Читать книгу Twice Upon Time - Nina Beaumont - Страница 9

Chapter One

Florence, Italy

February 1888

Sarah had not dreamt since she had come to Florence. For as long as she could remember she had lived for her dreams of Florence and the unhappy lovers that visited her night after night. Now that she was here, they eluded her.

By day, too, the Florence of her dreams evaded her.

With increasing desperation she tried to find it behind the curtain of fog and rain. Where was the Florence of a sunlight so bright it hurt one’s eyes? Where was the Florence of a scorching, inexorable heat that made one’s blood run quick and ready for all manner of passion?

She shivered in the early twilight as the rain trickled off the straight brim of her dark brown hat and down the collar of her coat. Of course she’d known—in her mind—that winter in Florence could be as miserable as any foggy, chill day in London. But in a corner of her heart she had expected—and hungered for—the Florence of her dreams.

She’d seen nothing of the churches, the museums, the historical places she had marked in the margins of her frayed guidebook with her careful handwriting. Instead she wandered the damp, cold streets from dawn to dusk, searching, searching.

Because her sensible, frugal nature needed an excuse, she’d told herself that it was her heritage she was searching for. The heritage of the feckless, handsome musician who had seduced her mother and who had appeared at odd times throughout her childhood, just long enough to make a shy, serious child adore him for the brief flash of color he brought to a dull gray life.

But deep inside she knew that it was the dreams that had brought her here. No, not merely brought but persuaded, compelled. Why else would she have spent a good portion of the small inheritance she had unexpectedly received to come here, when she could have used the money to live a modest life at home, finally independent of people who expected her to be at their beck and call at all hours of the day or night? The compulsion to come here had been so strong that she had not even been able to wait until spring.

Looking around her, she saw that she had strayed farther than she had planned from the small, shabby pensione that was just around the corner from the church where Dante had watched and worshiped his Beatrice. Now, she realized with a start, she was lost in the rabbit warren of narrow streets and alleyways on the other side of the Arno.

Quickening her steps, Sarah turned down another narrow street and then another. But all she found at the end was yet another dark street, lit only by the meager light that spilled out of the open door of some artisan’s studio.

Sporadically she heard voices from behind the doors and shuttered windows, but instead of reassuring her, the muffled sounds made the deserted street even more eerie. A burst of laughter somewhere behind her echoed off the stone walls. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold slithered up her spine, but, refusing to give in to the sudden blind desire to run, she kept to her brisk, even pace.

Austere houses, black with dampness, rose like the sheer walls of a canyon on either side of her. Ribbons of fog drifted down between them, blurring the contours, hiding the uneven, refuse-strewn cobblestones. She gasped when the toe of her shoe struck something metallic and sent it clattering. An answering screech stopped her so suddenly that her feet almost slipped out from under her. Her hand pressed against her racing heart, she watched a cat’s black tail swish once, then disappear into the mist.

She wanted to laugh at the jolt of fear she had felt, but the sound that emerged from her throat was more a sob than laughter. Taking a deep, calming breath, she waited for her heartbeat to slow, but the creak of a door opening behind her sent it galloping again. Stubbornness, pride and annoyance at her own fear caused her to turn toward the rectangle of yellowish light, and she reminded herself that she was a sensible, independent Englishwoman who ran from neither black cats nor creaking doors.

“Signorina?”

Sarah looked at the tall man silhouetted in the doorway of what was — judging from the smell of varnish and rosin and the long, melancholy sound of a bow being drawn across the strings of a cello—apparently a violin maker’s shop. The man’s face was half in shadow, but the chiseled features and the eyes of a blue so bright, so startling that even the somber light could not mask it looked so familiar that she found herself taking a step closer toward him.

She should continue on her way, she told herself. She knew better than to speak to strange men on dark streets, didn’t she? Didn’t she? But instead of turning away, Sarah stood there, her breath uneven, hardly aware of the wetness seeping into her shoes, the dampness of her clothes.

