Chapter 6 : 1492-1517
By 1499, Stefano Crispi’s studio in Naples was one of many in an area of burgeoning artistic activity inspired by the creative genius of the Renaissance. Looking out over the Bay of Naples with the gently smoking Vesuvius rising majestically in the distance, Stefano thought the view one of the most stunning he had ever seen, rivalling in its maritime splendour the rolling verdant beauty of the Tuscany he had left behind.
He loved everything about the city: the passion of the people; the sun-bleached colours; the rough and tumble of children playing in the streets; the unceasing babble of the many Mediterranean languages. They all combined to stimulate him, infusing his work with a new life that had been missing for many years.
Stefano had been sixty-five when he arrived in Naples with Niccolò and Gianni, but he had looked and felt thirty. He had reluctantly agreed that Niccolò, at forty, would be his elder brother by ten years and they had set up a studio and workshop. It was now seven years since their arrival and while there was still no change in Stefano’s youthful looks and energy, Niccolò had aged beyond his years, his complexion in the winter months a sickly grey and his health fragile. Stefano slowly began to realise that he might outlive his son.
In the spring of 1500, Gianni announced that he had asked for the hand of Anna, the daughter of a successful cloth trader, Aldo Santini. The announcement was no surprise. The couple had met six months earlier when Gianni was assisting Stefano on a portrait Santini had commissioned of his ageing mother. At seventy-one, Nonna Luisa was a year younger than Stefano’s real age, but she would never have guessed it from the look of this handsome and energetic man who stood before her, brush in hand.
When Anna walked into the studio, Gianni was mesmerised. He had been blending some colours but was now reduced to a trance, absently stirring paints in the earthenware container he was holding as he stared at her.
“Gianni, if you stir that paint any more, you’ll make a hole in the container,” called Stefano.
Colouring to the roots of his hair, Gianni stuttered his apologies, then continued stirring.
“Gianni!” barked Stefano. “The blend?”
Gianni looked up at him. “Sorry, Zio. It’s ready. Here.”
“It’s been ready for fifteen minutes,” teased Stefano.
Then to Gianni’s horror, Stefano turned to Anna. “Signorina Santini. I am remiss in my manners. I haven’t introduced you to my apprentice and nephew, Gianni. I was forgetting that on the previous occasion you were here, he was absent.”
Looking into Gianni’s eyes, Anna took the sides of her skirts in her hands and curtseyed.
“I am very honoured to make your acquaintance, signore,” she smiled coyly.
To Gianni’s further confusion, she walked over to him.
“I am fascinated by the subtleties of the colours your uncle has been using. Could you show me how you make these blends? It must require a great deal of skill.”
Forgetting every word of the Neapolitan language he’d become fluent in over the past few years, Gianni could only babble a few incoherent words in Tuscan, much to the amusement of both Anna and Stefano.
“Pray, signore, what language do you speak?” teased Anna, secretly thrilled that this handsome young man should be showing an interest in her.
Taking a deep breath, Gianni looked into Anna’s eyes.
“Um, it’s really very, um, simple. Really,” he stammered. “You just need to know something about the colours of the properties.”
He frowned at the quizzical smile on Anna’s face.
“Um, I mean the properties of the colours. How they are affected by other colours, and the proportions required to blend them to the desired colour.” Suddenly, he was in his stride and the two of them chatted animatedly until a loud cough from Nonna Luisa brought them up short.
“I’m coming, Nonna,” said Anna meekly and turned to walk away, but not before catching Gianni’s eyes in a look that told him his feelings were reciprocated.
They were married in the summer of 1501, their first child arriving a year later. Niccolò rallied on both occasions, but his decline was inexorable. As the winter of 1502 approached, the physician was a regular visitor, although there was little he could do.
“I fear, Signor Crispi, that your brother has a canker. His sputum is frequently very dark, indicating, as is well known, that an excess of black bile is the cause of this dreadful disease. There is, regrettably, no cure.”
“Is there really nothing you can give him, Dottore? He is frequently in such distress.”
The physician nodded. “There are preparations of arsenical compounds that I have sometimes prescribed. They might ease his suffering. But you must realise this is not a cure.”
“I understand that, Dottore. This canker is a curse that seems to inflict much pain. If there is anything that can reduce his torment, it would be merciful.” Stefano looked over at the emaciated form that was his son. “Anything, Dottore.”
