Betrayal

  Betrayal

  by

  Sandra Schwab

  Published by Sandra Schwab

  Copyright © 2013 by Sandra Schwab

  Cover design: Sandra Schwab

  www.sandraschwab.com

  sandra@sandraschwab.com

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, institutions, organisations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents, and all dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you.

  If you want to include quotations from this book in a work of fiction or if the length of the quotations exceeds fair use, please contact the author at sandra@sandraschwab.com in order to obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text.

  Betrayal

  Years ago Georgina fled from England and all she ever held dear. For the sake of her child she must now return to confront the man whom she once loved more than life itself until lies and deceit tore her life and marriage apart.

  Will their love stand a second chance?

  Prologue

  Tuscany—where the summers are dry and hot and taste of herbs and olives and the heavy sweetness of dark wine; where the most famous artists of Europe have left their traces in old palaces and in churches striped like zebras. In the midst of the Val d’Arno, amidst rich green fields and hills clothed with the silver olive and vine, lies Florence, the City of Lilies, where once the powerful Medicis ruled. Lavish palaces stud the city and the surrounding countryside, almost as if the soil itself had produced them, and above the sea of red roofs the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore rides like a giant bubble, marking the spiritual center of the city. The sunlight gleams on its golden cross, and further to the south where the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio throws its long shadow across the Piazza della Signoria, the sun bathes the giant statue of Neptune, which dominates one corner of the square, in radiance. Green sparkles dance over the bronze nymphs at Neptune’s feet, yet untempted and unperturbed, he gazes into the distance. Nothing can disturb his majestic equanimity. Least of all the fates of mere mortals milling about in this place of worldly power.

  Thus he watched on with stoic calm as, by chance, two young boys met on the piazza on a golden day in early summer. Both had come to admire the splendid sculptures lining the square and the arcades of the Loggia della Signoriathe graceful lines of Michelangelo’s David, Bandinelli’s Hercules as he kills Cacus, Cellini’s Perseus with the grizzly, blood-dripping head of Medusa, and many more. But from one moment to the next, the aging marble was all forgotten. Now the boys stood stupefied while around them the teaming life of the city went on. All they could do was to stare at each other in helpless perplexion, their flesh as chilled as that of the statues around them.

  Two young boys with wavy dark hair and blue-grey eyes, their nostrils flared like those of nervous stallions. Two young boys on the verge of manhood, all lanky limbs and filled with a sharp hunger for life.

  Two young boys who had never met before and yet...

  ...and yet...

  And yet, they were as alike as two round olives, ready to fall to earth.

  Eventually they went to find a tavern where they shared a carafe of wine and a loaf of garlic bread. Warily, curiously, they eyed each other over the rims of their glasses.

  “Finnian Crawley,” one of them finally said. He was the leaner of the two, his clothes less elaborate and mended in places where it didn’t show.

  The other blanched. His glass slipped from his fingers, fell clinking on the table, and the dark Chianti spread on the wood like spilled blood. He swallowed hard. And after a little eternity: “Gareth Crawley, Viscount St. Asaph.”

  Again, they stared at each other, speechless, chilled, while a suspicion formed in their heads. They didn’t yet dare to voice it, but from then on, they met daily, talking about their homes and families. Together they hatched a plan as daring and reckless as only the very young can conceive. They filled notebooks with page after page of hastily scribbled words, with maps and sketches, and thus familiarised themselves with the life of the other—until the day one of them had to depart from Florence. They said their goodbyes the night before and clasped hands while their hearts were beating with mad excitement and exhilaration, for they knew that before them lay the greatest adventure of their lives. The key that would unlock the mystery of their existence.

  ~*~

  On a golden day in early summer two young boys met by chance in the crowded streets of Florence...

  ...and changed the lives of a man and a woman forevermore.

  Chapter 1

  In the roseblush morning room of the Villa under the Linden Trees, Mrs. Georgina Crawley took breakfast with her employer and read the newspaper to the old lady. Once upon a time she had had a morning room of her own, a house of her own, servants of her own, but that was all so far in the past that she hardly ever dwelt on it any more. Indeed, it was all so long ago it now felt like another lifetime to her, a dream of a distant past, easily forgotten. She had built a new life for herself here in this villa at the river, in one of the small towns that spread along the river Main west and east from old, venerable Frankfurt like pearls on a string.

  Paper rustled as Georgina turned the page. “It seems that young Dr. Rüppell has been sending Egyptian artefacts to the naturalist society in Frankfurt—”

  “Naturalist?” Frau Else snorted into her coffee. “What a fancy word for butterfly-hunters and bone collectors! What is the world coming to, I ask you, when boys fresh out of school deem it necessary to dash off to some faraway places, simply to dig up bones or, worse, drag home some poor wee beasties.” The old woman’s eyes narrowed as a new thought occurred to her. Judging from her expression, it was a most dreadful thought indeed. “Do you think he will bring back a camel?”

  Georgina glanced at the paper and quickly scanned the article. “There is no mention of a camel.”

