The Ornaments of Love

by G A Dazio

  The air about Don de Ferrero had changed from the charge of his heated stance to one of resigned defeat. He would never contradict the woman, regardless of his position. He smiled at her, and then to Dídac, and spoke with tender affection.

  “You flatter me, my lady. I do not have the answers nor stamina for your debate. I know only that I want for my son to be happy, and I could never have felt happiness at his age with such indecision. And maybe it is wrong of me to expect from him the things I do. But in all honesty, my ranting and ravings over the boy amount to little more than that, as you so carefully point out. I think sometimes I argue with him for no other reason than to hear his voice.” The man turned to his son. “To pry your handsome eyes off a page for my own attention, eh?”

  The Marquesa laughed gaily with the old man, shooting a beaming glance of love at the boy with a mischievous look, as if she meant him to understand she was his ally.

  Dídac gazed at this woman who had somehow tempered his father’s stubborn will with such gratitude. This angelic siren, who had effortlessly procured such a gentle persuasion from the old beast, had made such an impression on the boy that he could not keep his eyes away from her.

  He knew that his father was only saying something pleasant so as not to be forced into such a debate with a guest at his dinner table. Joaquim was not at all honest with her, but it certainly didn’t matter. The boy would take any bit of gentility on the subject of his career, no matter if it came in the form of a pleasant lie.

  Doña Ferrero looked up from her private conversation with Veronica from the opposite side of the dining table, seeing the Marquesa and her son so visibly satisfied.

  “And what is my husband saying now that makes you all so delighted? You are not boring the company again with your gossip are you, Joaquim?”

  “No, your husband is making every effort to introduce me to the real Dídac, the man underneath those beautiful blond locks.”

  “Ah, yes, my husband takes to endlessly speaking on the boy’s behalf, then scoffs at his silence.”

  Marcelina laughed with Francesca at her husband’s expense. In all truth, it was quite the honor for Don de Ferrero to make allowances for this teasing. He did so enjoy having someone to fight with, even if his own self-decorum wouldn’t permit such a thing.

  At that moment, the servants brought in the second course of the dinner and the conversation’s heat settled along with their stomachs.

  Doña de Ferrero kept Veronica’s attentions exclusively to herself during dinner, never allowing her husband the opportunity to steal the girl’s attention too much. And the Marquesa did her very best to hear Dídac’s voice, despite his father’s best efforts to interrupt throughout the evening.

  When dinner had ended, more guests arrived in carriages, friends of the Ferreros whom Marcelina did not know very well, but who Francesca thought she should. And during this time, when all the men and women were talking in their own assembled and strictly guarded groups, Dídac was given the opportunity by his mother’s instruction to move off with Veronica and entertain her.

  “Be a gentleman now,” the woman said privately in her son’s ear. Of course, they would never be far out of sight, but merely away from the probing ears of his parents.

  The young man walked her out onto a terrace strung with lanterns and sprinkled with table candles, this setting extending out from the doors of the main salon on a stone arch over the rear garden.

  The evening sky was a severe shade of violet, and the stars were hardly noticeable by the light of the rising moon; though days since full, its light nevertheless obliterated all but the brightest of constellations.

  Dídac tried as hard as he could not to stare at Veronica. He had caught himself pinning her down unforgivably with his eyes far too often, and at the same time she tried desperately not to appear to be ignoring him. The result was that both were more self-conscious and distracted. This was only fitting, they each thought privately.

  “Your aunt says you are not going to return to Madrid at the end of summer?”

  Veronica did not know how to answer. She had a petulant urge to tell him everything, of what she and her aunt had shared, all that they had talked about in the last two weeks. She wanted to let it all pour out of her.

  “Yes, Tia has agreed I should stay with her from now on.”

  He nodded gently, “What was it like living in Madrid?”

  Again, she didn’t know what to say. Tell him what? That she was miserable, that she couldn’t stand her mother, that her sister hated her, that even the nuns weren’t terribly devastated to have her leave every summer? And why not tell him all this? What good would ever come of knowing this gorgeous creature if she was not honest with him?

  But, perhaps, he wondered of her family’s view on the Catalonians and their legendary desire to retain the older language and remain separate from Spain, from Madrid? Was this what his tone implied? It seemed he had no tone. Perhaps he did not realize he had asked any question at all. Her overthinking of every syllable was maddening, even within the absurdity of madness.

  “Of course, I have always spent my summers here in Barcelona, but living in Madrid is enjoyable too.”

  God, she thought, I am already playing a false role, a part in an inoffensive play!

  “My sister and I enjoy each other’s company and we have many friends there.”

  What a ridiculous statement! Who would ever say such a thing about one’s home, one’s family? Utterly ridiculous!

  “The weather is more extreme there than here. It becomes quite unbearable right before I leave, usually. But it is nice.”

  She didn’t know what in hell she was saying anymore. She wanted to know about him, but she didn’t want to manipulate this conversation, as Marcelina would insist of her.

