Читать книгу Nicholas - Elizabeth Amber - Страница 10

Jane knelt on the brick path that wound through her aunt’s garden and jabbed her small spade into the soil, loosening and turning. She discovered a sickly patch of variegated applemint and lifted it.

“Poor dear. Not to worry. I’ll fix you right up. I wonder, which of the mulches would you prefer?”

“Do they ever talk back?” a girlish voice teased from behind her.

Jane gave a start and glanced over her shoulder to find her younger sister, Emma, grinning at her.

She smiled and shrugged, casually moving so her body shielded the bed where she’d been working. “If they could, I imagine they’d be denouncing our aunt’s previous gardener. He neglected them shamefully.”

“But they’re improving under your care,” said Emma, craning to see Jane’s handiwork.

Jane was unsurprised to notice that Emma held a book in her skirts. She motioned toward it, hoping to divert her sister’s attention. “What do you have there?”

Emma held up the leather-bound tome and opened it to a particular passage she’d marked with a strip of velvet.

“It’s Carl Linnaeus’ Philosophia Botanica. I have decided to attempt to plant a floral clock such as he describes. Just imagine being able to tell the time simply from the blooming and fading cycle of a blossom.”

Jane’s brows rose. “The horologium florae? Many of the plants he suggests for the clock are wildflowers, are they not? Will you be able to locate them all here in Tivoli?”

Emma shook her head. “’Tis unlikely. But I’ve begun a survey to determine the opening and closing hours of native Italian plants. In place of any plants I cannot collect to match the twelve Linnaeus describes, I shall find substitutes that reflect the same timing!”

“Brilliant!” Jane enthused. Both sisters were intensely fond of botany. While Jane’s interest lent itself to actual tactile work among plants, Emma’s tended toward a more scholarly endeavor.

“Read to me while I finish up here,” Jane invited. “I’ve forgotten precisely which plants the clock calls for.”

Emma situated herself on an ironwork bench and began reading aloud.

Jane positioned herself so her interaction with the plants couldn’t easily be observed. There were some secrets she must keep safe, even from Emma.

Under her care, loam enriched. Tendrils sprouted and curled lovingly around her fingers. Weeds shrank away. Foxglove and orange blossoms sprang to life. Wilting snapdragons perked and brightened, their color intensifying as if by magic.

If only she could work such magic for her sister.

For she was deeply worried about Emma. Of what she might become—a creature like herself, possessed of an unnatural strangeness that must be hidden.

In mere months, Emma would reach her thirteenth year. For Jane, the change from girl to woman at thirteen had naturally meant moving from padded stays into the restriction of corsets. But at the same time that society had dictated her body be forced to morph into an hourglass shape, another equally unstoppable metamorphosis had begun within her.

Though Emma knew nothing of Jane’s bizarre abilities, their mother had. And that knowledge had caused everything to change between them. Her mother had stopped loving her, stopped touching her, and had watched her with new wariness. Jane had soon learned to conceal much of what she was.

Concealment. The word put her in mind of the lord with the pale blue eyes who had visited her tent at Villa d’Este.

She arched her back, stretching.

“Jane!”

At their aunt Izabel’s summons, the sisters exchanged hunted looks.

Emma jumped up and pulled at Jane’s arm. “Let’s hide.”

Jane forced a teasing grin to her lips. “Save yourself. Go finish your reading elsewhere. It’s me she wants.”

“Jane!” the shrill voice called again, nearer this time.

Emma mimed a face of comical terror and then grabbed her book and scampered away.

Jane understood her sister’s feelings completely. With reluctance she stood and removed her apron.

Her aunt tsked in annoyance when she saw her.

“Your fascination with this grubby garden is beyond my understanding. Just look at you. Filthy!”

Izabel smoothed Jane’s hair into place, and Jane let her. She tried to pretend such brusque assistance was offered with familial kindness.

“Disgraceful color. But there’s naught to be done about it, I suppose,” said Izabel.

Jane ignored the insult. Her pale blond hair, pointed chin, and fair English skin were very like her mother’s. While Emma had inherited their father’s ash-brown hair and eyes, Jane mirrored nothing of him.

