that now prevailed there. The Conte di Graffeo was one of the conservative aristocrats who strongly supported the king of Naples and the present government.
“He is despicable,” Dario said with a bitter twist of his lips.
Eleanor was a little surprised by the depth of Dario’s dislike. She had not realized, she supposed, how deeply committed he was to the movement of democracy and unification for Italy.
Dario saw her glance and forced a smile. “We do not agree on many issues.”
Eleanor, who had heard many a discussion among him and Edmund and their other friends regarding the many political ills of the Kingdom of Naples, smiled faintly. “Yes, I know. I remember that Edmund disliked the man also.”
She had been sympathetic to the ideas of the liberally-minded young men of Naples. They had hoped, after Napoleon was defeated and driven from their country, that they would have a new, more democratic government. Much as they had disliked Napoleon’s conquest of their city, they had had little affection for the autocratic kingdom that had existed before Bonaparte. However, the Congress of Vienna had done its best to put everything back the way it was before Napoleon had taken over most of Europe, and as a result, the old Kingdom of Naples was reinstated. The king had continued an autocratic rule, quelling all hope of the blend of monarchy and democratic rule that existed in England.
Eleanor had not felt the same sort of passion for the subject that Edmund had. And she did not particularly want to plunge into the matter right now. She felt in much too good a humor to talk about politics.
So Eleanor returned to her opera glasses, leaving the matter of the Conte di Graffeo. And there, suddenly, looming up in her glasses, was Lord Neale.
Eleanor let out a little gasp and lowered her glasses immediately. Her heart was suddenly pounding. Dario turned toward her curiously.
“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked.
“No. Oh no.” Eleanor gave a half laugh. “I just saw someone I know. I did not really expect him to be here tonight.”
She looked back at Anthony. He was in a box down and across from them, sitting alone. He cast a glance around the opera house, his gaze disinterested. Then he saw Eleanor. He straightened, staring across at her. Eleanor inclined her head toward him, moving just the polite amount and no more. She could feel her cheeks flush under his regard, but she hoped he could not spy that clear across the theater from her.
He nodded back to her; then his gaze flickered over to Dario, sitting beside her, and remained for a moment. He looked back at Eleanor, but she could not read his expression. Her hand tightened around her fan, and she made herself turn her attention toward the stage—anywhere, really, so long as it was not at Lord Neale. She waited for a moment, considering the heavy red velvet curtains across the stage-front with a great deal more interest than they warranted.
After a long pause, she turned her head, letting her gaze wander across the boxes, moving over Anthony again. He was no longer looking at her but idly watching the seats below, in the center of the house. Eleanor looked at him for a moment, unnoticed, then firmly turned her gaze back to the orchestra, where the musicians were tuning up.
Dario, thankfully, was quiet during the performance. Eleanor hated to sit with most fashionable opera-goers, who were more interested in carrying on conversations about clothes, furnishings and the other attendees—often in tones that far exceeded a whisper—than they were in watching the opera.
At intermission, of course, the real purpose of the evening for most of the patrons began. Everyone began to get up and move. Some men went to fetch refreshments for the ladies with them. Others, both men and women, paraded up and down the hall outside the boxes, looking and being looked at. And still others strolled around to pay their respects to those who remained in their boxes, often
“He is despicable,” Dario said with a bitter twist of his lips.
Eleanor was a little surprised by the depth of Dario’s dislike. She had not realized, she supposed, how deeply committed he was to the movement of democracy and unification for Italy.
Dario saw her glance and forced a smile. “We do not agree on many issues.”
Eleanor, who had heard many a discussion among him and Edmund and their other friends regarding the many political ills of the Kingdom of Naples, smiled faintly. “Yes, I know. I remember that Edmund disliked the man also.”
She had been sympathetic to the ideas of the liberally-minded young men of Naples. They had hoped, after Napoleon was defeated and driven from their country, that they would have a new, more democratic government. Much as they had disliked Napoleon’s conquest of their city, they had had little affection for the autocratic kingdom that had existed before Bonaparte. However, the Congress of Vienna had done its best to put everything back the way it was before Napoleon had taken over most of Europe, and as a result, the old Kingdom of Naples was reinstated. The king had continued an autocratic rule, quelling all hope of the blend of monarchy and democratic rule that existed in England.
Eleanor had not felt the same sort of passion for the subject that Edmund had. And she did not particularly want to plunge into the matter right now. She felt in much too good a humor to talk about politics.
So Eleanor returned to her opera glasses, leaving the matter of the Conte di Graffeo. And there, suddenly, looming up in her glasses, was Lord Neale.
Eleanor let out a little gasp and lowered her glasses immediately. Her heart was suddenly pounding. Dario turned toward her curiously.
“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked.
“No. Oh no.” Eleanor gave a half laugh. “I just saw someone I know. I did not really expect him to be here tonight.”
She looked back at Anthony. He was in a box down and across from them, sitting alone. He cast a glance around the opera house, his gaze disinterested. Then he saw Eleanor. He straightened, staring across at her. Eleanor inclined her head toward him, moving just the polite amount and no more. She could feel her cheeks flush under his regard, but she hoped he could not spy that clear across the theater from her.
He nodded back to her; then his gaze flickered over to Dario, sitting beside her, and remained for a moment. He looked back at Eleanor, but she could not read his expression. Her hand tightened around her fan, and she made herself turn her attention toward the stage—anywhere, really, so long as it was not at Lord Neale. She waited for a moment, considering the heavy red velvet curtains across the stage-front with a great deal more interest than they warranted.
After a long pause, she turned her head, letting her gaze wander across the boxes, moving over Anthony again. He was no longer looking at her but idly watching the seats below, in the center of the house. Eleanor looked at him for a moment, unnoticed, then firmly turned her gaze back to the orchestra, where the musicians were tuning up.
Dario, thankfully, was quiet during the performance. Eleanor hated to sit with most fashionable opera-goers, who were more interested in carrying on conversations about clothes, furnishings and the other attendees—often in tones that far exceeded a whisper—than they were in watching the opera.
At intermission, of course, the real purpose of the evening for most of the patrons began. Everyone began to get up and move. Some men went to fetch refreshments for the ladies with them. Others, both men and women, paraded up and down the hall outside the boxes, looking and being looked at. And still others strolled around to pay their respects to those who remained in their boxes, often
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