A Shadowed Fate

by Marty Ambrose

  ‘Si.’ Raphael rose and stood next to Trelawny. ‘We must take this path and see where it ends.’

  Their confidence radiated light into the room, but my misgivings remained. I had already been disappointed too many times. Would this odyssey be yet another aborted effort? Could I stand one more lost dream?

  ‘Claire, you must do this – for Allegra,’ Trelawny said as he touched my shoulder. ‘Otherwise, you will always be filled with remorse and regret. I know those emotions only too well, and they make for miserable companions in life. If you take this journey, at least you will know that you did everything you could to find your daughter.’

  I knew all the practical reasons against such a trip: we would stretch our modest resources even more thinly, the roads would be hot and dusty, and I would find the long travel days tiring. But something in my heart told me to take the risk. I still had time for one last adventure and could solve the great mystery of my life – lay to rest the demons from my past.

  Raising my chin, I replied simply, ‘I will begin to pack tonight.’

  Trelawny smiled. ‘And I will make the arrangements for us to depart as soon as possible.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Paula appeared once more, a puzzled expression flitting across her face.

  ‘Ravenna,’ Raphael said. ‘Come into the kitchen with me, and I will explain everything.’

  She slipped her hand in his, allowing him to draw her out of the room.

  Once they had exited, Trelawny said quietly, ‘Before we go any further with these travel plans, tell me honestly: are you prepared for this journey, Claire? I did not mean to push you into it … there is no dishonor in declining.’

  ‘I shall be ready to leave in two days’ time.’ But first I had to make one very important stop at the Basilica di San Lorenzo, the church where Father Gianni had been stabbed. I needed to attend mass at the church that had meant so much to me … and see where he died one more time. Stand in that holy place and remember the man whom I once thought I knew so well. I made a mental note to ask Raphael to arrange for a driver to take me in the morning.

  I spent the evening with Paula and Georgiana, choosing the personal items that we needed to take on our trip: day and evening dresses for at least a week, as well as our toiletries and items to keep Georgiana entertained on the road. The hotels on our journey would be basic, due to our modest resources, so we had to bring along most of what we would need for the trip. I did not mind. I loved to travel, even at this stage of my life, and this venture had a much hoped-for outcome: a final reckoning with the past.

  Georgiana picked up on our sense of excitement, making it difficult for Paula to calm her enough at bedtime, so I brought her into my room and sang a lullaby that I had sung to Allegra to coax her into sleep: ‘Lay you down now, and rest, / May thy slumber be blessed / Lullaby, and good night, / You’re your mother’s delight …’ By the fourth stanza, her eyes drooped shut and she drifted off into the sweet repose of the young and innocent.

  Tucking the quilt under her chin, I touched her cheek as I whispered the last few lines of the song. There was nothing more beautiful than the angelic stillness of a sleeping child. My dear Georgiana. I was so fortunate to be able to enjoy the presence of a child who was just beginning to discover life. Everything seemed fresh and new through her eyes, and it renewed me to see her wonder and bliss. Of course, she would come to know the great joys and great disappointments that came with the years, but, for now, it was enough to watch her softly rhythmic breathing and savor her innocence.

  Smiling, I lay down next to her and closed my eyes.

  After a deep and dreamless sleep, I arose in the early morning, careful not to disturb the household, and dressed quickly to attend morning mass. True to his word, Raphael had our driver standing by as I emerged from our apartment. I would have preferred to walk, but, even at this early hour, the temperature was already climbing.

  The young Italian guidatore helped me into the carriage with a gentle hand, and we set off through the early morning streets of Florence. I loved this time of day before the crowds descended on the shops and markets in the central part of the city, with only delivery wagons and street cleaners for company. Without the masses of people, I could appreciate the Ponte Vecchio’s quiet elegance as we passed its craftsmen setting up their tables of fine gold jewelry, then the classic symmetry of the Uffizi colonnade and magnificence of the Piazza del Duomo’s cathedral. I never tired of seeing these Florentine landmarks that had remained through centuries of conflict and natural disasters.

