Yet his young face held a sadness that beclouded his love.
Or did it hint at something else?
Then I glanced at Raphael’s slim physique in his rough black breeches and plain white cotton shirt. Poverty held him in sway, as well. In fact, his financial straits were even more desperate than ours – he worked for our landlord and picked up odd jobs throughout the city. But it was not enough if he chose eventually … to marry.
I had not seen it before but, in that instant, I realized that Paula and Raphael would never have a future together unless something changed in our fortunes – and soon. The last thing I wanted to do was place obstacles in the way of young lovers. I knew the deep despair of not being able to share my life with the man who was my heart’s most cherished desire – a loss that followed me through the rest of my days. Perhaps I had been too young, too impulsive when I fell madly in love, but I never regretted pursuing passion over reason.
Paula must have a chance for that kind of life with Raphael – no matter if it lasted only a short time. She and Raphael, along with dear Georgiana. They would be a family and live the life that I had always wanted.
Clearing my throat deliberately, I stood once more. ‘Raphael, would you please hire a carriage for me? I need to see Father Gianni this morning.’
‘Che cosa?’ He shot a quick look at Paula, who gave a brief nod of assent. Then he shrugged and strode off, murmuring something in Italian under his breath that I did not catch –probably a reference to the eccentricities of old age – but he complied nonetheless.
‘At least let me accompany you, Aunt Claire,’ my niece posed. ‘I would feel better if I were with you—’
‘No need, my dear. If I tire, I shall simply have the driver bring me home.’ I gave her a quick pat and headed toward my room before she could fashion yet another protest. She would not deter me from my mission.
An hour later, my open carriage was making its way through the narrow, crooked streets of Florence, its wooden wheels thumping over the old, uneven cobblestones. Angling my parasol to shield my face from the sun, I nodded at one or two female acquaintances standing near the Uffizi Gallery as we passed by its stately pillars. They smiled and I did the same, but the exchange had no warmth of friendship – only polite civility, knowing they probably gossiped afterwards about my outdated striped calico gown and matching bonnet.
I did not particularly care, especially this morning. I was on a quest. As we drove toward the Duomo, the streets were semi-deserted, with only morning delivery carts unpacking foods and sundries in front of various small shops.
Florentine mornings possessed a lovely charm: the quiet business of a city preparing for the heat and crowds of midday. I enjoyed watching the craftsmen setting out gold filigree jewelry on the Ponte Vecchio and farmers stacking ripe vegetables in the open markets – row upon row of large crates. The whole tableau of vivid colors and aromatic smells extended across the web-like network of main streets and, beyond them, the alleyways held whispers and echoes of past famous and powerful residents’ hidden secrets. I embraced it all as part of the city of dreams.
The carriage slowed down as we circled around the Piazza del Duomo with its massive cathedral rising up in the center in all its medieval splendor – a green, white and pink marble facade adorned by stained-glass windows. The essence of art and religion – everything that Florence stood for and I believed in when I made this city my last residence and Catholicism my faith. Beauty is truth, truth beauty. And ever was it so.
All of a sudden, the carriage halted and I realized that we had reached the Basilica di San Lorenzo – the Medicis’ church. More modest than the magnificent Duomo on the outside, the church’s facade had never actually been finished; it had a rough-hewn appearance, but it also housed a magnificent interior. The main draw for me, though, was my parish priest, Father Gianni – my dearest friend.
The driver helped me out of the carriage, and I asked him to wait. Then I entered the massive front door and immediately felt the cool serenity of the basilica with its thick walls and slate-colored columned arcades. As I made my way past the benches toward the high altar, I spied Father Gianni standing near the bronze pulpit. At my approach, he broke into a warm smile and extended his hands to cover mine.
‘Signora Clairmont, I am delighted that you are up and about again. Bene. Molto bene.’ Almost my age, Father Gianni had a shock of gray hair, thick brows and the benign expression of a man who extended kindness to all. He was the one person whom I trusted in the world – and I knew he would help me.
