The Cornish Knot

by Vicky Adin

  Sarah immediately brightened. “That sounds more my cup of tea.”

  “Pardon? You want tea?” queried Trina, completely misunderstanding the very English expression.

  Megan laughed while Sarah explained. “It means that’s more to my liking. So yes, shopping, please.”

  Over a carafe of ice-cold white wine, Megan listened while the two girls planned their shopping spree. Top of their list was another visit to Teresa in the family shop, which catered for high-end wealthy tourists, and one to the factory so they could see what Trina’s mother had created.

  “The leather markets are also a must. I know the best places to find handbags, shoes and coats at excellent prices, and if you want cashmere jumpers and scarves or pashminas there’s this delightful little shop that offers the best quality.”

  Megan interrupted her flow. “I don’t need to do much shopping. I’m happy if you girls go off without me.”

  Trina also wanted to take them to her favourite cafés and bistros, to taste the best bruschetta, arancini risotto balls, and pizza. “Not the ones catering for the mass tourists, of course, but genuine, traditional pizza prepared for Italian taste.”

  In the evenings, she had other plans for restaurants and bars.

  So did Megan. With Paul.

  Isabel’s Journal

  20 June 1911

  We’ve been here a little over two months now. My reputation as a piano teacher has spread, and I now have several students – I hate it. It’s boring, boring, boring! Still it’s an opportunity to get away from Mrs B and the ladies. They have long since decided I was safe to go about unescorted during the daytime.

  The evening routine never changes. It’s a musical evening, or cards evening with the ladies. I never get to dance any more, there are no balls like in Paris and I won’t meet any young men of interest if I rely on them.

  I’ve taken to calling into the art school. I’m sure Mama would be horrified if she knew. Mrs B I’m not too sure about. I don’t think she would have given me permission so I didn’t ask, but I wouldn’t mind guessing she would have gone if she’d had the chance. I have to say I was very clever inventing another student so I could get away.

  Even so, the first time I went there I was petrified I might get caught out, but nothing happened so I’ve been going for weeks now.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes that first day. My friend from the street artists and other students were sketching a model sitting on a chair in the middle of the room. Their tutor was with them – the same gorgeous man I saw in my first week here.

  When he saw me, he was very welcoming and encouraged me to talk about the students’ work. He’s very theatrical – exuberant one moment, dark and brooding the next. The students seem to adore him but his language leaves much to be desired, if my poor Italian is any judge.

  I was quite flattered that he asked my opinion. I told him I knew nothing about art but wanted to learn. He said it didn’t matter. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and I was very beautiful. I was embarrassed by his forthrightness but am getting used to it the more I see him. It’s the Italian way, after all.

  Chapter 25

  Their days and nights were filled with endless activity. Whatever doubts Megan had back in Hawaii about spending extended time with Trina in Florence had vanished. Her new daughter-in-law was in her element, showing off the city of her birth and generously sharing her family.

  The two girls got on well, considering their unusual start, and shopped till they dropped. Trina often invited her cousins to join them when they went out at night, and so far they had avoided any tensions. The tension now was between her and Sarah.

  “Why do you have to go to dinner with him? Again,” asked Sarah as she showed Megan her latest purchases. “Why can’t he tell you what he knows during the day at the academy?”

  One evening, the girls had gone out nightclubbing leaving Megan to her own devices and – they thought – alone, but she’d had other plans.

  While she and Paul shared a quiet meal and a bottle of wine at a candlelit table, the two girls walked in. Megan could tell by the look on Sarah’s face she was taken aback and not happy.

  Sarah said nothing at the time, but later she tackled Megan about it.

  “Because, my darling girl, he has lectures at the moment. And I happen to enjoy his company.”

  “That was obvious the other night,” she snapped. She stepped out of the dress she had been trying on, without waiting for Megan’s opinion, and began to pull on a skirt and top.