  “He will want to bring back a camel. Or even an elephant. These people always do.” Frau Else shook her head. “And what will happen to the poor thing? It’ll perish just like that black seal from the Adriatic Sea they displayed at the fair last autumn.”

  At the memory of the sleek, black creature with the sad eyes, as round as dark buttons, Georgina winced. The seal had been one of the most popular curiosities at last year’s fair, yet in the end the animal had died and rotted away in one of the rooms of The Crown—much to the dismay of the innkeeper.

  “Ah, I see you remember the seal, my dear.” Frau Else pursed her lips. “That man had no business bringing the wretched creature to Frankfurt in the first place. For who has ever seen seals swim in the Main? Or camels eat the grass on its banks?”

  “Do camels eat grass?” Georgina wondered aloud.

  “Whatever they eat, they will not do it in Frankfurt,” Frau Else said forcefully, before she took a sip of her coffee. As she swallowed, her expression changed to one of thoughtfulness. “Have we given money to that infernal naturalist society?”

  “I believe we have.”

  “Good.” The cup rattled against the saucer as Frau Else set it down. “Then I will have Martin Renner contact their director and invite him for dinner so I can make it clear to him that we won’t stand camels grazing on the banks of our river.” She waved at the newspaper. “Go on, my dear. Or better yet, since his name has already come up,
tell me whom you are more looking forward to see again: your son or my secretary?”

  Despite herself, Georgina felt her cheeks heat. It was true, of late there had been something more... affectionate in Herrn Renner’s behaviour, but—

  The old lady chuckled and her dark eyes glittered shrewdly. “Have you thought I would not notice? Dearie me, when the looks he sends you would be enough to warm our hothouse in winter.” She leant forward to touch the back of Georgina’s hand. “Martin Renner would make you an excellent husband, you know that? He is intelligent, hard-working, and, above all, kind-hearted.” Her lips curved. “And there’s passion, too.”

  Oh, Georgina was sure there was. Though she would have wished it were otherwise. She had put such things as romantic stirrings behind her long ago. Yet how vexing to have blushed like a moonstruck schoolgirl at the mere mention of a man’s name! And a woman of her age, too! How utterly ridiculous! Besides, it would only give her employer improper ideas.

  Georgina hid her wry smile behind the paper. “I believe this is a most inappropriate conversation for a lady and her companion.”

  A snort greeted this statement. “Inappropriate, my foot! Do you think Heinrich von Allesina married a Romany girl for propriety’s sake?”

  “No,” Georgina tamely agreed, and folded the newspaper before she laid it on the table. Looking up, she smiled at the old lady, who had taken in Georgina and her young son all those years ago and had given them a new home. “He married you because he was overwhelmed by your beauty.” And judging from the portrait of the young Elisabeth von Allesina in the drawing room, nobody could fault him for having fallen madly in love with her.

  “Or because I bewitched him with a Gypsy potion.”

  Georgina arched her brows. “Did you?”

  Leaning back in her chair, Frau Else gave a tragic sigh. “I’m afraid I have all forgotten...” As if she did not hold the reins of her late husband’s textile business in a firm and competent hand. In the eyes of society Heinrich von Allesina might have made an inappropriate choice when he had married the young Gypsy girl, but in truth, he could not have made a better one: he had chosen a girl strong enough to be an equal partner in their relationship; strong, intelligent, and shrewd enough to keep his business thriving even after his death. Frau Else had often told Georgina of the early days of her marriage, when her husband had taught her everything about fabrics and had finally taken her on fantastic journeys to faraway countries, where he had come to rely on her eye for colours and patterns. Not just man and wife they had been, but lovers, friends and loyal partners.

  Exactly as it ought to be, Georgina thought. But—oh—so often only an impossible dream...

  Deep-buried memories stirred, and in front of her inner eye rose the past, with a young man’s face, his flint-grey eyes lit by a smile as he leaned against the grand piano, while her fingers were dancing over the keys. The music streamed from the instrument and wound around them. The ebony and ivory keys seemed to come alive at her touch. Indeed, at that moment she fancied that it was pure magic which rose from the piano—a female magic, a female power to beguile him and to bind him to her forever more...

  A fancy, that was all it had ever been. A foolish, girlish fancy.

  Melancholy reached for her with cold and clammy fingers.

  Georgina turned her head away to stare out of the window at the lush, sun-dappled green of the villa’s small park. The light shimmered on the leaves of the trees and bushes, and above them rose the chestnut trees along the drive like tall and elegant sentinels.

  Yet her contrary mind fashioned it all into a different view, a different park, and tantalised her with images of sunlight glittering on a lake bespeckled with water lilies.

  And even now a short, sharp pain pierced her heart.

  Impatiently, Georgina shook her head to dispel the unwelcome memories. How foolish to think about these things now when they were all so long in the past!

  Only then did she become aware that her employer had been curiously silent these past few moments. “I apologise,” Georgina said, turning back to the old woman, “I’ve been woolgathering.”

  “Ah.” Frau Else blinked, and her lips twitched. “Those advancing years, my dears. Or perhaps...” She regarded Georgina from under half-lowered lashes. “Perhaps you have been thinking about how much you would like me to mix a Gypsy potion for your Martin Renner?”

