”
“But you do have a warehouse?” he pressed. “I sent the first load? Reekie Wharf?”
“It’s just a little storehouse beside the wharf, we load corn and apples and coasters’ loads for shillings at a time. We don’t earn much, we could hardly afford the shipping for her first load.” He heard the resentment in her voice. “She talked my ma into paying for her.”
“We agreed she should arrive penniless.” He laughed shortly. “We thought it would be more persuasive. We thought you were wealthy and you would be bound to help her if she came in, in tears, with the baby in her arms.”
Sarah scowled as she remembered Livia’s tragic appearance. “Oh, she did that, she did all of that. And we did help her. She’s got my mother wrapped around her little finger, risking our whole business in not declaring the goods. When you bring goods into England you have to pay the Excise—but the Nobildonna didn’t declare it.”
He gave a little laugh. “Of course not!”
“The first rich man she met was Sir James, and straightaway she got him to let her sell the antiquities at his big house on the Strand. I saw them together, as close as lovers. She sat at his desk to open her letters, she looks like she owns the place.”
Sarah betrayed all of the Nobildonna’s secrets without hesitation. “If she catches him, she’ll surely have no interest in trading antiquities, she’ll never want to see you again. She’ll want to leave you far behind, and us—she won’t come back to our wharf when she’s Lady Avery; she’ll be an English lady then, thinking of nothing but her children and her dogs.”
“But he’s an old man? You said he was old?”
“He is, he must be about forty.”
