by Julie Matern
To his surprise, the contessa herself was standing in the hall and approached him upon his entry. “Good Signore, may I ask your errand? You appear so downcast that I fear it is bad news.” She held the dog up to her lips and kissed him, worry lines prominent on her forehead.
“Fear not, good Signora. It is not bad news for you that I bring. I am Giorgio Giaccopazzi of Florence. I believe you were at school with my poor daughter, Isabella.”
The contessa brought her hand quickly to her mouth, gasping, her eyebrows raised in apprehension. “Do you mean that she is dead, Signore?”
“Yes, she died of the fever over six months ago, and I—”
The contessa had raised her hand to stop him and glanced at the inquisitive expressions of the maggiodormo and the maid.
“Signore Giaccopazzi, let us repair to the drawing room, where we will enjoy complete privacy.” She motioned to a door with her hand. The maggiodormo threw his head back and lifted his nose high in the air, deeply offended at the insinuation, and the maid’s countenance fell.
After they were seated in the room, the contessa explained, “The servants are my husband’s, and they are continually spying on me to report to him my many offenses. My marriage is not a happy one, Signore, though I lack for no comforts or entertainment. My father’s power has increased fourfold through this alliance, it is true, but there is no love for me in it and my husband takes great delight in abusing me with the gossip of the servants. But enough of me, why have you come to visit to tell me that poor Isabella has passed away?” She stroked the tiny head of the white dog and looked at him expectantly.
“I understand that you traveled to France with my Isabella sometime after you completed your schooling in Switzerland?”
“Indeed, I did,” she answered cautiously.
“I beg you to tell me what transpired during the course of your travels, Contessa.”
“I do not know that I understand your meaning, Signore?”
He cleared his throat. “As she lay dying, Isabella confessed to having given birth to a child that year, but before I could press her for more details, she was gone.”
The contessa relaxed back into her chair and a look of resignation crossed her features, but she offered no conversation, so Giorgio pressed on.
“I am left alone with no family to brighten my days and with an impressive empire that no heir will enjoy. I am desperate, Contessa. Please tell me if you know of what I speak.”
Warring emotions waged a battle across her dark features as she appeared to argue within herself as how best to handle the situation that had been thrust upon her. “I divined that something had occurred to make her melancholy, but Isabella gave no hint as to what it was and, at first, I did not press her on it. She joined our group in Nice and appeared to be forcing herself to be merry. I do not know if the others noticed, but we were close at school, she and I, and I could tell that she was deeply sad to the very core of her being. At length, I ventured to address her on the subject but she would simply laugh and ask me what could possibly be wrong. We were young and rich and enjoying the delights of Nice, she said. What was there to be woeful about? But woeful she was.
“After the others retired each evening, I would attempt to engage her in conversation, but she would always feign a headache and retreat to her room with her maid. After several weeks of indolence, she shocked me by announcing that she was urgently needed by a cousin in Grasse, though she told the rest of the group that the need was back in Italy. She explained that she was leaving her maid at the pensionne and had hired a maid who came highly recommended by the concierge.
“I protested at her traveling alone and insisted on accompanying her but she said that the matter of her cousin was delicate and needed the utmost confidentiality, and though I entreated her for more details, she would not give any.
“The next morning, she left before we arose. I asked her maid if she knew why the urgency and secrecy, but she seemed as bemused as I.
“That afternoon, my cousin Michaelangelo Morretti of Milan arrived. I had been so anxious for Isabella to meet him as he was a fine match for any lady. It was most vexing. However, in time my cousin succeeded in distracting me from my reveries concerning poor Isabella and introduced us to some of his acquaintances, very exciting people who took us to see many places of interest and many operas and such like. In fact, I fell in love with one of my cousin’s friends and from then on, all my energies were caught up in those tender emotions so that I forgot about Isabella, who had, after all, been gone now for such a long time.
