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Nothing.
Until one day she asked him questions. About his home. About his mother. His father. Then he began to talk. Slowly at first, and then all at once, like a great, rushing waterfall. How lonely he must have been. And how angry, to keep so much inside. A part of her understood, but she did not yet have the words to explain, so she listened. That was how she learned about the tarts, and how he had them on Sunday afternoons when his mother was still alive.
Lottie asked the cook to make them for tea the next day and explained in great detailexactlyhow they should be prepared. The astonishment on Alec’s face when he saw them piled next to the scones and jam was well worth the weeks of barbs.
Then he turned to Lottie. “You…you did this? For me?”
Lottie nodded and gave him a shy smile. It was such a small thing. And she would do so much more, if he would only let her.
His expression transformed to something else, something her young mind couldn’t quite decipher. He seemed both terribly happy and incredibly sad. Then he grabbed her hand and kissed it before her governess could intervene. “Forgive me, Lottie,” he begged. “I’ve—I’ve been soawfulto you.”
“Of course,” she said easily.
She could forgive him anything—endureanything—as long as she had his friendship.
Alec was right. Lottie had been a silly child.
She set down the half-eaten tart, no longer having a taste for it.
Just then Alec’s deep voice floated through the house. He was talking to someone out front. Lottie left behind the tart and went outside. A horse and cart that both looked far past their primes sat in the drive, while a boy who couldn’t be more than ten held the reins. He was speaking to Alec in rapid Italian. Alec smiled and patted the boy’s arm, then began to lift Lottie’s trunk onto the back of the cart. He wore the same pants and jacket from yesterday afternoon, but both had gotten a good brushing at some point, as they were now entirely free of road dust.
“What’s this?”
Alec grunted as he pushed the trunk onto the bed of the cart. “Our transportation to the rail station.”
Lottie lowered her voice, even though the boy likely didn’t speak much English. “He’s achild.”
“Lorenzo is twelve,” Alec said. “I was about the same age when I took us to the village in the dogcart for the harvest festival.”
Lottie did not return his amused smile as the long cherished butdeliberatelysuppressed memory surfaced. It had been the first of many outings for them. He bought her a roasted apple, and they had their fortunes told: Alec would become a great explorer, while Lottie would make a name for herself on the stage. Then she fell asleep against his shoulder on the ride back to Uncle Alfred’s house. She hadn’t felt so safe since her parents died. Or so cared for.
“This is hardly the same.”
Alec sighed and turned serious. “Marta says he’s a responsible lad, and this is a good opportunity for him. He’s the man of the house and his mother is ill.”
“Oh.” She could hardly deny the boy the chance to earn some coin.
“It will be fine. He’s only taking us to Pistoia. We’ll spend the night, then take the express to Venice from Bologna.”
“Bologna?” She had assumed they would travel through Florence, as the city was much closer.
Once again Alec seemed able to read her thoughts. “We can’t go back to Florence,” he said as he focused on strapping her trunk to the cart. “You spent weeks there. It’s possible an acquaintance might see us together, which would only fuel the speculation I am trying to snuff out.” Lottie couldn’t help blushing at the idea of Alec as the dashing Italian suitor she had ruined herself over. “It’s a slight chance, to be sure,” he continued, “but I’d like to avoid it all the same. Bologna is closer to Venice anyway.” Then he met her eyes. “Are you nearly ready?”
Though his words were brief, they belayed a wealth of experience. But then, he had been living like this for years now. The realization shouldn’t have been such a surprise to her, and yet it was. Yesterday Alec said he knew a diversion when he saw one. But Lottie had completely missed the one right in front of her: a smooth, unflappable, and mildly flirtatious man. Even now, Alec’s neutral expression betrayed absolutely nothing, but she began to think beyond their shared past. And what, exactly, he had been doing while they were apart.
“I—I need to pack my paints. And canvas.”
“Already done.” Alec gestured to the cart where the canvas was expertly wrapped, with her case of paints and brushes tucked beside it.
That he would have bothered with such a thing, while planning everything else, was an even greater surprise. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll get my hat.”
Alec nodded. “And I’ll be here.”
As she retrieved her hat, gloves, and parasol, Marta came charging out of the kitchen with a basket.
“For signore and signora,” she explained, with that wide smile on her face yet again. Lottie hadn’t seen her so pleased during her entire stay.
“Grazie, Marta. This is lovely.” Lottie accepted the heavy basket.
