“Of course.” Ofelia hadn’t drunk any alcohol in years by then, not a sip of wine or touch of brandy to her lips.
“Best you keep the medication with you. The Dexamyl in particular seems to cause a kind of temporary amnesia, and patients may be quite convinced to take their dose over again.” How good a temporary amnesia sounded. “You can always call. Despite Mrs. McMurthie’s wishes, I won’t be out late.”
I circled the house to make sure the drapes were pulled shut against the cold, the doors closed, then went upstairs to Ofelia. “Can I get you something to drink – water, tea?” I thought of the duke, calling for water again and again, trying to soothe his ragged throat in the months before his death.
“There’s nothing.” Ofelia turned her head from side to side. I saw the smear of tears on her face. She took a long, rough breath. “We were loved once, weren’t we, Marie?”
“Yes, of course.” My voice was forced, flat. “The duke loved you very much.”
“He did. And Sveva. He loved her so very much. She knows that. He tried to leave us in a good place in this world.” Ofelia laughed at this – the sound came out like a cough and she held her chest. I watched the pain bind along her neck, her face. She looked at me. “You were loved once too, Marie.” Her voice was quiet, a rasp. “Do you ever say his name?”
I didn’t answer her.
“Now there’s no one. No one for me, no one for you. And Sveva, dear Sveva.” Ofelia seemed as though she wanted to say more about her daughter but stopped. She looked away again, as though out the window, but her focus seemed dull. “What have I done?”
What had either of us done? Only what we could, what we knew to do. Somehow, that had led to us spending a quarter of a century shut away together, but even as I traced back my role in this, I wasn’t sure how it had happened. There was one day and then the next, one year and then the next. At first, it seemed like there was so little time to question our lives, and then time became a pool around us, and its depth only hid its currents.
“Ofelia.” She was so still, I wondered for a moment if she was breathing. I put my face close to hers, turned my cheek to her mouth. “Ofelia,” I said again. Nothing, and then she began to shake. I knew she was too weak to cry so I held her, her body so thin against mine that I made sure my hold was light, as though I could hurt her with just a bit too much pressure. Her shaking calmed and it was then that it travelled from her body to mine like a tremor.
* * *
Wind pushed thin branches of trees against the house and they scraped against the window. I twitched on waking, as though the limbs were scratching my skin. I thought I heard a bough dragged along glass. It began as a shrill rasp, a keening of air, and then it tore and I recognized Sveva, her voice coming from Ofelia’s room. When I came in, she was sitting upright in her mother’s bed, her mouth open. She pulled in breaths, holding her throat as though she were choking, then she coughed out barking sobs.
I went to Sveva, pulled her hands from her neck, put one of my palms on her back, one on her chest, as though to guide her breath. I saw Ofelia, her eyes open to the ceiling, looking at neither her daughter nor me. I wish that I could tell you she looked peaceful. Her face was no longer closed around the pain that she’d felt. It had been so long, I realized, since I’d seen her without pain. It wasn’t peace that replaced this, though. What was it? There was nothing there. Ofelia was gone, and in her face I saw only absence. Something rose in my chest, along my neck – tightness, heat, bile. I felt as though I would be sick; then it was as if all the sensation hit the ribbed roof of my mouth and drained away, a hollowing.
I didn’t cry, not yet. I made calls, first to the doctor, then to the priest. They arrived in that order, the doctor pronouncing her death, Monsignor Miles asking me to fold back the bedding so that he could sprinkle holy water on her body. I tried not to touch her skin as I moved the bedclothes. It didn’t seem right, death both the ultimate vulnerability and nothing to do with Ofelia at all. She was already gone. I didn’t want to touch what was left behind. It wasn’t her; it wasn’t anyone. While I pulled the blankets down, Sveva stood beside me. The way her body shook seemed to disturb the air. When Monsignor dipped the aspergillum into the holy water, she began to wail. He sprinkled the holy water on Ofelia’s nightgown and Sveva howled like wind, a storm in the room.
