The Witch of Napoli (26 page)

“So the Society is conceding?” I asked.

“My father expects them to. He said he sees no other conclusion that can be drawn. They’ll have to draft an official report, of course.”

“Have they talked to Mr. Huxley yet?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “I know he’s not feeling well.”

“He looked so much better this morning. He’s meeting with father and Henry in the library right now.”

“Good,” laughed Alessandra. “I hope he brought his hundred pounds.”

We walked outside and into the sunshine. It was a beautiful, late summer morning, the air perfumed with the smell of freshly-cut grass. A maid was waiting in the driveway with Hercules, the Tyndall’s hound. She curtsied and handed Elsa the leash. Like Alessandra, Elsa loved dogs, and always walked him when she came over. The two of them fussed over him like he was a baby, cooing and patting him, and took turns holding the leash as we strolled the gardens.

As we passed by the glass house, the gardener gave us a distinctly unfriendly look, and turned his back to us as we passed by. Elsa and Alessandra were too busy chattering away to notice it, but I saw it. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I found it odd.

We finished a leisurely circle of the house and Elsa turned to me.

“I’m starving. Race you back to the house!” she said, and took off with Hercules.

“Tommaso’s last!” Alessandra shouted. She grabbed her skirts and started running, me on her heels. I sped past Alessandra, but Elsa was too fast. We all ended up winded and laughing at the front door, ready for a hearty breakfast of bangers and mash. Alessandra hung back for a moment, letting Elsa enter first. Then she wheeled around and leapt into my arms.

“Oh God, Tommaso! We did it!”

And then everything came crashing down.

I
t’s still painful to recall what happened next.

Henry and Maxine were sitting in the library on the edge of their seats, whispering with Mallory, when we hurried by on our way to the dining room. Alessandra called out and waved, but nobody looked up. That’s when I knew something was terribly wrong.

We entered the dining room and discovered Huxley sitting there, a cup of tea in his hand. Behind him stood Bridget, the upstairs maid Alessandra had surprised in her room the night of the second sitting, “changing the pillows” as she claimed. She had a smirk on her face. She was also concealing something behind her ample butt.

Huxley put down his cup.

“Be a good little girl and run along, Elsa. Your father is waiting for you in the library.”

Elsa hesitated, then looked at me. “Be right back,” she said, and left.

Huxley folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“
Buongiorno
,
Signora
Poverelli.”

Alessandra glared at him. “Where’s my money?”

Huxley faked a pout. “How rude! Aren’t you going to ask me how I feel? After all, I’ve been… sick.” He chuckled.

Alessandra stared at him.

“ No? Ah well. As you can see, I’ve managed a miraculous recovery. I couldn’t let you leave England before I could say goodbye.” The smile disappeared. He leaned forward, his mouth drawn back in a snarl. He raised his hand. “Bridget?”

Bridget stepped forward, pulled a box from behind her back, and set it on the table.

Alessandra gave a cry.

It was her hatbox.

“Bridget was cleaning your room while you were out walking this morning, and found this in the back of your closet. Shall we see what’s inside?” Huxley opened the top and pushed it across the table. My stomach turned over.

It was all there. Pruning shears, rosebuds, cut stems, clods of dirt, mud smears. All the evidence Huxley needed to destroy Alessandra.

Huxley closed the box. “Bridget will testify that she saw you sneak out of the house with it on Tuesday night, followed you, then watched you return with it – am I correct, Bridget?

“As you said, sir.”

Alessandra stared hard at Bridget, but Bridget stared right back, defiant.

It all made sense –the click of the door we heard that night was Bridget. Right then and there, I should have insisted to Alessandra that we abandon the whole crazy scheme, but I hadn’t.

Huxley pulled out his cigar case and reached in his pocket for a match.

“Bridget observed you the whole time you were here. She was in my employ, by the way – an arrangement I made before you even arrived in England.”

“Fuck you,” said Alessandra.

I swallowed hard. “Was Mr. Mallory in on this?”

“No. ” Huxley lit his cigar, took a deep puff, inspected the glowing tip, then studied Alessandra for a moment. “Your kind are so predictable. I suspected you were planning to use the rose petals in your last sitting. But I was afraid if I were there, you might think twice, might settle for…a draw instead.”

