Now more than ever, the Principessa was thoroughly convinced that the girl was the worst kind of tragedy which could be visited upon the di Fontanesis. Only an animal relished such disgusting acts, the Principessa hissed to herself with revulsion. She could not believe that her son could have stooped so low.
For a moment, the Principessa was reminded of her own youth. How different that had been!
She had married Prince Antonio thirty-one years earlier. He had been young and intensely studious, and she had been the most famous beauty in all Umbria, some said in all Italy. And everyone agreed that they made the perfect couple. What they didn't know was that choosing him had been an easy decision for her. She had received countless proposals of marriage, but she had turned them all down in favor of the prince. Not because she had been physically attracted to him. His handsomeness had had nothing to do with it. On the contrary, she had chosen him above the others because he was the least physically demanding of her suitors. She had had the feeling that she could control his passions.
And control them she had. For three decades now, she had been the irreproachable chatelaine of the various pallazi, the model hostess, the legendary beauty, and the perfect wife in every way but one. She knew about her husband's mistress of longstanding, and she was not at all threatened by her. She was, in fact, relieved that he took those disgusting urges elsewhere to relieve himself of them. She despised having to make love. She had consented to it in the beginning only in the practical interest of producing an heir. After she had become pregnant, she had moved to her own room and never allowed her husband to make love to her again.
She could only wish that her son had inherited her own physical frugality, but from the stories which had found their way back to her, she knew he hadn't. How peculiar that Luigi had come to possess the womanizing qualities she herself found so revolting. He had certainly not inherited that from herself or his father. The prince's discreet mistress was his only bed partner. But Luigi was different. He loved women - all women - and that was his great weakness. She wished, not for the first time, that Luigi was quieter and more studious. He reminded her too much of everything she found revolting in a man.
The moist, succulent sounds of lovemaking coming from Luigi's apartment unearthed all the long-buried memories of everything she had found so demeaning. She could not understand what on earth could drive a woman - any woman - to accept it. A man's urgency . . . well, that was understandable. Physically, men were animals. But for a woman to enjoy it? No woman who embraced it with such fervor could, in her opinion, be a lady.
She heard the distant, echoing footsteps of one of the servants approaching from around the corner. Quickly she moved on so she wouldn't be caught eavesdropping.
I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, she told herself as she continued on her rounds down the seemingly endless corridors. I pass this way every night after checking to make certain that everything in this house is in order, she assured herself.
But what, then, a small voice in the back of her mind asked, prompted you to stop and place your ear against that door in the first place?
And she answered herself, with an audible snap of her jaw: Just to make certain that I wasn't making a terrible mistake. I had to be sure my initial instincts about the American were correct. And they were. She is everything I feared she was. And worse.
When Marcella reached the apartment she shared with the prince, she went directly to her bedroom. She was about to undress, but she felt so agitated that she wanted to speak to someone. For a long time she stared at the connecting door leading to her husband's bedroom. She had not knocked on his door for years. She hated to do it now, but finally she cocked a knuckle, took a deep breath, and knocked.
'Yes?' His muffled voice sounded surprised.
She opened the door. 'Antonio,' she said softly. 'Are you still awake?'
His room was dark. In the wedge of light Hooding through from her room, she saw him sit up in bed and squint. Then he reached across the bed to his nightstand and switched on the lamp. It bathed his face in soft yellow light. 'Marcella? Something is worrying you?'
'Worrying?' She laughed as she drew closer to his bed, careful to make sure that she kept at arm's length from him. Her voice held a disapproving tone. 'I am happy that Luigi is back. But as for that American . . .'
He nodded. 'Did Cardinal Corsini leave yet?'
'No, but I had a chance to speak with him. I put him in his usual guest suite in the opposite wing. He will leave in the morning, before they wake up. They will never know he has even been here. I have warned the servants to remain silent.'
He looked at her. 'You have had the opportunity to talk to Luigi's wife. What happened?'
