A Heart Most Worthy

by Siri Mitchell

  But where, in fact, might it be?

  She needed to find the most fashionable and stylish place in the city. And for a girl who spoke no English, this was a daunting task indeed. But by and by, after having hit upon the means of following the most fashionable people down North Street and then down Washington Street, she happened upon just such a place. Happened in fact upon the place.

  Temple Place.

  Now, Temple Place was the one location to which two kinds of women in Boston aspired: those who made gowns and those who wore them. It was that type of legendary, mythical, magical place that whispered the words that every woman wanted to hear: You have arrived.

  As so she had.

  Luciana glanced down, took a moment to straighten the sash at her waist, and then opened the door of the first dress shop she came to.

  And was ushered right out just twenty seconds later.

  She went into the next dress shop and lasted only a bit longer. Went on to the next one and lasted only slightly less. Her gown, it seemed, was acceptable. It was only when the modistes’ gazes had fallen to her shoes that they lost some degree of respect. And when they swept up to her face, well, by then there was no warmth, no welcome left at all. They had spoken just one word she was able to understand before they showed her the door. And they spoke it with disgust.

  Italian.

  Sì. She was Italian. From the house and lineage of the conti di Roma. Italian born and bred. Was it her fault she couldn’t speak English? She spoke Hungarian, German, and Italian.

  Proper Italian.

  From a distance, she looked like any other of the hundreds of young women who entered such establishments every day. In the right season. Of course, July was not the right season and the women who wore gowns such as Madame Fortier’s were out at Newport or in the Berkshires. And the girls who hoped one day to wear such fashions were either hard at work in the city’s sweatshops or gazing off into the distance over the pages of their novels.

  There was just one shop left on her side of the street. Did she hesitate, just an instant, before taking hold of the door? Did her resolve waver for even a moment? If it did, I would have no way of knowing.

  It was with much surprise that Madame Fortier saw Luciana walk into her shop. She looked like a client. But no stranger had ever entered Madame’s shop. Her business was conducted by appointment only; her shop was immune to the hustle and bustle that was endemic to Temple Place. And besides, all of her clients were away on holiday at the shore or in the mountains.

  She fixed her shopkeeper’s smile onto her face before she realized that the girl was not of the class of her normal clients. No. The girl was something else, something different altogether. It is said sometimes that soul speaks to soul and need cries out to need. As Madame approached the stranger, the desperation in the girl’s eyes kindled an unexpected response. It had something to do with the way the girl held herself. And something to do with the quality of the beading on her gown.

  Instead of turning her out, Madame Fortier took a step closer. “Where did you get this?” The words came out in Italian, northern Italian, though Madame Fortier had not intended for them to.

  “I – ” Just what was she to admit to? How truthful did she have to be? “It is mine.”

  “Sì. Granted. But the beading? It is extraordinary.”

  “I did it myself.” She had. Because in all of Roma there had been none to rival her artistry, her skill at the craft.

  “Can you do it again?” The woman was looking at her as if she wanted nothing so much as to reach out and stroke the design on her collar.

  “Sì.” She could do it whenever she wanted, had done it whenever she wanted, but that was when she’d had access to beads. And jewels. That was before. When her every wish had been anticipated. And granted so quickly that she’d hardly had to wish at all. “Sì.”

  “Can you do it . . . now?”

  “Now?”

  “You need a job, don’t you? Can you start today?”

  It was all just a bit much for a girl who had been raised never to work. For a girl who now rose each morning and went to bed each evening in fear of her very life. Luciana’s eyelashes fluttered, her cheeks went rosy. She opened her mouth, intending to speak, but then she burst into tears instead.

  “Madonna mia!” Madame was uncomfortable with emotions. She’d had so very little use for them in her life. But her hand went out to the girl as her glance went out toward the street. No one was passing by. She turned her attention back to the girl. Pulled her over to the fitting area where she could be hidden behind the screen. “Sit.”

