From the Baroness’s Diary III

Chapter 3-1

Chapter Three

“God almighty, Chloé! Do you have ants in your pants?”

Carefully spearing my orange wedge with my fork, I pick up a piece and push it in my mouth, sucking the juices out of the fruit. “Of course not. I am glad that the rains have finally decided to stop, that’s all.”

But that is a lie. I am fidgeting because the private investigator, Mr. Brown, is due to return today with news and I hope it is going to be exactly what I need to hear.

The dowager glowers at me, her lips pursed in a very unbecoming manner. She too has lost some of her, what do you say, glow, since the baron has been absent. Everyone knew that the dowager was not very pleased with the baron’s marriage to me and I was never considered her favorite amongst the women he could have married.

But it was not as if we were enemies, non.

We make each other company and she refuses to live anywhere else but here at the manor, with me.

“Chloé, it’s time to do some work on the manor,” she continues on, taking a dainty bite of her toast. I have experienced many breakfasts with the dowager over the years and she never fails to have anything different than her dry toast and weak tea for her morning meal.

I, on the other hand, enjoy breakfast with relish. A good breakfast always sets the day’s activities and while some of my…hmm…more vigorous activities have grown cold over the past few months, I still hope for the days when life will change for the better.

Starting with today.

“What kind of work?” I ask, finally putting my silverware on my plate, indicating to the footman a few feet behind me I have finished my breakfast. Mr. Brown is due within the hour and I hope that the dowager will go lay down after breakfast and not linger for conversation.

It seems that fate is not with me this morning.

“Sprucing up the manor.” She folds her linen napkin exactly on the fold marks and sets it beside her empty plate. “For the baron’s return. The gardens have not been as well kept as they were when that gardener worked here.”

The thought of Salvatore causes my chest to ache. It isn’t just the gardens that have suffered in the wake of his absence.

“I believe you are correct.” I push back my chair and stand. “I will leave all the decisions to you.”

Her eyes widen. “T-to me?”

I nod, not caring if she paints the entire manor purple. I have more important things to be concerned with than replacing the wallpaper. Not waiting for her response, I walk out of the breakfast room and to the front room, where I will await Mr. Brown’s visit. I have lain awake all night thinking about what he could bring to me and I am ready for whatever comes of it. I have felt enough pain and longing in my life already. If Salvatore cannot be found now, then I will hire another PI. I will keep looking until I find him.

But the wait might drive me mad. I have nothing else to do. No hobbies, no friends. Not even charity work. Unless I count the dowager as charity work. The only reason I haven’t gone mad is because Beardley Manor has an extensive library.

My husband? He prefers to be anywhere else than at home with his wife. Well, a large, empty house that holds nothing but memories and ghosts. I need to find something to occupy my life with. But if I can’t go anywhere, what am I supposed to do?

“Mr. Brown has arrived.”

“Thank you, Mr. Longman,” I say, drawing in a breath to steady my nerves. “Please show him in.”

Mr. Brown enters the room a moment later and wastes no time shaking my hand. “I bring you good news, my lady.”

The huge smile on his face and the impetuousness in his voice lift my hopes even more.

I hurry to shut the door, not wishing for any passerby to hear him. Sometimes, I’m certain this house has ears because if I am not super discreet, every word I say is known by the dowager baroness or the baron by the following day’s breakfast.

The room suddenly seems small as I turn back to the investigator, gesturing toward the chaise lounge near the window. “Shall we sit first?”

He sits in an armchair and I settle in the one in front of him, crossing my legs so that he will not see how nervous I am.

“Your gardener is alive and well, living in a small seaside town in Sicily, where he manages a winery with his family,” he starts out, pulling out an envelope from his coat pocket.

Salvatore is well! My chest tightens and it suddenly seems there is not enough air for me to breathe. I can hardly contain my excitement as I take the envelope. “Thank you, Monsieur. You have brought me so much joy.”

“The envelope contains directions to his residence,” he explains. “As well as some pictures taken recently. I thought you would like to see how well he’s doing.”

I run my hand over the envelope, controlling myself not to push Mr. Brown out of the room and rip it open to see my lover’s face after so long. I walk him to the door and pump his hand with gusto, trying to convey all my gratitude. “Thank you so much, Monsieur.”

His eyes gleam with pride at a job well done and he smiles at me. “My pleasure, milady.”

As soon as he is on his way, I open the envelope and the first thing I pull out is a photo of Salvatore’s face.

I have to sit and take deep breaths for a moment. My legs are trembling and I feel faint.

I’ve waited so long for this.

When my eyes re-focus, I pore over the information provided to me, caressing the pictures of Salvatore with the tips of my fingers.

Even now I can just feel his lips against my skin, those long, artful fingers of his doing wonderful things to my body.

I am glad to see that he appears well and prosperous in his native country, but that does not diminish my need to see him, to hold him in my arms, and feel his body pressed up against mine.