* * *
Ofelia left us so late on the last day of 1960 or so early on the first morning of 1961 that it was hard to tell. Just as she had lived, her death straddled two worlds. It was hard to know where one ended, one began. I called the funeral home. Sveva sat beside Ofelia’s body while it was blessed and prayed over, and when it was removed and prepared for burial, she lay in the place in the bed where her mother had been, the space she’d left behind. I could hear her sobbing. When she emerged, her face was swollen, skin wet. She spoke to me as though her tongue were fat and numb. “I feel like I’ve been beaten, Jüül, hit all over with something wet and dull.”
I followed my lady’s request and she was brought to the cemetery by horse-drawn sleigh, the first time one had been used in twenty-seven years. When we got into the coach that pulled the sleigh, I felt like a child sitting beside the towering Sveva, my feet not quite reaching the floor, each jostle riding the small bones of my legs, tilting my tiny hips and laddering my spine. I hadn’t cried yet. Small cramps and shudders travelled my skin. I wished that Ofelia could have seen the attention we drew as we made our way down Pleasant Valley Road – imagine, a horse-drawn sleigh! As much as Ofelia had sequestered herself during her lifetime, I don’t think she would have minded making a spectacle of herself in death.
At the cemetery, everything but the gaping grave was covered in a hard crust of snow. The hole in which the coffin was laid was cut away from the earth so neatly, the ground so hard, it seemed it was being lowered into concrete. Sveva stood over it. She had stopped crying and flailing her arms in exaggerated grief and was holding herself still, standing so tall. It wasn’t quite snowing, but a few flakes were in the air, floating around us as though they didn’t know which way to fall. Sveva wouldn’t meet my eyes and I knew that if she did, she would begin to cry again. When we returned to the house, she went to her room. I opened the door to Ofelia’s quarters to the smell of camphor and closed air. The bed hadn’t been stripped since the monsignor had blessed the body.
I pulled back the bedding and released a scent – not the odour of sickness, but that of her, a smell I’d lived with for forty-three years, the length of Sveva’s life. In that smell, I saw the roundness of Ofelia’s young face when pregnant, her pink cheeks, her full lips smirking. I saw her four years later, on our sailing to Canada, how sallow her skin, the dark smudges under deep-set eyes. I saw her looking up at Leone, her mouth open, the red wet of it those times she would laugh, the times she would yell at him. I saw her reach for Sveva, a small hand along her daughter’s long arm. How even until her last days, she would pull her daughter toward her, kiss the top of her head as forcibly as she could. I felt the shock of Ofelia’s tongue in my mouth that one afternoon. In that smell, I saw us both from above on her last day as I held her. I felt the memory of Ofelia against me, her bones so close to the skin, so thin it was as if she’d been leaving her body for years by then. When I cried, it was like I could feel a shiver in her body ride my skin.
Forty-Seven
We didn’t understand how little was left for us until Ofelia’s will was read. She had named Monsignor Miles, the priest of St. James Catholic Church in Vernon, as the executor of her Italian property, a villa in Rome. “She advises the church to sell it,” the lawyer explained, looking at the document. “And to use all proceeds for what’s called the Society for the Propagation of the Faith.”
Sveva and I looked at the man. I’m sure neither of us knew what to say in response.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “The proceeds of the sale of that property as well as the proceeds of any of h
er investments held in Italy will go to the society.”
“I was under the understanding that there was not much left to her investments,” I said.
“Now that Monsignor Miles is named as the executor, he’s the only one privy to that information.”
“I would have thought ...” began Sveva, but she didn’t complete the sentence. I supposed the monsignor would know soon enough what he’d been bequeathed – and if it was worth anything. I knew well that the ladies had yet to see any income from that property. I suspected he’d be left more debt than revenue, but I couldn’t be sure.
To me, Ofelia left a modest monthly stipend. The lawyer explained, “This stipend is only provisioned – and I’ll stress only – if you remain living in the same household as Miss Sveva Caetani.”
