Page 39 of A Captain For Clarissa
Despite himself, Rafael felt his annoyance begin to soften at the sight of her animated features. Isabella had always possessed anirrepressible zest for life, an innate ability to find joy and wonder in even the bleakest of circumstances. It was a trait he’d often envied, especially in the dark days following their father’s death and their exile to England.
“An idea, you say?” He arched a brow, feigning interest. “And what, pray tell, might that be?”
Isabella clasped her hands together, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “Well, I was just thinking... About the vineyards, I mean. And how we might go about restoring them to their former glory.”
Rafael stiffened, a frisson of unease snaking down his spine. He’d been grappling with that very dilemma for weeks now, poring over ledgers and accounts until his vision blurred and his head pounded. The vineyards were the lifeblood of their estate, the key to their family’s future. And yet, for all his efforts, he’d made frustratingly little headway.
“Go on,” he said cautiously, bracing himself for whatever harebrained scheme his sister had concocted.
Isabella took a deep breath, her expression turning solemn. “I think we should ask the Conte Bardolino for his help.”
Rafael blinked, certain he must have misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Conte,” Isabella repeated patiently. “He’s been telling me all about his vineyards back in Italy. The man’s practically a walking encyclopaedia when it comes to viticulture.” Her eyessparkled with admiration. “Just think of the invaluable advice he could offer us!”
A muscle ticked in Rafael’s jaw as he fought to contain the sudden surge of jealousy that coursed through him. The mere thought of the suave, silver-tongued Italian nobleman who had followed Clarissa to Portugal made his blood boil. And yet, much as he loathed to admit it, Isabella had a point.
The Conte’s sprawling estate was renowned throughout Europe for producing some of the finest wines in all of Italy. If anyone possessed the knowledge and expertise to help revive their ailing vineyards, it was him, despite his youth.
Still, the idea of asking for assistance galled Rafael to his very core. He was a proud man, accustomed to relying on his own wits and resourcefulness to navigate life’s challenges. The notion of seeking aid from an outsider - especially one as insufferably charming as the Conte - felt like a bitter pill to swallow.
He drew in a slow, steadying breath, weighing his options. As much as it pained him to concede defeat, he knew he had to put his personal feelings aside for the sake of the estate. For the sake of his family’s future.
“Very well,” he ground out, the words tasting like ashes on his tongue. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to hear what the man has to say.”
Isabella beamed at him, her face alight with triumph. “Oh, Rafael, thank you! You won’t regret this, I promise you.”
He managed a tight smile in return, even as a sense of foreboding settled like a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach. Somehow, he had a feeling he would come to rue this decision. But for now, all he could do was grit his teeth and pray that the Conte’s advice would prove as invaluable as Isabella seemed to believe.
Rafael approached the Conte with a heavy heart, his footsteps dragging as if weighed down by the sheer force of his reluctance. He found the man lounging in a comfortable chair on the terrace, resplendent in a finely tailored suit of deep burgundy silk that gleamed in the afternoon sun.
“Conte,” Rafael began, his voice stiff with formality. “Might I have a word?”
The Conte turned to face him, a genial smile playing across his lips. “But of course, Captain de Silva. How may I be of assistance?”
Rafael swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat like thorns. “It’s about our vineyards,” he said at last, the admission wrenching itself from his unwilling lips. “I understand you have some...expertise in this area.”
The Conte’s eyes lit up with keen interest. “Ah, yes! I have been blessed with the opportunity to cultivate some of the finest vineyards in all of Italy. It would be my great pleasure to share what knowledge I have gleaned with you.”
He gestured expansively, his hands sketching shapes in the air as he spoke. “You see, the key to a thriving vineyardlies in understanding the delicate balance between the earth, the sun, and the vines themselves. With proper drainage and irrigation, strategic planting to optimise sun exposure, and the right trellising techniques, you can coax even the most stubborn grapes to yield a bountiful harvest.”
As the Conte spoke, Rafael found himself reluctantly drawn in by the man’s obvious passion for his craft. Though he was loath to admit it, the advice seemed sound - and more importantly, actionable.
“I see,” he said slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. “And you truly believe these methods could help revive our struggling vines?”
The Conte nodded, obviously enthusiastic. “I have every confidence, Captain. With a little hard work and a touch of Italian know-how, your vineyards will be the talk of Portugal in no time at all.”
Despite himself, Rafael felt a flicker of hope kindle in his chest. Perhaps, with the Conte’s guidance, they could yet salvage the family legacy from the brink of ruin. It was a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless - and for that, he supposed he owed the man his grudging gratitude.
Over the next few weeks, the once-neglected vineyards began to transform under the Conte’s expert guidance. Rafael watched with a mixture of amazement and begrudging respect as the Italian gentleman worked tirelessly alongside the estate’s labourers, his fine suits exchanged for practical work clothes and his hands stained with the rich, dark earth.
“Careful now, lads,” the Conte called out, his voice carrying across the rows of vines. “Remember, each plant is a delicate thing - treat them with the same care you would a lady, and they’ll reward you tenfold.”
The workers chuckled at the comparison, but Rafael couldn’t help but note the truth in the man’s words. With each passing day, the vines seemed to stand a little taller, their leaves a little greener, as if they too were eager to prove their worth.
As he surveyed the progress they’d made, Rafael felt a pang of something that might have been gratitude - or perhaps just a lessening of his earlier resentment. Much as it pained him to admit it, the Conte’s presence had been a blessing in disguise. Without his knowledge and tireless efforts, the vineyards might well have been lost for good.
“I must say, Mario,” he said gruffly, coming to stand beside the younger man. “Your advice has been... invaluable. I’m not too proud to admit when I’ve been wrong - and in this case, I was wrong to doubt you.”
