The Princess of Nowhere

by Lorenzo Borghese

In his darkest, most bitter moments, he brooded over the ironic fate that had locked him in a dynastic alliance—for surely that was all it was, at this point—with a princess who could not bear him a son.

  Frascati

  Dermide missed his mother, and Sophie was paying the price.

  “I want to go outside. I want to send my boat to the dragons.”

  “It’s raining,” Sophie said. “You can play with your boat tomorrow, if the weather is good.”

  “Make it stop raining.”

  “Don’t be silly; I can’t do that. No one can.”

  “Then take me outside!” He stamped his foot.

  Sophie folded her arms. “No.”

  The little boy scowled. “I’ll put you in the corner with Carlotta.”

  He had banished his nurse to the farthest chair in the room after she had dared to suggest a nap. The long-suffering Carlotta rolled her eyes at this threat.

  “I won’t go in the corner,” Sophie said calmly. “I’ll leave.” She stood up.

  “No!” It was a wail. “Sophie, don’t go!” He seized her skirt and tugged her back toward the sofa. “I won’t make you go in the corner, I won’t. But stay with me, please, please stay.”

  She sighed and sat back down. Dermide was usually so cheerful and affectionate. She didn’t know what had gotten into him. He liked Frascati. The Villa Mondragone, perched atop a hill outside of Rome, had an enormous park and gardens perfect for a small boy in the summertime: secret paths, balustrades perfect for climbing, a summerhouse, a pond, a stable with ponies, and—Dermide’s favorite—a fountain full of stone dragons. He spent hours constructing little boats from scrap paper or pieces of bark and then shrieked with delight as they were dashed to pieces against the scaly bodies of the monsters. Camillo’s brother, who owned the villa, was an indulgent host, and Pauline’s brother Lucien was also nearby; he had come to Rome with his mother and had bought the Villa Rufinella, a few miles away. Dermide visited frequently and was especially fond of his cousin Drina, who was exactly his age and game for any sort of adventure. The two of them were a constant trial to Carlotta and Madame Ducluzel.

  After some of Dermide’s more outrageous “games” with Drina—like tying enormous webs of twine across all the hedges in the formal garden—Madame Ducluzel would walk around telling anyone who would listen how she regretted advising Pauline to leave Dermide behind. And on days like today, even Sophie, who endured far less from Dermide than either of the two older women, would catch herself agreeing.

  There had been a long debate about whether Dermide should accompany his mother. Pauline at first had wanted to take him with her. Sophie, well informed by the servants of the latest gossip, had been told on good authority (Camillo’s valet) that the prince most emphatically did not want the boy to come along. He and Pauline had just made up after yet another jealous quarrel, and he did not want to play step-papa. The trip to Pisa had, in fact, been partly his suggestion, although Dr. Peyre had enthusiastically seconded the notion. After Camillo warned Pauline that accommodations at Pisa would be small and spartan, she had changed her mind. Then she changed it back. And back again. Ten days before the departure for Pisa, it had finally become clear that she could not postpone the decision any longer, and a delicate dance had ensued, with Camillo steering his bride ever so gently toward leaving her son behind.

  Pauline had worried about the heat in Rome and the foul air from the river.

  Camillo had countered with a lurid portrait of jouncing carriages, rough roads, and damp beds in strange inns.

  Pauline had conceded that Dermide did not like to stay at inns but thought she would miss him too much if he did not accompany her.

  Camillo had mentioned that there would be dances and entertainments at Pisa, so that she might not be able to spend much time with her son even if he did come along.

  Pauline had hesitated but returned to her concern about Rome’s climate.

  Camillo had now brought out his trump card: an invitation from Francesco. Dermide could stay at Frascati, in the hills, away from the pestilential air of the city. Pauline’s brother Lucien had purchased a villa just below Mondragone and would be nearby with his wife and children to help Madame Ducluzel and Carlotta and the tutor supervise Dermide.

  At this, Pauline had yielded. The invitation had been accepted, and Dermide had been packed off to Frascati with an entourage of adoring servants and the promise of pony rides and visits with his cousin Drina.

