by Derek Hansen
‘She is the daughter of this woman, Maddalena Ortelli, a laundress …’
‘Excellency …’ interrupted Maddalena. The Count nodded courteously.
‘Unfortunately,’ continued the Signora, ‘she is unable to continue with us for health reasons. I am just seeing her to the gate.’
‘Excellency …’ interrupted Maddalena once more. ‘I was hoping the Signora could find a place for my daughter here in your household.’ Maddalena knew she’d trespassed over the line of good manners, but she was desperate. Besides, here was a once in a lifetime opportunity and she couldn’t allow it to pass by. God had given her this chance. ‘She is, as you said yourself, Excellency, a delightful child. She works hard and can read like an angel.’
‘Like an angel? I have never heard anyone read like an angel before.’ The Count smiled, reached down and took Cecilia’s hand in his. ‘How old are you child?’
‘Twelve, sir.’ Cecilia surprised herself. Her voice betrayed none of the nervousness she felt.
‘Twelve! Excellent. Come, let’s find somewhere to sit where it is warm, and we can listen to you read. Come along. You too Signora Mila, and you Roberto.’
He led Cecilia around to the front of the villa, to the lawns she’d glimpsed as they’d entered. But that glimpse had barely hinted at the beauty of the place. Cecilia gazed in awe across the sweep of lawns which ended in a line as clean as any drawn, where the hillside fell away towards the lake. And there, in all its splendour, was Lake Como. Cecilia could see across to Ravenna on the far side and Bellagio on the tip of the peninsula, the crotch that separated the two southern legs of the lake.
‘Here we are. Sit, sit!’
The seat he indicated was concrete, curved to fit the line of the garden behind it, and far more ornamental than comfortable. The adults sat and waited for Cecilia to take the book from her mother and read to them, with the magnificent view as her backdrop.
‘The Count of Monte Cristo,’ read Cecilia, her confidence returning now that she was doing something she knew she did well.
‘Old family friend,’ said the Count mischievously. ‘Please continue.’
And Cecilia did. She knew the story well and did what her teachers had taught her to do, what all good readers of stories do; she looked up from the book and into the eyes of her audience as she read. And more and more she singled out those eyes which held sway over her immediate destiny. For his part, the Count never took his eyes off her.
If the Signora was discomfited by Maddalena imposing upon the Count, she forgot the transgression and allowed herself to be swept up in the story. Cecilia read on and on, the cadence of her voice hypnotic, the words magical, till at chapter’s end she took the initiative and closed the book.
‘To be continued,’ she said, and smiled her sweetest smile. Her eyes never left the Count as she waited for him to respond. His lips trembled. But for the magnifying effect of his waxed moustache, the trembling may have passed unnoticed. Then he dragged his eyes away from her and turned to Signora Mila.
‘Indeed. We cannot allow so great a tale to end prematurely, can we, Signora? I for one would be distraught. Attend to it.’ He turned to Cecilia, rose and once more took her hand. ‘It is true, my child, you do read like an angel. Thank you. I look forward to the next instalment. Roberto!’
Maddalena stood at once. She made no attempt to hide the tears that sprang from her eyes.
‘Excellency … I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Nor I you.’ The Count took one more look at Cecilia, then strode off with Roberto.
Chapter Six
Cecilia didn’t cry when her mother left her and disappeared through the little gateway in the side wall. She wanted to, but her mother seemed so happy and delighted at the way things had turned out that she forced back the tears and swallowed the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t spoil things for her mother. God knows, there was little enough that brought her joy. Now she was alone with nothing but the clothes she stood in, her ragged little bundle and the final words of advice her mother had given her.
‘Be a good girl, Cecilia,’ her mother had said. ‘Be nice to the Count and Signora Mila. Always be polite and do what you are told. Work hard. I will come and see you whenever I can. And Cecilia, don’t stop reading, promise me you won’t stop reading. When you escape from the prison it is a sin against God to come back to it.’