He leaned forward. “I didn’t want that. I wanted to show the world what you really are. So I made it easy for you. I faked my little stomach ache, had Henry invite that simpleton Mrs. Goody to take my place. I suggested he get rid of the clock, so you had all the time in the world to set up your pathetic little trick.” He sneered. “I
wanted
you to cheat!”

He stuck the cigar in his mouth. “And you took the bait.”

“
Bastardo!”
Alessandra leaned forward and knocked the cigar out of his mouth. “
Ti faccio un…”

I grabbed Alessandra. “Shut up!”

It was over. I was embarrassed, and furious at Alessandra.

Huxley stood up and smiled. “There’s no need for you to go upstairs –the Tyndall’s have already packed you bags. You’ll find them waiting for you in the carriage at the back door.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and offered it to Alessandra.

“Not the hundred pounds you expected,
Signora
– just a train ticket to send you back where you belong.”

Alessandra grabbed the envelope, then leaned forward and spit on his suit.

I grabbed her and hustled her out of the room. All I wanted to do was get to the train station. As we hurried past the library on the way to the carriage, I saw Elsa sitting in an armchair, crying. I wanted to tell her I had nothing to do with it, that it was all Alessandra’s idea, that I had tried to stop her. I didn’t want her to remember me as a cheat.

It was the last time I saw Elsa.

Huxley delivered one final twist of the knife, with the help of a telegram he wired ahead to the
London Times
the minute we fled Farnam House in disgrace. By the time we reached the Dover docks late that afternoon, newspaper boys were already hawking papers with Alessandra’s photo emblazoned on the front page along with big, black headlines – I could only make out “Italian” and “Huxley” but I could guess the rest.

The ferry horn was sounding as we hurried towards the gangway, a newsboy hanging on my arm, pestering me to buy a paper. All of a sudden, he recognized Alessandra. He stared at her in disbelief, then let out a yell.

“The dago! The dago!”

He danced around, pointing at her and making faces as every newsboy on the pier came running. Alessandra fled up the gangway. I dug into my pocket, gave him a coin, grabbed a paper and followed her to our cabin. When I got there, I shoved the paper in her face.

“Are you happy now?” I shouted. “Lombardi warned you not to go to England. But you wouldn’t listen! I warned you not to play tricks, but you wouldn’t listen! You could have quit while you were ahead. Now you’re an international joke.”

So was Lombardi.

The ferry’s engines rumbled to life, the deckhands slipped the lines, and we cast off for France. The Paris newspapers probably had the story already.

“Camillo’s gonna kill you when he finds out.”

A
lessandra looked terrible.

She sat in her seat, a tear-soaked handkerchief clutched in her hand, silently staring out the window as the night train from Calais sped towards Paris. I was worried about her.

She didn’t eat anything on the ferry back to France, and gave me a scare when I found her standing alone at the stern of the boat, clutching the rail, the sea just a small jump away. The empty expression in her eyes scared me enough that I steered her back to the cabin and kept her close to me the rest of the trip. I was feeling pretty bad myself, after how I had behaved in Dover. She needed a friend, and I had failed. When we boarded the night train to Paris, the conductor had kindly inquired whether the lady was ill, and whether I would like him to tell the porter to bring Alessandra a glass of brandy once we left the station. I thanked him, and when it showed up I made her drink enough to sleep an hour before she woke again to stare out the window.

I reach over and hugged her.

“It’s going to be alright,” I said. She squeezed my hand, then buried her face in the pillow and wept.

A somber Renard was waiting for us when we pulled into the Gare du Nord station at midnight. A light rain was falling on the rooftops of Paris as we rode in silence through the city to his mansion on Boulevard Haussmann. A servant met us at the door, and we made our way to the library where Lombardi was waiting for Alessandra.

He was slumped in a chair, head in his hands, a half- empty bottle of cognac on the table, a copy of
Le Figaro
in his lap. The French papers had the scandal already. Her photo was on the front page.

“Camillo!” Alessandra rushed across the room and collapsed at his feet. She looked up, tears streaming down her face. “Oh God, forgive me!”

