by Vicky Adin
Megan was sure this girl had a name. She had seen her face before. Had Trina not told him what they’d found at the Accademia?
She was Isabel.
Megan’s Diary
12 May 2011
Finding Isabel in Luigi’s sketchbook was fantastic. It’s another link in the chain of discovery into who she really was and what she wanted out of life.
Once I’d told Giacomo and Teresa that they were looking at Isabel, they were over the moon and even more excited about our ancestral connections. The girls were also enthusiastic. It’s amazing to think that Isabel and Luigi knew each other so well. I wish Isabel had written more about it in her diary, but she didn’t, whatever her reasons – unless it’s all in those missing pages. It’s just another thing in this journey I can’t change.
Hard as it is to believe, those sketches confirmed Isabel did model for the art school. How a well-brought-up young English girl managed to do such a thing seems incredible. In those days she really would have brought disgrace on the family. Was it to fulfil her mother’s prophecy or the other way round? Had her mother been right after all?
I’ve been back, and we’ve searched through the other sketchbooks to see if there were other later images of Isabel but couldn’t find any.
Still, it gives me leads, something to follow. Isabel was clearly fascinated with art, infatuated with the artists and rebelled against everything she had been taught.
Am I one step closer to determining her passion in life?
I still don’t know what happened to her once everyone knew she was pregnant. Where did she live? Did the expat community support her, or was it the father of her child? Or even Luigi? And when did she leave Florence?
So many questions with no answers.
Chapter 27
“Bye, Mum.” Sarah gave her mother a hug as they stood together in the airport lounge. “Thanks for everything.”
Megan couldn’t believe how quickly three weeks had slipped by, but this time she was less apprehensive about being on her own.
Since her discovery, Giacomo and Teresa were even more insistent she share a meal with them and encouraged her to stay in Florence; she could help in the shop, they said. Or maybe they would open a second shop for her to run.
Not only did she have them, there was also Paul.
Sarah had continued talking. “It’s been great. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Was it only last week when she and Sarah heard the same words from Trina, as she reluctantly returned to work? She had promised them a fun time, and fun was exactly what they had. Between Liberation Day on 25th April and Labour Day on 1st May, it was party time with a lot of music and dancing at ceremonies, historic reenactments, fairs, concerts and food festivals.
They’d watched street parades, attended plays and concerts and overindulged in the food. The music and street parties were especially good, although the crowds upset Megan a little when she got briefly separated from the girls. But overall, the atmosphere seized her imagination, and being so different to home – quite formal in some aspects and completely uninhibited in others – she knew she would remember it always.
Not that Trina had spent the entire time with them as promised. One of Jason’s flight schedules unexpectedly included Rome. Trina couldn’t resist the opportunity and took the express train to spend one day with him. Secretly delighted at being abandoned in favour of her son, Megan hadn’t yet shared with Sarah her suspicion that Trina was expecting. She wasn’t even sure Trina knew for certain. There was something about the look of the girl and gut instinct that told Megan it could be so.
Now she was back at the airport to say goodbye to her daughter.
“Do take care, won’t you?” Sarah put both hands on her mother’s shoulder and looked her squarely in the eye. Megan knew exactly what she was referring to.
They’d had a terrible row, worse than the first, and one that Megan regretted, but it broke the tension between them. Sarah finally admitted her initial qualms: she’d thought Paul too suave and too elegant to be true. She thought him far more fit for the role of Don Giovanni rather than stuffy art historian and had simply wanted to protect her mother.
“He’s not Dad,” she had said, confirming Megan’s suspicions. “I’m not ready for someone to replace him.”
“No one could ever do that, sweetheart,” Megan had assured her.
After their spat, Sarah had relaxed a little towards Paul. The three women would meet up, and while he escorted them around some of the endless galleries, Paul would talk about the artists and models of the time. He and Trina, in particular, hit it off, and sometimes their discussions were more technical than either Megan or Sarah could follow. Yet somehow his knack of making the subject come alive meant even Sarah had been a little captivated by his enthusiasm. And, she said, she’d learnt a few things from him about graphic art.
The final call came. Another hug and a reminder from Sarah, “Don’t do anything silly, will you,” and it was time to part.
“Have some confidence in my judgment. I’m not that gullible,” laughed Megan, thankful Sarah had no idea how close she and Paul had become, or what truly happened with Mario. Which reminded her, she still hadn’t checked up on what bothered her about Isabel during that farcical moment.
* * * * *
Saying goodbye at airports and train stations often leaves an empty feeling in the pit of the stomach. Even though it might only be for a time and you will meet up with the person again, the feeling persists. Megan was suddenly glad she had agreed to meet Paul that afternoon and drive into the countryside to visit a vineyard.
“May is a perfect time in Tuscany,” he said as he manoeuvred the car around the winding corners. “Lots of sunshine and almost perfect temperatures. And before all the tourists arrive and cram the place out.”
Megan was relieved he hadn’t asked how much longer she would stay. She really hadn’t made up her mind yet. For the time being, she was happy to enjoy his company.
