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“Bambina, is that what you think? That I would be angry because you did not know who I am?”
“I meant no offense.”
“And I took none. Is that why you cried, and made your lovely eyes all red?” He rests his lips against her hair, breathing in its fragrance. “Listen, dear heart, I am not angry with you. I was happy that you did not know.”
“Why?”
“The reason is not important now. Someday I will explain.” He takes her by the shoulders and holds her away from him. “Did Mr. Chadwick tell you nothing else?”
She droops beneath his hands, and her bowed head touches his shoulder again. “I must go with him.”
“Cara, tell me … do you want to?”
“No.” Close as he is, he must strain to hear her. “He frightens me.”
“Grazie a Dio,” he whispers. “That is all I needed to know.”
“He told me what you tried to do,” she says; “that you would let me stay here with you.”
“Would you prefer that?”
“Oh, yes, I would like to stay.” She raises her head and looks at him for the first time. “With you.”
Red nose, swollen eyes: Alfieri thinks that he has never seen anyone so beautiful. “Then stay with me.”
“He won’t let me.”
“He will have no choice. We will give him no choice.”
“How?”
“By making certain he can never take you away from me.”
“How?” she says again.
“By changing your name.”
She stares at him.
“Sì, your name, Miss Adler. Oh, my dear,” he laughs, seeing her bewilderment, “do you still not understand? I am asking you to marry me.”
She has forgotten how to breathe, and her eyes brim with sudden tears. “You would do that for me?”
“No, bambina—for me.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know, little girl?” He looks at her with a puzzled smile and touches her face. “I’m in love with you.”
She smiles back tremulously, and shakes her head. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me. I’m not clever, or talented, or wonderful.” In her eyes is the deep sadness he had seen the day he found her, and a fear he does not understand. “I didn’t even know who you are. I would disappoint you.”
“I know what disappoints me. It is not you.”
“How do you know? Why are you so certain? What if you’re wrong?”
In answer he takes her face between his hands and kisses her, tasting her for the first time, and her mouth is young and sweet, and all the lost years have been found. When he lifts his head she lies against him, her heart beating wildly, fitting into the circle of his arms like a key in its lock: perfect, unfaultable, beyond all praise.
“Am I wrong?” he says.
She cannot think, she cannot reason, not here, pressed against him, warm and safe. Even before she had opened her eyes and seen him she had loved him, hearing his voice. What have right and wrong to do with it? What sane person would refuse such deliverance? Since yesterday she has been ill, sick in mind and body at the thought of what lies in store for her. This reprieve must have been sent for a reason, to give her another chance at life. She will tell him the truth, very soon, and he will not mind; he is in love with her. This is a miracle, a miracle … let me be worthy …
“I love you so much,” she whispers, “so much, so much, so much … and I will try so hard to be a good wife, and to make you proud. Be patient with me, please. I will learn as fast as I can.” She touches his mouth, still not quite certain that this miracle is real, that it has happened.
“Do you really love me?” she says.
THE RAIN FALLS in steady sheets, and the street lamps gleam twice over, their halos of light reflected off the wet and shimmering pavement. A small fire has been lit in Buchan’s study to take the dampness from the air. The lawyer and his guest face each other from either side of the hearth. On a small table at Buchan’s elbow are two glasses and a decanter of golden brandy that glows in the firelight like the longed-for sunlight of a happy future.
“My thanks, Mr. Buchan, for seeing me so quickly, and especially on a Saturday evening. I hope that your good wife will forgive me for taking you away from your dinner guests.”
“Signore, you must know that the appearance of Mario Alfieri on our doorstep has raised Mrs. Buchan and me to new heights in the estimation of our guests. But besides that, did you really think we would turn you away? Especially when you come bearing the news that Miss Adler has agreed to become your wife?”
The lawyer nods thoughtfully, regarding his guest. “I am delighted for you, of course, signore, but I must also admit to you that I am amazed. Dumbfounded, in fact, would be a far more fitting word.”
“Why?” Alfieri says. “Do you still doubt my intentions?”
