She was filthy, dirty, and shiftless. She was scum.
But Billy didn’t know any of that. And he would never have imagined those words in conjunction with her. He only knew that she was distressed. So he violated every rule known to polite society. In both his world and in hers. He stepped around the table and took her into his arms.
Bent on maintaining control, she clenched her hands against the emotions that raged inside of her. But it was useless. She burst into tears anyway. And then she lifted her arms and clasped them about his waist.
“It’s all right.” He murmured the words into her hair and then pulled her closer. “Everything will be all right.” As he spoke the words, he discovered that they were a promise. It was both exhilarating and terrifying to find that he cared so much for her. He pressed a kiss to her temple and then laid his cheek against her hair. “It will be all right.”
She knew it wouldn’t. Nothing would ever be right again. But she stayed there in his arms for a while, pretending that it was true. And the contessa continued staring out the window, the faintest of smiles upon her lips and the tiniest of twinkles in her eyes.
31
That evening, as Mama was cooking, Annamaria dropped first one and then two apples off the fire escape and watched as they tumbled into the alley below. They weren’t rotten. No. They were nearly as fresh as they had been when she’d bought them at Zanfini’s. But she yearned to see Rafaello again. And she couldn’t think of any other way to be able to do it.
“Annamaria!”
“Mama?”
“Where are my apples?”
“What apples, Mama?”
“I thought I had four apples.”
Annamaria shrugged.
“Didn’t I have four apples?” She sighed. Put a wrist up to her forehead and pushed a few gray wisps of hair aside. “You’ll have to go get me two more.”
It was difficult to keep from smiling. Surely God would forgive her the deception. She wanted to see Rafaello. She needed to see him. She had to know that somewhere there was someone in the world who liked her for who she was and not for what she did. And she still had the money for the cherries, wrapped in a handkerchief, pinned into her pocket.
She felt like dancing as she crossed the street, but she didn’t. And she felt like running into Rafaello’s arms when she saw him, standing behind the counter, but she didn’t do that either.
Another girl had reached him first.
He had stretched out his hand to push a tear-soaked lock of hair from her face. And then he picked her up and set her on the counter. She was sobbing as if her heart were breaking. Or at the very least, her pride.
Rafaello pulled her close against his chest. “Hush now, Eva.
What’s happened?”
Only eight years old, she put a grubby fist up to her face to rub away the tears, but only succeeded in smearing dirt across her cheek.
Rafaello lifted the hem of his apron and wiped the dirt away.
“What happened, cara mia?”
She held out a tattered ribbon. “He ripped it out of my hair.”
“He who?”
“Beppe Bertolino.”
He scowled. “Beppe Bertolino is nothing but a troublemaker.”
“Why does he always do that?”
Rafaello looked into her tear-soaked eyes. Sighed. Looked over the girl’s shoulder at Annamaria. “Because he thinks you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, but he doesn’t have the words to say it.”
A blush crept up Annamaria’s cheeks.
“So he takes my hair ribbon?”
“Hush. Give it to me. I’ll put it back in.” He fumbled with it for a few moments before finally tying it in a loose, if lopsided, bow.
Annamaria tried not to smile.
He hefted Eva beneath the arms and set her back on the floor.
“I’d steal Beppe Bertolino’s ribbons if he ever wore any!”
“It’s not very nice to steal from people.”
“Then what am I supposed to do? To get even?”
“I’ll take care of everything. I’ll put his name on my list.”
“What list?”
“The list of all the little boys who have stolen your hair ribbons. Then, in six or seven years, when they come around wanting to court you, I’ll say, ‘I’m very sorry, but you’re one of those wicked little boys who stole Eva’s ribbons. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.’ ”
“Could you maybe kick him while you say it? In the kneecaps?
Because that really hurts.”
He leveled a look at her.
“I wish you weren’t so nice all the time.” She grabbed a peach from a basket. “But I’m glad you’re my brother!” She smiled at him and then skipped out the door.
He shook his head as he watched her go. And then he stepped out from behind the counter. Noticed Annamaria smiling. Smiled in return. “So. You are . . . happy?”
She blushed at the memory of the last time she had seen him. At the tears that had coursed down her face. As he stared into her eyes, she didn’t know what to say. She was more than happy to be standing there. With him. She might have stayed there forever! But she was more than sad to know that he could never be hers.
She wasn’t truly happy. He could see it in her eyes. But he didn’t know what to do about it, so he asked the only other question he had a right to. “What do I get for you?”
What did . . . ? She blinked. Remembered. “Apples. Two.”
“Two apples.”
He walked back behind the counter and picked out two apples.
“I have something. For you . . .” She drew the handkerchief from her pocket, fumbled with the pin, and held out the money to him.
“What is this?”
“For the cherries.”
For a moment, he was mystified, but then his face cleared.
“They are my gift to you. I don’t want money.”
She shook her head.
“But, sì. A gift. From me. To you.”
She’d been showered with gifts ever since she’d first met him. With his glances. With his smiles. With his . . . concern.