Through the mist, which rose like whitish smoke, she peered at the perfect profile, the sensual mouth. It was the face, she thought as her heart took off on another race. It was the face that, night for night, sought her out in her dreams. No. She shook her head. It wasn’t possible. Or if it was, then perhaps she was dreaming now.

“Signorina, passo aiutarVi? Vi siete perduta?” The man moved forward, his mouth tilting in a charming smile, which was echoed in his eyes.

Sarah stared at the man, even as his words registered in her brain. She opened her mouth to tell him that she did not need his help, that she had not lost her way, but then he stepped to the side, making room for her to enter the shop. He bowed, his hand tracing a gesture of welcome.

“Entrate, prego.”

His graceful bow seemed meant for her personally, with nothing of the obsequiousness of a tradesman seeking custom. The wariness that had become second nature to her forgotten, Sarah found herself accepting his invitation and moving past him.

Inside, the smell of varnish was stronger but not unpleasant. Even though the warmth of the stove that stood in a corner of the small, high-ceilinged room beckoned, she remained standing near the door. Now, in the light, she could see him clearly. No, she thought with something akin to disappointment. It was not the same face. But because it was a beautiful face nevertheless, she found herself unable to take her eyes away from it.

“Siete inglese?”

There was laughter in his eyes and, embarrassed that she had been caught staring, Sarah looked away and concentrated on brushing the raindrops off her coat. Suddenly she was painfully aware of how threadbare and shiny the old coat was. Just as she was aware that the man in front of her looked like a young god and she was a plain, thirty-one-year-old spinster.

“Yes, I’m English,” she answered in the slow, careful Italian she had learned in stolen hours over the years. “How did you know?”

The sound of his laughter, as melodic as a song, rippled over her skin.

“Only the English come to Firenze in the winter.”

Her gaze skittered back to him, and again she froze. No, it was not the face of her dreams. But the eyes. Surely it was not possible that there could exist another pair of eyes of just that color. The color of the sunlit sea amid ever golden islands.

“Who—who are you?”

“Guido Mercurio.” He bowed again. “At your service.”

Sarah closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it. But when she opened them again, he was still there, smiling at her as if she were a treasured guest. When was the last time anyone had smiled at her like that? Had anyone ever?

“Guido Mercurio,” she repeated. “Like Mercury, the messenger of the gods?”

“Exactly.” Pleased, he smiled. Perhaps she was the one. The one he had been waiting for. “Come. Sit down and tell me your name.”

Sarah found herself moving toward a sofa, although she had no sensation of moving her limbs. A force at her back seemed to be propelling her, supporting her. When she reached the sofa she could have sworn that she felt a small push so that she plopped down on the worn velvet with a little bounce.

Looking up at the young black-haired man, she wondered if he was the statue of some mythological god come to life. “Sarah Longford,” she managed to say. “My name is Sarah Longford.”

“Benvenuta, Sarah Longford.”

On his lips her prosaic name seemed to acquire a number of extra vowels, making it sound like poetry.

“Here, drink this.” He pressed a silver cup filled with wine into her hands and sat down opposite her in a straight-backed chair. “Drink.”

She wanted to tell him that she could not possibly drink this. She was already dizzy. And besides, proper Englishwomen did not drink wine with strangers who reminded them of their dreams. But then she found herself taking a swallow of the rich red wine. It tasted of the sun, and she drank again.

“Now tell me, Sarah Longford, where were you going?” He touched a matching silver cup to hers and drank, as well.

“No place in particular.” Somehow, with the warmth from the wine moving through her, it did not seem odd to admit that. “I was just walking.”

“You were looking for something.”

His words struck her with their simplicity, a matter-of-fact statement that had no inflection of a question, and her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“I can see it in your eyes.” He sent her a strangely sweet smile. “Do not worry. I will help you find it.” He covered her hand with his, “I will show you.”