Had Ofelia thought I would leave Sveva? The day when I could have done that had long passed. “I wouldn’t think of doing anything otherwise.”
“I’m not suggesting that you would, Miss Jüül. I’m simply reading your lady’s wishes.”
“Of course.”
He continued. “It states here that all of Miss Ofelia Fabiani’s household possessions should remain in the care of Miss Sveva Caetani di Sermoneta. This includes all artwork, china, garments and jewellery.”
I waited for the lawyer to go on. When he didn’t, I said, “And the duchess has left something else – a stipend, perhaps – for Sveva as well?”
The lawyer cleared his throat and lifted his hand as if to loosen his necktie before he dropped it again and straightened the papers with both hands, stacking and then smoothing the pile. “There is no specific stipend. I understand that Miss Fabiani’s possessions – the jewellery in particular – are of considerable value.”
“Her possessions, her possessions!” Sveva said. “Of course they are of some worldly value. That hardly makes a difference when she is gone. She – my mother – was of considerable value, and now she is gone!”
“Of course, this is difficult. I believe that Miss Fabiani –”
“Why on earth do you insist on calling my mother by her maiden name?”
The lawyer’s cheeks fell and he tightened his mouth, wide and thick-lipped, giving him the appearance of a sad clown. His eyes darted from me to Sveva and back. “That is her legal title. As such, it is the name that appears on all her legal documents.”
“Her legal title? Her legal title is Duchess Ofelia Caetani di Sermoneta.”
Some of the tension left the lawyer’s face, and when it did, he looked defeated. He rubbed his hand against his forehead once, briefly. “Miss Caetani, your parents’ union was one that we would term common-law. Your mother was known as Mrs. Caetani in this country, but this was not her legal title.”
I didn’t look toward Sveva.
“No one knew her as Mrs. Caetani! She was known as Duchess Caetani di Sermoneta. Who is this we that you refer to? What do they – you – know about my parents’ marriage?”
“I’m not sure if you’re aware –” The lawyer cleared his throat and squared his papers again. “Your parents did not legally marry.”
I remained looking at the large desk. He kept all his papers close to him and the rest of the desk was sparse, clean, so that there seemed to be an expanse of wood between us, gleaming. I kept my eyes on the oiled grain and waited for Sveva to say something. When she didn’t, I turned to her. She too was staring at the desk, her face still, aged by lack of animation, the downward slope of her eyes, the fall of her mouth.
The lawyer continued, “Remember, this is a legal document, Miss Caetani. Please don’t think of it as anything other than that.”
Sveva began to move again, her brows lifting, mouth open. “What else would I think of it? A love letter?” she said loudly.
“Exactly – that is exactly what it is not. Your mother was trying to ensure your well-being.”
“You know nothing about my mother and my well-being.” This time, Sveva’s voice was quiet, strained.
He looked quickly toward me, then back to her. “Your father’s first marriage was never annulled. He was legally married to Duchess Vittoria Colonna.”
“That was his first wife!”
“He had one heir with the duchess, a son.”
“A son? My father never talked about a son.”
“Onorato.”
“That was my grandfather.”
“Yes, and the name of your father’s son, as well. His son died in 1944, the duchess in 1954. In Italy, only they are considered his family – legally, I mean.”
With a slight pause between each word, Sveva said, “My father’s wife was my mother.”
“Legally, no. Neither you nor your mother is documented as a Caetani in Italy – but, even though your mother never became a citizen here, you are a Canadian residing in Canada. Your mother completed documents that absolved her of any legal title as your mother. I tried my best to persuade her to do otherwise, but she was convinced that her religious beliefs nullified her claim to you as a mother.”
“A bastard, am I?” Sveva looked from the lawyer to me, back again, brows lowered, eyes hard. “Never mind. The money is gone, isn’t it?”
The lawyer looked down briefly at his papers before he looked at me, then Sveva. “There is not the same amount of capital that there once was.”