  Since Drina—along with half of Lucien’s household—was currently confined to bed with some sort of cold, Sophie supposed that she was the closest thing to a playmate available. Well, really, she did like Dermide. It wasn’t his fault it was raining. She gave him a little smile and squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll stay. For a bit, anyway.”

  Dermide leaned against her. But he still didn’t look happy. “Sophie?”

  “Mmm-hmmm?”

  “When is Mama coming back?”

  Carlotta rolled her eyes again at this query. It was apparently the question of the day. He had been asking about Pauline every ten minutes.

  And that, like his fretfulness, was a little odd. They had been at Frascati for two months. Every so often—about once a week or so—Dermide would ask when Pauline would be there. At first, Sophie had given a long, careful answer. Mama had been feeling ill in Rome, and her doctor had decided that she needed to go to Pisa, to drink some special medicine there. She would be back soon, when the weather grew cooler. But Sophie soon realized that Dermide was not interested in why Pauline had left or even in the precise date of her return. He simply wanted reassurance that sometime, eventually, she would reappear.

  Today, however, had been different. Right from the start. A very early start.

  Dermide had climbed into Sophie’s bed this morning, as he often did when he woke up. He was usually good about snuggling quietly until Sophie herself awoke, but today he had pushed her until she turned over and opened her eyes.

  “Sophie!”

  “What is it?”

  “When is my mama coming back?”

  Sophie, still half-asleep, gave the new, much shorter answer, which had worked perfectly well for the past seven weeks: “Soon, when it is cooler.”

  “I want her now. Now.”

  She blinked and sat up in bed. “What?”

  “I want my mama! I want her today!”

  She peered over at the window. It was barely even light out.

  “Dermide, go back to sleep,” she said crossly.

  He burst into tears. “Write to her! Write to her, Sophie! Tell her to come here and fetch me!”

  Sophie was taken aback by his desperate insistence. “You wrote to her yourself, remember? Just the other day.”

  “But I didn’t tell her to come back,” he sobbed.

  Dermide’s letters, as dictated by his tutor, consisted of a greeting (“Dearest Maman”), two sentences of reports on his lessons (“I am learning to use my compass. Monsieur says that I am doing very well.”), and a closing (“Your affectionate and dutiful son, Dermide”).

  “You can write to her again, then. Later today.”

  “No I can’t.” More tears. “Monsieur is sick. And I don’t know how to do it myself.”

  Sophie wiped his face with the edge of the sheet. “I suppose I can help you,” she said, not very graciously.

  “When?”

  “After breakfast. If you let me go back to sleep now.”

  Dermide obediently lay down next to Sophie, but a minute later he was shaking her again.

  “Stop it,” grumbled Sophie.

  Dermide ignored her. “Since monsieur is sick, can I go and play with Drina today?”

  “Drina is sick, too. And Christine. And your uncle. Remember?”

  “Why is everyone sick?”

  “Dermide! Go away! I want to sleep!”

  He had climbed down off the bed and stomped to the door. “You’re mean” had been his parting shot.

  Afterward, Sophie
wondered. If she hadn’t sent him away that morning, would she have noticed anything? Would she have heard something wrong in his breathing or realized that he was hotter than usual when he lay next to her in bed? But Carlotta had not found anything odd when she bathed and dressed him after he left Sophie’s room. Madame Ducluzel, Pauline’s housekeeper, who had served as an unofficial substitute for Pauline for years in Dermide’s life, had given him breakfast and read to him. Nothing had seemed amiss to her, either. Luncheon had been served; Dermide had not eaten much, but then he often picked at his food. He had sat with Sophie that afternoon, complaining about the rain, rubbing his eyes, and asking for Pauline.

  Carlotta had thought he needed a nap.

  In Sophie’s view, the explanation was simpler than that. He was peevish, yes, and bored. But his playmates were ill, and it was raining, and he missed his mother. Since Sophie was also peevish and bored and in a continual state of frustrated resentment because Pauline had left her behind with Dermide, her cousin’s bad temper seemed perfectly logical to her.

