We all do. We don’t talk about that, either.
Bryony is going to be very unhappy when she realizes that we’re not going back to New York, that we have taken her away from her routine and her beloved school. I think we should have prepared her before we left so she could say good-bye to her friends, but Belladonna didn’t want to deal with it. Or anything else. She gave Jack a ring made of thick bright gold, a beautifully curved B carved into it, but could say little to him, not after what we’d done together in the dark. He and I had a long, terribly poignant conversation, and he’s promised to be in regular contact with us. I know his heart is breaking, but he is as stoic as Belladonna is adamant.
I miss Jack already, but I am wishing even more that Matteo were with us. It’s too much to hope for, selfishly unfair to wish they’d move down tomorrow. We must give Matteo and Annabeth time to be together, away from all our weirdness. I can’t blame my darling big brother for wanting to stay away. Not that we aren’t fabulous, of course. It’s just that"
Botheration. At least someone I know is having a good time.
One day not long after our arrival, I find Bryony crying her heart out under one of the giant marble tables in the salon. Sam, dressed in a hot-pink bathing suit, is in her lap. “Whatever is the matter?” I say gently, trying to take her in my arms. She pushes me away, and I hurry off to summon her mother. This conversation is long overdue.
Belladonna comes over and sits down next to her daughter, under the table, holding her until her sobs dissolve into hiccups. “I want Froggy,” Bryony says, tears still running down her cheeks. “I want Dromedee. I want Tinkletime. I want my doggies. I want to go home.”
“The doggies need to stay in New York,” Belladonna says softly.
“Why?” Bryony asks. “Why can’t they be here with us? There’s lots of room for them to play.”
“I know that, sweetie,” she replies, “but there are several reasons why we didn’t bring them down here. First of all, Jack is up there all by himself, without us, and we don’t want him to get lonely, do we?” Bryony pouts, then shakes her head no. “And we need the dogs to guard the house in New York. They’re house dogs, and they belong to our house there, and they need to stay in the same place. You wouldn’t want them to be crying every night because they miss their house, would you? Dogs can’t tell you that they feel bad, but people can.” She sighs deeply.
Bryony looks at her mother, not knowing what to say.
“It’s the only house they know,” Belladonna goes on. “I’m afraid that if they came here, they might run around too much and get lost and we’d never find them again.” She can’t tell her daughter that her Irish wolfhounds are too famous to risk detection. Even at an isolated location in Virginia, someone is bound to have heard of the Club Belladonna and its barking sentinels.
“I want to go home,” Bryony says, starting to cry again.
“I want to go home, too, but we need to stay here for a while,” Belladonna says. “We’re going to make lots of new friends, and you’re going to a new school, and"”
Bryony starts wailing in earnest. I can’t say I blame her.
“I don’t want new friends and I don’t want a new school. I want to go home,” she screams. “I hate you.” She heaves Sam at Belladonna and runs up to her room, throwing herself down on her bed and sobbing with heartrending passion.
Belladonna looks at me, her eyes scarily opaque. No, she hasn’t been herself since that scene in the basement. Or perhaps she is more like herself than I care to admit. She’s as brittle as an icicle dripping off the side of a roof, and I keep waiting for her to shatter.
“Shall I go get him?” I ask. She picks up Sam and nods, and I hurry into the pantry where Bianca has been hiding a surprise for Bryony.
Belladonna and I go upstairs together and into Bryony’s bedroom. She is still sobbing. Belladonna lies down next to her on the bed, and Bryony tries to push her away.
“Listen, darling, I was very wrong not to tell you sooner that we were planning to move and stay down here,” Belladonna says. “I didn’t want you to be upset at Christmas. But we’ll all get used to it soon, I hope. There are lots of other children here for you to play with, and it’s much nicer and cleaner than it is in New York. Can you forgive me?”
“No,” Bryony says, her face buried in pillows. “I like New York. I hate Virginia.”