Sveva snorted. “Obviously! How much is there, in simple terms?”
I shifted in my chair, cleared my throat though I had nothing to say.
“In simple terms, I can no longer reveal that to you, Miss Caetani. What was left of your mother’s estate has been bequeathed to Monsignor Miles and to Miss Inger-Marie Jüül. They are the only people to whom I can release that information.”
“It’s all right.” My voice came out unnaturally high and slight. I cleared my throat. “I will hide nothing from Sveva.”
“I can tell you this. There is not enough to support both of you for long. Miss Jüül, with all due respect, I don’t believe you’re in a position to supplement your household’s income. Miss Caetani, it may be an imperative that you do.” Neither of us said anything. “There are also organizations that can help with –”
“Stop! I do not need to hear any more of this! Apparently, it was decided long ago that I not be told these things. I don’t know why you are doing so now!” She pushed her chair back with an awful scraping along the wood floor and left the room.
I got up to follow her, said, “I’m sorry,” out of habit and immediately felt badly for doing so. I needn’t apologize for Sveva – her behaviour was suited to the circumstance, after all. It was me who was peculiar, with so little to say about the dissolution of the Caetani estate, of the life we once had. I suppose I realized the end of that life had begun years before.
I went out of the building onto the main street, looked one direction and then the other – the street so short all the shops could be seen by turning one’s head both ways. I saw the courthouse at the crest of the street, the houses that had been built between it and the Caetani home in an area that had once, not long ago, been pastures smattered with pine forest. I felt myself at the valley bottom, there in the middle of Vernon, the place that had been chosen for us. There was nothing else to do but walk back home.
I took a few steps and then Sveva was beside me, her hand in mine for a moment. She gripped it and then let go. I stopped to look at her, her eyes swollen and red, a sloppy smile pulling at her mouth. “So, I am a bastard, Miss Jüül!” She swung her arms out as though presenting herself, then dropped them. “And all this time I’ve been telling myself to not let the bastards grind me down. I, Miss Jüül, could have been doing the grinding, as it were!”
“I suppose you could have.”
She took my hand and we began walking up the hill. “We’ll be fine, won’t we?”
I was a bit winded by her stride, her legs nearly twice the length
of mine, but managed to say, “Of course we will, Sveva. We’ll get by, we always have.”
“We’ll more than get by, my Scandinavian Virgin, mark my words.” I did. I marked Sveva’s words, my own. We walked up the hill toward our home, sunlight hitting the trees on the rise of the hill, the pale wash of sky over the valley smudged with clouds.
Forty-Eight
Italy, 1915
A man named Mr. Wiinstead picked me up from the port and said my name with a nod but did not meet my eyes. Too tired to feign decorum, I studied his face, pitted with scars, eyelids heavy, skin splotched, spider-veined. He angled his chin and I knew to climb into the carriage. It swayed from side to side as we ascended the narrow dirt path into the mountains, thick with cypress then pine, cut with ravines tumbling green toward the ocean. He said little as we climbed. When we reached the cloister, he took my bags and led me through a series of arched stone walls, some crumbling. We rounded gravel paths lined with pots either empty or sprouting tangles of seemingly wild plants, then reached an inner courtyard where he put my bags down.
Mr. Wiinstead cleared his throat. “You’ll be comfortable here, Miss Jüül. God willing, you will find peace.” I wondered how he imagined I might find peace after being sent, pregnant, into exile by my married lover. “It can be calming, even rejuvenating.”
I’d heard those assurances before, from Carl Marsden on the island, knew not to believe men’s beliefs on rejuvenation. It was wartime, after all. Mr. Wiinstead nodded once more, cleared his throat and took two steps backward, still facing me, before he turned and I was left alone, bags at my feet. Girls in long grey dresses, white kerchiefs around their hair, came and motioned for me to follow them. We went in and out of halls, up and down stairs, until we were in a long, narrow room lined with slim wooden cots. The girls set my bags down beside one. One of the girls pointed, her smile a half-twist of her lips.
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