“No, not your intentions. You have offered the young woman honorable marriage, and have informed your attorney of it. You would hardly have done either if your intentions were less than worthy.”
“But still you do not approve.” Alfieri’s gaze is frank. “May I ask why?”
Buchan spreads his hands. “It is not a matter of either approval or disapproval. You are a grown man with much experience of women—”
“And Miss Adler is a very young woman. Is that what disturbs you?”
“Not precisely, signore. After all, we are not discussing the young lady’s ruin and abandonment—”
“I have never been guilty of that, Mr. Buchan. With any woman.”
“I never said you have. But now you wish to marry.”
Alfieri says: “You make it sound as if I have taken leave of my senses. Well, in a way I have. I am in love, Mr. Buchan. Is that so difficult to believe of me?”
Buchan’s voice softens. “No, of course not. But you have met the young lady a total of—what? Three times now? You have enjoyed each other’s company for some eight hours. Is that sufficient to determine a lifetime’s happiness together? I do not speak of her judgment—at nineteen, the capacity for judgment has not yet had time to develop. But what of yours, signore? Certainly you are old enough, and you appear to know what you are doing … but do you? Or could it be that, finding yourself in a new land holding no memories for you, with no affiliations … experiencing a freedom you have not known in many years … could it be that this has led you to see Miss Adler as a young damsel in distress?”
Alfieri smiles. “Whom only I can save? You think I have cast myself in the role of the knight from a far-off land, Mr. Buchan, who rides onto the scene to rescue the little princess from her tower and carry her away?”
“It is a flattering role, signore.”
“Very true. But I am not delirious, or living in a fantasy, or spinning dreams, and this is neither an illusion, nor an infatuation. I have fallen in love. Why? Each man has his own reasons for loving whom he does, reasons that would make no sense to another. All you need to know, Mr. Buchan, is that I have asked Miss Adler to be my wife and she has agreed. I regret, of course, that it has all happened too quickly for your entire satisfaction, but I desperately need your help if I am to marry her … there is not much time!”
The lawyer smiles and holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender, reaches for the brandy on the table beside him and fills the two glasses. He hands one to Alfieri, then touches his own glass to the tenor’s—“Mrs. Buchan and I wish you joy!”—and drinks.
Alfieri drinks too. “My thanks to you both. As to the necessity for speed,” he says, “for that you must blame Mr. Chadwick. He has left me no time for a traditional courtship and engagement.”
“You do know that you’ll be making a bad enemy, don’t you? He will not take kindly—a colossal understatement, I fear—to your stealing Miss Adler out from under his nose, just as he was about to carry her away.”
“And should I be afraid, Mr. Buchan? Next year at this time I will be preparing to return to Europe. He can do nothing to me, so long as he cannot steal her back, or have her taken away from me … by having the marriage annulled, say, because she is underage, and did not receive his consent.”
Buchan rises to refill Alfieri’s glass. “I suppose there is no doubt of your intention to consummate the marriage rather quickly? Yes, well, once she is your wife, in fact as well as in law, no court would consider undoing it, regardless of the lack of Mr. Chadwick’s consent. You have nothing to fear on that score. But let us discuss the question of the wedding itself,” he says, returning to his seat and refilling his own glass. “Have you decided how it is to be done? Who, for instance, will perform the ceremony?” He hesitates, then says bluntly: “You are Roman Catholic, are you not?”
Alfieri laughs. “I am from Italy, Mr. Buchan, am I not? Italy is rich in many things, but not, I am afraid, in Lutherans and Baptists.”
“But does it not pose a problem for you that Miss Adler is”—he hesitates again—“not Catholic?”
“Perhaps I am not so good a Catholic as you believe, Mr. Buchan. Miss Adler and I have discussed this matter—briefly, to be sure—and how we marry is of small importance to me. What is certain is that with less than two weeks remaining before I am to lose her to Mr. Chadwick, we must move quickly. There is no time for her to take instruction in my religion … even if she were so inclined, which I do not know.”
“Then the ceremony will be a civil one?”
“If you will be so good as to provide us with a justice of the peace, or some other such dignitary.”