  She herself had been snapping at everyone for weeks. When the rare and hastily scrawled letters to Madame Ducluzel arrived, she would hover next to her, nearly dancing with impatience, hoping that this time the letter would say that Pauline and Camillo were coming back to Rome. Instead, the letter from Pisa said they had been invited to Florence. The letter from Florence said they were going to try the baths at Lucca. The letter from Bagni di Lucca said that Pauline hoped Dermide was being a good boy and minding his tutor.

  At least, Sophie thought, Pauline had not hoped that Sophie was being a good girl and minding her governess. Her campaign to be promoted to a junior attendant had succeeded at least to this point: Pauline did not mention her at all or give any instructions for her entertainment or care. She had not even thought about where Sophie would go when she left Rome in June, and when Sophie finally gathered up the courage to ask her, she had waved her hand impatiently.

  “Wherever you please,” she had said.

  As angry as Sophie had been about being left behind, she had, at least up until that point, had the consolation of knowing that Dermide and most of Pauline’s attendants were being treated the same way. But it had staggered her a bit to realize that Pauline had made no provision for her at all.

  Arrangements had been made for everyone else in the household. Two ladies-in-waiting were returning to their families for a visit. Two were remaining in Rome with Donna Anna. One, the lucky favorite, was accompanying Pauline. The servants were divided: a few with Pauline, a few with Dermide, most staying in Rome.

  Sophie had been completely overlooked, and at the last moment the decision had been dumped in her lap: Scylla or Charybdis? Remain in Rome through the heat of the summer, in a half-empty palace, trying to maintain her pretense of adulthood? Or revert to a child and go with Dermide to Frascati? Perhaps she had grown tired of playing the young lady; perhaps she had wanted to stay with Carlotta and Dermide, who were the closest thing she had to a family at this point. She had chosen Frascati.

  She would regret that choice for the rest of her life.

  It was the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, and Pauline had dragged herself out of bed to go to mass in one of the churches in town. She had not spoken to Camillo since their quarrel two days earlier, but the presence of God, a priest, and her mother in combination seemed to bring her to some sense of her duty as a wife and princess, and she actually gave Camillo a wan smile as they left the church.

  He handed her politely into the carriage with her mother. They had come in separate vehicles, ostensibly so that Pauline could stop on the way for Letizia but, in fact, because neither wanted to be within ten feet of the other. Now Pauline edged into the middle of the coach and cocked her head to one side, indicating the seat opposite hers. She was ready to forgive him, it seemed.

  He looked at her dark eyes, with their unspoken question, and pretended not to notice. He would not—would not—be Pauline’s toy any longer. It was a marriage of state. He repeated that phrase to himself like a schoolboy reciting his lessons. A marriage of state.

  She patted the seat across from her impatiently.

  He bowed coldly and closed the door of the carriage.

  A marriage of state. He should find himself a mistress. That was what noblemen did. Their wives were for land and money and political power and legitimate children. Their mistresses were for affection and pleasure and companionship. One of Pauline’s ladies-in-waiting had already made it quite clear that she would be happy to console him for Pauline’s neglect. She was blond and plump and friendly, the kind of woman he had always found appealing. In fact, she resembled his Venetian singer, without the intimidating reputation for prowess in the bedroom.

  When he tried to picture the woman, he could not even remember her face. Or her Christian name. He could ask Pauline, of course. “Excuse me, but what is the name of your lady-in-waiting who has been trying to seduce me? The blonde?” She would probably be happy to tell him. If she was speaking to him, after his rejection of her overture in the carriage.

  Everything was closed for the feast day, which made it difficult to find excuses to delay his return to the house. He took a brief walk around the town, which essentially consisted of two streets and a bridge across the river. He paid a call on an elderly friend of his mother’s, who was also here taking the waters. Eventually hunger prevailed, and he sent for his carriage. As it lumbered up the steep zigzags of the road through the gorge, he stared out the window.

