The Valentine Poem

by Victoria Hinshaw

  “How did you get permission for us to visit the duke’s collection?” Susan asked as they entered the gallery.

  “I asked, Susanna mia. The duke is happy to have people enjoy his collection.”

  “But how do you know him?”

  “Ah, my curious one, I have talked with the duke about his pictures and even advised him when he made a purchase at an auction last year.” Nothing he said was untrue. But it was only a small part of the story. He gestured to a small painting of the Madonna and Child to the left of the entrance. “This may be the most precious work in the entire collection, by Sandro Botticelli, master of fifteenth century Florentine painting.”

  The four gathered around the panel which glowed in the reduced light of the gallery.

  “She has a lovely face,” Susan breathed.

  “The painting gives you the ‘ideal of beauty’ of his day. Notice both the child and mother have light golden hair.”

  “And the palest ivory skin,” Susan added.

  “Precisely. These were highly prized attributes and probably not very common in Tuscany in those days.”

  “She looks more like an English girl.”

  “And note the little bow mouth and pale eyes, also probably not typical of Florentine women. Botticelli painted this model many times over. Most experts believe even though she was a real person, he idealized her and made her perfect in painting after painting, whether as the Roman goddess of love or as the Holy Virgin. Her skin color is luminous and its beauty is enhanced by the glowing red velvet of her gown.”

  Antonio peered at the painting, then turned to Caroline. “Miss Renwick, I think-a the Madonna resembles you. Her mouth, her cheeks.”

  Gianni watched Caro blush and look down shyly. Unless he was entirely mistaken, which in matters concerning the affections of young ladies he rarely was, he recognized the shy admiration of a girl discovering her first twinges of love. Lady Renwick had no idea what she was doing allowing her daughter to spend time with Antonio. He walked on to the next painting, the first of several massive canvases hanging side by side. “The present duke’s father acquired four paintings by Giovanni Antonio Canal, known as Canaletto, when he was on his grand tour. The ninth duke loved Italy and spent a great deal of time there.”

  Gianni motioned to them to come close to the painting. “Canaletto painted these huge canvases in minute detail. When you stand back and regard them from afar, you see the sweep of the sky, the sea, the buildings of Venice, the churches, the Doge’s Palace. In every picture, you also find the ordinary people of the city.” He pointed at the picture’s foreground. “Here are two fishermen, dragging their nets from their skiff, and over there are two dogs fighting over a morsel of food.”

  Susan peered at the small figures. “The detail is amazing.”

  “Yes.” Gianni put his arm around her shoulders and pointed at one edge of the painting. “Look at that woman in the window holding the baby. She is as well-painted as the figure of the Doge himself.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, then moved to the next vast painting.

  “The duke bought this Canaletto in London, showing the view from gardens along the Thames.”

  “Why, there is St. Paul’s,” Caro said.

  “Yes, and in the corner of the garden, a man works with a rake, oblivious to the great church across the river.”

  Slowly they worked their way down the gallery, exclaiming about each painting in its turn. Gianni was not surprised when eventually Antonio and Lady Caroline sat down on a bench at the end of the room. Susan, however, showed no sign of flagging in her enthusiasm for every canvas.

  He smiled into her upturned face and moved to the next painting. “This is by Antonio Guardi, a great Venetian who became a friend of the duke, it is said. It shows Santa Maria Della Salute in Venice. See how Guardi and Canaletto used differing techniques. Guardi uses a buildup of paint to show the intricate shapes and moldings on the church. The amount of paint itself creates shadows that emphasize the detail.”

  “You know so much about these techniques. Do you paint or draw?” Susan asked.

  Gianni laughed. “No, I have no talents whatsoever. I am not musical, nor am I artistic. I must rely on my wits to see me through this life.”

  “Then you will be a very successful man, I predict.”

  Gianni squeezed her hand and tucked it under his elbow. “You tease me, carissima mia.”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. You are very clever.”

  “I thank you, but your praise is undeserved.”

  “Nonsense! You explain everything so well. I know little about art, but I love these views, especially the pictures of Italy. They make me want to travel there even more.”

  “So that is your dream?”

  “Yes, I want to make plans to go as soon as I can. Perhaps you might help me?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Susanna mia.”

  She smiled at him, a smile of such luminous beauty he could only compare her to the beautiful Tiepolo Venus that hung in the duke’s study, where he could not take her today. “What can I do?”

  “I need to find a lady or a family that plans to go to Italy in the next year. I wish to become a companion.”

  He could hardly believe what he heard. “You? You wish to become a companion to some eccentric old person or end up caring for someone’s children?”

  “Ah, Signor DiFerrante, I wish there was another way, but I have four sisters and two brothers. None of us but George, my oldest brother, will have more than a small legacy. Mine will be barely large enough to live on, but certainly not enough to allow me to travel.”

  “But you certainly intend to marry, do you not?”

  “I believe most fellows prefer more biddable young ladies with a larger dowry than I have. And who are prettier and more accomplished.”

  “Prettier? I find that hard to fathom. As for accomplishments, does a lively intelligence not count for anything?”