“There’s Castello Banfi – famous for its ancient Etruscan castle,” Paul announced, as they chatted amiably about the passing scenery. “These days the estate wins many wine awards, but the place is huge. I thought we’d go somewhere a little quieter and more exclusive but with equally good wines.”
Megan pointed out all the villages tucked into hillsides or workers in the fields that took her eye as they drove by. A while later Paul pulled into a long driveway that led to an old two-storeyed building exuding old-world charm. A tracery of cracks spread across the crumbling terracotta wash on walls draped in ivy and festooned with flowering window boxes.
“Oh, Paul. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s even better inside.” He guided her past olive trees, surrounded by low Buxus hedges that edged a pathway to the door. As they walked into the cool interior, the owner, who’d plainly expected them, greeted Megan effusively. He led them through to their table on the terrace, promising to bring an array of wines and a tasting platter of local products.
Megan sat admiring her surroundings. Grapes dangled from the framework above their heads, filtering the bright sunlight, as a gentle breeze touched her skin. The view was breathtaking, overlooking rolling hills planted with vines and olive trees as far as they could see. Softly splayed branches hung heavy with fruit, and the cypress trees looked so perfect they could have been topiaried. Dotted here and there in the garden were the usual array of statues and urns expected at every turn throughout the region.
Their host reappeared. “Si. Si. Benvenuto. See what I have for you.”
For a while, conversation was limited as their host described the various blends and ages of the wines poured into tiny glasses for them to sample. Megan left the final choice to Paul.
Their sommelier quickly brought fresh glasses and a full bottle. They gently swirled the dark red liquid and savoured the rich flavours before nibbling at the crusty breads, assorted olives and cheeses. Once that platter had been cleared another one a
ppeared layered with bruschetta, a ripieni of stuffed zucchini and another of seafood wrapped in vine leaves, all of which tasted exceptional. Megan relaxed and settled into the comfortable camaraderie they shared.
“You spoke once before of a desire, a need, to return to your roots. Why do you think this has come about now?”
In response, Paul, having developed his own version of Italian nonchalance, shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “Who can say?” He paused to test the nose of the wine in his glass. “I think maybe ...” He shifted his position awkwardly. “My father died quite young – I’m older now than he ...”
Megan sipped on her wine and waited for him to continue. She didn’t want to pry if he didn’t want to tell her.
“I think you reach a stage in your life when it’s time to weigh up your priorities. I’ve dedicated my life to my work, and I’ve ended up an eccentric old recluse,” he admitted self-deprecatingly. “But I don’t want to end my time on this earth wishing I’d done something I could have done and didn’t.”
Megan shared his viewpoint. There were things Tony had still wanted to do when he was struck down and, in part, that had a lot to do with her decision to search out her roots.
“Did you get to see your father before he went?”
“No. He went too quickly; like your Tony.” A look of regret passed over his face. “I didn’t even return for the funeral. I couldn’t face it. It was too soon after Susan passed away.”
Megan remembered the evening he’d talked about how he’d lost his wife after a long, drawn-out battle with cancer. How he’d thought he’d go mad. They’d had no children, so with nothing to focus on he buried himself deeper in work, travelling anywhere it took him as long as it was far away from New Zealand.
He ran his hands through his hair, plainly bothered by painful memories. “I know I behaved badly – selfish and cowardly. It wasn’t fair on my mother, but I hope she understood. She said she did.”
“I’m sure she did. Mothers have a knack of understanding their sons,” she told him, knowing Paul wouldn’t understand the irony of her comment. “And forgiving them.”
In that moment, she knew: after what Giacomo had told her and his wise words of comfort, deep in her heart, she had forgiven Jason.
“Is your mother still alive?”
Paul shook his head. “No, she died some years ago. I went back long enough to arrange her funeral and sort out the paperwork on her estate. I left again as fast as I could. Sorry, this is a bit heavy for such a delightful evening.”
“I don’t mind,” Megan reassured him. “It was my fault for asking such a leading question.”
“Enough of the past for now – how about a toast to the future?”
They clinked glasses.
“I thought my question was about the future. But maybe instead of asking why you wanted to go home, I should have asked what you want to do, once you return.”
“I’m not sure. Retire maybe?”
“Retire? You aren’t ready for that, are you? Maybe take the summer off and go sightseeing. Get to know the country again, but you must have better ambitions than to stop everything you do.”
Paul accepted her rebuke with a nod. “Maybe you’re right. My dream has always been to have my own art collection. But I haven’t got the necessary fortune to own anything, and I wouldn’t know where to begin with a gallery that sells art. I know about art but not about commerce, so it’s never happened.”
Megan stored that piece of information away, knowing Trina was the opposite. Trina knew about the commerce of a gallery that sold art more than she knew about how to buy art. Maybe she could put the two of them together somehow, in the future.
“That sounds more interesting,” she commented, but not ready to say anything further, decided to return to an earlier conversation. “I’ve been thinking about what you told me before, about my artist Wil. Can you explain again how you thought he was connected with New Zealand?”
Paul was in his element. “Your Wil, as you put it, was only a peripheral player. I don’t think he even went to New Zealand. Like I said, I can’t be certain, but this is why I think Isabel ended up there.”
