by Megan Chance
“Thank you,” I said, hoping he understood French. I pointed down the hall to the room Giulia had indicated. “I think in there.”
I was glad when he nodded, obviously understanding, and pulled the trunk inside. I winced at the scraping sound and the marks it left upon the floor, but they were only tracks in the dust.
When he straightened, I said, “I’m Elena Spira.”
His dark close-cropped head bobbed. “Zuan Nardi, mamzelle.”
“You must call me Elena, else I shall be too lonely here.”
He glanced away, a moment of hesitation before he said with another charming smile that wrinkled his eyes, “As you wish, Elena. Should you need anything—something fixed, a gondola, anything—you must call upon me.”
His French was as garbled as his sister’s, but I was glad of any ability to communicate. “I see. You’re a jack-of-all-trades, then?”
“I do not cook or clean. Well, some cleaning,” he admitted.
“I should think that best left to the maids.”
“No maids,” he said cheerfully. “No one but me and Giulia.”
“In this huge place?”
“There is no money,” he said simply.
“But aren’t the Basilios nobility?”
In Venetian, he said, “Conte che non conta, non conta niente.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A count who doesn’t count counts for nothing,” Zuan explained.
It was hardly a surprise, given the state of the palazzo.
“Zuan!” A sharp voice, a fluent stream of Venetian, and there was Giulia, her dark brows beetled. Zuan’s smile and his ease with me died abruptly.
Giulia’s flesh jiggled beneath her dress as she strode toward us. Uncorseted, I realized. “There is much for my brother to do. He should not be wasting time in conversation.”
It was rare for me to dislike someone on sight, and I told myself I couldn’t afford to. I needed her cooperation, and I could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid that was my fault.”
Yes it is, her look said. Not even the pretense of conciliation.
I went on, “But now that I’m here, you’ll at least have one less task.”
“One less?”
“M’sieur Farber.”
“Ah,” she said with a coy look. “But you do not look strong enough to contain him alone, mamzelle. You will need my help, I think. He can be very . . . determined.”
Determined. My unease returned. Samuel Farber had looked too ravaged to rise from bed. I had no idea when he’d left the hospital in Rome, but he said he’d been here for days. So much could have happened in that time. What had Giulia seen?
Nothing, I told myself. She would be frightened otherwise. She would not be so coy. I said, “I have no wish to put you or your brother out. Thank you for your help, but M’sieur Farber is now my responsibility. I’m certain you must be relieved to get back to your other duties.”
Again, that direct gaze, daring me to look away. Though I was not the first to turn, I felt as if she had gained some sort of mastery over me. She is a housekeeper, I told myself. A servant. She is nothing to you.
But she would be a problem, I knew already. I was glad when she and her brother left, their footsteps stuttering into silence. The moment they were gone, I felt that invisible gaze on the back of my neck, that uncomfortable expectation. I hurried back to my room, trying to banish the fancy, feeling the burden of my task acutely. I would be lucky if this place didn’t turn Samuel Farber stark raving mad. I tried not to think it a premonition.
Chapter 2
I dreamed of Glen Echo. Of my father’s disappointment and my mother’s fear. When I woke, the bitterness of the dream lingered. For a moment, I was lost within it; I didn’t remember where I was. I opened my eyes to overcast light and the clank of metal below, the tolling of bells and a voice I didn’t know shouting, “Preme! Preme!” The splash of water and a bird cackling that sounded like no bird I’d ever heard.
It all came back to me then. Venice. Samuel Farber. But at least I was no longer tired, and the dream’s reminder of everything that was at stake made me more determined than ever to succeed.
I was still dressed; last night I’d taken off my cloak and hat and meant only to lie on the bed for a moment before I unpacked, but I’d obviously fallen asleep. Now, I was sore, my corset biting, my feet constricted in my boots, hair wisping and falling, pins tangled into it and dangling in my face.