  Luciana sat in an ornate overstuffed chair. For the first time in months.

  “Are you pregnant?” It would be just Madame’s luck. Some of her best seamstresses had been taken from her by way of motherhood. Matrimony did not matter quite so much. With a husband, one could still work. With a baby? Impossibile.

  But Madame Fortier’s blunt question had a completely unforeseen result.

  Luciana, having recovered control of her emotions, leaped to her feet. Offense colored the tops of her cheeks. “Pregnant? Positively not! And I’ll thank you, Signora, for your time.” She had already spun on her satin-clad heel, pushed beyond the screen, and begun walking toward the door.

  4

  Luciana was not the granddaughter of the contessa di Roma for nothing. Though, in truth, she felt no little regret at having to leave. And you probably would have too. The shop was undeniably elegant from the carpeted floors to the chandeliered ceilings and papered walls. It had an air of discreet good taste that, in Luciana’s experience, only the best shops in Paris and Vienna shared. And even in that short time, it had provided a refuge, not only for her person but also for her soul.

  “Wait!”

  Luciana stopped.

  “I need you.” Oh, how it cost Madame Fortier to say those words!

  Luciana let go of the door and turned. Reconsidered as she looked once more at Madame’s tidy and elegant shop. She nodded. “I can start. Today.”

  And with that, the odd reversal of roles righted itself and Madame Fortier became, once more, the formidable owner of the gown shop, and Luciana, an anonymous immigrant girl begging for work.

  Madame led the way up the back stairs, past the second story workshop to the third floor of the building. “This is where you will work.”

  Luciana peered around Madame’s shoulder and saw two girls sitting at a long table, looking back at her. One of them was staring, eyes lit with challenge. She raked Luciana with a gaze before returning to her work. The other glanced up and then immediately returned her attentions to her work. “Julietta. And Annamaria.”

  “Buon giorno.”

  Neither of the girls replied, though Annamaria smiled, for just an instant.

  Madame Fortier continued the introductions. “This is – ” Madame paused in her speech, rather surprised that she hadn’t even thought to ask the new girl’s name.

  “Luciana.”

  “This is Luciana. She’s to take over the beading.”

  “Grazie a Dio!” Thank God! Julietta had been afraid she’d have to do it herself. Which was why she’d been progressing on her embroidery with such uncharacteristic slowness. “You have to have the patience of a saint for that.”

  Annamaria smiled once more, though her meticulous stitches were the only witness. She was normally the sole audience for Julietta’s many and varied opinions. She usually only half-listened to the chatter, but still, it would be nice to share that burden with someone else.

  Madame Fortier led Luciana around the worktable. “We are working on the gowns for an autumn wedding.” She wished she could start the girl on the wedding gown itself, but that would have been too risky. What if she had lied? What if she couldn’t perform the magic she had promised? Madame would know soon. She would be able to tell from the lay of the beads and the pull of the fabric. “You’ll start with the collar of one of the attendant’s gowns. I’ve based it on th
is illustration.” She pushed a page from a sample book over to Luciana. The girl took it up. It was a simple gown. And the beading on the collar was equally as plain. “In bugle beads?”

  “Seed beads. Of alabaster.”

  “And the fabric? Is it georgette?”

  “Messaline.”

  Luciana frowned. Georgette would have taken the beads better. Messaline was slippery and not as easy to work with.

  Madame Fortier had said that very thing, in fact, to her client. But the bride’s mother had settled upon messaline and messaline it would have to be. No amount of coaxing had moved her from that decision. Mrs. Henry Haywood’s daughter had been married the previous year with bridesmaids in messaline and it seemed that nothing else would do.

  “What is to be used for the lining?”

  “Sarcenet.”

  Sarcenet. That was correct. Luciana shot a glance up at Madame. “It will have to be several thicknesses then.”

  Julietta raised a brow at the girl’s words. And her boldness! Even Julietta had never presumed to advise Madame on anything having to do with the gowns.