‘May I talk with you for a few minutes – not as my confessor, but as my friend?’ I placed my hand on his arm. ‘It’s urgent.’
‘By all means.’ His features knit in puzzlement as he gestured toward one of the benches. We sat down, both facing forward. ‘What brings you here today?’
I stared at the marble crucifix positioned above the altar and folded my hands in my lap. Then I began to speak, and I poured out the whole story of my lost daughter, including my illicit love affair with Byron, my break with Mary and my later life drifting around Europe as a governess. I ended with Rossetti’s visit and the mysterious note about Allegra being alive. Even as I related the events, I feared seeing disapproval creep into his face since I had never summoned the courage before to tell him about my early life.
But Father Gianni simply listened. Occasionally, he prompted me with a question or two, then fell silent when I finished.
‘Do you believe this man Rossetti might know about your daughter’s fate?’ he finally asked.
‘Possibly. I know nothing about him. An old friend, Edward Trelawny, wrote to me a few days ago, saying that Mr Rossetti was interested in purchasing my letters.’
He rubbed his chin meditatively. ‘It would be quite a coincidence that the note appeared on the very day he called, though he said nothing to you about it?’
‘No.’
‘I will make inquiries about him,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘We need to know first if he is an honest man—’
‘But what about my daughter? Do you think it possible that she did not die in the convent at Bagnacavallo? I saw the death certificate a few weeks after her death, but it was lost during the years of my travels.’ My voice rose in an excited pitch. ‘Could it have been … forged?’
A window rattled, and I jumped.
‘It was just the wind – nothing more,’ he reassured me in a low voice. ‘The year she died was a chaotic time for Italia, especially in Ravenna with rumors about the Carbonari revolutionaries plotting an uprising, but I might be able to locate some old records that the church preserved.’ He motioned his head in the direction of the Laurentian Library, adjacent to the basilica. It was the great biblioteca of Florence that housed documents from all of Italy. ‘If any information exists about the convent and your daughter’s fate, I will find it. Trust me.’
‘Grazie, Father.’ I exhaled in relief as I handed him Byron’s letter from Ravenna.
‘Let us pray together that God in His mercy will guide us in our search for the truth.’ He bowed his head and murmured, ‘But say nothing until I meet you here tomorrow at ten o’clock.’
I would be as silent as the grave.
After I took leave of Father Gianni, I had the driver take me home and I hobbled up the stairs to my apartment, feeling a wave of intense fatigue. When I reached the second floor where our rented rooms were located, I stood there for a few moments to catch my breath; it was early afternoon and growing warmer by the hour. Letting myself in, I called out for Paula but heard no response. Then I spied the note propped up on the fireplace mantle: Went to the market with Georgiana – will return shortly.
I sighed with relief.
Her absence would give me time to rest and come up with a story that would explain the length of my visit with Father Gianni.
Easing myself into one of the aging throne-style chairs near the marble fireplace, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Certainly, I had always loved
an adventure and it looked as if I might have one last exploit, but could I summon the energy to live it to the fullest?
Forse – perhaps.
At least Father Gianni believed in me. And, even more importantly, he believed that the note questioning Allegra’s death had a sinister element about it – at best, an unsettling motivation.
Just then, I felt a hand touch my shoulder and I gasped. My eyelids fluttered open to the sight of Raphael with a glass of water in hand.
‘Signora Claire – for you.’ He held out a piece of crystal that was filled to the brim with clear, sparkling liquid.
‘Grazie mille.’ Taking the glass from him, I quickly swallowed most of its contents. ‘I did not realize how thirsty I was.’
‘You were gone a long time at confession,’ he responded, looking down at me with a shuttered expression. Was he suspicious about my conversation with Father Gianni?
‘Was I? At my age, one has many behaviors for which to atone.’ Keeping my tone artless, I gestured toward the matching wingback across from me. ‘Please, join me.’
He hesitated, then shrugged and sat down on the edge of the chair.
