by Julie Matern
He looked down and noticed that he was drumming the arms of his chair in a tattoo. He stopped his fingers but the tattoo continued in his unreliable, old heart. Since his attack, he had been aware that the regular rhythm of his heart had been replaced by a most irregular one. Fear of this was the only reason he was obeying his doctor’s orders to rest.
The door opened and Mario returned. Giorgio turned sharply and, beaming with anticipation, said, “Take down what I wish to have for dinner! Everything must be perfect!”
Twenty-Seven
UV
ENGLAND
The normally dignified Lord Haversham was stomping about his study, weeping and wailing and gnashing his teeth as the short, thin banker slowly shook his head. He cleared his throat.
“If you had read our copious correspondence over the last six months, this would have come as no surprise to you, my Lord. We have documented our attempts to educate you on the precarious state of your investments abroad, but you have chosen to ignore it. It has now reached such epic proportions that I felt I had no other option than to come to Haversham Hall in person to inform you that, after you settle our current bill, our firm can no longer represent your family as it will undoubtedly damage our reputation in the city.”
Lord Haversham stopped abruptly and turned sharply, roaring, “My family made your reputation what it is and this is how you repay me? Abandon me in my hour of greatest need? I will see you ruined, Arthur Farthing!” Spittle showered the air around Mr. Farthing’s person. He stood his ground stoically, though his complexion blotched and mottled at the abuse.
“If I may be so bold, m’Lord, when this is noised abroad, as it undoubtedly will be in a very short time, your opinions will be worth less than your fortune. I doubt there is a counting house, club, or merchant to whom you owe a considerable amount who will not now join you in your pecuniary distress. It will be like an army of dominoes; as you tumble, so shall they.”
Sir John Haversham dropped into his chair, a shrunken replica of his former self, his blustery anger blown out at last. “I have not wherewith to pay you, Farthing. Not two pennies to rub together, if truth be told. What am I to do?”
“Then in my professional opinion you must sell Haversham Hall, as soon as may be.”
“It is mortgaged,” he replied timidly.
“Not through us!”
“No, I sought funding elsewhere to keep the situation as quiet as possible.”
“Then your predicament is far worse than I feared, my Lord. As soon as the bank that holds the mortgage hears of your change in fortunes, they will call in the loan and turn you out. Why did you not take some precautions when you read of the looming troubles abroad?”
His voice cracking and hesitant, Lord Haversham whispered, “I hoped that it would all turn out well.”
“With all due respect, my Lord, hope is not a strategy. I will leave you now.”
As the door to his study closed, it was as if the very heavens were closed against him and the full weight of his troubles crashed down on his mind, like some dark and sinister force. He could see no hope, no light at the end of the tunnel, no way out. He glanced at the decorative sword displayed on the wall and toyed with the idea of using it to end his misery, rejecting the idea as unworthy of a man in his position; an action that was dishonorable and would only bring further shame to his family.
Where could he turn to find the relief he sought? What was he to do? He craved immediate oblivion, even if it were temporary, and dragged himself up the stairs to his bedroom with a bottle of whiskey.
T
ITALY
As their carriage approached the fine Giaccopazzi mansion with its infinite vineyards on either side, excitement was replaced with something more resembling of nerves. It was hard not to be impressed with the rolling hills of green, verdant vines. This was wealth indeed, even by her own family’s standards.
Francesca’s eyes grew large and anxious. Perhaps her grandfather would not like her. Perhaps he would be disappointed that she was not more accomplished. She looked to her mother, who gave her an encouraging smile, fully aware of the tumult of emotions her daughter was experiencing.
“I think we can be reassured that your birth mother did not exaggerate when she said she was from a wealthy family of good standing in the community!” said John, smiling broadly at the sheer expanse of the enterprise.
As the forecourt appeared, Francesca could see that the mansion was not dissimilar from the style of the villa she had visited in France, though on a much grander scale. The filigree iron balconies were present and the light color stucco on the exterior with many tall windows. However, the lower portion of the house was unique. It was built upon a corridor of arches and boasted a Greek-style portico and stone staircases swept up on either side from the forecourt. It was magnificent.
Before long, the carriage crunched on the gravel. Several servants appeared under the portico, and an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair waved to them from the main balcony.
As they advanced, Francesca was able to study her Italian grandfather. He wore his white beard short and to a gentle point, and it framed his kind, tanned face. His eyes, once dark, wore the lighter look of cataracts but sparkled in anticipation and crinkled at the edges in a friendly smile. His white hair was wavy and thick and reached past the collar of his shirt. She loved him instantly and wondered, abstractedly, if Phillip would like him.
In a moment, the nerves were blown away, and Francesca eagerly descended the carriage. She was only stopped from running up the stairs by a gentle pressure on her arm from her mother and the very slightest of shakes of the head, disapproving of the childish desire. She smoothed down the creases in her dress to use up the nervous energy instead and settled her bonnet on her head. Then her father and mother took her by the arms and ascended the staircase to make the introductions.