“I don’t blame you for liking New York,” Belladonna says after a few minutes. “I like it, too, as much as you. But we can always go back there and visit, you know. Maybe in a few years, we can go back there to live. We have to see. In the meantime, I have something for you that I hope will make you feel a little better. Don’t you want to see what it is?”
“No. I don’t care,” Bryony replies, her face buried in her bedspread. “Go away.”
“But he needs you,” Belladonna says.
After a few minutes, Bryony sits up, her curiosity winning out over her distress. “Here,” Belladonna says, “he’s all yours. His name is Basilico.”
It’s a miniature longhaired dachshund puppy we’ve named after the Italian word for basil. He is altogether ridiculous, like a tiny hairy sausage with legs. I can’t wait to see what the bloodhounds do when they meet this one.
“His mommy got sick and she couldn’t take care of him,” Belladonna says, “and he really needs you. We have a nice little bed for him, and he can sleep here with you so he won’t be too lonely. Do you want to take care of him?”
Bryony takes the squirming little bundle in her arms, and he immediately licks the tears on her face. “Is he all mine?” she asks.
“Yes, he is. And next week, we’re going to get some more dogs, for our house here.” Belladonna wipes Bryony’s eyes and has her blow her nose. “Getting new dogs doesn’t mean you still don’t love Dromedee and Froggy and Tinkletime, you know,” she adds. “You can have lots of love for lots of different dogs.”
“Are they going to be Irish wolfhounds?” Bryony asks.
“No, they’re going to be another breed, called Neopolitan mastiffs, and you can pick three of them from a litter that was born a couple of weeks ago. These are really sweet puppies, and they’re going to grow to be very big and very slobbery.” And very trainable. “Now I think we should find some really wonderful names for the new puppies, don’t you? Tomasino’s going to go get your book of the constellations, and we’ll see if we can find something you like, okay?”
Bryony nods and snuggles close to Basilico. Our Neopolitan mastiffs are going to grow to be startling, scary-looking dogs, squat and huge, with dripping, drooping jowls. They are much sweeter than they look, especially once you’ve been approved by their doggy sensibility, but they’re going to be perfectly trained for our needs. All the staff will know the commands to keep them in line, just in case.
You never can be too careful.
Bryony decides to call them Casseopeia, Hector, and Drizzlepuss. “Why can’t we call them Froggy and Dromedee and Tinkletime?” she asked at first.
“What if Dromedee and Froggy and Tinkletime come down to visit us?” Belladonna replies. “Wouldn’t they get confused with the other doggies? Besides, every person and every animal has a right to have their very own name, something special. Don’t you think?”
Every person except Belladonna.
When I introduce myself to the tenant farmers and other workers on the estate, I tell them to call her the Contessa, when and if they meet her. Simple enough, don’t you agree, and perfectly evocative. She never wanted to be called Ariel again; she couldn’t bear it. Nor could we call her Belladonna in earshot of anyone who didn’t really know who she was. She told us to call her Bella, even though she loathes that name, too. But that’s what we used to call her in the house in New York, in case Bryony overheard. She thinks her mother’s name is Bella. Bella della Robbia, the Contessa.
It does have a nice ring to it.
All the neighbors think so, too. They’re practically falling over themselves to
be invited to the house newly renovated with such fantastic care by the bereaved Italian widow, even though none of them has been so much as let near the long driveway curving up to the big house. She must be loaded beyond belief. What a thrill to have real live royalty in down-home King Henry, Virginia!
It doesn’t take much to have a few rumors spread, even without the help of a local version of Loose Lips. Several extremely sizable contributions have already been allocated to the local Police Benevolent Association, the sheriff’s office, the parks beautification project, the volunteer fire department, the school library, the marching band, and the courthouse fund. The local politicians as well as the trustees of Jefferson Davis Hospital are beside themselves with gratitude for the Contessa’s stupendous generosity. If there’s anything they can do, please, all you need do is ask.
Yes, the Contessa must be a real marvel! So generous, so mysterious!
