Remembrance

by Danielle Steel

  “What will I tell Sergeant Palmers?”

  “I'll tell him, we can say that she is very ill and we're afraid of pneumonia, that it's too damp for her where you are, and I'm ordering all of you to bring her upstairs.”

  “What do we do when the new Maggiore arrives?”

  “Marcella …” He didn't dare say what he was thinking. “Never mind that. Get Palmers, I want to talk to him now. You go to Serena and get her ready.”

  “Yes, Maggiore.” Marcella blew him a kiss. “I love you, Maggiore. If she won't marry you, I will.”

  He chuckled at his end. “Marcella, you're on.”

  Just as he had known once he had seen Pattie that he knew what he wanted to do, now he knew also that all along Serena had been wrong. She was not only wrong for him, she was wrong for herself, and he wasn't going to let her do this to either of them. As he gave his orders to Palmers he was aware of an iron resolve. And if he couldn't talk sense into her over the phone, he was going to Rome. He'd go AWOL if he had to, and talk his way out of it when he got back. But before he did anything that drastic, he spoke to the military operator an hour later and had her place the call to Rome. He had already arranged with Palmers for the phone to be pulled into the guest room, and when it rang, first Palmers answered, then Marcella, then he could hear sounds of movement, of shuffling noises, muted voices, a door closing, and then in barely more than a whisper he heard her thready little voice.

  “Brad? What is this? What happened? They carried me out of my room.”

  “Good. That's what I told them to do. Now I want you to listen to me, Serena. And I'm not going to listen to you anymore. I love you. I want you to marry me. What you've done is killing us both. You're willing yourself to die, and I feel as though I died when I left Rome. This is crazy … crazy, do you hear me? I love you. Now, for chrissake, woman, will you come to your senses and come to Paris to get married or do I have to come back there and drag you out?”

  She laughed softly in answer and then there was a silence, as he could almost see her weigh her thoughts. What he could not see in the silence was Serena lying back against her pillows, with tears streaming from her eyes, her hands trembling as she held the phone, fighting herself to keep from saying what she wanted, and then suddenly in a great burst of effort, she spoke up. “Yes!” It was still only a whisper and he wasn't sure he'd heard her.

  “What did you say?” He held his breath.

  “I said I'd marry you, Major.”

  “Damn right!” He tried to sound arrogant as he said it, but his hands were trembling harder than hers, and there was a lump in his throat so large, he could barely talk. “I'll get the papers going right away, darling, and we'll get you here as soon as we can.” My God! My God, he thought to himself, she said yes! She said it! He wanted to ask her if she meant it, but he didn't dare. He wasn't going to give her a chance to reconsider. Not now. “I love you, darling, with all my heart.”

  12

  The morning that Serena left Rome she stood in the garden for a long time, under her willow tree, pulling her jacket tightly around her. The sun had just come up and it was still cold, as she looked out into the distance at the hills, and then back at the white marble facade that she was leaving now for the second time. She remembered the last time she had left here, with her grandmother, to go to Venice. That time the plans had been made in a hurry, and the atmosphere had been frightening and grim. She had just lost her parents, and as she had hurried down the marble steps on the way out, she had wondered if she would ever see her home again. Now she found herself wondering the same thing as she stood there, but the atmosphere surrounding her departure was different this time. She was going to be married, and this time she felt ready to leave. After all, the palazzo was no longer hers and never would be again, it was pointless to pretend that this was really still her home. Only the tiny quarters she shared with Marcella were really theirs, and even those rooms were only on loan as long as she continued to dust and sweep and wax floors. She sighed gently to herself as she looked up at what had been B.J.'s office, her old windows, and then her eyes drifted to the balcony outside her mother's bedroom, the room she had shared with him.

  “Addio….” It was a whisper in the wind as she stood there. Not arrivederci or arrivederla, until I see you again, but Addio … good-bye.

