She took a step back toward the door. “Why?”
“You wouldn’t want anyone to think that we’re collaborators, would you?”
Her brows peaked at that suggestion. Collaborators? With the Boche? Certainly not!
“So why don’t I just drive you home myself?”
No. Oh, no, no, no. Luciana shook her head. If he had dismissed her motorcar, which she had every reason to believe that he had – again! – it was for her to find her way home on her own. And she had no injuries this time to dissuade her from doing so. She’d rubbed so much olive oil onto the leather heel of her shoe that she could probably have fried an onion in it if she’d wished to. “I shall walk.”
“Then I shall accompany you.” He crooked his arm and offered it to her.
She ignored it, marching right past him and down the steps.
He grinned at the tilt of her pert little nose. Billy hadn’t been so highly amused since . . . well . . . since the last time he had seen her. He started down the steps after her. “It’s a free country you know, here in America.”
Oh, sì. She agreed with that. Freer than most!
“I might just decide to take a walk myself.”
She sped her pace.
He matched his to hers, easily coming apace with her in several strides. “And I might just decide to take my walk wherever it is that you’re going.” He winked at her.
She flushed. Winks were impertinent. When they were unsolicited. She snuck a look at him from beneath her scarf. And not so very rude when they weren’t. He had such green eyes! She’d never seen their like before. And such glossy auburn hair.
They walked several blocks in uneasy silence.
“It’s a glorious day.”
Luciana thought about the words for a moment before responding. She could sense no trap. No reason for him to misinterpret a response, whether she agreed with him or not. So she nodded. Because it was glorious. A glorious September day. Summer’s scorching dry heat had subsided, and even the birds seemed to know that autumn was coming. The pigeons were flying lazy circles in the air, the wind caressing her cheeks.
When she might have turned left at Beacon Street, he offered up his arm as they crossed and steered her right instead. Into the expanse of green that stretched up and away from them.
“What is this place?”
“Boston Common.”
She stopped, forcing him to stop as well. Boston Common. A park? With him? It wasn’t what she’d wanted to do with her extra time.
Sensing her ambivalence, he placed a hand atop the slender fingers that rested on his forearm. There was something about her . . . something that called forth from him his most gallant behavior. As well as a grin or two.
He took a cautious step forward.
She followed.
He took another. And another. And soon they were walking along those paths like a pair of lovers. As they walked along, he kept sliding glances at her from beneath his shock of auburn hair. And as she hurried to keep pace with his long strides, she kept shooting up glances at him from beneath the fold of her scarf.
Really, he didn’t seem like an American at all. At least not the kind of American who had visited Roma. Those Americans had been loud and boisterous. They dined much too early and drank much too late and then cavorted in the city’s fountains like children. They spent their days consulting guidebooks as if the pages were sages and speaking in their street voices beneath the dizzying vaults of the cathedrals.
He smiled with the bright enthusiasm and innocence that she remembered. But beneath those charms seemed to lie a vast well of intelligence. And she had to admit that when she closed her eyes at night, she was haunted by the memory of his tourmaline-colored eyes. And so she decided to give him the test. The test she had given every suitor that had ever called upon her at her father’s estate.
“What do you think is the most beautiful thing in the world?” As soon as Luciana asked the question, she regretted it. It wasn’t as if she had so many suitors here in this new country that she could afford to be discriminating. And it wasn’t as if she was even looking for a suitor at all. But he made her . . . curious. She wanted to see where he might have fit into her past had he been among her circle in Roma. It was a question born of curiosity. Nothing more than that.
“In the world?” He was buying time, for something told him that her question was important. “The whole world?”
She nodded. But she did it with a tide of disappointment pooling in her stomach. He wouldn’t pass. No one had ever passed. It’s not that she considered herself superior, or even more intelligent, than other people. And she wasn’t naïve. She’d known what was expected of a society marriage. But when she had tired of balls and wearied of dinner parties, when she had taken out her beads and gone to work, it wasn’t just handsome princes of which she had dreamed. She had wished for a marriage of mutual respect. She had wanted a life that mattered. To someone other than herself.
Billy was tempted to take his handkerchief from his pocket and use it to blot the sweat that had suddenly appeared on his forehead. What is the most beautiful thing in the world? Why, it wasn’t a thing, was it? And it certainly couldn’t be one thing. There were many beautiful things in the world. And it was quite difficult for him to think poetically in a language that wasn’t his own. “The most beautiful thing in the world? Well now, that would depend, wouldn’t it?”
She looked over at him, startled from her thoughts.
“That’s what they say, right? That beauty is in the eye of the beholder?”
Her spirits sagged once more. For soon he would be telling her that the most beautiful thing in the world was her. That’s what all the others had said. But for the first time, here in America, she had felt hope – anticipation even – while waiting for her answer.
He knew he hadn’t really given her an answer. And so it was with honesty, as well as frustration, that he tried to put into words what he had known for a very long time. “It’s almost as if . . . I don’t think . . . well . . .” He very nearly gave up, lacking German words to put to an idea he didn’t fully understand himself, but he decided to try one last time. “It’s almost . . . it’s almost as if I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Really.”