At the moment, though, we’re more interested in getting to know the rest of the employees we’ve inherited with the property, and continuing to secure the grounds. We quickly learned that the tenants had been barely paid, lied to, and abandoned, and many were ready to move away in despair from land they thought was theirs. Except that they had nowhere to go. We paid their back wages, tripled their salaries, fixed up their tumbledown houses, put in electricity and proper plumbing and telephones. We told them we wanted La Fenice to become the most profitable farm in all of Virginia, and that they should come to me whenever they needed to, with suggestions or questions. We asked them who would be the best manager, and we appointed their choice, a man named Gilbert Scott. In short order, the farm that had once been the laughingstock of the county is on its way to becoming its most successful and most beautiful.
Oh ho, how a little faith and a lot of money bring their rewards!
There is one family, though, that soon becomes a more important addition to our motley group. Belladonna has taken to exploring the property, often with Orlando, and none of the tenants know yet who she is. They think she’s Bryony’s governess, or Orlando’s wife, perhaps, and they call her “the nanny.” One afternoon, she sees a farmer sitting on the steps of his house, his hugely pregnant wife by his side, whittling a long piece of wood into what seems to be a walking stick.
I summon this farmer to Gilbert’s estate office, housed in a small building near Tantalus House, a few days later, telling him to bring whatever it was he’d been carving as well as any other pieces he’d whittled of late. When he arrives, placing the walking stick and a bulging bag near the door, he is so nervous he doesn’t realize he’s taken his cap off and is turning it in an endless circle in his hands. No other tenant has been singled out for such a meeting.
“Baines, is it?” I ask. Belladonna is sitting just outside, so she can hear our conversation. She’s still in no mood to be talking to any of our tenants. “Jebediah Baines?”
“Yes, sir,” he says.
“How long have you been living here, Jebediah? May I call you Jebediah?”
He nods, surprised by the courtesy of my question. “All my life, sir. My daddy was a farmer, and my granddaddy and his daddy.”
“Are you descended from slaves who worked this plantation?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so.”
“Please, sit down.” I point to a chair and he sits on the edge of his chair, still twisting his cap around, as if preparing to bolt any minute. I bring over his bag, pour the pieces out onto the table, and examine them in silence for a few minutes.
“Where did you get the wood, may I ask?” I say.
The cap is still twisting around, like the wheel of a truck stalled in mud. “From the forest,” Baines says, his anxiety so palpable I could pickle it. “Not from trees. Only pieces we found, me and my daughter. We go walkin’ to look for wood. We never cut a tree, never.”
I pick up one small figure, the head of a little girl, her hair carved with such exquisite finesse it almost seems to be real.
“Is this your daughter?” I ask.
“Yes sir,” he replies. “My daughter Susannah. She’s near to seven.”
“And your wife is pregnant.”
“Yes, sir, Dionne, her name is. The midwife says she’s havin’ twins, and she’s been feelin’ poorly, so I was whittlin’ her a walking stick so’s it’s easier for her to get round.”
“Let me see it.” I finger it carefully. “Do you know what you’ve done here?”
“No, sir,” he says. “I hope I haven’t done wrong.”
“No, Jebediah, you haven’t done wrong.” I say soberly. “You’ve done some of the most beautiful carving I’ve ever seen, that’s what you’ve done.”
He is so astonished by my comments that his cap stops turning. He’d been certain I was about to kick him and his family out into the cold cruel world.
“In fact,” I go on, “I want to hire you to carve the banisters of the grand staircase in the big house. They’re either cherry or walnut, I believe. Are you interested?”
He’s still so shocked he can only nod.
“Very well. Come with me.” He looks at me, still disbelieving. We gather up his little pieces, put them back in his bag, and walk briskly up to the house. When he sees the immense staircase, which winds up in a graceful curve to a landing and then to the second floor, his jaw drops. Then he runs his fingers over the wood, thumping it to see how sound it is. The color is lovely, but the banisters themselves are thick and shapeless.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“The wood is good,” he says. “Walnut.”