  “I do a great deal of writing to my friends when I am away.”

  “Do you enjoy writing?” he asked, a sudden sense of arousal awakening his eyes.

  “Oh, yes, I spend most of my free time writing stories to my friends. I can never find the stamina to write idle conversation to them, though. I am always relaying my days to them in short story form. Sometimes fairies and ogres find their way into the plot, and the result is that my friends are more inclined to write me back.”

  It was true. She didn’t know why she would tell him this, but it was true.

  Dídac smiled fiercely at her while she was preoccupied with her anxiety.

  “I often write myself,” he said shyly.

  “Oh, your mother said you spend all of your time reading books,” she returned a bit too quickly.

  He nodded his head, embarrassed. And what else did she know about him? What else had his mother done to make this more difficult?

  “Yes, I do a lot of reading, but lately I’ve been inclined to do a great deal of writing on my own. I have a passion for fictional writing. I have spent the last few years writing stories. I keep them to myself, though. My father would not approve, if he knew.”

  “But, why is that?” she asked.

  “He does not approve of most writers, and he certainly has no patience with writers of fancy. He views their accomplishments as a waste of time.”

  “Oh, but that isn’t true. There are so many writers who are famous and well-respected who deal in fiction.”

  It overwhelmed him that she should say this, that she should know it. A girl this young, that she should understand something which so disappointingly eluded his father!

  “I have pointed that out to him, but it has not changed his mind on the matter.” Dídac’s expression turned dark for a moment, seeming to require all his will to command his composure. But his composure now lacked the disfiguring self-consciousness under which he had been drowned in before. Instead, the young man looked to her with unbridled affection.

  “And what does your mother think of your writings?” the girl asked, unsure that she should travel further into this.

  “She’s taken no notice of them. They have alwa
ys been something private, and she has never attempted to know them any better than he does. I can’t think they would matter to her if she did.”

  “What do you write about?” she implored him, hoping he would allow her to continue.

  There was something fascinating about all this to the girl. She felt as if she might stop caring for his suffering so long as he shared all of this insignificance with her. A certain selfishness was now at command.

  He stole a glance at her before gazing out to the garden, thinking of a response. No one had ever asked him to think about his writings in this manner. What does he write about? Indeed, what does he write about? How should he find a sentence to describe four years of scratching out nonsense on paper? What could ever be the right words?

  “I write about the world and the people in it. I write what I feel they care about. I write about what people experience outside of this house. I write the little stories I hear the servants remark on. I write about God. I write about what He means to them.”

  He was unsatisfied with his words. Yet, what else should he mean to say? That was all of it, was it not?

  “Do you ever let anyone read them?”

  “Oh, God, no! They’re horrible.” He paused his outburst and continued shortly after he had embarrassed himself enough. “I wouldn’t let anyone read them.”

  “But how do you know they’re horrible if you never let anyone read them?”

  “I just know they are. I don’t need anyone’s opinion to realize how they read. I couldn’t imagine ever letting them go.”

  He tried to smile the whole time he said this, for he knew just how ridiculous it was of him to bring it up, to allow her to draw more of it from him, to put himself in this position and then refuse her the opportunity to investigate.

  “If I wrote to you, would you consider writing me back?” she asked.

  Dear God, what was she thinking of? What did she mean by this? What did she want for him to write her for? He could not even think on it as he uttered his clumsy, “Yes, I would.” It seemed his mouth had moved independently of his thoughts as he uttered the assent.

  “Oh, that would be wonderful!” she hailed. “I would love to read something from you. But you must remember that I don’t really write letters of correspondence like most, I write what I wish to say in a fictional story form.”

  “But that would be delightful,” he said, his eyes shining in the dim light, “I will do the same thing and we will write stories to each other.”

  He was excited now, the color of his face changed to animate it, making him all the more beautiful, she thought.

  “May I ask that you write to me first?” she asked seriously.

  He was stunned, not entirely satisfied that he had the right to be. He couldn’t help but feel she had pulled the rug out from under him, changing the tables on him. He wasn’t prepared to handle this sudden flux of apprehension. He had no intention of writing her first, indeed! But he knew his expectation would be viewed as dishonorable should anyone take notice that this young girl had embarked on her own to begin a correspondence with a gentleman. Yet the idea of positioning himself to be the butt of her family’s ridicule was too much to consider.

  He did not move while absorbed with all this.

  She tried to give him the moment to think on it, some privacy in his thoughts, by looking out to the garden, now ablaze by the rising moonlight.

  In a moment, he excused himself.

  She did not know how to react to being left alone there. It did not bother her in the slightest, but who knew what the proprieties called for in such a situation. What would everyone else say if they turned to look out here and saw her alone?

