A Heart Most Worthy (4 page)

“Can you do it again?” The woman was looking at her as if she wanted nothing so much as to reach out and stroke the design on her collar.

“Sì.” She could do it whenever she wanted, had done it whenever she wanted, but that was when she’d had access to beads. And jewels. That was before. When her every wish had been anticipated. And granted so quickly that she’d hardly had to wish at all. “Sì.”

“Can you do it . . . now?”

“Now?”

“You need a job, don’t you? Can you start today?”

It was all just a bit much for a girl who had been raised never to work. For a girl who now rose each morning and went to bed each evening in fear of her very life. Luciana’s eyelashes fluttered, her cheeks went rosy. She opened her mouth, intending to speak, but then she burst into tears instead.

“Madonna mia!”
Madame was uncomfortable with emotions. She’d had so very little use for them in her life. But her hand went out to the girl as her glance went out toward the street. No one was passing by. She turned her attention back to the girl. Pulled her over to the fitting area where she could be hidden behind the screen. “Sit.”

Luciana sat in an ornate overstuffed chair. For the first time in months.

“Are you pregnant?” It would be just Madame’s luck. Some of her best seamstresses had been taken from her by way of motherhood. Matrimony did not matter quite so much. With a husband, one could still work. With a baby?
Impossibile
.

But Madame Fortier’s blunt question had a completely unforeseen result.

Luciana, having recovered control of her emotions, leaped to her feet. Offense colored the tops of her cheeks. “Pregnant? Positively not! And I’ll thank you,
Signora
, for your time.” She had already spun on her satin-clad heel, pushed beyond the screen, and begun walking toward the door.

4

Luciana was not the granddaughter of the contessa di Roma for nothing. Though, in truth, she felt no little regret at having to leave. And you probably would have too. The shop was undeniably elegant from the carpeted floors to the chandeliered ceilings and papered walls. It had an air of discreet good taste that, in Luciana’s experience, only the best shops in Paris and Vienna shared. And even in that short time, it had provided a refuge, not only for her person but also for her soul.

“Wait!”

Luciana stopped.

“I need you.” Oh, how it cost Madame Fortier to say those words!

Luciana let go of the door and turned. Reconsidered as she looked once more at Madame’s tidy and elegant shop. She nodded. “I can start. Today.”

And with that, the odd reversal of roles righted itself and Madame Fortier became, once more, the formidable owner of the gown shop, and Luciana, an anonymous immigrant girl begging for work.

Madame led the way up the back stairs, past the second story workshop to the third floor of the building. “This is where you will work.”

Luciana peered around Madame’s shoulder and saw two girls sitting at a long table, looking back at her. One of them was staring, eyes lit with challenge. She raked Luciana with a gaze before returning to her work. The other glanced up and then immediately returned her attentions to her work. “Julietta. And Annamaria.”

“Buon giorno.”

Neither of the girls replied, though Annamaria smiled, for just an instant.

Madame Fortier continued the introductions. “This is – ” Madame paused in her speech, rather surprised that she hadn’t even thought to ask the new girl’s name.

“Luciana.”

“This is Luciana. She’s to take over the beading.”

“Grazie a Dio!”
Thank God! Julietta had been afraid she’d have to do it herself. Which was why she’d been progressing on her embroidery with such uncharacteristic slowness. “You have to have the patience of a saint for that.”

Annamaria smiled once more, though her meticulous stitches were the only witness. She was normally the sole audience for Julietta’s many and varied opinions. She usually only half-listened to the chatter, but still, it would be nice to share that burden with someone else.

Madame Fortier led Luciana around the worktable. “We are working on the gowns for an autumn wedding.” She wished she could start the girl on the wedding gown itself, but that would have been too risky. What if she had lied? What if she couldn’t perform the magic she had promised? Madame would know soon. She would be able to tell from the lay of the beads and the pull of the fabric. “You’ll start with the collar of one of the attendant’s gowns. I’ve based it on this illustration.” She pushed a page from a sample book over to Luciana. The girl took it up. It was a simple gown. And the beading on the collar was equally as plain. “In bugle beads?”

“Seed beads. Of alabaster.”

“And the fabric? Is it georgette?”

“Messaline.”

Luciana frowned. Georgette would have taken the beads better. Messaline was slippery and not as easy to work with.

Madame Fortier had said that very thing, in fact, to her client. But the bride’s mother had settled upon messaline and messaline it would have to be. No amount of coaxing had moved her from that decision. Mrs. Henry Haywood’s daughter had been married the previous year with bridesmaids in messaline and it seemed that nothing else would do.

