The Witch of Napoli (22 page)

“God, Tommaso, I’m so glad you’re here with me.”

We were both relieved when we stepped off the train in Cambridge and heard a cheerful voice cry out in excellent Italian from the other end of the platform.

“Good morning! You must be
Signora
Poverelli.” A small man with a briar pipe in his mouth hurried over and offered her his hand.

“I’m Archibald Mallory, from the Society. Welcome to Cambridge, and please forgive my poor Italian! I’ll be your translator during your stay here.”

Mallory had spent two years in Florence as a student many years earlier, and taught Italian poetry at Trinity College. He turned to me and grinned.

“You must be Tommaso Labella, the photographer. I saw your famous photo, and I personally found it impressive in terms of evidence – although my opinion is a minority within the Society. Speaking for myself, nothing would give me greater pleasure than establishing the reality of a spiritual realm. If our attempts to verify scientifically the intervention of another world prove futile, it will be a terrible blow – a mortal blow to humankind’s hopes for another life.”

A porter grabbed my bag and Alessandra’s portmanteau, and Mallory led us around to the side of the station where a stunningly pretty young girl about my age sat in a carriage.

My jaw dropped. She was like something out of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus – hazel eyes, creamy white skin, and light chestnut hair that fell in soft curls on her shoulders.

“
Buongiorno! Mi chiamo Elsa,”
she said, and flashed me an impish smile that made my heart skip a beat.

Mallory laughed. “My daughter, Elsa. She’s going to assist me this week.”

Elsa held up a book and giggled. It was an English-Italian dictionary.

I held up the Italian-English phrase book Lombardi had given me – which I had studied on the ferry ride over to England, thank God.

“My name is Thomas,” I replied in English. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

I didn’t wait for Mallory to tell me where to sit. I hopped into the back seat with Elsa. I couldn’t believe my luck. Mallory helped Alessandra up into her seat and we set off.

“Your trip went well?”

“Horrible,” grunted Alessandra. I blushed. Her rude response was embarrassing.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Mallory said. “Was there something…?”

“There was a bit of a mix-up in London,” I volunteered. “No one was there to meet us…”

“And it wasn’t accidental!” Alessandra interjected. “Huxley had a hand in that, I’m sure.”

Mallory looked at her, surprised. “I apologize on behalf of the Society for the problem in London. I will certainly look into this matter.”

I jumped in to stop Alessandra from going through her whole litany of complaints.

“Forgive us. It’s been a long trip, and the sea in the Channel coming over was pretty rough. Alessandra got a bit seasick…”

Alessandra glared at me.

Elsa was pretty good in Italian. “
Mal di mare?”
She smiled and pointed to herself. “Me also.” She imitated a woozy person, her tongue hanging out, her eyes crossed. “…even on a lake.” Then she pantomimed a perfect puke.

I burst out laughing.

Mallory turned to Alessandra. “My apologies,
Signora
. I’ve been seasick myself, and it is a distinctly unpleasant feeling.”

Alessandra ignored him. She sat there sullenly in her seat and stared at the road ahead as we made our way through the center of the town. Cambridge wasn’t noisy and exciting, like London, but it was very pretty, with a lot of picturesque churches, a busy marketplace, and lots of students walking around. When we passed by the university, Mallory pointed out Trinity College where he taught. It had a great iron gate, and a medieval clock tower, and was founded by King Henry the VIII in 1546.

“Old,” Mallory said with a smile, “but not as old as your University of Naples. I’m afraid you’ve got us beat by three centuries.”

“I’m thinking of attending the University of Naples,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Alessandra rolled her eyes, but I ignored her.

“
E’ vero
?” Elsa said, excitedly. Really? “
Che bravo!”
Good for you!

We finally turned off the main street and Mallory pointed his whip down a hedge-lined allée where a massive three-story manor sat surrounded by tall chestnut trees.

“Farnam House,” Mallory announced. “You’ll be staying here, as guests of Professor Henry Tyndall and his wife Maxine. He’s president of the Society. Both of them speak some Italian, though hers is better.”

“Do you live nearby?” I asked. I wanted to see Elsa often.