'Wife!' The Principessa snorted. 'She is nothing but a common putana. As I passed their bedroom door - '
' - Yes?' A spark glowed in his dark eyes.
She was so involved in her hatred for Charlotte-Anne that she didn't notice her husband's quickening interest. 'You should hear the sounds coming from within the apartment,' she spat disgustedly. 'You can hear it all the way out in the hall. It's revolting, I tell you.'
'Sounds? What kind of sounds?'
'You know . . . ' She made an agitated little gesture.
'Love-making?'
She blushed and turned away. 'That girl is no good. I cannot bear to think of her as a di Fontanesi.'
'She will not leave, then?'
She turned back to face him, her eyes flashing. 'She refuses. She claims to love him. She has gone so far as to tell me, his mother, that he will stand by her no matter what. It must be our money she's after. Either that or . . . or what they do at night.' She wrung her hands in despair. 'She threatened me.'
'How so?'
She told him about Charlotte-Anne's threat to publicize her anti-fascist feelings. A tiny smile hovered at the corners of Prince Antonio's lips. No one had displayed the courage to stand up to his wife for many years. The girl had spirit, and silently he applauded her. 'As long as Luigi is happy,' he said carefully, envying his son, 'that is all that matters.'
'Perhaps that is all that matters to you. Men always stick together. But do you have any idea what it will cost us to have this marriage recognized? And if we don't, think of the scandal.'
'There need be no scandal, you know that. Another generous contribution - '
'And another, and then another,' she said testily. 'I have never seen anything as ravenous as Rome. The Vatican eats up our money. Do you have any idea how much it has already gotten from us?'
'We can afford it,' he said mildly. 'I don't mind. And besides, you are a good, practicing Catholic.'
She raised her chin and nodded. 'Yes, I am,' she said gravely, his irony lost on her.
'Then it seems we have no choice other than to embrace her into this family.'
'Perhaps we have no choice, but I won't embrace her,' the Principessa growled. 'Not now. Not ever. She is a whore. It grieves me that Luigi should fall for her. He has always had such cheap taste in women.'
'If she makes him happy, so be it.'
'Any woman can make him happy, if that kind of gratification is all he seeks.'
'She seems quite charming to me,' the Prince said. 'A little shy, perhaps, but under the circumstances that is understandable. She is very beautiful.'
'Yes,' the Principessa admitted drily, 'she is beautiful. But many women are beautiful.'
'You are beautiful still,' he said smoothly. 'Even more beautiful than you were in your youth.'
She stared at him. 'That is because I am a lady. I have not allowed physical dissipation to take its toll on me. But she is different. Her beauty will fade quickly.'
He felt his own physical needs suddenly rising. Beneath the covers, his phallus throbbed and grew.
'Marcella,' he whispered gently, reaching out for her. 'Cara mia.'
But she had already turned and was walking briskly through the connecting door to her own bedroom. It closed with a soft but decisive click.
<
br /> The Prince sighed and dropped his head wearily back down on the pillow. How long it had been now since their love had died! It had stopped when she was pregnant with Luigi. That had been Marcella's excuse then, and a multitude had followed. In time, he had stopped trying altogether. Perhaps she had never loved him. Or perhaps love did not exist.
He closed his eyes, imagining the sounds of his son and daughter-in-law. Almost without realizing it, his hand drifted down to his penis. He had a sudden vision of Luigi and Charlotte-Anne naked together, him riding her mercilessly.
Prince Antonio di Fontanesi had barely touched himself when he felt himself explode.
His last thought before he drifted into sleep was that, whatever the price, having the girl in the family would be well worth it.
They soon discovered that even for the mighty di Fontanesis, it wasn't all that easy to appease the powerful Vatican. The laws of the state were one thing, the laws of the Church something else entirely. Only after six months could they arrange to have Charlotte-Anne and Luigi's marriage officially recognized by Rome.
