“Gubbio is in Italy, silly,” Beatrix said. “In the saint’s time, a huge wolf was gobbling up the citizenry of the town and countryside of Gubbio. Francis, being a gentleman’s son long before he became a saint, struck a gentlemanly deal with the wolf. The townspeople would feed the wolf all the chicken and fish he wished, if he would leave them alone.”
“Not quite fair to the chickens of the town,” I commented, and Minnie gave me a little kick.
“The wolf agreed. The study that Amerigo owns—rather, his father owns—shows Francis and the wolf shaking on it, much as dogs and owners shake hands. He has promised to show me the painting before he sells it.”
Minnie was all alertness. Plans had been made. Their meetings would no longer be accidental. Her daughter had a lover, and now that it was definite, the mother was no longer certain that a leap into the unknown was just what her daughter needed.
“He will sell it without his father’s permission?” Minnie put down her teacup and buttered a slice of toast.
“He is certain he will win his father’s approval before the purchase is made.”
“And when will this private showing occur?” Did I hear a touch of wariness in Minnie’s voice? If Beatrix did, she ignored it.
“When we are in Paris. He doesn’t have the painting with him, of course. It’s much too fragile. But if Mrs. Haskett doesn’t meet his price, he will offer it to other potential buyers in France who have expressed interest. He does so need the money.”
Minnie did not like this at all. Meeting in a solarium was one thing. Speaking of money and commerce—that was another. Even most married couples, for better or for worse, rarely spoke of money. And they had agreed to meet in Paris. Paris, where the lawyer and the estranged husband with his mistress were waiting to confront Minnie, to buy her off with a divorce settlement. This seemed unwise, the confluence of what certainly appeared to be a beginning love with a dead one.
“He speaks very freely of his circumstances,” Minnie said, latching onto the one concrete element that a mother could criticize, and this time the wariness in her voice had turned to acid. “Is he desperate? Does he mistakenly believe you are wealthy?”
“Quite the opposite. I have told him that when I return to New York I will work as a landscape designer.”
From outside the window we could hear laborers shouting. A flock of chattering birds rose in alarm from the linden tree opposite the hotel.
“You are angry,” Beatrix said. “I should have asked you.”
“No. You are not a child anymore. You don’t need my permission. I just . . .” Minnie twirled a lock of her hair, a childhood habit she had never broken. “I worry. I do so want your happiness, more than anything in this world.”
Beatrix smiled. “And if my road to happiness leads me to Rome?”
Minnie and I both sighed.
“In Italy, you wouldn’t have a chance of establishing a professional reputation,” Minnie reminded her. “You might redesign the gardens for your husband’s home; you might achieve a name as a woman with a good eye for color in the garden. And that would be that.”
Beatrix laughed. “You should not buy the wedding gown just yet. We have had no such conversation. Nor do I intend to.”
Minnie shook her head. It had become painfully obvious that Beatrix did not yet understand the workings of the heart. What we plan for ourselves so often has little to do with what the heart commands.
We spent that afternoon again in the sunny Tiergarten, with Beatrix making little drawings of the various waterways and statuary. She often sighed and muttered to herself as she rubbed out faulty lines and tried to capture difficult perspectives.
The Tiergarten was as crowded with Americans as the Borghese gardens had been in Rome, and as each separate group passed where we sat, Minnie reading, I knitting, and Beatrix sketching, we received long, intrusive glances. We overheard—were meant to overhear—snatches of conversation. Hotel room. Colosseum after dark. The orchids . . . An Italian! We all pretended not to hear, though Minnie’s face grew a little stormy. She continued to smile vaguely as ladies do in public, but a crease appeared between her eyebrows and deepened as the afternoon lengthened.
When we went to supper that evening at a fashionable inn famous for its cuisine, conversation ceased as we passed already filled tables. Gossip spreads quickly, even more quickly than usual among travelers, but there had to be a guiding hand, and it was Mrs. Haskett’s, of course.