Buchan cocks his head thoughtfully. “And will your church recognize a civil marriage to someone of another faith?”
“No, Mr. Buchan, it will not. In the eyes of my church I will not be married at all. But I am not so concerned with the eyes of my church as I am with the laws of your country. So long as she is married to me legally and Mr. Chadwick cannot take her from me, I am content.” He smiles again. “And as for the state of my immortal soul … that is a matter for my confessor, not my lawyer. Do not let it disturb you.”
Buchan says: “She means that much to you?”
“Yes,” Alfieri answers. “That much.”
Buchan leans over to stir the fire, blinking in the strong light. “Then it must be done quickly and it must be done in absolute secrecy.” He looks up at Alfieri. “But discretion is vital, as I am sure you realize. What of Slade’s servants? You will need their assistance, of course, but can they be trusted not to inform Mr. Chadwick of your plans?”
Alfieri says: “Oh, yes, I am sure of it. I spoke with them both, you see, before I came here this evening. Not surprisingly, I discovered that they are not especially devoted to Mr. Chadwick … something to do, I believe, with his pleasant manner when he addresses them. I assured them both that Miss Adler—Signora Alfieri that is to be—would be grateful for their services in her new home … she is very shy, and too many new faces around her would make her uneasy. In return, I have been given to understand that both the maid, who has already served as Miss Adler’s ladies’ maid in a small way, and the footman, will be perfectly content to follow their little mistress to her new home—and would sooner have their tongues cut out than give away her secret.”
“But can you be certain?”
“They are faithful to their late master’s memory, Mr. Buchan, and greatly attached to his ward. And with promised positions at half again their current wages waiting for them in my house, in addition to the opportunity to escape from Mr. Chadwick once and for all …” Alfieri smiles. “Oh, yes, I think we can trust them. And with the inclusion of Gennarino—my valet—such a staff should prove an excellent size for a newlywed household.”
“Signore, you take my breath away. Are you always this meticulous and well-prepared?”
“Well, it does not pay to take chances, does it? Not with what really matters.” He pauses, grows serious, and seems suddenly hesitant to speak. “That is why I would ask … although I know it is a great imposition … still, might I ask if you would undertake to help me in yet one more way?”
“Name it,” the lawyer says.
“Actually, it would be for my young lady.” The tenor picks his words with care. “She is all alone, Mr. Buchan. She has no friends or family to assist her through this time, no one to help her prepare. Most especially, she has no one to confide in … no mamma with whom she can share her hopes and fears, as brides must surely need to do … no one to tell her”—he gestures slightly—“what happens to a young wife on her wedding night.” He pauses again. “I was wondering … and I know it is a great deal to ask … if your good wife would consent to be such a friend to her. When you introduced us just now, and I saw that Mrs. Buchan has such a sweet face, I knew that Clara would not be frightened of her, and I thought … perhaps … if it would not be too much …”
Buchan’s voice is gentle. “Signore, consider it done. I would not normally speak for my wife in her absence, but I know that in this our opinions will agree. Frankly, she will be touched, as I am, that you thought well enough of us both to ask.”
Alfieri leans back and smiles in pure relief. “Thank you, Mr. Buchan—and your wife too. There is such a great deal to do in so very little time, but with your help I know we will manage it.”
“And after the wedding? You will want to go away, of course, on a honeymoon. Have you any idea where?”
“Here again I must rely on your kindness, Mr. Buchan. I have only been ten days in your city. I was thinking of somewhere quiet, in the countryside. Clara has been ill; she needs sunshine and fresh air, but it must not be too far away—the strain of a lengthy journey would be too much for her. Do you know of such a place?”
“I know of a place, signore, but it is very humble. Just a small farm, about two hours north of the city by train, outside a pretty little town called Hudson. The owner is a former client of mine: a widow with two daughters, who takes in guests to supplement her income. Mrs. Buchan and I have stayed there, and I can vouch for its excellence. The house is large—clean and very quiet—and the food is superb: Mrs. Noonan is a marvelous cook. Still, you may wish for something more imposing, such as a hotel … although many of them may already be filled for the summer …”
“No, no hotels. Above all I want my privacy, and a great deal of quiet for Clara. The place you speak of sounds ideal.”
