A Place For Miss Snow Read online

  When Petrobey was finished speaking, Alexandros translated. “Petrobey’s son Hektor is away at sea. His wife is in need of assistance with her home and family. You will go with her daughter Elena, first, to Petrobey’s home to write your letter, then to Tsímova to assist the family.”

  “Tsímova?” Diana said.

  “The main town in this region,” Alexandros said.

  “And I don’t— What am I to do?” Even though she hated the ship with its cramped quarters, salty food, and ghastly privy, the thought of leaving it for the unknown made her breath come in short gasps that she fought to control.

  A flash of concern moved through Alexandros’s eyes. “You will be safe. I will make sure of it.” His tone was low and soft.

  Diana lowered her shoulders, frustrated and embarrassed that he’d seen her worry. Her panic was replaced by the anger that had been simmering since that night on the beach. “You are the last person I trust with my safety.”

  He drew his brows together and looked as though he would like to say something, but his lips tightened and he remained silent.

  Just as well, she thought. She calmed her breathing and raised her chin. “Mr. Metaxas, please ask Mr. Mavromichalis if there is a library or somewhere I can borrow books. I should like to improve my knowledge of Greek.” She cocked a brow, hoping he understood that an objectionable translator was further motivation for her request.

  The corner of his mouth lifted the slightest bit before he spoke to Petrobey.

  Petrobey opened his mouth to answer, but Elena burst in with a stream of words. She clenched her hands together in front of her chest as she talked.

  The two conversed for a moment, and Petrobey pinched his lower lip, looking back and forth between his granddaughter and Diana. Finally he spoke to Alexandros.

  “Petrobey said Father Yianni at the church has books. He teaches a few of the boys in the village, but Elena wishes to learn as well. He asks for you to teach her to read, and she will in turn help you to learn Greek.”

  A familiar calm feeling settled over Diana as she looked at Elena. Instructing young ladies, watching them feel pride in their learning and recognizing their own intelligence was the task that gave her the most joy. Planning lessons, organizing books and paper, and writing implements were what she knew best. And she loved it.

  She’d studied enough to know the Greek alphabet and modern Greek phonetics. And with Elena to translate the words they read, each would benefit.

  She lifted her gaze to Petrobey. “Yes. Thank you,” she said in Greek.

  Elena nodded her head and grinned. She kissed her grandfather’s cheek and stepped closer to Diana. “My name is Elena,” she said.

  Diana was glad she at least spoke enough Greek to introduce herself. “Very nice to meet you, Elena. I am Miss Snow.”

  “Missno.” She flapped her hand in a motion for Diana to accompany her.

  Petrobey patted Elena’s shoulder, and Diana followed her from the ship, stepping onto a rocky land where trepidation and hope fought inside her, making her fingers tingle.

  Chapter 5

  Alex studied the picture on the wall of Petrobey’s office. The lithograph nestled between religious ikons was one he’d seen before. Two men, who Alex knew to be the scholars and philosophers Adhamántos Koraís and Rígas Pheréotos, supported between them a beautiful young woman dressed in rags. The picture symbolized Greece being lifted up by forward-thinking, educated men—revolutionaries, like himself.

  He smiled as he continued around the room, looking at the books on the shelf behind Petrobey’s desk. Recently translated volumes by Voltaire, Montesquieu, and Rousseau stood next to a classical volume of Harmodius and Aristogeiton—ancient Greek heroes who overthrew the tyrant Hippias.

  Alex could not have found better indicators that Petrobey was exactly ripe for the cause if he’d planted the items himself.

  A fleeting thought entered his mind. Why had Petrobey not loaned these books to Diana? Perhaps because he was still studying them. Or was he afraid that word would get out about his reading habits? Such literature could be considered treachery. If that was the case, was Petrobey not worried about Alex seeing them? The idea did not bode well for Alex’s future if he was not able to earn the bey’s trust.