Cecilia slowly made her way back around to the rear of the house, past Roberto and the Count and the question of the roses. She climbed the few steps and stood in the kitchen doorway, not knowing whether to knock or enter. She knew she was on the threshold of a new life but had no comprehension whatever as to what the new life entailed. So she hesitated, unwilling to move forward but with nowhere to turn. In any event, she didn’t have long to wait.
‘Are you Cecilia? Come with me.’
Cecilia did as she was told. She followed the housemaid with the scowling face and unfriendly voice through the doorway on the opposite side of the kitchen, and down a long, panelled corridor. When they reached the end the housemaid opened a door and led Cecilia up a flight of narrow wooden stairs.
‘They’re putting you in my room,’ said the housemaid. ‘And if you touch any of my things, you little squirt, I’ll make you wish you’d never come here.’ She opened the third door and entered a tiny room with barely enough room for two thin beds, a dressing table and wardrobe. Between the two beds was a small shuttered window which looked back up the hill towards Ravello and the house which, until this morning, had been her home.
‘You can have that bed,’ said the housemaid, her hostility plainly evident. ‘Sit on it, sleep on it, leave your things on it. It’s your bed but it’s still my room. I don’t want to see you or your miserable bundle of rags anywhere but there. Understand? Understand! What’s the matter, are you dumb or just stupid?’
But Cecilia was unable to answer, didn’t dare in case her voice betrayed her. Through the window she’d just caught a glimpse of a familiar figure struggling up the hill where the road curved into the village. As she watched, the figure stopped and turned so it could look back down the hill towards the Villa Carosio. It was too much for Cecilia.
‘Mama,’ she said, the word half-choking on a sob. The tears so bravely held back now ran freely down her cheeks.
‘My God! What have they given me?’ The housemaid tried to sound angry but lacked conviction. She was barely seventeen herself and it wasn’t so very long ago that she’d been in the same position. She glanced through the window and caught a glimpse of the distant figure just as it disappeared from sight. She put her arm around the distraught girl and pulled her down beside her on the forbidden bed. Cecilia had not been in the room for one minute and was already trespassing.
‘Here, dry your eyes.’ The housemaid handed Cecilia a delicate white handkerchief edged with lace. Cecilia hesitated, unwilling to spoil such a beautiful thing. ‘Go ahead, I’ve got two more. They come with the uniform.’
Cecilia dried her eyes and blew her nose. She took deep breaths until she had her sobbing under control. All the while, the housemaid hugged her tightly.
‘Never mind, little one, you’ll like it here. The Signora tries to act tough but really she is a softie. I’m sorry I was awful to you. This is the first time I’ve ever had a room to myself, my own room. Now I have to share again. You wouldn’t be very happy either if that happened to you.’
‘I shared a room with four brothers and two sisters. I shared my bed with my two sisters. I’ve never had a bed of my own. I’m sorry you have to share your room, Signorina.’
The young housemaid smiled, relieved that Cecilia had stopped crying and begun talking. She pointed across the tiny room.
‘There you are, your own bed. And enough of the Signorina. Call me Anna. I suppose I’ll have to give you a drawer as well. You can have the bottom drawer and I’ll make some room in the wardrobe for your uniform.’
‘Uniform?’
‘Everyone h
ere wears a uniform. Now, I’m under instructions to run a bath for you. While you have a bath, I’ll go downstairs and get some clothes for you to wear. Signora Mila is giving you some clothes that her daughter Carmela no longer wears. Come with me.’
Five minutes later, Cecilia found herself sitting waist deep in hot soapy water, having the first proper bath of her life. It was the most wonderful, luxurious thing that she’d ever experienced. She lay back and pointed her toes so that the hot water could cover her whole body except for her face, and tried to comprehend the nature of her new life. She would step from her bath and into Carmela’s beautiful clothes. It didn’t matter that they weren’t new—indeed, the fact that they’d been Carmela’s only made them more desirable. She’d never considered for a second that she’d ever wear anything remotely like them. If this was what her new life was going to be like, she vowed never to return to the old one. No matter what it took she would never return. She would take her mother’s advice, obey her instructions to the letter and do whatever she had to do. She’d escaped. There was no way she was going back. When she was dressed Anna took her downstairs and presented her to Signora Mila. Cecilia curtsied as she’d done when first introduced.