“We’ve already cut some pieces that are roughly the same size, so you can experiment with a design,” I say. “Do a few samples and we’ll go from there. We want each one to be slightly different, an ever-changing design. How does that sound?”
Poor Baines, his heart thumping in shock. He’ll be practically comatose when I tell him how much we’re prepared to pay him. “Listen,” I go on, “we were going to have to bring over a sculptor from Italy to do this. We’d much rather have you. We’ll pay the other farmers for your share of the work in the fields, so don’t you worry.”
“Yes, sir,” he says. His eyes are starting to shine. I’m not teasing him; I’m not going to fire him. He’s about to start living a dream.
How I love discovering true talent and allowing it to thrive!
“There’s one thing I want you to do before you start,” I say.
“Yes, sir.” He instantly looks anxious again.
“I want you to do a carving of the Contessa’s little girl. Her name is Bryony. She’s about the same age as your Susannah. We would be most grateful if you could arrange your time so that she can sit for you. Perhaps she can meet Susannah then. It would be nice for her to have a playmate here.”
I think this astonishes him most of all. The children of the owners do not play with the children of the tenants. It simply isn’t done in 1954. Not here in King Henry, Virginia.
He will learn soon enough that Belladonna does what she wants.
This is how Bryony became best friends with Susannah Baines, and our banisters become the talk of the estates for miles around. Not only because the carving is so striking, garlands of interwoven fruits and flowers and branches arching up in intricate patterns, but because Baines has been allowed into the house to carve them.
Of course, no neighbors have yet been invited to see the famous banisters, though they’ve tried, sending us weekly invitations to balls and dinners and cocktail parties and hunts. We politely decline. Their children go to school with Bryony and try to invite themselves over, but we outfox them. They think they’re in luck when Bryony announces that her seventh birthday party in February is open to all her second-grade classmates, but hopes are dashed when the party is held at the soda shop on Main Street in King Henry, and the Contessa is nowhere to be found.
The neighbors have yet to see the rumored marvels of our house, as well as its mistress. Belladonna wants to be left alone, so she has not yet ventured of
f the property. She has no need to, it’s so immense. She often goes riding with Orlando, on a mare she names Artemis, after the horse she loved at Ca’ d’Oro. She speaks to Jack nearly every day, and often takes target practice with the Tantalus spies on the shooting range tucked in a small corner of woods near the Hellfire Garden. Templeton drives Bianca to do the food shopping; he drives Rosalinda and Bryony to school in the morning and then picks her up in the afternoon. That Bryony is adjusting and content is what we really care about.
And I, being my naturally indefatigable self, am finishing the final flourishes of decorating nirvana. It is small recompense for my indispensable role in the Club Belladonna, which I miss more than I can say. How many castrati get to lord it over highly select riffraff in the most fantastic and desirable nightclub in the world? But I suppose I can live without it for a while. I have to admit I’m still exhausted. From everything.
From waiting.
We’re still waiting for Sir Patty to keel over, but he’s hanging on, dribbling into his diapers. I hope he’s suffering unspeakable indignities; that’s the least he deserves.
So when I wake up one raw morning in early March with my knee throbbing, I wonder what it could mean. As the day goes by and Bryony returns from school, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Until she comes running up from Susannah’s house, her cheeks flushed. “She’s having the babies!” Bryony calls out as she dashes into the house. “Call Auntie Ruby!”
Except the midwife doesn’t have a phone. Poor people in this county don’t have phones; they don’t have running water. I wondered how doctors had been summoned before when the tenants got sick, until Stan told me that they either used a weather-beaten pickup, or a horse and buggy. The previous owners hadn’t cared.
Well, we do. Dionne and Jebediah have insisted that Auntie Ruby, the midwife, take care of the birth. She’s a local legend, nearly seventy and a little deaf, but she’s never lost a baby yet, they tell me. I make them swear to let us take them to a hospital should anything go wrong, and they reluctantly promise.
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