“Ja. I mean to say, I’ve almost seen it. Once or twice. As dawn broke over a mountain in the Berkshires. And one time, when I was in California, as the sun set over the ocean. I feel like if I could just – ”
“See it from the other side.”
“Exactly. If I could see it from the other side.” He’d been taught by his father to believe in the pooka, fairies, and the mysteries of the Church. And he’d been coached by his mother to believe in the power of progress and the sanctity of mankind. But he couldn’t quite help believing that there was something else. Something more waiting for him on the other side of the sunset. It was as if he’d only been granted a glimpse of something he knew had to exist in full.
Luciana began to smile. He had said the magic words. And like some princess of old being rescued from enchantment, she turned toward her handsome prince, breathless with expectancy. Hope shining in her eyes as she looked at him with great wonder.
He looked down into those eyes and, though he was feeling rather foolish, dared to ask the same question. “And what do you think is the most beautiful thing in the world?”
“That. The very same thing. Something that I know for certain exists, but something that I haven’t yet been able to see.”
“I can’t believe – ”
“And you too – ”
They beamed at each other alight with the sudden knowledge, the absolute certainty, that it was Providence who had brought them together. As they walked the path, bound together in perfect agreement and intimate silence, they soon happened on the bandstand that was being set up for a rally after a Win the War for Freedom parade. Several of the musicians were tuning their instruments. Practicing phrases of the music they would play later that afte
rnoon.
For the first time, Billy held out his hand to her, not simply for courtesy’s sake or in vain flirtation, but with honor and respect.
“Do you think we could . . . would you care to dance?”
Would you care to dance?
The phrase triggered a response that had lain dormant within the fiber of the daughter of the Count of Roma. She raised her chin as she offered him her hand.
He put a hand to her waist and then whirled them around a grassy dance floor.
She kept the rhythm on light feet, dancing as gracefully as she had in Vienna or Paris. Just as stylishly as she had in the arms of the Duke of Prussia or the Baron of Kubinzsky. And he guided her across that patch of ground just as ably as he’d guided Helen Putnam or Eloise Winthrop.
But what they had achieved apart on the dance floors of the world was nothing compared to what they achieved together. And after the last musician gave up his tuning, still they danced to some melody unheard by mortal ears. They danced until Luciana could ignore the decline of the sun no longer.
“Really, I must go home.”
“You can’t stay? For just a few minutes more?”
She would have liked to, but no, she must not. The contessa was waiting and the ballrooms of Europe existed no more. Though how she wished she could be that girl for this man.
They walked to the edge of the park. He hailed a taxicab and then he got into it beside her. She told him to direct the driver to Cross Street. When they came within view of it, she told Billy to have her dropped there.
“This is where you live?”
“I can walk from here.” It was only six blocks and a couple of alleys farther up the street.
“I’ll drop you where you live.” It was nothing less than any gentleman would have done. Only she was no longer a lady and she did not need – did not want – such courtesies. It would only draw attention to her. Attention that could be very dangerous. “It’s fine here. I just live up there, at the corner.” Six blocks up.
“Then the corner is where I’ll leave you.” He didn’t like the looks of this part of the city. And, frankly, he couldn’t remember ever having come here. For all of his mother’s talk about the common man and all her professed sympathies, he had never actually met one. And he was not prepared to do so now. The girl beside him could not live in such humble circumstances. He would not believe it. Surely there was a nice, quiet street in the midst of all the filth and squalor. Surely there was a place in that warren of alleys that did not require propping up or reek of sewers.
They had reached the end of the block. “Here?”
She inclined her head, not willing to lie and not quite willing to tell the truth either. He skipped around the front of the cab and opened up her door. Offered his hand once more. “Thank you. For your time. For . . . everything.”
She smiled at him. A smile that illuminated her face like the sun brightened the sky after a cloudburst. And he fell under the magical spell that it cast. “Thank you, Herr Quinn.” She stood on the curb as he climbed back into the motorcar. Held up a hand as he leaned forward to speak to the driver.
But they didn’t leave.
She waved again, hoping that the gesture would cause him to go.
He smiled at her through the window, not knowing that every second he sat in his cab on the street was causing dozens of eyes to turn in their direction.
She nodded. Turned and walked toward the nearest tenement.
Paused as she stepped onto the stairs.
He waved.
She sighed. Walked up the steps and into the building. There she waited until the sound of the motorcar faded. And then she ducked out of the building, down the stairs, using the shadows to hide her as she walked home.
29
Later that evening, Luciana took the contessa to the Settlement House on Parmenter Street. Though it was only her third class, it was already quite clear that she was the teacher’s prize student. Languages had never been difficult for her. And English seemed to be nothing more than a complicated blend of Italian and German. Some of the words were even quite similar!
