Property of a Noblewoman (20 page)

His mission to discover more about Marguerite Pearson di San Pignelli was beginning to take over his life, and he was faintly embarrassed by his obsession with her, but it was irresistible. An hour later, he was in a cab on the way to the airport, headed for Naples, with no concrete idea of what he hoped to discover there. All he knew was that he felt compelled to go. Something was beckoning to him and he wasn’t sure what it was. He wished he could talk to Jane, and wondered if she’d understand, or think he was insane. Neither of them had a tie to this woman, and yet she had snagged their hearts.

The flight landed at Naples International Airport in Capodichino and Phillip took a cab to the hotel and checked in. His room had a balcony and a spectacular view of the Bay of Naples. It was a city he felt less comfortable walking around in, and it had a dicey reputation for street crimes, mostly by pickpockets, so he had dinner at the excellent Caruso Restaurant on the ninth floor. And he arranged to rent a car for the next day, which was delivered to the hotel. It was a serviceable no-frills Fiat sedan, and he had gotten careful directions from the concierge about how to reach Marguerite’s address, which he assumed was the château. The concierge had told him it was at the very edge of the city in a beautiful location, although a bit out of the way. And as he drove there, Phillip could see Mount Vesuvius in the distance, and he thought about Pompeii. He had gone there with his parents as a boy and had been fascinated by it, not only the relics and artifacts, but the people who had been covered with lava and killed instantly, and mummified just as they had been that day, engaged in their ordinary activities. He remembered it vividly still, and it had made a deep impression on him as a child. He had wanted to know if there were volcanoes in New York, and was relieved to hear there weren’t. The memory made him smile.

It took him a good half hour to reach the edge of the city in Neapolitan traffic, where people drove even more erratically than they did in Rome. And he was glancing at the directions, when he turned a corner and suddenly saw it, a beautiful small château. It was an elegant structure with a tall wall around it, and enormous old trees inside the walls. There was a large double gate, and he could see a cobbled courtyard inside. He checked the address he had written down, and saw that he’d arrived. He parked the car and got out to look around. He hesitated at the open gate, and saw two gardeners and a man in casual clothes directing them, and pointing at the gardens as they nodded. He was a tall man who looked to be in his sixties with a thick head of white hair, and he turned to glance at Phillip with a quizzical expression and then walked toward him when he finished with the gardeners. Phillip didn’t know what to say, and his Italian wasn’t adequate to explain why he was there.

“Posso aiutarla?”
the man asked clearly in a deep sonorous voice. His face was lined, but his eyes were lively, and he looked nothing like the count in the photographs, who had long, lean aristocratic features, and was very thin and tall. This man appeared as though he enjoyed a good meal and a good laugh. His eyes were friendly but questioning as he gazed at Phillip, having asked what he could do to help him.

“Do you speak English?” Phillip asked him cautiously, not sure what he’d do if he didn’t. His motive in being there was too complicated to explain in sign language, and was sketchy at best. He really didn’t need to be there – he had just wanted to come, out of curiosity about Marguerite.

“Small,” the man answered, holding up two fingers to indicate very little, as he smiled.

“I wanted to see the château,” Phillip explained slowly, feeling slightly foolish. “I know someone who lived here a long time ago.” That was a stretch too, since he really hadn’t known her, but only about her.

The man nodded that he understood. “A parent? Grandmother?” he asked. Phillip didn’t know that the word for
parent
and
relative
in Italian was the same, but he got the idea and shook his head. And he could hardly say “No, a woman whose jewelry we’ll be selling at Christie’s, whom I never met but am fascinated by,” which was the case. And then he suddenly remembered the copies of the photographs of her he had in his computer case in the car, and went to get them, indicating to the man to wait, which he did patiently.

Phillip returned with them a moment later, and showed him the photographs of Umberto and Marguerite in front of the château, with the gardens and some of the stables, which Phillip guessed must have been behind the château, or maybe didn’t exist anymore. And when he saw the photographs, the older man’s face lit up immediately, and he nodded enthusiastically.