They stopped at a comfortable distance from Giorgio, and he reached out his hand to Francesca, who moved forward eagerly to take it. Grasping her hand, he pulled her into a familial embrace, his cheeks glistening with tears. She gladly placed her head upon his breast, returning his embrace. A sense of completeness consumed her, and she felt as though a hole she had not known existed had been filled. She looked up at her parents through tears of joy. She had never felt such an intimate closeness with her English grandparents who were bound by English rules of decorum in showing affection.
John Haversham pulled his wife closer and placed his hand upon her arm.
“Benvenuto in casa mia!” Giorgio said with enthusiasm, and released Francesca so that he could hold her at arm’s length and study her features. He was gratified to see that she favored her natural mother very much. He bobbed his head in approval and continued in very halting English, “Please, to come!”
He turned in his wheelchair, reclasping Francesca’s hand as though she might disappear like a vision if he released it. Her parents followed.
Francesca looked up as they passed under the Greek portico and was fascinated to see that the ceiling was decorated with the most delicate masonry in a regular pattern consisting of squares, circles, and flowers. It was exquisite work.
They entered a room filled with windows and light that faced a lovely garden. The heady scent of the flowers from outside permeated the room. Giorgio was wheeled next to an armchair, which he patted to indicate that Francesca should sit there.
“Bene,” and he indicated for Mario, whom they just now noticed in the room, to come and translate.
Giorgio held out his arms toward Francesca, palms up, in a gesture of presentation, his face infused with pleasure. “Bellissimo!”
“Giorgio say your daughter is very beautiful.”
Emily and John bowed their heads to indicate their pleasure. Giorgio continued in a crescendo of Italian, and they waited patiently for the translation.
“Giorgio want thank you for bring your daughter to visit. He say it clear she is much loved. He proud that she grand lady. He say his daughter,
Isabella, be proud too.”
Another deluge of animated Italian poured forth from the old man.
“He say before this day, his life dark and empty. Your daughter, she come to fill it with sunshine and hope.”
Addressing Mario, Francesca asked, “Could you ask Signor Giaccopazzi to tell me about my mother? Ever since I have learned of her I have been eager to know what she was like.”
Emily winced and looked down quickly so that her features did not betray her concern. She swallowed hard, and John squeezed her hand in solidarity. As Mario translated, a mixture of delight and sadness settled onto Giorgio’s wrinkled face and he nodded. He began his recital and Mario translated after every few phrases.
“She was only child, though, my wife, she have many babies,” Giorgio crossed himself in the Catholic tradition. Mario continued, “My wife, she spoil Isabella because she only one to live. Isabella was free spirit. She loved horses. She ride like a man. But she intelligent too. When her mother die, was hard. For me and for her. I work more to deal with sadness. Isabella and me, we drift apart.
“At sixteen I send her to finishing school. The years soon pass and she come back in middle of bad, bad drought. I must save grapes. I neglect her. She spend time with stable boy and horses. Stable boy is very handsome. She very beautiful …” His recitation trailed off and he shrugged.
John and Emily looked at each other in concern.
“I had no idea. I blame myself. I failed her,” he continued. “I not remember her leaving to go to France. I too busy. I feel guilt now,” and he pointed to his heart. “Here.” He was silent for a while and then continued, “She come back, I don’t know where from but she sad. She not tell me why. I let it go. I forget it. Was easier.
“Time pass. We become friends. I forget her sadness. She marry. A good, good man. But no babies come. Then while she dying she tell me about baby.” He put his hands gently around Francesca’s face and looked into her eyes, his own moist. “I travel far to find you. God has not forgotten me. He has brought you to me.”
He released her face and reached for something from a side table, handing it to Francesca. It was a beautiful portrait of a striking woman with flashing dark eyes, thick wavy hair, and more than a passing resemblance to herself.
Twenty-Eight
UV
ITALY
Giorgio asks if you agree for Francesca to meet her natural father,” said Mario as he came into the breakfast room the next morning and bowed to the Havershams.
Giorgio had insisted that they stay at the house instead of the pensionne and had sent servants to retrieve their belongings.
“He promise the man that he would try to make a meeting, but if not, he understand. Much to think about, no? Giorgio is much tired this morning. He apologize he not come down. So much excitement.”
At the hint of the topic the night before, it had become the matter of an intense private conversation between the two of them after they retired. The shocking revelation that Francesca’s natural father was a stable boy had come as astonishing news, as they had assumed that he was a man of noble birth who was, perhaps, married.