With words, Paul painted an intricate picture of the Florentine art world of the late nineteenth century into the early twentieth, a scene where artists collaborated, with much shouting and waving of arms over wine and pasta, to come up with new ideas. Where they argued and debated styles, brushstrokes and colour and developed new schools of thought. Everyone knew everyone else. They shared garrets, models, pigments, tools and – if one is to believe the stories – wives, girlfriends and sometimes men friends, although that was not so openly discussed.
Astounded, Megan broke in during a lull in his discourse. “Do you think Isabel was part of that scene?”
“Very much so.”
In Paul’s mind, one Florentine artist, Girolami Nerli, was of particular interest. “He spent a decade in New Zealand from 1893, setting up the Otago Art Academy in Dunedin; then three years later he went to Auckland to open a studio and exhibited with the Auckland Society of Arts in April of the following year.”
This time Megan didn’t interrupt while Paul went on to explain how Nerli had eloped in 1898 before returning to Europe in 1904. Throughout his life, he had travelled extensively and became very well known.
“I’m sure he was an interesting character and important to New Zealand art history. But I’m confused. This was all more than a decade before Isabel was in Florence. What’s Nerli got to do with Wilfred de Glehn or, for that matter, Luciano Rossi?”
“Sorry. I am getting there, I promise.” He admitted his weakness for getting bogged down in the detail and his habit of lecturing when there was a story to tell. “Although de Glehn drops out of the picture completely. His only involvement seems to have been with the painting of Isabel in Cornwall. It’s Luciano that matters.”
Continuing his story, Paul told her about Louis John Steele, who had studied and worked in Florence in the 1860s and who married the daughter of Giulio Piatti, another Florentine artist, and had two sons. Steele moved on his own to Auckland around 1886. By 1894 his studio was described in the papers as ‘a combination of art gallery, museum and general curiosity shop, with himself as a genial showman’.”
Caught up by his enthusiasm, Megan listened intently while Paul added more details and linked dates and people together.
“This is the exciting bit,” he said eventually. “How the whole thing ties together. Steele was already quite famous internationally and had established an important studio in Victoria Arcade in Shortland Street. He was a member of the Auckland Society of Arts as was Nerli and they often exhibited together, although C F Goldie was Steele’s most famous student and co-collaborator.
“There is no doubt Nerli, Piatti and Steele knew one another. They would have known Singer Sargent and de Glehn too. The art world in Florence was small and intimate. And that,” concluded Paul, slapping the table with enthusiasm, “is how I believe our friend Rossi knew about New Zealand.”
“That’s amazing. I think I followed it all, and maybe you are on to something. So, you believe Luciano knew artists already living in Auckland?”
“Yes, I do. I think he would have known Steele, for certain.”
“Really? I wish now I’d got Jessica to send those letters of Isabel’s here instead of back home. I’m sure they will tell us a lot of what happened. I can hardly wait to read them.”
“I’m sure they will.” Paul’s mood suddenly changed. “I’ve something else to tell you, now we’re alone. I didn’t want to share this with Sarah and Trina. You can decide what to tell them when the time comes.”
“My goodness, you are sounding mysterious. What’s this all about now?”
“I’ve had my suspicions for some time, but I needed to put the whole picture together before I told you. Some of it ... Well, I’m not certain, but I don’t think it gives a very good impression.”
Megan wondered what could b
e so bad that Paul had withheld it.
According to Paul’s research, Luciano Rossi really was a mystery man.
“Rossi arrived in Florence with no history to speak of and charmed his way into a role with the Accademia. The dons weren’t happy, judging by the written complaints I found in the archives. But, since his students achieved quite remarkable work under his tutelage, he had been allowed to stay. Until one day, he disappeared.”
“How odd. Have you discovered what happened to him?”
He pulled a piece of paper out of the inside pocket of his jacket that hung on the back of his chair. “This might help.”
Megan’s nerves tightened and her pulse rate climbed. Instinctively, she understood something big was coming.
Paul spread the paper out before her. “It’s a passenger list of a ship that left Hamburg late in 1912. Many Italian families, especially from Tuscany, left for better conditions elsewhere – including New Zealand. See here.”
He pointed to some names partway down the page.
Della Rossa, Isabel Trevallyan, widow, aged 20.
Della Rossa, Julia Trevallyan, infant, aged 6 months.
Further down Rossi, Luciano, male, single, artist, aged 34.
Megan couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of any of it. Gordon at the London records office had been unable to find a marriage certificate for Isabel, yet here she was shown as a widow. Nor had a father of the child been named, but this document showed Julia with an Italian name.
“I don’t understand. What is this saying?”
“At this stage, it’s evidence Isabel and her daughter left Italy for New Zealand on the same ship as Luciano.”
“But their names are spelt differently.”
“That’s quite common. Don’t take any notice of that. My own family were originally of Italian heritage and went to New Zealand in the 1880s. Our name has been spelt many different ways including Rossi, Russo and Rossa, finally ending up with Rosse.”
“I didn’t realise that. How interesting.”