LoveMakers

by Gould, Judith

  Luigi had not yet informed his parents of their shipboard wedding.

  He was bringing home a bride no one expected.

  9

  The nearer the winding country road brought them to the ancestral home of the di Fontanesis, the more Charlotte-Anne sensed her husband coming to life. An undercurrent of excitement emanated from him, his eyes shining with an intense pride. It only served to make Charlotte-Anne feel very much the outsider, and to deepen her doubts.

  For him, there were memories around every turn. Proudly he pointed out the sights to her. Here he had once been thrown from a horse; there his family's properties started, continuing for twenty kilometers as far as the eye could see blanketing the hills, there were their olive groves; those shorter, well-tended green furrows were vineyards; that entire village had paid annual rent to the di Fontanesis for the past four hundred years. Of course, he explained, the rent was still being collected only because of its long, time-honored tradition. It was the family's varied other business interests - notably banking and industry - upon which its real fortune was based.

  In Rome, their private railroad car had been disconnected from the train, and they had spent the night at the di Fontanesi villa bordering the Borghese Gardens. Then they had driven the remaining seventy-five miles southeast to the country estates of the di Fontanesis in the shiny new red Bugatti which had been waiting for Luigi in Rome. After Larry's stately yellow-and-black Rolls-Royce, riding in the smaller, sporty Bugatti convertible was, Charlotte-Anne thought to herself, like taking a ride on a roller coaster. Especially with Luigi at the wheel. He was an expert driver, but a fast one. Along with aviation, racing was his great love, and although she constantly begged him to slow down, he only laughed.

  The closer they got to his home, the faster he seemed to go, which increased Charlotte-Anne's discomfort because she was not nearly as eager to reach the palazzo as he was. She was increasingly nervous and worried, convinced that he should have let his parents know about their wedding. She should have insisted upon it. What kind of reception could a mystery bride expect? In her mind she conjured up a vision of his parents, grim and aristocratic: his father, the Prince Antonio, a thin aesthete with a threatening, almost ecclesiastic demeanor; his mother, the Princess Marcella, a Medici descendent with a cunning, cold nature. The di Fontanesis could trace their lineage back to the twelfth century; one of their ancestor's fifteenth-century offspring had even been pope.

  Despite her fearful anticipation, she couldn't help admire the beauty of the landscape they passed through. Between the villages, they drove along humpbacked hills, their sunny sides clad with the green vineyards which had been reclaimed from the reluctant, rocky soil and cultivated over many centuries, their shadier sides grayish-green with olive groves. Here and there rose the occasional, piercing spires of the stately cypress trees. Tiny rambling villages precariously crowned the hilltops or nestled deep in the valleys. Everywhere along the twisting road, local farmers tended their fields with the same implements their ancestors had used. As they drove past, the farmers would lay down their tools and stare at the bright, fast car with expressions of wonder.

  Each time they entered a village, Luigi slowed down impatiently, though Charlotte-Anne was grateful for it.

  Chickens strutted the narrow, dusty streets, pecking the ground for food, until the red car sent them fluttering and squawking. Charlotte-Anne leaned her head back and stared up at the buildings. The stucco was peeling, exposing the thick stone walls beneath. In every village, tall stone church steeples towered over the roof tops, which were speckled with different colored tiles. It was a land where time seemed to have stopped centuries before. The border incident Charlotte-Anne had witnessed began to seem further and further away.

  'I didn't think it would be so beautiful here,' she said.

  Luigi glanced sideways at her. They had just left a village behind them and were speeding along an open stretch of road. 'What?' he called over the rush of the wind and the roar of the engine.

  She cupped her hands and shouted, 'I said it's beautiful!'

  He grinned then, and once again she was struck by just how handsome he was, how he could simply look at her and make her melt.

  Abruptly he slowed down and pulled the car over. As he engaged the handbrake, she looked at him in surprise. 'Is something wrong?' she asked.

  He shook his head. 'We are almost there now. It is only a few minutes further.'

  She nodded.

  He reached for her hand and held it. 'You are nervous?'

  She grimaced, then nodded again.

