And it would rip her apart, she thought with brutal, if belated, honesty. Why? She’d briefly examined those fleeting thoughts just before the ambush. His safely was paramount to her. She would give up her life for him. Merciful heavens, she’d fallen in love with him!
The thought had her gripping the side of the bench as her head started to swim. She glanced over at Rafaelle to see if he’d noticed her lapse, but all his attention focused on the road.
He wanted to marry her! She risked another glance at his face. Black hair gathered to a queue at the back of his neck. His features reminded her of the rough-carved marble of Michelangelo’s Slaves she’d seen in the Grotto of Florence’s Pitti Palace: just as harsh and just at powerful.
Yes, this time it would rip apart her very soul. She’d had what she suspected was a very small taste of his wrath. He had all he needed to completely destroy her.
So, why did the idea of marriage spark such hope in her? Could the risk really be worth the prize?
Silence reigned at lunch. Even Francesca must have felt the tension. She opened her mouth to say something, and Chiara saw her slowly close it without so much as a peep.
When they finished, Rafaelle helped Francesca into the carriage with a bow and a flourish. She simpered and settled herself on the banquette. Chiara moved to join her, without the assistance.
“Funny,” Rafaelle murmured in her ear, “I never took you for a coward.” Her head whipped around, and she glared at him. His expression made boiled rice look spicy. “We do have things to discuss that have nothing to do with my question.”
She grimaced and moved to the front of the carriage. He offered his hand to assist her. She looked at it and wanted desperately to refuse. But that would be churlish. She laid her hand in his, and those long fingers closed around it. His touch reverberated down to her toes, and it felt so safe. She concentrated on arranging her skirts. He came around, climbed up, and signaled the horses. After a few minutes, he spoke, his voice quiet. “I won’t press you. I know it’s not in your long-term plans. I would, however, like you to consider it. I think we could make each other very happy.” A great shiver when through her, despite the heat of the day. He saw it and drew a deep breath.
“Our first order of business in Savona,” she relaxed as he continued, “will be to send Francesca on her way. What’s her family like?” Chiara turned, her brow furrowed in confusion. “How many people do we have to work with?”
“I don’t know.” She turned to Francesca and asked. After a long, involved answer, Chiara turned back. “Catarina and Luciano have two sons and a daughter and a large number of in-laws and cousins.”
“Good. We can use them. One will take Francesca off as soon as we get there. Have him go through Genoa on the off-chance someone could recognize her or the carriage.
“How many of the family actually work at the Palace?”
The list was extensive.
“Perhaps a better question would have been how many of the staff aren’t family members.”
Chiara snickered, and his gaze settled on her. “It’s good to hear you laugh, even it it’s only a small one. The past few days haven’t given you much cause. I,” he stressed the word, “don’t want to cause you any unhappiness.”
She nodded and the conversation lagged.
They drove the border of the Po Valley and the Maritime Alps. Another hill town perched along the side of the mountains. Chiara’s lost count of the picturesque villages clinging desperately to the mountain side, their single road snaking around the curves below their eyries. Even with her wide-brimmed hat, the heat on the plain was brutal. “I’m not used to this any more,” she muttered.
Rafaelle looked over. “Ah! The mistress of understatement! At least we should get some sea breezes in Savona. I’m almost tempted to make the climb,” he nodded toward the village, “to get some of their cool breezes and maybe some of the view.”
“I’m sure they concur with your appreciation of their summer climate. However, I don’t think they built their village there to provide a summer retreat.” Perhaps it was the irony in her voice that had him glancing over. “Defense.”
“Absolutely. It’s better than a fortress, and God built their walls. I’m only glad that we don’t have to go to those extremes. I can’t imagine Oakleaf Abbey with walls and fortifications.”
“Your estate? Where is it?”
“Near Bristol. It was 200 years old when Henry the Eighth confiscated it and gave it to one of his bastards out of a daughter of one of the local gentry. My father always glossed over that part of the family history and emphasized that the family was old Norman stock.
She snorted. “I doubt there’s a titled family in England that doesn’t have a few antecedents from the wrong side of the blanket. If it was a royal blanket, well then, all the better.”
