by G A Dazio
She was sure she was overspeaking, but the woman’s face was filled with such attentive warmth that she couldn’t help but continue.
“And Dídac was remarkably sweet to speak with me so unselfishly with all the other girls there...”
Veronica blushed again. She did not mean to; it was the thought of him again, his eyes, his breath on her hand, and that these thoughts should come to her while in his mother’s trusting confidence, that was too much for her all of a sudden.
Her genuine emotions intertwined with her answer, visibly moving the Doña so that even Marcelina thought she had been a fool to ever think this girl would have needed help. She had already won this woman over and they were not even yet seated. Her words were so plain and ordinary, yet spoken with such a gentle girlish quality, that the sound of them brought about an almost maternal response from both the women.
“Oh, but that is wonderful then, my sweet!” Francesca beamed. “Dídac has never felt comfortable at parties and he was so delighted that you approached him before decorum insisted that he speak with you. He is very, very shy,” she said, placing her warm hand on the girl’s, “and in spite of all his father and I have taught him, he never speaks to anyone at parties without first being spoken to. He is really quite gentle and intelligent, but not so gifted at making public conversation with young ladies,” she said, winking.
“He told me he likes to read?” Veronica asked.
“Yes!” the woman laughed. “He is always reading something. Wherever we go, he is always buying books. My husband has a library in his office where he carries out most of his business. But he rarely reads anything there but the daily papers. I’m afraid he hasn’t the taste for classical literature. There are thousands of them in there, those books. Endless volumes, and most of them untouched until Dídac turned thirteen. And now the boy reads with such a passion that the vast shelves are almost ready for a necessary addition. He has begged his father to surrender the room to him completely. They fight about it all the time. Joaquim hasn’t the slightest intention of budging, though. But I tell you, unpersuadable as he is with his office, that boy will have that room to himself soon, so help him. My husband is fighting a losing battle.”
Veronica and the two ladies giggled together amiably, enjoying the story and each other. Marcelina kept waiting for a trap that never seemed to arrive.
“And the books he reads! I only wish my Joaquim—that’s Don de Ferrero’s given name—were as intelligent as Dídac is with the languages. He reads works from all over the continent, even the Americas! Can you imagine? English-American texts from New York, of all places. My husband has them shipped here endlessly for him just to keep the boy from complaining that he has ‘nothing to read.’ Oh, but he reads too fast, if you ask me. Like that,” she said, snapping her fingers, “and he is on to the next book.
“Oh, but listen to me ramble on. The Marquesa tells me that your family live in Madrid? Yes, I can hear it in your voice. We know quite a few families there that my husband does business with. Do you miss being away from home for so long? Marcelina says that you spend the entire summer with her here every year now.” It was a barrage of questions.
The woman speaks fluent Veronica, the Marquesa mused to herself.
“Oh no, I love it here in Barcelona. I wait the whole year until the summer just to come and be with Tia.”
“But you don’t like it in Madrid?” Francesca asked, with a slight hesitation.
“I do, it is where my family is... it is where I live. But Barcelona has always been like home for me. It’s where I am most happy.”
“But don’t worry, child, that is good, this is where you should settle and be married. And her parents approve of settling here to marry, do they not?” she shot at the Marquesa.
“Her dear father passed away a few years ago,” said the Marquesa, evoking a genuinely pained look from Doña Ferrero, who sucked on her teeth unconsciously. “But her mother embraces the idea that she should be happy and well cared for wherever she is,” Marcelina answered carefully. “It was her mother’s wish that she be brought into society here, and we both intend to support the girl in her new life, and one day as a wife.”
“Oh, but your mother is wise to do so, dear. A beautiful young lady from such a fine family as yours; you would be wise to marry here on the coast. There are so many good families who would be pleased, indeed, honored to join with your house. I certainly could not be more pleased to have you as my daughter.”
Marcelina thought then that she had completely misjudged this woman, something that had never occurred. Indeed, the Ferrero did mean business for Veronica and her son, but she was far more convinced of Veronica’s pricelessness in the scheme of this play. The intrepid woman had not even attempted the slightest remark about the girl’s western origins. Doña Ferrero might as well have asked for Veronica’s hand herself, she had mentioned marriage so many times.
Marcelina could feel nothing but awe. If she had known the woman would be so easily charmed by the girl, she would’ve sent her on in the carriage and enjoyed dinner at home. She wanted to laugh aloud.
But she knew they had only been here for a short while and was still suspicious of the woman. Undoubtedly, coercions would come from the father when he showed his face. Marcelina’s defenses would not be withdrawn over a warm reception and girlish laughter.
“Tell me, what do you do for leisure, child?” Francesca continued.
“Well, I love music so very much. I am afraid I don’t read nearly as much as I should on my own. The convent sisters always provide me so much instruction about manners to learn. I always feel I’m trying to catch up. But I do very much like to write during my free time. I keep a journal, a diary of sorts, that I’m constantly sending to my friends at home. Really, my entries qualify as short stories. You see, I never see my classmates when I am away during the summers, and it takes so long just to hear back from them that I simply write stories for myself and send them copies without the expectation of a reply. They find it strange, but they always beg me for more. So, I’m always writing.”
