Julia had trusted her to accomplish this mission. To visit dead vineyards in Villa Nova and explain the cure for phylloxera. Anne couldn't shy away.
Yes, she would bring light back to this property.
Clicking her tongue, Anne guided the carriage down the side road. They crossed a gate designed with twisting ropes of iron. Over the top, a plaque read, 'Quinta do Salgueiro.' A mansion presided over a formal garden, its two neoclassical wings hugging the hill. It would be beautiful if it weren't for the dead vines flanking it. Why allow an enchanted home to turn into a graveyard of vines? Perhaps the owner did not live here or had not heard Griff and Julia's advances in beating phylloxera. The rebuilding was a slow process. Even in France, many vineyards were still barren hills.
No footman came to greet them, and she continued on the circular drive until it ended in a baroque stable with gaping double doors. She halted the buggy and secured it on a hitching hook. James snored, his head drooping. He deserved a rest. She closed the door to his basket and placed it securely on the carriage floor. This was just a polite call, and he would be better here.
Anne strolled to the front entrance and fluffed her new dress. Made of ivory satin, the bodice hugged her torso, and the overskirt opened to show layers of white tulle. The tiny grapes, a compliment to her embroidering skills, added just the touch to the ensemble.
Satisfied she appeared both feminine and businesslike, Anne reached for the brass knocker and made it resound two times. Several heartbeats passed. No birds chirped on the cypresses, and no insects droned over the manicured flowerbeds. Even the breeze had hushed. She gazed longingly at the stables and lifted her hand to knock again when the door swung outwards, missing her by an inch. In the doorway stood a gray-liveried butler, his pockmarked face scrunched in a frown. He eyed her as if she was a bandit bent on invading his master's home.
She forced a smile. "Hello, I'm Miss Anne—"
The servant grabbed her arm and pulled her inside the unlit vestibule.
"Wait, what—"
Barking Portuguese words she didn't understand, he steered her along a palatial foyer and a hallway decorated with impressive military paintings. She had to take quick steps to avoid tripping on her skirts. When they arrived at a set of French doors adorned with blue panels, he halted.
"Sir, if you will—"
Without knocking, he shoved it open and signaled impatiently for her to go inside. Anne entered gingerly, heart beating in her throat.
"Espere aqui." The butler banged the door shut and left.
What was wrong with him? Anne stared at the stained glass, catching her breath. The poor man must have confused her words. Either her Portuguese was not as good as she believed, or he spoke a dialect. Soon she would laugh at this over a steamy cup of tea.
Anne spun in a slow circle, her slippers reflecting over the travertine floor. Light peeked from slits on the velvet drapery, hardly enough to satisfy her curiosity. Shadows played over the Venetian mirrors and on the gilded leaves and roses festooning the ceiling. Opposite a grand piano loomed an assortment of guns and wicked swords. Anne touched the tip of a curved saber, and pinpricks rose along her skin.
A chaise longue stood at the other corner, pillows scattered over its damask upholstery. A coffee table had liquor bottles as adornments. She brought one to her nose and grimaced at the alcohol fumes. What a shame to ill use such a superb room.
Anne touched the piano keys, the notes echoing through the high ceiling, conjuring a dazzling ball—windows open to the moonlight, candles sparkling on the crystal chandelier, ladies and their pastel gowns twirling to a full orchestra. Vila Nova's residents would enjoy coming here to dance. How selfish to keep it hidden.
On top of an oak desk lay an ancient tome. Anne trailed her fingers over the red and gold title—The Infinite Love of Dom Pedro and Inês de Castro. Her gaze flitted to the door, and seeing it still closed, she opened the book.
Albuquerque castle, June 1312.
Inês searched the Castilian sky. Arcturus, the queen of stars and star of queens—her star—shone mightily. It must be a sign. Had the witch not said her fate awaited in Portugal? Out in the courtyard, the mules brayed, jingling their harness, impatient to take her there. Just a moment more. With agile fingers, Inês braided the flowers into a fragrant bouquet. Odd numbers for luck—daffodils for truth, bluebells for health, roses for love, and the hyacinth for joy.
She couldn't begin this journey without happiness.
Before the tale swept her away, Anne stopped reading. The romance was another oddity. This quinta must be the richest in the region and by far the most desolate. Who lived here? The question gnawed at her insides, spurring her to explore further.
She paused before a life-sized painting of an officer wearing the Marshal's uniform. His face was vaguely familiar, with a severe mustache and white hair. What if war had left him deformed? That's why he would not socialize and allowed his vineyards to die. Anne could help. Why not bring him into Vesuvio's society? A breath of light would soften the heart of a weary soul.
A draft lifted the hairs on Anne's neck, and the top of her ears pricked. The butler must have upset her nerves. Brushing the exposed skin on her arms, Anne turned.
On the darkest side of the room, hunkering in a throne-like chair, features concealed by shadows, was a man. Had he been there all this time? Anne thanked her bonnet for concealing the fierce heat that coursed through her face. How would she convince him to rebuild his vineyards after he caught her snooping?
He rose, unfolding his lean, tall frame graciously.
Anne waited for him to speak, to introduce himself, her heart battering against her ribs. He crossed the ballroom with purpose and force, the gait of one who commanded all with a wave of his gloved hands. Anne's gaze was drawn to his unfashionably long hair, the burnished gold strands reaching his shoulders. He wore it tied at the neck in the style of a noble from France's first empire.
He stood before her. His expression could be carved from marble, so little feeling it showed. Was he displeased?
Anne inhaled to speak, but his eyes scrambled her apology—the irises nuanced from tawny to yellow, like a kaleidoscope made of shattered topaz. He tilted his head, and the aloofness vanished, replaced by a sardonic smile that caused her cheeks to burn. Anne hid her gaze behind her eyelids, and if there were a hole in the floor, she would hide her head too.
He wasn't an old general, and he most certainly wasn't deformed.