He tilted his head and looked over at her. “Do you?”
“Of course, both sides. My father’s is from Charles II. My mother’s mother got pregnant by a stable hand. My great-grandfather was furious, but grandmother finally ran off with her beau. Great-grandmother convinced her husband to make grandfather manager of a small estate near my father’s family property. Grandfather did so well that great-grandfather gave the estate to him. To the day she died, grandmother had a wistful light in her eye when she talked of her husband.”
“I’m envious. My family…well, you know what my family is like, and they simply kept up the FitzHenry tradition.”
“Yes,” she said, slowly, “but it doesn’t have to always be that way, you know.”
“Going to help me change the FitzHenry family legacy of hellish marriages?”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“Well, that’s not a ‘no.’” He looked over at her silence and left her to her thoughts.
The mountains on the left stopped rather abruptly, and they descended onto a finger of the wide Po Valley plain. A few miles outside of Alessandria, they came on a ruined village. Craters pocked the road and the fields around it. No building had all four walls intact. Few people and fewer animals wandered through the streets. Several of the houses bore scorch marks. The steeple of the church looked like a giant had bitten off the top. Rafaelle looked out over the area. “This place looks like it once served as the gateway to hell. It…it was a battlefield and not too long ago at that.”
Chiara rifled through her memories of recent Italian battles. “This must be Marengo. I imagine it did look like the mouth of hell. It certainly doesn’t look too much better now.”
He grunted, and they passed through the ruined land. Chiara thought about what war would do to her little piece of England. She suspected Rafaelle’s ran along the same lines.
At Alessandria, they stopped for the night. Francesca, deprived of someone to talk to all day, made up for lost time. Rafaelle knew some measure of gratitude at his own relative lack of the language. He could just sit there and smile and eat. Poor Chiara actually had to pay attention to the endless tide of words.
In the morning, they took the south gate road towards Genoa. Several times they pulled off the road to let groups of soldiers pass. Only once did they garner even a curious look.
Late afternoon, they approached the west side of Savona. With the rocky coast on their left, Francesca guided them to the home of her relatives with only one request for directions from the populace. The sun still shone when Francesca pointed out her brother’s house. Like most Italian houses, its front was unprepossessing. Chiara’s stomach told her it was near dinner time. Francesca lumbered out of the carriage and stretched.
“We can’t dawdle,” Rafaelle snapped, waving toward the door. “We need to get inside and get her on her way as soon as possible.”
Chiara nodded and urged the cook forward, despite grumbling. A young woman answered the summons. Chiara guessed it was a servant since the Pope’s staff, and relatives, were definitely not peasants. Francesca stepped forward and identified herself. When the maid didn’t immediate
ly invite them in, Francesca walked forward, brushing past the young woman and squashing her on the door.
Chiara smiled as she followed, but told the maid, “Have the carriage taken around back immediately.” Waiting a moment to see her instructions carried out, Chiara and Rafaelle trailed into the parlor.
Two people were there. Obviously, the man who engulfed Francesca in a bear hug had to be her brother. Taller than Francesca, he was a slightly less round, male copy of her. Chiara gave him and his wife a moment to gush, then broke in, “Francesca, you need to do your part and then leave.” The man scowled. “I’m sorry; this is not a social visit. Francesca, please.”
The man gestured everyone to chairs, but Rafaelle remained on his feet. He went to each of the doors and opened, then closed, them, and came back to stand near Chiara. The man’s scowl grew blacker.
Francesca settled herself on the chair, back straight and chin in the air. “Catarina, Luciano Dallapiccola, you may remember me talking of Lady Chiara Brownlee. I’d like to present her to you.”
Recognition dawned on Luciano, and he jumped to his feet, bowing. He jerked his chin towards his wife, and she scrambled up to curtsy. Francesca continued, “Lord Rafaelle Fitz…” she glanced at Chiara who murmured “Henry.” “Yes, FitzHenry. They are here to rescue Cousin Barnabà.”