“We were beginning the work of packing up to repair to Rome for the Christmas season when Isabella unexpectedly reappeared and declared her intention of leaving for Florence, post haste. I cannot tell you how much she was changed. She had gained weight, and her once lively countenance was much downcast; her usually vibrant complexion was gray, and I asked her if she was ill. She protested that she was not ill but that her cousin’s situation had taxed her to the very utmost and she was in need of seeking refuge at home to recover her spirits. I grasped her hands, attempting to peer into her soul, and asked what terrible calamity had befallen her cousin that would cause such distress. She explained that her cousin’s reputation had been irrevocably compromised and that she, Isabella, had worked hard to repair the damage from false accounts of the events. She protested that her cousin was innocent of the false accusations leveled at her but that she had allowed herself to succumb to the overtures of a very powerful, older man who was seeking vengeance for the alleged humiliation. As I pinned her with my gaze, she seemed to crumple and collapsed into a chair. I summoned her maid who took her upstairs to rest. When I inquired after her the next morning, they were gone.” The contessa leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Giorgio’s face before continuing.
“I believed her story for I had no reason to doubt it but your tale has illuminated my memory, and as I reexamine the events of that time, I can see that indeed the distress was not her cousin’s but her own. It explains the haste and secrecy and leaving her maid behind in Nice. Indeed, she was more womanly in her build when she first arrived in Nice than when we had parted at school, but that I attributed to the fine fare of your cook, whose praises she would often sing. It all makes sense if I consider that she was actually with child. The shame would have been too great to admit even to one’s closest friend.” She reached forward and clasped Giorgio’s hand. “I am ashamed to admit that had she confessed to me her situation, I may have thrown her off. We are so quick to judge in our youth, are we not?”
She leaned back, deep in thought and reflection. “Yes, yes I see now that it was so,” she said softly, stroking the dog again, who delighted in the attention.
“You say that she went to Grasse?” He pounced on the new information like a cat on a mouse.
“That is what she said, yes. But this calls into question all that she told me, does it not, Signore?”
Giorgio’s face fell at the truth of what she said. Age and sadness settled into the wrinkles of his face like a death mask. “Do you perhaps at least remember the name of the pensionne in Nice, Contessa?”
“Indeed, for it is the shrine to my first and only true love,” she smiled.
Ten
UV
ENGLAND
Francesca was dozing in the warmth of the sun when the wheels of the carriage hit a hole in the road and jerked her awake. A smile still played on her lips and her mother suggested that she had been having a most interesting dream. She had in fact and her eyes widened and she pretended to cough into her handkerchief to cover her embarrassment. She had been dreaming that she had been riding with Mr. Langley Ashbourne, but not on her own horse; scandalously, she was riding with him on his horse and holding him around the waist to stay on as he galloped the horse along the meadows. She tried to grasp at the memory as the dream disappeared like wisps of smoke from her consciousness. She sighed and leaned her head against the carriage window.
Annabelle and her
family had left a week earlier, and Francesca and her family were now on their way to Annabelle’s family home to participate in the picnic. Bella had already sent her two letters full to the brim about Mr. Doyle. Francesca was beginning to be bored by the poor man already, and she had scarcely met him.
As they arrived, the servants were bringing the wicker baskets of food into an empty carriage and the dogs were barking all around them. Mr. Pike, the butler, was sweating profusely and shooing the dogs away, directing the servants and mopping his brow. His face was flushed and his wig askew. All seemed in a pleasant pandemonium.
“Careful, now, careful,” Pike directed. “Oh Sally, you will break the china! Have a care, have a care!”
Annabelle glided down the staircase looking bubbly and eager and came to embrace the Havershams affectionately. “Mr. Doyle arrived an hour ago and Phillip Waverley about a half an hour ago, and the Dillworths and the Ashdowns and Edwardses arrived just before you. We shall make such a merry party!”
“Phillip is here, then?” said Francesca, happy to know she would have a friend to distract her from Annabelle and the vexatious Mr. Doyle.
