by Vicky Adin
Giacomo told a story of a sad and disillusioned woman. Francesca committed the rest of her life to making sure Caterina had everything she never had – skills, strength, education. When Francesca fell ill, she wouldn’t let anyone tell the girl until it was too late. Those last few months had been terribly hard on them both.
“You did a good job bringing up your boy, Megan. Such a thoughtful, caring giovane. You must be very proud of him.”
Megan listened as her son was described in glowing detail she could never have imagined.
“Jason is a perfect match, just what Trina needs,” said Giacomo. “We were sorry you and your husband couldn’t share in their wedding. Was he ill long?”
What lie did Jason tell them? thought Megan. Not that she wanted Giacomo to know the truth. That hurt was private.
“And then we learn your husband dies, not long before our Francesca. Such sad times we share, is it not?”
Megan agreed. “Yes, we share similar heartaches. It is hard to come to terms with loss sometimes.”
“But now you are here, it is wonderful. Si? We can celebrate family, big family, across the world.”
“Yes, if that’s possible,” she agreed again, hesitant to accept his easy tolerance.
“I want to thank you, Megan, for giving us your Jason. He was a gift from God and came at just the right time.”
Now Megan really didn’t know what to say. She had called Jason many things, especially of late, but even she would never have put him on that level.
“Such a small ceremony it was. A special service by Francesca’s hospital bed, with only Teresa and me as witnesses. But a festival nonetheless, celebrating a life about to depart and two lives about to begin.”
Megan was surprised by this news. She hadn’t asked Jason about the ceremony, imagining a huge party rather than the subdued affair Giacomo described. A rush of guilt surged through her as she remembered Jason had spoken of returning to New Zealand for a proper ceremony and party. She hadn’t understood what he meant at the time. “I’m just glad Jason and Trina are happy together. I wish it will always be so.”
“Those two are bound by tragedy.” Giacomo shook his head.
No honeymoon for them. Jason flew home, heartbroken, to his father’s funeral, only to return in a matter of days because Francesca had slipped into a coma from which she never recovered.
“Our children, they suffered together in mourning, but they are strong. They will survive and flourish.” Giacomo stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be sad, mia cara, for what we cannot change. We have both lost and we both gain. Our hearts, they get twisted into knots, si? But we gain strength from our pain.”
He disappeared into the crowd, while Megan wondered how much he truly knew of what had happened and how she felt.
His words of wisdom seemed uncannily well timed.
* * * * *
Next morning, Trina arrived with plans for the day. “Before we get too engrossed with all the famous sights, I’d like to take you somewhere first. I have something special I want to show you.”
A short time later, having traversed their way far more calmly than Giacomo down the winding hillside road and through the narrow streets, Trina parked the little Fiat in a space Megan thought impossible.
She led them to a narrow, four-storeyed building with a plain entrance. They walked past the main gallery into a high-ceilinged, airy space forming part of the famous art school – Accademia di Belle Arti – and stopped in front of a group of smallish paintings hung in a cluster.
Trina pointed to one slightly larger than the others. “My great-grandfather, Luigi, was a student here once, tutored by Luciano Rossi. Luigi painted this portrait when he was about seventeen or eighteen. He won the prize that year, and his painting has hung in the gallery ever since.”
Megan barely registered the name of Trina’s great-grandfather, even though she’d read about a Luigi in Isabel’s journal. Instead, she stared at the painting, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as if she’d seen a ghost. The portrait showed the head and shoulders of a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl, wearing a peasant style blouse. Unless her eyes were playing tricks on her, the young girl staring back at her was the same as the one in the portrait in her suitcase. The one she hadn’t yet shown Trina.
“Mum, are you all right?” asked Sarah anxiously. “You’ve gone as white as a sheet.”
Trina retrieved a chair from near the door. “Here, sit down. What’s wrong?”
Megan sat, taking a few deep breaths to collect her jumbled thoughts, still staring at the portrait. The set of the head and shoulders was the same, she was sure, as were the eyes, but she still couldn’t believe what she saw. “Trina.” Her voice faltered. She cleared her throat. “What do you know about this painting?”
“Mum, don’t worry about that now. We should go, you need to lie down or something.” Sarah sounded perturbed, but Megan reassured her. She wanted to hear what Trina would say.
“Not a lot. Much as I love it because Great-grandfather Luigi painted it, his style wasn’t that good. The face is exquisite, but it’s like he got tired, and the background is careless.
“He never became famous, he only painted a few commissioned portraits early on in his career. Those commissions soon faded away so he turned his hand to frescoes and street art to make ends meet. I don’t think he ever reached his full potential.”
“What about the model? What do you know about her, or the tutor? What did you say his name was?”
Megan’s eyes remained on the painting as Trina talked.
“His name was Luciano Rossi and from what I understand he wasn’t a native of Florence. I believe he arrived a year, or maybe two, before this painting was done. Other than that, I don’t know much about him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of his work either, but he must have had a portfolio or at least a reputation to get the position. Nor do I know anything about the model. In those days models were often urchins or peasants just pulled off the streets at random. It was a way of earning a few extra lire. Life was tough back then.”