‘Save that for the Count,’ said the Signora, allowing the slightest smile. ‘All I require from you is your respect and obedience.’ She turned to the housemaid. ‘That will be all, Anna.’
‘Yes, Signora.’
‘Now let me look at you, Cecilia. Carmela will be surprised to see how well her old clothes look on you.’
‘Thank you, Signora, I …’
‘We can’t have you wandering around here in rags. I will arrange for the seamstress to make you up two uniforms which you will wear at all times when you are here. You will wear your other clothes—the ones I have given you—to school and to church in Menaggio. Now pay attention, this is what I want you to do. You will report to cook at six o’clock each morning in your uniform, having first washed, cleaned your teeth, and brushed your hair. At eight o’clock you will change into your school clothes and walk with Roberto to the school. Roberto will meet you at the school gate after school and you will come straight home. You will behave yourself at all times and under no circumstances talk to boys, even if they are your brothers. You must understand, you now live at the Villa Carosio, you are part of the Villa Carosio, and everything you do from this day onwards reflects on the Villa Carosio. After school you will go straight up to your room and change into your uniform. You may do your homework or read for half an hour. Then you will report to me for your afternoon duties. If I am unavailable, you will report to Signora Fiorella. Once everything is cleaned up after dinner, you will be free to go to your room. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Signora. I will do exactly as you say. You can count on me. And Signora, I would like to thank you …’
‘Thank me? Thank your mother. And if any blame attaches later, blame her as well.’
Blame? Cecilia had landed in paradise. What on earth was there to blame anybody for? But the Signora’s face had taken on a hard look which Cecilia couldn’t read.
She spent the rest of the day in Anna’s care, learning the proper way to make up beds, the proper way to fold linen, the proper way to dust, clean and polish. It embarrassed her to learn that all her young life she’d done things the wrong way. It seemed that the Villa Carosio had a way of doing everything differently to the way she’d been taught. She concentrated hard so she’d never have to be told a second time. When they sat down to lunch she met the cook, Signora Fiorella, the remaining two housemaids, Carla and Antonella, the butler Signor Calosci, the chauffeur Andre, the valet Stefano and a big, brusque man called Piero who was in charge of maintenance. They were her new family and, like all families, had a pecking order which she set about learning.
Signora Fiorella was a large, unsmiling woman who ruled her domain with a scowl and a voice cast in a foundry. There’d be no smiles for a job well done, just scorn for work that fell short of perfection, and the back of her hand for cheek. Carla and Antonella were both in their thirties and were as close as twins. They’d shared a room for as long as anyone could remember and resisted any move to vary the arrangement. The valet Stefano was the one who brought life to the gathering. He was twenty-two years old and baby faced, and slicked his hair down with oil to try to make himself look older. He was mischievous and irreverent, traits that would always inhibit his career. He flirted openly with Anna right through lunch and, when the cook objected, turned his charm and attentions upon her. It took all of Cecilia’s self-control not to laugh.
She spent that first afternoon with Anna polishing the silverware. She learned to apply the fluid to each utensil then polish it off when it turned milky. How they shone when she polished them! Cecilia had never done any job as rewarding before, never handled anything as precious. She only looked up once and was surprised to see the Count staring at her from the doorway. Their eyes met. She smiled and he nodded back as he withdrew. She glanced over to Anna to see if she had noticed anything.
‘What are you smiling at?’
‘Nothing. I just felt like smiling.’
‘You just felt like smiling. And this morning I suppose you just felt like crying. You’re going to drive us all mad.’
‘No I won’t Anna. I’m not going to cry any more.’
‘Never?’
‘Never ever.’
Anna looked at the girl six years her junior and for the first time sensed the strength and calm within her.
‘You’re strange,’ she said, and returned to her polishing.
Anna was even more perplexed when, later that night as they cleaned up after the staff meal, the Count sent Signora Mila to fetch Cecilia.
