Page 92 of Wicked By Design

“Nichols, not now, please. T-Take it away, there’s a dear.” Cilly kept her voice even and did not snap the poor woman’s head off, but it was a close thing.

Nichols, never slow on the uptake, looked between them, snatched up the tray and left, closing the door behind her. Cilly perched on the edge of the mattress and broke the seal. Her hands trembled as she opened the letter.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, for the love of God, read it,” he said desperately, putting his head in his hands, clutching at his hair as if he’d pull it out.

Cilly nodded and began to read.

Palazzo Monteverde, Florence, 6th October 1816

My dear nephew,

You cannot imagine my astonishment upon receiving your letter. I confess I stared at it for several minutes before opening it, for I could scarcely believe my eyes.

Damian. My nephew.

You must forgive me if I am foolish and emotional. I have thought of you so very often over the years, with both guilt and regret, though I had long concluded I should never hear from any member of my family again.

First, let me say how very glad I am to know you are well. Your letter was a great comfort to me. I grieve deeply that circumstances have kept us strangers when we ought to have known one another.

You asked about me, about my family. I am pleased to tell you that I have nine living children and, at the latest count, twenty-three grandchildren, though I suspect there may be twenty-four by the time this letter reaches England. They arrive with such alarming frequency that I struggle to keep pace. They fill my house, which is a place of utter chaos. My eldest daughter insists it is because I spoil them all and that they return simply because there is always cake in my kitchen. I believe there may be some truth in this accusation.

My husband remains as devoted and infuriating as he was the day I married him. Had my sister met him properly, I believe she might have loved him too, but all she could see was a strange man determined to take her beloved sister away from her. I am afraid we quarrelled bitterly, and she swore never to speak to me again, that I would be dead to her. That is one of the great regrets of my life.

I loved your mother very dearly. Please understand that before she became the woman you remember, she was my elder sister. She braided my hair and taught me to dance. She comforted me when our mother scolded me and bullied anyone who dared tease me. Your mama could be difficult, stubborn, dramatic, and impossibly possessive, but she loved fiercely. Indeed, I have come to believe she loved too fiercely for her own happiness.

As children, we were devoted to one another, but as women, things became more complicated. When I left, we both said terrible things, things that should never have been spoken. Pride did the rest. Though I wrote to her several times over the years, I received no reply. I shall always wish that I had tried harder.

You ask me whether there were others in the family who suffer as she does. The answer is no. At least none that I ever knew.

When I learned what had happened, I was heartsick, but Monteverde forbade me from going to you. I was heavily pregnant myself, a child which was not to live, I regret to say. I was too lost in my own grief to consider anyone else. I should have gone to you, Damian. I should have sent for you and your brother. I pray you will forgive me one day for not having done so.

I grieved then, as I do still, not only for your father, who was always kind to me, but for your mother too. The sister I knew would never have wished such an end. I pray she finds peace in the safety of the home you have found for her, but I beg you will forgive me if I remember only the sister I knew. I remember her laughter and her kindness. And I remember how frightened she became whenever she thought someone she loved might leave her. That, perhaps, is the thing I understand best now that I am old.

Fear can do terrible things when it is allowed to grow unchecked. I hope you will not allow fear to taint your own life. I am an old lady now, one who has loved and lost, and so perhaps I might be so bold as to advise the nephew I have never met. Damian, no child is merely an echo of one parent. You are your own man, forged in the fires of your own experiences. Don’t let poor Lily’s fate colour your own life.

If you are ever minded to visit Italy, you will find an enthusiastic welcome waiting for you and many hugs from an aunt who wishes desperately to know you. Bring your wife. Bring Gideon, whom I should be so glad to know, too. Bring anyone you please. I have missed too much already and am too old to lose any more family.

Your affectionate aunt,

Julia Monteverde

Cilly folded the letter, discovering her hands were trembling. Somehow, she had managed to read the entire thing without weeping, but only just. She looked up to see Damian staring at her, his expression one of utter shock.

“Nine children.”

Cilly swallowed and gave a nod.

“Twenty-three grandchildren.”

“Twenty-four by now,” she corrected.

Damian gave a startled laugh. He laughed and laughed, then put his head in his hands and wept.

Epilogue

Aunt Julia, Gelato and One Last Surprise