Both Dallapiccolas started talking at once. Chiara cut them off. “If you accept the introduction from Francesca, and will allow us to talk to you about it, I would like Francesca to leave immediately. It will be safer for everyone.”
Francesca squawked, but Chiara again cut in, “We discussed this. The longer you stay the more problems it can cause. Please don’t argue.” She looked directly at her old friend who reluctantly nodded. Chiara looked at Luciano and Catarina. He gave one jerk of his head. “Good. Can you get a trustworthy member of the family to take her back to Cesena?”
Luciano strode to one of the doors, “Taddeo, come here.” A mumbled voice answered. “Now!” He came back, looked at Rafaelle and Chiara, and swallowed visibly. The young man entered. Luciano instructed him to hitch a fresh horse to the carriage. Rafaelle took out a handful of coins and said, “I want them to go back by way of Genoa,” Chiara translated, “go down the west coast, and cross over.” Luciano looked confused. “Different route than we came, less chance to be recognized.”
Luciano nodded then turned to Francesca. “Is this the truth? Are they going to rescue Barnabà?”
She nodded then sat down with him and her sister-in-law to talk quietly.
Taddeo returned. Luciano’s instructions included remaining with his cousins for awhile. Rafaelle gave the young man his traveling money. They all walked out to the interior courtyard. With lots of hugs and kisses, Francesca got into the carriage and headed back to Cesena.
Back in the parlor, Catarina called for refreshments before Chiara gave the Dallapiccolas the same explanation she gave the Chiaramontes while Rafaelle wandered, almost aimlessly, around the room. Keeping her voice low, she explained the plan including the idea to leave the family tied up on the actual day of the rescue and concluded, “I want you to think about the risks and problems here and tell us if you can go through with it. If you can’t, we will understand, asking only your silence and directions to a loyal priest.”
Catarina’s face radiated joy and hope. “Deo gracia.”
Chiara relaxed. They passed the first hurdle.
“Signora, we should contact a priest, though,” Catarina mused. “He can contact people for the demonstration.”
“But not Fr. Antonini,” Luciano interrupted. “He’s supposed to be the Pope’s confessor, but he’s a French supporter. Fr. Mezi or Fr. Marini or both.”
“We’ll firm up the details and leave that to you,” Rafaelle said. “You are sure of their loyalty? He stopped his meanderings near Chiara.
Catarina nodded, “Oh yes, they…”
The door opened to admit a sultry beauty carrying a tray with glasses, a wine carafe and a plate of biscotti. “Ah, mama, you do have guests.” She was definitely not a servant. Her eyes skimmed over Chiara and rested on Rafaelle. Her hips swayed as she approached the chairs. She put her tray down. Stopping opposite Rafaelle, she adjusted the neckline of her blouse a little lower over voluptuous breasts as she cocked her head. “Introduce me.”
Rafaelle leaned toward Chiara and growled softly in French, “We don’t have time for this.”
Female challenge radiated from the young woman. She wanted Rafaelle. Chiara could see that clear as day. He was new, handsome, exuded…well all the usual reasons a woman would want a man. Chiara knew she had to decide quickly: squish the woman’s ambitions or ignore them. A desperate desire to claim and defend washed over her.
“I am Chiara,” she nodded to Rafaelle, “and this is my…escort, Rafaelle. I’m an old friend of your family. We may be here for a few days. Who are you?” Confrontation would only cause complications she didn’t need, especially if the girl was who Chiara thought she was.
“Basta,” Luciano hissed. Enough. “This is my daughter, Bruna. She sometimes mistakes her duties as host.”
Chiara nodded to Bruna, deliberately not looking around for Rafaelle’s reaction. “If it pleases, you, I think this should be kept strictly between us…until the bargain is struck, don’t you?” She looked to Luciano for understanding and agreement.
“Indeed. You may get to know Chiara and Rafaelle later.”
Bruna left in a huff. Rafaelle’s stare prompted Luciano to check the door.
“I’m sorry,” Rafaelle began in French, “the less people who know exactly what we are here for, the safer it is for you. A chance comment, an incautious word on someone’s part…” he shrugged and Luciano nodded. “Francesca introduced us formally, but we are Chiara and Rafaelle, simply friends of the family. We must be as normal as possible. In fact, we want you to get us positions inside the Papal household.”