“I think we shall leave Berlin soon. It is too warm on the continent,” said Minnie after we were seated, studying her menu. “It is time to go to England and Scotland, don’t you think, Beatrix?”
“In three days,” Beatrix said, and that was how we knew Amerigo would be in Berlin for three more days. “Where will you go, Daisy?”
“Back to Paris. I miss the children. Everything is so quiet and orderly without them.”
“Will Mr. Winters be there?”
“I’ll have to check the racing papers and see if the horses are still running,” I said.
Minnie and Beatrix sighed.
“Don’t!” I said. “Don’t you dare pity me. He is a scoundrel. We all know that. But I wouldn’t change a thing about him.”
That wasn’t completely true, but one must put on a show. I only hoped I would get back to Paris and discover he hadn’t used our entire quarter’s income during my absence.
The next day we went to Potsdam to see the Charlottenhof Park, Beatrix busily making notes and drawings all the while, vigorously pursuing her studies of the plantings and the landscaping. Minnie’s frown grew deeper.
To be a female landscape designer in America was one thing. America was new, its cities and parks were new, and in the whirlwind of novelty there was occasionally even room for a novel idea: working women. But Europe was ancient, as root-bound as any plant needing, and not receiving, a larger pot. In Europe, Beatrix would be no more than an eccentric, an amateur, frustrated and perhaps growing a little silly as she aged.
Could Amerigo come to America? It says much of the situation that none of us even considered such a plan. He had family, an estate, ties. Men did not readily give up such things, and when they did they were often scorned by the New York Four Hundred as nothing more than fortune hunters.
There were rules about such things. Women took their husbands’ names. They lived where their husbands wished, kept company with those of whom their husbands approved. They gave themselves and their lives into their husbands’ keeping, for better or for worse. No. If there was to be a union, Beatrix would have to stay in Italy.
Minnie felt a touch of betrayal. She and her daughter had planned a professional life for Beatrix, independence. Was she on the verge of giving it all up for something as unpredictable as love?
At some point during those next two days, Beatrix met again with Amerigo. When we napped in the pension? The summer heat felt oppressive and Minnie and I spent hours indoors, fanning ourselves and pressing cool compresses to our foreheads. Or perhaps it was after dinner, when Beatrix went for her walk and left us behind.
We knew she had seen him because she was able to tell us that Mrs. Haskett had not met the price for The Wolf of Gubbio. She was still leading him on.
“That is an ugly phrase, leading him on,” Minnie said.
“The truth is often unappealing,” Beatrix said.
“So he goes to Paris now, to meet with other buyers.”
“He will be there when we are, after England and Scotland.”
“I see,” said Minnie. And she did.
Before we all left Berlin, Mrs. Haskett invited us for a luncheon. The three of us would rather have been dosed with castor oil than attend, but we felt we must, else the gossip surrounding Beatrix would only grow worse. Mrs. Haskett had put us in that kind of position.
The silly woman served English-style roast beef and po
tatoes on one of the hottest days of the year, with a warm steamed pudding for a sweet. The conversation, talk of bankers and investment ventures and who had purchased what, was as bad as the food. Some dozen people sat at her table, overwhelmed by all the crystal and silver and lace and courses of food, when all we wanted was a simple cold plate of salad.
Mrs. Haskett’s three daughters were dressed alike, in sunny yellow muslin and with orchids in their hair, and the four young men who had been invited, second sons of the minor aristocracy, studying or pretending to study law, had been seated among them like so many sacrificial lambs awaiting the slaughter. Their manners were excellent, their conversation drivel. They ate with a steady concentration that suggested actual meals were spaced well apart in their lives. I knew the signs. Their allowances went elsewhere. They would be behind in the rent for their rooms, and a bill collector made regular rounds to them. They gambled, I imagined. It was a common enough fault.
I assumed the fourth young man had been invited for Beatrix, but she would have none of this blatant matchmaking over charred beef. She addressed her comments, few as they were, to the women at the table.