  A beauty for the ages.

  No less so, my destination: the Basilica di San Lorenzo with its rustic terracotta brick exterior and ornate gilded interior – once the parish church of the Medici family. When we arrived, I took a few moments to gather my strength, suppressing all thoughts of the violent scene that I had witnessed here not long ago. Whatever Father Gianni had actually done, he did not deserve to be murdered in his own basilica.

  The driver helped me out of the carriage, and I entered through the massive front door, breathing in the main chapel’s cool air. Strolling past the columned arcades, I made my way to the high altar and joined the smattering of parishioners waiting for morning mass – mostly old women wearing black and clutching their rosaries as they murmured novenas. I took my seat near the front and stared up at the gold crucifix decorated with a sculpted figure of Jesus. I began my own prayer for the soul of Father Gianni, hoping that he would find his way to heaven. I fervently wished that with all my heart.

  I tried to pray for Matteo, but I could not.

  My compassion only went so far.

  Just then, a bell rang, and we all stood, crossing ourselves as a middle-aged priest entered. He blessed the congregation and then invited us to take part in the Act of Penitence, followed by singing the Kyrie. As I sang, though, the familiar sense of peace did not descend over me as I held my rosary. Trying to invoke a sense of serenity, I imagined the benign image of Father Gianni conducting the mass, his face lit with spirituality as he sang the verses in stirring Latin. He was one of the reasons that I became a Catholic at this late stage of my life: he made me believe in the power of charity and forgiveness.

  ‘Christe, Dei forma humana particeps, eleison.’

  God have mercy on us.

  I crossed myself as another image of Father Gianni flashed in my memory – this one of his lying at the foot of the Cosimo de’ Medici statue in the old Sacristy. Blood flowed from the stab wound in his chest, dark red against the marble floor. No last rites. No final words. Just a river of death. I could never forget it. And now I could not even grieve without another ghost: the specter of doubt that had been raised by Matteo.

  The rest of the mass unfolded, but I could not focus with more than feigned solace.

  As the priest processed out, I made a tiny cross on my forehead, realizing that it had been a mistake to come here so soon after Father Gianni’s murder. The emotions were too raw, too recent. As I began to rise, a man slipped on to the bench next to me, and I turned to see Lieutenant Baldini.

  ‘Buongiorno, Signora Clairmont,’ he said quietly. ‘I stopped by the Palazzo Cruciato a little while ago, and your niece said you were at morning mass.’

  I inclined my head with a smile. ‘Perhaps you and I both need to be here.’

  ‘But you came for the spiritual renewal, whereas I am investigating a murder.’

  ‘Do you not follow the religion of your country?’ I asked, noting that the parishioners nodded to Baldini as they filed out.

  Shrugging, he swung his glance toward the high altar. In the space of silence, his young face took on a more aged aspect, as if the burden of experience weighed him down. ‘I believe in justice,’ he finally said, ‘and whatever must be done in its name – not God’s – is my purpose for being on the earth. Does it shock you to hear a police officer commit blasphemy?’

  ‘You do not know me very well to even ask that question,’ I replied with a note of irony.
‘I am hardly one to make moral judgments.’

  ‘Immorality does not interest me unless it drives a man to commit a crime,’ he said, fixating on the crucifix. ‘Then I find myself very curious since criminals often have ethics but no conscience.’

  ‘Like Matteo?’

  ‘Si – he lived and died by his own code, though a villainous one, to be sure.’

  I digested his words, slowly and carefully. ‘Do you think Matteo told me the truth at Le Murate when he said he knew nothing about the theft of my Cades sketch?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘But we will never know for certain since he … died.’ I avoided saying the word ‘suicide’ in a holy place; it did not seem fitting. ‘Perhaps he will find atonement in the next world.’

  ‘A sinner’s most fervent wish.’ Baldini sounded uninterested in the topic as he shifted his attention back on me. ‘Your compatriot, Trelawny, informed me that you were traveling to Ravenna …’

  ‘We leave tomorrow for the nearby convent at Bagnacavallo where my daughter once lived – I want to see it before I am too old to travel.’ It was the truth, albeit a partial one.