As she had walked through the city that week, she had collected the words she’d heard. Especially the words that seemed as if they’d been spoken to her. Or about her. And that evening, after class finished, she took the contessa by the hand and went up to the front, where the teacher was gathering her books.
“Please?”
“Yes? What is it?” The woman’s tone didn’t have the patience it usually did during class. And her eyes were fixed on the door.
“Some . . . word.”
“Yes?”
“What do they . . . mean? Please?”
“Words? What words?”
What words? Luciana had become rattled. She didn’t know –
“You’ll have to ask me next class.” The woman took up her books and brushed by Luciana on the way to the door.
“Feel-thee. Der-tee. Sheeft-less . . .” There was one more.
One more that someone had said – to her? – in a very emphatic sort of way. “Skuh-muh.”
The teacher stopped mid-step. Turned around, jaw open.
“What did you just say?!”
“What they mean?”
“Were you – where did you hear them?”
“People . . . say . . . ?” Was that the right word?
The teacher nodded.
“They say these word to me.”
The teacher’s cheeks flushed as her gaze dipped down to the floor.
“Please?”
“Filthy and dirty are the same. They mean not clean.”
Sporca. Not clean.
“Shiftless means . . . idle.”
Luciana shook her head.
“Lazy.”
She shrugged.
“Good for nothing? . . . won’t work.”
“No work.”
“Yes.”
Sporca and pigra. Sì. She knew those words. Her set had used them often. To describe the peasants who had the unfortunate habit of cluttering up her fair city. “And . . . the other?”
The teacher shook her head.
“Please. I must know this.”
“Scum is . . . left over from something.”
Luciana didn’t understand what the woman was trying to say.
“From something dirty.”
Dirty. Sporca. Again.
“It means worthless.”
“Worth less? . . . than what, please?”
“Worthless . . . as in . . . garbage. Rubbish. Trash.”
But then why had – ? Luciana suddenly understood. And she felt as if she had been slapped. It had been the only word spoken directly to her. Rubbish. Garbage. She’d become one of those peasants cluttering up the city. She was worth less than anything. Worth less than everything. She understood now.
“Where did you hear these?”
“People say the word to me.”
“They thought you didn’t understand. Or they would never have said them. . . .”
“I understand.”
That night, at the shop, Julietta gathered her bag, put a hand to her darling new hat, and hurried out the back door of the shop. She very nearly muttered some vile things about Luciana and Annamaria as she did it. To think she’d once thought of the two of them as friends!
And she’d never needed one more than she did now. She was almost certain that Angelo had stolen the jewels. If she didn’t get them back, Madame would lose the shop. And Julietta would lose her dream of partnership. But if she did get them back . . . How was she going to get them back?
And how could he have done that to her?
To think that Luciana had accused her of stealing them!
But . . . hadn’t she? Hadn’t she been the one to speak of them in front of Angelo?
It took her six blocks and an electric car ride to realize the full extent of the consequences of his theft. Flustered, panicked, she walked into the apartment. But then Mama provided an unwit
ting distraction when she asked Julietta to go down to the baker’s for some bread. She ran into Mauro as she was heading back to the apartment.
Mauro!
Mauro.
She couldn’t go running to him with her problems. Not like she used to. She’d told him to leave her alone. And she’d meant it. And now it looked as if he was going to do that very thing. But – “Mauro!”
He blinked. Turned as he passed by. Stopped. “Julietta.”
“I – what’s wrong?” There was more than indifference at work in his features. There was distress. And alarm.
He raised his bag. “Patients.”
But why should that bother him? Wasn’t that normal? There was no need for a doctor if there were no patients.
“The Spanish influenza. It’s come.”
“But – it was here last spring, wasn’t it?” Hadn’t the Spanish influenza taken one or two children just down the street?
“It’s back.” Then he turned around and started at a jog down the street. And there was something in his manner, a dire sort of urgency, that set Julietta’s heart to pounding.
The next evening, Julietta’s heart was pounding for entirely different reasons.
She’d met Angelo on her way home from work. She needed to talk to him about the jewels and talk him into returning them. But she hadn’t yet figured out how to do it. Because what’s the polite way to ask someone if they’re a thief?
If he’d done it, it couldn’t have been on purpose. He must have just . . . made a mistake. She knew he must have an explanation, and she was certain she could talk him into fixing it. If only she knew what to say. But when he pulled her into an evening shadow and began to kiss her . . . all resolution fled.
Scream, cry, yell if you have to, but it won’t do any good. For when has any eighteen-year-old ever responded to reason when there was passion to be had for the taking? Julietta so badly wanted to believe that Angelo was innocent that she was willing to sacrifice her integrity for him.
Until the feel of Angelo’s hand kneading her back reminded her of the yellowing bruise on her neck. She broke away from him, stepping from the shadow into the light. Shoving a pin further into her hair, she readjusted the brim of her hat, all the while sending glances up and down the street to determine if anyone had seen them. Anyone could have seen them!
A Heart Most Worthy Page 19