“What is to be used for the lining?”

“Sarcenet.”

Sarcenet. That was correct. Luciana shot a glance up at Madame. “It will have to be several thicknesses then.”

Julietta raised a brow at the girl’s words. And her boldness! Even Julietta had never presumed to advise Madame on anything having to do with the gowns.

But Madame only smiled. “Sì.” Exactly. The new girl understood exactly.

Luciana nodded. “Do you have the collar? I’ll start it now.” And then she could have the whole afternoon to figure out how to ask for an advance on her pay.

Sometime around noon, Julietta and Annamaria put down their work. They cleared the table of scissors and thread, pincushions and yarn. And then they retrieved their lunches from a cupboard. Julietta’s had bread, a not-too-pungent hunk of smoky
provola
cheese, and a juicy tomato to go with it. Annamaria had brought a slice of ham to go with her own bread. But she eyed Julietta’s tomato with something very near envy.

“Mama hasn’t been able to find any good tomatoes.”

“In July? In the city? Where’s she looking?” No good tomatoes? Annamaria’s mama had to be blind!

Annamaria shrugged. “Maglione’s frutta e verdura. On North Street.”

“Then she should come over to Hull.”

Julietta and Annamaria were both Avellino by birth, but they came from two different villages. Those from Julietta’s village had settled at the northernmost tip of the North End. Those from Annamaria’s village along the eastern edge of the peninsula. It was expected that, as they had in the old country, villagers would do business only with fellow villagers. So Annamaria shrugged and tried not to think about tomatoes while Julietta began assembling herself a sandwich.

They had just crossed themselves in blessing when they realized Luciana had not joined them.

“Aren’t you going to stop? To eat?” Though Annamaria was known for her industry, she still looked forward to the break at lunch. If for no other reason than to rest her eyes and seek relief from the headache that often pressed against her temples.

Luciana didn’t even look up from her beads. “No.”

Annamaria reached over and laid a hand on Luciana’s arm. “But it doesn’t have to be finished today. Madame’s clients have all left for the summer. No one will be back until August.”

“And even then, they won’t come into the shop until September.” Which suited Julietta just fine. She never worked harder than she had to. “So where are you from?”

Luciana took so long to answer that Annamaria and Julietta exchanged a curious look.

“The south.”

“Where in the south? We’re from Avellino. She’s from Taurasi. I’m from Chiusano San Domenico. Maybe we know your people.”

Luciana dismissed Julietta’s friendly interest with a shake of her head. “You don’t know my people.”

“Then you’re Abruzzi? Or . . . Calabrese?” For she surely wasn’t Sicilian. Her clothes, though fancy, were clean. She didn’t stink. She wasn’t even very swarthy. And if she were from Abruzzo or Calabria, then it would account for her strange accent.

But Luciana was neither. And she couldn’t tell them she was Roman. They didn’t know her people, but they might know others. They might know the person who had killed her father. Though . . . what were the chances? She considered telling them the truth. But, no. No. It wasn’t worth the risk.

“You don’t sound like you’re from the south.” Julietta might not have liked work, but she had nothing against riddles. And this new girl had presented a good one. Her gown said she came from a good family, but her shoes said she’d fallen on hard times . . . though not quite hard enough to overcome the lift of her chin and the accent of her words. “You’re from the north.” That was the only possible explanation.

Annamaria looked up at Julietta’s accusation.

Luciana looked up from her beadwork. “North Bennet Street.”

And she was. Now.

North Bennet Street. That was unexpected. “Then you’re . . .

Genovese?”

Abruzzi, Calabrese, Genovese. What did it matter? Just as long as they stopped asking questions. She nodded.

“Would you like some of my bread?” Annamaria couldn’t bear conflict in any shape or form. Neither could she bear anyone looking so haunted, so hungry as Luciana. She had three brothers, after all. She knew what hunger looked like.

“No. Grazie.” How could she eat when she knew the contessa had nothing? But then, that’s what the old lady had been eating since they’d come to America. Next to nothing. Nothing more than a bird. She ate nothing, she said nothing, she did nothing. Just sat and stared out the window.

“Really. I have more than I want.”

Julietta didn’t. She’d finished every last crumb of her bread. And now she was pouring wine for the three of them.

