Trevisan bowed, exuding some relief. He must have expected more belligerence from us, and I conceded that he’d been brave to face us.
I again wondered why he had. His apology could have been made in a letter, or by proxy, or he could have asked us to call on him when we returned to Rome.
Whatever his reason, Grenville and I exchanged polite farewells with him. We were not overflowing with friendliness, but we returned his goodbyes without hostility.
Gautier reappeared to escort the conte from the room, the valet as icy as Trevisan. We waited without speaking until we heard the conte and Gautier traverse the courtyard, and the clang of the gate that told us Trevisan was again in the street.
Trevisan had said nothing of Proietti and the meeting he’d promised to set up with the man, and I had not wanted to ruin the cordiality of this visit, however stiff, by asking. But I would not forget about it.
“How very interesting.” Grenville sat down heavily on a divan and crossed his dusty boots, his exhaustion evident.
“I agree.” I took another chair, joining him in repose. “Whether Trevisan’s tale of business in the area is true or not, I am amazed that he would call on us with contriteness.”
“I am less amazed.” Grenville’s eyes glinted with good humor. “The explanation, my dear Lacey, is that he found out who you are.”
My brows rose. “Who I am?” I was the son of a minor landed gentleman with a career in the army, now finished. “You mean the friend and guest of the famous Mr. Grenville? Or, that I am married to a woman from a powerful family?”
“That is part of what I mean.” Grenville’s smile was wise, but he would not explain beyond that.
We tooka meal after this and I, as tired as Grenville from the journey, retired early though I very much wanted to explore the city.
I woke later than I hoped in the morning to find Bartholomew preparing my shaving things. My chamber was large and airy, painted in light blues and creams. Sunshine poured through the windows—even in February, the temperatures were higher than what I’d find in London at this time.
“Did you rest, Bartholomew?” I heaved myself from the soft bed and reached for my dressing gown. “No need for you to wake at dawn.”
“Plenty of sleep,” my young valet said without hesitation. “Don’t need much in any case. Are you off to look at buried cities today?”
Grenville and I had planned to use an inn near Pompeii as a base from which to explore both it and Herculaneum.
“Indeed, but I do not know exactly when Grenville wishes to depart. I go at his leisure. No matter what, I will have a walk, see the lay of the land.”
“Mr. Brewster says we need to be careful.” Bartholomew stropped my razor with a practiced hand. “Resentment of foreigners is high, the servants here say. When the Frenchies took over, they slapped harsh taxes on everyone in the peninsula, expecting the natives to pay for being invaded. The Frenchies are gone, but everyone’s still unhappy with foreigners.”
Though Bartholomew spoke little Italian, he would have already found those he could communicate with and befriended them. He was an affable young man, as was his brother, Matthias.
“The British invaded Napoli not long ago,” I reminded him. “Tying to suppress revolutionaries. Lord Nelson even handed the revolution’s leaders over for execution. I imagine the English are not thought of warmly either.”
“Then we all should be on the lookout,” Bartholomew concluded.
I had to agree with him.
Bartholomew shaved me with his usual competence. Once dressed, I departed the house. I had not thought Brewster would be amenable to my early ramble, but he met me at the front door when I emerged, and we set off.
This morning the sweeping arc of the blue bay glimmered under soft sunshine. The same sunshine touched ships that pulled into the industrial port, masts like black sticks in the distance. Boats of local fishermen, already bringing in the morning catch, bobbed in the larger ships’ wakes.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” I asked Brewster. Climbing vines on the walls near the house moved in the breeze, and bells from church towers silvered the air.
“Aye, it’s different from London,” was Brewster’s noncommittal answer.
Not many were moving on this street so early, the area quiet and serene. I set off higher up the hill, wanting to enjoy more of the grand view.
Brewster tramped behind me, his steps heavy on the stones. I halted in an open square at the top of the street, a small green for nearby residents. A few tall palm trees graced the tiny park, lending an exotic air to the scene.
“Napoli was a Greek colony, once upon a time,” I informed Brewster. “They were rivals of the Etruscans, before the Romans came.”
Brewster scanned the city below us. “Don’t much look Greek in my mind.”
“We’ve arrived several thousand years too late. But the very name of its inhabitants, the Neapolitans, remembers its Greek origins.”
