I nodded, trying to breathe through the sudden onslaught of nerves that flooded my stomach.
“You and the prince will start the grape-picking contest, and afterward award the winners on the stage in the courtyard. We have planned it all around the phone call at three p.m. from the Wine Awards. Of course, we are hoping and praying that we will win. I have organized for the guests of the festival to have a glass each of the merlot if we take the coveted prize.” She laughed. “I’m sure that’s why they are all here anyway, so they can have a glass without paying through the nose for a full bottle.”
We reached the top of the stairs; Zeno was waiting below. He had changed into a fresh but similar blue suit. He looked every inch a Mediterranean prince. Maria smiled as he moved to the bottom of the staircase.
Before we descended, Maria placed her hand on my arm. “Make sure you smile a lot today. Listen attentively to anyone who speaks. This is the prince’s and your first public outing. We want the attending media and your guests to see you as a strong couple.” She leaned in even closer. “It will also help ease the buyers’ worries to see an Acardi on Zeno’s arm. Believe me, we need all the help we can get right now.”
I frowned, about to ask her what she meant, but Maria had pulled back and greeted Zeno before I could.
Was that why Zeno was so forlorn? So down? Were things even worse than before?
As I reached the bottom step, Zeno offered me his arm. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I replied. We walked through the large house until we reached the exit to the courtyard. I could hear the sea of voices coming from outside. Music from a live band was playing, and I could smell the heady scents of succulent roasting meats, garlic and herbs floating in the air.
Zeno gave me one last look. He inhaled deeply, plastered a smile on his face and pushed through the doors. The minute we entered the courtyard, I felt as though we had been transported back a hundred years to before the royal family’s abolishment. Everyone turned to watch us enter. My hand tightened on Zeno’s arm as my legs suddenly felt a little unsteady.
I was used to fancy events, but I wasn’t used to being so under the microscope. Avoiding the stares, I looked around at the courtyard. Green shrubbery and vibrant fall flowers climbed the stone walls. The rich smell of autumn trees filled the air, and the sun shone down on the cobbled floor like a golden spotlight.
As Maria led the way to a small stage at the north side of the courtyard, I scanned the crowd. I saw lots of smiling guests who had turned out—some in fancy dress and some in team t-shirts—for the contest. The aristocrats were even easier to pick out. They stood away from the locals and tourists, watching on with amused expressions. A few faces I recognized from the luncheon. I wasn’t surprised to see Baronessa Russo here, but a genuine smile formed on my lips when Pia waved at me from her place to the left. Her sister, Alice, was with her, as was Gianmarco, her nephew.
I waved at the young boy, and he gave me a small wave back. I had worked with him several times over the past couple of weeks. Pia had brought him to the estate rather than have me go to Florence. As predicted, he suffered from dyslexia, but he was already making progress. He was a sweet, shy boy, who had simply needed a little help.
As my eyes stayed locked on his timid face, my heart clenched. I wondered if this was what Achille was like as a child. A small boy hiding behind his father’s legs because the world outside the comfort of his vineyard was just too overwhelming and daunting.
Gianmarco was struggling being in such a big crowd; I could see it. But he would be okay. I wondered whether, had Achille been given the help he needed at this age, he too would have been brave enough to come to festivals such as this, rather than hiding away from the world, starving people of both his beautiful personality and looks.
A gentle squeeze on my hand forced me away from thinking of Achille again. I realized that I did that too often. He was never far from my mind. Or my heart.
I met Zeno’s eyes, and he raised an eyebrow in question. I smiled to let him know I was okay. I heard some of the women at the front commenting on how I looked at him so lovingly. So adoringly.
If only they knew.
Zeno walked to the microphone at the front of the stage. The guests quieted.
“My friends, my fiancée and I would like to thank you all for attending the annual Bella Collina Grape-Crushing Festival.” The guests cheered. Clearly used to years of this kind of attention, Zeno smiled a regal smile and nodded his head at the cheers and shouts. When the noise died down, he said, “Today is not only about the prize money of one thousand euro, but about celebrating this region’s exceptional wine and all of the work that goes into making it the best there is!” Zeno waited for the crowd to calm from their newest cheer. His smile fell a little, and his voice became strained and somber. “My father . . . my father loved this estate. He chose to spend his time here over our palazzo in Florence. And he loved this festival. Loved seeing his treasured land filled with such an outpouring of love from his guests.” Zeno paused, then said in a rough voice, “And I am no different.” He gestured to me, waiting behind him. “My fiancée adores this land and has spent every day since her arrival exploring its beauty. We both welcome you here today. So let’s get this contest started!”
Zeno stood back from the microphone as the infectious excitement began sweeping through the courtyard. Zeno held out his arm again, and I threaded my arm through his. He led me to the opening of a field of vines. The organizers of the event rushed to place the contestants at their rows. They had eight buckets to fill full of grapes, and the quickest team of two would win the money and a crate each of Savona wines. After the competition, the crowd was invited to stomp the grapes to celebrate the harvest. The wine produced from this would then be gifted to the church in Orvieto.
Maria led us to a central spot and handed Zeno a flag adorned with the Savona crest. But Zeno passed the flag to me and said, “Why don’t you do the honors, Caresa?”
I felt every pair of eyes on me as I nodded and walked to the spot Maria had marked out on the grass. I lifted the flag, holding it high in the air, and then dropped it. The contestants rushed to their buckets and scrambled down the rows of vines.
I laughed at the hectic melee before backing away to a corner to watch the contestants competitively harvesting the grapes. Zeno came to stand beside me. “You did well,” he said, clapping his hands as a nearby group were the first to drop two full buckets at their starting marks.
“This is good.” I gestured to the many people cheering and watching the contestants. “You should encourage this type of event more. Bella Collina is loved. Of course you should protect the more private sections of the vineyards, but this, involving both the local and world’s wine communities in what we do here, would only make them more dedicated to you.”
“You think?” Zeno said. At first I thought he was being dry and rejecting my idea, but when I looked at his face I could see his expression was contemplative.
“You know, the monarchs of old were disliked for a good reason,” I continued. “They were not one with the people. They kept themselves at bay. Maybe that is why the abolishment happened, because their great estates were national treasures, yet kept away from the public eye.”
Zeno flickered his gaze to me, then away again without saying a word. I wasn’t sure if I had crossed some arbitrary line by suggesting that, but it was true. Plus, what Maria had said to me earlier played heavily on my mind. I knew the situation with Zeno and the buyers was tense—this rushed wedding was the result of that—but I wondered how dire things had truly become.
Zeno wandered off to talk to some of the dukes and barons that had just arrived for the banquet this evening. Somebody moved beside me, and I was relieved when I saw it was Pia and Gianmarco. I kissed Pia’s cheeks and smoothed back Gianmarco’s hair. I bent down, melting when the timid dark-haired boy gripped tightly to Pia’s legs. “Hello, Gianmarco,” I said softly.
“Hello, Duchessa,” he replied, his little voice strong and brave. He looked up at Pia.
“Go on, give it to her,” she said.
Gianmarco reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. I looked down at the messy two-word message written in blue crayon: Thank you.