Luciana waved her off. “No. I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t see why not. Madame provides it. As part of our wages.” When Julietta saw that Luciana was unconvinced, she enlisted Annamaria. “Doesn’t she?”

“She does. Always. Every day.”

Luciana leveled a look at each of them. And then she nodded. Accepted the glass that Julietta pushed in her direction. Better something than nothing.

But Luciana was very much regretting her decision an hour later. She couldn’t seem to focus her eyes, and her head felt as if it were going to float right off her body. Soon it did that very thing. But heads being so heavy, hers crashed right down onto the table as her eyes rolled back into her head.

5

“Che rumore!”
Julietta jumped at the thump Luciana’s head made as it hit the table.

Annamaria slid out of her chair and knelt beside the unconscious girl. “Forget the noise. Help me!”

Julietta came around the worktable, curious but not wanting to get involved if things became very messy. “Do you think she’s . . . sick?”

Annamaria slid a hand beneath Luciana’s shoulder and pushed the girl back against the chair. They could both see her face now; her cheeks had gone pale. “No. She’s just hungry. Here – take an arm. Help me lower her to the floor.”

As the two girls moved her from the table, a necklace slipped from the collar of Luciana’s gown. Its lavaliere glinted rubies and diamonds before it slid around its chain and disappeared behind Luciana’s neck as they lowered her to the floor.

“Go down to the second floor and ask one of the girls for a cushion.”

Julietta’s nose wrinkled at the thought of associating with the second-floor girls. “You go.”

“Sometimes when people faint like this, they vomit when they wake.”

Julietta disappeared faster than a plate of cookies at a festa. She returned, several minutes later, bearing a small pillow in her arms. She handed it down to Annamaria, who tucked it under Luciana’s head. “Why don’t you wet your scarf? We can lay it across her forehead.”

Julietta’s hand went up to the scarf that encased her neck. “Why can’t we use yours?”

“Because I put it away in the cupboard, but if it’s easier for you to find it . . . !”

Julietta wasn’t used to being talked to in that sort of tone by Annamaria. And you mightn’t have liked it much either. Madame, of course, used that tone all the time. But Madame was formidable with her dark-colored gowns and dignified ways. Annamaria was not. At least not normally, though just now she looked as if she might like to strangle Julietta with the very scarf she was wearing. Quickly, Julietta stripped it from her neck and dipped it into the wash basin in the corner, wringing it out before offering it to Annamaria.

It was several minutes before Luciana began to stir. “Papa? Papa!”

Annamaria handed the scarf back to Julietta. “Wring it out again and bring it back.”

“No!
Assassino! Fermati assassino!
” Though she hadn’t yet opened her eyes, her voice had become louder.

Julietta brought the scarf back to Annamaria, who placed it once more on the girl’s forehead. “What do you think she’s talking about?”

Annamaria shrugged. “Her papa?”

Luciana’s eyes opened, her gaze traveling about the ceiling before coming to rest upon the two girls. Her eyes grew wide, her hand went to her head, and she tried to sit.

Annamaria wouldn’t let her. “Lie there a moment. Take a rest. Will you eat something?”

Luciana started to shake her head, but stopped with a wince.

“Just to take the edge off the ache in your head? Sometimes it helps.”

Luciana considered this for a moment. Maybe it would help. And she could accept a bit of bread if it helped. She wouldn’t accept it for hunger, wouldn’t accept that the house of the counts of Roma had been brought to the brink of poverty, but she would accept anything that would help her keep her job.

Under Annamaria’s watchful eye, she ate the bread that was offered. And when color had begun to seep back into her cheeks, Luciana took the hand that Annamaria offered and was helped back to the table.

“Is your father all right?” The girl had seemed so distraught that Julietta couldn’t keep herself from asking.

The color that had just come back into Luciana’s face drained out, and Annamaria scowled at Julietta, afraid the girl would faint again. “Why do you ask?”

“You mentioned him. While you were on the floor.”

“What did I say?” Her eyes burned with an unearthly intensity in her pallid face.

“You cried out for him. Said something about assassins.”

She should never have accepted the wine!

“Is he all right?”

“Fine.”

Julietta might have asked more questions, but the look on the girl’s face precluded any more inquiries. They worked in near silence for the rest of the afternoon, Julietta fearing that Annamaria’s promised illness might come at any time; Annamaria fearing that Luciana might faint once again; and Luciana fearing both that she had revealed too much and that Madame might deny her request for immediate pay.

At six o’clock, Julietta and Annamaria put away their work, cleaned up their areas, and prepared to leave.

