The Valentine Poem

by Victoria Hinshaw

  Gianni bit back an epithet and took a sip of his wine before speaking. “Let us hope the world never again sees such arrogance and treachery. And what of Wellington?”

  “He has his hands full in southern France. For every man who has come to hate Napoleon, there is one who just as passionately believes in his emperor and may fight to the death. I find it difficult to believe, when you think of the hardships that infernal Corsican has inflicted on his people.”

  “And all the people of Europe. What do you hear about the fate of the Italian states?”

  “Probably the same things you hear. Most of them will probably be returned to some sort of Austrian control.”

  “Leaving all the truly Italian leaders in the lurch. Ah, I know!” Gianni paused as he could see Richard was about to speak, then went on when his brother waved his hand and nodded. “I know, no one agrees on anything except opposition to Napoleon. They all revolt against the heavy taxes and the pressures of supplying more and more men to Napoleon’s armies, but they disagree about everything else, especially on who could lead a united country.”

  The duke blew another cloud of cigar smoke. “Precisely. We have been fomenting dissent for years. You have written some of the broadsides yourself. But there is no one to lead, to bring the various elements together, from south to north. His Majesty’s Government will not oppose the Austrians going back in if the various factions in Italy cannot unite.”

  “I greatly fear the cause is hopeless. Even here in London, amongst the musicians alone, there are as many opinions as there are instruments. That is why I need to go home and see how my mother’s family fares. I have a hot-headed uncle who may be jeopardizing the whole family.”

  “I understand. Your mother’s family must be your first concern, once you are finished with your mission here in London. You know, I suppose, that Prinny looks fondly upon your efforts on our behalf?”

  “Prinny?”

  “His Royal Highness has you on a list of those he wishes to reward.”

  “Reward? I had no idea Prinny knew anything about me or my meager efforts.”

  “Sometimes the Prince can surprise one with his interests and the extent of his knowledge. Other times he appears the buffoon. He plans to make you a baron—”

  “What? He is going to do what?”

  “I have told you that once the war is over, I will make over the estates at Upton Bassett to you, just as our father wished. Once that is accomplished, then the Prince will name you Baron Stansberry of Upton Bassett.”

  “I cannot believe it.”

  “He has already created numerous new peers this year and plans to name many more. Most of you have been involved in the war effort.”

  “But I have done so little. My information has been of little importance, the intrigues of feuding secret societies and petty uprisings, all leading nowhere. Surely this pales in comparison with the contributions of true fighters.”

  “John, pardon me if I repeat myself for the hundredth time. Father knew you had more skills than being cannon fodder. He was entirely correct in directing you to provide information for the foreign office and link up with Italians in England. You have been reliable, honest to a fault, and exceptional in evaluating information. Lord Castlereagh has commended you. Frankly, I am tired of providing this lecture every other month to reassure you of your usefulness.”

  “I apologize, Richard. It is hard for me to consider my work as valuable, as you well know.”

  “As Prinny would say, stubble it, John. You have given many years of your young life in the service of the realm. It will soon be time for you to return to your true role, as a son of the ninth duke of Bainbridge. You may take a place in Parliament, marry and sire many children. And, God willing, in the years of peace to come, take your growing family to Tuscany whenever you wish.”

  Gianni shook his head. “I fear I sound ungrateful for your support. That is not my intention. You have been the kindest and most generous of brothers and I know your advice to the government has been highly valuable. If I have made any contribution at all, it is a small one, though I am happy to have done so. I suppose it is a rare man who finds employment sharing bottles of wine with itinerant violinists or squiring aspiring sopranos to meet their fellow countrymen. Associating with the Italian community in London is anything but a hardship.”

  “Your skill in drawing out information has given us valuable insights, so do not pretend it is all drinking and carousing. For the moment, we need you to continue your work here. I expect that you will be able to go to Tuscany within the year, but not quite yet.”

  Gianni shrugged. “I was hoping the situation would be different, but I am sure you are correct that old Nappy has quite a bit of fight left in him before he either gives up or is overthrown.”