I sipped my water and watched him with a surreptitious glance. What did I really know about Raphael beyond the fact that he appeared to care deeply for Paula? Our landlord had recommended him to us a little over six months ago, and while he performed light tasks around the apartment, he spoke very little and revealed almost nothing of a personal nature.
Almost without volition, mistrust spread into the very air around me.
He was pleasing to the eye, for certain, in that Italian way that managed to look effortlessly masculine; his features could have been etched from one of the Roman statues that ringed the amphitheater in the gardens. Un bel viso. A handsome face, framed with dark, curly hair.
He turned his head, catching me in the act of studying him, and I blinked rapidly as a sudden flash of memory brought back the face of another man – the one who had captured my heart so long ago. Byron’s face rose up in my mind – so sad and unhappy in the late-evening firelight in Geneva – as he recited lines from his latest poem. His voice deep and melodic. For just a moment, it felt as if a fissure of time had split open and Byron’s features glossed over Raphael’s – from a time when I was young, as well, still believing in the possibilities of life as I pursued an elusive dream of happiness …
But it never happened.
Byron’s image instantly dissolved and I saw Raphael’s face again – and only his.
‘Signora?’ He reached out and caught the glass as it started to slip out of my hand, causing a few drops of water to splash on the hard, unforgiving stone floor. ‘Is your ankle causing you pain?’
‘Just a bit.’ I managed a small, tight smile as I took the glass from him and drained the rest of the cool liquid. ‘I never asked about your family … Do they live in Florence?’
Raphael looked away for a few moments. ‘No, my parents died in a carriage accident when I was a bambino. I never knew them – not even what they looked like. Because I was so young when I lost them, I did not mourn the loss of something that I never really possessed.’ His voice was matter-of-fact as he related his story. ‘My nonna raised me, but now she, too, is gone.’
‘So you are all alone?’
‘Si.’
‘I suppose we have that in common, though my own mother disowned me and I never knew my father’s identity. You and I have learned to rely on our own wits and the kindness of others.’ I toyed with my crucifix pendant. ‘Our landlord, Signor Ricci, thinks highly of you as he was the one who recommended your services to us—’
‘He knew my nonna, but I had not seen him in several years since she died.’ Raphael shifted in the chair, curling his fingers around the armrests. ‘Signor Ricci sent word through a friend that you and your niece were seeking a local man to help out with your daily tasks. I needed the work. A man without a family in Italy has few options to make his way in the world.’
My suspicions about him abated somewhat. Perhaps that explained the sad tinge that I had noted on his face.
Raphael leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs and earnestness in his voice. ‘I may have no family and no money, but I am loyal to you and Paula – to the end. I would do anything for her.’
‘So you love my niece?’ I raised my brows in inquiry.
‘With all my heart,’ he replied without hesitation.
‘Truly? Would you sacrifice everything for her, no matter what?’
‘Gladly.’
Raphael sat back and our conversation trailed off into silence.
Scarcely minutes later, Paula entered the apartment with Georgiana at her heels. When the little girl spied me, she darted in my direction. Raphael immediately rose to his feet as I folded my great-niece in my embrace.
‘Auntie, look what Mama bought me.’ Georgiana produced a tiny charm in the shape of a flower. ‘Is it not pretty?’
‘Indeed, my dear.’
Raphael took the shopping basket from Paula, their hands brushing. It was a brief touch, but I saw it and registered the flush of emotion on my niece’s face – a delicate pink color that stained her cheeks.
‘May I see it, piccola?’
Shyly, Georgiana held it up.
‘Ah, it is the Florentine iris, the white flower of the city that grows wild in the hills above the river. Some say it symbolizes the goddess Iride; some say it represents the Virgin Mary – but who knows?’ He rubbed her soft curls affectionately. ‘It is enough simply to behold its beauty.’ Raphael’s glance transferred to Paula.
A touch of wonder came over Georgiana as she looked at the charm again, then she held it tightly to her chest.