“Are you coming?” Annamaria searched the girl’s eyes for any sign of hunger or illness. She saw only a strange sort of resignation. And . . . panic.

“No.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow?” The question was posed with the quiet optimism of hope. Annamaria had liked the girl, even though she hadn’t said very much and even though what she’d said were mostly lies. She’d heard several Genovese speaking once, and they hadn’t had the accent the new girl did.

Luciana heard the pair walk down the stairs. Heard the exit of those other faceless, nameless girls on the second floor. And just when she figured that no one was left, she heard the sound of a person coming up the stairs. She felt a sudden pounding in her chest, and a draining of warmth from her face. She knew there was no reason for the terror that clutched at her. Knew there was no one more sinister than Madame Fortier in the shop. She tried to still her trembling hands by laying aside her work and tidying her space.

Madame soon appeared in the doorway. “May I see what you’ve accomplished?”

Luciana held out the collar.

Madame took it into her hands. Ran a finger over the beads. Hardly a gap could be felt between them. And there was nary a pull in the material beneath. She turned the collar over, praying as she did so, that she wouldn’t be disappointed. She wasn’t. The stitching was as neat and precise as if she’d done it herself. She nodded. “Nicely done.”

Luciana swallowed. Took in a breath for courage. “I need money, Signora.”

“And you’ll have it. Work like this will be well paid.”

“I need money now.”

Madame raised a brow even as Luciana’s collapsed in upon themselves. It wasn’t going right. She’d meant to ask, not demand, but the problem was that she wasn’t used to doing either. The contessa’s granddaughter was used to having her needs met, even anticipated. And at first, in America, she’d had money to speak for her needs. But she had abandoned her title in this new country and now her money was gone.

“Who are you? Exactly.” Madame put the collar down on the table and looked at her newest hire.

“An immigrant.”

“As are all my girls.”

“I am Luciana Conti.”

“Who is not from Abruzzo. Or Calabria. Or Sicily. Where
are
you from?”

Luciana didn’t answer. “I’m an immigrant and just one among so many. Why should it matter who I am or where I’m from?”

Everything matters. But because the girl was trying, so desperately, not to let it, Madame Fortier decided not to pursue the matter. “I will pay you for two days’ work, and I’m trusting that you’ll return to the shop tomorrow.”

Two days’ work. It wouldn’t be much money, but it would be something. And at that point, something was everything.

Luciana did return the next day, a Friday. And on Monday and Tuesday. By that time, her oddly elegant gown had lost its allure for both Julietta and Annamaria. And her satin pumps were showing holes in their soles. Meant for the gleaming floors of a Roman ballroom, they were entirely out of their element on the cobblestoned streets of Boston.

That afternoon, Madame Fortier came up to the workshop, carrying a pile of gowns in her hands. She deposited them on the worktable in front of Luciana. “Some of these are mine, but most are discards from seasons past. They aren’t really of the mode at the moment, but I suppose they’ll do well enough for you.”

Julietta looked over at Luciana, envy sparking her eyes. Gowns – a whole pile of them – all for the new girl! When she herself was used to wearing nothing grander than blouses and skirts. She frowned. Snuck another peek at them. Not of the mode? Nothing an adjustment here and a tuck there couldn’t fix. She could think of a dozen ways in which the gown Mrs. Leavenworth had deemed unsuitable and the gown Mrs. Morgan had refused to pay for could be redeemed.

“Of course, you would have to make them suitable for day wear. But the colors are dark and the lines simple. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Luciana put a hand atop the stack to claim them. “Grazie.” It cost her a piece of her pride to say it, to admit that the daughter of the Count of Roma had been relegated to accepting discards from a dressmaker. But she realized that airs and attitudes would not clothe her. And that there was nothing so important as remaining in Madame’s good graces.

Madame turned to leave. But then she paused in her step. “Please take what you need – needles, thread, shears – to alter them.”

Luciana nodded, knowing that needles and shears could not inform the hands of a girl who could not use them. She had never made a gown, never altered anything in her life, never stitched two pieces of material together. Why should she have had to? She had ordered everything she’d wanted from a couturier in Paris. What she
had
done, the beading she had learned, had simply been a parlor trick. A society-sanctioned way to pass her hours when she had tired of books or music or painting. The donation of gowns was very nice, but she had no way to put them to use. She pressed her lips together in apprehension as she wondered how long she had until Madame would expect to see her wearing them.