Evening Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “I did not look upon you as would a man who wished to enjoy your body. But I will tell you what such a man would say of you. Such a man would have been delighted with you. He would also have likely agreed with Madame. You are young yet and your breasts will become fuller. It is said that a woman’s breasts become softer and larger the more they are fondled. Did you not notice Margot’s fully rounded bosom?”

  A great shudder passed through her. Daniele wondered what Aurora would say if she knew he had forced her daughter to strip naked in front of him and be examined as if she were a painting in an art gallery. It was odd, he thought, how very innocent of the world Aurora actually was. Her virgin daughter, if she remained in Rome, would return to England far more worldly than her sophisticated mother.

  Giana’s thoughts continued in confusion, no direction or conclusion, save that the woman Lucienne was a beast, the kind of woman no lady should ever have to meet. Perhaps it was true that some men, men who had been disappointed in love, sought solace at such places. But Randall would not have to. She knew she was certainly not a cold woman, and she would always love Randall. He would not be disappointed in love.

  “The watered silk is lovely, my dear. It makes you look as fresh as a rose.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Giana said to Mirabella del Conde, her hostess. The dinner had been a long one, with many courses and removes, and Giana, as the newcomer and the center of attention, had felt woefully tongue-tied in the company of the ladies and gentlemen.

  “She is so very young,” Mirabella said, her words intended for none of the other ladies in particular. She sighed as she sat down and picked up her embroidery frame.

  Giana sat stiffly on the edge of her chair, wishing that the gentlemen would not take long over their port. She felt so out of place, her Italian, though reasonably fluent, stiff and wretchedly accented.

  Luciana Salvado, the wife of a wealthy Italian railroad investor, a tall, willowy woman whose hair was as inky black as Giana’s, said loudly, “Do you enjoy needlework, Miss Van Cleve?”

  “Please call me Giana, ma’am. I would wish to improve, of course.”

  “Well, you have a lifetime to learn. Perhaps if you become tired of too much sightseeing, you shall come to my house for a light collation. Many of us meet there. You see, we are embroidering an altar cloth for—what did you say the name of the church was, Mirabella?”

  “Saint John.”

  “Ah, yes, Saint John.”

  “My children were confirmed there, Luciana,” said Signora Camilla Palli, a thin, pinched-looking woman whose nervous fingers continually plucked at the skirt of her plum taffeta gown. “My little girls were so lovely in their white gowns. And Father Pietro was so very pleasant and attentive.”

  “Si, and he is so enthusiastic about the altar cloth. Mirabella has the greatest skill—she has designed the pattern, with the aid of Father Pietro, of course.”

  Camilla continued in an undertone, a certain snideness in her voice, “It is because Mirabella is so much alone that she achieves such skill.”

  Luciana said, “I hope to travel with my husband to your country one day, Giana. My husband tells me that your Prince Albert is planning a great exhibition.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I understand that the committee is still deciding upon the architect.”

  “Now, Luciana, you know that Carlo will never allow you to accompany him,” said Camilla.

  “It is to be an exciting event,” Giana said. “I think all of you would enjoy it.”

  She noticed several startled glances. “Ladies,” Mirabella said, “do not travel such distances.”

  “But why, ma’am?” Giana asked, equally startled.

  Camilla Palli said in a superior voice that was beginning to grate on Giana’s ear, “Really, Miss Van Cleve, I wonder at such a question from you. A lady’s sensibilities would surely forbid such strenuous travel, and there are, of course, the children to be considered.”

  “Yes, I suppose there are many considerations,” Giana said.

  “Of course Camilla is right,” Mirabella said, glancing toward the clock just to the left of the mantelpiece. “Can you imagine being jostled by all the common people?” She shuddered delicately. “I wonder what the gentlemen can be doing?”

  “Smoking their vile cigars and drinking port,” Luciana said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh dear,” Mirabella said, stabbling her needle into the swatch of material, “I just missed a stitch.”

  “How is your precious little baby, Angela?” Luciana said, disregarding Mirabella. “Angela has been married but a year and a half, my dear,” she explained to Giana. “A little girl this time, but she isn’t repining. I myself had three girls before I gave my husband a boy.”