  For at least five minutes, she sat by herself looking out to the garden, fancying that this view was not unlike that from her own bedroom. But the grounds here went on forever, almost to the horizon, far beyond her aunt’s vista because they were much farther from the sea. And, indeed, the garden went off into the horizon like a forest, creating the image of some sort of mythical paradise. She was reminded again of the painting she had thought herself a part of when she had arrived here.

  Dídac retuned at long last with a letter sealed in his father’s emblem.

  “This is the first draft of a story I began last month. The first page is a letter to you, just now written requesting the honor of your correspondence. I should think it more than enough for us to carry on with our plans. No one could question the propriety of it.”

  “You are allowing me to read something you have written then?”

  “If you will forgive me in advance for its quality, but I would be honored if it might inspire a letter in response.”

  He absolutely hated giving it to her.

  “But this is so sweet of you to think of me.” She rose now and stood up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek, sending nothing less than huge fire storms of color to his face, producing the most lovable expressions she had yet seen from him.

  And that was it.

  It had seemed as if it would be such a chore to get to this point, but in a matter of minutes, their relationship had begun. Indeed, it had ventured well beyond that threshold, she felt. And everything Veronica had feared, all of the obstacles she thought might endlessly present themselves in defiance of joining, were now obsolete.

  She would write him like a fanatic, and the passion of these letters would keep her at her desk for hours each day. She would be faithful to this correspondence as she had never been faithful to anything else in her life before. She swore it to herself, privately.

  It would all be true. She would make it be true, whatever the cost.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As the carriage pulled away from the house, Dídac raised his arm to wave goodbye. He smiled, regarding Veronica through the window, and she returned the gesture shyly.

  It was like a dream, she thought, all of this is some grand dream I will not wake from.

  The carriage pulled out from the gates of the estate wall and Veronica pulled her hands to cover her face to scream, the ecstatic sound coming up through her throat in a sharp blast.

  Marcelina could only smile at her niece, her composure having been startled by the sudden burst from the young girl. She waited a moment for Veronica to stop and say something, make some intelligible sound through all of her delirious screaming.

  “What is it, dear? What happened? Hush! Tell me!” Marcelina smiled.

  “Tia, it was wonderful! It was all so wonderful! He is wonderful!”

  “Is that what you’re fussing over?” she teased. “Really, I could have told you that before we arrived.”

  “He talked to me so sweetly, he promised he would write me every day. Here, see, he has already given me a letter!” She pulled the sealed papers from her dress shoulder and waved them in the woman’s face.

  “He wrote this before you arrived?” Marcelina frowned.

  “No, it’s even better than that! He is a writer of stories, as I am, though he’s never let anyone read them before. His family doesn’t even know he writes them.”

  “You’re babbling, dear, speak more slowly,” Marcelina said calmly.

  Veronica frowned in spite of herself.

  “I mentioned to him the letters I write to friends back home, and he asked me if I would write to him, as well. I told him that it would not be proper for a lady to take up correspondence with a gentleman in secret.”

  Marcelina frowned, “Dear, that was not necessary, you know it would be perfectly fine with me.”

  Veronica continued as if she had not heard her.

  “And so, he went to his room and gathered something that he had been writing on his own and gave it to me with a cover letter requesting my correspondence.” She fidgeted with the envelope and then realized she hadn’t even opened the letter yet. The girl exhaled in self-frustration and tore the seal open, unfolding the parchment.

  The cover letter was written in a fine black ink with a handsome and carefully printed scri
pt:

  Señorita Veronica Elena de Fernández y Motas,

  I am herewith requesting the honor of your correspondence, as was previously discussed during our meeting in my family’s house. Enclosed here is the letter that I promised you.

  I pray you will honor me with your reply.

  Sincerest regards,

  Dídac Adriá Ferrero i Martell

  Veronica read the cover letter aloud by the heavy moonlight, which beamed into the carriage. She handed the letter to the Marquesa, who accepted it from the girl casually, as if it were of little importance to anyone. At least, that’s how Veronica felt about the Marquesa’s sluggish movements.

  Marcelina glanced over the letter and eventually produced a whisper of a smile.

  “That’s a clever thing to have done, enslaving him with such an intimate communication. Men will tell you things in letters they might never tell you to your face after fifty years of marriage. Yes, so wise of you to think of this. And the rest? Read it to me, please, if you would.”

  Veronica, who had momentarily forgotten that anything of such importance remained in her hand, redirected her attention, focusing her eyes on the letter.

  She began quietly, allowing her voice to grow louder with each paragraph:

  A Lost Kingdom

  by

  Dídac Adriá Ferrero i Martell

  The clouds rested high on the bordering mountains of the immense kingdom of Fioriono, the jewel of the legendary continent Catafierno, and the greatest of all civilizations. It was a time of peace that brought about a succession of gluttonous kings who cared for little else but their own glory, seeing to it with every breath that their names and figures were immortalized by their sons. These young men were sent out into every respectable and profitable field of enterprise, eventually creating a small but distinguished aristocracy that bore the names of ten monarchs.