  “Indeed it may be a disadvantage, if of course one can be said to have any worthwhile mental attributes at all.”

  “You must not tease me, Susanna mia. It is not kind to tell fibs to a poor fellow like me, who cannot mount the defense of your charms that is required by your exaggerated self-criticism.”

  “Now you are the one who is teasing.”

  “We shall agree to disagree.” Gianni gave her a little bow and crossed the gallery to a lovely statue of Daphne fleeing from Apollo.”

  “I know this story. Look at her arms. She is turning into a tree."

  “Esattamente. Exactly.”

  They sat on a brocade bench and stared at the polished white marble.

  Susan gave a little sigh. “I wonder if she was happy to be turned into a laurel tree rather than giving in to Apollo.”

  “On that I choose not to speculate.”

  “Very wise.”

  Gianni swung his feet to the other side of the bench. “If you turn, you will find Mercury behind you.”

  She followed his instructions. He was rewarded by a little gasp as she took in the elegant stance of the polished bronze sculpture. Mercury was balanced on one foot, caught in midstep, his arm raising his caduceus high in the air.

  Gianni nodded. “Not an uncomplicated achievement for a sculptor, to balance the figure that way. It is only about one hundred years old, the messenger of the gods, with his winged feet. Also the patron of all knaves and rascals, I believe.”

  “Vagabonds, rogues, and thieves, as I recall.” Gianni joined her in laughter. He could not remember enjoying an afternoon more.

  After dinner, Susan sat in the Gold Salon, her book of Italian grammar in her hands. Instead of looking at the pages, studying new words and formulating new questions to ask of Gianni, she was lost in dreamy thoughts of the way he explored that vast landscape of Canaletto. His masculine beauty and grace affected her in ways she could not fathom. His gesturing hands moved in flowing circles, not in short choppy motions. She had stared more at his lon
g and elegant fingers than at the painting. He was himself a work of art, dark long lashes and broad grin, a full lower lip. His eyes were bright with points of light, giving meaning to the term flashing eyes. A curl carelessly drooped over his forehead. Susan never had this strong a reaction to a man. Or to a work of art.

  The dowager, seated next to the fire, looked up from her embroidery. “Where did you go today, Susan? You have not told me of your afternoon.”

  “Lady Caro and I went to Bainbridge House to see the duke’s paintings.”

  Lady Traisdel was instantly alert. “The Duke of Bainbridge? How extraordinary. Is he a friend of the Renwicks?”

  “The duke was not there. Signor DiFerrante took us. He said he had given advice to the duke on the purchase of artwork, so he is allowed into the gallery.”

  “I am stunned. The duke is a very important personage, a close friend of the Prince Regent, I hear.”

  “He has a fine collection of paintings. We had a very interesting afternoon.”

  “I am glad you enjoyed yourself.” The dowager bent her head again to her silks.

  What would Grandmama think if Susan told her about the way Caro and Antonio had flirted with one another? Or worse, if Susan admitted her attraction for the handsome Gianni? Obviously she could say nothing. There were some things about Gianni that she wondered about. He spoke English with the accents of the highest circles. He had no profession, no obvious means of financial support. How did he make his living? Perhaps his advice on buying pictures brought him funds. The more she thought about Gianni, the more Susan felt she was missing some essential facts. Who was he really?

  Oh, nonsense! She was obviously thinking he must be someone special because she was so agitated by thoughts of him. Don’t be a peagoose, Susan! He is exactly who he says he is, a poor Italian exiled from his home country and stuck here in frigid London. Just because she went all soft inside whenever she was near him did not mean he was anything more than a very handsome and charming fellow. And probably one who thought she was an heiress, just like Caro, no matter what she had said. He would know the truth soon enough, when Mama and her younger sisters arrived. Not one of the Kimball girls had more than a tiny portion, not enough to attract the most desperate of fortune hunters. She might as well face the facts. His charming attention to her would end as soon as she stopped paying him for lessons in speaking Italian.

  Chapter Three

  “Oh, you are such a flatterer.” Madama Poldi extended a plump hand, letting her beringed fingers caress Gianni’s cheek. “You could not possibly care about what my brother writes. He is nothing more than a bambino.”

  Gianni grinned and pressed her hand to his lips. A bambino intricately involved in the machinations of the carbonieri, a bambino who was probably one of the masterminds among the secret societies in central Italy, a bambino whose words could reveal whether any of the attempts at unity might succeed.

  “I shall pour the vino, Gianni, and we will talk. Don’t you long for the sunshine of Roma, the warm breezes? I shiver all day and all night in this wretched cold.”

  If anything, he thought, her room was too warm. Airless and stuffy. “Of course. To see the seven hills, to see the poppies on the roadside. I long to go home.”

  He could not tell whether the tear that ran down her cheek was real emotion or a trick summoned from her old days singing tragic arias.