“Then I will make the arrangements. I know the family well; Mrs. Noonan and her daughters are very discreet. No one here will know where you have gone, and no one there will say who you are. But of what date are we speaking? For the wedding, I mean?”
“Wednesday, the sixth of June. Mr. Chadwick has told Clara that he will come for her on the eighth, and I want to be far away with her by then.”
“Which gives us exactly”—Buchan does the mental calculation—“eleven days until your wedding.” He melts abruptly into a broad, complicitous smile, shaking his head. “My God, who would have thought it? The notorious Mario Alfieri marrying Henry Slade’s disinherited ward exactly a fortnight after their first meeting. You know, signore, that this will stand New York on its ear, don’t you? And I cannot imagine what all of Europe will think when the news finally reaches them!” He laughs out loud. “I fear that many who go to the opera, come the fall, will be going to do more than just hear you sing. Everyone will want to see what Mario Alfieri looks like as a married man!”
“But it is his pretty young wife who is worth looking at, Mr. Buchan, not Mario Alfieri. Still, if it will make them happy, they are free to stare at me as much as they like … and I promise you, I will not allow Mr. Grau to raise the price of the tickets …”
Chapter Nine (#ulink_13681ce0-6c1c-5a3e-92cc-523369c9fdd8)
AM I LATE?” Dyckman says, flushed with hurrying.
“No, sir.” It is Peters who answers, the late Mr. Slade’s footman. “The other gentlemen have just arrived.” He takes the young man’s hat and gloves. “Go right upstairs, sir; they are waiting for you. You do remember the way?”
Dyckman remembers the way. In the last ten days he has developed a nodding acquaintance with this great house; he has known it, however, only in its state of perpetual dusk, and is not prepared for the vast change which this morning has brought. His eyes widen with amazement as he crosses the entrance hall and mounts the stairs.
Light everywhere. Every curtain has been pulled back, every shade raised, every window flung wide, every door opened. From one side of the house to the other, from front to back and top to bottom, the gentle air of June wafts through the rooms, fluttering the pale muslin that still shrouds the furniture, and blowing away the darkness. What is left of it lingers in the high-ceilinged halls and on the alabaster staircase that runs up the center of the house, but it is a muted darkness now: a silvery, soft, underwater darkness that pools in corners and grows shallower until it disappears as it nears doors and windows open to the sun. Staring about him, Dyckman is reminded of a cathedral on Easter morning, and makes his way to the music room—stripped of its net and muslin shrouds, and restored now to its gleaming blue and gold glory—in a suddenly exalted mood.
Alfieri and Buchan are waiting for him with a third man, bespectacled and bearded; a man whom Dyckman does not know, and who is introduced to him as Mr. Wheeler. Alfieri is pale but very composed, and the hand that grips Dyckman’s is both warm and steady.
“The train tickets?” he says.
“I have them here, Mario,” the young man replies, patting his breast pocket.
“And the baggage?”
“Is at the station, waiting for you to arrive.”
“Then there remains nothing to do.” Alfieri rests his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “Except to thank you.”
Dyckman flushes. “There is nothing to thank me for. I have done very little. Besides,” he smiles, “the thanks should be mine. I will be invited everywhere on the strength of this story, Mario; you know I will.”
Alfieri laughs and bows to Dyckman with an elegant flourish. “Then may you have as much joy in telling it as I have in presenting it to you.”
Buchan looks at his watch and nods to the tenor. “Ten o’clock, signore. We should start.”
“Will you go upstairs, Stafford,” Alfieri asks, “and tell the ladies that we are ready?”
When Dyckman returns, Alfieri has joined Messrs. Buchan and Wheeler by the mantelpiece. Wheeler stands behind a small table upon which are a book and two small glasses, one containing wine, the other empty.
Dyckman nods. “They’re coming.”
Buchan presses the tenor’s hand and walks to the door to wait.
