The word worthy arrested him.
Niccolò’s head inclined slightly, as though a change in angle might reveal some hidden meaning in the claim, some truth she had not intended to confess. Worthy? As though she were merely a hand that served a purpose, rather than a soul deserving regard. She was a remarkable professional; her little shop bore witness to her devotion, and his butler’s recommendation had never once been misplaced. Yet even without skill, without reputation, without any proof beyond the grace of her bearing, she was a lady, and that alone should have commanded respect.
It troubled him more than he wished to acknowledge that others had looked upon her with such indifference. Those pampered sons of fortune, raised beneath the shelter of their golden cribs, had forgotten the simplest virtue of mankind: kindness. They had taken without gratitude, received without thought, and left behind nothing but the cold impression of their entitlement.
“There is no such thing as a mere professional, Miss Toma,” he countered, his voice gentler than his indignation. “And I must ask that you do not diminish yourself with such a word.”
He took the bouquet from her hands. The flowers bore the same deep burgundy shade as her gown, and something in the red of it too close to the colour of her mouth for him to hold the thought long. He cleared his throat, forcing the image away before it could take root.
“Your work deserves appreciation,” he continued. “And you deserve to be treated with respect. A carriage is the smallest offering I could make.”
He turned toward the door, carrying the cut flowers upside down, a habit learned long ago, when someone wiser had taught him that delicate things must sometimes be sheltered from the cruelty of the world. Held thus, the stems remained gathered, the blooms protected, and gravity itself carried what they needed back toward them.
Perhaps people were not so different from flowers. Perhaps all they required was a little care, a little patience, a hand willing to protect rather than possess.
“To the future, cara mia,” he murmured, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than propriety allowed. “Always the future.”
The Salvatore estate possessed a nature of its own, a temperament older than any soul who walked its halls. It was a world enclosed within iron gates, a vast inheritance of hundreds of acres, scattered cottages, shadowed gardens, and forgotten corners where the past seemed unwilling to surrender its claim.
The servants belonged to the estate as much as the ivy belonged to the walls. Many came from families who had served the Salvatores for generations, their loyalty inherited like a name or a burden. They did not know Niccolò. They knew only what was presented to them: the family brooch, the old ring bearing the Salvatore mark, the heavy manor keys, and the letter written in the hand of dear old Leonardo.
Leonardo, who had not set foot upon these grounds in more than a decade.
They knew enough, Niccolò decided.
London society had perfected the art of polite blindness. Questions were forbidden so long as one maintained the proper expression of indifference, and Niccolò had no desire to invite curiosity into matters that belonged to him alone.
The estate was impeccably maintained. The gardens were trimmed, the halls polished, the fires kept alive. Yet beneath all its beauty, the manor felt less like a home and more like a tomb. There were too many portraits staring with silent judgment, too many bones lying beneath the earth beyond the crypt.
Flowers, he was sure, would soften it.
Flowers, and perhaps Miss Liliana.
Margaret, the manor governess, had been in service for thirty years and had become, within only three weeks of Niccolò’s arrival, a particular trial sent by Providence.
She appeared at the doorway as he reviewed the arrangements for the guest chamber, her expression carrying the same restrained disapproval she wore for nearly everything.
“Another visitor to the estate, sir?” she asked, though the question carried the weight of an accusation.
“Indeed,” Niccolò replied.
“Of course.” Margaret folded her hands neatly before her. “One hopes the manor’s reputation will not suffer from too many unexpected arrivals.”
“Miss Toma is a guest of mine, Margaret. She is welcome here, and I wish for her to be here.”
The governess held his gaze for a moment, searching for any hint of doubt behind his certainty. He merely adjusted the burgundy bow around the new vase of lilies on his desk, his hands lingering as though reluctant to let go. He could not bring himself to part with it entirely, so the bow found its place among the flowers instead.
It was not agreement. Margaret rarely offered such luxuries.
The sound of approaching hooves broke through the quiet of the grounds long before the carriage reached the gates, announcing her arrival to every stone and tree that had stood witness to the estate’s long history.
Niccolò went down to meet her himself, mindful to favor the limp he had cultivated for watching eyes, for Margaret was always watching, even from windows where he could not see her.
When the carriage door opened, the bleak landscape seemed to alter.
“Miss Toma,” he said, offering his hand as she stepped down. It was an injustice, he thought, that one person could bring warmth to a place so accustomed to coldness. Her cheeks had gone rose-bright from the cold, and he thought, uncharitably, that the moor’s few surviving heather-blooms could learn something of color from her. “I hope the journey was not too much trouble.”
The wind moved around them, lifting the edges of her clothes, for a fleeting moment, Niccolò imagined another life; one in which she would not have accepted his hand, and one in which he would never have dared extend it.
How strange and merciful was fate, that it should bind together two souls already broken by different storms. Two creatures drawn together by some invisible gravity, yet destined to remain beneath separate skies.
“Come,” he said, returning to the present. “Allow me to show you the estate before you begin your work.”
He glanced briefly toward Margaret, whose expression remained as disapproving as ever. She had been instructed to prepare a meal for their guest, and judging by the severity of her gaze, the request had been obeyed with the utmost reluctance.
“May I offer you something to eat or drink first?” Niccolò asked. “The road from here to Mayfair is not a short one, and I imagine it has been tiring.”
He thought, not for the first time, that the estate’s gardens had never once produced anything half so alive as the woman standing before him now with the wind working its fingers through hair the color of late autumn.
Beautiful, Liliana was beautiful.
“The estate has survived many things,” he continued, the faintest trace of amusement touching his voice. “But I fear it has never prepared for someone who could make it appear less miserable.”
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