I wanted to be a part of the city, as I had felt that I was for that brief moment at my window before breakfast. I wanted to discover it for myself. I wanted to stand, looking out over Florence from Fiesole, and pick out its many beauties with my own eyes, seeing and admiring them, not for their age or size or the dates connected with them, but for themselves. But this was not to be while I was with the Beauforts, and they would never let me go out alone. Besides, it would have seemed ungrateful of me to suggest it when they had tried so hard to plan the day for my pleasure.
Quickly, I fetched my jacket from my room and tucked a little money away in its inside pocket. On the way downstairs I passed the door of the Beauforts' room. It was open, and the sound of their voices drifted out into the hall.
"Do you think we ought to bring our umbrellas dear? It just might rain later you know."
"We might as well, just in case. Don't forget the field glasses. And maybe we should bring our mackintoshes…"
The voices faded as I turned a corner and descended the curving staircase. I smiled in spite of my frustration. There was a window on the landing, and I paused to look out. The sun was still bright, the sky still blue, without a cloud to be seen. My smile broadened as I went out through the front entrance and settled myself on the top step to wait. The stone was warm from the sun. I closed my eyes and leaned against the railing to soak up the light and warmth. At that moment I would not have cared if the Beauforts had taken an hour.
Chapter 3
It was twenty minutes before I sensed that the Beauforts (laden with field glasses, umbrellas, mackintoshes, and other indispensable items) had materialised beside me. I opened my eyes, stood up, and we went down the steps to the street together.
The Pitti Palace was not far from our hotel, a fact for which I was grateful as it meant that we would walk there and remain in the open air instead of inside a stuffy cab. It was much more exciting to walk, and I absorbed colour, scent, and sound as we passed fruit and flower markets, street musicians on the corners, and narrow side streets which probably led only to narrower and dirtier streets but which in my imagination became enchanted avenues of mystery and adventure.
We crossed the Arno over the Ponte Vecchio. Between the shops lining the bridge I could catch glimpses of the river, glittering in the sunlight. The Beauforts had stopped to examine something in a shop window, and I walked to the nearest gap, away from the crowds, and looked out at the water, sending my silent thanks back to America, where my grandmother would be getting up and thinking about breakfast.
She had always taken care of me, ever since the death of my parents, bringing me up in her old-fashioned house, about which the combined smells of lavender and mothballs hung like musty remnants of bygone elegance. She had been a kind and loving guardian, though somewhat rigid, and in that moment, standing on the bridge, I began to realise just how much I owed to her.
The Beauforts, who had been turned aside by a distracting display of jewellery in a nearby shop, (or rather, Mrs. Beaufort had been turned aside and had taken Mr. Beaufort with her) returned to claim me and hurry me along with them. We would return another day. These quaint shops would be excellent places to shop for souvenirs, but we had no time now if we wanted to see half of what there was to be seen at the Palace and still have our afternoon drive.
At the Palace we disbanded, for Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort could not agree on what they wished to see first. Mrs. Beaufort longed to see the costume and jewellery displays. Mr. Beaufort preferred to take a survey of the outside of the building, to view the architecture and jot down estimates of the square footage in his notebook. I, having learned something from the morning, said nothing of what I wished to see, but at a certain crucial moment ventured the suggestion that we should separate for a time and each see what we chose before meeting again at an agreed-upon time and place.
"Are you sure, my dear?" asked Mrs. Beaufort, her brow puckering with worry. "We promised your grandmother we’d look after you. What if you got yourself lost?"
I swallowed the indignant reply which rose to my lips, then assured her that I would stay within the palace grounds and not wander too far. That settled, they seemed to find no further flaws in my plan. The time and place of our meeting were fixed, and we went our separate ways.
After wandering through the Palace and paying brief though awed tribute to its splendour, I took myself to the gardens. There I gave myself up to the loveliness of the day, and strolled through the park listening to the splashing of the fountains and admiring the trees, the brilliant flowers, and the view of the Tuscan hills glimpsed beyond through a warm purple haze. Near the Palace the gardens were rather crowded, but I wandered far through the park, seeking hidden corners and secluded paths, and there I spent the remainder of my time, with only the breeze and the sunlight and my own dreams for companions.
At the appointed time I returned to the spot designated for our rendezvous. I was there ahead of the Beauforts, but I was prepared to wait. Perhaps, I thought, Mr. Beaufort had found a guide to question about the square footage, or perhaps Mrs. Beaufort had been mistaken for a jewel thief and was now in the custody of the security staff. More likely they had just discovered the gift shop.
A smooth bit of green lawn stretched invitingly before me. I settled down to wait for my chaperones, lying on my back in the grass with my arms behind my head, and lost myself in imagination.
I was brought back to reality by a woman's voice speaking tentative Italian. I sat up as the speaker, a short, plump woman, in clothing more remarkable for colour than for taste, began to speak again.