“Grazie.”
“I just wish . . . I wish you were happy.”
She didn’t dare to meet his eyes after that, but she left Zanfini’s with a smile on her face. Which was tempered as she crossed the street by the knowledge that some wishes weren’t meant to come true.
As Billy walked into the Quinn mansion that evening, the butler told him that he was wanted by his mother. As he walked into the understatedly elegant world of her sitting room, he observed her pacing in front of the window.
That was unusual.
Mrs. Quinn took to her sitting room each day in order to undertake the enormous volume of correspondence that was her work. Unless she was out attending a rally, making visits to charities – or visiting her gown maker – she sat at her desk, writing letters, dictating notes, and holding conferences with her associates until that work was done.
A cough from the other corner of the room made him turn his head.
Father! Since when had he ever come home so early in the evening?
Mrs. Quinn gave a cry when she saw him. Hurried forward to place a letter in his hand.
He noted the return address. Raised a brow. Borrowed a letter opener from his mother’s desk and slit the envelope. A single thin piece of parchment slid out into his hand.
He read it not once but three times. Each time served to dissipate the memory of his visit to Luciana’s and the memory of holding her in his arms. Three times he read it, and then he held it out toward his mother. “I’ve been drafted.”
Mrs. Quinn reached for the letter with a trembling hand, not wanting to believe him. Not willing to accept what she already knew to be true; what she had been told in a personal telephone call by the head of the draft board. She began to read it aloud.
“ ‘Notice of Call and To Appear for Physical Examination To: William Patrick Quinn Bosto
n, Massachusetts You are hereby notified that pursuant to the act of Congress approved May 18, 1917, you are called for military service – ’ ”
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t read any further.
Patrick Quinn came to her side and placed an arm around her shoulders.
She wanted, more than anything, to turn in toward his warmth. To accept his comfort. But she couldn’t. There was too much that had to be done. “There’s a physical examination first.
That’s what it says.”
Billy nodded. “On September tenth.”
“You’ve always been a bit knock-kneed, haven’t you?”
“Mother, I hardly think that – ”
“And you’re terribly hard of hearing. Ever since you were a child.” She glanced up toward her husband, looking for support.
“Don’t you remember? He always has been. He was.”
“I am not!”
“Then why did you never come when I called?”
Mr. Quinn attempted to take her by the elbow, to steer her toward a chair.
She shook him off. “Stop! Just stop. There must be something we can do. You’ll just tell them that – ”
“Mother. I’ve been drafted. There’s nothing to be done. I’ve been called upon to do my duty.”
“Duty? Duty! To send you to some foreign country to die in some godforsaken place? For no good reason at all?”
“I’m not planning on dying.”
“No one plans on dying!”
Billy laid a hand on her arm.
She clutched at it. Couldn’t imagine what would happen if – no. She couldn’t think it. She wouldn’t think it. She could do anything, would do anything, but send her son off to war.
“We’ll send you to Mexico! We can do that, Patrick, can’t we?
I’ll have the butler pack you up right now, and we’ll put you on the train. Or maybe we can hire an aeroplane.” The sooner out of the country, the better.
“I’m not going to Mexico.”
“But you can take a . . . what do they call them? A villa! You can take a villa there. And stay for as long as you want. Until the war ends.”
“Mother.”
“The butler can have you packed. I’ll have the cook send you with a hamper of food. And – and we can send you money, can’t we do that, Patrick? There must be some way to have it wired.”
“I’m going to keep the appointment for the examination on the tenth and if I pass – and there’s no reason I won’t – I’ll be joining the army.”
“Fine. Fine.” He could join the army if he wouldn’t be dissuaded. “Patrick.” She laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “You can get him a job in the War Office, can’t you? Ring up the secretary and tell him you need a favor. You’ve done plenty of them for him. It’s past time they were reciprocated.”
Billy wished he could take his mother by the shoulders and shake her, but she’d already retreated to her desk. “I’ll have no one in this house making me out to be a coward. I’m an American.
It’s my duty. And it’s my right. If they ask me to fight, then I will.
Don’t ask me to do anything less.”
“But – ”
Billy stalked from the room. He couldn’t stay and watch his mother cry. I’m sure you’ll understand that he had too many fears of his own to be able to stay and listen to hers. What did he know about guns and wars and fighting? Some of his friends had gone down to Mexico. He always wondered what would happen if his draft number were picked. If he would join them too. Now that it had happened, he had discovered something about himself that both fascinated and appalled him.
He wanted to fight.
Billy spent that night awake, thinking. Planning. Dreaming. There were things that had to be done before he left. And he intended that not one of them be left undone. He started to work accomplishing them the next morning when he greeted Madame Fortier at the shop’s door.
“Mr. Quinn!” She assumed that he must be there about the jewels. Somehow the strega must have found out! In her fear she released the shop key back into her bag, and had to fish for it all over again.
He grabbed her by the arm, interrupting her efforts once more. She looked up into those wide green eyes, which had always seemed so familiar.