  ‘I see.’

  Shifting uncomfortably on the hard, wooden bench, I had the sense he guessed more about our proposed trip than he was revealing. ‘Is that permitted?’

  ‘Of course. I asked Trelawny to send word periodically on the road – a mere formality, of course – and I will also apprise you of the investigation.’ He gave a slight smile. ‘You are the victim of a crime, not the criminal.’

  So why did I feel so guilty?

  ‘I hope we will have found your stolen drawing by the time you return.’

  ‘If that is the case, I will be most grateful. My niece and I are in a rather impoverished state at present, and the sketch could provide us with some relief.’ I paused. ‘As you know, I had thought about selling my Byron letters, but I could not bring myself to part with them, so the artwork is my only asset.’

  ‘Most assuredly, I will do my best,’ he promised. ‘And try not to ruminate about Father Gianni’s murder. Matteo has paid for his evil deed.’

  ‘That may be difficult, but I shall try.’ I rose and he did the same. ‘Grazie, Lieutenant.’

  As I turned to leave, I heard him say, ‘Do you remember anything else that Matteo said?’

  I shook my head, not looking back.

  ‘Addio,’ I murmured quickly and exited through the front door before he could ask any further questions. The driver helped me into the carriage and I urged him to set off.

  As we pulled away, I saw Baldini standing outside the basilica, hands shoved in his pockets as he watched me, his eyes narrowed in the sunlight.

  Tell him the whole truth, a tiny voice said from inside.

  But I could not stop.

  Ravenna awaited.

  Palazzo Guiccioli, Ravenna, Italy

  December 8, 1820

  Allegra’s Story

  Papa said I had to stay inside the palazzo courtyard.

  I spent the morning with the contessa who is teaching me how to play the pianoforte. My fingers are quite small, but I can play the chords well enough. Mostly, I like to sing when she plays because Papa always comes in to listen. He said I have the voice of an angel – like my English mama.

  I do not remember her very much now, except that she had dark hair and loving eyes. Papa told me that it is best I do not think of her, but sometimes I cannot help it, especially at night when I lie in my bedroom all alone with only my doll for a companion …

  On Papa’s orders, Tita watched me as I played in the palazzo courtyard, which had turned still and silent because of the snowstorm that had swept through Ravenna. The flowerbeds sat bare and empty. And instead of water, ice dripped from the three-tiered fountain that sat in the center. Freddo – so cold.

  Tita had brought out my wooden wagon and a rocking horse to keep me busy.

  While I played, he told me stories about growing up in Venice with his brothers, when they swam the Grand Canal and enjoyed fistfights with Austrian guards – I love hearing his tales and envied his large family. I wished so much for a brother or sister. The servants’ children who came to visit occasionally were my only friends. Mostly, I was on my own.

  At least I had Tita when Papa was gone.

  Just before teatime, Papa’s valet, Fletcher, summoned Tita and me inside. He spoke no Italian, but I could tell from the nervous shift in his eyes that he was anxious. As he helped me remove my blue velvet coat, I saw him hand a paper to Tita and utter something in English that I did not understand.

  Tita cursed in Italian.

  I stood on tiptoe to see what was on the paper; it was a rough outline of Papa’s face with the word Traditore! splashed across in red ink – the color of blood.

  Was Papa a traitor?

  FOUR

  ‘To see thy sunny fields, my Italy,

  Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still …’

  The Prophecy of Dante, II, 67–68

  En route to Ravenna, Italy

  July 1873

  After two days of travel, it seemed as if we had descended into Purgatory with each mile.

  Unfortunately, the evening before we left Florence, Georgiana had developed a slight cough, so I suggested that, instead of heading north to Ravenna, we take a detour to Bagni di Lucca for her to take the waters. Having lived in Italy for many years, I believed the hot springs, which they called terme, could cure almost any ailment. Trelawny sent word to a hotel, the Palazzo Fiori, that we would be stopping there overnight, and we finally left in a drizzling rain. A dreary start. And we could afford only one hired carriage for long-distance travel, so all of us – Raphael, Paula, Trelawny, and I, along with Georgiana – squeezed inside the small, enclosed interior.

