The American Lady (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  He looked her up and down with awe in his eyes, more reverently even than he looked at his beloved glassworks. Without being asked, she turned round in front of him like a dancer on a music box. He drank in her nakedness like wine, and she in turn grew drunk on his admiration. Now she could hardly wait for his touch. Her skin was growing warm just from his gaze, and she felt hot flushes ripple across her body. Wanda wrapped her arms around Richard, nestling into his shirt, but he pushed her away gently but firmly. Without taking his eyes off her, he began to undress. Involuntarily she wondered whether she was the first woman he had ever undressed for. Once, early on, she had asked him whether he had ever courted another girl—apart from poor Anna—but he had never answered. She didn’t doubt, however, that—unlike her—he was experienced in matters of love; he had always been so certain in his caresses, had never lost control, and he was a fantastic kisser.

  Wanda passed her tongue over her lips expectantly as Richard knelt down and untied his shoes. Her thighs were trembling almost unbearably, so she had to sit down on the bed. Richard unbuckled his belt briskly, and his pants fell to the floor.

  A sigh escaped from Wanda’s throat. Was it acceptable to tell a man how beautiful he was? She didn’t dare. He was just as muscular as she had imagined he would be, without being bulky. With his broad chest that tapered down to a narrow waist, he had a physique like those of the male ballet dancers in New York. Wanda glanced downward. Without his pants, his legs were more sturdy than she had expected.

  Once he was quite naked she found herself to be a little afraid after all. Afraid not of the unfamiliar sight of a naked man, but rather of her own desire for Richard, which almost smothered her. She wanted to pull him down on top of her, put his hands on her breasts; she wanted to . . . she blinked hastily to dispel the seductive visions.

  “You’re so . . . manly,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Richard had seen what she was looking at and grinned. “All the muscles are from the hard work at the bench and lamp.”

  “And where’s . . . that from?” Wanda’s eyes were half-closed as she pointed at his erection, which was straining upward, pulsing with strength. The brazenness of her question made her blush. What must Richard think of her!

  “That’s your doing. All you,” Richard murmured, his voice choked.

  A moment later, his arms were around her and his lips were upon hers. His lips roamed to her ears. She bowed her head. His tongue lapped at the hollow between her shoulders and back up to her neck where his warm breath stirred the small soft hairs.

  Wanda was breathing faster with every kiss. She could not hold herself back any longer but ran her hands over his body and kissed him, tasting the salt on his skin and breathing in his scent. By now they were lying together on the narrow bed. It groaned reproachfully under their weight and they laughed.

  With every kiss, every caress they spun a cocoon of passion more tightly around themselves. Nothing outside that cocoon mattered. The nearness of their breath, velvet skin, gentle moans, their hearts beating together, her soft curves and his strong arms around her, the pleasure and the pain . . .

  Wanda surrendered herself entirely, felt the cresting waves of passion lift her higher and higher, washing away the pain and leaving nothing but this joyous appetite.

  Any thought of the other guests in the hotel was long banished from Wanda’s mind as she screamed from the depths of her soul, “Hold me tight! Forever . . .”

  “Help me . . . I can’t take it anymore!”

  Marie’s scream ripped through the room. Her torso bucked and thrashed, the searing pain in her abdomen ripping through her even worse than before. Whatever was happening couldn’t be right. It was too painful. She was being torn in two. She . . .

  “You have to keep still! Eleonore is helping you! The bambino will be here, soon, soon!” Patrizia’s face was dripping with sweat; her face was set in rigid lines as though she shared in Marie’s pain. She looked impatiently at the midwife who was standing between Marie’s legs. What was taking so long?

  The midwife’s right hand was hidden inside Marie. She was concentrating, feeling for the child who refused to be born.

  “Send her away! I don’t want this. It hurts so much . . .” Hot tears ran down Marie’s face. Then she howled as another wave of pain ripped through her before she had recovered from the last.