Sarah felt a small flash of excitement. As she looked down at his olive-skinned, elegant hand on her pale one, she allowed herself for a moment—just a moment—to take pleasure in the feeling of his fingers on her skin. When his hand began to stroke lightly over the backs of her fingers, she pulled her hand back as quickly as if she had been burned.

Was this how her father had seduced her mother? With wine and sweet Italian words and gentle touches? A quick spurt of anger flared, but it flickered out just as quickly, and she found herself feeling empty and wanting. At least her mother had had that, while she, Sarah; had had nothing.

“I have to go.” Snatching up her gloves, she started to rise.

He lifted his hand to stop her, and although he did not touch her, she found herself sitting back down.

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t frighten me.” She sat very straight, clutching her gloves so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“No, I didn’t, did I?” Guido smiled that sweet smile again. “You frightened yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she protested, but without heat, because she knew he spoke the truth. For a moment she had felt the passion that slumbered inside her stir, like the first, barely audible rumbling of a volcano about to erupt.

“No matter.” He brushed away her words with an elegant gesture of his long-fingered hands. “Now, you sit for a moment and drink your wine, sì?”

Sarah took a swallow of wine and then another. Suddenly she began to laugh. “I do not believe this is happening. Here I am in Florence—” her hand lifted to her mouth as if to smother her laughter “—sharing a cup of wine with a stranger.”

He gave her a quizzical look. “And that is bad?”

“I don’t know.” Sarah felt a lightness she had never, ever felt before. No, she thought, that was not quite right. She felt the lightness in her dreams. That was why all her life she’d waited for the night to fall. Because if she was lucky, the night would bring her the dreams. Dreams of Florence. Dreams of Bianca and Alessio and their illicit love.

She looked down at the cup she still held. The wine had gone to her head, she thought. Or perhaps it contained something that made her forget all caution, all sense, like the waters of the river Lethe. She felt her blood stir again. “I don’t want to think about whether it is good or bad.”

Leaning back against the worn red velvet, she sipped her wine and let her gaze wander around the small, windowless shop, crammed full of string instruments in various stages of disrepair. It was then that she saw the lute.

It was obviously an old instrument. The red-and-blue decorations painted on its pear-shaped body had faded to just a hint of color. It hung from the wall on a braided leather strap cracked with time.

Sarah rose and went toward it. “May I touch it?” Even before she heard his affirmative answer, she was running her fingers along the smooth wood.

Guido watched the Englishwoman run her fingers over the lute as tenderly as she would touch a lover. He watched her take it down from the wall and coax a melody from the old catgut strings. And he smiled because now he was certain that she was the one he had been sent for.

Sarah felt her fingertips tingle as the instrument came to life under her stroking. Raising her head, she smiled across the room.

“My father brought me a lute once. He put it in my hands and I began to play it.” She laughed softly as she remembered. “It was like a miracle.”

When she had hung the lute back on the wall, she returned to the sofa but did not sit down. Guido had tilted his head up to look at her, and suddenly she had an insane vision of herself cupping his face, running her fingers through his short black curls. The heated promise of passion rippled through her and she wondered what it would be like, just once, to give in to it.

“I have to go now.” She linked her fingers tightly.

“Si.” Guido stood and ran his knuckles over the fingers she had clasped together so cruelly. “You have to go, Sarah Longford.”

Sarah hesitated for a heartbeat, then she stepped back from the temptation, from the touch she wanted so badly. “I’m staying at the Pensione Bartolini near the Church of San Martino. Can you tell me how to get there?”

“I will accompany you.”

“It’s not necessary,” Sarah protested. She had been strong enough to deny herself a moment ago. Would she be strong enough again? “Truly.”

“But it is.” Picking up a cloak, he slung it over his shoulders. “I must show you the right way.”

“Is it that hard to find?”

Guido shrugged. “There are many ways, but only one right way.”