During that time, Charlotte-Anne was forced to keep a low profile at the Palazzo di Cristallo. Meanwhile, Luigi was in Rome. She was not allowed to accompany him there. According to Cardinal Corsini, this was no time to flaunt an unrecognized marriage before society and the Church. Strict conventions had to be observed. This became even more imperative when Charlotte-Anne discovered she was pregnant.
The truce she had worked out with the Principessa Marcella was an uneasy one, and both women did their best to stay out of each other's way. Living under the same roof for over six months was difficult for both. When their paths did cross, they were polite, but no love was lost between the two princesses.
Charlotte-Anne hated being away from Luigi, even if it was only a distance of seventy-five miles. It might as well have been seven thousand. His commission as colonel in the Italian Air Force kept him in Rome, and too often he didn't return to the palazzo for weeks at a time. She was dying to move into the Villa della Rosa with him, but she could only wait. Whenever he came to visit he would whisper, 'Soon now. Just have patience.'
It took the patience of Job.
It was January before a final agreement could be worked out between the Vatican and the di Fontanesis. In the end, it cost the di Fontanesis five hundred million lire, along with the donation to the Vatican of three coveted works of religious art.
The day the marriage was recognized, the Principessa Marcella came to Charlotte-Anne's apartment. Luigi was in Rome, and Charlotte-Anne faced her mother-in-law alone.
'Congratulations,' the Principessa Marcella said drily. 'You now have the satisfaction of having had one of the most expensive marriages in history. I suggest that, since you have gotten what you wanted, you start packing and leave at once for Rome. Furthermore, I strongly suggest you keep any and all political views to yourself, unless you want to jeopardize your own and your husband's lives. Your car is waiting.'
The Principessa closed the door without so much as saying good-bye.
But still, the Principessa and the Church seemed to have had the last laugh. Their child, 'conceived in sin,' was stillborn. And though Charlotte-Anne became pregnant regularly, she suffered a series of seven miscarriages during the next five years.
12
In the beginning, their life together was a fairy tale dream come true.
But for her problems with child-bearing, Charlotte-Anne considered the next few years as near perfect as any could possibly be. The moment she finally left the loveless splendor of the Palazzo di Cristallo, she felt liberated as though from a dark, stifling prison into the joyous, brilliant sunshine. It might have taken time and cost a fortune, but finally she really was the Principessa Charlotte-Anne di Fontanesi and Luigi was officially her husband.
Since arriving in Italy, she had exchanged numerous letters with her mother. The first had been full of explanations, the rest to keep up with what was happening and to fill the loneliness she felt at the palazzo. It had come as a pleasant surprise to her that Elizabeth-Anne held no hard feelings because of the hasty shipboard wedding.
As long as you're happy, darling, her mother had written, that is all that counts. Hopefully, we'll both be able to travel and visit each other often. I love you dearly, and the only thing which saddens me is that Italy is so far, far away . . .
She had felt immense relief when she had read that first letter, and was filled again with that rich feeling of closeness to her mother. The last thing she had expected was her mother's swift blessing. Eventually, she was certain Elizabeth-Anne would come around, but to have her approval forthwith both amazed and delighted Charlotte-Anne. In this way the thousands of miles that separated them brought her a new outlook on her mother. Her respect for her increased immensely. Elizabeth-Anne Hale was some lady, she realized now. Her only regret was that it had taken her so long to discover it.
Rome quickly became home. Charlotte-Anne fell under the spell of the Eternal City as people had for thousands of years. Her first priority was to transform the formal Villa della Rosa from the haughty palace it was into a warm, comfortable home. She banished the massive, carved furniture into storage. In its place, she furnished the rooms with the warm honey tones of finely waxed fruit and nut wood veneers, and the soft glaze of flowered chintzes. She was tired of palaces. She wanted a home where they could raise a family.