Megan knew enough history to remember Italy, as a nation, had not been formed until the 1860s with Florence briefly its capital in the 1870s. It was a very poor country with huge debt, inconsistent government and strong regional factions. Many people left to find a better life in America or wherever they could find work.
“Does the painting have a title?”
“It’s just called Study of a woman 1911, I think. The art school did the same thing every year – a portrait or still life. The students all painted the same image and the best one was chosen.”
“Shall we go now, Mum? Get some fresh air,” urged Sarah.
“I’m okay, honey. Really, I am, but I do think we should go back. I have something to show you that will explain everything.”
Retracing their route up the hill, Sarah and Trina followed Megan into her room where she pulled her suitcase out from under the bed and tossed it on the covers. Megan lifted the lid then unzipped the hard-bottomed, padded case she’d had specially made to protect the painting she’d carried halfway round Europe.
Without a word, she lifted the canvas, instantly questioning if she had imagined the resemblance after all. Her painting was so much smaller, only half the size, and the overall composition was its strength rather than as a portrait. She turned around, holding the frame so it caught the light from the window behind them and waited for their reaction.
Sarah gasped, the puzzled expression on her face mounting. “It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”
Trina looked similarly stunned. “Is that a Singer Sargent painting?”
“Actually, I’d hoped you could tell me who painted it. It’s unsigned.”
Trina took the painting from Megan and tipped it further towards the light. Then she propped it up on the dressing table to study it more closely while Sarah peered over her shoulder.
“It’s the same girl, isn’t it?” said Sarah doubtfully. “How cou
ld that be?”
“What do you think, Trina? Is it the same girl?” Megan clutched her hands together tightly knowing her voice betrayed her emotions. Had she just found Isabel here in Florence?
Another moment or two passed while Trina continued to study the painting. “Yes. I think it is. No wonder you were shocked.”
“What are we saying here?” asked Sarah, looking from one to the other. “That the portrait painted by your great-grandfather Luigi is of Isabel? The same Isabel as in this painting and the same Isabel of the journal?”
Megan nodded. “Looks like it.”
“That is unbelievable.” Sarah shook her head in bewilderment.
“You’re getting a taste of what I’ve had for months,” declared Megan, her sense of humour returning. “One shock after another. Most have been good news, but it does leave your head spinning.”
A tumble of questions and answers followed. Megan explained how she first saw the painting in her room at Trevennick Hall, how she’d matched it up with the entry in Isabel’s journal and how it came to be in her possession. “I can’t believe I’ve actually found Isabel so soon.” Megan took the journal from the bedside drawer, turned to the page and handed it to the girls to read. “I really need to know more about both paintings.”
“I’m not qualified enough,” said Trina. “Zio Giacomo might be able to help with Luigi’s paintings and the models he used. But as for this one of yours, my first instinct said John Singer Sargent painted it. He was one of Florence’s leading lights, but what Isabel has written here doesn’t add up. I need to ask some other people, but I think the Wil she talked about could be Wilfrid de Glehn. He was a great friend of Sargent. Either way, this will be a highly sought-after work of art – even unsigned.”
“I’m so glad you’re here, Trina, and I can’t thank you enough. Meeting your family last night was a great privilege, and now this ...”
“They’re a bit exhausting, I know, but I’m glad you’ve met them all now.”
“I think the English expats missed out on a lot if they didn’t mingle with the locals. I detected quite an undertone of rebellion in Isabel’s writing about the strictures of expat life. She was far more interested in spending time with the artists’ factions and models.”
“That’s it! The artists. Of course, they’re the clue. I’ve got an idea. I might know of someone who could possibly help us.”
Isabel’s Journal
15 May 1911
We’ve been here a month, and I think I’ve seen every sight there is to see in Florence and still Mrs B and her friends want to show me more. I want to meet people, different people, not visit endless buildings – again. Here I will secretly admit to admiring their beauty but I’m not going to let Mrs B have the pleasure of knowing. It is better than teaching piano to some of the bad-mannered English brats. I think the heat must be getting to them. How I allowed myself to be persuaded, I do not understand – it’s all so frustrating. Still it has its uses. I pretend to be teaching while I visit the artists.
We visited the beautiful cathedral in Piazza del Duomo with its intricate marbles, bell tower, baptistery and famous golden door. All spectacular. The church of Orsanmichele was another gorgeous edifice. But mostly I like wandering around the piazzas where I can talk with people. The Piazza della Signoria, or the Loggia dei Lanzi, and around the Palazzo Vecchio, is where people gather the most.
The statue of David is enormous and most enlightening. I had been told to avert my eyes from the area unsuitable for young ladies and to concentrate on the whole image. I didn’t, of course. In conversation afterwards I talked about his hands being so large as to seem almost out of proportion, yet when viewed as a whole he looks perfect. That pleased the ladies no end.
The walk across the Ponte Vecchio, down narrow alleyways and along wide avenues to the Palazzo Pitti is a very nice promenade. There are often street artists lining our way, and when Mrs B isn’t looking I like to admire their work and talk to one in particular, my new friend Luigi. The Boboli Gardens are cooler with their many fountains but crammed with tourists and English. What is it with the English and gardens?