“You leave Berlin tomorrow, I hear?” Mrs. Haskett asked after the custard sauce had been passed around. The meal had been so heavy and the air in the dining room so warm and humid I thought I would melt, but Beatrix looked as cool as ever. She had Minnie’s ability to persevere through conditions that would drive other women to distraction, and to stay as fresh as my namesake flower.
“Yes. Time to go to England, and then on to Scotland. I hope it will be cooler,” Minnie said, although we all knew the question had been meant for Beatrix.
“Such a shame your special friend could not come to lunch today,” the terrible Mrs. Haskett said, this time turning physically in Beatrix’s direction so that there could be no confusion as to whom she was speaking.
“Friend?” Beatrix asked, wisely leaving off the adjective that had preceded it.
“Signor Massimo. I invited him, of course, but he declined. I hope you haven’t had a falling-out. Such a charming man.” Her voice dripped venom. Mrs. Haskett’s three daughters tittered behind their handkerchiefs.
Minnie slowly, with exaggerated calm, put her dessertspoon down and wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. She swallowed once, twice.
“Signor Massimo is a friend of the family,” she lied. “I don’t know what you meant by ‘special friend,’ but if it is as I suspect, Beatrix has none.” She rose, again slowly, majestically.
Beatrix and I rose as well. “Such a lovely lunch,” Minnie said. “We have overstayed, however, and must leave. Thank you, Mrs. Haskett.”
The whole table stood and began to disperse to various corners of the room. Minnie had that kind of authority. If she said a luncheon was over, it was over.
“Do give my regards to dear Mrs. Wharton when you see her,” Mrs. Haskett said, blowing us kisses as we made our way down the hall and out the door.
“Horrid, horrid woman,” Minnie muttered all the way back to our hotel. “It won’t stop here, Beatrix. She means you harm. I see it in her eyes.”
“It’s because she can’t marry off those three daughters,” I said. “They’re like the evil stepsisters in a fairy tale.”
“No,” Beatrix said. “It is because we didn’t remember her name when we met in the Borghese gardens.”
“It may be more than that,” Minnie said. Her sweet, pale face was dark with emotion. “Have you not yet wondered why Mrs. Haskett, certainly no longer young but not quite yet old, has been stringing along—I believe that is the phrase—Signor Massimo? Perhaps she is interested in more than the painting.”
We shrank back into the upholstered cushion of the carriage, our mouths rounded in horror. And then, after a silent consideration of Mrs. Haskett in Amerigo’s arms, we gave her the greatest insult possible. We laughed. If she had been there to hear us she would have done us physical violence, I am certain.
THIRTEEN
Beatrix disappeared during our last evening in Berlin. She shared a supper of sauerbraten with us at our hotel, went out for her evening walk, and did not come back till sometime after Minnie and I had gone to our beds. In the morning, we did not ask her where she had been, or with whom, and she did not speak of it. Her face glowed and she seemed to walk on the very air.
She even patted that terrifying stuffed wolf in the hall, as if making a fond farewell to it.
I returned to Paris, to my husband, who greeted me at the train station with roses, two dozen of them, and a smile much too similar to the children’s when something had been broken.
“Where are the children?” I asked, feeling a moment of panic as mothers do when their children are not where they are expected to be.
“Clara and India are in the Bois de Boulogne, riding, and Athena is napping. I thought we might have a quiet afternoon together.”
“Athena hates to nap,” I said, disappointed that he hadn’t brought our offspring. “How much have you lost?” I turned my face so that he kissed me on the cheek, not the mouth.
“Not so much that I can’t win it back next week,” he said.
There would be far fewer gamblers in the world if we could learn to control optimism. But then, it was optimism that kept me going back to Mr. Winters.
“I have had a letter from a Mrs. Haskett,” he said, helping me up the steps of the carriage. He badly tipped the porter who promised to have my trunk delivered to the hotel. “Who is the blighted woman? Have we ever met?”
“We were introduced in New York, but she was not one of our set. Unfortunately, the Joneses and Whartons and I met up with her in Rome and she forced her acquaintance on us. She is making trouble for Beatrix. What does she say in the letter?”
