Page 2 of The Scent of Snow
The other man placed his hand above his shoulder. "Are you all right?"
Pedro jerked away from the touch. No one touched him except Anne.
"I'm sorry for my wretched sensibility. Palmela sent me to impart the news. Your father died a hero and will always be deeply admired. Those are his ashes and here." He fumbled with his coat and took an envelope. "The Duke of Titano left you this."
The words 'father' and 'Titano' reverberated through him with the force of a knell. He stared at Diomedes' outstretched offer and then at the vase. He wanted nothing to do with either. Still, his hand caught the envelope of its own twisted will. Pedro's fingers tightened around it, crumpling its edges. His eyes drifted to where the portrait of his father used to hang on the wall, and he pictured the old duke's stern countenance. The duke's gaze pierced through him, just as they had during their lessons. Never good enough. Never. Pedro clung to those memories, the hatred. Father was dead and would take the violence with him to the grave.
Other memories crawled from the recesses of his mind. A faint smile on the duke's lips, a father's proud nod, a shared jest, a pat on the back. Another memory, this one older, took shape — an embrace on a Christmas night, tears. Pedro's chest heaved, lost between a sob and a sigh.
"What am I saying?" Diomedes brushed his forehead. "You are the Duke of Titano now. Long live the Duke."
Chapter 2
Theluminariasarrived at last. Anne picked up the box, her excitement so high she wanted to scream.
Her maid extended her hand. "Let me help you carry it."
"Where do you plan to do so? Atop my goddaughter? I don't think so."
Beatriz caressed her pregnant belly. "Indeed, I can't seem to hold more than this little package nowadays."
Together, they crossed the corridors to Anne's private morning room. Of all Pedro's properties, the fortress was where she felt less at ease. It wasn't the house itself, with its grand foyer and cold stone walls that no plush carpet could soften. She couldn't blame the bridge's infamous builder or the treacherous scarps behind the property, and not even the stern housekeeper who treated her like a child…
It was the sound of the river in winter.
The perpetual hum spoke to her in ways she couldn't explain. Whenever Anne crossed or gazed at the Misarela bridge, she sensed an unexplained melancholy. Sometimes, she heard whispers or felt an icy touch on her skin.
"Daydreaming again?" Beatriz touched her shoulder.
Anne forced a smile. Here she was, being fanciful and attaching human feelings to stones and water and landscape. Murmuring river or not, this was Pedro's favorite property. And she would make a brilliant Christmas for him, even if it killed her. How else would she convince him it was time to start a family?
They had been married for two years and a half now, and whenever she spoked about pregnancy, he evaded her, telling her she was only twenty years old. Granted, after their unconventional courtship, if one could call escaping a conspiracy aboard a yacht and running away from a slave trader a courtship, their married life entered a whirlwind of social activities and travels. Pedro owned estates in several countries and wanted to introduce his countess to each. She didn’t mind it, not when he liked to christen all the bedchambers by making love to her… A sigh escaped her chest, and when Beatriz gave her a strange look, Anne cleared her throat.
They entered her morning room. Pedro had redecorated it for her as a birthday surprise. She couldn't have reflected her personality so well if she had chosen the details herself. Bathed in natural light from tall, arched windows, the room offered a stunning view of the estate gardens. Delicate frescoes adorned the high ceilings. The drapery and the Persian rug combined light pink and cream tones to create a comfortable harmony.
Beatriz plopped her weight onto the rocking chair, knitting in hand. Anne settled on the rose chaise lounge and opened the box. Inside were the results of her charity project. Theluminarias, Portuguese paper lanterns, were the loveliest Portuguese Christmas tradition. With Isabel, The Duchess of Braganza, Anne had created a sanctuary for less privileged women to learn various crafts, gaining independence and financial stability. Theluminariaswere their first financial success.
"I can't believe those pompous ladies from court refused to buy these beauties." Beatriz scrunched her face.
The problem wasn't with the lanterns or the hands of the impoverished artisans that made them. It was with Anne. No prestigious lady in Portugal dared to mistreat her before Pedro, but that didn't mean they accepted her, an English lady with a shady past in their midst. Still, to the bourgeois class, she was a heroine, as her family came from trade, and she had married into the most illustrious aristocratic line in Portugal. They supported her charity, and herluminariashad sold out before Christmas.
Amidst the soft rustle of paper, Anne unveiled a lantern from its wrappings. "With or without their help, what matters is that all those women will bring extra income to fill their pantries this winter, and several Lisbon houses will get a special glow this Christmas."
She traced the little angels cut out at the edges. What an enchanting play of light and shadows they would produce once the candle was lit. "The count's mother decorated the house withluminarias."
Beatriz giggled. "Hard to see your brooding husband playing with paper lanterns."
Anne pitied those who only knew Pedro as the most powerful man in Portugal. To her, he was company and silence, laughter and heat, tickles and sighs. He was sun and sunset, darkness and light, calm and storm, fire and ice. Her first breath in the morning and her yawn in the night, her sustenance, her heartbeat, her life.
The image of a baby with Pedro's golden hair flirted in her mind, and a wave of longing unfurled in her chest. How would it be to carry a little being under her heart for nine months? Not that she envied her maid. Quite the contrary. Anne cheered for her. But sometimes, she wondered if she would ever experience the same joy.
Anne shook away the gloom. Of course, she would. Laughing, she threw a pillow at Beatriz. "Pedro isn't brooding. He is just… serious and concerned with, well… everything."
Pedro carried the weight of the monarchy, his tenants, and properties… But she made him happy. She was absolutely positive about it.
The housekeeper entered the morning room, her white hair pulled back in a flawless bun. More ancient than old, she resembled a classical statue or piece of furniture. Her family had worked at the fortress for generations. Cold and efficient, she looked at Anne as if she were a meddling child. A tiny voice in her head whispered that's what she was. Too inexperienced and gauche to be the woman of a politician of Pedro's caliber. Anne silenced the insecurity. Pedro had chosen her, not some blue-blooded heiress. Anne made him happy, and no other could touch him.
"Good evening, Leonor. Can you please send two boxes to the village? I want each house to have one of these beauties to light up on Christmas Eve."