"Signorina…" She seemed to be searching for the right words, and she waved her arms in a helpless sort of way. Her Italian was about as extensive as my own. I remembered Perry Bertram, and realised quite suddenly that by some strange mistake I had been chosen as an object in someone's version of "ask a local". I considered that in general tourists did not loll about on the grass daydreaming. We were not supposed to have time for it. The woman was still gesturing confusedly, and behind her a portly middle-aged man and a very pretty young woman with a great deal of brilliant red hair stood watching.
"Excuse me," I said, "but I am not Italian, and I don't understand much of the language."
Her arms relaxed again.
"Oh, I'm sorry. We were trying to find someone to tell us the way back to our hotel." The soft drawl of the woman's voice indicated that she must be from the southern United States, maybe the Carolinas or Georgia. "We've been in Florence for a week, and we thought we knew our way so we left our maps behind. It looks so tacky to be pulling them out all the time. But earlier this morning we came here, and now we can't seem to find our way anywhere else. We leave here and get turned around, and then the only thing to do is come back (because anyone on the street can direct you to the Palace, you know) and try to retrace our steps again."
The man and the young woman behind her nodded as she finished speaking as if to add credence to what she said. Searching the crowds beyond I saw the Beauforts approaching from the Palace and answered, "I can see my chaperones coming now. They always have maps with them."
The woman thanked me, and all four of us watched the Beauforts' progress across the lawn with interest. They had indeed discovered the gift shop. There was no mistaking it, for they appeared to be even more heavily laden than when we had parted, and I could not repress a little smile as I speculated on what the great discovery might have yielded this time.
The Beauforts did have maps, and were more than happy to help the strangers find their way back to their hotel. I waited at a slight distance while they puzzled over the maps, and was just losing myself in imagination again, staring at one window of the Palace and not really seeing it, when I realised that someone was standing beside me. Pulling myself out of my reverie, I recognised the young woman who had stood behind the colourful woman with the portly gentleman. She caught my eye and smiled.
Nobody could have withstood her smile. I certainly could not.
Had I been a man I would have fallen hopelessly in love.
"What is your name?" I asked, suddenly feeling very childish.
"Gloria."
It suited her. At once we settled into conversation, and the actions and conversational topics of our elders were completely forgotten.
As it turned out, our collective fate did not lead us to Fiesole that afternoon. Instead, after a lengthy sojourn on the lawn by the Palace, it led us on a meandering walk through the streets of Florence in search of the Whildon's hotel (Whildon being the surname attached to the colourful lady and the portly gentleman). The Beaufort's map was detailed enough that it could have led us straight there, but with Mr. and Mrs. Whildon stopping to admire the view, Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort stopping to admire ornate paperweights in a shop window, and Gloria and I stopping to admire everything else, not to mention all of us getting lost in conversation with each other and missing the right streets, it took much longer and led us a strange winding way through the city.
By the time we did reach the Whildon's hotel it had already been arranged that we would meet the next morning and spend the day together. No idea could have been more welcome to me, and Gloria seemed pleased as well to have the company of another young person. The Beauforts were always fond of socialising, and the Whildons were friendly, warm-hearted individuals and entered into the scheme with enthusiasm.
"Now that we've found your hotel," said Mr. Beaufort to Mr. Whildon, examining his watch, "don't you think it would be a good idea to find a nice little place to eat? I don't know about you and your wife and Miss Gloria, but we three missed our lunch."
Gloria and I smiled at each other as our elders began, all four at once, to discuss where to dine. Above the voices of the others I could hear Mr. Beaufort, saying to anyone who would listen, "I really think the best thing to do is ask a local. Just look around, and when you see someone who looks like a local pull them aside and ask them for directions to some quaint little place. Then we'll get something nice and authentic."
At first no one seemed to notice what he said, but after he had repeated it several times Mrs. Whildon looked at him and laughed. She had a cheerful, hearty laugh -- the kind that makes you want to laugh too even if you don't know what you're laughing at.
"Why, Mr. Beaufort," she said, "that would be a lovely idea, except that the last time I tried that method was just this morning when I accosted poor Anna for directions. If we could be sure of grabbing a local it would be another matter, but more likely we would just repeat the mistake and frighten another young tourist with a trick for blending into the landscape."
Everybody laughed, even Mr. Beaufort, and we set off down another street (not meandering this time, but walking quite quickly, for we were all hungry) in quest of some form of sustenance which would be agreeable to all.
It seems to be the peculiar fate of travellers to be unable to find anything at the time it is needed. That morning, as we had walked from our hotel to the Palace, it had seemed as though the whole city were filled with cafes. They had appeared on nearly every street corner, and we assumed that on our return we would simply find one we liked and dine there. Not so. Now, as we wandered the streets looking for somewhere to eat, the formerly numerous cafes frustrated our intentions by not appearing at all. We passed hotels, banks, churches, offices, and shops carrying everything from clothing to cookware to flowers, but nothing edible presented itself, although Gloria whispered to me as we passed a candle shop that she had heard you could eat beeswax and she was about ready to try it.