  The final moments as she left the house were frantic and painful, a last hug from a crying Marcella, as they both laughed through their tears. Marcella had turned down Serena's proposal that she accompany her to Paris. Rome was the kind old woman's home and she knew her princess was now well taken care of. Serena promised to write to her often, and knew that someone would read her the letters, and if B.J. could arrange it, she would call. And moments later she was being whisked down the driveway, then passing familiar sights on the way to Termini Station, from where she would leave Rome. She caught a quick glimpse of the Fontana di Trevi, the Spanish Steps, the Piazza Navona, and then she was there in the bustle of people hurrying to catch trains, carrying suitcases and packages, looking hopeful, or tired, or excited like Serena, who suddenly looked terribly young as she took her suitcase from the orderly who had brought her to the station, and then stuck out her hand to shake his before she boarded the train.

  “Thank you. Grazie mille.” She was beaming at him. The tears she had shed with Marcella were long gone, and all she could think of now was B.J. She felt not as though she were leaving, but as though she were going home.

  “Good-bye …” she whispered softly to herself as the train picked up speed, and she saw the familiar outline of her city begin to fade in the distance. There were no tears in her eyes this time, all she could think of now was Paris and what awaited her there.

  They arrived in Paris just after noon. As they approached the city she saw the Eiffel Tower in the distance, and assorted monuments she knew nothing about and then slowly the train drew into the Gare de Lyon, and as it rolled slowly the last feet into the station, Serena stood up and pressed her face against the window, peering into the distance to see if she could find B.J. waiting for the train. There were small clusters of people waiting, but nowhere could she see him, and she began to worry that she wouldn't find him at all. It was a big station and she felt suddenly very much alone. She picked up her suitcase as the train came to a full stop, and reached for the little basket Marcella had put her provisions in, and then slowly she filed out of the compartment with the others and stepped hesitantly off the train. Once again she looked around, her eyes combing the long platform and the unfamiliar faces as her heart pounded madly within her. She knew that he couldn't have forgotten her, and she knew where to find him if for some reason they missed each other at the station, but nonetheless now the full excitement of it was upon her. She was in Paris, and she had come to meet B.J., to get married. As she stood there she knew that a whole new life for her had begun.

  “Think he forgot you?” A young GI she had talked to on the train the night before looked down at her with a friendly grin, and just as Serena shook her head she saw the young GI snap to attention and salute someone just behind her. And as though she sensed him near her, she wheeled to face B.J., her eyes wide, her face filled with excitement, her throat choked with a gurgle of laughter, and before she could say anything at all, Major Bradford Jarvis Fullerton had taken her in his arms and lifted her right off the ground. The young American disappeared behind them, with a shrug of his shoulders and a smile.

  13

  Paris had put on all her prettiest colors for Serena that morning, a bright blue sky overhead, crisp greens here and there as they drove past pine trees, the monuments were the same familiar streaky gray they had been for hundreds of years but here and there were facades of white marble and gold leaf, and rich patinas, and everywhere the people looked happy and excited in knit caps and red scarves, their faces pink with the chill air, their eyes bright. It was almost Christmas, and however much confusion there still was in Paris, it was the first Christmas in peacetime,
the first time in six years that the Parisians could truly celebrate with joy.

  Hand in hand, as they rode in B.J.'s staff car, they rolled down the broad boulevards and through narrow streets, they passed the Invalides and Notre-Dame, and the extraordinary spectacle of the Place Vendôme, and up the Champs-Elysées, around the Arc de Triomphe, into the maelstrom of traffic around L'étoile, the circular intersection where 12 main streets all met at the Arc de Triomphe and everyone raced madly for the boulevard, where they would exit again, hopefully without crashing into another car. Having safely left the Arc behind them, as Serena, wide-eyed, gazed around her, they drove sedately onto the Avenue Hoche where B.J. was quartered, in an elegant “hôtel particulier,” a town house that looked more like a mansion, which had belonged to the owner of one of France's better known vineyards before the war. In the anguish of the days just before the occupation of Paris, the vineyard owner had decided to join his sister in Geneva, and the house had been left in the care of his servants for the remainder of the war. Eventually the Germans had appropriated it during their stay there, but the officer who had lived there had been a civilized man and the house had suffered no damage during his tenure. And now the vineyard owner had fallen ill, and was not yet ready to return. In the meantime the Americans were renting it from him for a token fee for the year. And B.J. was happily ensconced there, living not quite as grandly as he had at the Palazzo Tibaldo, but very handsomely, with two kindly old French servants who attended to his needs.