  The young midwife had only ever delivered four babies before now. She drew back her hand, covered in blood, and Marie’s groans diminished a little. Eleonore’s face showed clearly how helpless she felt as she took a damp cloth and dabbed at Marie’s forehead.

  Theoretically she knew exactly how to take hold of the child and turn it so that the head was in the right place. But the textbook hadn’t told her anything about what to do when the mother was thrashing like a mad thing! Whenever she had hold of the head, Marie bucked and twisted and the head slipped out of her grasp. When she had studied with the matrona, all the women had stayed calm and done what the old midwife had told them. “Let them scream as much as they like,” the matrona always told her. “Screaming helps.” Well, this German woman was screaming until it seemed her throat might burst, but it didn’t seem to be making the birth one bit easier.

  If only it weren’t so hot! Eleonore tried to loosen her blouse a little, which was drenched with sweat. Then her glance fell on the clock on the wall and she gave a start. So late already!

  Six hours had passed, and the child had hardly changed position at all.

  For the first time Eleonore felt a touch of panic. She had to do something, or else the child’s life would not be the only one in danger.

  “What is it, how long are you going to flap that wet cloth around in her face?” the countess snapped at the young woman. “Can’t you see that she’s almost lost consciousness? Her pulse is getting weaker . . .” She let go of Marie’s wrist. The arm fell onto the bed as if Marie were a lifeless puppet.

  Eleonore took a deep breath.

  “If she won’t lie still I can’t take hold of the baby’s head.” She tried to put a note of authority into her voice. Neither of the other women would like what she was going to say next. “We will have to tie the signora down.”

  28

  The next morning everything happened so fast that there was no time for painful farewells. Richard was terribly nervous, which he tried to explain away by saying that there was a lot at stake for him at the art fair. Wanda knew, however, that he didn’t like the idea of traveling the last leg of the journey on his own.

  After one last kiss on the platform, they promised to meet the following Sunday at Richard’s hotel—and then Wanda had to urge him off, waving good-bye.

  Unlike the first part of the journey, she hardly noticed anything on her train ride from Bozen to Milan and then on to Genoa. The orchards gradually gave way to vast wheat fields, which were still tinged with green at this time of year. The light in her eyes was caused not by the beauties of the Italian landscape but by the passion of the previous night, which still glowed within her.

  “Now you are really mine,” Richard had whispered to her as they lay next to one another, sated. And then he added, “Let’s get married as soon as we get back from Italy.”

  She had nodded without saying a word. The hot tears made it impossible to speak. It didn’t matter. She could never have found the words for how happy she felt at that moment.

  She knew one thing for certain: not for an instant did she regret last night, even though she had broken every promise she had made to Johanna and her parents.

  Richard . . . her man . . . What was he doing at this moment?

  Suddenly she was terribly tired. Soon she would be able to tell Marie everything, woman to woman. That was Wanda’s last thought as she fell fast asleep, leaning against the window, utterly exhausted.

  Despite her fears, Wanda found it easy enough to ask her way to the de Lucca fa
mily home in Genoa. When she hailed a cab in front of the railway station and gave the driver the address, the driver shook his head sullenly before she could even climb in. He gestured as he talked, and she understood enough to realize that Marie’s home was only two streets away, so it was not worth his while to take her fare. Wanda pointed to her luggage and insisted. The driver grumbled but took her all the same. A few minutes later they stopped in front of a vast rectangular pile with a discreet brass plate on the door that read “Palazzo Delizioso.”

  So this was a building by the famous Italian architect Palladio! Marie had written pages and pages about him and the dozens of splendid villas he had built so Wanda was surprised to see how plain the exterior was here. Certainly the Palladian style was impressive, but it was also unusually severe. She wasn’t here to study Italian architecture, though. Wanda tugged the bell pull to the right of the door.

  “Scusi, signorina, but Countess Marie . . . is unfortunately . . . unavailable today!” explained the maid who opened the door. Then she curtsied briefly without moving aside.