I prefer to walk along the river on the way back and through the Uffizi courtyard where I know I will find the expat ladies ‘practising their art’. They call it modern and say its message is in the eye of the beholder – so one of the ladies told me as she splashed more colour on the canvas, to the apparent delight of their Italian tutor. More like making appalling shapes with horrible daubs of colour, if you ask me.
I suspect their tutor was just humouring them. He has to, after all. He gets paid to teach them. He’s hardly going to tell them what he really thinks, now is he?
But he interests me. It’s the same one from the art school. He’s rather attractive, but old – maybe 30-something. His eyes twinkle and his laugh is irresistible. He spoke to me briefly while his eyes looked me up and down in a most brazen manner, but his smile ... his smile could melt a mountain of snow. I will accidentally meet him again tomorrow. I am quite taken with him and would like to know him better.
Chapter 24
Professor Paul Rosse was a total surprise. Trina had said little concerning the professor of art history she’d heard about. Megan expected to meet an ageing man in a baggy suit with grey hair and craggy skin, rather than this smartly dressed, commanding individual who strode along the echoing corridor of the Accademia di Belle Arti.
Megan shook hands as Trina made the introductions. The man wore his hair slightly longer than the norm and sported a neatly trimmed beard. Megan estimated he would be about sixty, but what most captivated her was the energy he radiated. His smile lit his entire face, reaching into lively, intelligent eyes.
“Welcome to Florence. I’m so pleased to meet you.” He spoke in perfect English, although his accent was instantly recognisable, despite its acquired nuances.
“You’re a Kiwi,” came Sarah’s surprised comment.
“Yes. I am. Just like you.” He smiled again. His eyes twinkled, and Megan immediately warmed to him. Someone from home, an ally in an uncharted sea.
Suggesting they all join him in his office, Paul guided them down the long corridor. “I’ve missed the place. Stanford has been good for my career, and I have enjoyed my role as visiting professor in Florence, but it’s time I returned home.” He opened the door and allowed the women to enter before him.
Once seated in studded leather chairs around an ornate, heavy desk, Megan explained the purpose of her visit. Paul listened attentively, occasionally asking a few questions of his own to help clarify their tale. Megan was certain the way he looked at her showed he had as much interest in her as in her story.
“As I see it there are two aspects to all this. One, finding out more about this tutor and his models at the Accademia delle Arti del Disegno, as it was called then, and second, identifying the artist of your painting and linking the two together.”
“Anything you could tell us would be helpful. Thank you,” said Megan.
“Do you know anything about this Luciano Rossi?” asked Sarah.
Paul steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk, while he pondered his answer. He smiled. “As a matter of fact, I believe I do. But I’d like to check a few things before I comment. Mrs Marsh, can we meet again later when I’ve done some research?”
After they had agreed on a time and place to meet, Megan and the girls made their departure. He walked with them to the entrance and held Megan’s hand slightly longer than necessary as they said farewell. Once outside Trina said she was impressed, as his Italian when he addressed her was impeccable.
Sarah didn’t share Trina’s enthusiasm. “He was a bit full of himself, wasn’t he? I’ve never seen a Kiwi guy so immaculate, especially not any uni types, and why didn’t he want to tell us what he knows?”
Megan kept her thoughts to herself about this surprising man. Here was someone she could trust, she was certain of it. She had the feeling she would see a lot more of him and he
would tell her much when the time was right. “I expect he just needs to be careful.”
“Careful of what? We were only asking for information.” Sarah seemed unreasonably rattled.
Trina was eager to show her new family the sights and haunts of her hometown. “Never mind, I’m sure he has his reasons. Can we be tourists now?”
With Trina in the lead, Megan looked back to find Paul still watching her.
* * * * *
“My feet are killing me. Don’t tell me there’s more?” Sarah sank into a chair at the bar they’d chosen and pulled off her shoe to rub her aching foot. For the last three days, they had tackled the list of all the places Isabel wrote about during her lengthy stay. They had walked and walked, dodging traffic and people as best they could, until blisters formed.
“Heaps,” teased Megan, knowing the vast numbers of statues, paintings, frescoes and domes Florence had to offer from previous visits.
Trina laughed when she saw Sarah’s face drop. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. None of our visits have taken us to my usual haunts. I’ve not visited half of those places for so long I’d almost forgotten. Seeing them through your eyes has helped me appreciate how wonderful they are.”
“I think we need to pace ourselves better,” said Megan, who had plans of her own. She needed some private time for an evening with Giacomo to talk about Luigi, plus another meeting with Paul.
By the end of each day, Megan and Sarah were mentally and physically worn out even though central Florence is not a particularly large area.
“It strikes me it’s much harder to get around now than when Isabel did all this,” said Sarah.
“Much more,” agreed Trina. “There wouldn’t have been those pesky Vespas dodging in and out around the place making life difficult, that’s for certain.”
“I thought they were going to run me down more than once.”
Trina just smiled. “What do you say to some shopping and eating instead?”