  As easy as that, Georgina’s black mood was dispelled, and the memories sank back to where they belonged, in the deepest recesses of her mind. She burst out laughing. “And have him inadvertently fall in love with one of your horses? Poor Herr Renner! He will sit mooning in the stables and give your stablemaster the fits.”

  As if earnestly contemplating the prospect of a vaporish stablemaster, Frau Else tapped one finger against her upper lip. “No, we can’t have that,” she finally decided with a chuckle. “How very considerate of you, my dear.” Straightening, she changed the topic. “Will you go to the warehouse for me and procure the latest numbers from our man of business? We need to prepare for our travellers’ return.” Her eyes lit up. “For bales of new fabrics...” For a moment, the old woman’s gaze turned dreamy, as if she could already feel the new smooth and shimmering materials under her fingertips.

  Oh yes, Herr von Allesina had chosen well all those years ago.

  A smile on her face, Georgina was about to rise from her chair when Frau Else’s gaze sharpened once more.

  “Before you leave...” Her gnarled and wrinkled hand slid into a hidden pocket of her dress and drew out a pack of old, tattered cards. “Shuffle those for me, will you?” With one finger, she pushed the cards across the table.

  Georgina sank back on her chair. Her smile dimmed, yet as she opened her mouth to decline, Frau Else shook her finger at her. “No, no, my dear. Remember, I pay you to make an old woman happy.”

  Georgina grimaced. “You will want to determine whether Herr Renner plans to marry me.”

  “On the contrary.” The old lady’s face creased into a hundred wrinkles as she gave Georgina a disarming smile. “I only want to find out whether you plan to wed him. I’m a meddling old woman, as you well know.”

  Sighing, Georgina reached for the cards. If she planned to wed him? What a preposterous idea to begin with! As if any man would want to marry a woman her age! Fittingly, when she turned the cards, the merry-clothed fool winked at her.

  Le Mat.

  She frowned. Distracted, she started to shuffle the cards. “I’ve never understood why you are using a French deck. Is this not—”

  “Very un-Gypsy-like?” Frau Else’s grin reminded her of a sly cat. “Of course. But when all things French are so much in vogue in polite society...” Her voice trailed away suggestively.

  With a laugh, Georgina handed her the cards. “Oh the shallowness of refined society!”

  “Indeed. And now off you go, my dear.” Patiently, the old woman waited until the door had closed behind her young protegée, until a servant had cleared the table. Only when all footsteps had dimmed in the distance and silence surrounded her like an old, familiar cloak, did she reach for the stack of cards. Slowly, carefully she began to lay down the pattern she knew so well.

  First, l’Impératrice, the Empress, the symbol of feminine productivity and action. An apt card to describe Georgina Crawley: strong, steadfast, she had never let fate beat her down, had never given up even when the winds of life had blown into her face. And they must have, for Frau Else well remembered the day she had found Georgina Crawley and her tiny son on her doorstep like a pair of stray kittens. The young woman’s hair had been lank, her cheeks hollow, and she had owned little more than the clothes she had worn—and shabby clothes they had been! Yet even though the blanket wrapped around the baby boy had been grubby from the dust of the road, it was still apparent that it had been spun from finest wool. No doubt, a rocky past lay behind Frau Else’s companion, but it had not robbed her of her will and determination to survive.

&nb
sp; Frau Else’s lips curved as the cards continued to whisper to her.

  Yes, there was heartbreak in the past, a malicious influence, but oh, so much hope for the future: le Chevalier des Coupes brought new opportunities and inducements. And the Seven of Épées hinted at a hopeful and positive attitude.

  Frau Else’s smile deepened. Oh yes, she was well satisfied with what she saw. But then she turned the last card—and all her premature joy vanished. A frown creased her brow as she leaned forward.

  A negation of all that had gone before. Loss and mishap, the end of the old self or of a familiar situation: the last card she had turned was the unlucky number thirteen—la Mort.

  Death.

  ~*~

  In the afternoon, they heard the crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel of the drive. With a snap Frau Else closed the accounts book Georgina had brought her from the offices at the warehouse. “Ahhh, here are our travellers at last!” She cocked her head to the side and looked at her companion, smiling. “What? Do you doubt it, my dear? But who else would want to call on an old eccentric woman such as me?”

  Georgina laughed. Why, once Frau Else had entertained the illustrious Geheimrat Goethe himself! And a snootier boy I have yet to see, the old woman had commented wryly when she had told the story. So full of his own importance I feared his head would pop off any moment.

  Now she stood, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Of course, it might be Dr. Rüppell and his camel, but somehow I doubt that. So give me my cane, my dear, and then we will go and see what our world-wanderers have brought home.”

  “Not a camel, per chance,” Georgina couldn’t resist remarking.

  “Good heavens, I hope not! Are there camels to be found in Italy? Only winged lions in Venice, or so I have heard.”

  Slowly, they progressed to the stairs. From the entrance hall the sounds of male voices and the dull thuds of heavy objects being put down on the tiles wafted up. A fine shiver ran through Frau Else as if she were a hunting dog that had taken up the scent of its prey.