“Oh, but this is wonderful,” said Francesca, “that you take the time to do this for your friends. It’s so rare to find a young girl who is apt to accomplish more constructive activities than sit around at tea and gossip like us old ladies,” she mused, winking at the Marquesa.
“I have always thought it refreshing that a young lady would continue her education throughout her life. I have never had any daughters of my own, and it has always pained me. My husband and I do not share similar views on this matter. I can only imagine the endless battles we would have had over a daughter’s education. But I find it unforgivable when a young woman presumes to stop her education and revert to becoming the perfect idiot once she is married. I have always made a point to keep up on the latest goings-on in the world. I read my husband’s newspapers more than he does!” she exclaimed, failing to suppress her laughter completely, eliciting a spirited burst from the Marquesa, who was certain that she’d been having lunch with an imposter for the past ten years.
Indeed, the Marquesa’s curiosity could not be contained. If she had known the woman was this intelligent, she would have made a point to become a closer friend.
“Well, this afternoon is ending as well as I could have ever hoped for,” Francesca said gaily. “The men should be back soon. Why don’t we take a short walk in the garden before dinner?”
“Oh yes, I would like that very much,” the girl acquiesced, lightning up. “I have been told so many wonderful things about your gardens and there is so much I would like to know about them,” Veronica said eagerly.
“You care for such things then, dear?” the woman asked, engagingly suspicious.
“In Madrid, the weather is so severe in the summer that my mother never really seems to be able to accomplish much, it’s one of the many reasons I love the coast as I do.”
They proceeded outside and were greeted by an exceedingly large expanse, stretchin
g out forever with levels and pathways etched through colors she’d never before imagined.
“Oh, but it’s so magnificent,” said Veronica quietly. “I wished Mamá would let me soil my hands. I would give anything to be able to work in a garden. To think of all that could be done in a season.”
Francesca smiled lazily now with the greatest look of satisfaction Marcelina had ever seen on the face of a woman. She watched the Doña place her arm around the girl’s waist and whisper in her ear.
“I will tell you a secret, if you let me, my dear,” said Francesca.
“Oh, please do,” Veronica answered, effortlessly mimicking the intimacy.
“I do more here than instruct our team about what I prefer. A few moments down that path there is a little patch that no one but myself has access to. Even Dídac does not know this. In it, I do all the work myself. It is my little place away from the world and it grows more beautifully than any section of the whole. It is wonderful to, how do you say, soil one’s hands?”
Marcelina did not hear the woman say this to Veronica, but the look of absolute joy in the girl’s eyes upon hearing her words could be seen for miles.
“Perhaps, one day you will come with me there and I will show it to you, yes?”
With those final words between them, Veronica knew that nothing she did this evening would be of any dire consequence. She would love this woman regardless, even if she were never to be her daughter.
But before the ladies had the opportunity to stroll anywhere together, Dídac and his father stepped out onto the grounds to greet them.
“Marquesa de Amontoní, how good it is to see you again. I hope you did not have to wait too long,” Don de Ferrero said, taking her hand and kissing it gently.
Chapter Thirteen
“Not at all, we’ve all been having a delightful time here with your gracious wife. And how good it is too see you! You are feeling better today, I trust?”
“Yes, yes, thank you, I feel much better. I can’t apologize enough for showing up at your house in such foul health the other night. Ah, and how good it is to see you again, señorita,” he said, taking Veronica’s hand to his lips.
The girl simply smiled in kind. It was all she could do without risking an error in speech.
“Ah, you have done me a great honor, my dear, convincing my young man here to appreciate music in just one night. I have labored for almost decades to hear him utter such words.”
Dídac blushed at his father’s playful cruelty, though he would not let the smile fall from his face.
“Ah, but you will have another opportunity to better my boy after dinner? The butler has informed me that dinner will be served in five minutes.”
It proved to be more than ten minutes that Dídac was allowed to spend with her before the old man called them all for dinner. They journeyed to the dining room, a vast chamber devoid of the usual Catalonian flavor, but structured more like a Venetian palazzo. High, squarely gilded ceilings with huge frescoes of angels in sheer white robes; it mirrored very closely the fantasy of the Marquesa’s music room at the Castell de Amontoní.
Doña de Ferrero took her place near the center of her table and instructed the Marquesa and her husband to the other side, allowing Veronica and her son to sit on either side of her, establishing what was really two separate groups facing each other. This provided her the opportunity to speak with the girl without the ears of her aunt so closely tuned to her words.
Don Joaquim de Ferrero was not to be outdone when it came to charming his guests. He made certain that the Marquesa had not the slightest opportunity to feel unappreciated. He showered her with praise over the splendidness of her ball and made no pretense of disguising his appreciation for her niece and how fond of the girl his son had already become.
Dídac remained silent throughout most of the conversation between his father and the Marquesa. He managed the courteous motions to pretend he was not staring at her from across the table, and he tried desperately not to glance past his mother to Veronica. The fear of somehow looking over and not being able to pry his eyes off the girl without seeming impolite or improper was far too great. Both youths contained themselves in a world of careful steps that all forewarned of impending disaster.