  He strolled around the room, pausing to admire a gilded curved saber that hung on the outer stone wall, and a painting of a mountainous landscape. Red blossoms dotted the scrubby ground and cypress trees poked up like long spindles between well-ordered olive groves. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, surprised at the deep ache in his chest. This was Greece, his fatherland. Glancing back to the lithograph, he made a silent pledge to the young peasant girl that he would do all in his power to free her.

  The door opened, and Alex cleared his throat, schooling his face to conceal his emotions. He remembered his duty, his mission, and the cause he was fighting for.

  Petrobey entered and tipped forward his head in a bow. “British rifles. A gift such as this does not come without conditions.”

  Apparently the bey did not bother with small talk. “The condition was simply the opportunity to speak with you,” Alex said.

  “Then speak.” He lowered himself into a carved wooden chair, clasping the armrests as if he sat on a throne. Somehow he managed to look relaxed and alert at the same time.

  Over the last weeks, Alex had imagined various conversations with Petrobey, and had always assumed the discussion would progress gradually from pleasantries and introductions, ultimately arriving at his purpose. Not once had he thought he would be asked his business so bluntly, and he considered exactly how to go about explaining himself.

  He said a prayer in his heart and began. “You are a student of French Enlightenment philosophy.” He lifted his palm toward the books on the shelf. “And an admirer of Koraís and Pheréotos with their concepts of education and reform.” Petrobey watched without changing his expression, so Alex plunged forward. “I too am a believer in freedom. Though it will be hard bought.”

  “I could have you killed for the mere insinuation.” Petrobey’s voice was low.

  Alex kept his gaze steady. “I know.”

  Petrobey’s brows arched. “You are not afraid? Why?”

  “I believe you and I want the same thing.” He crossed the room and pointed to the lithograph. “Freedom for the land we love.”

  Petrobey raised his chin and pursed his lips. “My son Dino tells me you are from Constantinople, but your accent sounds to me like you hail from perhaps Athens?”

  “Nafplio.” Alex did not let his surprise show at the sudden change of topic.

  “And educated abroad?”

  “Yes, mostly in Italy.”

  Petrobey pinched his lip. “Education—I believe education is key.”

  “You wrote a letter to Kapodhístrias expressing your interest in establishing a school in the Mani.”

  “You know Kapodhístrias?”

  “Yes.” Alex did not know if he would have much longer in the bey’s presence, and the man had given him an ideal opening. “Kapodhístrias is a member of the group that sent me. This group—society—operates in secrecy with the ultimate goal of freedom from our Ottoman oppressors. Liberation for our fatherland.” He felt a pinch inside his chest as he said the words. Whereas his statements before could have been argued to be off-handed observations, this was pure treason. “I have here a letter from Lycurgus the Logothete.” Alex pulled the crumpled envelope from an inner pocket.

  “Lycurgus also?” Petrobey’s brows rose.

  “He is one of us.”

  “And this group has sent you to me because . . .”

  “Because we need you. We need the Maniots if we are to have any hope of success. I do not need to tell you that your people are the fiercest warriors and most brilliant strategists in all Greece.”

  The muscles around Petrobey’s eyes tightened, and his cheeks lifted. He was pleased with Alex’s compliment and knew it was the truth, not empty flat
tery.

  Alex pushed ahead on the momentum of his words. “Isolated uprisings are quickly squelched, but a coordinated attack on multiple fronts will strengthen our hope of success.” He raised a fist. “Eleftheria i thanatos.” Freedom or death.

  Petrobey continued to scrutinize him.

  Alex’s impassioned speech left him breathing heavily. Did it have the desired effect? Surely Petrobey felt the same fervency for his fatherland as he did.

  “The Maniots are free,” Petrobey said with a shrug. “The Turks do not rule us.

  “Or so they want you to believe.” Frustration made Alex’s hands shake. He wanted to throw something. How could Petrobey not see the truth? “What happened to the beys before you? What happened to your father, to your grandfather at the Orlov Revolt?”

  Petrobey’s eyes narrowed at the reminder of the defeat.