My bedroom was spartan compared to his. No carpets on the freezing stone floor; only the simple bed with a storage trunk shoved beneath it, and a chamber pot. There was an armoire in the corner, a small mirror above a rickety washstand with a thick pottery basin and ewer. A rusty coal brazier was shoved into one corner, but there was no coal hod or coal. The bedside table held a guttered candle dripping ancient wax over its cast-iron holder. When I opened the drawer, I found a box of matches. Damp and obviously old. I doubted they would light.
I rose and washed, changed into my warmest wool dress, and once I did my hair, I felt more myself. My own trunk was against the wall, and I unlocked it and unpacked, hanging my gowns and petticoats in the armoire. The door creaked and groaned when I opened it; the inside smelled like mold. I left Samuel Farber’s file in my trunk for safekeeping, along with everything else but the medicine case, which I set on the bed to check that all had arrived safely. Bromide and amyl nitrate; various herbal powders and ingredients to make pills; blistering liniments and rough-fibered massage cloths and a syringe and needle in a case; a thick, short leather strap—and there, a bottle of laudanum and a smaller one of morphine. “Just in case,” my father had said, and I thought of what Giulia had said yesterday. “He can be determined.”
I shoved the leather strap into my pocket. Whatever she’d seen I could explain away. First, I must talk to Madame Basilio and make her understand how crucial it was that no one in this house interfere with Mr. Farber without my permission, though I had no real idea how to do so without raising suspicions. I was starving; it was hard to think. Perhaps breakfast would be a good idea before I spoke to her.
Which meant I must find a kitchen somewhere. If there was one on this floor, it would be especially helpful. But a short exploration showed me there wasn’t, so I stepped out onto the landing, looking to the courtyard, where smoke from an upended top hat of a Venetian chimney emanated from the one-story wing below.
It must be the kitchen. I hurried down into the courtyard, maneuvering around the scattered stones, wondering that no one had thought to clean up the mess. The door was closed. I steeled myself for meeting Giulia and pushed it open cautiously. Warmth met me, the bubble of a pot on the cast-iron stove against the far wall. I stepped inside, assailed by smells of something spicy and wonderful, some kind of fish. There was a long table with benches on either side. Pots hanging from hooks in the wall, barrels beneath. I was stunned at the quantity of food on the table: bread and wine, a round of hard-rind cheese, a scatter of shimmering sardines, oranges and a bowl of eggs and a pitcher of milk. Given the austerity of the rest of the house, I knew exactly who must be paying for all this food: Samuel Farber’s parents.
A dark head popped from beneath the table. I stepped back, startled, but it was only a boy. In his hand was a slice of roasted pumpkin, a string of orange flesh clung to his lip. He must have been about ten. He rattled off something I didn’t understand, his eyes large with alarm, and then he dashed beneath my outstretched arm, and out the still open door, veering and weaving about the obstacled courtyard as if he knew the placing of each fallen stone by instinct. He took a turn and disappeared.
I had no idea who he was. Giulia’s son perhaps, or Zuan’s. It was clear to me that the Basilios—or perhaps just Giulia—were using the Farbers’ money to feed the entire household. I would have to discuss all this with my hostess later
, but it made things easier for me just now. At least I did not have to shop or take the time to cook. I cut a large wedge of the cheese—dry and salty and delicious—sliced a hunk of bread, and took two oranges. I tucked it all into my pockets and fairly ran with my bounty through the courtyard, determined to avoid Giulia, who was no doubt being told by the boy this very moment that her guest was raiding the pantry.
I managed to make it to the third floor without discovery. Samuel Farber was still asleep, and the room was nothing but gloom, the overcast morning barely penetrating the drawn curtains. I wished I had thought to put on my cloak. The plaster stove was unlit, but—miracle of miracles—there was a hod of coal sitting beside it and a block of matches.
Samuel Farber didn’t stir as I piled in the coal and lit it. Immediately, smoke billowed out, though I’d checked the damper, and it was open. After a few moments, I realized that this was as efficient as the stove was going to be. I went to his bed, pulling the cheese and bread and oranges from my pockets and piling them onto the bedside table, and then I lit the lamp.