  As they approached it Serena saw that the house had a handsome garden, and there was a well-tended hedge surrounding it, with a tall, ornate wrought-iron grille that closed it off from the outside. B.J.'s driver stopped the car in front of the gate, and then hurried out to unlock it before driving inside. The car stopped just in front of the house and B.J. turned toward her.

  “Well, my love, this is it.”

  “It looks lovely.” She beamed at him, not caring one whit about the house, only caring about what she saw in his eyes. And her own eyes seemed to sparkle as he gently kissed her, and then stepped out to lead her inside.

  They walked quickly up the steps to another heavy iron door, which was almost instantly opened by a small, round, bald-headed man with twinkling blue eyes and a bright smile, and beside him was an equally small, and jovial-looking woman.

  “Monsieur et Madame Lavisse, my fiancée, the Principessa di San Tibaldo.” Serena looked instantly embarrassed by the use of her title, as she held out her hand and they both executed stiff little bows.

  “We are happy to meet you.” They smiled at her warmly.

  “And I am very happy to meet you.” She glanced just behind them at what she could see of the house. “It looks lovely.” They seemed pleased at the compliment, almost as though the mansion were their own, and they offered immediately to show her around.

  “It is not, we regret to say, as it once was,” Pierre apologized as he showed her the rear garden, “but we have done our best to keep it intact for Monsieur le Baron.” Their employer hadn't seen his home in Paris in five years, and it was possible that now ill at seventy-five years of age he would never live to, but faithful to the end, they had kept it for him, and he paid them handsomely for all that they did. Originally he had trustingly left them with a large fund for all their expenses, and now each month a check was sent to them again. In return they had cared for the beautiful home with constant love and attention, hidden the most valuable objects and the best paintings in a secret room beneath the basement, which even the Germans had not found, and now during the reign of the Americans in Paris, they were still tending the house as though it were theirs.

  Like the palazzo in Rome, the halls here were of marble, but here the marble was a soft peachy rose. The Louis XV benches, set at regular intervals down the hallway, were trimmed with gilt and upholstered in a pale peach velvet. There were two exquisite paintings by Turner, of rich Venetian sunsets, a large inlaid Louis XV chest with a pink marble slab on top, and several other small exquisite pieces scattered here and there. From the hall one could glimpse the garden, visible through tall French windows, which led out onto the little paved paths bordered by pretty flowers in spring. Now the garden had little to offer, and it was into the main salon that they turned, as Serena stared in awe. The room was done in deep red damask and white velvet, there were heavy Napoleonic pieces, upholstered chaise longues in bold raspberry and cream stripes, and two huge Chinese urns beside a priceless desk. There were huge portraits of members of the baron's family, and a fireplace, large enough for the major to stand in, in which there was now a blazing fire. It was a room designed to cause one to catch one's breath in admiration and wonder, and yet at the same time it was a room that beckoned one to come inside and sit down. Serena glanced around with delight at little Chinese objets d'art, Persian rugs, and a series of smaller portraits by Zorn, of the baron and his sisters as children, and B.J. led the way into a smaller wood-paneled room beyond. Here too there was a roaring fire waiting, but the fireplace was smaller, and three walls of the room were filled with beautifully bound books. Here and there were gaps on the shelves, which Pierre pointed to with dismay. This was the only loss inflicted by the Germans. The officer who had lived there had taken some of the books with him when he left. But Pierre counted himself fortunate that nothing else had been taken. The German had been a man of honor, and had not removed anything else.

