To Kiss a Count. Amanda McCabe
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If only Clio were here!’ Calliope squeezed Thalia’s hand. ‘Our little trio would be complete again.’
Psyche chose that moment to wake up, letting out a lusty shout that shook the carriage to its silk-lined walls.
‘It appears we would be a quartet now,’ Calliope said, lifting her daughter from the basket.
Thalia gazed out the window again. The rolling lanes, the hedgerows, had at last given way, and the carriage turned onto one of the bridges leading over the Avon into Bath itself. Five elegant arches rose over the bridge, forming a new view of the town and the hills beyond.
Even after the dramatic landscapes of Italy, Thalia had to admit Bath was quite pretty. It looked like the rising layers of a fancy wedding cake fashioned in pale gold stone, sweeping up along the hill slopes. As a Chase, the daughter and granddaughter of classical scholars, Thalia approved of the city’s classical lines, all neat rows of columns and clean-cut corners.
At this distance, the dirt and noise all towns produced could not yet be seen or heard. It seemed a doll’s city, built for pleasure. Built for gentle strolls and polite conversations, for good health and conviviality. For new dreams—if she could only find them.
As Psyche cried on, they rolled off the bridge into the city, the carriage jolting along the stone streets with the endless flow of traffic. Thalia studied the well-dressed families in their barouches, the dashing couples perched high on their phaeton seats. The pedestrians on the walkways, showing off their fashionable clothes as maids scurried behind them laden with packages.
The shop windows displayed a variety of fine wares—lengths of muslins and silks, bonnets, books and prints, china, glistening pyramids of sweets. Thalia remembered dusty little Santa Lucia, its ancient markets and little shops.
She lowered the window and inhaled deeply of the mingled scents of dirt and horses, sugary cinnamon from a bakery, the faint metallic tang of the waters that hung over everything. She was far from Sicily indeed. And none of the men they passed were in the least like Marco di Fabrizzi.
Calliope peered over her shoulder, rocking Psyche in her arms. Even the baby seemed fascinated by the town, as she ceased to scream and gazed about with wide brown eyes.
‘You see, Thalia,’ Calliope said. ‘Bath is not so very bad, even Psyche thinks so. Look, there is a sign for the Theatre Royal, they’re performing Romeo and Juliet next week! We must go. A little bit of Italy right here.’
Thalia smiled at her sister, and at Psyche, who had popped her tiny fingers into her mouth as she watched the sunlight gleam on the mellow Bath stone. ‘I always do enjoy the theatre, of course. But you must not tire yourself, Cal. We can always go later.’
‘Pah! Sitting in the theatre is hardly likely to do me harm, unless someone chucks an orange at my head. I don’t want to be a poor invalid,’ Calliope said stubbornly.
They quickly left the more crowded lanes behind, making their way to the comforts and quiet of the Royal Crescent.
The neighbourhood Cameron had chosen for their holiday was an elegant sweep of thirty houses, built in deceptively simple Palladian style for Bath’s most exclusive occupants. How very perturbed those snobby builders would be, Thalia thought, to see the arrival of two bluestockings and a squalling infant! Even if Cal was a countess. The Chase girls had never been much for stuffiness. It was too time consuming.
But she had to admit it was very pretty, and suited to their classical studies. The carriage swayed slowly along the gentle curve of the crescent, past immaculately scrubbed front steps and austere columns. The houses exuded a quiet, prosperous serenity, the perfect place for Calliope to rest.
‘We can take walks here in the mornings,’ Calliope said, pointing toward the walkway around a large, open, grassy space across from the curve of houses. ‘There in Crescent Fields.’
‘Only if it is early enough! We would not want to be run over by fashionable promenaders.’ Thalia watched a couple stroll past, the lady in an embroidered yellow spencer and large feathered bonnet, the lead of a prancing pug dog in her hand. The wide brim of her hat hid her face, and even half-obscured her tall escort.
Yet even in a fleeting glimpse there seemed something so strangely familiar in that male figure. Those lean shoulders in dark blue superfine. Was he someone she knew?
But she had little time to speculate on the man’s identity, as their carriage at last jolted to a halt before a house near the end of the crescent curve. A footman hurried down the front stoop to open the carriage door, and right behind him was Calliope’s husband.
Cameron de Vere, the Earl of Westwood, was a very good match for her sister, Thalia always thought. They were both darkly beautiful, kind-hearted, and devoted to the study of ancient history.Yet he was full of humour and light, where Calliope could be intense, and they balanced each other. No two people had surely ever made a happier life together than they.
Cam’s face, usually so smiling and handsome, looked worried today as he took his wife’s hand and gently helped her down from the carriage.
Thalia took Psyche, cradling her close as they watched Calliope and Cameron embrace in full view of the Crescent’s passers-by. Cam held her so very close, as if she was a precious piece of ancient alabaster, and Calliope arched into him as if she was home at last, her head on his shoulder.
Thalia felt a wistful pang as she observed them together, a quick flash of loneliness. How very right they were together! Like two halves of a Roman coin.
And how solitary she was.
Yet there was not time for self-pity. It was not Thalia’s way, either, to waste time wishing for what she did not have! Not when there was so much she did have, so much she needed to do.
The footman helped her to the pavement, and she handed Psyche to the waiting nurse, who had followed in a second carriage with the other servants. She carried the baby into the house just as a great squall went up.
‘Thalia!’ Cameron said, kissing her cheek. ‘How well and pretty you look, sister. The Bath air agrees with you already.’
Thalia laughed as Calliope playfully slapped her husband’s arm. ‘She is blooming and pretty, while I, your poor wife, am a pale invalid?’
‘I never said you were poor…’ Cameron protested teasingly.
‘Just pale, then?’
‘Never! You are my Grecian rose, always. And now, fair rose, let me show you to your new bower.’
He swept Calliope into his arms, carrying her up the shallow steps, beneath the classical pediment into the house. Cal protested, yet Thalia could see she was tired and glad of the help. Thalia scooped up a bandbox a footman had left on the pavement and hurried after them.
The entrance hall was cool and dim after the sunny day, smelling of fresh flowers and lemon polish, with a flagstone floor and pale marbled wallpaper. Cameron led them through an archway to the tall inner hall, where a staircase curved to the upper floors. Psyche was already up there somewhere, shouting her protests at the new surroundings.
Cameron carried his wife into a drawing room off the hall, a fine room with gold damask walls and draperies. Coral-coloured silk couches and chairs were grouped around a tea table, already set with refreshments.
Next to the windows were a pianoforte and a harp. As Cameron settled Calliope on the couch, Thalia wandered over to examine the instruments.
‘These are very fine,’ she said, picking out a little tune on the keys. ‘I can play for you in the evenings, Cal! I learned lots of new songs in Italy.’
‘I always love to hear you play, Thalia dear,’ Calliope answered. She accepted a cup of tea from her husband, but swatted him away as he tried to tuck a blanket around her. ‘But you deserve a much larger audience for your talents! This is a very pretty room. We must have a card party or a musicale, as soon as we find new acquaintances here in Bath.’