“His mother tells us that your son is a great fan of literature, Don de Ferrero?” Marcelina’s question broke the boy’s daydream.
“Ah, yes, there seems to be nothing that can be done to evict him from my office. I had always hoped he would grow out of his obsession with books. I have always thought it unnatural. A young man of his age should be more concerned with the duties of manhood rather than of the pastimes of youth.”
Immediately, Dídac turned to his father in abject horror, which the Marquesa could not help but notice from the corner of her eye.
“Oh, I don’t know that there is anything so terribly manly about giving up books,” she smiled at him, drawing a momentary look of embarrassed but desperate love out of the boy’s consuming anger.
“Don’t misunderstand me, my lady,” his father answered. “I don’t mean to say that literature does not play an important role in a young man’s education. But Dídac does not concentrate on any particular field of study with his obsession. He reads simply for the mere act of reading. He reads literature of all kinds, but never confines the focus of his studies toward any specific direction. On and on he reads fictions, these modern novels, and studies useless matters like science and foreign theology. It is not good for him to be so involved with the religions of other peoples; it is difficult enough to persuade him to escort his mother to Sunday mass!”
Marcelina and the man both laughed at this, she adopting a wider margin to seem pleasant, hoping to put all at ease while this obviously brutal family subject was being thrown about with such gay pretenses.
“Well, I’m sure he has a great deal of time ahead of him to surrender such fancies before he needs settle on any particular field, and I should say it’s marvelous that he’s so open in his studies now. To think of all the opportunities his diverse understandings of the world might bring him in the future.”
Her response brought a strong sense of anguished pride from the boy, and his father did not need to turn his head toward the boy to feel as much from him.
“You misunderstand the allowances I make for my son, my lady, you misunderstand me in the same manner that my son does, I’m afraid. I love my son greatly, and my love for him often persuades me to allow for things I would never permit in a sounder state of mind. And if he did not have three older brothers who have matured so effortlessly to my approval, I would never have allowed him to follow his passions this long. I do not prescribe to this belief that he should forever follow where his studies will take him. By now, I think he should be done with these passions, or at least have put them out of his mind in light of the responsibilities of manhood.”
Joaquim smiled now, installing a less frustrated guise. “But his mother and I spoil him, and so he greedily takes the opportunities we provide for. And, of course, it is only just.”
Dídac was furious with his father, and that he should utter such things aloud in front of the Marquesa was intolerable. He began to perspire from his anger, and it took all his effort to hold his tongue. He had learned long ago that to begin an argument with his father was pointless; many poor souls had learned that in court as well. He would not make a scene before this woman to vent the slightest bit of anger. He would not injure himself for anyone, least of all his father. It was better for everyone that he hold his tongue and pray for the Marquesa to change the subject.
“I think it is the curse of wealth,” his father continued, “he has never had need for anything in his life, so he does not care that he cannot support himself without the grace of his family. Two of his brothers have honored me and followed my example, indeed, pursued very successful careers in the field of law. My third son has honored this house by his own enterprise in the state legislature. None of his brothers suffered
from the same insolence as he, they’ve seen to it not to shun their enormous opportunities. The have been men of action, and they are honored for…”
“But is that such a good thing, Joaquim?” Marcelina interrupted his rambling. “How many young men ever find happiness from simply diving into a career at such an age? My husband was not at all happy in his position. He was the perfect dreamer. The very idea that he must leave his family for months at a time made him quite miserable. He would always say how he wished he had waited, held out for his dreams. His family had always had the resources to support him, into his hundredth retirement, I should think. And it’s the same with this young man, yes?”
Don de Ferrero did not respond, he merely let her continue without resistance.
“My late husband’s boys each died at war. Yes, they had followed in the steps of his career, but that was neither their choice nor Augustí’s. War is war, and honor demanded that they face it.”
The Marquesa’s breath caught and she paused, not allowing the memory of her husband’s pain to collect in her eyes.
“But before those terrible days, my husband had spent every moment of their lives attempting to give his sons the very opportunities you reprove yourself for having given Dídac. Augustí wanted more than anything for those young men to have the freedom to follow any path they desired. And if they never found any one field of study to command their attentions or bring forth a profitable return, so be it, he would say. It is a far greater accomplishment that a man be so magnificently educated. Think of his opportunities to be a leader of his people, a great scholar, if nothing else. He knew it might not be considered fashionable nor economically wise in this day and age, and not in our noble position, but if it meant the child’s happiness, then what of it? I know, Joaquim, you will tell me that a boy of his age cannot possibly know what he wants. But so what? You will not convince me he could not live for a hundred years in this luxury you surround us with tonight and ever be required to manage an enterprise to assist in its perseverance. You must understand, this is not a common idiot, your son. He will be a great man, one day, and that is quite plainly of your doing. I should imagine that he is perfectly aware of how pointless your argument is now. Surely, you have more than fulfilled your duty to bring him to manhood. The rest of his journey will be his alone to navigate.”