“I need your help!”
What was – ? Help? He needed her help?
“I need you to send Luciana up to the house again.”
Then he wasn’t there about the jewels? And he wanted Luciana? “Why?” There was suspicion in her eyes.
“I’m being drafted. And she’s become . . . very dear to me.”
Dear? She’d become the entire world to him.
To his great surprise, tears had softened Madame’s eyes. She grabbed at his arm. “Not you!”
He was moved by her emotion. And slightly embarrassed.
“Yes. Me along with many others.”
She swallowed the lump that had swelled in her throat.
Blinked back those foolish tears. “Of course, of course. So. You want to see Luciana.”
He nodded.
“And your intentions?”
“They’re the most honorable of kinds.”
32
Madame Fortier had once again sent Luciana to the house on the hill. And once again she had given the girl leave to go home after she’d accomplished her task. Luciana sat in the back of the motorcar as it climbed the streets, dearly wishing she could bite at her nails. But her nonna had drilled that habit out of her many years before. She sat on her hands instead.
Would she see him?
Oh, how she wanted to see him again! To take comfort in those steadfast arms. To hear him whisper her name. To have him tell her everything would be all right.
But she understood now how things were in this new country.
They were just the same as they were in the old country. Only now she didn’t have the wealth or the family name necessary to secure the things she desired. She was trapped on the wrong side of the social divide. And there could be nothing gained by harboring any fondness for Billy Quinn.
What could she offer him but ridicule and scorn? And the curse of an anarchist’s murderous threat?
Had she been confident in her English, she might have tried to convince the chauffeur to drop the package off in her stead. She could have remained behind, safe and hidden in the backseat. She decided instead to simply pass it off to the butler and walk right back down the steps. She wouldn’t set foot in the house. He would never know she’d been there.
But Billy was waiting for her on the sidewalk. He opened her door before the driver could come and do it himself. He took the package from her hands, gave it back to the driver, and told him that Madame was expecting it.
“But she’s the one who told me to bring it here!”
“Because I’m the one who told her to tell you.” He took her hand, passed it through the loop of his arm. “Walk with me.”
She shook her head. Turned toward the motorcar. “I shouldn’t.
I can’t.” What would be the point?
“Do you have to return to Madame Fortier’s?” He knew that she didn’t.
“I have to . . . no.” How could she speak anything but the truth as she looked into the depths of those clear eyes?
He’d already started them off in the direction of Boston Common. She went along with his plans, simply because she hadn’t the strength to protest. It had dissipated unexpectedly somewhere between her mouth and his eyes.
He walked them toward the pond and sat down on a bench, pulling her down at his side. He took up her hand and realized . . . he didn’t know what to say. He may have been fluent in German, but he wasn’t at all fluent in love. He was a master at flirtation, but an amateur at conviction. And now his palms had gone sweaty.
It wasn’t at all what he’d planned.
“Herr Quinn?”
“Billy.” He said it precisely and with not a little frustration.
“Wie bitte?” Pardon
me?
“Billy. You know my name is Billy. Please, won’t you use it?”
She nodded. She’d already been using it in her daydreams. What a pleasure it would be to speak it aloud! Her brown eyes had gone solemn. He was so restless, so agitated, when usually he was so confident and carefree.
“Luciana . . . ?”
She nodded.
“I want – ” He wanted to take care of her, to protect her. He wanted to dream about her. And most of all, he wanted to come home to her. After the war was over. “I mean – ” He took up her hand as he laughed at himself. What could be more natural than professing his love to this woman, who had so quickly come to possess his heart? True, the war had precipitated their relationship, but he was as certain of her – of them – as he had ever been of anything in his life. So why was he making it all so difficult? “Will you marry me?”
She blinked.
“Will you?” Please.
Oh, improbable love! Had she still been her father’s daughter. Had he not been his mother’s son. Had she not been Italian; had he not been American. Had they met in any other circumstances at all, perhaps their romance would not have been doomed. But love is no great respecter of persons. And in fairy tales – the true ones – more romances end unhappily than not.
Marry? Had he said . . . marry? She pulled her hand from his and stood up. “I am not who you think I am.”
He joined her. “But you are. You are Luciana Conti. And you’re the woman that I love.”
He sounded so . . . certain. “But – ”
He took up both of her hands in his and kissed her knuckles.
“Billy.” She’d imagined that saying his name would make her feel like dancing, not like crying. “Listen to me. Bitte.”
“I am listening.”
“You’re not.”
“I can’t. I can’t listen.” He was squeezing her hands so tightly, they began to ache. “I want to marry you. And I’ve been drafted.”
Her heart had soared for one brief moment. Now it plummeted to the depths of her soul. He’d been drafted. Her world came to a grating, grinding, shrieking halt. The calls of the birds through the park swirled into the sound of the wind, and the laughter of the children blended with the blare of the hurdy-gurdy and then it all whirled away into a gigantic silence.
A Heart Most Worthy Page 21