She was Italian, you know, and she thought Englishmen were very foolish. Mind you, my father was Italian and she thought he was just as foolish as the worst Englishman.â
âHow did she die?â
âThey were sailing. A sudden squall came up and swamped their boat.â She was able to say it now, years later, without her voice breaking. Which was something of an achievement.
âIâm so sorry,â Jemma said. And being Jemma, she looked genuinely sorry.
âAt least I have memories of her and Papa. And the aunt who raised me afterwards was truly wonderful.â
âWas she from your motherâs side?â
âNo, she was my fatherâs sister. She accompanied me to the Cosway estate after the funeral; people thought that since I was affianced to a duke, it made sense for his mother to raise me. Since Cosway had reached his eighteenth year, we went through the proxy marriage. But I was clearly miserable living there, so my aunt snatched me away shortly thereafter.â
âI can imagine that the duchess must be an appalling companion. I met her only once, but she gave me a strict set-down.â
âThe duchessâor dowager duchess, ratherâdoes not believe in grief,â Isidore said, remembering. âShe told me so repeatedly. I think she was quite happy to see the back of me, although she tried to make me return once she learned more of my aunt.â
Jemma raised an eyebrow.
âMy aunt is a violinist. She told the duchess she would take me to live with my fatherâs relatives in Italy, but in fact we traveled around Europe as she gave concerts. We lived in Venice on and off, but we went farther afield as well, to Prussia, France, Brussels, Pragueâ¦â
âHow unusual.â And, after a moment: âThe Duchess of Coswayâs daughter-in-law in company with a traveling musician.â Jemma grinned. âIs your aunt still alive?â
Isidore nodded. âShe leads a rather quiet life now. A few years ago she professed herself tired of wandering about Europe. We kept expecting that Cosway would return. So we would say, one last trip to Vienna! But somehow there was always another trip, and never a message from Cosway. She moved to Wales when I turned twenty-one.â
âBy herself?â
âNo. She married a painter.â
âReally? Anyone I might have heard of?â
Isidore said it reluctantly. âOne of the Sargents.â
âNot Owen Sargent! The man who painted Lord Lucien Jourdain in the nude with just a bunch of violets?â
âThe very one.â
âThen you must have seen the portrait,â Jemma said, delighted. âWere the violets just where you might expect? And did he wear his wig? I heard so, but I couldnât countenance it.â
Isidore sighed. âI donât know how it happened, but Iâm so much more strait-laced than my family. Do you know, Jemma, I really didnât wish to see Lord Jourdain without his clothing?â
âIsidoreâ¦â Jemma said imploringly.
âOf course he wore a wig. And a patch. I remember being surprised by the size of hisâahemâviolets.â Isidore picked up her cold tea and drank a sip, put it down again. âPerhaps I should follow Cosway to the country and force the question, Jemma. I can strip myself naked in his bedchamber and see how he responds. If he responds.â
âIt depends on how much you wish to be a duchess,âJemma replied. âIt could be embarrassing for both of you.â
âI do want to be a duchess. Iâve thought of myself as a duchess for years. And all those years I told myself that I would accept whatever sort of man the duke turned out to be. I steeled myself to accept a man with one leg, or any number of vices. I just kept telling myself that I wanted to be truly married, to be able to have children, and stop living this half existence.â
Jemma nodded. âI absolutely
Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child