  'There is nothing to worry about,' he assured her. 'My parents do not generally eat young ladies for dinner.' And with that, he threw the car back into gear and they hurtled around one last curve, where he abruptly braked, turned right with a protesting screech of the tires, and swung off the road onto an even narrower drive that was smooth and well paved.

  'This is it,' he exclaimed as the car burst past two enormous stone pillars guarding the entry to the property. Charlotte-Anne twisted around in the red leather seat and looked back. Each receding pillar was topped with a gray, crumbling fragment of a marble statue.

  The road wound, gently climbing up the hillside through the olive groves. Both shoulders were planted with cypresses which flashed past the fast moving car.

  'Is that the house?' she called, pointing to her left. Across the valley another hill, half a mile away, was crowned with what looked like a rambling, yellow stone fortress complete with crenellated wall and towers.

  His eyes flicked sideways at her. 'No, that is the Convent of the Order of Our Lady of Peace, the ones who embroider our linen. Our house, or I should say the house of my parents, is directly above us. When the wind blows from the west, you can hear the church bells from the convent.'

  The road rose higher, making its way up the hill in an ever-rising spiral. Charlotte-Anne looked down, and between the cypresses, she could see the green, gently sloping vineyards and olive groves, and villages dotting the valley.

  'Look up,' he said, pointing with his hand. He slowed the car down to a snail's crawl and her eyes followed his pointing finger, getting her first glimpse of the ancestral home of the di Fontanesis.

  Jutting out above them was a broad, balustraded terrace. The house itself was recessed, half-hidden behind a cluster of cypresses, but even from the little she could see, she realized it was of dishearteningly palatial proportions. Squatting atop the leveled hilltop, it commanded a sweeping, three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of the entire countryside.

  The central portion of the house, she learned once they came around the next bend, was four stories tall. Three soaring arches on the ground floor created a recessed loggia, flanked by three tall French doors on either side. Directly above that, on the second floor, three massive, arched windows mirrored the first floor. The third floor was made up entirely of octagonal windows, except in the center, where the second-floor arches ended. The top floor had three smaller windows; from under the center one a flagpole carried the fluttering crest of the di Fontanesis.

  Two long wings, each two stories in height, stretched out from each side of this central pavilion, and with the roofline and the staggered effect of the facade the palace gave the impression of being a gently sloping pyramid, white everywhere except for the gabled roofs, which were tiled as were all the houses in the region.

  Only when the car curved further around the hill did Charlotte-Anne notice, with awe, that what she had previously glimpsed was only the tip of the iceberg. All four sides of the palace were identical; the palace was perfectly square, with an open, central courtyard. The building was enormous, the size of one of her mother's grand hotels. She took a deep breath and tried to stifle her growing trepidation.

  'I grew up here,' Luigi said, still driving at a snail's pace. 'Of course, this was not my only home. The Villa della Rosa, in which we spent last night in Rome, is where I usually live now, unless I come here to visit my parents. Rome is wh
ere you and I shall be living. And then there are the other houses. The neoclassical palace my grandfather built on the shores of Lake Garda, the chalet in the Alps, and the palace in Venice. But this one is my favorite. All the locals call it Palazzo Bizzarria.'

  'Palazzo Bizzarria? What does that mean?'

  'The literal translation is The Bizarre Palace. Its official name, however, is the Palazzo di Cristallo, the Crystal Palace.'

  She took her eyes off the approaching house long enough to turn and glance at him. 'But why? I don't see much glass other than the windows. Why not simply call it the Palazzo di Fontanesi?'

  'You shall see soon enough.' He smiled mysteriously. 'There is, in fact, a Palazzo di Fontanesi. The palace in Venice is called that, but in Venice one simply calls a palazzo a Casa. Ca' for short, so it is the Ca' di Fontanesi.'

  'I think,' she said, staggered, 'I'm slightly confused.'

  'Do not be.' He laughed. 'You will sort it out soon enough.'

  'You said that this house is your favorite. Why?'

  'Because it is the crystal palace. And because of its history. You see, this is our ancestral seat, but there is nothing much left of that. My great-grandfather was a little . . . how do you say it? Touched?' He tapped his forehead.