The treatment gave him some relief and for short periods he could talk to them. However, the illness followed its inevitable course and Niccolò died in early February 1503, a few days after his fifty-first birthday.
Anna’s younger sister, Francesca, was no match for Anna in looks. While both were raven-haired and olive-skinned, Anna’s subtle beauty was inherited from the women on her father’s side; Francesca had her mother’s far plainer features. Once Anna was engaged to Gianni, there were far fewer young men calling on the Santini household and Francesca knew her chances of marrying someone of her own age were now limited. Yet she had no intention of being palmed off on one of the ageing notaries her mother had in mind for her: Gianni’s Uncle Stefano was a far better catch. Even though he was forty-two, he was youthful for his years, and very handsome. There was only one problem: Stefano appeared oblivious to Francesca’s unsubtle advances.
She complained bitterly to her sister.
“The way he talks to me, Anna, it’s like an old man would treat a favourite grandchild. Can’t he see that is not the way I wish to be treated? I do not wish to be patronised. I am not a child!”
“I think he is finding the death of his brother very difficult to come to terms with, Franci,” smiled Anna. “I’ll talk to Gianni about it.”
Gianni’s opinion, although not one he could explain to Anna, was one of disgust. The thought of his grandfather, a man of now seventy-seven, becoming involved with a girl of twenty-two was repulsive to him. Anna was surprised by his negativity. “It’s not that unusual, Gianni. Zio Stefano is only forty-two and he has the figure and stature of a man much younger. I know of many instances where men of that age take a young wife.”
“Yes,” replied Gianni angrily, “and what happens? I’ll tell you what happens. The young wives are very quickly young widows, often with several children to bring up and with no father to support them. Is that what you want for your sister?”
“Of course not, Gianni. Nobody wants that. But I can’t believe that a man as youthful and vital as Stefano would be leaving this world just yet.”
“Perhaps you wish you had married him instead of me,” pouted Gianni, folding his arms and turning his back to her.
Anna sighed to herself. Why were men so idiotic?
Gianni didn’t leave it there. He visited Stefano the same evening to make his case, which he did forcefully.
Stefano was shocked: he hadn’t realised Francesca’s intentions. Gianni’s indignation amused him, although he tried his best to mask his smiles.
“Gianni, Gianni! Don’t worry; I have no designs on Francesca. She is a sweet girl, I grant you.” He held up his hand as Gianni started to protest. “But I agree that I couldn’t possibly take on a wife at my age, even if I wanted to.”
“Mind you,” he teased, “when she smiles, she can be rather pretty.”
“Nonno!”
“It’s all right, Gianni, I’m joking.” He laughed and shook his head. “Imagine if she knew the truth; she’d run all the way f
rom here to the top of Vesuvius!”
Francesca’s solution was to insinuate herself into Stefano’s company as often as possible. She started to bring him lunch, particularly when he was away from the studio on a commission. These were times she particularly enjoyed since he was often alone. On these occasions she would chatter away, always ensuring that there would be mention of one friend or another’s recent engagement.
But the progress she hoped for was slow. Time passed and while Anna had produced a second child, Francesca had no choice but to live in hope. There were times when she felt Stefano might be weakening, but if ever he made any flattering comments to her, it seemed that Gianni was always there to interrupt and change the subject, increasingly short-tempered with his uncle.
In spite of having a loving wife and two healthy children, Gianni was unsettled. He was frustrated with his progress as an artist, knowing in his heart he could never hope to emulate Stefano’s skill. Worse was the pressure he felt over Stefano’s secret, a fear that one day they would be forced to leave, as they had left San Sepolcro.
“I’m thirty-one, Nonno, and I’m getting nowhere,” he hissed at Stefano one morning in the late spring of 1508. He was working in an echoey church where he was reluctantly performing some restoration on a number of deteriorating frescos, work he felt was beneath him. Stefano had come to view his progress.
Stefano glared at him. “Keep your voice down, Gianni! You never know who’s listening.”
He looked around, but there was nobody within earshot.
“It’s all very well, Zio,” continued Gianni, sarcastically emphasising the word, “but I resent restoring some other artist’s second-rate efforts; I should be moving forward. And I don’t want to wait until I’m eighty-one like you.”
“Gianni, that’s enough. I’ve told you many times that you have a fine talent; you just need to be more patient. You are always in too much of a hurry to finish whatever project you’re working on and move onto the next. You know that you cannot rush a painting; it has to come from the heart.”
