Page 40 of Betrothal Between Enemies

She did her own correspondence that evening in Alistair’s room, sneaking in after the house was quiet. She told herself it was because his chamber had a better view of Vesuvius. She left the balcony doors open as she wrote to his father, looking up every so often to watch the mountain. It was in fine form tonight. The ash cloud that had formed in the daylight was now supplanted by a red glow. She’d wager there were Strombolian explosions up there.

Ismay finished the letter and wandered out onto the balcony. She glanced along the side of the house towards her room. The trek across the balconies looked more treacherous and certainly higher up than she’d thought. She winced thinking of Alistair making the journey, then winced again thinking of how she’d pushed him out on her balcony, requiring him to make the trip back. He could have fallen, broken a leg or his neck. Her stomach lurched, queasy at the grotesque thought of Alistair maimed or dead.

She leaned on the balustrade, waiting for her stomach to settle, and stared at the mountain. She had to get up there. If Monticelli wouldn’t take her, she’d have to find another way. There’d been a Norwegian artist, Johan Christian Dahl, who’d been at the last accademia meeting, a guest of the prince of Norway, Christian Frederick. He’d come explicitly to paint Vesuvius and was planning to go up if and when there was an eruption to sketch it. That was what she’d do: she’d offer her expertise in exchange for joining their party.

Ismay had just sat down to write to Dahl when her stomach heaved again, this time to such an effect she was scrambling for the empty chamber pot. The fish served at supper tonight must not have been as fresh as Cook claimed. She’d have to talk to the fishmonger next time she was in the market.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was past time to go. He could have settled his projects faster and gone earlier. He should have. Alistair looked around the empty drawing room at the rented house. He’d been doing that a lot lately—vacating. Standing in empty spaces seemed to be a metaphor for his life these past weeks. He told himself he’d stayed because he’d wanted to see the miracle of the blood on the sixteenth, because he was only going as far as Florence for the holidays and needn’t rush.

The truth was far different. He’d stayed because he hadn’t wanted to leave. Primarily, he hadn’t wanted to leave Ismay, and secondarily, he hadn’t wanted to leave Naples. He’d fallen in love with both. Between them, he’d found purpose but too late. Should he have recognised his feelings sooner? If he had, could he have tried harder to convince her? But what would that have been? For once, he’d been out of ideas. Then, the inevitable had happened. He’d seen her. Or, rather, she’d seen him.

Perhaps that was truly what he’d stayed for—the knowledge that sooner or later he’d run into her. Of all the risks he’d ever taken, that was likely the most daring and the most stupid. It could accomplish nothing, prove nothing of use except that burying himself in work had failed miserably to offer him any healing, any peace. Perhaps distance would accomplish what hard work could not.

‘Sir.’ The man-of-all-work who’d run the house for him during his stay quietly interrupted. ‘There’s a gentleman here to see you. Shall I show him in?’

‘I’m not expecting anyone. Does he understand that I am scheduled to leave within the next half hour?’ Even now, he was simply waiting for the coach to arrive to take him and his trunk to the port. He’d opted to brave the winter seas and hope for a quick trip to Ostia, back the way he’d come.

‘Then, I am just in time.’ Sir Thomas Rose strode into the room, defying the protocol of waiting to be received. Then again, one could quibble this was Sir Thomas’s house. Perhaps he didn’t need to wait.

‘This is unexpected, sir. I don’t have anything to offer you for refreshment.’ This was the last person he’d expected to see here, although maybe he should have expected it. No doubt, Rose had learned he’d seen Ismay at the procession.

‘But I have something to offer you.’ Rose’s gloved hands gripped the brim of his hat. The man looked tired. His recent short journey had been hard on him. Alistair knew he’d been gone through channels at the warehouse. That journey was to have been his. It had been his job to take that load from Sir Thomas.

‘Was your client pleased with the figurines from Ischia?’ He hoped there was only business to discuss. He didn’t think he could handle another scolding or hearing about Ismay. He would be devastated for a long time.

Sir Thomas’s expression startled. He shook his head. ‘No, that’s not what I’ve come to tell you. I’ve come to offer you an apology.’ If there was a chair available, Alistair would have sat down. This was most unanticipated indeed. Not really, his conscience prompted, replaying Ismay’s words to him: What if I tell him I love you? Suddenly, he knew what Sir Thomas was going to say before the words came out. Ismay had gone to her father in true Ismay fashion, not knowing when to stop. He braced himself against the onslaught, not sure how much more he could handle. He had told her he loved her, and she had doubted him. When she’d had the chance to call off the ruse, she’d not done it. She’d not regretted it until later.