  She waved her handkerchief dramatically. “In my father’s grove were hundreds of olive trees…”

  Gianni had listened before to this recital of the brilliance of Madama’s childhood home. It would lead slowly into the story of her discovery and tutelage by one of the last century’s most famous impresarios. After long diversions covering her splendid successes on stages throughout the continent, she would eventually enumerate her triumphs in London, embellish reports of each of her roles, and ultimately descend into the sad ending: her health problems, the loss of her voice, and the eventual livelihood she found designing and sewing costumes for the productions in which she once starred. Gianni was confident every one of the thousands of Italian exiles in London knew this story, most of them hearing it directly from her lips.

  He did not halt her performance. The last time he visited here, Gianni had tried to stem the tide of words, half Italian, half English, and found himself suddenly entwined in her arms. Extricating himself had been difficult and time-consuming. This morning, instead, he armed himself with a suitably sympathetic expression and murmured an occasional word of condolence when she paused to wipe her eyes. As he listened with half an ear, he ran over the gist of the dozen relevant bits of information he had received in the last three days. When he added together the gossip, the word of a recent arrival from Milan, and the newspaper accounts, the outcome was disappointing, if predictable. No leader had come forth to bring unity to all the factions on the Italian peninsula. A gloomy conclusion, but not unexpected.

  Madama reached the decline of her once-vibrant soprano. “They pushed me too hard, too soon. Too many performances, too many demands…”

  Gianni mumbled some words of understanding. He suspected the real problems were too many late nights with too many men and too much wine. It was a trap that many of his talented country-women fell into in London. Probably in Paris, Berlin, and Petersburg as well. He patted her hand as she came to the poignant ending, the strained eyesight, the pricked fingers, the backaches from hunching over the bead box. Time now, he thought, to get to the business at hand.

  “Madama, the magnificence of your voice makes me yearn to hear more. Now you can read your brother’s letter. Do not deny me the splendor of your tones.”

  “Ah, Gianni, could you not spare me the tiniest embrace?”

  He pretended to bristle. “You naughty puss! You know one tiny embrace would never be enough. I would be here all afternoon, all evening. I would be unable to leave, and that is impossible, dolce mia. You are wicked to tempt me so.”

  “Pooh. You do not fool me, Gianni. I know I am too old and fat for a beautiful young Apollo like you. I know you, flattering one. You like the younger girls, the dancers.”

  “But no one has your voice, Madama.”

  “Not much of it is left, but some say the tones are as true as ever.”

  “Indeed they are. I close my eyes and you read. The words do not matter, just the beauty of your tones.”

  He shut his eyes and leaned back against the shabby velvet pillow. Would she read or would she crawl on top of him and try a seduction?

  With only a moment’s hesitation, she unfolded the paper and began to read, drawing out each vowel and embellishing each sentence at though she performed an aria. The first words concerned her family, the health of her uncle, their concern for her. Gianni truly did enjoy the lovely timbre of her voice. Madama’s talents had been renowned in many opera houses and her performances well attended twenty years ago. He was fond of the woman, though hardly interested in her romantic advances.

  Eventually she reached the political news and stopped as soon as she got to what he wanted to hear. “This part is about all the arguments. You will be bored.”

  “Not a bit of it. Please go on. I remember how your brother builds to his finale and how you empathize with his every emotion.”

  She picked up the last page of the letter and he lay back again and closed his eyes. The news was even worse than he expected. Neither Poldi nor any of his compatriots had the intention of throwing their support to unity, mired as they were in local arguments, petty disputes, and lack of vision. For the foreseeable future, the movement for Italian unity was doomed.

  A footman in Renwick livery carried a second large branch of candles into the Music Room and set it on the gilded table before a tall mirror.

  “That should brighten things up.” Caro repositioned the candlesticks slightly.

  “There has been no sun for days.” Susan watched the men in the street shoveling icy crusts of snow into a cart. “But you, my dear friend, you have improved more than I c
ould imagine.”

  “Oh, do you think so?” Caro’s face glowed with excitement. “Tonio has been so helpful. Without him, I would be lost.”

  Gianni and Antonio had left the room a few minutes before, after an hour’s practice, ostensibly to smoke a cigar, but Susan suspected even more likely to have a few sips of wine. “When they return, we should do the Seraphim one more time. If you listen as well as sing, you will hear the progress.”

  “That is difficult, but I shall try. My nerves are still on edge about our performance, but I think I will be able to get through it if we keep practicing. I will look only at you and Tonio, not at the audience.”

  Susan knew the source of Caro’s growing confidence; the situation was sadly obvious. Lady Caroline Renwick, heiress to a handsome fortune, was falling in love with Antonio Scorsi, a penniless Italian music master. His tutelage brought her improved techniques for breathing, for reaching and holding the highest notes, for lightening her timbre with the highest head tones. But it was her determination to please him and her romantic devotion that truly inspired her singing. Every day, Caro’s hair was neatly dressed, her dresses in the first stare of fashion, her handkerchiefs doused in scent. Tonio was changing her from a shy country miss into a polished and vivacious young lady. All of which caused Susan to worry. Every day, she wondered if she should speak to Lady Renwick. Tonio seemed too skilled at the art of making love through his music not to have left a long trail of broken hearts behind him. What was her responsibility? Would she be doing her friend a disservice by causing her to lose her maestro or would she be preventing a scandal if Caro tried to run off with Tonio?