“Don’t worry – we live just a few streets down from here, and we’ll be here every day.”

“Where will Signor Huxley stay?” It was Alessandra.

“He comes up from London tomorrow, in time for the reception. He’ll be staying at our house.”

“As long as he doesn’t stay with us,” Alessandra snapped.

Professor Tyndall was awaiting us as our carriage pulled up. He looked to be in his early sixties, with a long, untrimmed white beard, and his manner was rather stiff and slightly pompous. He quickly passed us to Maxine. Her auburn hair was pulled back tight and flat against her head, giving her a slightly masculine look. She was a principal of a woman’s college at Cambridge, where English women could study just like men, though they couldn’t earn a degree, of course. She was a lot younger than him, and came from a wealthy and powerful family – her cousin was England’s Prime Minister. Her Italian was excellent, and she had a sense of humor.

Alessandra insisted on going straight to her room, but Elsa, Archie and I joined Maxine in the sitting room where a light tea of scones and pastries had been laid out for our arrival. As a servant filled my cup, I complimented Maxine on her Italian.

“
Signora
, how did you become so fluent in our language?”

She reached across the table and took a cigarette out of a silver box. “I had a boyfriend in Florence.” Mallory laughed.

“Maxie, you shouldn’t do that to poor Tommaso. Tell him the whole story.”

“Well, it’s true!” she protested. She lit her cigarette and leaned back in her chair.

“I spent a year in Italy, Tommaso, when I was 18, though I’m sorry to say I never made it to your Naples. My mother wanted me to study art. I wanted to study mathematics and physics. In the end, we compromised. I studied da Vinci’s catapults, and Michelangelo’s David.” She grinned. “I rather enjoyed studying
him
.”

“Now, Maxie, Elsa’s here with us…”

“Oh pooh! Archie,” she said. “She’s not going to faint.”

“I’ve seen a photograph of the statue, father,” Elsa protested. “In a library book. He’s quite… handsome.”

Maxine laughed. “You’d better keep an eye on Elsa this week.” She pointed her cigarette at me. “She’ll be spending a lot of time with this rather handsome Italian boy – and he’s not a statue.”

I turned red. Maxine let me escape.

“Elsa, give Tomas a tour of the house so he won’t get lost while he’s here. Henry and I need to talk to your father about the schedule for this week.”

I’m glad I got the grand tour. The manor was huge, with two wings, ten bedrooms, a library, billiard room, picture gallery, drawing room, dining room, hallways and stairways, kitchens and servants’ quarters. I also got a quick peek at Henry’s gloomy, oak-paneled, private study where a large portrait of a dour Queen Victoria hung on the wall behind his desk, reminding Englishmen to do their duty.

We passed by Alessandra’s room and I thought of knocking and seeing if she wanted to join us. But the room was silent, so we slipped down the back stairs and out into the late summer sunshine onto the great, green lawn. Manicured flower beds lined a stone path that led down to the river Cam where a small wooden boat floated on the placid water under a shady willow tree.

“
Andiamo!”
I laughed. Let’s go. I jumped in the punt and grabbed the pole that’s used to push the boat along the shallow riverbed. Elsa gathered up her skirt and hopped in behind me, and we were just about to shove off when I heard an angry voice.

“Tommaso! Tommaso!” Alessandra was hurrying down the path and she didn’t look happy.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Come up to the house and show me where the bathroom is.”

“Just ask someone,” I said. I really wanted to take Elsa out on the punt.

“I can’t speak English!”

“The word is ‘water closet.’”

She glared at me. What could I do. I finally turned to Elsa and shrugged my shoulders. Elsa was a good sport. I helped her back onto the river bank.

“
A domani
.” She smiled brightly. “Tomorrow.”

When we got back to the house, I directed Alessandra to the bathroom.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to learn a few words of English,” I said to her.

“I don’t want to learn English,” she shot back. “I want to get this over with and go home.” She slammed the door.

A
lessandra didn’t belong in England.