  Dinner was a solitary meal, eaten in silence. After the plates had been cleared, he sat at the table with a bottle of the local red, a jejune table wine that his butler in Rome would not have served even to the servants. Its coarse sourness suited his mood perfectly.

  He was on his fourth glass when the footman knocked and stepped into the room.

  “Yes?”

  “Her Excellency sends to ask if you would come to bid her good-night.”

  A long swallow. “Tell Her Excellency I am asleep.”

  The servant, a local youth, clearly did not know what to do.

  Camillo set down his glass. “Tell—my—wife—I—am—asleep,” he repeated, staring at the footman.

  He gulped. “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “And tell the other servants I am not to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, signor.”

  “And ask the maggiordomo to bring me another bottle of this wine.”

  “At once, Your Excellency.”

  As Camillo was halfway through the second bottle, the footman reappeared, looking extremely nervous. His wig was askew, and he adjusted it as he stepped into the room.

  “I beg your pardon, signor—”

  “I thought I told you I was not to be disturbed,” Camillo growled.

  “Yes, Your Honor—I mean, Your Excellency.” The young man was stammering. “It is very urgent, or I would not have—”

  Camillo was already on his feet. “What is it? Is Donna Paolina worse? Where is Signor Peyre? You fool, why didn’t you tell me at once?”

  The footman simply gaped, then stepped aside.

  Behind him, covered with dust and sweat, was a courier. Camillo recognized him; it was Giacommo, one of his brother’s senior grooms. The man staggered forward and held out a sealed note.

  Camillo took it, then frowned.

  “This is addressed to Donna Paolina,” he said.

  “Don Francesco told me that you should open it first,” said Giacommo. He looked haggard.

  “My God,” whispered Camillo as he read. “My God.” He looked up at the groom. “When did you leave with this?”

  “Yesterday evening. I rode straight through the night.” Giacommo swallowed. “Should I take it to Donna Paolina?”

  Camillo shook his head. “I will tell her. Go get something to eat, a change of clothes. I will send someone else back to Frascati; you must be exhausted.”

  “Thank you, signor.”

  The footman was s
till standing, paralyzed, holding the door.

  “Fetch Signor Peyre,” Camillo told him. “At once.”

  He paced back and forth impatiently until the doctor hurried in. “Have you seen my wife this evening?” he demanded.

  Peyre nodded.

  “How is she?”

  The doctor pursed his lips. “I’ve seen her worse. I’ve seen her better. She is very weak just now; I purged her. She insisted on it.”

  Camillo handed the note to Peyre. “Do you believe I should show her this?”

  Peyre turned pale as he read. “When did this arrive?”

  “Just now. My brother’s groom rode straight through.”

  “It’s a three-day trip from here in a fast carriage,” Peyre muttered. “A rough trip, over bad roads. And she will want to start back the moment she sees it.”

  The two men looked at each other.

  “Tomorrow?”

  The doctor nodded. “Tomorrow evening, so that it will be too late to leave until the next day.” He looked at Camillo. “Do you want me to be there?”

  Camillo didn’t answer for a moment. “No,” he said heavily. “No, I’ll do it myself. She will need you afterward.”

  Both men knew it would take Pauline a long time to forgive the unlucky messenger who brought her the news that her son was dead.

  EIGHT

  Frascati

  Where is he?”

  Pauline, white-faced and haggard, jumped out of the carriage without even waiting for the footman to lower the steps. She looked around at the frightened circle of people standing in front of the entrance to the Villa Mondragone: her brother Lucien, Camillo’s brother Francesco, Madame Ducluzel, Carlotta, Sophie. Dermide’s tutor was still confined to bed. So were Lucien’s wife and both daughters. Lucien and Madame Ducluzel were barely recovered. The sickness had swept through the two households like a summer storm. Sophie wished she were ill, too. She wished she were anywhere else but here.

  It was mid-afternoon, on a blazing August day. The yellow stone of the massive building radiated heat without offering any shade. Off to the northwest, through a smudge of haze, lay the Tiber valley and Rome.