  But Madame only smiled. “Sì.” Exactly. The new girl understood exactly.

  Luciana nodded. “Do you have the collar? I’ll start it now.” And then she could have the whole afternoon to figure out how to ask for an advance on her pay.

  Sometime around noon, Julietta and Annamaria put down their work. They cleared the table of scissors and thread, pincushions and yarn. And then they retrieved their lunches from a cupboard. Julietta’s had bread, a not-too-pungent hunk of smoky provola cheese, and a juicy tomato to go with it. Annamaria had brought a slice of ham to go with her own bread. But she eyed Julietta’s tomato with something very near envy.

  “Mama hasn’t been able to find any good tomatoes.”

  “In July? In the city? Where’s she looking?” No good tomatoes? Annamaria’s mama had to be blind!

  Annamaria shrugged. “Maglione’s frutta e verdura. On North Street.”

  “Then she should come over to Hull.”

  Julietta and Annamaria were both Avellino by birth, but they came from two different villages. Those from Julietta’s village had settled at the northernmost tip of the North End. Those from Annamaria’s village along the eastern edge of the peninsula. It was expected that, as they had in the old country, villagers would do business only with fellow villagers. So Annamaria shrugged and tried not to think about tomatoes while Julietta began assembling herself a sandwich.

  They had just crossed themselves in blessing when they realized Luciana had not joined them.

  “Aren’t you going to stop? To eat?” Though Annamaria was known for her industry, she still looked forward to the break at lunch. If for no other reason than to rest her eyes and seek relief from the headache that often pressed against her temples.

  Luciana didn’t even look up from her beads. “No.”

  Annamaria reached over and laid a hand on Luciana’s arm. “But it doesn’t have to be finished today. Madame’s clients have all left for the summer. No one will be back until August.”

  “And even then, they won’t come into the shop until September.” Which suited Julietta just fine. She never worked harder than she had to. “So where are you from?”

  Luciana took so long to answer that Annamaria and Julietta exchanged a curious look.

  “The south.”

  “Where in the south? We’re from Avellino. She’s from Taurasi. I’m from Chiusano San Domenico. Maybe we know your people.”

  Luciana dismissed Julietta’s friendly interest with a shake of her head. “You don’t know my people.”

  “Then you’re Abruzzi? Or . . . Calabrese?” For she surely wasn’t Sicilian. Her clothes, though fancy, were clean. She didn’t stink. She wasn’t even very swarthy. And if she were from Abruzzo or Calabria, then it would account for her strange accent.

  But Luciana was neither. And she couldn’t tell them she was Roman. They didn’t know her people, but they might know others. They might know the person who had killed her father. Though . . . what were the chances? She considered telling them the truth. But, no. No. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  “You don’t sound like you’re from the south.” Julietta might not have liked work, but she had nothing against riddles. And this new girl had presented a good one. Her gown said she came from a good family, but her shoes said she’d fallen on hard times . . . though not quite hard enough to overcome the lift of her chin and the accent of her words. “You’re from the north.” That was the only possible explanation.

  Annamaria looked up at Julietta’s accusation.

  Luciana looked up from her beadwork. “North Bennet Street.”

  And she was. Now.

  North Bennet Street. That was unexpected. “Then you’re . . .

  Genovese?”

  Abruzzi, Calabrese, Genovese. What did it matter? Just as long as they stopped asking questions. She nodded.

  “Would you like some of my bread?” Annamaria couldn’t bear conflict in any shape or form. Neither could she bear anyone looking so haunted, so hungry as Luciana. She had three brothers, after all. She knew what hunger looked like.

  “No. Grazie.” How could she eat when she knew the contessa had nothing? But then, that’s what the old lady had been eating since they’d come to America. Next to nothing. Nothing more than a bird. She ate nothing, she said nothing, she did nothing. Just sat and stared out the window.

  “Really. I have more than I want.”