Sarah shook her head at his cryptic words. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember? I told you that I would help you find what you are looking for.”

“How do you know what I am looking for?” she cried out. “How do you know I have not found it yet?” She almost—almost—ceacbed out for him.

“Lo so. I know it.” He touched his fingers to her cheek. “You have not found it yet, Sarah. But soon, very soon.”

Sarah fought the fierce desire to turn her face into his hand, just as she fought the feeling of disappointment at his words, telling herself that there was no reason for her to feel like a child at Christmas who opens a beautifully wrapped box and finds it empty. She took a step back and then another.

He opened the door and a wisp of mist swirled in, dissipating in the warmth of the room. It was a symbol, Sarah thought. A symbol for an hour she had spent. For a precious gift she had been given. She smiled. So the box had not been empty after all.

Looking up at him, she met his eyes. He gave her a small nod, as if giving approval to her unspoken thought. Together, they stepped outside.

It had grown completely dark while she had been in the shop, but the rain had stopped. They did not speak as they walked through the narrow streets, but it was an easy silence, as if everything that needed to be said had been.

They turned down a street bardy wider than an alleyway and found their way blocked by a wagon piled high with goods. A thin, tall man called out while he threw back the sailcloth to reveal a hodgepodge of furniture, paintings, boxes and crates.

In the light of torches, which had been placed in round metal holders on the walls of a house, several burly men silently began unloading the wagon. The only sound was the sharp, raspy voice of the gaunt, sallow man as he moved from one side to the other, giving instructions, admonishing the men to be careful of the treasures they were carrying.

The flames of the torches created stunning contrasts of brightness and shadow, making an ordinary scene into a primitive picture of the grotesque and the beautiful that could have been painted by Caravaggio. How different the scene would have been, Sarah mused, viewed by the pale, civilized light of London gas lanterns.

Strangely drawn by the jumble on the wagon, she moved forward, her hand outstretched to touch. Then she stopped like a well-behaved child and, folding her hands at her waist, looked over her shoulder at her companion.

“Go ahead.” Guido smiled and gave her a nod of encouragement.

Excitement gripping her, Sarah took a step forward and then another.

“Buona fortuna,” Guido whispered, although he knew she did not hear him. He watched her for a moment longer before he stepped back into the mist.

A corner of a marble-faced cabinet, its surface inlaid with lapis lazuli and amethyst and jasper in a wondrous pattern of flowers and birds, peeked over the backboard of the wagon. Sarah tugged off her glove and reached out to run her fingers over it.

The cold surface seemed to warm beneath her touch. Then, suddenly, as if the cabinet’s surface had become a mirror, she saw it standing in a large, high-ceilinged room. A woman in a dress of emerald-colored velvet bent over it as she pulled out one of its many drawers, and her waistlength black hair spilled forward to hide her face. Bianca, Sarah thought. She had hair just like Bianca.

“Buona sera, signorina.”

The vision disappeared at the sound of the gravelly voice. Disoriented, Sarah focused her gaze on the man who was scrutinizing her through the narrow space between the side of the wagon and the wall. He inclined his head and pulled his mouth into a grin, revealing a set of large teeth that reminded Sarah of yellowed piano keys.

“Buona sera.” She looked back at the cabinet, half expecting to see the vision again. The vision that had been a reflection of the dreams she had come to Florence to find. But all she saw was the marble surface with its lovely pattern. “You have some very beautiful things here.”

“Ah, sì,sì. Look at what you will.” He rubbed his hands together briskly at the prospect of business. He had taken note of the young woman’s shabby coat, but then he had seen more than one eccentric Englishman who dressed like a servant to cheapen the price.

“In a few moments everything will be unloaded and you can look at your leisure.” He gestured toward the shop. “I make a good price for you. An excellent price.”

“Oh, I don’t want to buy anything.” Regretfully Sarah took a step back, although she longed to touch the cabinet again. Longed to see if she could summon the vision once more.