“I know all that, Zio.” He was softer now, more reasonable. “But I live in fear that all this, all our work here, might suddenly come to an abrupt end; that some zealot from the Church will discover your secret and persecute you, forcing you to flee like last time. I should have to leave as well.”
“It worries me too, Gianni, believe me. But I can assure you that if I were to be discovered, I should not expect you to leave with me. You have your family to consider. They are the most important thing in your life now.”
“How could I stay behind, Zio? The Church would regard me as your accomplice.”
Eventually, Gianni started to heed Stefano’s advice, resulting in the improvement Stefano knew he was capable of. When the studio received a commission for a portrait of the Contessa di Salerno, Stefano rewarded Gianni by giving him the work. The sittings were in the Contessa’s villa, an hour’s walk across the city and early each morning, once Anna had approved his appearance, Gianni would set out with two assistants.
The painting progressed better than Gianni had dared to hope. The likeness was excellent and the contessa talked enthusiastically of further portraits of her family.
One evening, after the contessa had retired from the sitting, Gianni was completing some background detail. As the light outside began to fade, he became concerned that his assistants’ families would be expecting them, so he dismissed them for the day.
“I think we should stay, Gianni,” suggested Vittorio, the elder of the two. “The walk across the city is not safe these days after dark. It would be better if we were to accompany you.”
“Nonsense, Vittorio, I know the route well; all the pathways I intend to take have torches burning. There is no danger. Off you go, both of you. I’ll see you at the studio in the morning.”
Gianni had not been entirely truthful with his assistants – he intended using a few short cuts that were far from well lit. As a young man, he had explored the city many times with Neapolitan friends and was confident he could find his way through the maze of back streets in the poor quarter. However, the darkness quickly confused him.
Entering a small square, he noticed a group of youths on the far side strutting around and shouting to each other. They called out to him as he emerged from the shadows, but he ignored them and set off down a narrow alley he thought he recognised, only to find a dead end. Turning back, he saw the youths were now blocking his way.
“This foreigner seems lost!” declared the loudest of the group, Gianni’s northern looks immediately obvious to him. He peered forward at Gianni - he was a head shorter but a rise in the alley put their eyes level.
“Lost, are we, signore?” The words were spat sarcastically. “Can’t. Find. Your. Way.”
Gianni looked at him warily.
Another of the youths joined in. “The fool either can’t speak or doesn’t understand our beautiful language. I regard it as an insult that some turnip-headed foreigner should come to the greatest city in the world and refuse to learn our language.”
A third youth, also short but more muscular than the others, curled his fleshy lips in a sneer. “I think this foreigner needs to be taught a lesson.”
He took a step towards Gianni, who held up his hand. “I understand your fine language very well, lads. I roamed these streets too, when I was younger.”
The youth who had been first to speak turned to his friends.
“What fine manners this foreigner has developed since coming here from the north. They don’t have houses there, you know, they live with the swine.”
“That would account for their looks,” said the third youth, looking darkly at Gianni. The others laughed, snorting like pigs.
Gianni took a step towards them and put a hand on his bag. Five hands immediately went to the hilts of five short thrusting swords. But Gianni had no weapon. He lifted his hands and held out both palms.
“What is it you want, lads?”
“Lads? Lads, he says? How dare he talk down to us in such a way? Does the pig not know his station in life?”
The first youth drew his sword and waved it under Gianni’s nose. Gianni, angry now, made to step towards him, but moved quickly sideways and grabbed one of the others, taking him by surprise. Holding him in a headlock, Gianni snatched a thin-bladed knife he had seen on the youth’s belt and held it to his throat. Immediately, four swords were out and pointing at him.
“I mean nobody any harm, but I will use this knife if you don’t drop your swords and let me leave,” threatened Gianni, pushing the knife blade harder against the wriggling boy’s neck and pulling the headlock tighter. The four backed off, lowering their swords a fraction. Gianni moved slowly along the wall towards the square, not taking his eyes off the group.
As he reached the end of the wall, he felt something sharp push against his back.
“Better let him go, pig, or I’ll slice your insides.”
Gianni spun round to see another member of the group who had hung back in the square. He was waving a sword at him. Gianni’s grip on the small youth’s neck had loosened as he turned and the boy wriggled free, falling over as he did.
“Did the pig push you over, Mario?” came a goading voice from the shadows.
“No pig pushes me,” was the reply. “Hey pig, time to become ham!”