  “Not that long ago you encouraged me to go out and make new friends; now you object to me going out. What’s the matter? What don’t you like about Paul?”

  The girl made no response as she looked over her shoulder in the mirror to see the back.

  “That looks nice. Sarah, there is no point pretending nothing is wrong. What’s upsetting you?”

  “After your near run-in in Venice, I thought you’d be more cautious. That’s all.”

  “Paul is hardly a Mario.” Megan preferred not to think about that man, but because of what happened, Megan was sure her judgment was right this time. Paul was genuine, and there was a natural rapport between them.

  Sarah ignored her comment and pulled the top off over her head.

  Megan tried to dig deeper into why Sarah was acting so out of character and had taken such an active dislike to someone she’d only just met.

  “It’s none of my business,” she answered, zipping up another dress.

  “Whether it is or not, you clearly have something on your mind.”

  Her normally forthright daughter was proving evasive. Megan wondered if Sarah was jealous. They had spent a lot more time together over the last year – had she not spent enough time with her here? Was that the problem?

  The two of them had always been close and the ability to talk to one another had been their strength, so she knew something was wrong. Tony used to tease them about ganging up against the boys.

  Worried she was missing something, Megan tried to narrow down the possibilities.

  “Is it Trina? Are you getting on okay with her?”

  “Trina’s fine.”

  “Are you still mad with Jason? Is that it?”

  “Yes, but I’ll get over it.”

  Surely, Sarah couldn’t be jealous of Paul?

  “So, it’s Paul that’s bothering you.”

  Sarah shrugged again.

  “Like I said, it’s none of my business. If you want to spend time with him, I can’t stop you. But I don’t have to like it.”

  “No, you can’t stop me, but I would much prefer it if you were happy for me. It’s not like you to take a dislike to someone you don’t know. Give him a chance.”

  “Why? I don’t think you should be seeing him. And that’s that!”

  Megan didn’t know what to say in response. Sarah was not normally intractable. She’d have to think about the cause. “I really like that skirt,” she commented, changing the subject. “Do you want us to get some things for Bella or Nick while we’re out today?”

  Sarah merely shook her head. “I’ve already bought more than enough for Bella. I’ve got Nick a few things, but there’s no point getting him anything more. He’s such a down-to-earth basics man. He doesn’t care whether it’s Italian or Chinese as long as it’s comfortable.”

  “We’d better go and meet Trina, then,” said Megan, eager to relieve the tension.

  In addition to all the ancient monuments, buildings and artworks, Trina was keen to show them some of the contemporary art galleries, the likes of which she coveted, selling work by new artists. Megan went along to some but found much of the work tortured, confusing or inexplicable. Her tastes were definitely entrenched in the natural and real.

  “You don’t have to like it,” Trina laughed at Megan’s comments. “You just have to recognise its potential. Works like these will fetch hundreds of thousands in years to come. The sort of work you like would once have been radical to the p
eople of the times.”

  Trina sounded as informed as any art historian and loved every moment. She explained how religious works gave way to Romanticism, Realism and Impressionism. Nudity, she said, was revered by some cultures and in some centuries, to then be despised in others, which often explained why the fig leaf was added as a covering to many statues.

  Sarah was excited by some of the new works and, with novel ideas of her own, wondered if she could change her style.

  “Depends on whether you want to work for yourself or someone else,” said Trina.

  “I’m going to leave you two to carry on,” interrupted Megan, looking at her watch. “I need to get changed. I’m meeting Paul early this evening.”

  “Have fun,” said Trina.

  Sarah just glared at her.

  * * * * *

  “Have you got anything new to tell me?” asked Megan over a glass of Chianti as they sat replete from dinner. She hoped the candlelight softening the scene would put Paul in the mood to talk.

  “I’ve a few bits and pieces that could interest you.”

  Megan found his melodious voice easy to listen to and encouraged him to talk. “Go on, enlighten me then.”

