keen interest in natural science and philosophy, but his age and infirmity prevented him from exploring the world in search of new subjects. He had invited a group of medical and scientific gentlemen to hold their meeting at his home, and was voluble with gratitude for a packet of French insectivora that the doctor had somehow preserved through their travels.
Don Giraldo's estate produced grapes and olives, a combination of crops that required carefully tended rows of vines and long winding paths shaded by dusty-green olive trees. The bright Mediterranean sun was warm and hospitable, and while the scientific gentlemen entertained themselves with the minutiae of living things, Kit spent several hours each day in Zoe's company, wandering the rolling hills either on foot or in a little two-wheeled cart pulled by a patient, well-mannered donkey. As an invalid, Kit was apparently considered unable to misbehave—either that, or the widowed Don Giraldo ran a loose ship. Either way, it was a delight to wander about alone together.
Their perambulations were not aimless. They had been shown a vast collection of dead insects in a glass case, and Don Giraldo gave them a mission: to be alert for any such creatures that differed from those in the case, and bring them back for examination.
Thus far, their search had produced only specimens like the ones they'd seen, though Kit doubted he would be able to tell any of them apart. But they discovered that the trunks of olive trees were not only a splendid hunting ground for insects of all sorts, they were pleasant to lean against, and the shade beneath was cool and restful.
Paris seemed a thousand miles away, England even further. The days and weeks passed as in a dream. Kit could not think of a time in his life when he had been happier. And the more intimately he became acquainted with Zoe, the harder he found it to reconcile the well-mannered, slightly reserved doctor's daughter with the forthcoming young woman who had propositioned him in no uncertain terms. Here, she seemed uncomfortable if he so much as held her hand. Seeing that he owed her his life, Kit certainly did not want to offend her in any way—but as his health and strength returned, so did his interest.
Finally, he mustered his courage as they picnicked in the olive groves. “Zoe, I know there are things I don't remember. The doctor says I'll probably never get them back. But there's something I do remember with great fondness: one night shortly before my unfortunate accident."
Her eyes were very grave. “Yes?"
"I—I had the impression that you liked me, it seemed, very much. And I certainly felt the same about you. I realize it's a delicate question, but if I have inadvertently done anything to offend you—"
"Oh, Christophe, no.” Zoe shook her head. “You had been in Paris before that night, no? You saw how it was—people being denounced, the guillotine, the death. It was as if every day might be the last, every night. With such fear, one must pretend to be happy. My father was afraid to let me go to Angelique's party, but finally he told me to be careful, and enjoy what I could of my youth."
She touched his hand. “When you walked in, I said to Angelique, ‘Look at that beautiful young man!’ and I was so sad, that we would never meet, that I would never live long enough to meet anyone, to marry and be a mother, a grandmother ... And Angelique, she said, ‘I will get him for you, cheri . You will have him this very night!’”
Zoe turned a becoming shade of pink. “I think the wine made me bold, Christophe, and Angelique—I could not believe what she did! If I had been by myself, I would never have dared."
He took both her hands in his and kissed them. “Then God bless the vineyards of France. I owe Angelique more than I thought. I hope you were not—disappointed."
"Oh, no!” The small, secret smile that was hidden by her lashes made him want to repeat the event immediately, with just the two of
Don Giraldo's estate produced grapes and olives, a combination of crops that required carefully tended rows of vines and long winding paths shaded by dusty-green olive trees. The bright Mediterranean sun was warm and hospitable, and while the scientific gentlemen entertained themselves with the minutiae of living things, Kit spent several hours each day in Zoe's company, wandering the rolling hills either on foot or in a little two-wheeled cart pulled by a patient, well-mannered donkey. As an invalid, Kit was apparently considered unable to misbehave—either that, or the widowed Don Giraldo ran a loose ship. Either way, it was a delight to wander about alone together.
Their perambulations were not aimless. They had been shown a vast collection of dead insects in a glass case, and Don Giraldo gave them a mission: to be alert for any such creatures that differed from those in the case, and bring them back for examination.
Thus far, their search had produced only specimens like the ones they'd seen, though Kit doubted he would be able to tell any of them apart. But they discovered that the trunks of olive trees were not only a splendid hunting ground for insects of all sorts, they were pleasant to lean against, and the shade beneath was cool and restful.
Paris seemed a thousand miles away, England even further. The days and weeks passed as in a dream. Kit could not think of a time in his life when he had been happier. And the more intimately he became acquainted with Zoe, the harder he found it to reconcile the well-mannered, slightly reserved doctor's daughter with the forthcoming young woman who had propositioned him in no uncertain terms. Here, she seemed uncomfortable if he so much as held her hand. Seeing that he owed her his life, Kit certainly did not want to offend her in any way—but as his health and strength returned, so did his interest.
Finally, he mustered his courage as they picnicked in the olive groves. “Zoe, I know there are things I don't remember. The doctor says I'll probably never get them back. But there's something I do remember with great fondness: one night shortly before my unfortunate accident."
Her eyes were very grave. “Yes?"
"I—I had the impression that you liked me, it seemed, very much. And I certainly felt the same about you. I realize it's a delicate question, but if I have inadvertently done anything to offend you—"
"Oh, Christophe, no.” Zoe shook her head. “You had been in Paris before that night, no? You saw how it was—people being denounced, the guillotine, the death. It was as if every day might be the last, every night. With such fear, one must pretend to be happy. My father was afraid to let me go to Angelique's party, but finally he told me to be careful, and enjoy what I could of my youth."
She touched his hand. “When you walked in, I said to Angelique, ‘Look at that beautiful young man!’ and I was so sad, that we would never meet, that I would never live long enough to meet anyone, to marry and be a mother, a grandmother ... And Angelique, she said, ‘I will get him for you, cheri . You will have him this very night!’”
Zoe turned a becoming shade of pink. “I think the wine made me bold, Christophe, and Angelique—I could not believe what she did! If I had been by myself, I would never have dared."
He took both her hands in his and kissed them. “Then God bless the vineyards of France. I owe Angelique more than I thought. I hope you were not—disappointed."
"Oh, no!” The small, secret smile that was hidden by her lashes made him want to repeat the event immediately, with just the two of
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