  Two more glasses of claret and an hour later, Gianni wished his brother a good night and refused a lift to the fringes of his neighborhood in one of the duke’s equipages. He needed the walk to clear his head. The frosty wind bit into his neck and turned his ears to ice. He drew his muffler higher and tighter and tried to think of the summer sun and warm breezes at the DiFerrante estate near Siena. Perhaps he could be there by harvest, if indeed there would be any harvest this year. The vineyards that produced the deep red grapes he had known as a child might have been entirely destroyed by the various revolts of the last years. What few messages he had from his relatives had not mentioned the status of the land. No, he would remember the hillsides as they had once been, covered with bountiful vines soaking up the rays from above and the nutrients from the rocky loam below. This was the scene he wished to describe to Miss Kimball, the scene he might someday show her.

  But perhaps not. For eight years now, he had been carrying on this masquerade. Since becoming Gianni DiFerrante he had no contact with young ladies of the ton, no experience dancing attendance upon the type of female the duke expected him to marry. Miss Kimball was a most fetching miss. Perhaps she would, however unknowingly, teach him all he had forgotten about proper deportment. While he waited for the end of his government service, while he waited to go back to Italy, Miss Kimball’s company was a welcome diversion indeed.

  Chapter Two

  Susan spent the morning rushing back and forth between the clothes press in her bedchamber and the table in the small salon where she studied her books on Italy, a room she secretly called her sala Italiana. Uncharacteristically, she could not decide whether she should perfect every detail of her ensemble or cram her head with more words in the Italian language. What did one wear on a frosty morning to practice language skills? None of her gowns seemed suitable. And should she not have a list of words ready to fill her attempts at conversation? After changing her dress three times in as many hours, she managed to forget half the terms on the lists she compiled, and her nerves were stretched as taut as the wires on the pianoforte. She told herself she must be merely tense in anticipation of the lessons for which she had long yearned; certainly her nervousness had nothing to do with the good looks and charm of the teacher.

  As the appointed hour approached, Susan tried to sit quietly and stitch beside the fire in the drawing room. The dowager observed her with a frown of disapproval pinching her thin face. “Susan, when your tutor arrives, I trust you will find some place to put him where I will not be disturbed. I deem chatter in foreign tongues to be most annoying.”

  “Then should I take him to the small salon?” Susan held her breath for the answer.

  “Anywhere out of my hearing. I trust I can count on your good behavior.”

  “Why, Grandmother!”

  “One never knows what to expect from these foreigners.”

  Susan bit back her response and quickly left to order a fire lit in her sala. Best to stay out of her grandmother’s sight, in case Lady Traisdel changed her mind.

  When Gianni arrived, Susan met him in the foyer and led him directly up to her hideaway. His smile lit the room as no fire could as he examined the prints she had placed on the
walls. “The ruins in Roma. Very good. Molto bene. How did you become interested in Italia, Susanna mia?”

  “I have always enjoyed reading about beautiful places. I am interested in the Roman Empire. And in the artists of the Renaissance. And who would not want to see the canals and gondolas of Venice?”

  “You read a great deal?”

  “Yes, I love to lose myself in stories, though sometimes my own imagination is more lively than the stories.” In a corner of her mind, she observed her conversation as if from a distance. How was it she felt on edge, and at the same time, could speak with him easily, as if they were old friends?

  He turned away from the prints and favored her with a wink. “You are extraordinary. I thought young ladies thought only of finding themselves an eligible match.”

  “Oh, I will probably never marry. Not to say that I would not like to find a loving husband. But I have had several seasons and I did not take, as they say. My mother says I am not conventional enough, that I do not…oh, this is wasting our time. Tell me where in Italy you lived, if you please.” She felt a blush rise on her cheeks. Their conversation felt much too familiar for their two days of acquaintance. She should not talk to him about personal matters.

  “I was born in Tuscany.”

  “So you lived in Florence, that is Firenze?”

