Calista, Laura Rahme [best ereader for comics txt] 📗

CALISTA

Copyright 2021 Laura Rahme

Paperback ISBN-13: 9798728861942

Cover by Ross Robinson

www.rossrobinson.com.au

Original artwork

Hendrick de Fromantiou

A still life with flowers, c.1633

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locations and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locations or events is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any forms, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the Author.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 1

Miss Vera Nightingale

SHE had never warmed to the Greek village girl. She found her peculiar in the manner she wore those coral beads round her neck, the way she barely spoke, and made few efforts to adjust to her new life in England.

Halfway down Alexandra Hall’s grand staircase, Vera paused and raised her eyes to the towering oil portrait. The young woman in the painting had been an illiterate peasant once, yet here she was, in all her glory, decked out like nobility in a blue crinoline dress. She sat on a chair of dark velvet, beside a stained-glass window, the red glow of a lit candlestick in the background. Vera ran her gaze across the canvas in disbelief.

Aaron had once boasted about commissioning this portrait but Vera hadn’t believed him. He’d acted upon just another one of his whims. Her deluded brother had called upon an artist to remake his wife’s nature, despite all evidence it was pure foolishness.

Vera scrutinised the portrait, taking in what she called the affected grace of the peasant girl. She felt a familiar wave of contempt as she stared at the subject in the painting. Beneath the layers of silk and despite the netted braids on her raven head, there was not a trace of English blood in that woman. The sitter of the portrait was an imposter. Vera shuddered, feeling suddenly uneasy. She looked down the stairs, expecting to see a shadow lurking there.

When she had first met Calista, the Greek girl was only twenty-two, spoke not a word of English. What had planted the idea in Aaron’s head? There had been many women in his life, including the middle-aged Russian countess who doted on him in his twenties, but Vera had waved off his philandering. She saw his rampant thirst for discovery as the passing fancy of a young man.

Surely at forty-five, which he was, upon returning from the Mediterranean, he knew better. He had not. She remembered their ultimate discussion at their parents’ home.

“Brother, you will stop this nonsense before we all regret it, won’t you, now?” The snow had begun to fall and icy crystals burst on her lips as she spoke.

He had turned to her, a maverick in a fur coat. The swarthy outline of his face seemed harsher after months in the islands.

“Vera, has it ever occurred to you that I set out on this journey to find a wife? And find a wife, I did.”

“You’ll shame us.”

“Well, you’ll have to learn to live with it because I shall marry that girl and that’s my final word.”

Upon delivering this unexpected rebuke, he had deserted her. She’d felt like a frozen statue in their family’s snow-swept garden. She had watched as he hurried off to his carriage in large strides. She’d even wondered if he wore such a thick coat to better conceal his soul’s secrets. She’d never felt so estranged from her beloved Aaron.

Vera recalled her wounded pride, and how days afterwards, she’d taken friends into her confidence over cakes and Darjeeling tea.

“My dear brother has expressed his wishes to marry a Greek peasant girl.”

She’d sat in mortified silence as her two close friends exchanged glances and carefully absorbed the news.

“What shall you do, my dear?”

At those words, deadly thoughts had crossed Vera’s mind. She’d sunk her butterscotch fingers deep into the tea.

“I suppose I shall have to make my peace. After all, I am only a woman,” she had muttered beneath her breath. “If only our parents were still alive. My father could have put sense into Aaron’s head.”

Her friends had shaken their heads but Vera sensed that their sympathy had in it something that smelled like relief. They were eternally grateful to not belong to such an incongruous family.

“Fancy that, wandering off to the United States of the Ionian Islands. And whatever for?” had sighed her childhood friend.

Vera had pondered over this, losing herself in the never ending stirring of her tea.

“You should see her eyes,” she had replied. “She’s seen things.”

Her friend then had the presence of mind to remember the Greek War of Independence. “Didn’t Lord Byron set off to Greece and die there?” she’d asked, hoping to change the subject with some vague political statement.

Vera had not answered. Her thoughts had drifted.

“Do you think she endured much hardship during the war?” insisted her friend.

Vera had startled.

“The war? Well, I… perhaps. I don’t know. But she’s a queer one. The look in her eyes... I think she’s half-mad. Yes, that’s what I think.”

“Well if you ask me, Vera dear, your brother is as strange as they get.”

“Yes, of course. But this girl…”

On the staircase, Vera bit her lips, recalling this conversation. She had suspected it, hadn’t she? Still staring at the portrait, it seemed to her that a hint of menace shone out of the sitter’s eyes. They came alive. Vera quickly averted her gaze. Her trembling hand clutching at the balustrade, she stepped down to the entrance hall.

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