  “Let me start with the formal bits. Wilfred de Glehn was indeed a friend of John Singer Sargent. They met in the 1890s while de Glehn was still a student in Paris. De Glehn met his wife Jane, also a painter, while he helped Sargent paint the huge decorative mural cycle for the Boston Public Library. They married in 1904, and your friend Wil took his bride to visit his sister who lived in Cadgwith in Cornwall.”

  “I’ve been to Cadgwith,” exclaimed Megan. “It’s a sleepy coastal village. I remember now, their one boast to fame was a visiting artist I’d never heard of. Are you telling me this is the same one?”

  “Probably. There can’t be that many artists in Cadgwith,” confirmed Paul. “The pair visited Cornwall regularly. Somehow, de Glehn and Jane ended up as guests of your Isabel’s father. I can’t find any record to prove it, but I have a strong suspicion the painting you showed me is a Wilfred de Glehn.”

  “That’s amazing! So, what Isabel said in her diary is true? Wil and Jane came to stay, and Wil painted Isabel.”

  “Looks like it, but a word of warning. Since the painting is unsigned, its provenance relies solely on the diary entry, and unfortunately your Isabel doesn’t mention his name so it could be difficult to prove.”

  “I don’t mind if it’s proven or not. I just love the story. Tell me more.”

  “The three of them, Wilfred, Jane and Sargent, travelled together frequently, and Wil’s style has often been mistaken as that of Singer Sargent’s, which is why young Trina thought it a Sargent to begin with. Good eye, that girl has.”

  Trina said the painting could be significant. Paul had just confirmed it.

  “So what about Luigi’s painting here in Florence? What’s the connection?” Excited by yet another story about her ancestor, Megan urged him to keep talking.

  The connection appeared more coincidental than absolute. Whilst Singer Sargent was indeed born in Florence, and Florentines claimed him as their own, there was no record to show the de Glehns and Sargent worked in or even visited Florence together. Whether either of them met Luciano Rossi or his student Luigi seemed unlikely in the extreme. So far, it was all a dead end.

  Megan noticed how Paul’s eyes glowed as he talked about his favourite subjects – art and artists. For the first time since she’d met Tony so long ago, a man held her interest. She felt no need to interrupt or contribute to the conversation, she was just happy to be with him.

  They strolled through the streets of Florence as Paul told her the historical significance of this building or that, before they stopped at a bar for a nightcap. “Can we talk about things other than art and history?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Megan replied. “We are friends now, aren’t we?”

  “I hope so.” He raised her hand to his lips in a much more Italian than Kiwi manner. “I’d like to get to know you a lot better. Can we meet again tomorrow?”

  His earnestness had unsettled her a little, but hesitantly she agreed. “But not tomorrow evening. I’m having dinner with Giacomo and Teresa.”

  “Lunch it is, then.”

  Isabel’s Journal

  25 June 1911 – Florence

  I hesitate to put this on paper, but I think I must or else I will never believe it happened. I have met the most romantic and adorable man one could ever wish to meet.

  I am in love.

  But I will not use names just in case someone reads my musings. It is enough for me to know whom I am talking about.

  Chapter 26

  “It is good to see you again, mia cara. Vieni, come in,” Giacomo invited.

  “Buona sera, Megan.” Teresa busied herself in the kitchen and talked nonstop about what she was cooking that evening, while Giacomo poured the wine.

  “It is fascinating, is it not,” he said, as he handed Megan the glass, “that our grandparents knew one another – your Isabel and our Luigi. You, me, we of similar age, but we not of same generation. Luigi, he my grandfather. Your Isabel one generation more.”

  “Oh. Of course. He must have been, I just didn’t realise until now,” said Megan. “Not that I ever gave it any thought. Luigi was just a name in Isabel’s journal until I came here. But yes, it is a fascinating coincidence. Do you remember him?”

  “Si. Of course, I was eldest, Francesca, the youngest, si? You understand?”