  Unavailable? What was that supposed to mean? Wanda frowned. Had the girl even understood that she had come all the way from Germany to visit Marie? She glanced around at the building’s huge façade as though she expected to see Marie’s head pop up in one of the countless windows.

  Wanda tried again, speaking slowly and clearly. “Please . . . tell . . . my aunt that . . . Wanda is here. Wanda! Tell her that, can you?” Perhaps Marie didn’t want to see any strangers when she was so heavily pregnant, but that couldn’t apply to her niece.

  The maid twisted her fingers in her starched apron.

  “That . . . won’t be possible . . .” she answered in broken German.

  Up until that moment Wanda had been holding her luggage in her hands. Now she dropped it with a thump.

  “What does that mean? Has Marie gone out? If she has, then she’ll come back sometime, won’t she?” she asked indignantly. Was this how the Italians treated their guests, simply leaving her standing on the doorstep after she’d come all this way? She stepped aside to get out of the sunshine that was beating down on her back. She wouldn’t mind a chance to cool down somewhere and drink a glass of lemonade after her long journey. She suddenly wondered whether the telegram she had sent ahead to announce her arrival might have been lost. Did Marie even know that she was on her way?

  The maid looked back over her shoulder as though hoping that someone would come and help her get rid of Wanda. When no help came, she stepped a little closer to Wanda.

  “She is . . . very weak after the birth of her daughter yesterday,” she whispered, peering back into the palazzo again as she spoke. She made no move to let Wanda in.

  “Marie has a daughter? The baby’s already here?” Wanda asked incredulously. The maid nodded vaguely.

  Yesterday . . . Marie had given birth to a little girl while she, Wanda, had been sitting on the train! It took her a moment to digest the news. Then all at once her heart was brimming over with happiness. Marie had a daughter! She wanted to shove the maid out of the way and run into the house. She had to see Marie right away! And the baby.

  Instead she took a deep breath. “Of course my aunt needs peace and quiet today, I understand,” she said, smiling at the maid, who looked greatly relieved.

  “Where is Franco?” Only now did Wanda think to ask after him. Why hadn’t she thought to do that immediately? The least she could do was congratulate the father on the birth of his daughter. And Franco, of course, would insist that she be given a room in the palazzo rather than having to go and find a hotel while she waited for Marie to recover from the birth. She would take a look at the little one, just quickly, say hello to Marie, and then . . .

  “Signor de Lucca . . . not here. And his mother, Countess Patrizia, also not. Tomorrow they come back!” Carla answered stiffly and then shut the door before Wanda could react.

  Wanda stared in astonishment at the elaborately carved wooden door. It was all well and good that the servants should ensure the new mother had some peace and quiet, but this was going too far! There was only one way Wanda could explain it to herself: the staff had not been told that she was coming. And there were only two ways to explain that: either the household had been in such an uproar at the birth that it had simply been overlooked, or the telegram had gotten lost somewhere.

  Perplexed, she picked up her luggage and turned on her heel. The marble chips on the pathway crunched as she walked, and her feet were painfully swollen from the long train journey. Wanda turned around at the gate to the courtyard. The palazzo was certainly large and magnificent—but the people who lived in it had some very strange manners!

  She could just about believe that Franco would be in town having a drink with some friends in a bar to celebrate the birth of his daughter, but the idea that his mother had left the house as well . . . If Marie really was that tired out by the birth, one might expect that her mother-in-law would stay with her. What would Johanna say when she heard that? A tinge of foreboding mixed with Wanda’s outrage, but she was too upset to really think about it.

  She came to a crossroads and stopped to get her bearings. The city was indeed beautiful and its buildings magnificent, but she didn’t care about that at the moment. She decided to head down to the harbor, since she figured she might find the hotels there.

  Her luggage became heavier with every step she took, and she was annoyed that she hadn’t thought to leave the case full of presents for Marie and the baby at the palazzo. Now she would have to cart it around with her.