  After the rain cleared, the heat soared. The dust swirled. And we grew more and more irritable as we jarred along the rough, bumpy roads.

  Perhaps the change of plans not been such a good idea.

  But Bagni di Lucca held lyrical memories for me as an ancient resort town at the foot of the Apennine Mountains which I had visited in my youth – a place to heal body and soul. Admittedly, those sweet days of bathing in thermal springs and sitting in the hot, steamy grotto may have colored my view of its curative power, but Georgiana needed time to revive her health again.

  As I had all those years ago.

  Shelley, Mary, and I had stayed there in the summer of 1818 and had bathed in the warm waters many times during those halcyon months. When we first arrived and stayed in the main part of the town, we quickly grew tired of the watchful spying of the English tourists who wanted to see if Byron was with us (he was not), and Shelley moved our household from a hotel to the Casa Bertini – a small brightly colored villa tucked away on a nearby wooded slope.

  I could have stayed there forever …

  Sighing, I glanced out of the carriage window and we headed north from Lucca, the countryside changing from Tuscan hills to steeper ridges of lush chestnut and oak trees. The air grew cooler and its scent held an earthly fragrance of forest pine.

  ‘Are you lost in the past?’ Trelawny whispered so not to disturb Paula and Georgiana who dozed, along with Raphael, in the seat across from us.

  ‘We spent only a few months here, but it was a golden time … I learned to ride horseback in these woods.’ I gestured at the thicket of leafy branches that arched over the road.

  ‘You took to it well, I trust?’

  ‘I fell more times that I can count, but it hardly mattered since I was so happy to be in the beauty of nature.’

  ‘Ah … the peace of a rural setting,’ he mused. ‘Nothing quite matches it.’

  ‘Except the quiet of a carriage with sleeping passengers,’ I could not resist adding, with a gentle nod in my niece’s direction.

  Trelawny followed my glance. ‘It is difficult for a child and her parent to be confined so long on the road – especially when the little one is ailing.’

  ‘Ind
eed, yes.’

  ‘Before they awaken, I need to tell you something, and I want you to remain calm. I believe a man is shadowing us,’ he said in a low voice.

  A cold chill snaked down my spine. ‘Are you certain?’

  He took a quick glance out of the window and nodded. ‘A rider on a bay-colored horse has been behind us for the last four hours, keeping at the same distance when he could easily overtake our carriage. It seems … suspicious. Do you have Shelley’s and Byron’s letters with you?’

  ‘Yes – in my travel case.’

  ‘Good. Keep them out of sight, just to be safe, since they are so valuable.’

  ‘Should we contact Baldini when we arrive?’

  ‘Let me think about it.’ He paused. ‘I have nothing definite to tell him – just a soldier’s sense of disquiet – but I do not like it.’

  My own apprehension grew to match his at this point. As I scanned the blur of foliage that passed outside the carriage window, its beauty seemed altered; each tree might be shielding a bandit, each corner hiding a new menace. Was it possible some villain from Florence trailed our little cortege? Why? We had little to steal now since the Cades sketch was gone. Then again, criminals often seemed to prey on those who felt the pinch of hardship.

  I shivered in spite of the heat.

  ‘When we arrive, take Paula and Georgiana to their room, and I will tell Raphael to keep watch. He is a strong and capable young man – loyal, as well.’

  ‘I agree that he has been steadfast beyond all expectations.’ My gaze drifted over to them, taking in Paula’s fair hair and delicate features in repose, her head on Raphael’s shoulder, and his contrasting Romanesque appearance – both so young and beautiful. Georgiana nestled between them in contented sleep, her breathing soft and even. A fierce surge of protectiveness stirred inside of me, engulfing all other emotions. My family. They were the only ones left, and I would make sure that nothing happened to them, no matter what. I may not have fought strongly enough for my daughter years ago, but I would fight for my dear ones now.