Catarina smirked as she poured the wine, “Chiara will make an excellent housemaid, but you,” she looked at Rafaelle, “I don’t know. You will be difficult.”
“Why?”
“You don’t speak Italian.” She passed the wine and cookies.
“I could be a mute.”
“And you stand with power.”
Rafaelle blinked at the bald statement, but Chiara snickered. “You do.” Rafaelle slumped in on himself as a humble peasant might stand, but Chiara said, “How long can you keep that up?”
He straightened, “Just about that long.” Sitting next to Chiara, he balanced the wine glass on his knee.
Luciano said, “He can work in the gardens with me. Va bene?”
Chiara’s eyes twinkled at Rafaelle, “You’re about to start a new career as a gardener. Good luck.”
They discussed plans: excuses for replaced workers, riots to divert French troops, a second exit from the palace that Luciano doubted the French knew about, and even disguises for the Pope.
Rafaelle leaned forward. “We’ll need lookouts east and west of the city to watch for the ship. They’ll need lanterns and horses. I’ll give them a signal code.”
“Is there any possibility,” Chiara asked, “of weapons?”
Luciano pursed his lips. “Explosives would be useful, but Radet has confiscated all the guns and gunpowder he could find. They’re in the armory under heavy guard. We can still find some for you, though.” His smile promised a goodly number.
Chiara blanched. “Radet is here?”
Catarina passed the cookie plate again. “Yes, you know he was the general who arrested Cousin Barnabà and forced that dear old man on a hideous, round-about journey here.” She concentrated on her hostess duties and not Chiara, but Rafaelle looked at his cohort curiously. “Napoleon has him here now as chief jailor. He virtually commands the city. Even the commander at Genoa is afraid of him.”
“He’s ruthless,” Luciano added. “Only last week he hung a man who carried a letter from His Holiness to a bishop. Cousin Barnabà is forbidden to wr
ite letters.”
“They’ve closed up the balcony he used to bless the people in the piazza. He can no longer hold audiences. I try to make sure he has enough food to carry him through my day off, but sometimes I think they take even that from him.”
“Radet is a pig!” Luciano hawked to emphasize his point with a mouthful of spit and remembered where he was. He swallowed.
Rafaelle hid a smile behind a cough. “Yes, well all the more reason to keep our plans as closely held as possible. When you contact your supporters, don’t tell them what the point of the operation is. No one should know any more than they absolutely have to. Understood?” Luciano and Catarina nodded. “If we may, I think Chiara and I would like something to eat, and then we should head off for bed. I suspect we will need our strength for our new jobs tomorrow.”
After dinner, Rafaelle escorted Chiara to her room. “A word with you, please,” he murmured in her ear. After checking the hallway, he slipped into her room with her. “Radet.”
“Yes, I know him.” She paced the small, sparsely-furnished, room while he stood near the door with his arms folded. “I met him when he was attached to the French Ambassador’s party in London during one of the lulls in hostilities. Luciano insulted good honest swine when he called Radet a pig.” Rafaelle snorted but said nothing.
She’d had time during dinner to think about this new problem and how to finesse the explanation. “He might be able to recognize me, except for three things. One, he’s not expecting to see me here; two, I look different; and three, nobody looks at servants. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
Rafaelle stuck out his lower lip. “All right. Maybe someday, though, you’ll trust me enough to tell me why his name made your face go pale. In the meantime…” he walked over and tilted her chin up with one finger. Bending over, his mouth touched hers, gently, with a hint of question.
Switching the gears of her mind caught Chiara off guard. Just the thought of Radet had polluted her mind. Rafaelle’s touch banished that ugliness, somehow cleansing her, reassuring her that it could be good to be in a man’s arms. For a moment, she looked at him then slowly closed her eyes. The finger on her chin caressed her cheek and threaded itself through her hair, while his other hand slipped around her waist to draw her close. Her hands flowed under his jacket to explore the muscles of his back.