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“No...Can it really and truly beyou?”
His aunt stood still staring at his mother, her eyes wide. He saw his mother give a small nod and his aunt surged forward and caught his mother up in a huge bear hug. Strangely, he noticed his aunt weeping.
After a few moments she turned to him, surreptitiously she wiped her eyes. “So young man, you must be my nephew, Christopher.”
He bowed low to his Aunt. “Mais oui, I am Christopher Gabriel St. Nicholas. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,Tante.”
“Believe me, the pleasure is all mine, child. Welcome to Churchton, dearest boy,” she cried, and spun about to face Angele, her hands outstretched. “I cannot tell you how overjoyed I was to receive the letter about the existence of this handsome little fellow, but to find that you are alive, Angele… My dear, but this is quite…extraordinary...I find myself quite overcome.Your son is adorable, Angele. Dear Lord, I cannot quite believe you are here. We must talk but first I shall call for Miss Pudding, our nanny, to take Christopher up to the nursery to meet Rudy and Holly. Then you must explain everything that has occurred over the last five years, in detail, and properly. I want to know how you escaped and where you have been. Why did you not let me know that you still lived...No, do not answer that, at least not yet. Soon we can talk and then you can explain and leave out...Not the smallest detail!” She swivelled back to Christopher. “Your cousins are most anxious to make your acquaintance, young man,” she gabbled, casting a warm smile at him. “This is all most unexpected but so utterly thrilling.” She stopped, stood still, and stared at him. “By gad, but you are the very image of my brother!”
Christopher gazed back at her solemnly, concluding his aunt to be a very excitable lady. He noted she was pretty, but in his opinion, not nearly as lovely as hisMaman, who was fair-haired, her curls a spun mixture of silver and gold. Her eyes were a deep blue, like cerulean Italian skies. Petite, like an angel, her name Angele, suited her perfectly.
Whereas his Aunt Mary was a tall woman with hair the colour of a fox’s russet coat. She had eyes like soft toffee. Yes, Christopher conceded, she was extremely pretty, but his mother surpassed pretty—she was beautiful. Except for that nasty scar that ran from her forehead down across her left cheek, but he was almost oblivious to the disfigurement, which to his adoring eyes, did not detract one iota from her beauty.
Christopher’s eyes darted hither and thither—there was so much to absorb as Mary ushered them into the house, leading them through the huge entrance hall, along wide passages, and finally into a large salon. Inside, he gazed about him in awe of the opulent surroundings. A few moments passed while the ladies held a brief but stifled conversation, which Christopher was certain they curtailed due to his presence. Then came a sharprat-a-tatat the door, and a softly rounded woman, presumably Miss Pudding, a woman well-named in his opinion, entered the room. She curtsied first to his aunt and then to his mother. Turning to him, she smiled and held out her hand. He glanced up at his mother; she gave a nod of encouragement. Reluctantly, he placed his small hand into the nanny’s, allowing himself to be led away.
The jolly-looking servant guided him into the unknown bowels of the house. He had never been inside a structure so big before. Christopher knew he must be brave for Maman. She had discussed this journey with him long before they’d undertaken their adventure.
She had explained that the outcome could possibly alter his life for the better. Christopher was unsure about this, because as far as he was concerned, his life in Italy was perfect already. He had not enjoyed the adventure at all so far, and if he was unhappy in England, he determined that he would tell Maman to take him back home to her cousin’s villa near Rome, where they had both been content.
As he was led through the huge, chilly house, Christopher decided he did not like this cold, strange country his mother had brought him to. He was uneasy about being separated from her by an unknown woman. Being rushed along so many draughty passages and up so many stairs, he panicked. However would he find his way back to her side? He stopped, pulling his hand free from the woman’s. She halted, frowning thoughtfully.
“Now then, Master Christopher, don’t you be a silly boy. Come along with me and meet your cousins. They are waiting to greet you. I have ordered hot milk and iced buns for your nursery tea. I expect you are hungry after your arduous journey. Wouldn’t you like something to eat?”
He nodded but remained stationary.
“Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me all about sailing across the ocean on a big boat? I should like to know what the sea looks like,” she encouraged.
Christopher regarded her solemnly for a moment, unsure of her sincerity. Finally convinced by her candour, he returned her friendly smile. “Have you never seen the ocean?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, I never have.”
“Well, it is an enormous amount of water with big waves; the boat rocked about an awful lot. My Maman was very scared.” He puffed out his small chest. “I reassured her so that she felt better.”
“My goodness, what a brave lad you are,” Miss Pudding praised and gently urged him forward so that they resumed their progress along the passageway.
Christopher brightened at her show of interest. He explained how uncomfortable their accommodation had been aboard the ship. He went into great detail about the head area of the vessel where the crew went to the lavatory. Engrossed in his lurid descriptions he glanced across at Miss Pudding, to see how she was enjoying his tale and noticed how pinched and pale she’d become.
“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked.
“Not at all...Tell me, what is your favourite type of cake?” she asked in a sudden change in conversation.
He looked her in surprise, perhaps she wasn’t sick at all, but was hungry? Christopher came to the conclusion that English females were extremely difficult to understand.
* * *
“I simply cannot understand why you will not tell Gabriel that you are alive. He would be overjoyed. It is utterly cruel of you not to tell him, Angele. Have you any idea how desperate and distraught he has been since your death was reported?”
“So miserable that he is about to marry again?” she retorted bitterly.
Mary clicked her tongue crossly. “Ah now, to be fair, it has been five long years since he believed you to have passed. He has the succession to think of, after all.”
“Oh come now, he is an earl, Mary, not aking!” she snapped. “Besides, that is the very reason I have undertaken the arduous journey and returned. Christopher should not lose out on his birthright should they produce more children.”
Mary snorted. “Have you forgotten that he cannot marry? Certainly not now that I find his first wife is still alive.”
Angele walked to the nearest couch and dropped onto it. Wringing her hands, she stared at her sister-in-law, aghast. “I had not thought that you would feel the need to inform him.”
Mary flung up her hands, gasping with exasperation. “Do not be a dolt! Your husband is my brother. I love him and will not see him commit bigamy—not even for the love that I bear you, my dear. I am ringing for tea. I don’t know about you but I am in dire need of fortification.”