  'Touched.' She nodded. 'Yes.'

  'The result of too much intermarriage among the other branches of our family, probably. He was our own Mad Ludwig. He had gotten it into his head to raze the original house, which I understand was splendid by any standards, in order to build this one. He had rather strange tastes, as you will see. He traveled a lot in his youth, and the Turkish palace of Dolmabahce on the Bosphorus affected him deeply. When he returned, he decided he had to have something just like it. Unfortunately, he tried to outdo the Sultan Abdul Mecid. Building this house, in fact, nearly bankrupted the family. Only the rentals coming in from the villagers and farmers saved my family from total financial ruin, and even that was almost not enough. As a result, although the tenants would now like to buy their properties from us instead of renting them, my family will not hear of it.' He shrugged. 'At the moment, we are very rich, but who knows? Maybe some time in the future the rental income will save the Fontanesis once again.'

  She stared directly ahead now. They had crested the landscaped hill, and in front of her sprawled the Palazzo di Cristallo. It seemed to stare right back at her, its unblinking, dark, mullioned windows framed by ocher pediments.

  The moment they pulled up in front of the arched loggia, the massive front doors opened. Before Luigi could even switch off the engine, an ancient couple came hurrying down the steps, their faces wide with happy smiles. 'Luigi!' they cried in thin, brittle voices.

  Luigi hopped out of the car and quickly embraced them. 'Cinzia! Marco!'

  He turned toward the car. Charlotte-Anne was getting out, the expression on her face one of palpable relief. Perhaps she had worried too much, she thought. Luigi had been right, after all. These people did not look like they would eat her for dinner.

  'Your parents look very happy to see you,' she ventured with a hesitant smile when Luigi turned to her again.

  He laughed then. 'My parents? No, no. Cinzia and Marco helped raise me, but they are not my parents. They are servants.'

  She blushed crimson, realizing then just how much she had to learn. And until she did, she would be far better off keeping her mouth shut.

  'So this is why it's called the Crystal Palace,' Charlotte-Anne marveled in a bare whisper as Luigi, who had passed his arm through hers, led her inside. Her faux pas of moments ago forgotten, she thrilled to the splendor which greeted her in the main hall. Luigi's great-grandfather might have been slightly mad, but the effect he had achieved was miraculous.

  The grand marble double staircase rising before her was U-shaped and covered in deep Oriental rugs. The ceiling of the rotunda, four floors up, was glass and from it hung a massive cut-crystal chandelier, its countless, many faceted prisms sparkling in the sunlight. But what made the staircase of the Crystal Palace so magically unique was the balustrade, made up of glittering, swirling cut crystal, reinforced on the inside with delicate rods of brass.

  'There are thirty-two thousand individual pieces of Baccarat crystal in the various staircases alone,' Luigi said. 'Five hundred candelabrum, and two hundred chandeliers are scattered throughout the palazzo. That one, however - ' he pointed to the chandelier suspended over the landing, ' - is the most magnificent by far. It is said to weigh more than a ton.'

  She could only nod, her eyes darting about the cavernous hall. Everywhere, it seemed, marble pedestals held enormous crystal candelabra. The walls were either marble, or beveled mirror set into marble. Rare pieces of Roman antiquity looked out from marble niches. The elaborately carved cornices were gilded.

  She disengaged her arm from his and took a few steps forward. Gazing up, she saw that each landing of the staircase was lined with marble columns sprouting gold-leafed, Corinthian capitals. And the balustrades of sparkling crystal rose four flights up. It was an icy splendor barely softened by the rich hued rugs, it hit upon that mad, secret nerve of the fantastic which was hidden deep in every mind.

  'Do you like it?' Luigi asked at last.

  She turned to him and swallowed. 'I-I could never have imagined anything like it.'

  'Neither could I. Only seeing is believing. Now you know why this palazzo has earned both its official, and unofficial, names. It is crystal, and it is bizarre.'

  'The most peculiar thing of all,' she said, 'is that it should be here, and not in Rome.'