At last we stumbled upon a street market, and from among the stalls of flowers and cloth and jewellery drifted the aromas of bread and fruit. Led by the scent we sought out the food stalls from the others, and this time the Beauforts were not turned aside even once by notebook or pen, paperweight or jewellery. On this venture we all moved as one, and quickly loaded our arms with bread and cheese, some sliced meat and fresh fruit. Then we marched away in triumph with our spoil, munching a little on the way.
A low wall beside the Arno became our dining table. Gloria and I, perched on top of it, handed out food to our elders as they reclined on benches below. The river swirled beneath us, occasionally sending up a bit of spray -- just enough to brush our cheeks with the lightest of kisses. The sun warmed the stones of the wall on which we sat and touched Gloria's hair with a brilliance that was almost blinding. The afternoon was as close to perfection as any I had seen.
Chapter 4
It did not take long for everyone to realise that we were better off as one group of six than as two groups of three. Suddenly the advantages of travelling together appeared as obvious as the advantages of wearing coats in cold weather. Everyone would enjoy the more varied company of a larger group and Gloria and I would each have the society of another young person. We were all travelling in approximately the same direction anyway, and when we wished to see different things we could split into convenient pairs. This last point was particularly attractive to Gloria and me.
"And it needn’t be permanent, of course," Mrs. Whildon said kindly. "After all, we don't know each other very well yet. In spite of this favourable beginning we might realise after a week or so that we have nothing in common after all. If we do, we always have the option of splitting up and going our separate ways again."
The result of this discussion was an immediate removal from our hotel to the Whildon's, where we were lucky enough to find a vacancy. I was to share a room with Gloria, thus adding yet another advantage to the merging of groups: that of splitting the cost of three rooms among six instead of two among three.
"I don't know why they kept going on about the possibility of splitting up later," Gloria said to me that first night as we prepared for bed. "As if there could be any objection to the arrangement!"
It occurred to me that the Whildons might wish to have a way out of the deal if the society of the Beauforts disagreed with them, but I said nothing, only nodded agreement. Certainly, if the scheme concerned only Gloria and myself there would be no fault to find with it.
"It's part of being their age," I said, laughing. Then, standing with my arms folded I put on a didactic expression and quoted my grandmother. "'When you're making plans it's important to think of everything that could possibly go wrong before you come to a decision.'" I let my arms fall to my sides. "It's true I guess, but it's a wonder they ever decide anything at all."
That night did not see us in our beds until it was half over, and even then we stayed awake, whispering to each other and making plans for the morning.
I suppose it was the excitement of all this which deprived me of the greater part of my remaining allowance of sleep that night. I woke before the sunrise, completely purged of weariness in spite of the brevity of my rest, and scrambled out of bed. Gloria was still asleep, her long hair tangled on the pillow, beautiful even then. I tiptoed past her bed to get to the tall window, pushed aside the white curtains and looked out. Outside was a tiny balcony, only large enough to fit one person standing with any comfort, or perhaps two if they were very fond of each other. I had not noticed it the night before. I opened the window and a breeze blew into the room, carrying with it the slight refreshing chill of early morning. After hesitating for a moment I went back to my bed, removed the top blanket and wrapped it around myself, then stepped back over the sill onto the balcony. Below, the street lamps made little golden pools of light on the pavement. We were on the seventh floor of our hotel, and looked out over the tops of the surrounding buildings. I wondered what they all were, who lived there, what it was like to live in a city where so much of history had been made. But then the sun began to rise, and I forgot everything else in breathless awe. The stones of the city themselves seemed to absorb the light until they glowed from within, while in the distance a tiny wisp of pink cloud hung in the blue morning sky. For some time I could do nothing but stare. Then, prompted by some urge I could not name, I raised my hand and blew a kiss, out, beyond. To what? To Florence, to life, to beauty
, to all those and more. An old, forgotten memory came back to me, of when I was a little girl, just after my parents had died. I used to wake up in the nights, alone in the big room at my grandmother's house, run to the window and blow kisses from it to God, thinking that perhaps, like me, he might be lonely.
Gloria found me there perhaps an hour or so later, still staring out over the city.
"It's wonderful, isn't it?" she said, squeezing out onto the tiny balcony to stand beside me. "Look, there. You can just see the river."
We were still looking and pointing and planning out the day when we heard a knock on the door. It was Mrs. Whildon.
She looked anxious. Her fingers were never still as she fidgeted with the canary yellow fringe on her sleeve.
"Girls," she said. "I've come to tell you that we're leaving tomorrow for France."
We stared at her incredulously. What would become of all our carefully laid plans? Finally Gloria spoke, just two words.
"What? Why?"
"Nice is close to the border," Mrs. Whildon went on, as if she had not heard. "It's a very international city, they say, and right by the ocean. You'd like that."
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