‘How was your time with Father Gianni?’ Paula asked as she removed the wide-brimmed straw hat that she always wore during summer strolls to the open-air market. The Italian sun, though warm and inviting, was not kind to pale English skin. ‘Did he help you to find the wisdom that you need?’
‘Indeed, yes. Confession is good for the soul, as they say. He helped me to understand that the present is always tied to the past, and letting go of my mementos might be the best way to make peace—’
‘With what?’ Paula’s brows knit in puzzlement.
‘Illusions, fantasies – the things we cling to as we get older.’ I tiptoed over my words as if I were making my way across a field of sharp, pointed rocks. ‘There is no point in chasing rainbows … especially if I intend to sell my letters.’ Once I knew for certain about Allegra.
‘But that is what the iris means,’ Raphael cut in excitedly. ‘The goddess Iride was a messenger to the gods and brought them the rainbow – hope. Speranza.’
Paula laughed and shook her head. ‘I have no idea what you both are talking about – let us have tea and stop all of this talk about goddesses and rainbows. Mr Rossetti will be expecting an answer from us soon, and you need to rest, Aunt Claire.’ She ushered Raphael out of the room and Georgiana followed in their wake.
Mr Rossetti would have his answer – after I spoke with Father Gianni the following morning.
The next day, it had turned cloudy – a leaden sky with no hint of sun. But my ankle was getting stronger. I quickly donned my second-best green calico dress and enjoyed breakfast in my room, trying to avoid any unnecessary questioning from Paula. I was not sure how long I could keep hiding my true purpose for seeing Father Gianni, but once I had something concrete from him, I would no longer lie and dissemble to my own family.
Raphael had the same driver waiting outside our rooms, and I made my way out before my niece could query me.
Once I settled into the carriage, the driver turned to me, ‘Signora, un carro ha bloccato il ponte.’ A wagon blocked the Ponte Vecchio.
I suggested the bridge further south, and he nodded. As we slowly moved forward, I looked up and saw Paula’s surprised face in the window. She was mouthing words that I could not hear, but I pretended that she was wishing me a happy outing. I wave
d and smiled as I murmured ‘Andiamo!’ to the driver.
He tapped the horse lightly with his whip, and the carriage lurched forward with more speed. I tightened the strings of my bonnet as I focused on the road ahead, even when a gentle misting rain began. It didn’t matter if it stained my green cotton dress or drenched my one good pair of shoes. Nothing mattered except what Father Gianni had to tell me.
We arrived at the Basilica di San Lorenzo right at the point the drizzle turned into a heavy downpour, and I hurried into the church, shaking off the raindrops as I removed my hat. The cool dampness of the ancient building was offset by a sweet scent of incense and the odor of warm wax from the altar candles. Inhaling deeply to draw in the comforting smells, I noted a few worshippers seated on the wooden benches, praying with their heads bowed as they held their rosary beads. Scanning the length of the room, I did not see Father Gianni anywhere near the high altar.
Nevertheless, I moved in that direction, registering the lyrical strains of a choir drifting from deep within the basilica. And the bells in the distance. Always the Florentine bells. I counted as they rang out across the Old City ten times – the appointed hour for Father Gianni to meet me, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Biting my lower lip nervously, I halted in front of the altar. Where was he? Had he forgotten his promise?
Or even worse: had something happened to him?
Feelings of alarm grew inside me as the minutes ticked by. Let him come soon. My ankle began to ache from the dank coolness rising up from the stone floor, but I dared not leave the spot. I could not and would not depart until I saw him. Reaching for the altar rail, I shifted my weight to the hard, solid piece of wood, clutching it with both hands to remain upright.
‘Signora Clairmont?’ Father Gianni appeared in the doorway to the left side of the high altar.
I exhaled in profound relief as I stretched my hands out to him. ‘I am so happy to see you, Father.’
He clasped my fingers and gave me a wide smile. ‘Did you think I had forgotten?’
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