  “The Turks leave the Maniots alone as it suits their purpose, but do not be fooled into believing they are above inciting clans into vendettas and blood feuds. Even as close as Outer Mani, there have been incidents of devșirme.”

  Petrobey cringed at the mention of the Turks’ dreaded child collection—stealing young Christian boys to serve in the sultan’s army and girls for his harem. The practice had taken place for centuries with the penalty of immediate death for anyone who protested or tried to prevent it.

  Alex could see his words had hit close to the bey’s heart. He imagined Petrobey was thinking about his granddaughter Elena. “We sought you because you have brokered peace between feuding clans. You are the man to unite the peoples of the Mani, to show the Turks the descendants of Sparta will not bow down to their oppression.”

  Petrobey pinched at his lip, staring at the patterned rug that stretched over the stone floor.

  “A ship at Corfu, filled with weapons and supplies, awaits my word. You and I will speak to the kapetans of the klephts and leaders of the other clans. If they’re willing, recruit them to the brotherhood.” He leaned in close, speaking in nearly a whisper. “When the time is right, the Maniots will lead the Greeks to victory, and you will lead them as the commander in chief of the Spartan forces.”

  Petrobey glanced up, but he did not answer. He continued pinching his lip, his brows furrowed.

  “Greece needs all of us.” Alex pointed again to the defeated young woman in the lithograph, then turned to face Petrobey. “She needs you.”

  “I must speak to my family,” Petrobey said at last.

  [

  Hours had passed since Petrobey’s dismissal. Alex had been treated well, shown to a room and fed, but even though he’d been shown nothing but hospitality, he knew he was not a guest. The door to his room was locked, and a man stood outside beneath the window.

  He gazed at the rocky hills that rose above the city. Cicadas and other insects keened and chirped a symphony that was as familiar to him as if he had not left these very shores twenty years earlier. The whispers of the waves in the harbor were a perfect accompaniment to the sound. He breathed in, smelling the sea as well as spiced meat—souvlaki—being cooked on sticks somewhere in the village. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself a young boy of eight, sitting on the balcony of his parents’ home in Nafplio. The only things missing were the smell of his father’s pipe and his mother’s voice humming softly while she stitched. He turned away from the window as an ache grew inside his chest and his eyes burned.

  From within the house, he heard the muted sound of the Gerondiki—the family council’s—voices. Sometimes rising as men spoke over one another, fighting to be heard, and sometimes quiet as they listened.

  Alex paced over the stone floor. His muscles were tight with anticipation. What were the men saying? He thought Constandinos—Dino, as his father had called him—likely stood quietly in the room, listening first to Petrobey and then to the other men’s discussions with hardly a word. If his father believed revolution to be the right thing, Dino would join. Alex had not been certain the man trusted his intentions, but he seemed to be a person of honor.

  Themis, he assumed, would follow what his cousin recommended, but Alex thought once his mind was decided, Themis would not waver. Though he seemed to be easily angered and slow to trust, Themis was a loyal man and, Alex had observed from their few interactions, a skilled warrior.

  The other men in the family could be saying anything at all. No doubt, from the cadence of their voices, some were displeased with the idea while others tried to convince them. He wished he could have the chance to speak to all of them, assure them that, though the risk was great, it would be worth it in the end when their beloved fatherland was freed.

  He did not think the Mavromichalis family would allow him to leave if his proposal was rejected. And he did not think they were the sort of people to care for a prisoner. If his words had not managed to convince Petrobey, Alex was confident that he would be killed.

  For an instant he felt a pang of regret, and when he focused on the cause, Diana Snow came to mind. He had hoped for a chance to explain himself, to apologize for the way he’d treated her and tell her why his callousness had been necessary for both their sakes. He was grateful Petrobey had shown her compassion, though he most likely did so out of hopes to ingratiate himself with the British after being Napoleon’s ally. Thinking of Diana’s and Elena’s heads bent over books in the church brought a smile to his face. She would be valuable here as a teacher. He’d hoped—

  The door opened, breaking off his thoughts.

  A young man Alex had not seen before stood in the doorway. “Come.”