  “Maria can hold her head up now,” Signora Angela Cavour said. “But surely, Luciana, we shouldn’t talk of such things. Miss Van Cleve—Giana—is not yet married.”

  “I will be, in September.”

  “How marvelous for you,” Mirabella said, her eyes darting again toward the clock. “Oh dear, the gentlemen are taking a long time, aren’t they?”

  “Your fiancé is English?” Angela asked in a soft, shy voice.

  “Yes, ma’am. He will likely enter my mother’s business.”

  “Your mother in business. Surely you are jesting, Giana.” Mirabella’s hand was poised over the tambor frame in awful silence.

  “Yes,” Giana said stiffly. “She is quite good—indeed, since my father died, she has increased the Van Cleve holdings substantially.”

  “How very odd,” Luciana said, a thick black brow arched.

  “A pity she did not marry again,” Camilla said in her pontificating voice. “Imagine a lady involving herself in all that drudgery.”

  Giana flushed at the repetition of her own words to her mother. Somehow Camilla made them sound so priggish and offensive.

  “She has had many offers, ma’am,” Giana said quietly. “She prefers making her own decisions.”

  Luciana’s thin dark brows remained arched. “A lady entirely on her own—I vow it is something I should not like to contemplate. At least she had the good sense to protect you, Giana.”

  “What kind of business?” Angela asked quietly.

  “The Van Cleve interests are varied, ma’am. Shipping, vineyards, the railroad.” Giana realized she did not know many of the Van Cleve interests. She had never bothered to ask. “Perhaps,” she said tentatively to Luciana, wanting to impress, “Signore Salvado will meet with my mother on railroad business if he goes to London for the exhibition.”

  “Carlo meeting with a lady on business? I am afraid not, my dear child. I am afraid my Carlo would as soon meet with the monkeys at the zoo. I am sorry, but he has strong opinions on such things.”

  “I wish the gentlemen would finish with their port,” Mirabella said, glancing again at the clock.

  “They are likely discussing the political situation,” Camilla said. “Did I tell you, Signorina Van Cleve, that my darling daughter is also to wed? Such an amiable young man, and the scion of an old and distinguished Roman family.”

  The fragile Angela said hesitantly, “I have heard it said, Camilla, that Vittorio Cavelli is a rather wild young man.”

  “What young man does not enjoy himself before he is wed?” Camilla shrugged. “My dear Cametta has met him, and thinks that her father and I have made a fine choice. He is quite a handsome boy, and well-spoken.”

  “Cametta does not know him well, ma’am?” Giana asked, surprised.

  “Our daughters are raised a little differently in Italy, child. Cametta emerged from the convent but three months ago. Her father and I arranged the match for her.”

  A little differently? Certainly Giana had been well chaperoned at Madame Orlie’s, but a convent?

  “We protect our daughters, Giana,” Luciana said, her lips drawn in a prim line. “Even your visit with your Uncle Daniele must be seen as a bit unusual.”

  “You have no chaperon, Signorina Va
n Cleve?” Camilla asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Giana said, “but I can hardly see that it matters. After all, Uncle Daniele has known me since I was a small child.” And he saw me strip naked in a brothel today.

  Mirabella’s fingers worried over her tambor frame, and she said, without looking up, “The English are not as careful with their daughters as we are.”

  Angela said softly, patting Giana’s hand, “Your Uncle Daniele is a fine gentleman. I believe that my husband has some dealings with his banks, but of course, I know little of it.”

  “Ah,” Mirabella said, “the gentlemen.”

  The gentlemen, Giana saw with some relief, were filing into the drawing room. Save for the lilting Italian, they could just as easily have been Englishmen. Signore Conde, their host, a tall, gaunt-featured man whose dark eyes seemed to dart everywhere. Signore Cavour, plump and good-natured, the fragile Angela’s husband. Signore Salvado, the gentleman who would sooner meet with monkeys than with her mother, a handsome man, though a little stocky, with a bushy black mustache and thick side whiskers. His dark eyes seemed to probe when they rested upon Giana. And Signore Palli, the superior Camilla’s heavy-jowled husband. She looked toward Uncle Daniele, distinguished in his severe black evening clothes. He met her eyes and arched his thick black brows in silent question. About what? Giana wondered. She suspected that the gentlemen had been drinking heavily, for their laughter was easy and their conversation loud.

