A Heart Most Worthy (24 page)

35

Luciana, too, had had a change of heart. And now she was ready to talk. But would Billy listen to her? Would he even agree to see her? She knew, of course, where he lived. But she also knew that she couldn’t just march up to that formidable mansion and knock on the door. Request to speak with him. She might have lurked on the sidewalk by the gate, but feared that sooner or later she would be shooed away. And she did not want the attention.

She could have sent him a letter. If he spoke German as fluently as he did, then certainly he could read it as well. But a letter would have taken a day or two to reach him. And a letter like that – written in German – might also have drawn the censors’ attention.

But she needed to speak with him, and soon. He’d been drafted. That’s what he’d said. If she didn’t see him soon, she might not be able to see him at all!

In her frustration and discouragement she drew on her scarf and told the contessa they were going out.

“Going where?”

“To the Duke of Prussia’s.”

“Whatever for?”

“For a turn in his garden.”

“You’ll hand me my shawl, then.”

Her shawl? Luciana handed her a moth-eaten scarf, and the contessa arranged it over her shoulders as if it were cashmere.

They walked the thirteen blocks from North Bennet Street to Boston Common. There was nowhere else she knew to go, and her thoughts had been on Billy’s proposal all day. Why shouldn’t she have gone to the one place they had always been together?

And why shouldn’t he?

“Guten tag, Contessa.”

The contessa looked from the swans, swimming in the public garden, up into Billy Quinn’s handsome face. “Guten tag, Herr Quinn. Have you come to the duke’s garden too?”

“And why else would I be here?” He looked not at the contessa but at Luciana as he spoke.

She smiled at him.

He took it as an invitation to speak. Lowered his voice so the passersby wouldn’t hear him speaking German. “If I offended you in any way at all – ”

She stepped closer, as close as she dared. “Nein.”

“If I presumed anything that I shouldn’t have . . .”

She laid a hand on his cheek. “
Nein
.”

“Then . . . ?”

“
Kommen
.” She took his hand. “Listen. I have a story to tell you.”

He let her lead him to a bench, and then he listened with the intensity of one whose destiny hung in the balance as she began to speak.

“I was born Luciana Conti to the Count of Roma and his wife.”

She looked at him as she spoke, discerned no doubt, no suspicion in his eyes.

“The counts of Roma are related, by blood or by marriage, to most of the noble houses in Europe. And Russia.”

He nodded.

“I grew up in Vienna and Paris. I knew that my father had a seat in Parliament, but I never really understood what it was that he did. While he was agitating for war and becoming known as a supporter of the king, I was dancing and flirting in some of the finest ballrooms on the continent.”

He could imagine it. He could imagine all of it.

“And then he began receiving letters. From no one in particular.

They were signed ‘The Anarchist Fighters.’ And they warned him he would suffer great harm unless he stopped pushing the king’s warmongering policies.”

“And what did he do?”

She shrugged. “He scoffed. He was the Count of Roma. Why should he pay attention to threats made by cowards too frightened to sign their own names to a letter?”

“How long did these threats go on?”

“I have no idea when they started. But they ended on the twelfth of April. That’s the day he was killed by a bomb.”

He took her hand into his own. “I’m very sorry.”

She accepted his sympathies, but she had no time, not right then, for the words or for the sentiment. “I know who the bomber was. I saw him. I knew him.” Her gaze dropped from his. “I once thought I loved him. My grandmother and I escaped. We fled to the estate of a friend. But even there the letters found us.”

“The same ones?”

“The very same.”

“And they . . . ?”

“Threatened us with death. And so, under cover of night, Grandmother and I escaped. We boarded a ship in Napoli and sailed here. To Boston.”

“You left everything behind?”

She nodded. “It was no longer ours. The estate had passed to a male cousin. The next in line. But he didn’t even bother to come see us. To try to help us.”

“But certainly if you’d stayed, he could have – ”

“What? Kept that murderer from finding us? Truly? Is that what you think?”

“Why didn’t you inform the police?”

“What are the police? They’re lazy. Corrupt! And if that monster was able to kill my father, then why wouldn’t he be able to kill me? He’s an anarchist and they’re everywhere, even here.”

“Ja.”

“Even here.” She whispered the words, certain that if she said them too loudly, she would summon their specters.
His
specter. “So now you know why I said that I could not marry you. It is not a question of love. It’s a question of life.”

Billy had followed Luciana’s story, even understood the reasoning of everything she had said up until those last three sentences. “Nein. I don’t. I don’t understand at all.”

“I can’t bring such misery and misfortune to your doorstep. I won’t place your life in danger. Don’t you know what would happen if we married?” She knew how society weddings worked. “It would be printed in newspapers around the world. It would lead that anarchist right to your house.”

“Why are you so sure that would happen?” Billy’s voice had risen in frustration.

A man walking by looked over sharply.

Luciana leaned closer toward Billy as she continued to speak in German. “I’ve seen him. Here.” Her whisper was tinged with fear.

“Who?”

“The person who killed my father.”

“Then come with me and we’ll have him arrested.”

He made it sound so easy. If only it was.

He had pushed to his feet and was holding out his other hand.

“I can’t.” She’d seen him, it was true. But she didn’t know where he lived. Didn’t know if he had taken another name. Didn’t know if she could even trust the police with her story. She only knew one thing. She placed her hand in his. “Please. I am only trying to save you. I love you.”

Billy only really heard that last part. “You – you do?” He’d hoped. He’d prayed. But he hadn’t been at all sure. For the first time in his life, he was going where no one had led before.

Luciana nodded. She couldn’t speak for the tears that flowed down her cheeks.

He took her into his arms. “Then I would rather risk a thousand bombs than have to live without you.”

