Giovanni? May I introduce you to Signora Lawrence. She was with Dr. Manukyan’s group aboard the Sirena the other week and we met. I told her I knew you well.”
The monk’s eyes smiled at Ginger. “Good morning. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait. There’s still another tour group ahead of you.”
Ginger was so dumbstruck, she couldn’t find words. In a daze, she slowly got to her feet. “Good morning, Father. I was told you might be here today.”
“Please forgive the difficulties. Summer is a particularly busy time.”
“I understand and it doesn’t matter. If or when you’re free, I’d appreciate it if you had time to discuss Lord Byron’s preface to the grammar book with me.”
“It would be my pleasure. I’ll be available shortly and can give you an hour before I have to take charge of another tour. Until then, continue to enjoy the garden.”
Ginger had just walked past it. “Thank you.”
After Father Giovanni headed for the museum, she turned to his brother. Again, she felt his all-encompassing gaze study her.
“I’m afraid I’m the person who prevented you from seeing Father Giovanni the first time.”
She found his Italian accent irresistible. “Why was that?”
“Our father died in the early-morning hours on the day you were coming to Venice a week ago. I drove to the island to inform my brother and take him home, where our family was waiting for him.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said on a rush of emotion. “How terrible for all of you.”
“It’s been the most painful shock of my life so far. As I look back on the events of the night before, I realize you and I weren’t properly introduced.” A faint smile appeared, causing a fluttering sensation in her chest. “My name is Vittorio Della Scalla.”
Vittorio.
Ginger knew the Della Scalla name, but it wasn’t until she’d returned to the hotel the night of the dinner and pulled the menu out of her purse that her questions were answered. They’d been honored to eat aboard one of the Della Scalla passenger liners docked in the port.
Later in Switzerland when she’d been in her room at the farmhouse watching the news, she’d heard that the head of the company, a count of the old Della Scalla aristocracy, had died recently. Suddenly the signet ring on his finger took on significance for her. Everything fit and all the pieces fell into place.
Vittorio personified the quintessential nobleman of the modern-day Italian aristocracy.
GINGER COULDN’T HELP staring at him. “The likeness between you and your brother is so striking, it’s like two sides of the same coin.”
“Growing up people thought we were twins even though there’s a three-year difference in our ages. What’s your first name, signora?”
“Ginger.”
“Like the spice.”
A soft laugh escaped. “I’ve learned the Italians don’t use it much except in the southern part of your country.”
One black brow lifted. “It sounds like you’ve been here awhile.”
“Five months.”
He studied her for a moment. “Dr. Manukyan introduced you the other week as a Californian professor who’s an expert on Lord Byron.”
“Maybe one day I’ll attain that status once I’ve received my doctorate. But yes, I teach classes on the romance writers of the early nineteenth century at Vanguard University in Costa Mesa.”
“I traveled to that area years ago with friends. You come from a beautiful part of the US.”
“Considering where you come from, that’s a generous admission.”
“Not at all.” He cocked his dark, handsome head. “I can tell you that you’ve come to the right person to learn about Byron’s passion for the oppressed as well as his genius for words.” Ginger couldn’t have said it better. “How long are you going to be in Venice?”
The first time he’d asked her that question, it could have been an idle one. But not this time. Afraid to sound too interested—like a certain starry-eyed widow she knew—Ginger said, “I’m not sure. My research leads me many places.”
“Considering we’re talking about Lord Byron, it would.” Something told her Vittorio Della Scalla probably knew as much on the subject as his brilliant brother. “His journeys were legendary. Besides all the travel, Byron accomplished a massive amount of work during his short thirty-six years.”
She nodded. “Since I’ve been in Italy, I’ve decided Byron was a man with nine lives.”
His eyes smiled. “A very apt description. If you’re returning to Venice after your meeting with my brother, I’ll be happy to give you a ride. As you already know, I live there and I’m still anxious to show you around.”
The man’s charm was lethal. Ginger swallowed hard. “That’s very kind of you. I don’t know how long I’m going to be, but thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He got to his feet. “A presto, signora.”
It meant see you soon, and sent an adrenaline rush through her. She’d lost track of time while they’d been talking. Without waiting for his brother, who’d just emerged from the doorway, Vittorio strode down the length of the courtyard on his long powerful legs and disappeared.
Ginger knew her cheeks were flushed when Father Giovanni asked her to return to the studio with him. He made no mention of his brother.
They discussed the problem of Father Pasquale Aucher, Byron’s teacher who’d instructed him in Armenian. Aucher was offended because in the preface of the grammar book, the poet referenced the Turks, who’d kept the Armenian people under their rule. Which is why he didn’t give Byron credit for the book, and the poet took it badly. Eventually Father Aucher added Byron’s name to the grammar, but not as a sign that he’d done an expert job.
Following that conversation, they discussed the letter Byron had written to his English publisher, John Murray, in 1817 about the time he’d spent at the Armenian monastery.
Before Ginger had to leave because the next tourist group had arrived, Father Giovanni quoted the last few lines of the letter from memory, lines that had become famous. The last line Byron wrote about life in the monastery made an impact. “‘“There is another and a better” even in this life.’”
Obviously Father Giovanni, who’d come from such an aristocratic family, had found a better life here, too.
Ginger thanked him for making this visit so memorable. She’d finished her research here and left the building, not knowing if Father Giovanni’s