‘Count d’Alatri wishes you to read to him while he has his dinner.’
Cecilia was delighted, not simply because she preferred reading to scrubbing dishes and benches, but because she knew her reading made her special. Yet when she looked up at Signora Mila she found her anything but encouraging. Her lips curled as if they found the words distasteful.
‘I suppose it was to be expected, given the circumstance of your hiring. Come!’
‘Should I run upstairs and get my book?’
‘Cecilia there are two things you should learn straight away. Staff never run. At the Villa Carosio no one ever runs. Running is undignified. We walk with purpose, that is sufficient.’ Signora Mila paused to ensure that Cecilia had absorbed the lesson and the rest of the staff the reminder. ‘Secondly, if the Count wishes you to read to him, doubtless he will also tell you what it is he wishes you to read. Do not presume to make that judgement for him. Now come along.’
Cecilia followed Signora Mila through the house to a part she had not yet seen. Her confidence gave way to apprehension as she moved further and further into the Count’s realm, and chandeliers took over from the oil lamps and weak overhead bulbs of the servants’ quarters. Everywhere she looked, the Count’s family and ancestors seemed to be watching her progress from within their ancient frames. Even so, nothing prepared her for the awesome magnificence of the dining room. The sheer scale of it was daunting. It seemed to her that the entire population of Ravello could sit around the table and still leave room for guests. The centrepiece of the room was a massive crystal chandelier, flanked by two similar but smaller chandeliers. Her head spun. If someone had told her that all the stars in creation had been captured and put at the Count’s disposal she would have shown no surprise. The Count! Her mind leapt back to her reason for being there. Where was he? Then she saw him, a solitary figure sitting at the far end of the table, alone but for Signor Calosci by the credenza, standing straight-backed and as motionless as one of the garden statues.
‘Ah … there you are! Bring her up here would you please, Signora Mila. Sit her down here so we don’t strain her precious voice.’ The Count pointed to the chair nearest him, which was the first of the chairs arrayed along the far side of the table. He put down his knife and fork and
delicately wiped his mouth with his napkin. He watched as Cecilia sat down.
The chair was enormous, like everything else in the room. She had to go up on her tip-toes to climb up onto it, and when she finally sat upon it her feet could no longer touch the floor, even though she barely perched on the edge.
‘Bene! Signora Mila, perhaps you would care to wait while we determine which book we will read from tonight.’ The Count turned to Cecilia. ‘Tell me, child, apart from The Count of Monte Cristo which I must confess I have already read many times, what do you suggest we read?’
Cecilia had no idea what to suggest now that he’d excluded The Count of Monte Cristo and, most likely, every other book like it. ‘Excellency, I have no preference. I am happy to read any book. Mostly my family liked me to read adventure stories, but when my father became interested in Il Duce, most nights I read stories about him from the newspapers.’
‘Ah … you are an admirer of the great man!’ The Count’s eyes had lit up in genuine interest and delight. ‘Signora Mila, please bring us the Milan newspapers. We can share our mutual interest.’
‘Excellency.’
It probably never occurred to the Count how he had belittled Signora Mila by sending her to fetch newspapers for the child to read, but the slight was not lost on Signora Mila, or Cecilia for that matter. She looked up apologetically but the Signora had already turned away.
‘Tell me,’ said the Count eagerly, ‘what do you know about Benito Mussolini?’
‘He is the one man who can make Italy rich and powerful again,’ she said, launching herself into her father’s favourite theme. The Count listened rapturously, as she recounted how Mussolini had pushed through the law creating two First Marshals of the Empire, effectively placing himself on the same level as King Vittorio Emanuele. As she spoke, Signora Mila returned with the newspapers and set them down quietly on the table beside her.
‘Thank you, Signora,’ said Cecilia, desperate not to offend her any further. But the Signora gave her a look which could have melted steel. Too late Cecilia realised her mistake. The Signora had not brought the newspapers for her but for the Count. It was not her place to give thanks. The Signora was not her servant. Cecilia watched dismayed as the Signora bobbed her head to the Count and left the room.