  Giacomo outlined the whole family tree, which Megan tried to follow but frequently got lost. There were just too many of them. He finally got back to the days of Luigi. Even though Luigi and Isabel were the same age, Luigi did not marry until much later, hence the generational discrepancy. He lived until he was nearly ninety. Giacomo remembered him well.

  “Luigi was a romantic. He see good in everything, and he love everyone. His wife, his children, his grandchildren, he never happier than when surrounded by people.

  “Before I knew him, before he got old, when the mood took him Luigi would go off and paint; sometimes he disappear for days or weeks picking up work wherever he could. When he was in that mood, nothing would disturb him. If he worked in his studio, they said he would not eat for hours, he would slash a painting if it didn’t go right, or he could painstakingly rebuild a portrait from nothing, or so my father told me.

  “I knew him as an old man, sitting in front of the fire, praising Nonna’s cooking and telling stories to the little ones. He was a good storyteller. He could read people.”

  Giacomo told her a few of his funnier ones about people who wanted portraits done. Luigi would paint what he saw in the sitter and then another one how he believed the sitter saw themselves. Often they were quite different, but Luigi knew how to flatter people and make them feel good.

  “He learnt to draw fast and enjoyed doing the street portraits the most, especially as he got older because it kept him at home more often. He met so many people that way and had stories to tell about a lot of them.”

  He would draw little cartoons of his children and grandchildren even when his hands had become too arthritic to do justice to the images. He couldn’t keep still.

  “Let me show you.”

  Suddenly, Giacomo got up from the table and disappeared, returning a few moments later. “Look what I have here.” He handed Megan an old-style artist’s sketchbook with a cloth cover. “This belonged to Luigi.”

  Fascinated, Megan began turning the pages. Charcoal and pencil sketches filled each page – faces, a jawline, an eye, an ear and neck, half a face side on, a full face. Always the latest sketch at the beginning; Luigi believed in starting a book from the back. Giacomo would point out one or two and put a name to the child. These were not works for sale, these were experiments, memories, works of love.

  Careful to handle the pages with respect as each one layered upon the other, she began to recognise a face or two from an earlier page. A girl who looked a lot like
Isabel appeared on several pages with other sketches of small children, but Megan dismissed it as unlikely.

  “What a wonderful heirloom.” Tears brimmed in her eyes as she shut the book. The man had been a master, and Megan thought his drawings were exquisite. “Thank you for showing me. They are such wonderful sketches. I think he must have been a special man. I can see his love of people. Such strong lines and fine detail.”

  Giacomo took the sketchbook. “Si. He was special.” His voice was warm and gentle. “Special to whole family. He liked faces, but he knew he was not quite good enough to be famous.”

  Teresa started clattering plates and setting the table. “Soon we eat, but first, Giacomo, show Megan the old one.”

  Giacomo took one sketchbook away to replace it with another cloth-covered book with yellowed, fragile pages, wrapped in a pillowcase for safekeeping.

  He refilled the wine glasses. “These are mostly of my Nonna, his wife and their bambini, when they were little ones. And then the nipote – their grandchildren. Pages and pages of them.”

  Megan was honoured he would show her such personal and clearly romantic images. Handling the pages with even more care, she looked at the sketches. Again, they often only showed part of a face, but all of them captured an emotion: laughter, a smile, sadness, a frown, love. Megan could see love in every line of the woman’s face as she looked at the child drawn next to her, or when she stared straight at the artist. The drawings were beautiful. She was beautiful.

  Towards the back of the book another face appeared – young, enthusiastic and energetic. Dozens of drawings of the one face, some partly completed and started again. Others, almost perfect, covered page after page. He had captured every expression, nonchalant, demure and alluring.

  “Who is this?” Megan asked Giacomo, her heart starting to race.

  “She has no name,” he replied with a shrug. “Nonna used to laugh and tell us she was his first love. His muse, his art. She was a model at the academy.”