He reached down and shoved her away.

“Forgive you?” he shouted. “After what you’ve done? You’ve ruined us both!” He flung the newspaper at her. “I‘m the laughingstock of the university!” He fell back into his chair. “No one will believe us now.” He drained his glass, flung it across the room, then reached down and yanked Alessandra to her knees.

“Tell me!” he demanded. “Was everything a fake? My mother? Did you fake her too? Tell me the truth, damn you!” He raised his hand to strike her but Renard stopped him.

“No! Your mother was real!” Alessandra clung to his arm. “She was there!” She turned to me, her eyes pleading. “You saw her, didn’t you, Tommaso? Tell him!”

“I did,” I said.

“The spirits do exist!” Alessandra wiped the tears from her face. “But they abandoned me in England. Even
Babbo
Giro,” she whispered. “He always comes when I call. I must have done something to make him angry.”

Lombardi rose from the chair.

“
Babbo
Giro didn’t abandon you. How could he? He never existed.”

He started for the door. Alessandra jumped to her feet, panic in her eyes. She grabbed his arm.

“Camillo, where are you going?”

“Out,” he replied coldly.

“But when are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

Renard looked at me. “Stay with her.” He followed Lombardi out the door.

Alessandra rushed to me. “He’ll come back, Tommaso, won’t he? Oh, tell me he’ll come back.”

“Yes,” I lied. “Just give him some time to think.” I got her over to a chair and sat her down, then put my coat around her shoulders and held her tight. “He’ll be back.”

I was sure it was over.

W
e waited five hours.

Alessandra sat in the dark, empty room, staring vacantly into space, rocking herself back and forth, whispering to herself. “He’ll be back…He’ll be back… He’ll be back….”

Over and over.

At some point, a servant came in with a silver tray of food but it remained next to her, untouched. She didn’t respond when I asked her if she wanted a blanket, or a glass of water. She just held herself and kept rocking back and forth.

“He’ll be back…He’ll be back…”

I finally fell asleep, holding her hand in mine.

The first faint light of dawn was coloring the sky outside the library window when we heard the doorknob turn. Alessandra gave a cry and ran to the door. Renard stood there, a somber Lombardi behind him.

“Camillo! Thank God, you’ve come back!”

Alessandra reached out her arms to him, but Lombardi drew back. Renard steered her back to her chair. “Sit down, Alessandra. Dr. Lombardi has something to say to you.”

Lombardi walked to the fireplace and stood there, his back to Alessandra.

“Our fates are now entwined,” he announced, his voice trembling. “I cannot redeem my reputation unless I redeem yours.” He leaned on the mantel, head bowed, then turned around and faced her.

“Dr. Renard and I will demand that the Society allow you one final test – to be conducted in Italy. We will ask Dr. Negri, Dr. Fournier and von Weibel to support us. In return, you will agree to accept – without question or debate – any conditions Huxley and the Society wishes to impose. Do you understand?”

Alessandra nodded her head mutely.

“Your fee is forfeit. The scandal is a violation of your contract.”

“I don’t want the money,
caro,”
she whispered. “I just want you to forgive me.”

Lombardi picked up his coat.

“You don’t deserve it, but if you manage to pass Huxley’s test, you’ll be paid 1,000 lire. Then we’re done with each other. I’m returning to Torino to see what I can do to save my position.”

Alessandra followed him to the door.

“
Caro
…please…don’t…”

He suddenly whirled around, tears blinding his eyes.

“I would have done anything for you, Alessandra!”

He kissed her fiercely, then he was gone.

N
aples hadn’t changed in the four months we were gone. It was still the same shithole.

Alessandra stumbled down the steps of the train lugging her bag. I followed her, massaging my neck. We were both stiff, sore and hungry.

After Cambridge, Naples hit you hard. The garbage, the yelling and arguing, the noise, the stench. We fit right in – we both stunk. We had slept on station benches between trains, and we were flat broke. I never saw Alessandra so low. She ate almost nothing on the three-day trip back, staring out the window, sleeping fitfully, waking every hour to ask me where we were. When we reached Marseilles, I used the last of our money to buy some olives and stale bread, and a bottle of cheap red wine which we passed between us.