I’d thought him asleep, but his hand shot out, gripping my wrist, his eyes snapping open. This was not the opium haze I’d expected. He stared at me as if I were the answer to a prayer, a dream burst into reality. With longing and a joy so pure it stole my breath.
“You’re here,” he whispered. “My angel.”
I didn’t know what to do, and so I said the only thing I could think. “Good morning. I’ve brought you something to eat.”
He blinked as if he’d just awakened, his brow furrowing. His fingers loosened on my wrist. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m your nurse. Elena Spira.”
He sagged into the pillows, covering his eyes. “Ah yes, I remember. Elena with the Titian hair.”
“Miss Spira,” I corrected. “I’ve brought you some food.”
“I’m not hungry. I hurt. Where’s the laudanum?”
“No more laudanum, I’m afraid.”
“I hurt.”
“Here, have something to eat—”
“I don’t want food.” He lowered his hand from his eyes, glaring at me. “What kind of a nurse cares nothing about relieving pain?”
“The kind who means to treat what’s really wrong with you,” I retorted.
His expression became stony. “Go away.”
“Mr. Farber—”
“I said go away. If you won’t help with the pain, I don’t want you.”
“I cannot imagine it is still so bad. It’s been a month.”
“If you don’t go away I will throw you out myself,” he said.
He looked incapable of swatting a fly, but I knew better than to argue with a patient, and I couldn’t make him so upset that he refused to have me here.
I took a deep breath and said as calmly as I could, “Your breakfast is there, should you want it.”
“Feed it to the rats.”
I hurried away, forgetting about my own breakfast in the rush to leave him, and it wasn’t until I was in the hallway that I remembered how hungry I was. But I wouldn’t go back in there, not now. Samuel Farber knew as well as I the reasons I could not give him laudanum, and I could not have him dismissing me in favor of a more compliant nurse. Giulia, for example. I was here at his parents’ behest, after all, not his own, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he remembered that.
But I hoped to have him reasonable and compliant before then, and to that end, I must speak to Madame Basilio. It was time to meet my hostess.
I had no idea where to find her, but my Baedeker had said the second floor—the piano nobile—was traditionally the main residence of the nobility, and that seemed as good a guess as any. With a sigh, I ignored my rumbling stomach, went back outside, and knocked on the door at the landing of the main floor. Before I was ready, the door opened, and I was staring into Giulia’s hostile eyes.
“I’ve come to call on Madame Basilio,” I said.
I thought she would refuse me entry, but to my surprise she said, “This way, mamzelle,” and gestured for me to follow her into the hallway, which was expansive enough to serve as a ballroom.
Pillars of green porphyry and pale chalcedony ran the length; between them were frescoes. The one directly facing us I recognized as a muse—Erato with her cithara—though it had crumbled so badly she looked like a pitted mosaic. The gilding had mostly flaked to nothing, the instrument blackened with mildew. As Giulia led me down the hall, I saw all nine muses, and at least half of them looked as if they’d been afflicted by some terrible disfiguring disease.
Giulia took me through a wide doorway bordered by red marble pillars topped with a gilded cornice in the same sunburst design that I’d seen throughout the palazzo, said, “Wait here,” and left me alone.
The balcony windows at one end let in a gray and overcast light that threw undulating, watery reflections over an elaborately painted ceiling so damaged that it was difficult to tell what the scene had been. Everything here spoke of genteel poverty. I remembered what Zuan had said about counts with no money. What a godsend rich Samuel Farber must be. No doubt the Basilios would do whatever they could to keep him here, which could only work in my favor.
It wasn’t long before I heard the clipped sound of heels on stone, and I turned just as an older woman with elegantly dressed hair—more white than dark—and fine, pale skin stretched too thinly over her bony face paused at the entrance to the sala. She wore a gown of deep gray, half mourning, without any jewelry. Her long, slender fingers were clasped before her. Her gaze was as measuring as Giulia’s had been, and as unsmiling.