The boy stood up, drew his sword and thrust it in Gianni’s direction. At the same moment, the youth behind Gianni pushed him hard and Gianni was impaled on the sword. The wide-eyed Mario looked in horror at what he’d done.
“Carmine, you fool, you pushed him! It wasn’t my fault! I was only going to cut him a little, teach him a lesson. What have you done?”
He backed away in horror, pulling out the sword, and Gianni slumped to the ground. The blade had pierced his heart. The group evaporated from the square, leaving their victim dying on the cobblestones.
Gianni’s death left his family numbed in uncomprehending shock. In his anger an
d frustration, Stefano took to wearing a sword and walking the streets of the poor quarters, heedless of the consequences. But the gang was never found. It wasn’t until Francesca pleaded with him one evening that he finally came to his senses.
“Stefano, my dear, sad Stefano. To lose your nephew so soon after your brother, and in such a way, is truly terrible. But if you carry on like this, we shall lose you too. You are all we have now. Anna needs you. Her children need you.”
She paused. “I need you,” she added more quietly. “Can’t you see that, you poor man?”
Stefano slumped into her arms and she guided him to a couch. Nestling his head against her breast, he wept like a baby. He wept for Gianni, for Niccolò, for Maria. He wept for his past life. He wept for himself. He was eighty-three years old. His world had turned upside down and he no longer understood anything.
Francesca let him weep. She stroked his hair with one hand while playing with the crucifix on her necklace with the other, a soft smile on her face.
God moves in mysterious ways, she thought.
Still suffering from the shock of Gianni’s death, Stefano was easily persuaded by Francesca’s careful arguments that it was their joint responsibility to take on the role of leaders and protectors of the family. They were married three months later.
Francesca was now twenty-eight and longing for a family. As with all her missions in life, she launched into this one with a passion that surprised and pleased Stefano – he had missed sharing his bed more than he realised.
Two years went by, then three. By 1513, Francesca was getting desperate; it seemed she was never going to be blessed with children. She blamed her husband: the youthful looks that increasingly puzzled her clearly meant nothing. “You’re fifty-one, Stefano, even though you don’t look it. Perhaps that’s too old to father children. It’s not fair; Anna was pregnant almost immediately after she and Gianni were married.” She paused to cross herself. “Why not me?”
“I’m certainly not too old, Franci,” replied Stefano, thinking to himself that maybe at eighty-six he was. Perhaps this was a sign that he was ageing after all. “I know many men far older than I who have become fathers.”
In her quest for help, Francesca automatically turned to the Church. She prayed, she confessed. She sought and got an audience with the bishop who prayed with her, somewhat intimidated and embarrassed by her frank tales of Stefano’s prowess. She became more devout. She tried but failed to get Stefano to attend church as regularly as she did.
“You spend so much time there that I’d have to stop painting and take up residence in the confessional, Francesca,” he complained.
Francesca’s failure to become a mother had a devastating effect on their relationship. She started to resent him. She felt she was wasting her life on this man who looked so young but who could not give her a child. She felt in her heart she wasn’t barren, that it wasn’t her fault. So it must be his.
Late in November 1517, a maid came to Francesca one morning as she was preparing to leave for church for the second time that day.
“There is a gentleman at the door, signora, a gentleman seeking Signor Crispi. He says he is an artist, signora, from Tuscany.”
The mention of Tuscany caused Francesca to think he might be worth talking to.
“Send him to the front reception room, Maria.”
She left him there for two minutes and then made her entrance.
“Signor…?”
The man bowed elaborately. His fleshy lips were unpleasantly moist as he addressed her. “Rossi, Signora, Enrico Rossi.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Signor Rossi. How can I help you?”
“I was hoping to meet your husband, signora. I am an artist who has been working in various towns in Tuscany, but for health reasons I have come south to pursue my career in this warmer climate.” He coughed delicately into an elaborately embroidered lace handkerchief.
“I have heard that your husband paints in the style of the Tuscan masters. I was hoping to speak with him, perhaps gain some introductions.”
“My husband has done more than paint in that style here in Naples, Signor Rossi, he was a prolific artist in Tuscany as a young man before he came south. You must be familiar with his work there.”
“Forgive me, signora, when did your husband come to Naples?”
“In 1492.”
“Where was he working in Tuscany, signora?”
“In San Sepolcro, Signor Rossi.”
Rossi paused and frowned, not wanting to cause offence or seem stupid.
“I regret, signora, that I only heard of your husband’s name when I arrived here in Naples. I have never heard of a Stefano Crispi working in San Sepolcro.”