  Tomorrow, she decided, she would hire a cab to take her from the hotel to the palazzo.

  29

  The sun hangs low in the sky, shining through beneath the trees. Their long shadows stretch out like grasping fingers, reaching out to . . .

  Let me go!

  Marie ducks away, beneath the branches. She has to get out of this darkness! But the shadows are faster than she is; they slip ahead and are lying in wait wherever she steps. I’m here already, you cannot get away . . .

  A game that Johanna’s twins used to play. The pictures flash through her mind’s eye . . . chalk circles on paving stones, skirts swinging, and children’s songs . . . one, two, hop! and the shadow eats the words before she can remember any more.

  “Marie, come on, get undressed! You have to be naked if you’re going to sunbathe.” Sherlain’s voice, chiding her as she always did for not following Monte Verità’s rules. Hands pluck at her clothes now, and a cloth slaps at her face; she’s gasping for air, but she can’t breathe. It’s so cramped in here, so narrow and tight; she’s scared but . . .

  “No, don’t undress me! No . . . ! The man with the beard! He’s coming for me . . .” The thought blurs at the edges like ink on wet paper. What man?

  “Quiet now, Marie! Nobody wants to undress you.” A hand pushed her back down into bed. “Let me put that cloth back on your brow. We have to drive this fever away.”

  Marie sat up, soaked with sweat. “Fever . . .”

  For a moment she didn’t know who the woman was, dipping the white cloth into a china bowl, wringing it out. Then the memory slowly came back to her: the birth, the terrible pain, then at last, from one moment to the next, merciful oblivion in which she felt nothing and nothing hurt anymore . . .

  The man with the beard . . . there he is again, hiding in the forest, hiding in among the blue and green and . . . He waves to her, she can see him clearly . . .

  She remembered something. Something so important that she struggled to sit up again so that she could think clearly. She fought with all her strength against the dizziness that threatened to overcome her. These moments of wakefulness were a rare gift; she had to use each one to the fullest.

  “My baby. Where is my baby?”

  How could she have forgotten her daughter? She had to look after her. Her Sylvie.

  Soot
hing words reached her ears as though through cotton, calming the panic that rose within her.

  “Your baby . . . is well . . . She’s well.”

  Marie’s eyes drooped closed. There was nothing she could do to stop them.

  Sylvie, like Marie. A short name. Her baby didn’t need anything more than that. A good name. Sylvie Steinmann . . . The dizziness was there again, stronger than before, her head was so heavy . . .

  Something is sparkling behind her eyelids, like droplets after spring rain. But they are not drops of water; rather they are polished prisms of glass that catch the sunlight and refract it in a burst of color.

  Georgie is at Marie’s bedside. She’s holding up a necklace of glass beads in front of her face. “You see, the shadow’s gone away!” She laughs and her skin shines in all the colors of the rainbow.

  “Now we can have some fun . . .” She swings the necklace back and forth, the prisms melt and flow together, growing rounder and rounder until they become a globe.

  “That’s the paradise of glass . . .” Marie murmured.

  “Please believe me, Signorina Miles, this really is the worst possible time for you to visit your aunt! The birth was unusually hard on her, since the baby was not in position. We had to take . . . certain measures to save the life of both mother and baby.”

  What measures? Wanda frowned in concern. She couldn’t imagine what the word meant but it sounded awful. Or perhaps the countess had picked the wrong word? Her English was rather broken.

  “And how are the mother and the baby now?” she asked, sick at heart. Why was the countess so tight-lipped? How could she sit there so calmly on that dainty little chair and not even tell Wanda what Marie’s daughter was named?

  Patrizia shrugged noncommittally. “The doctor was here this morning and examined Marie and the bambino. The child is very well, and a wet nurse is taking care of her. Thank heavens that we found her—she lives just a couple of houses away, and she is quite willing to nurse Sylvie alongside her own child.”