  On the same floor there was also a beautiful little oval breakfast room that looked out on the garden, and a formal dining room beyond it, with exquisite murals of a Chinese village on the wall. The paper had been preserved since the eighteenth century and had been designed in England originally for the Duke of Yorkshire, but one of the baron's ancestors had bought it directly from the artist and spirited it into France. The furniture had the typical clawed feet and scroll backs of Chippendale, and there was a splendid English sideboard that was waxed to a rich shine. And as Serena passed admiringly through the rooms she was reminded of her grandmother's house in Venice, but this was less sumptuous and yet more so. The Italian palazzi she had lived in had all been larger and showier than this, and yet this house was filled with such exquisite pieces that, even though it was smaller, it seemed somehow more impressive. It was more like a museum and as she wandered through it she marveled to herself and sotto voce to B.J. that they had been able to preserve everything as it was throughout the war. It was also especially touching that the old butler had trusted B.J. enough to bring out some of the really good things.

  “The old boy is quite something.” B.J. indicated Pierre in a whisper as they followed the old butler upstairs. Marie-Rose, his wife, had disappeared to the kitchen to get Serena something to eat. “From what he tells me, he had most of this hidden in the basement. And I get the feeling that some of the best pieces are still there.” But he couldn't have hidden the furniture, Serena knew, or not all of it, and it was remarkable that none of the beautiful pieces she saw around her had been damaged or taken over the years.

  Upstairs there were four pretty bedrooms. A large handsome master bedroom done in a rich blue satin, with smooth, shining woods everywhere, a handsome chaise longue, a cozy love seat, a small desk, and another fireplace. There was a pretty view of the garden below and a little peek at the rest of Paris, and there was also a small study that B.J. occasionally used as an office, as well as a dressing room, which B.J. told her would be hers. Beyond it was a beautiful bedroom done in pinks, which had belonged to the late baroness, Pierre told them, and two other bedrooms now used for guests, one in a rich green with a handsome painting of the hunt over the fireplace, and a wealth of English prints of the same sport all over the walls. The bedroom beyond it was done in gray, with toile de Jouy on the walls, showing pastoral scenes and shepherds, all in gray on a muted beige fabric that had been applied to the walls. There were handsome brass candelabra, another beautiful desk, and several other fine antique pieces.

  “And upstairs is the attic.” Pierre grinned
at them both with pleasure. He loved showing off the house.

  “It's a wonderful house, Pierre,” Serena said. “I don't know what to say. It's much more beautiful than anything I've seen in Italy, or the States. Don't you think, Brad?” She looked up at B.J. gently, her eyes filled with delight. Pierre thought it made the heart light just to watch them.

  “I told you she'd love the house, didn't I?” B.J. nodded and looked at Pierre.

  “Yes, sir. And now if you and Mademoiselle would like to come downstairs to the library, I'm sure that Marie-Rose has prepared something for Mademoiselle.” His assumption had been correct, they discovered a moment later as they walked into the library and discovered a plate filled with sandwiches, another covered with small cakes and cookies, and a tall silver jug of hot chocolate waiting for them.

  B.J. could hardly wait for Pierre to leave them, which he did a moment later. Brad put his arms around his love and kissed her hungrily the moment she sat down on the couch.

  “God, I never thought I'd be alone with you. Oh, baby, how I've missed you.”

  “And I you.” For just a flash of an instant the pain of those first days without him flashed into her eyes, and she clung to him for a moment. “I was so afraid, B.J.… that I'd never see you again, that …” She closed her eyes tightly for a moment and then kissed his neck. “I can't believe that I'm here, with you, in this beautiful house … it's all like a dream, and I'm afraid I'll wake up.” She looked around her with a happy smile, and he kissed her again.

  “If you do wake up, I'll be beside you. And not only that, by the time you wake up again, you'll be my wife.”

  “What?” She looked startled for a moment. “So soon?”

  “Why? Did you want time to reconsider?” But the young lieutenant colonel didn't look concerned as he took one of the sandwiches Marie-Rose had made them and sat back against the couch. He had been promoted when he left Rome.