As the work progressed, she and Luigi lived in another wing of the villa, and she made him promise not to go and look at what she was doing until it was finished. Then, she showed him around, her nervousness highly apparent. She was so afraid he would hate what she had done and would want it all put back as it had been.
He gazed around, silently walking from room to room. His frequent nods revealed nothing of his thoughts.
Finally he turned to her and grinned. 'I like it,' he said, hugging her tightly. 'It is comfortable.' Then he kissed her long and hard. 'Above all, it is now our home.'
She knew he had paid her the highest compliment she could hope for. The only note which soured it was when his parents came on an unexpected visit.
'It looks rather plebian, don't you think?' the Principessa asked Luigi. 'But then, it's a matter of taste
Charlotte-Anne fought to keep her fury to herself. She was only too grateful that her in-laws didn't stay long. And that their future visits were exceedingly rare.
It seemed to her, in those early years, that she and Luigi were as one, except when his long hours working as attaché of Italy's fledgling Air Force kept him away. But when he was at home, and his time was his own, they spent every waking and sleeping hour together.
Still, she thought, it's not enough. Even if we could spend twenty-four hours together, every day for the rest of our lives, it wouldn't be enough. It was a romance made in heaven, and she was certain it could never end.
Luigi had planned to take a few weeks off so that they could go on a belated honeymoon, but he never found the time. 'Il Duce insists he needs me, and I am afraid that things are only going to get busier,' he said apologetically.
'I don't care,' Charlotte-Anne declared. 'With you, Rome is honeymoon enough.'
When he had the time he showed her the city inside and out, until she knew it by heart. She became familiar with the tourist Rome - the lush banks of azaleas rising up the one hundred and thirty-seven stairs of the majestic Spanish Steps, the Coliseum and its multitude of marauding cats, the ecclesiastic splendor of the Vatican, through which Cardinal Corsini personally guided them so that she could view both the public and the private chambers. She and Luigi dined regularly on the Via Veneto, and he took her to the Diocletian Baths, and Sant' Angelo Castle, where Hadrian's mausoleum was located. Every way she turned, it seemed, there were visible remnants of a civilization long past.
Under Luigi's patient tutelage she came to love Rome - how different it was from the maddening hustle and bustle and grime of New York! She found herself falling under the spell of the mo
numental panoramas, the splendid ruins, and the wide sidewalks lined with cafés. She loved the contrast of the very old, the merely old, and the new. But most of all, she loved the clogged sidewalks, the sweet sounds of tenors singing, the screams of the children as they played in the alleys and on the terraces. Rome was magic and enchanting, and if it hadn't been for the ever-present signs of the military - the precisely strutting fascists parading down the boulevards, the forced civility whenever soldiers were within earshot, and the suspicious glances over people's shoulders - her love for the city would have been complete. She had to keep reminding herself that Luigi, too, was now in the military. And he wasn't a monster.
He took her everywhere, and taught her the local customs. Once, when they spent an afternoon walking, they stopped at a sidewalk vendor to buy fruit to eat along the way. Charlotte-Anne had never seen such huge, golden peaches or tomatoes of such a deep, lush red, or bunches of grapes tied together with vine. Everything looked inviting, but she settled upon a bunch of grapes. She asked how much they were in the: halting Italian .Luigi had taught her.
The vendor, a thin old crone, told her they were sixty lire. Charlotte-Anne was about to start counting out the money when Luigi stopped her. 'No, no!' he cried. 'You must bargain.'
'But. . . why?' she stammered. 'She said they were sixty lire.'
'Watch, and listen carefully.' He took the grapes from her, held them up to inspect them, then frowned. Shaking his head, he put them back down and picked up another bunch. He squeezed a few peaches, a few plums. Then she watched him wave the bunch of grapes she had chosen in the first place in front. She followed the conversation only roughly, recognizing phrases here and there that she had learned. 'Thirty-five lire,' Luigi began.
'Signor!' the vendor protested. ' . . . Bambinos . . . they starve . . . fifty.'
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