I am so glad that he is not married and has no steady woman in his life, although my fingers turn into claws when I see a pretty brunette on his arm. I want to rip her eyes out.

Not that I begrudge him any lover he might have had. I had mine too. And above all, we had no actual commitment. But still…seeing him with another woman…it grates.

Non, I am not a woman obsessed with a man, I am a woman in love. The time we have been apart hasn’t diminished one bit my love for my Italian gardener.

I want that connection back that I had with Salvatore.

He was the first man to whom I could talk, the first one who asked me what my dreams were, what I wanted for myself—not that I could want much since the baron controlled me with his invisible strings. We shared our opinions about silly things such as favorite colors and foods. He taught me to swim and I taught him to…hmm. I don’t know. Surely I taught him something.

But to go find the love of my life, there are much more important things to think about now, things to plan. Starting with my visit to Italy.

I don’t have a solid plan yet but I know I don’t have a desire just to go there, screw him, and come back. Although I miss our physical connection a lot and I haven’t been able to satisfy my carnal desires lately.

Even Lucia, my…erm…maid, left a year ago. She married a strapping young Scottish horse trainer who works on a manor nearby and I was kind of glad. I have to confess, I was not as satisfied by her lovemaking anymore as I once was.

Maybe because I wanted more than a simple tryst. I needed more than just s*x. I’m not that young woman who was looking for adventures as I once was.

But…how will I stay in Italy and support myself? I don’t even know if I have some hidden talent I can exploit. I have been locked inside this house so long, waiting for Joseph to succeed in his great desire to make me pregnant that I don’t even know if I want to pursue something…

But all of that will have to wait. First, I just need to get there.

“Non! You cannot mix this color with that one. They will clash.” Madame Viltran’s sharp tone takes me out of my revelry.

I join the dowager in the front room with the interior designer, a slight woman whose dowdy clothing makes me wonder if she truly knows what current fashion truly is.

“But I do believe citron will go with the cream. I have been told that it is what the Queen is using in her own drawing room,” the dowager says, trying to justify her tacky ideas.

“Pish posh, who wants to be copying the queen?” Madame Viltran waves her hand in front of my mother-in-law’s face. “I am tired of everyone wanting to do their rooms like the royal palace. It is a bore to walk through that place.”

I cover my laugh with a cough, receiving a stare from the dowager. “Pray excuse me, I must have swallowed my tea wrong.”

“You.” The designer points her finger in my face. “This is your house. What color do you wish the drawing room to be?”

I swallow the outlandish thoughts running through my head. I am certain I would send the dowager into a fit if I spout hot pink or bright blue.

“Lemon-chiffon,” I answer, thinking of the yellow roses that are planted in my garden, those that remind me of Salvatore. “With leaf-green, I believe.”

Madame Viltran stares at me for a moment before a smile spreads across her face. “I like this one. She has taste.”

The dowager smiles at me and I wink at her. She is not so bad, just has her mind in the clouds.

The designer makes a few recommendations about furniture and the like, but I am not listening.

Truthfully, I could care less about what color the drawing room is to be, I’m not staying in Beardley Manor anymore.

If the baron does not care to be here, why should I?

I blow out a breath, crossing my arms over my chest, as I watch the dowager and the madame argue about the color of the chairs.

But my mind is so very far away.

I really don’t understand why Joseph would not give me the divorce since we have already given up on producing an heir to the baronet. After six years of intense trying and various doctors, Joseph is certain I am barren. Especially since he had seared an heir on his first wife, who died in labor along with the baby.

Well, I do not hate the baron, nor do I miss his conjugal visits to my bedroom. Non, pas du tout!

He visited my room for the extent of my fertile period on a schedule with my ovulation, with no conversation or foreplay. Is it not the most romantic thing? Mechanically pumping into me, then as he reached his climax, he grunted and said, “Good girl. Good girl.”

Now that I know he merely wanted an heir, and he prefers men, it all makes sense. But I will take pleasure in knowing I will never have that experience again.

We never should have been married. We are two vastly different people, like sailboats floating past each other on a turbulent sea.

Since he has his own agenda, I can very well have mine, n’est ce pas?

And my agenda now is to go to Italy and find Salvatore, bask in the love that I share with my Italian gardener and plot out the rest of my life with him.

But I have no plans because the options are varied and many.

What if Salvatore asks me to stay with him in Italy? What if our flame burns higher than ever and I can not leave him once more?

I am flirting with fire, I know that, but there’s no love lost between my husband and I. I doubt that he will put up much of a fight if I refuse to return to him.

I will be outcast, accused of abandoning my duties as a wife.

People will talk, of course, but it will all be worth it if my Salvatore loves me.

After all, it’s all I ever wanted: to be loved.

After years of having time to think about my life, I now know my parents left me in a convent when I was ten years old not only because they were poor, non. It had also been because it was convenient for them. As it had been convenient to take me back in their loving arms when I was seventeen and sell me to the highest bidder in exchange for the baron paying their debts.