“He glides, like the serpent he is,” remarked my hero with satisfaction. “Will you not arise, villain, and let me kick you? I am sorry now that I dirtied my hands on such trash.”
His lordship gathered himself together and staggered to his feet. He would have looked pathetic—his clothing disordered, his age very apparent—had it not been for the naked malevolence in his eyes.
“Nor do I use my hands to avenge an injury,” he snarled. “There are better ways. You have no right—”
“I have the best right,” said the strange young man emphatically. “Old rascal, I would challenge you if you were worthy of the honor. Those of my race do not fight with low persons.
“Your race?” His lordship sneered. “I am Lord Shelton—”
“And I am the Conte Andrea del Baldino Tarconti. My father is Prince Tarconti; and we trace our ancestry back three thousand years to the kings of Etruria. Yes…” he went on, as his lordship turned an ugly purplish shade, “Yes, you see that I do have the right. I am this lady’s cousin, and her natural protector; and since you claim to have a few drops of gentle blood, I may trouble myself to kill you after all, my lord.”
Chapter 2
To call my cousin Andrea impetuous is to do him no more than justice. The circumstances of our first meeting necessitated behavior that might not have been characteristic; as he afterwards said, the sight that met his horrified eyes when, in response to my desperate cry, he burst through the door could only be answered by immediate, vigorous action. I was soon to learn, however, that such action was habitual to him; he was enthusiastic, forthright, direct.
When I opened my eyes the morning after his dramatic appearance, it was his hearty voice outside my door that had awakened me. Without that assurance of his reality I think I should have considered that I had been dreaming. Then I turned over in my bed and received further confirmation; my body ached from head to foot.
From the tones of Andrea’s voice I gathered that he was expostulating with someone, but I was unable to hear another voice, he spoke so loudly and so continuously. Finally the door opened and Bessie’s head came in—only her head, no more. Seeing me awake, she allowed the rest of her person to follow her head.
“Miss?” she quavered. “Are you ready to get up, miss?”
“Yes,” I said shortly. I had not forgiven her for her part in my betrayal, although Andrea had reduced her to tears and howls of repentance, the previous night, when he heard what she had done. “Female Judas,” was the mildest of the epithets he applied to her. He had proposed flinging her out into the night, but it was obvious that I could not remain in the house without an attendant, so Andrea had allowed her to stay, promising to spend the night himself in order to ensure my safety. Whether he had done so or not I did not know. I had not expected to sleep at all that night, but 1 fell into oblivion as soon as Bessie had put me to bed. Now, except for my bodily aches, I felt amazingly cheerful. I wondered if my cousin was really as handsome as I remembered.
I did not find out for some time, since Andrea refused to come into my bedchamber, even after Bessie had wrapped me in my dressing gown. It covered me from my chin to my toes, and seemed to me quite a respectable garment; but when I came out of my room Andrea took one look at me, blushed deeply, and looked elsewhere. Even when we were seated at the breakfast table, with Bessie serving us, he found it hard to look directly at me.
It may seem strange that I was able to eat, and heartily, devouring eggs and chops with my usual appetite. Our social system makes hypocrites of women, but I was not old enough to pretend to feelings I did not have. The growing admiration in my cousin’s blue eyes assured me that I had nothing more to fear. It is easy to accept miracles when one is seventeen. As the meal progressed, Andrea grew more at ease, and finally he said naively, “In England, a young lady may appear in her nightclothes without impropriety, is it so?”
I stopped eating, a forkful of food halfway to my lips, and contemplated the ample folds of my dressing gown in some dismay. It had not occurred to me that that was the cause of his embarrassment; Father and I had always breakfasted so.
“It is not my night attire, really,” I said. “I don’t think… Surely, since you are a member of the family—a cousin—”
“A half cousin only,” said Andrea, with what seemed to me to be unnecessary precision. “Your mother and my father were only half brother and sister.”
“I know nothing of the family,” I said.
Andrea started to speak and then looked significantly at Bessie, who was standing by the sideboard, her hands folded and her eyes fixed on him with the anxious appeal of a dog.
“Send her away,” he said, indicating Bessie with a toss of his head. “She spoils my appetite.”
At which Bessie let out a howl and, without waiting for my order, bolted from the room.
I looked at Andrea, whose broad forehead had smoothed out and who was eating with every evidence of pleasure. It was obvious that Bessie’s feelings for him included more complex emotions than simple fear. No wonder. With my newborn sophistication, I thought that my cousin’s path through life must be strewn with heartbroken females of all ages and social classes. He was even more handsome than 1 remembered. Despite his northern coloring and beautiful blue eyes, one might have known him to be a foreigner; his fair hair was a little longer than an Englishman might have worn it, although he was clean-shaven.
He looked at me. and it was my turn to blush. I had not meant to stare so rudely. To cover my confusion I said, “What did you mean, we are half cousins?”
“But it is very simple. Our grandfather married twice. My father and your mother were children of different mothers. My grandmother was an English lady; that is why I speak English so well.”
“Ah, I see. Your grandmother taught you.”
“Not my grandmother; she died before I was born. Her sister, who came to Italy when Grandmother married into the family, was my teacher—if it is teaching to shout a word very loudly, and then strike, very hard, when the young pupil does not understand.”
“She sounds horrid,” I said indignantly.
“She is horrid,” said Andrea, smiling broadly. “She is una tipica—how do you say it?—a typical English old maid. That is a term she did not teach us, but we learned it, my brother and I, and used it to torment the poor lady. Our parents died of fever, within two weeks of one another, when we were infants, so Aunt Rhoda had the task of bringing us up. However, I do not know that she did such a good job of it. We learned English only because she refused to learn Italian. She despises the language, the country, and all its inhabitants.”
“I am so confused! You mention a brother…”
“Did not your mother speak of the family? But no, her resentment—”
“She died when I was born,” I said. “But she was not resentful; it was my grandfather who refused to forgive her, or acknowledge my existence.”
Andrea flung his head back and laughed heartily, displaying a set of splendid white teeth.
“Yes, he would do that. He is horrid, too—a horrible old man. But he is mellowing; I think he will receive you kindly.”
“You think so? Didn’t he send you?” I put my hand to my head, which really did feel as if it were whirling around. “I must be more confused than I realized. I didn’t even ask how you happened to appear so miraculously. It was like an answer to a prayer.”
My cousin’s keen blue eyes softened.
“Perhaps it was. Who knows? Although I am not a likely agent of the heavenly powers. But, of course, I forget; you did not know of your father’s letter; he said he was writing without your knowledge.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It was a fine letter,” Andrea said. “He wrote that he was dying, that you would be left alone, with no money and no protector; and he suggested that you might have need of protection. How he knew this…But I distress you. Forgive me.”
I had bowed my head, remembering the night in the inn when Father had sat writing, his face set and tired. It must have hurt him to be forced to appeal to the cruel old man—to admit his failure and face the knowledge of his imminent death. But what an eloquent letter it must have been, to overcome my grandfather’s long-cherished resentment.
I said as much to Andrea, and was faintly amused to see my cousin look uncomfortable. As I had already learned, his face reflected every passing emotion; he was not a guileful man.