Luciana clasped him about the waist. When he tipped her chin up, she accepted his kiss and offered her own in return.

“So . . . that really is your grandmother?”

“Ja.” Luciana smiled through her tears. “And she truly is a contessa.”

“A contessa.” Wouldn’t his mother love that! “Which one was that again?”

She laughed. She could not help herself. It could not matter one whit which contessa she was or what title she held. None of it mattered here in America. “The Contessa of Roma.”

“Then perhaps we should ask the Contessa of Roma what she thinks of my proposal.”

Before she could stop him, Billy had knelt before the old woman and asked for Luciana’s hand in marriage.

The contessa listened to his proposal, made in German, and then turned a keen eye on Luciana. Spoke to her in Italian. “Do you hear what he asked me, ragazza?”

“Sì.”

“He seems nice enough, and I suppose that he’s as good as you can hope for. You should accept his offer while you can. It is doubtful anyone will ever ask again.”

Billy didn’t understand what the contessa was saying, but he could interpret the melancholy and the sadness in Luciana’s eyes. She was gazing into the future. Into a life spent beading in Madame’s workshop. Hurrying home after work to her grandmother. Running from shadows and jumping at strange noises in the dark. And if she married him? Wouldn’t she still be running from shadows? And jumping at strange noises in the dark? Sì. It was doubtful that anyone would ever ask again. And if they did, she knew what she would tell them. She turned back to him. “I can only place your life in danger. How can I expect you to marry me?”

“I love you. And you love me. How can you expect that I would not?”

As Luciana and Billy were speaking of their future, Annamaria was grappling with her present. With the expectation of the services she was pledged to provide the Rossi family. For the rest of her life.

Mama had heard her come in. Hardly allowed her to take off her scarf before putting her to work. “Go help Stefano with his studies.”

Annamaria shoved her scarf into a drawer, smoothed her hair, then sat down next to her youngest brother. “Where are you?”

He flipped through the book, stopped at a page near the middle.

Annamaria sat for several minutes, trying to work out what it was that he was supposed to be learning. “It looks like you’re to choose the right word to complete the sentences.”

He shrugged. “I know.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want to do it. Will you do it for me?”

“If I do it for you, then how will you learn to do it yourself?”

Mama clucked as she listened to their conversation. “Do it for him, Annamaria. He’s too young to quit school and too old to still keep going. Do his homework for him so he can go out and find his friends.”

And after that? Would she be told to do the rest of his schoolwork as well?

Stefano was already sliding away from the table, but Annamaria reached out and grabbed him by the ear. “If you want your work done, then do it yourself. I’ve work of my own to do.”

He blinked, not quite understanding what she meant. Work of her own? But her work was to finish everyone else’s.

She left him at the table as she rose to help Mama Rossi.

“Why aren’t you doing it for him?”

“Who’s going to help him speak English when I’m not there?

When he’s twenty-three or thirty-three and I’m not there to help him?”

Mama looked at her for one long moment and then shrugged.

Handed her the broom. “If you’re not going to do that, then you can sweep the floor.”

So that’s what she did.

Wondering at Annamaria’s sudden stubbornness and not wanting to push such a normally agreeable daughter, Mama went down to the fish seller herself for the night’s dinner. And she came back with more than she had bargained for.

Annamaria jumped as the door slammed shut.

Mama stalked right up to her and shook a finger in her face. “Signora Tubello and signora Rimaldi told me that you talk to those Sicilians.”

The blood drained from Annamaria’s face, and her heart began to beat so loudly that she could hardly hear herself speak. “I – I did. I do.”

“I thought we told you not to speak to those people!”

She wound her hands up in her skirt. “You also told me to go buy tomatoes from them.”

“Buying from them is one thing. Speaking to them is another!”

“How can I buy anything without speaking to them?”

“You were told not to speak to them!”

And Mama Rossi didn’t speak to her at all until it was time for dinner. Annamaria spent that intervening hour pulling in laundry, mending a shirt, and generally staying out of Mama’s way, hoping she’d forget about the transgression.

But Mama was not so forgiving as that. As soon as the Rossis had crossed themselves in a blessing and the fish had been served, she wasted no time in telling Papa what she had heard.

He sucked in his breath. Turned a sorrowful eye upon his eldest daughter. “You spoke to a Sicilian?”

Annamaria didn’t dare speak. But she nodded.

He turned an accusing eye on Mama. “I told you no wife of mine was going to cross the street.”

“And I didn’t! Annamaria did.” Mama would not be accused of something as terrible as that!

“I only did it because you told me to.”

Mama waved a fork in her direction. “And look! Now she’s talking back and speaking to Sicilians!”

“Did he speak to you first, cara mia?”

Annamaria, responding to her father’s gentle voice, looked up into his eyes. Nodded.

He shrugged at Mama. “There. See? He spoke to her first.”

“Of course he spoke to her first. He’s a Sicilian!”

“But I wanted to, Papa. I wanted to speak to him.” It wouldn’t have been right to be dishonest about the whole thing.

Mama Rossi crossed herself. “It’s bad business mixing with those people. We can’t have Annamaria speaking to Sicilians.

What will people think of us?”

Of course it was a bad business. He didn’t see anything to disagree with there. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying she shouldn’t speak to them.”

“Are you saying you don’t want their tomatoes?” Because isn’t that what had started the whole thing in the first place?

“I’m saying . . . I’m saying we all do what you say, Papa.”

Papa’s right brow lifted. He chewed on his mustache for a while as he considered what to do. Annamaria shouldn’t be speaking to Sicilians. That was a fact. But he couldn’t go back to eating rotten tomatoes. That was also a fact.