She hated the Sunday afternoon reception. The clock on the mantel showed one PM and we had been standing in the receiving line for a half-hour. Through the open French doors of the drawing room, I could watch the crowd of guests out on the lawn sitting at flower-decked tables sampling cucumber sandwiches, and berries and cream. A badminton net was stretched across the lawn and a half-dozen guests were batting a shuttlecock around, while their boisterous
bambini
competed in croquet. The English worship sports. They believe it’s one of the reasons England rules the world. The Duke of Wellington, who defeated Napoleon, reportedly visited Eton School a few years after his victory and, after watching the boys cheerfully bloody each other’s noses on the football field, declared “It is here that the battle of Waterloo was won.” I’m sure Huxley believed that as he pounded his university opponents in the boxing ring.

Alessandra hadn’t eaten a thing for breakfast. She had come down late the morning after we arrived, and resisted Maxine’s attempts to engage her in conversation. When she learned there would be a reception for her, she balked, and I had to insist she attend.

“I’ll go,” she finally said, “but I don’t want to stand next to Elsa. It reminds me how fat and old I am.”

Lombardi offered to buy her some new clothes for her trip – he knew how snobbish the English were – but she turned him down. She was only going to England for a few days, she said, and she didn’t give a damn what they thought of her clothes. She was also terribly superstitious – new clothes might bring bad luck.

So she stood there in the reception line that afternoon wearing her dowdy, black séance dress, looking like she was attending a funeral instead of a garden party, while all the English women glided by in their loose, white summer dresses and lace collars, wearing wide-brimmed sun hats decorated with flowers. Alessandra had new shoes at least, but they were tight, and her feet hurt, so she kept playing with her foot, which was embarrassing. Flanked by Henry and Maxine, she stood there grimly shaking the hands that were thrust at her, mumbling “
piacere
” – though she certainly didn’t
look
pleased to meet them. I’m sure some of the guests that day came simply to gawk at her. Huxley had arranged a big story in the
London Times
about the arrival of Italy’s notorious Queen of Spirits, and his confident promise to expose Alessandra “if she turns out to be the clever fraud one suspects she is.”

Me? I was enjoying the whole show, bowing and throwing out “Delighted to meet you!” and greeting the good-looking women with a kiss to the hand, Continental style, which made them simper and Elsa roll her eyes. “Romeo!” she whispered, but I noticed she moved closer to me.

There was a commotion and I saw Henry extend his hand to an aristocratic looking gentleman with a silver cane.

“Lord Hartford! How kind of you to come.” He turned and bowed to the slim, elegant woman clutching Hartford’s arm. “Lady Hartford! You delight us with your presence.”

Maxine Tyndall gathered her skirt, bent her knees and performed a graceful bow.

“My Lord.”

Alessandra should have had the sense to just stand there, or simply extend her hand. Instead, she panicked. She leaned forward in a comical half-bow, tripped, and toppled into Lady Hartford, who let out a cry, stumbled backwards, and would have ended up on her
culone
if Henry hadn’t reached out and grabbed her. Mallory quickly helped Alessandra to her feet, but the damage had been done. Lady Hartford gave her a withering look.

Everyone was staring at Alessandra. Out on the lawn, two little girls giggled and flopped on the grass, mimicking Alessandra. I wanted to crawl in a hole and disappear.

“
Brava,
Signora
. A bit more practice and you’ve got it.”

I turned around and Huxley was standing there with a Pimm’s Cup in his hand and a smirk on his face. Alessandra glared at him. He raised his glass.

“Welcome to England – I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have you here.”

Keeping an eye on Alessandra, Huxley leaned forward and whispered in my ear.

It’s a famous child’s rhyme in Italy. The English have their own version.

D
inner that evening was a disaster.

As we headed downstairs, I reminded Alessandra to use her silverware. Neapolitans like to say “Fingers were made before forks,” and I noticed Alessandra was using hers way too often the whole tour.

Elsa had assured me that Huxley would be seated at the opposite end of the table. Alessandra was still smarting from her encounter with Huxley at the reception, and I knew she was spoiling for a fight. I wanted to enjoy Elsa, not spend my evening playing referee.

“And don’t drink more than one glass of wine,” I warned.