“Oh yes, and I forgot to tell you that cousin William has invited Mr. Fine!”
Francesca’s stomach leaped up like a carnival dog at the unexpected but welcome news. She swallowed and cleared her throat so as to appear nonchalant. “You mean Mr. Ashbourne?”
“Yes, yes of course! Isn’t that fun?”
Francesca became instantly critical of her choice of dress for the occasion. She had chosen a simple dress since a picnic seemed to warrant it but she was horrified to confess that had she known Mr. Ashbourne would be there she would have been much more careful in her selection. It was an infuriating admission.
As she turned to face the door of the great house, Phillip, William, and Mr. Ashbourne appeared at the top of the staircase to join the party. Phillip had a friendly, open, pleasant face, but oddly, the close comparison with Mr. Ashbourne left him appearing wanting.
She now faced a social dilemma. Should she run up the stairs to greet Phillip and in the process be reintroduced to Mr. Ashbourne, or should she wait at the bottom of the staircase for them to come to her? Which would be the more dignified way to behave?
As she pondered this, Phillip noticed her and made the decision for her by running down the stairs to greet her and her parents. Mr. Ashbourne remained at the top of the stairs, Francesca noticed, surveying the guests as if he were watching an operatic production. How maddening that he did not come down with Phillip for an easy introduction.
After the greetings were accomplished, she was grateful that Phillip turned and called up the stairs, “Come, Langley, let me make the introductions.”
T
In truth, Phillip had been more than dismayed to arrive and find Mr. Langley Ashbourne one of the party invited to the picnic. He had hoped to find some private time to talk to Francesca and tell her of his discoveries, but upon encountering the subject of her interest, it became clear to Phillip that he would only be of secondary interest today. His spirits flagged, but he took courage and mustered up a good humor.
Unfortunately for him, he turned just in time to see the angelic anticipation upon Francesca’s lovely face as Ashbourne finally descended.
Ashbourne descended slowly and gave his attention first to Francesca’s mother. He made a great theater of lifting her gloved hand to his lips and saying, “But of course I remember the beautiful Mrs. Haversham, hostess of the memorable ball in Wiltshire. How could I forget?”
He then turned his attentions to her husband, and they spent a good while talking of the upcoming picnic.
Phillip kept his gaze trained on Francesca, who was failing in her attempts to appear calm and patient, shuffling from foot to foot and putting her hand to her neck compulsively. He had to hand it to Langley; he certainly knew how to play hard to get.
At length, Ashbourne recognized Francesca, repeating the same theatrical kissing of the hand and saying what a pleasure it was to meet the debutante again and how fine she looked. Francesca was just opening her mouth to respond to his greeting when he hastily turned and explained that he had promised the hostess that he would help her into her carriage. Francesca was left with her mouth open, her hand still raised in the greeting and a look of bewilderment on her face. It was comic indeed. As Ashbourne retreated, Francesca came to herself and let her hand drop to her side to smooth her dress.
“Well, what an extraordinary fellow!” chuckled her father, noticing the smudge of color upon his daughter’s cheek. “He appears to relish playing the mysterious character, does he not?”
“Oh, Father, you do love to exaggerate so!” she said, then hurried to greet Annabelle.
The picnic was to be at a hill, some five miles distant. The caravan of carriages, some covered and some not, made its merry way at walking pace so as not to upset the food hampers. Francesca had seated herself in her cousin Annabelle’s carriage with her aunt and uncle. Her parents were in their own carriage with Phillip and Mr. Doyle, who had arrived on horseback and had been looking for a seat in the caravan. Mr. Doyle was effusive in his praise. “What a fine family this is! I am honored to be invited to such an auspicious event. I remember fondly the ball I attended at your house. Most gracious hosts as I recall, and meeting dear Annabelle will burn it into my memory for evermore!” He smiled benevolently upon the occupants of the carriage, and the Havershams exchanged a look of mirth.