  She started at Signore Salvado’s husky voice. “My sweet child, Daniele tells me that your famous mother is now in charge of a railroad.”

  Aurora would give him the brunt of her tongue, Giana thought, if she heard the sneering condescension in his voice. She said stiffly, “My mother, signore, is active in many areas.”

  “Actually,” Daniele said, “Signora Van Cleve is working with a Mr. Cook, the idea being to provide cheap rail fares for people who could not otherwise afford such travel.”

  Giana felt herself flushing. If Uncle Daniele had not been present, she would not have been able to say anything specific about her mother’s plans. She tried frantically to remember any scrap of conversation about it. She brightened, saying, “I believe it is a fine idea, signore. So few people can afford to visit the sea, for example.”

  “The common people are like our dear ladies in one respect,” Signore Cavour said, laughing. “They must have our guidance and not forget what God intended them to be.”

  Daniele cast a quick glance at Giana and said blandly, “And just what did God intend our ladies to be, gentlemen?”

  “The delight of our lives,” Signore Cavour said, giving Angela a gentle smile.

  Signore Conde, Mirabella’s husband, rolled his eyes, saying, “A drain on our purses.”

  “And our patience.”

  “Surely you are too harsh, Carlo,” Daniele said to Signore Salvado, Luciana’s husband.

  Carlo smiled cryptically at his wife. “A wife is to be a loving creature, her aim to please her husband and bear his children.”

  “I daresay that all of us would agree,” Luciana said, smiling toward the thin-lipped Carlo.

  “What do you think, Giana?” Daniele asked.

  “I believe that a lady should be protected and cherished by her husband, and respected for her gentleness and wisdom.”

  “Wisdom? She sees a new ribbon, and so much for wisdom.”

  “If a man sees a new cravat, Signore Palli, he is also considered to have lost his wisdom?”

  “A young lady with a sharp tongue, signorina,” Signore Cavour laughed. “It is said that such a combination bodes ill for a happy union.”

  “I am certain that Giana meant nothing by it,” Angela said, smiling.

  Giana kept an uneasy silence, her eyes upon the toes of her white satin slippers. Why had she simply not kept her mouth shut, like the other ladies? She looked up and was taken aback to see Luciana and Mirabella regarding her with open disapproval. Camilla was gazing at her questioningly. Only Angela Cavour was still smiling. Giana tried to return her smile, but she saw Angela raise her soft eyes to her husband’s face, and quickly dropped her eyes to her toes. Had they not been even slightly angered by Signore Palli’s joke at their expense?

  “Mirabella,” Daniele said easily, breaking the momentary silence, “a glass of your excellent sherry, if you please.”

  “Well, my dear Giana,” Daniele asked during their ride back to his villa, “did you enjoy your evening?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, forcing brightness to her voice. She paused a moment, then added, “Do you think Italian ladies are like English ladies, Uncle?”

  “In large measure. Did you enjoy their company?”

  “Signora Luciana asked me to join them in embroidering an altar cloth.”

  “How very interesting, to be sure.”

  Giana heard the gentle contempt in his voice, and avoided his eyes.

  “As my ersatz niece, and a young English lady of impeccable breeding, you were obviously accepted into their ranks.” As Giana made no reply, Daniele sat back against the squabs and stroked his mustache. He had to remember to ensure that Giana would not be recognized by any of the gentlemen as his niece. A wig, he decided, a blond one, perhaps.

  Daniele turned his gaze back to his silent niece. Her evening had not proved to be an entirely pleasant experience. Bless her heart, she must have been profoundly bored, at least he hoped so. She was her mother’s daughter, and her snapping retort had come naturally.

  “I liked Angela Cavour,” Giana said, gazing at the darkened stalls that lined the Via di Fiore.