“Umberto and Marguerite di San Pignelli,” Phillip said, pointing at them, and the man nodded again.

“Il conte e la contessa.”
He said their titles, and Phillip nodded and smiled.

“Are you of the same family?” Phillip asked him, and the man shook his head.

“No, I buy ten years ago,” he said clearly. “He die a long time ago. No family, no children. He die, she sold house, go to Rome. Other people buy, make house very broken, then sell to me. They have no money, so they sell me.” His English was broken, but he had no problem conveying to Phillip what had happened. Marguerite had sold the house after her husband’s death, moved to Rome, and the people she sold it to had run it into the ground for lack of money, and then sold it to him. And he seemed to be taking good care of the place. And the Ferrari and Lamborghini that Phillip could see in the courtyard indicated that he had the money to do it.

“Il conte era molto elegante, e lei bellissima,”
he said, talking about how elegant Umberto was, and how beautiful Marguerite had been, as he looked through the photographs. “Very sad, no children for house,” he said. He would have liked to know more about Phillip’s interest in the place but didn’t have a sufficient grasp of English to ask him about it. Nonetheless, he beckoned Phillip to come inside and look around. And feeling grateful for the warm reception, he followed the new owner into the house. And once within the walls of the château, Phillip found himself walking through beautiful rooms with handsome antiques, and wonderful modern art that married well in the decor. The walls were painted soft, subtle pastel colors, and from the upper floors, where he took Phillip on a tour, he had a spectacular view of the sea.

“I love very much this house,” the man explained, touching his heart as Phillip nodded. “Good feeling, very warm. It belong to
il conte’
s family four hundred years. I am from Firenze, but now Napoli too. Sometimes Roma. Galleria d’arte,” he said, pointing at the paintings and then at himself, and Phillip assumed he meant that he was an art dealer, and the paintings on the walls were impressive, by well-known artists whom Phillip easily recognized. He took out his business card then, showing him as a vice president of Christie’s, which the owner of the château recognized immediately, and was visibly impressed.

“Gioielli?”
he said, pointing to the word
jewelry
on Phillip’s card, and he nodded.

“Before,
prima
,” – Phillip used one of the few Italian words he knew – “art, paintings.” He pointed at the art on the walls. “Now,
adesso, gioielli
, but I prefer art.”

The man laughed as he understood, and seemed to agree, and then referred to Umberto and Marguerite again.

“La contessa aveva gioielli fantastici,”
he said, pointing to the photographs of Marguerite in some of her jewels. “I hear this. Very famous jewels, but then no money when
il conte
died. Many cars, horses,
gioielli
, so she sell house. And maybe very sad here after he die, especially with no children.” Phillip nodded agreement. The owner of the château was creating a vision, even with few words, of a couple who had spent a great deal of money, and perhaps begun to run out of it at the time of Umberto’s death, so she had sold the château, and moved to an apartment in the building he’d driven past in Rome. She had probably lived on the proceeds from the château for quite some time, and then gone back to the States. From all Phillip had gleaned so far, from the small apartment where she had lived in Murray Hill, and the nursing home in Queens, she had lived simply in New York. Her days of glory had been here, while Umberto was still alive. After he died, all that was left was the value of the jewels, which was considerable. But she had never sold the jewelry for money to live on, perhaps out of love for him, with the exception of two rings. It had obviously been a powerful love story, the memory of which had endured for the rest of her life, and long after his.

Thinking the same thing, the Italian pointed to the pictures of them and touched his heart with a tender look, and Phillip nodded. That was precisely what had brought him here, and the man he was conversing with, however awkwardly, seemed to understand. He took his own business card out to give Phillip then, and he had guessed right. His name was Saverio Salvatore, and he owned an art gallery of the same name, with addresses in both Florence and Rome. It had been a fortuitous meeting, and Phillip enjoyed talking to him. As they walked back to the courtyard and Phillip thanked him in both Italian and English, Saverio looked at Phillip warmly and pointed to a particularly endearing photograph of Marguerite and Umberto.