“Are your affections returned, sir?” asked Mr. Haversham pleasantly.
“I believe they are, I believe they are! In very fact, the invitation to this little party has given me courage to approach her father for his permission to profess my feelings to the lady this very day. I believe she will make me a very happy man!”
“Upon such a short acquaintance, how can you be so sure?” asked Emily Haversham in her gentle way. Mr. Doyle puffed out his chest and put his hands on his knees, “My dear lady, when feelings are this passionate, I believe one must act upon them as soon as may be! Life is short, and ‘carpe diem’ is my motto! I have not been long engaged in the law, but I can offer Miss Haversham, Annabelle, a comfortable home and a good income. She will want for nothing.”
“Then let us be the first to congratulate you,” said Mrs. Haversham, smiling. “You could not have chosen a better companion than my niece. She is the kindest child and will be an affectionate wife.”
Phillip shook his hand in congratulations.
“What of you, Phillip?” asked Mr. Haversham. “Have any young ladies turned your head?”
Phillip scrutinized John Haverham’s features to see if there was any hint of suspicion on his face, but his gaze was without guile. He decided to tell the truth. “I have recently met a very pleasant young lady, but I must confess there is another that may have already stolen my heart.”
Emily Haversham leaned forward in excitement. “My dear Phillip, do we know her? Pray tell us who she is.”
“I am not sure of the young lady’s affections, indeed I fear that she has given her heart in another direction, so it would be impolitic of me to name the lady.”
“Pooh! I admire your honor, and yet it is so irksome!” Emily laughed. “I hope you will discover her true feelings soon. Are you in an agony?”
“Yes, truly I am,” he confessed with full candor.
“Then I pray that you will be put out of your misery sooner rather than later,” she said, patting his arm. “Any woman would be blessed to call you husband.”
The picnic hill was a gently undulating meadow with shade trees at convenient locations and a brook at the bottom. The servants placed the picnic blankets under the canopies of leaves and all was very agreeable. Mr. Doyle had brought a yo-yo and was unusually proficient at it, which made for great entertainment and disposed Francesca to think a little better of him.
Francesca, Annabelle, Annabelle’s parents, and Mr. Doyle shared a blanket, though Annabelle’s parents sat on chairs brought for t
he occasion. Although he was clever with the yo-yo, Francesca soon began to find Mr. Doyle’s conversation rather tedious and she found his person unattractive with his receding hair line and hooked nose.
Annabelle, on the other hand, was hanging on his every word and laughing at all his rather pointless jokes. Francesca considered the possibility of them marrying and shuddered at the thought of having to endure his breakfast conversation whenever she visited. Still, she loved Annabelle like a sister, and she had never, in truth, seen her so happy and alive.
After the chicken and bread had been eaten, Phillip came to ask whether anyone would care for a stroll along the brook. Francesca jumped at the chance to escape the vapid comedian and lifted her hand to Phillip so that he might help her from the ground.
As soon as she alighted, straightened her dress, and opened her parasol, she approached Mr. Ashbourne and asked if he might like to join them. Phillip pulled at his ear in irritation and looked away, praying that the invitation might be refused.
“I fear I am a dashed lazy fellow who is rather in need of some slumber after such a sumptuous repast,” Ashbourne said, nodding in the direction of the hosts, who nodded back in appreciation.
Frustration flickered across Francesca’s features, and she turned abruptly for fear of giving herself away. Phillip offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
The two of them wandered down to the brook, bantering and reminiscing about childhood. When they were well out of earshot, Francesca touched his arm and looked earnestly into his face. “Have you discovered anything about our mysterious Mr. Ashbourne, other than that he likes his sleep?”
Phillip took a deep breath. “He is the only son of an aging Baronet, whose younger mother died while he was yet a boy.”
“Oh, the poor motherless man!” she gasped.
Phillip refrained from commenting. He continued, “He has admirers wherever he goes and enjoys being aloof and mystical. He considers young women a pleasant distraction, no more.”