  Julietta didn’t. She’d finished every last crumb of her bread. And now she was pouring wine for the three of them.

  Luciana waved her off. “No. I shouldn’t.”

  “I don’t see why not. Madame provides it. As part of our wages.” When Julietta saw that Luciana was unconvinced, she enlisted Annamaria. “Doesn’t she?”

  “She does. Always. Every day.”

  Luciana leveled a look at each of them. And then she nodded. Accepted the glass that Julietta pushed in her direction. Better something than nothing.

  But Luciana was very much regretting her decision an hour later. She couldn’t seem to focus her eyes, and her head felt as if it were going to float right off her body. Soon it did that very thing. But heads being so heavy, hers crashed right down onto the table as her eyes rolled back into her head.

  5

  “Che rumore!” Julietta jumped at the thump Luciana’s head made as it hit the table.

  Annamaria slid out of her chair and knelt beside the unconscious girl. “Forget the noise. Help me!”

  Julietta came around the worktable, curious but not wanting to get involved if things became very messy. “Do you think she’s . . . sick?”

  Annamaria slid a hand beneath Luciana’s shoulder and pushed the girl back against the chair. They could both see her face now; her cheeks had gone pale. “No. She’s just hungry. Here – take an arm. Help me lower her to the floor.”

  As the two girls moved her from the table, a necklace slipped from the collar of Luciana’s gown. Its lavaliere glinted rubies and diamonds before it slid around its chain and disappeared behind Luciana’s neck as they lowered her to the floor.

  “Go down to the second floor and ask one of the girls for a cushion.”

  Julietta’s nose wrinkled at the thought of associating with the second-floor girls. “You go.”

  “Sometimes when people faint like this, they vomit when they wake.”

  Julietta disappeared faster than a plate of cookies at a festa. She returned, several minutes later, bearing a small pillow in her arms. She handed it down to Annamaria, who tucked it under Luciana’s head. “Why don’t you wet your scarf? We can lay it across her forehead.”

  Julietta’s hand went up to the scarf that encased her neck. “Why can’t we use yours?”

  “Because I put it away in the cupboard, but if it’s easier for you to find it . . . !”

  Julietta wasn’t used to being talked to in that sort of tone by Annamaria. And you m
ightn’t have liked it much either. Madame, of course, used that tone all the time. But Madame was formidable with her dark-colored gowns and dignified ways. Annamaria was not. At least not normally, though just now she looked as if she might like to strangle Julietta with the very scarf she was wearing. Quickly, Julietta stripped it from her neck and dipped it into the wash basin in the corner, wringing it out before offering it to Annamaria.

  It was several minutes before Luciana began to stir. “Papa? Papa!”

  Annamaria handed the scarf back to Julietta. “Wring it out again and bring it back.”

  “No! Assassino! Fermati assassino!” Though she hadn’t yet opened her eyes, her voice had become louder.

  Julietta brought the scarf back to Annamaria, who placed it once more on the girl’s forehead. “What do you think she’s talking about?”

  Annamaria shrugged. “Her papa?”

  Luciana’s eyes opened, her gaze traveling about the ceiling before coming to rest upon the two girls. Her eyes grew wide, her hand went to her head, and she tried to sit.

  Annamaria wouldn’t let her. “Lie there a moment. Take a rest. Will you eat something?”

  Luciana started to shake her head, but stopped with a wince.

  “Just to take the edge off the ache in your head? Sometimes it helps.”

  Luciana considered this for a moment. Maybe it would help. And she could accept a bit of bread if it helped. She wouldn’t accept it for hunger, wouldn’t accept that the house of the counts of Roma had been brought to the brink of poverty, but she would accept anything that would help her keep her job.

  Under Annamaria’s watchful eye, she ate the bread that was offered. And when color had begun to seep back into her cheeks, Luciana took the hand that Annamaria offered and was helped back to the table.

  “Is your father all right?” The girl had seemed so distraught that Julietta couldn’t keep herself from asking.