“She will be in Paris and would like to call on us. She has a matter upon which she would like my advice. Something about an old painting.” He preened a bit. People rarely asked Mr. Winters’ advice on any serious matter.
“We will pretend we never received the letter,” I said. “Throw it away immediately.”
“As you say, dear.” He twirled his mustache for a moment, thinking. “Mrs. Haskett. Widow of Reginald? Tall woman, wide shouldered. Great head of streaky hair that looks like fur. Greedy eyes.” His faults were many, but Mr. Winters had a fine memory, at least for remembering what was not necessary to remember. “Beatrix can handle her, I suspect. What kind of trouble?”
The driver folded up the steps and closed the carriage door. My husband sat opposite me, giving me the full benefit of his smile, his face, his impeccable suit and tie. He looked just what he was: an American raised abroad by adoring aunts; a man who never really had to do that much thinking for himself, who certainly had never worried overly much about money, unlike my father or brother. Even his marriage proposal had come after much prompting by me, much to Mr. James’ delight.
“He will disappoint you,” Henry had warned me. “Forced to dance attendance on his aunts, and much tired of it I should think, he will, henceforth, refuse to listen to any feminine advice, especially his wife’s.” Henry all but chortled with glee when he gave this assessment. Then he had pushed aside the tea tray, taken my hands in his, and grown solemn. “I warned Minnie,” he had said. “And look how that has turned out. And now, dear girl, I warn you.”
“Is that why you murdered my persona in that strange little novel?” I had asked him. “Roman fever. Malaria. Indeed.” The year after my marriage, Henry had published Daisy Miller, the novel in which poor Daisy takes fatally ill after an assignation in Rome.
“Death or marriage. Often there may not be that much difference to a woman, if the marriage is unsuitable,” Henry had grumbled. “Women are better off married, if married well. Otherwise, spinsterhood is a wiser choice.”
Tell that to a young woman, just released from the schoolroom, who is seeing Europe for the first time an
d encounters her first love in the process. There is no choice in this matter. Wisdom comes later in life.
“Mrs. Haskett is determined to ruin Beatrix’s reputation,” I said, sorry already that I had refused his kiss. I took his hand. “For some reason, she has taken against her and is making her the subject of the summer’s worst gossip.”
“Jealousy,” said Mr. Winters, taking back his hand.
“What?”
“The woman is jealous. Beatrix is young, pretty, and of a much better family. Of course there’s no comparison at all, on the matter of breeding.”
There was a hint of malice in his voice. He came from an old family. I did not, as Mr. James had made quite clear in his little novel. Mr. Astor’s great-grandfather may have been a fur trader who blew his nose on the tablecloth, but with me the family origins were closer and therefore more shameful, since my own grandfather had raised livestock and kept a general store till he and his son, my father, grew lucky at speculation. At certain times Mr. Winters enjoyed reminding me of this, and that was when I knew he had lost greatly at the races. He was going on the offensive.
“There is a man involved,” he deduced.
“Yes. An Italian. Beatrix has been walking with him. They visited the Colosseum in the evening.”
“And was she kissed?”
“She was.”
“She’ll have to marry the fellow. Is he presentable?”
“Good-looking, but poor as a church mouse, I suspect, and in the process of selling off the family heirlooms, or trying to.”
“Uh-oh,” said my husband. He grew thoughtful and looked out the window.
“Remember that evening?” he asked as the carriage bounced us down the Champs-Élysées. There was romance in his eye. I knew the hotel suite would be filled with roses, and in our bedroom, on my pillow, there would be a little red jeweler’s box. The size of the pearls would suggest how much he had lost. And soon he would have to pawn that bracelet or collar to pay off a debt. I had tried to explain to him that he lost considerable sums on these transactions—the pawnshops never paid the full value—but he had lifted his well-bred chin and refused to discuss the matter with me. A husband had given his wife a gift. What right had she to complain?
A Lady of Good Family Page 14