“They all say that.” His laugh did not animate his saturnine features. “Then they look and they buy. You come in and look, signorina, and then —” he raised his bony shoulders in a shrug “— vediamo.”

“Grazie.”

Wanting to share her discovery with Guido, Sarah turned, but all she saw was swirling mist made luminous by the flames of the torches.

“Mercurio?” she called. “Guido Mercurio, where are you?” She turned around in a circle, once, and then again, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Signore,” she called out to the owner of the shop. “Did you see where the man who was with me went?”

“Man?” He gave her a curious look. “I saw no man.” Perhaps she was pazza, he thought. But then all these foreigners were a little pazzi.

Sarah saw the odd look the shop owner gave her. Had the encounter with the man called Guido Mercurio been a figment of her imagination, she suddenly wondered? A dream? A vision like the image of the woman she had seen when she’d touched the cabinet?

She rubbed her hand over her forehead. Was she going mad? Was all this a dream, perhaps? Would she wake up and find herself back in the wretched little room above a cookshop where she had lived during her last weeks in England?

She looked over her shoulder, but all she saw was the incandescent mist that was closing in on her. Enveloping her. Unnerved, she turned away from the wagon—to look for Mercurio or simply to flee, she was not certain.

But then she looked back one last time. The dull gleam of a small writing desk, its decoration sadly battered by the years, pulled at her as surely as if she were a puppet on a string. Surrendering, she knew that she had been taken captive.

One of the men pulled the desk away just as she stretched her hand out to touch it, but her sound of disappointment turned into one of delight as a small chest, which had been hidden beneath it, appeared. With its vaulted lid and a surface that alternated between metal—intricately patterned with scrollwork and dragons—and squares of wine red velvet, it looked like a treasure coffer. Surely, she thought, it would contain strings of luminous pearls or glittering precious stones or perhaps gleaming gold florins.

Smiling at her fanciful thought, she curved her fingers over the backboard of the wagon, Guido Mercurio and her interrupted flight and fears almost forgotten. It was as if these things, these leftovers of somebody’s life, were calling to her, speaking to her in a language only she and they could understand.

Only a few things remained in the wagon now and she felt an agitation grip her. There was something there, something she could not define, something important. But it was slipping away from her. If she did not reach out for it, hold it, it would be gone.

Her breathing grew uneven. Her palms grew damp. Her nerves vibrated like taut strings being plucked by a rough hand. As she watched the men remove the last crates and the desk she had admired earlier, she drew closer to the wagon and closer still, until she could feel the wooden slats of its side pressing against her chest. Even when the wagon was empty but for some straw and a few blankets, she remained standing there, unable to move. Only when she felt a jolt did she let go, realizing that the men were pulling the wagon away.

Her hands by her sides, she watched the wagon move down the alleyway. As it was swallowed by the mist, she felt some of the agitation drain away. She stood very still, her gaze fixed on the path the wagon had taken. She could go now, she thought. She could find her way back to her pensione, where the fire in the common room would be burning brightly. Where the smells of the evening meal cooking would be welcoming. Where she could have some civilized, boring conversation with the minister from Blackpool and his wife or the widow from some small town in Yorkshire.

But instead of moving forward, she deliberately shifted her gaze toward the shop. The owner stood there, watching her. His spare frame almost filled the narrow doorway, and for a moment Sarah could see him in old-fashioned armor, guarding the entrance to a great treasure—or the throne room of a prince. This time he said nothing, but merely stepped back until he stood in the shadows of the dim interior.

Without knowing how or why, Sarah understood that she was being given a choice. Slowly she turned and moved toward the shop. For a moment she paused. Her gaze fell on the metal-and-velvet casket that had charmed her earlier, and still she did not move.

Then she felt the power. It was there, inside the shadowy shop. It did not pull at her, but she knew that it waited for her.

For the second time that evening, she stepped over a threshold.