Page 17 of Thus with a Kiss I Die
I tapped my foot. “I see now where your son got his high-handed manner and unjustified sense of superiority.”
Elder broke into a smile that lit up his elderly, handsome face. “Nowyou sound like my wife.”
I looked around. “Is she here, too, gliding through the air and speaking to the unwary?”
“Is she not still in the convent where I sent her in safety to have the child?” He viewed me intently.
That gave me pause. “Your wife, the princess Eleanor, gave birth to your daughter, Princess Isabella, and, on hearing of your own demise, fell into a decline and died of sorrow.”
He seemed unmoved . . . for a moment. He drifted toward the railing and looked out at the city, as I had, and I saw him struggle to contain a fresh grief. “I’d feared that was so. When I arrived back in the palace and saw that the child was here and she was not . . . Eleanor was the wife of my heart. She would never have left the little girl alone unless she had no choice.”
I joined him at the railing. “I’m sorry for your loss, but please enlighten me. How could you not know? Is she not nearby?”
“She died in a state of grace. She has gone on. I fear I’m condemned to wander until justice is done.”
He looked at me, and I saw the diamond glint of ghostly tears. “She was fragile, you know. After Escalus, she lost the babies, one after another. I should never have touched her again, but we loved each other.”
“I comprehend.”
Swiftly he turned on me, no longer a man discussing his lost love, but a judge. “How do you know such a thing? Are you not a virgin?”
I tossed my arms in the air. “Everybody in Verona! Even the ghosts! Why this huge concern with my virginity?”
He looked me over—not like a man looks at a woman, but as a farmer looks at a farm animal purchased for breeding. “I admit I was surprised at my son’s choice. You’re very old.”
“A withered crone.”
“A trifle overripe, perhaps.”
It sounded as if he was trying to comfort me, which made me grind my teeth.
He continued, “I suppose he thinks your maturity will stand you in good stead as you deal with the social and political divisiveness of Verona.”
“So he informed me.”
“Also, your mother Juliet is exceptionally fertile. How many children are there now?”
“Seven, and one on the way.”
“I’m sure that played into my son’s decision.”
“He told me that, too. A girl could swoon over the romance.”
“Surely, a woman of your advanced years—”
“I’m perfectly healthy, thank you.”
“—has enjoyed her previous moments of silly swooning.”
“Until very recently, no.”
“You fell in love with my son.” That pleased him.
“No.”
Thatdispleased him. His facial expressions were remarkably lifelike for a figment. “Who then is your lover?”
“I . . . don’t . . . have . . . a . . . lover,” I said between my teeth. “Lysander of the Venitian house of Marcketti is my One True Love. We’ve never done more than touch hands, and because of your son’s hateful maneuvering, my darling is forever lost to me.”