  He followed his escort through the hallways, past closed doors and finally into Petrobey’s chamber.

  He estimated nearly twenty men stood in the room; their ages varied from elderly to barely older than a boy. Each watched him somberly. The men moved aside, making a path to Petrobey.

  Alex’s skin stung, and his lungs could not draw a full breath as he awaited their verdict.

  Petrobey rose from his chair and walked to Alex. His expression was grave. He clasped Alex’s hand and laid the other on his shoulder, holding Alex’s gaze solemnly. “For patrídha.” For our fatherland.

  The men of the Mavromichalis clan raised their voices in a cheer.

  Alex’s heart pounded, even as relief flowed over him. He clasped a hand on Petrobey’s shoulder. “Eleftheria i thanatos.” Freedom or death. He spoke the Greek motto with pride, his voice catching in his throat.

  Petrobey shook his head. “I told you, Maniots are already free. Niki i thanatos.”

  The other men repeated the words.

  Victory or death.

  Chapter 6

  Diana woke to the sound of children’s voices. Glancing at the window, she could not see any light between the slats of the wooden shutters. The day began early, she realized just as a candle flared to life on the wooden table.

  Elena had already begun to dress.

  Diana rose from her cot in the small room they shared, shivering in the cool of the autumn morning. She felt nervous at the new surroundings and the unfamiliar noises of the house. What would be expected of her in this place? Would she be a servant here? The family had not been unkind to her, but she was obviously expected to earn her keep.

  As soon as she’d arrived the day before, Diana realized why Petrobey had considered his daughter-in-law to be in need of assistance while her husband was away. Sophia Mavromichalis’s stomach was swollen, and she walked with rocking steps, wincing as she stood and breathing heavily at any exertion. Elena had only been in the house for a few moments before insisting that her mother sit down and helped raise up her swollen feet to rest on a cushion.

  Although Diana’s exposure to women in a family way was nearly nonexistent at the orphanage and the finishing school, she thought Sophia’s stomach was exceptionally large. Perhaps she carried twins.

  The candlelight illuminated an elaborate golden cross on the blocks of the stone wall. The sight was so unfamiliar compared to the simple Anglican crosse
s she was accustomed to, but somehow, seeing it there gave Diana comfort.

  She studied the clothing Sophia had provided for her since her dinner gown was filthy and, of course, unsuitable for working on a farm. First, she pulled on a white underdress, admiring the embroidery that decorated the collar and the cuffs of the sleeves. Then, long woolen socks. Over the white underdress, she wore a pleated dark skirt and a long burgundy vest that fit like a tunic, with a strip of blue fabric tied around her waist. The clothing was bulky, but she was grateful for the extra warmth.

  She straightened the blanket on the cot, lining up the seams with the edges of the thin mattress and spread her hands over it, smoothing out any wrinkles, then followed Elena down the stairs. Warm air filled the stairway along with the comforting smell of baking bread as they entered into the main area of the house.

  Like the other structures in Tsímova, the house was built of stone. Diana had thought the shape appeared like a creation a child would make with building blocks. One section was four stories tall—a tower. Next to the tower was another section with two levels. The bedrooms were on the second floor above the main living area. And finally, the last area, behind the house, was only one level. The door to this section was low with stairs leading down to it from the kitchen. Though she hadn’t been inside, Diana assumed it was for storing food. Stone stairs ran up the outside of the building and onto the flat roof, giving the home the feeling of a small castle.

  In the kitchen area, Diana saw Elena’s three youngest brothers had already dressed and now sat at the table, talking with sleepy voices.

  Sophia smiled when the other women entered, and she pushed a long wooden paddle into the open-brick oven to remove a round loaf of bread. Diana was struck by the woman’s beauty. She was a young mother, in her midthirties, Diana thought. She shared Elena’s thick hair, high cheekbones, and full lips, but her characteristics were more pronounced than her daughter’s. In a few years, Diana thought Elena’s round cheeks and soft features would look just like her mother’s.