‘Ismay has confessed the whole courtship was a giant prank to get us to call off the engagement, and in the course of that ruse, the two of you developed a real affection for one another. Is that true, or is she just trying to save face for you?’ Sir Thomas was asking, not begging. He might have said he’d come to apologise, but he’d verify facts first.

‘It is true, sir.’ To deny it would be to call Ismay a liar. He would not do that, regardless of how things had ended.

Sir Thomas eyed him keenly. ‘She says she loves you. Do you love her?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He’d been sick with it for the last month, his gut twisting every time he thought of giving her up and sleep impossible every time he remembered the feel of her in his arms. He missed her entirely from her arguments and conversation to her very passion for living life on her own terms. He’d never been so alive as he’d been these past months with her.

Sir Thomas seemed to consider all this. ‘I must ask, then. The gambling, the blatant disregard for social protocols, all of that was for show?’

‘Most of it, sir. Encouraging Ismay’s pursuit of the sciences was not for show. That particular breaking of protocol was very real and one I do not plan to give up.’

Sir Thomas pierced him with a hard stare. ‘So I hear. Ismay told me about the money for the journal.’ He drew himself up. ‘Then, it seems I owe you an apology for thinking the worst of you, for misjudging you.’

Alistair shook his head. ‘You do not owe me that. You believed what you were shown. How could you do otherwise? And you acted as any concerned father ought. I am the one who is sorry. The costs were much higher than I imagined. If I had known from the start how it would turn out, I would not have begun it.’ That wasn’t quite true, though. If he’d not begun it, he would not have fallen in love with Ismay, would not have discovered her—beautiful, painful discovery that it was. He had absolution now, but to what end? Perhaps he ought to decide what the end should be and not wait for Sir Thomas to tell him. ‘There is something, however, I am owed. An explanation. Why did you change your mind?’

Sir Thomas gave a weary shrug. ‘My daughter can be quite persuasive. I didn’t change my mind at first. It seemed to me that you were simply trying to win her back to get all that you’d thrown away. But then, Ismay said something—that she’d hesitated at a crucial moment because she’d been afraid. My daughter is afraid of nothing. It must be real.’ He faltered. ‘Fearlessness is her downfall. You will have your hands full with her.’ He rocked back on his heels. ‘The other reason I’ve come is to tell you that she is missing. She didn’t come down to breakfast, and she’s not in her room.’ Sir Thomas looked about the room. ‘I had hoped she was here, that once I cleared everything up with you she’d pop out. But I see that is not the case.’

‘Missing? She’s run away?’ Concern lanced through Alistair. ‘Have you tried the port? My ship leaves at noon. Perhaps she thought to join me.’ In his gut he already knew he was going to miss that ship. If Ismay was missing, he could not leave until she was found, and if she would have him, he would not be leaving at all. But oh, the irony of it, if she got on that ship to find him only to sail away from him instead!

Sir Thomas hedged. ‘I think she’s on the mountain. Perhaps alone. Certainly not with her usual fellows.’ That meant without Monticelli’s expertise, possibly with amateurs who had no business on the belching, rumbling giant. Alistair had seen its red glare last night and the ash cloud blocking the sunlight yesterday.

‘I will go find her,’ Alistair said resolutely. He did not relish the thought of seeing Vesuvius up close again after his last encounter, but he liked even less the thought of Ismay up there, her safety precariously contingent on the mountain’s whim. ‘How long ago did she leave?’ Had she climbed at midnight? He hoped not.

‘It’s hard to say. Dawn? Before the house was awake.’ Sir Thomas was of little help. Alistair was already calling out orders. He’d need his boots unpacked, and he’d need water. That was all the preparation he could afford to make. There wasn’t any time to lose. The carriage intended to take him to the port was already there; he would just redirect it to Portici, the start of the path up the mountain.

* * *

He reached the foot of Vesuvius only to be frustrated by the crowds of tourists attempting to hire guides who were refusing to go up the mountain today. That ought to tell them something, Alistair grumbled. If the local guides weren’t willing to go up, an unseasoned climber definitely should not. He pushed his way forward, asking the question over and over to any guide that would listen. ‘Did you see a woman with long blond hair? Did she go up the mountain this morning?’