A Heart Most Worthy (16 page)

What would have happened if she’d spurned his advances from the first? Would he have gone away? Left them alone? Perhaps not. He’d entered their circle at her father’s invitation, after all. Papa had thought the man brilliant, if misguided. But if she were given just one wish, she would use it to refuse him. To rebuff that very first smile he had given her.

If only she had known!

There was only one way she had known to survive: She needed to lose herself, to hide her identity. To go somewhere he could never find her. And so she did what a million of her countrymen had already done. She and her grandmother had plunged into the great emigration. She had disguised them as peasants, and they had slipped around whatever watchmen had been posted and they had escaped, through steerage class, to America. Once onshore, she had simply immersed them in the disembarking throngs and followed along until they had arrived in the North End. And that was where she had planned on staying.

Now she didn’t know what to do.

She had thought, she had hoped, that being an immigrant in Boston might be the perfect disguise. But the bombs had found her again, and she had seen him walking down her own street. There was no other place to which she could run. She would just have to be very careful. And perhaps she might even have to pray.

23

Madame Fortier, living as she was outside the North End, had forgotten that there was even such a thing as a festa for Saint Marciano. She had long ago put such country ways behind her. No respectable woman would take part in such things, pinning money onto a statue and parading it through the streets. It was all just a little too undignified.

A little bit too Italian.

She had tried, with a zeal that bordered on obsession, to erase every trace of her parentage. Being Italian had cost her . . . everything. But that morning the streets were aflutter with news of a bomb. Another one. Planted by the fiendish anarchists. Probably fiendish
Italian
anarchists.

Right there. In their very midst.

It was bad. Very bad, indeed.

Those anarchists could cost her everything she had gained. If her clients became afraid to come downtown . . . well, perhaps she would have to change her policies. Perhaps she would have to go to them. It defeated the purpose of having established herself on Temple Place, but she might not be left with any other choice.

As she sat in her dining room drinking tea, she heard the sound of church bells giving warning of the approaching hour. She hadn’t been to mass in a great number of years. Too many years to think of. Too many years now to be able to venture back inside the church. What had been done was done. Why regret it, after so many years? Except that . . . she almost . . . missed it. Almost missed the sound of the priest chanting, the smell of incense as it rose from the censer. She missed the old and familiar liturgy. Missed being surrounded by friends, by neighbors. There was a certain confidence, a sense of community gained, in knowing every person in the pews.

Indeed, she missed herself. She missed the person that she had been all those years ago. The person she had tried so hard to forget. But that was an anathema to all that she had become since then, and so she did not dare to recognize that emotion for what it truly was. She simply turned her back on all those people, all those memories, and took another sip of tea.

On Monday morning, after all her girls had filed up the back stairs and the sound of the morning’s chatter had given way to the whir of sewing machines, Madame opened a wardrobe in her office to search for an old sample book. She had to rummage back into the depths of it, and in doing so she brushed up against a gown.

The
gown.

And she did something she had rarely ever done. She pulled it from the closet and brought it out into the light of the room. Examined it in the same way she would have examined any of her other creations. It wasn’t bad. Not for her first attempt at a wedding gown. In fact, it was rather good. Inspired, she might have once said.

Her lips twisted at the thought.

Now that it was revealed in all its splendor, she felt a bit foolish for having hidden it away for all those years. It was only a gown after all. What harm could it do anyone now? And why shouldn’t it be allowed to do some good?

Why shouldn’t it?

Clutching the hanger in her hand and draping the heavy material over an arm, she began the climb to the third floor workshop.

“I have a proposition.”

The girls looked up at the sound of Madame’s voice.

“I have, in this shop, a wedding gown that has never been worn.” She held it up in front of them as she spoke, and then walked forward to lay it on the table before them.

Julietta swept her embroidery out of the way. It was gorgeous. And oh, how she wanted to touch it! It was old. She knew it at a glance. Overlaid with silk-embroidered net, the gown was a confection of lace and beaded braid that must have cost Madame a hundred hours’ work. But really, with a few tucks here and there, it wouldn’t look too old-fashioned. It had only the slightest suggestion of puffed sleeves, and if the lace around the throat were removed, leaving only the
v
of the lace collar, it could look decidedly elegant.

Madame read their faces, each one of them, and she was pleased. “I will offer it to any of you. To all of you. To whichever one of you marries first.” Sì. That’s what she would do. So that some good could come from all the bad. From all the disappointments and regrets.

Annamaria looked upon the gown as Luciana had looked upon Mrs. Quinn’s painting. She admired the gown and appreciated the handiwork, but she did it with the detachment of a person without means. A person who is forever looking without one hope of possessing. She liked it, but she did not allow herself – not for one moment – to imagine what it would be like to wear it.

Julietta, of course, did quite the opposite. She could barely restrain herself from trying it on. In Julietta’s mind, it was already hers. She could see herself in it. She could feel herself in it. If she could have possessed it through sheer force of will and wishful thinking, she would have done it right then.

Luciana was the only one who spoke. “It’s lovely.” Such a beautiful, ethereal thing. It was meant for the happiest of occasions, the most felicitous of celebrations. “Whose was it?” And why had it never been worn?

At once Madame realized her mistake. She had let her guard down, had cracked open the door of her heart to these women – forgetting that in doing so, she had no choice but to reveal herself. “Does it matter?” She tried to smile as she swept the gown from the table. “It’s never been worn.” Never been worn. The saddest of tales. A wedding gown that had never seen its own wedding.