Izabel dipped her handkerchief into the small garden fountain. When she returned, it was to scrub dirt from Jane’s cheek with dimpled, beringed hands.

Jane had avoided the touch of others for years, out of necessity. She only permitted it when it was unavoidable or to earn necessary coin in her fortune-telling.

“What does my appearance matter?” she asked, ducking away. “I have no plans to venture out.”

Slapping the soiled cloth onto the stone rim of the fountain, Izabel frowned, etching lines around her lips. “We have a guest. Or, rather, you have a guest.”

“Who?” Jane asked warily.

“You shall see. It will come as a welcome surprise, I’m sure.”

With trepidation, Jane followed her aunt into the salotto. There she found her father waiting, along with a signore who was becoming all too familiar to her.

Both men stood when the ladies passed through the tall white and gold doors.

“Buon giorno, Signorina Cova,” the visitor told her in greeting. Though his mouth smiled under his dark mustache, his small eyes did not. His checked waistcoat was well fitted and tasteful, his trousers creased. His dark hair was slicked and styled. He was as fastidious and presentable as he was repulsive.

“Buon giorno, Signore Nesta,” Jane replied.

Her hand was briefly enfolded in his cold, dry one. He wanted something from her. She felt it. But what? His touch had been too brief for her to meld yet too long for her to bear.

Her aunt sat a distance away, leaving her the chair closest to their visitor. Jane remained outwardly placid as he examined her in an appraising way, with his head slightly cocked as though attempting to determine her value.

She twitched her skirt in annoyance.

He said something in Italian to her aunt and father, and the three of them laughed. Her grasp of Italian was good, but he’d spoken colloquially and too quickly for her to catch his meaning.

“You’re well since we last met?” he inquired in heavily accented English.

“Yes. And you?” she replied.

“Molto bene, grazie.”

An awkward moment passed.

Her aunt sought to fill it. “The gardens are so colorful this time of year, aren’t they, signore? Jane has such a way with the plants. She’s making our gardens the liveliest in the neighborhood.”

Jane’s eyes widened. Suddenly her gardening skills were of value?

Signore Nesta nodded at Jane. “You would have suggestions to offer for the gardens at my villa, perchance? You must visit.”

Jane opened her mouth to decline, but her aunt stepped on her words.

“Oh, yes, we shall endeavor to visit quite soon.” She frowned at Jane. “Niece, Signore Nesta’s cup needs filling.”

Jane picked up the teapot and perfunctorily filled his cup.

When she leaned forward to hand it to him, Signore Nesta’s eyes dropped from her face to her form. She fought the impulse to cover herself. The lecher!

He smirked. “Salud!” he said, offering a mocking toast as he took the cup.

Though the conversation continued to flow around her, Jane didn’t participate further unless a direct question was put to her.

It occurred to her that Signore Nesta’s attention and avid glances meant one thing. That he wanted to wed her, in order that he might touch her with carnal familiarity.

Though she was uninformed regarding the specifics of what happened between married couples in private, she knew husbands expected to put their hands and lips on their wives. To somehow join their bodies together, producing children.

She didn’t want the signore’s hands or lips on her. In fact, now that she’d ascertained the nature of his interest, she felt physically under threat in his presence. He put her in mind of a particular kind of cuspidate, an ivy that pleased the eye but given enough time overpowered and suffocated every living thing around it.

Signore Nesta certainly knew more of the marriage bed than she. His wife had died bearing a third son to him in less than three years. He was still a young man, and she was very much concerned she was slated to become his next brood mare.

If she must marry someday, she’d prefer a husband who paid her scant attention, or maybe one with impaired sight. Signore Nesta’s gimlet eyes watched her every twitch. For that reason alone, he wouldn’t do.

The very last thing she needed was an observant, interfering husband. Such a man would quickly discern that all wasn’t right with her. He would realize she could do…feel…know…things that others couldn’t. Such a man would denounce her when he learned her secrets and discovered what she’d become.

Because whatever she was—she could no longer believe herself to be truly Human.