There was an embarrassed silence. Rossi looked discreetly round the room at a number of paintings hanging on the walls.
“Are these your husband’s work, signora? Would you be offended if I presumed to take a closer look?”
“Please do, Signor Rossi, please do.”
For the next five minutes, Rossi walked from painting to painting, studying each one in detail. As he moved on from one to another, Francesca heard him muttering to himself. “Remarkable, quite remarkable.”
Finally he turned and smiled at her. “This is indeed work of rare brilliance, signora. It is no wonder your husband has such a high reputation here in Naples: his style is very much that of the Tuscan masters. I can see the influence of the great Piero, but interestingly, these paintings are remarkably even more like those of a Tuscan artist who worked in San Sepolcro from the 1460s until 1492. His name was Luca di Stefano. The similarity is really astounding.”
“1492, Signor Rossi? Is that when he died?”
“No signora, it would seem not. There were tales of witchcraft associated with him, a pact with the Devil. It seems he did not appear to age as the years passed; he always looked the same, like a young man of thirty.”
Francesca gasped. “What happened to him?” she whispered.
“Apparently he disappeared, signora, along with his son and grandson. In late 1492. They simply vanished. Signora, is everything all right? You look pale.”
“Do you know what they were called, his son and grandson?”
“I believe the son was Niccolò, signora. And the grandson Gianni.”
Francesca burst into Stefano’s studio, yelling agitatedly that he stop and listen while she told him what Rossi had said.
As he heard her story, Stefano felt sick to the heart, but he managed to stay calm.
“It’s a strange tale, Franci,” he said, rather too nonchalantly. “I’ve heard vaguely of this di Stefano, but I think your Signor Rossi is overstating his importance. As for the ageing, I heard that was a ploy on behalf of the city councillors to punish him for not attending church. They made it all up.”
He continued. “Anyway, I think these tales of witchcraft are exaggerated. They are merely a device the Church uses to control people.”
Francesca crossed herself. “Stefano, how can you speak such blasphemy? It is well known that some weak people become possessed by the Devil and that he then uses them for his own wicked purposes. The Church has a continuing fight against such evil. It has to resist before we are all conquered by Satan and condemned to an eternity of fire.”
She paused, breathing heavily as her anger built.
“How can you mock the wisdom of the Church?” she yelled at him. “No wonder we are cursed with not having children!”
“Francesca, be reasonable. How can you believe tales of people who do not age? It’s complete nonsense. We all get older and die. That’s the way of life. Can’t you understand that?”
“No, Stefano, I can’t! I don’t understand anything anymore. I’m totally confused. I don’t know who you are or what you are. I need to talk to the priest. He is the only one who will be able to shed any light on it, to explain God’s way in all of this.”
“Franci, please,” he continued, trying to reason with
her. “I think it would be better if you calmed down before discussing this with the priest. You need to relax. If you relax perhaps you will be able to conceive. We’re still not too old. As for me, you know who I am. I’m your Stefano, and I always have been.”
Her shoulders sagged; she seemed to have given in. Stefano held out his arms but as Francesca looked into his pale grey eyes, she saw fear. She assumed it was fear of discovery, but of what? A pact with the Devil? Was she married to such a man? Then she remembered Rossi’s mention of Niccolò and Gianni. She had to get away. She moved back from him, avoiding his arms. She wanted no more contact with him, but she needed to placate him.
“You’re right, Stefano.” She attempted a smile. “I’m overexcited. I need to think the whole thing over. Let’s talk again this evening.”
Stefano watched her hurry from the studio. He called to his assistant. “Vito, I’m concerned about the signora. Could you follow her discreetly to make sure she gets home without any mishap? Don’t let her see you following, she would only get upset.”
Stefano looked sadly around his beloved studio. He sighed and walked over to a large wooden chest under a window. The two travelling bags he withdrew were already packed – they had been for some time – he just added a set of brushes and a few personal items. Then he went to a bureau and took out three letters written on scrolls of parchment. He sat down and waited.
Some fifteen minutes later a breathless Vito burst into the room.
“Signore! Signore! I fear that something terrible is going to happen!” He paused, gasping for breath.
Stefano put a hand on his shoulder. “Take a deep breath, Vito, and tell me what you saw.”
Still panting, Vittorio launched into his account.