  “She is near your age. Such a timid little mouse. But so appealing, is she not? You will undoubtedly see her again. That particular group of ladies is often together. I daresay that you will enjoy many hours in their company. Of course, in the near future you will have more in common with them.”

  Giana listened for a moment to the clopping of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones. “Tell me, Uncle Daniele,” she said, “what are Mother’s plans with Mr. Cook?”

  Chapter 5

  Giana touched her fingers lightly to the blond curls that fell lazily over her forehead and stared unblinking at the image of a stranger.

  “Hold still, signorina,” the maid, Rosana, said in her wheezing voice. She was a plump older woman, dressed always in severe black, wool in winter and cotton in summer, whose upper lip was shadowed with a clump of soft dark hairs. “You have large eyes, and now they are even larger with the kohl. A bit of powder, some pink rouge on your lips, and you are ready.”

  “I am hungry,” Giana said with a touch of belligerence when Rosana allowed her to rise.

  “Your supper will be taken with the gentlemen,” the maid responded placidly. “It is just as well that your belly is empty when I lace your waist.”

  Giana groaned as Rosana jerked on the corset laces. She clutched the armoire door to steady herself, sucked in her breath, and held it. She did not again look into the long mirror until Rosana stood back, obviously pleased with her handiwork.

  There was the stranger again. The blond wig was a mass of soft curls framing her face, a face that seemed all eyes. Her soft yellow chiffon gown was tight about her waist and fell from her shoulders in layers of pale cream lace. Giana stared at the white expanse of bosom the corset pushed upward, her face scarlet beneath the white powder.

  She felt Rosana’s hands close about her waist and jerked away in embarrassment. “Bene, bene, signorina,” Rosana said complacently. “Your waist is so narrow I can nearly span you.”

  Madame Lucienne pushed open the door of the bedchamber and stood studying her charge with a judicious eye. If not for the terror in the girl’s huge eyes, she would have looked as lovely a harlot as one would wish. Lucienne supposed that once she had felt just as Giana did, but it was too long ago for her to capture the elusive feeling. For a moment she was somehow sad that this girl would keep her maidenhead, yet lose her innocence. She quickly quelled her moment of weak
ness, for after all, business was business. She nourished a feeling of impatience and, she admitted to herself, envy for this English girl whose mother was rich enough to provide her everything. Here she was playing nursemaid to a girl who was so stupid as to want to throw away everything on a man, and a fortune hunter at that. Well, the little twit was in for a shock.

  “You look passable, Giana,” she said at last. “Come, some gentlemen have already arrived.”

  Giana ran her tongue over her painted lips. They felt slippery and tasted of ripe cherries. “But how am I to behave, madame?”

  “Flirt with the gentlemen just as you do with your young Englishman. If any of them wish to bed you, I shall simply tell them that your services have already been secured for the night. Daniele will be arriving shortly to take you in hand. You will remember, my girl, that you are not to stand around like a stick. I expect you to be as charming and entertaining as the rest of my girls, else Daniele will be told.” Better not to tell her the rest of it, Lucienne thought, looking at the huge, still-frightened eyes.

  She patted her full dark blue brocade skirt, regarded her own bountiful bosom in the mirror, and said, “Come, girl. Gentlemen like to be entertained, and they are never to be kept waiting. Mind, now, you are to mix your English with liberal French and Italian. Daniele does not want to take the chance that you will be recognized as his well-bred English niece.”

  Giana followed in Lucienne’s imposing wake through the wide carpeted corridor that gave onto each of the girls’ rooms, and down the winding staircase. She saw a man’s appraising eyes upon her before they even reached the bottom steps. He had just entered the front door, and was standing next to Fusco, Lucienne’s majordomo. He was quite fat and old enough to be her father, with huge side whiskers and wide-spaced dark eyes.

  “Ah, my dear Lucienne,” he said, strolling over to them. “If all of your girls are like this lovely chit, you will end up with more lire in the bank than most of your customers.”

  “Ah, but I already have, Alfredo,” Lucienne said with light laughter in her voice. She tapped his coat sleeve. “This is my little Helen. Come, Helen, welcome Señor Alfredo Albano. He is visiting Rome from Seville.”