  'As I told you, my great-grandfather was quite peculiar. Rest assured, neither my grandfather, nor my father or I, inherited his particular madness.' He smiled. 'Come, let me take you up to our apartment. Marco will carry the luggage upstairs, and you will have a chance to freshen up before you meet my parents.'

  10

  The day was one she had no wish to repeat, ever.

  They had left Rome in the late morning. Already exhausted by their quick stop in that ancient city, filled with the strange sights, sounds and smells of a foreign country, and then the long drive through the countryside, she found the overwhelming palazzo almost more than she could take. Its outlandishness soon became only another, nightmarish reminder of just how far removed she was from her own familiar , comfortable world.

  Then she had met Luigi's parents. They at least spoke English, but the meeting was formally polite and very cool. They were everything she had imagined them to be: his father, stern and aristocratic, and his mother, meticulously well-groomed and cold. When they learned of the wedding, they had offered no congratulations. His father had ignored the news completely. His mother had simply raised her patrician eyebrows, and had then digested it in silence.

  That evening, they ate in the huge dining room on plates of silver, a tablecloth of lace. Everything else, from the candelabra and serving platters down to the stemware and salt and pepper shakers, was, distressingly, of cut crystal. The conversation had been reserved, and immediately after the meal, the Principessa Marcella Luisella Uberti di Fontanesi had pushed back her throne-like dining chair, risen regally to her feet at the foot of the absurdly long table, and smiled coolly.

  'Luigi, I am certain that you and your father have much to discuss,' his mother had said in the hesitant but excellent boarding school English she had learned long ago. 'We ladies shall retire to the music room to get acquainted while you two go on to the smoking room.' She had looked at Charlotte-Anne then, her lips composed in a slight, polite smile, but her eyes were a steely black which held little warmth.

  Charlotte-Anne had turned pleadingly to Luigi, but he had only smiled at her and said, 'It is a good idea to get acquainted with your new mother-in-law.'

  The Principessa had led the way to a surprisingly small, intimate salon where there was not so much as a stick of crystal in sight, a fact for which Charlotte-Anne was extremely grateful. The room was completely feminine, with fragile French furniture instead of the heavy, orn
ately carved Italian pieces elsewhere in the house. The decor was all done in pale tones of light blue with delicate gold striping. A huge grand piano angled out of one corner; a gilded harp stood in another.

  'You would perhaps like a coffee?' the Principessa asked before they sat down.

  'No, thank you,' Charlotte-Anne replied.

  'Good. I never drink coffee in the evenings. I find it makes it difficult to sleep. Here in the country, we go to sleep very early.' She paused, then said, 'Please, have a seat.' The tiny woman gestured toward a settee and Charlotte-Anne sat down warily, her back erect. She wasn't aware of it, but it was the exact pose her mother would have adopted under similar circumstances.

  The Principessa Marcella di Fontanesi was a fine-boned woman of fifty-seven, as beautiful as her tall, balding husband was handsome. It was easy for Charlotte-Anne to see where Luigi had gotten his looks. The long-waisted, well-built body of the athlete which he carried with such ease came from his father; the strong, sculpted features from his mother. Diminutive though she was, the Principessa did not give off an air of petiteness or helplessness. On the contrary, she seemed bigger than life with her well-groomed head of white hair, her severely tailored black suit, and the single strand of magnificent pear-shaped pearls around her throat. Her eyes were as darkly intense as Luigi's, but larger, more incisive. But Charlotte-Anne soon learned that her stately calm was deceptive: she was a shrewd, tense, and severe woman. From her, Luigi had inherited that not-so-subtle air of a panther ready to pounce.

  'You are very beautiful, Miss Hale,' the Principessa began, remaining standing and pointedly looking down on Charlotte-Anne. '1 see why my son was attracted to you.'

  Charlotte-Anne looked up at her and met those piercing black eyes without flinching. 'I am no longer a Hale, Principessa,' she said softly. 'I am a di Fontanesi.'

  The Principessa looked at her and made an irritated gesture. 'That,' she said directly, 'is a matter of opinion, Miss Hale. It was a shipboard romance, a hasty civil wedding. One becomes a di Fontanesi only by being married in, and having the marriage blessed, by the Holy Mother Church.'