“I followed the signora as you asked, signore, but she didn’t go to your house. She walked in the opposite direction, towards the church. She went inside and I followed her, staying in the shadows. I assumed she was going to pray, but you’d said to make sure she got home all right, so I stayed.”
“You did well, Vito.”
“She went straight to the confessional, signore, but there was someone in it with the priest. Instead of waiting quietly, she marched up and down outside, coughing loudly. The priest came out and told her to be quiet. But she took his arm, signore, and marched him off into a corner. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but the priest became very agitated, wringing his hands and crossing himself. At one point the priest even sank to his knees, on the bare stones, and prayed. After that, he raised his voice and I heard words like ‘bishop’ and ‘militia’ and ‘cardinal’ and ‘burning in hell’. He then turned on his heel and rushed out of the church, leaving the signora crying on her knees in front of a statue of Our Lady. At that point, I thought I should return and tell you, signore.”
“You did very well, Vito, better than you realise.”
Picking up a quill, he signed and dated the scrolls and then sealed them with wax.
He paused and placed his hands on Vittorio’s shoulders. “There is one more thing I need you to do. Vito, you have been a fine and trustworthy apprentice. I’m afraid I have to go away for some time, a long time, and I regret the studio will have to close.” He handed the youth one of the scrolls. “I want you to take this scroll to Signor Marinello. He is a fine artist and I am sure that with my recommendation he will employ you. Take it, and take this purse.”
He took a purse of coins from his belt.
“There are your wages and enough to keep you for a few months in case you can’t find employment straight away. Now listen carefully. There are two other scrolls. One is addressed to Signora Anna. I want you to take it to her tomorrow, not before. The other is addressed to Signor Farrara, the notary. I need you to take it to him immediately.”
Looking the youth squarely in the eyes, he said, “Vito, you will hear some terrible things said about me in the next few days. Whether they are true or not, you will have to decide for yourself. I can only say that I think you know me well enough as a man and a friend not be swayed by the crazed passions of the overzealous. Now go, Vittorio, there is no time to lose.”
Vittorio turned to go, faltered and turned back. He threw his arms around Stefano, tears in his eyes.
“Signore, I … I shall not let you down. And I shall never forget you.”
After one last glance around the studio, Stefano quickly gathered his things and ran to the next street where he kept his horse. He had already sent word for it to be saddled. He mounted up and left the city, taking a northerly road.
On a rise a few miles away that gave a commanding view of the entire city, the Bay of Naples and the ever-threatening smoke of Vesuvius, he stopped and looked back for one final time, wondering if he would ever return. He shook his head in disbelief. He was ninety years old and yet he felt and looked no older than he had sixty years before. How much longer was he going to continue like this?
The notary, Aldo Farrara opened the scroll with interest, raising his eyebrows in surprise as he read it. Stefano had instructed him to transfer immediately all titles for his property and possessions to Francesca’s sole name along with all his investments and monies.
Aldo Farrara sat back in his chair in surprise and re-read the document several times.
“You saw your master prepare this document?” he said to Vito.
“I saw him sign it, signore.”
“There was no coercion or threat?”
“None, signore.”
“And where is your master now?”
“He has gone, signore.”
“Gone where?”
“I do not know, signore.”
“Then you may leave. There is no reply.”
Farrara quickly retrieved the relevant papers. The task was straightforward and by early afternoon, shortly before the forces of the Church descended to search for the agent of the Devil and seize his property, there was nothing in Naples that now belonged to Stefano Crispi. And the man himself was gone.
One reason why Farrara was pleased to act so promptly for his client was that he was very attracted to the young widow, Anna Santini. With Stefano out of the picture, he was confident he would be able to charm her.
Five weeks later, Francesca arrived one morning at her sister’s house. Her hair was dishevelled, her face blotchy and puffed. She had been up all night crying. As she sat down heavily in a chair, Anna took her hand. She was herself still confused over Stefano’s departure, despite the reassurances she had received in his letter.
“Franci, despite all that has been said about him, I remain convinced that Stefano is a good and honourable man. There must be some other explanation for everything that has happened. He was a good husband to you. Perhaps once he has had time to think everything over, you will hear from him. I feel sure he will come back.”
She knew her words were hollow. From what Stefano had written to her, she was in no doubt: he would never return.
Francesca stopped sobbing and looked painfully into Anna’s eyes.
“He’ll never come back, Anna, I know it. I’ll never see him again, and that means he’ll never know.”
“Know what, Franci?”
Francesca’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“I’m pregnant.”
Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I) Page 6