Francesca had been so enthralled with meeting her grandfather and learning about her mother that she had been oblivious to the disclosure about her father, but the idea that Francesca would at some point ask to meet him was broached by her parents in private, and even after hours of discussion, they had not resolved on a course of action. The alarming realization that he was of low birth had led them to weigh the options and had prompted much soul-searching, particularly on John’s part. This fact could damage Francesca’s chances for a happy and successful future, were it to be known. He rejected the notion of making a decision for his daughter based on prejudice, as his own father would, but he had to acknowledge that her parentage was distinctly objectionable for a man of his rank and reputation, and he hated himself for it. He had wrestled with the question of what to do with this knowledge deep into the night. Now to learn that her natural father was actually expecting to meet Francesca …
“I am torn between feeling that he has a moral case for meeting her and—and I am ashamed to admit this—a feeling that we have a moral case for preventing such a meeting,” admitted John. Mario bowed in understanding. He well understood the politics of hierarchy.
“You should know that Antonio, that is his name, has climbed from stable boy to head groom. That is something, no?”
“Perhaps we should take the question to Francesca, my love?” suggested Emily.
“I fear that she does not possess the experience and wisdom necessary in making such an important decision. I fear that she will make the decision using only her sensibilities. Once the meeting has taken place, once the introduction has been made, it cannot be undone. He will, perhaps, demand a more permanent place in her life, which would jeopardize any prospects of marriage with a suitable English gentleman. Our first responsibility as her parents is to protect her. We must consider her future.”
“What about my future?” gasped Francesca, as she looked with fear from her mother to her father, on entering the room.
“I will leave you,” Mario said tactfully, then withdrew from the room.
Francesca dropped into a brocade chair, her brows pinched in panic. “We are not leaving already, are we?” she queried.
“No, no, do not fear. We have only just arrived.”
Her brow smoothed but her eyes grew curious, “Then what about my future?”
“Your birth father has asked to meet you. It is a matter that will require you to deliberate and weigh different options. Again, I would suggest that you take some time before making a hasty emotional decision.”
“If you require it, Papa, but what can you mean?”
“We mean, Francesca that you must decide whether it is wise to start a relationship with him.”
“Oh, I see …”
“I would advise you to appraise the situation using logic as well as your heart. Your father is not a gentleman as we had assumed; he is a groom.”
“Ah. I do not remember that being mentioned. Well, yes, that does change things,” she said thoughtfully.
She walked to the open glass doors and leaned against the frame, gazing out at the beautiful gardens. “You mean that this fact might taint me in the eyes of English society.”
“We do. Though hard to accept, given the facts as they are, it is one thing to be the illegitimate daughter of an unknown gentleman, but it is quite another to definitely be the daughter of a servant. This connection with the lower classes will have serious repercussions for your future prospects. Think if he were to demand access to you after your return to England. These are all things you must consider carefully.”
“But Papa, it seems so wrong to judge people by their wealth and position. Cannot a man be worthy who is not rich or of noble blood?”
“Of course, but you must be realistic. We live in a world where traditions of rank and class are the foundation of our civilization. You cannot snub these social rules without understanding the consequences—to do so will be a risk to your whole way of life and your reputation. Remember the reaction of your own grandfather when he merely suspected that your parentage was not noble. Society at large will be much less forgiving, and your mother and I will not live forever to be your protectors. Your chances of making a good marriage and finding protection through your husband’s position, if your birth father is to be a permanent part of your life, are very low, my dear. You may not like it, but it is the world in which we live and you will live or die by its rules, unfair as they may seem.”
Francesca sank onto the couch and hung her head in her hands in quiet despair. Emily and John looked at each other in sympathetic desperation. This was uncharted territory indeed.
They all sat still in quiet meditation for some time. John sent a prayer to the heavens and as he sat, the seed of an idea began to grow in his mind.
Francesca slowly raised her head, eyes raw from weeping, “I real
ly do desire to meet him, Papa, but if you think it truly unwise, I will try to forbear.”
Her father relaxed his face and suggested, “What if we were to engage the services of a lawyer?”
Francesca’s head tilted to the side like a puppy, listening to its master.
“Go on,” said Emily.
“I am sure your birth father is an intelligent man. He has risen to be head groom according to Mario, and that is no easy task. He could be made to appreciate the threat his presence is to your way of life if he were to insist on associating with you in England. Perhaps we can draw up a legal document to protect you. Suppose we explain the situation and ask him to sign a contract promising that he will not attempt to visit you in England but that you will come to Italy to visit him on a regular basis if he so desires it.”
“Do you not think that will seem rather rude, Papa? Perhaps it will make him angry.”
“It will depend on what manner of man he is, dearest. If he is a worthy man, he will be happy that you want to meet him, and the contract will show good faith that you desire to continue the relationship in the future.”
“What if I don’t like him … or you and Mama don’t like him?”
“Here is what I suggest. We prepare the document and send it to him before any meeting, allowing him time to overcome any hurt to his pride and giving him time to consider what is best for you. What do you think?”
Emily leaned forward. “It does seem to be a solution, Francesca. It will protect you and give him hope for an association.”