As Madame retreated back down the stairs with the dress, Luciana’s question remained suspended in the air between them. Whose was it? And why had it never been worn?

That night, Annamaria came home to a celebration. “What’s happened, Mama?” She caught Mama Rossi’s arm as the woman danced around the small room, glass held high in an ongoing toast.

“It’s Theresa.”

“What about her?”

“She’s getting married!”

Married!? But . . . Theresa was so young. Younger than Annamaria, in any case. “To . . . ?”

“To Giovanni, of course!”

Giovanni Sardo? The one Annamaria was supposed to have kept her away from? “But she’s only seventeen!”

“And I was only fifteen when I married your papa.”

Fifteen. Seventeen. It made Annamaria feel old beyond her years at the age of twenty-two. As the eldest, it was true that no one would expect her to marry, but at the moment that expectation seemed patently unfair. Why should Theresa be able to marry? Why should Theresa be able to engender the good wishes of everyone in the family, while Annamaria was only given shirts with holes to be mended and dirtied plates to wash?

The thought that had been formed in the bowels of the basement began to pulse in her head. It wasn’t fair. And she
would
say something about it . . . just perhaps not tonight.

As she looked around at her family’s smiling faces, as she saw Theresa and Giovanni look at each other with such barefaced love, Annamaria’s scarf felt as if it were choking her. She loosened the knot. Pulled it off and flung it into the corner.

Papa Rossi handed her a glass.

She took it, raised it in Theresa’s direction. “
Felicitazioni
.”

Her sister smiled and then turned back toward Giovanni.

After that, no one else looked at Annamaria. No one turned to her and teased her about when it would be her turn. No one wondered when they would be raising a glass to her happiness. She took a sip from her glass. Normally, she liked the fruitiness of Papa Rossi’s wine, but that evening it seemed rather bitter.

She set her glass down on the table, took up her scarf, and tied it under her chin once more.

“Where are you going?” At least Mama had noticed her leaving.

“To get some tomatoes.”

“But we don’t need – ”

Too late. Annamaria had already gone.

Annamaria had meant to go to Zanfini’s. She even crossed the street. Rafaello saw her coming and retied his apron strings around his waist. But when it came time to actually enter the store, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t enter into that oasis of cucumbers and spinach. She couldn’t bear to look on
him
. On all the joy that was forever out of reach. Oh, she might be able to convince her family to free her from her obligations, or at least to lessen them, but she knew she would never be able to convince them to let her marry a Sicilian. Even as she heard herself think the word
marriage
, her cheeks flared with the audacity of such presumption.

So she walked on past while she cursed the day of her birth.

The day that had made her the eldest daughter in the Rossi family.

If only she’d been born second. If only she were her sister. If she were Theresa, she would be planning her wedding right now.

Right this minute. And she would have the privilege of wearing Madame’s beautiful gown.

Rafaello watched her pass. Saw the tears that marked her cheeks.

He bolted from the store.

Mr. Zanfini frowned. Followed him to yell out the door. “Rafaello! What about the figs!”

Rafaello didn’t even hear him. He jogged to catch up with Annamaria. Tapped her on the arm once he did.

She turned toward him. And then she turned away. Quick enough, she hoped, to keep him from seeing her tears.

But his hand reached out in front of her, offering a handkerchief. “
Per favore
.”

That he – of all people – should see her! Her shoulders convulsed in a despairing sob.

“Per favore. Let me help you.”

Help her? He was the problem. If only . . .

“What is it?”

She turned, handkerchief pressed to an eye. There was no point in pretending. “I wish . . . I wish I wasn’t me.”

“But if there wasn’t you, then who would I dream about?” He put a hand into the pocket of his apron and withdrew the flower that she had dropped all those days ago. Held it out to her.

“Rafaello! The figs!”

He sighed, took a step back, and yelled over his shoulder, “I’m coming!” His heart ached as he looked at her. He had no right to take her into his arms, and there was nothing more that he could say. And so he offered her the one last thing he had: He smiled. And then he turned to walk away.

But she reached out and plucked the sleeve of his shirt. When he turned, she gave the flower back to him. “It was meant for you.”

He looked down into her eyes. Took the flower from her.

Nodded. Placed it back into his pocket. And then he left.

He hadn’t spoken more than a few words, but he left her feeling cherished.

She pressed herself against a tenement wall, handkerchief clutched to her chest as a group of children skipped past. Stepped down into the street to avoid a dog who was snuffling through garbage.

If only . . . if only she could be free.

Maybe if Papa had more money. Maybe if he could finally buy the apartment. Or even a house. If he owned a house, then maybe they wouldn’t depend upon her so much. They wouldn’t need the money her job provided. And maybe, if they could stop working so hard, it would make it easier for some of the others to give Mama a hand now and then. Then Annamaria would have the freedom to . . . why . . . do anything!

That’s what money bought. It bought freedom. Money in quantities like that strega, Mrs. Quinn, had. To think that she could afford to attach real jewels to her gowns the way Annamaria had attached money to the statue of Saint Marciano at the festa! Imagine that. Imagine what a small fortune a pile of jewels like that would bring. Such wonderful freedom.

She could pay someone else to perform her duties.

And maybe then, if Papa and Mama could meet Rafaello, they would see that he wasn’t such a Sicilian after all.