  “No, I did not. My family lived south of there, near Siena.”

  “Tell me about your home.”

  “I was very little when I lived there, so I have just a few impressions in my head. The city is built of stone that turns pink in the sunlight. The streets are very narrow, twisting and turning, in the ancient fashion. I shall bring you some prints of Siena. You can see for yourself.”

  “That would be kind of you.” She sat at the table before her knees gave way beneath her. “Please sit down, Signor.”

  “Remember, here I am Gianni and you are Susanna.”

  “Susanna. I like that! I have always wondered why my mother chose such a plain name as Susan for me. My sisters all have quite unusual and fanciful names. I am simply Susan.”

  “Susan is a lovely name, perhaps my favorite. I am giving it just a touch of Italian, Susanna mia. Now, what do you want to learn?”

  She drew a deep breath. “If I am to travel, I need to speak to coach drivers, managers of inns and hotels, shopkeepers, merchants, to ask directions.”

  “Bene. Good. Avanti, per favore.”

  “Forward, please.”

  “Molto bene. First we learn to count. Uno, due, tre, Quattro…”

  As the lesson proceeded, Susan concentrated with every fiber of her being. She wanted to please Gianni, to win a flash of his smile when she responded correctly. Numbers, then days of the week, seasons, and colors. “Some of the colors are easy. Verde is verdant green, azzurro is azure blue, black is nero, who had a black heart. But how will I remember white, bianco, or brown, marrone?”

  “You must use the words over and over again.” Gianni checked the clock. “The hour has sped by, Susanna mia.”

  Susan was amazed and disappointed at how quickly the time had passed.

  Gianni continued. “We have one more thing for today, learning a few parts of the body. The heart is masculine. Il cuore, the heart. But the face, la faccia, is feminine.”

  “I do not understand. That is, I understand the words, but not why they are masculine or feminine. Women have hearts. Men have faces.” All afternoon she had admired the arch of his dark brows, his large, expressive eyes, and high cheekbones tinged with color.

  “I do not know the answer, bella mia. Il curore della femma. La faccia del ‘uommo.”

  “The heart of a woman. The face of a man. Il curore della femma,” she repeated.

  “Not quite, Susanna mia. Watch my lips.”

  As if she could stop looking at his mouth. Or listening to his mellow voice.

  He spoke slowly and distinctly. “Il curore della femma.”

  She nodded and tried again, forming her lips exactly as he had. “Il curore della femma.”

  “Brava! We will have to work more on the genders in the language, cara mia. Eventually you will find it simple and natural. Now we must hurry if we are to be on time for your singing practice.”

  “One question, Gianni. You speak perfect English without a trace of an accent. How did you learn to speak so well?” The question had been lingering at the edge of her consciousness all day.

  “I have lived in England since I was a boy. I am half English, half Italian. I had my schooling here.”

  “Ah, that explains everything.” Except, she thought, how she had become enchanted by his charm, captivated by his combination of kindness and humor.

  “A Domani, Susanna?”

  “Si. Until tomorrow. A Domani, Gianni.”

  “Now, piu rapido, cara mia. We must hurry.”

  Susan wondered how her heart could keep from bursting with delight.

  The chilly hall had only one fireplace around which about thirty people stood. Others, dressed in their outdoor wraps, sat in chairs placed in crooked rows. The voices of a hundred people competed with the tuning of several dozen instruments at the front of the room. The conversations were conducted entirely in rapid Italian, mostly unintelligible to Susan, spoken too fast and often in dialects or with accents she could not make out.

  Gianni waved at several people, then drew up chairs for Susan and Caro within reach of the fire’s warmth. “If you will wait here, I see some people I must speak with. Excuse me for a moment.”

  Antonio said, “I will see when they are to start.”

  Alone with Caro, Susan looked around the room. It was unlike any opera performance she attended before: no stage, no curtain, no scenery. Many people were carrying musical instruments, and in one corner of the room several were playing random bits of music, rehearsing some phrases over and over.