“You’re the nurse?” she asked coldly in French.
I was taken aback, but I attributed her tone to the impatience of the elderly. “I am. Elena Spira.”
Her gaze flickered. “Spira? That’s a Venetian name.”
“My father’s people were from here. Many years ago.” I had no idea who she was. Certainly too old to be the wife of Samuel’s friend, but then, perhaps not. I had no idea how old Mr. Basilio was. “And you are?”
“Valeria Basilio,” she said. “Nerone, my nephew, is away, but he has left M’sieur Farber in my care.”
“I see. M’sieur Farber’s parents have asked me to tender their thanks that you’ve offered him a place to stay while he is recovering. I understand the hospital in Rome was . . . inadequate.” I spoke the words I’d practiced on the journey from New York City, though they seemed foolish now given the state of this household. I did not think the Farbers had any idea of the decrepit nature of the place where they had sent their son, and I could not imagine them finding it better than a Roman hospital.
But if Madame Basilio saw the irony in my words, she made no sign. “My nephew is generous to a fault.”
Perhaps it was that my French was deficient. Or perhaps it was hers. Like her servants, Madame Basilio seemed to stumble over the slipping consonants. Had she meant to say that Samuel Farber was an imposition? “I don’t suppose you speak English, Madame?” She shook her head, and I sighed and went on in French. “As I said, the Farbers are extremely grateful. They understand what a burden it is to have an ailing guest, which is why they’ve sent me. I have instructions to make certain M’sieur Farber’s stay does not inconvenience you in any way.”
Madame Basilio made a short, dismissive gesture. “My servants have found him no inconvenience.”
“I’m glad for that, but his parents wish him to be under the care of a doctor they know. I’ll be cooking and cleaning for him as well.”
Madame Basilio frowned. “It seems a great deal of work for you, mademoiselle.”
“It’s what I’ve been hired to do. There are also his medications to consider. I must oversee everything he eats and drinks, and no one wishes to add to your household’s burdens.”
“Are his injuries so serious?”
“Cracked ribs, a dislocated kneecap, a broken nose . . . yes, I would say they were serious. But he was badly concussed too, and that is what worries the doctor most. He fears there may be . . . well, that M’sieur Farber might evidence certain . . . strange behavior, given its severity. You must tell me, have you seen anything odd in him since he’s come here?”
She stilled, and that ramrod-straight back went straighter. “Odd?”
“Has he been seeing things? Hearing things? Anything else that seems unusual?”
I did not think I was imagining the shuttering of her expression. “I have seen nothing like that.”
I should have been relieved. I would have been, but for how uncomfortable I was in her presence. It wasn’t that she was unwelcoming, exactly, though she wasn’t welcoming either. I didn’t quite believe her words, though why would she lie? I told myself I was too sensitive. I felt out of place in this house, and I was so aware of the real reason I was here that I saw it in everything.
“You must let me know if you do. Though now that I’m here, I hope to make it so you scarcely notice our presence.”
Madame Basilio replied, “Of course, mademoiselle. You are from America, yes?”
The change of subject made me falter. “Y-yes. New York City.”
I expected another question, an explanation for why she’d asked, but she did not offer it. Instead she said, “Please let me know if I can help in any way.”
It was a courtesy only; I had the feeling she would not appreciate my asking, though I had no reason to believe that either. Obediently, I rose. “Thank you, Madame.”
I was happy to go. Madame Basilio had not been unhelpful, and I had no reason to believe she would not do as I asked, and, in fact, every reason to believe she would. I hoped for a smooth road to Samuel Farber’s recovery, everything falling into place, the path to healing and redemption, my life opening wide instead of closing steadily shut.
The door to Samuel Farber’s room was open. I heard a woman’s laughter from within and my heart sank. I was not surprised, when I entered, to see Giulia sitting on the edge of his bed.