“You send to me? I like for this house. It was their home for many years.” Phillip agreed to immediately, and said he would send him several. It touched him that the new owner wanted to have their photographs. Their love story endeared them to everyone.

The two men shook hands before Phillip walked out of the gate, and Saverio waved and wandered back into the house. They hadn’t toured the grounds, which were extensive, but Phillip had seen enough. He had gotten a strong sense of what their home had been like, and how and where they’d lived. It was a very grand life. And it gave him a warm feeling that the man who was living there cared about and respected them. Their memories were not forgotten. And Phillip felt a feeling of peace wash over him as he started the car and drove back to the hotel.

The trip to Naples had served no useful function for Christie’s, or the sale of Marguerite’s things, and yet he knew that in coming here, he had done the right thing. He was certain of it. And he was going to keep Saverio’s card, and hoped they’d meet again. He had every intention of fulfilling his promise, and sending him the photographs of Umberto and Marguerite.

PHILLIP CALLED HIS
mother that weekend, when he was back in New York. He wanted to have dinner with her on Sunday night, and tell her all he had learned about Marguerite, her jewelry, and that he had even seen the house where they’d lived. He knew that she’d be interested, and it gave more substance to the story now. Marguerite was no longer a complete mystery to them, she had been a woman with a home, a man who had loved her, and a favored life. She was not just a name on a safe deposit box at the bank, who had owned a collection of extremely valuable jewels. Knowing now that she was running out of money, was down to two thousand dollars when she died, lived in a tiny apartment for many years, had ended her days in a seedy nursing home in Queens, and hadn’t sold the jewels to live more comfortably, was even more touching and intriguing. The jewelry from Umberto had obviously meant a great deal to her.

He wanted to say all that to his mother, and tell her all about the auction in Paris, and the rest of his trip, including the dramatic moment when Marie-Antoinette’s tiara had been claimed by the government for the French museums. He knew she would love hearing about that. And he was surprised to hear her sounding somewhat somber when he called, or serious. And she said she wanted to see him too. She seemed as though she had something to say.

“Are you okay, Mom? Is something wrong?”

“No, I just want to talk. I have some decisions to make.”

“Is it your health?” he said, with a feeling of panic.

“No, darling, I’m fine. Just some other stuff. I want your excellent advice.” He knew that she sold some of his father’s stock certificates from time to time. She was invested in a solid fund, where she didn’t have to worry about the insurance money she had inherited when his father died. And she liked asking Phillip’s advice.

“Sunday night?”

“That’s fine, have a nice weekend.” But he was concerned about her after they talked. She gave him the impression that she had a serious matter on her mind, and he hoped she wasn’t lying to him, and that her health really was all right. As an only child, he felt responsible for her, and worried about her, no matter how youthful and independent she was. She was still seventy-four years old, even if she didn’t look it or act it.

He thought about Jane Willoughby again that weekend too. He wanted to call her and tell her about the results of his trip, and his research about Marguerite, and he decided to invite her to lunch again, boyfriend or not. He had learned a lot about Marguerite in Europe, and wanted to share it with her.

While he worked on his boat, Jane was moving into her new apartment. It was a small one bedroom in the meat-packing district near Alex, and she was delighted with it. Her parents were going to help her pay the rent, until she got a job. Jane hadn’t heard a word from John since she had moved out. The waters had closed over her without a trace. It was as though he had forgotten she’d existed, which was hurtful at best. And she assumed he was with Cara and didn’t care. It was a tough lesson for Jane, and she was sorry she hadn’t moved when things started to go sour months before. The last six months had been a total waste of time, and his blithe ignoring her, with the excuse of school and projects, had been insulting.

Jane had taken a day off from work that week and gone to IKEA to buy the basics she needed since she had no furniture, and Alex helped her put it together. She was good with a screwdriver and a hammer. And by Sunday night, Jane was moved in, and the place looked great. It gave her a new lease on life. She and Alex ate popcorn and watched a movie that night to initiate her new home.