  “An informal performance,” Caro said. “I did not know what they meant.”

  “Nor do I. It is all new to me. Gianni said it would be like a rehearsal with an audience.”

  Susan watched Gianni join a cluster of men in a shadowed corner of the room. They bent their heads together, as if they were discussing secrets, though in the noise of the room, no one three feet removed could have heard a word. When he moved away from them, he was quickly drawn into another group, this one with several women, one of whom seemed to be kissing his ear, either that or whispering with her lips practically touching him.

  “Obviously most of the people here are Italians and probably many are also musicians.”

  “And artists. Tonio told me Signor Podesti, who painted my sister last year, might be here.”

  More people, crowds of them, entered the hall with accompanying gusts of chilly air. Susan wished she had her muff of warm beaver fur in which to cram her hands, but Gianni had cautioned her to dress simply, not as if she were going to a real theatrical performance. A tall man with long white hair, wildly disarrayed, approached the area where the musicians were playing their raucous practice cacophony. People began to take their seats and the room quieted.

  Tonio sat down beside Caro and Susan. “They begin in a few moments.”

  Still in the far corner, Gianni’s back was turned to most of the room as he listened to a man speak. Susan wondered what he had to say to or hear from so many people. When he started back toward their chairs, he was stopped again by an old man whose urgency was evident in his every move. He looked to be near tears as he grasped Gianni’s arm and poured out his words. Gianni nodded several times, then appeared to reassure the old man, patting his shoulder and speaking quickly. With a handshake, they parted and he slipped into his chair beside Susan just as the conductor raised his baton before the musicians gathered at the front of the room.

  “Scusi,” he whispered.

  Susan smiled and nodded. Anything she might have said would have been lost in the opening chords. From that moment on, she found herself lost in the music, entranced by the magnificence of the singing, the i
ntimacy of the setting, the enthusiasm of the audience. As a language lesson, however, she found it frustrating. The sung language was even harder to follow. Yet she would have gladly stayed here forever, listening to the lovely voices and fine orchestra.

  When the act ended to fervent applause, Gianni leaned toward her and spoke softly. “Your face tells me you know how exceptional this is. The popular acclaim for Madame Ponicelli’s voice is well deserved.”

  “I cannot believe how much more I like this than in the theater, though I admit I miss the costumes. The audience is much better behaved than in the opera house. Here they are truly listening. There they are busy looking at each other and criticizing their ornamentation and their trimmings. Gianni, I wish all performances could be more like this.”

  “But the singers and musicians will receive hardly anything. As you can see from the audience, few people here have much money to give. But even a little is better than nothing. As long as the King’s Theatre is closed, many of these players have no income.”

  When the plate was passed for contributions, Susan emptied her reticule and gave all the coins she possessed. Gianni excused himself again and seemed eager to talk with several men.

  Tonio shook his head. “Sometimes I think he knows everyone in London, that is, everyone like us from Italy.”

  When the performance resumed, Susan watched Gianni. He seemed to sway with the music. He held his eyes blissfully closed. Compared to most of the people here, he was fashionably dressed. Though not wearing a coat from a first-rate tailor, he was respectable enough for a man with no visible means of support other than her small payments. She admitted her insatiable curiosity about him could not be justified by some notion of becoming better acquainted with a tutor. Her feelings ran deeper, much deeper.

  Gianni led Susan, Lady Caroline, and Antonio through Bainbridge House, from the imposing marble entrance hall to his brother’s picture gallery, a long narrow room where most of the renowned Bainbridge Collection hung. Spending every afternoon of the last week answering Miss Kimball’s questions about Italy inspired him to bring her here to view the wonders of Italian art. He was intimately familiar with every piece. Most of the collection had been assembled by his father, the ninth duke, and was currently the property of his half brother, the tenth duke. But he certainly did not intend to tell Susan, nor would he allow Antonio or Lady Caroline to know of his dual identity. He had worked too hard to keep the two parts of his life separate to let the truth seep out now.