Tuscan Rose (2 page)

‘Don’t keep your new employer waiting,’ she whispered. ‘Behave well and work hard, Rosa. That is the finest gratitude you can show Suor Maddalena.’

The chauffeur, a small, middle-aged man, took Rosa’s bag from her but the latch was not properly secured and her clothes and books spilled out.

‘I beg your pardon, signorina,’ said the chauffeur, bending to retrieve the fallen items. He picked up a dress and something fell out of the pocket. It was a folded piece of paper. Rosa scooped it up before anyone saw it and slipped into her sleeve cuff, wondering if it was a note from Suor Maddalena.

The chauffeur opened the door for Rosa and she climbed inside. The car smelled of jasmine. She gave a start when she saw the woman in the brocade coat sitting there already. The woman was
pretty, with creamy skin and strawberry-blonde curls poking out from her hat. She stared at Rosa then smiled.

‘Here,’ she said, spreading the ermine wrap she held on her knees so that it covered Rosa’s legs as well.

Rosa cringed but resisted the urge to shove the wrap off herself. The touch of fur when it was lifeless repulsed her. She only liked it when it was warm and on a living animal. She saw the origin of things when others saw only the object. A fox stole slung over the shoulder of a woman in the convent’s parlour had once sent her heart racing with fear, as if she were the hunted animal running for its life through the woods. The leather-bound Bible in the chapel nauseated her whenever Don Marzoli opened it: she pictured the leather worker scraping off animal tissue while others saw only the Word of God.

The Marchese seated himself next to the woman and Rosa pushed herself into the corner to give him room. ‘This is Signora Corvetto,’ he said. ‘She is accompanying me today.’ He gave no further explanation.

So the woman wasn’t the Marchesa. Then who was she? Her clothes were elegant and she had pearls layered around her neck and emerald rings on her fingers. Could she be the Marchese’s secretary?

The car started to move and Rosa waved goodbye to the Badessa. She was surprised when the old nun, who had always been formal with her, blew her a kiss. The spectacle of the Badessa against the backdrop of the only world Rosa had known brought tears to her eyes.

‘So you have lived in a convent all your life?’ Signora Corvetto asked her.

‘Yes, signora.’

Signora Corvetto lit a cigarette and looked through the smoke at Rosa. ‘You are a fine musician, I’ve heard. Clementina loves music.’

Signora Corvetto gave the impression that she was going to ask something else but changed her mind. Her blue eyes were sad. The
Marchese slipped his hand into Signora Corvetto’s. Rosa shifted in her seat and glanced back at the convent, which was disappearing into the distance. She might have lived a sheltered life but she was beginning to suspect that Signora Corvetto was not the Marchese’s secretary.

The chauffeur took them along the Arno to the Ponte Santa Trinita, which was the furthest Rosa could remember travelling from the convent. The other side of the river was a Florence that she had seen only in the distance and now she was in the middle of it. She temporarily forgot her heartache and looked at the narrow streets, gloomy because of the shadows cast by the houses. Some of them were no more than alleys and passageways. The chauffeur had to manoeuvre with care through the main streets to avoid colliding with trams, bread carts and maids carrying baskets of vegetables on their heads. Every so often the sun burst upon the car when they passed a piazza. Rosa could not believe the riches displayed by the vendors whose stores bordered the open spaces: the antiques dealers and framers; the perfumers with ribbed glass bottles and gold filigree hand mirrors in their windows; the boxes stacked with asparagus, carrots, artichokes and beets in the doorways of the grocers’. Never before had Rosa seen such abundance. The convent prided itself on simplicity and self-sufficiency. The nuns pressed their own oils and wove their own cloth. Life there had always been frugal.

The Marchese slipped his hand into his pocket, took out a silver cigarette case and leaned across Signora Corvetto.

‘Do you care to smoke?’ he asked Rosa.

Rosa was taken aback by his sudden familiarity. She shook her head.

‘There is the Duomo,’ he said, pointing out the window. ‘I doubt you’ve seen it this close before, Signorina Bellocchi? Some of Italy’s greatest talents have worked on this grand monument: Giotto, Orcagna, Gaddi.’

Rosa turned to where he was indicating and saw the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, known by the Florentines as the Duomo. It
towered over the other buildings and she was dazzled by the walls tiled in pink and green marquetry and Brunelleschi’s famous red dome. She had only ever seen the church in a black-and-white picture.

‘The white tiles are from Carrara, the green from Prato and the red from Siena,’ the Marchese told her, pushing back his hair. ‘Some think it is excessive, but you can see that there is harmony between the cathedral, belltower and baptistry.’

The Marchese’s face became flushed as he described the difficulties the various artists had encountered at each stage of the construction process and how Brunelleschi was once removed by ushers after a disagreement with the building committee. When the Marchese spoke about the artistic merits and the history of the building he became a different person: less restrained. Rosa found herself warming to him.

The chauffeur brought the car to a stop and opened the door for the Marchese and Signora Corvetto to alight. He gave no indication that Rosa should follow. The Marchese turned and dipped his head into the car.

‘Giuseppe will take you on to the villa,’ he said, nodding towards the chauffeur. ‘I trust you will be happy in your position.’

Before Rosa had a chance to absorb what was happening, the chauffeur shut the door, returned to his seat and reversed the car. Rosa looked through the rear window to see the Marchese and Signora Corvetto strolling across the piazza, heads close together in conversation. She didn’t know what to make of the situation.

‘Are you comfortable there, Signorina Bellocchi?’ Giuseppe asked.

‘Yes, thank you.’

Rosa would have liked to ask the chauffeur about the Scarfiotti family, because she had been told so little, but she was overcome by shyness and remained quiet. Giuseppe turned his attention back to driving. Rosa took out the piece of paper she had hidden in her sleeve. She unfolded it and discovered inside a tiny silver key with a heart-shaped bow on the end of it. She checked to see if Suor
Maddalena had written an explanation on the paper, but there was nothing. Rosa held the key in the palm of her hand, imagining what it might open. It was too light for a door or a wardrobe. Perhaps it fitted into the lock of a small case? She rewrapped the key and tucked it back into her sleeve.

A while later, the car passed a sign that read:
To Fiesole.

‘Ah, the English,’ said Giuseppe, pointing to a gathering of women with irises in their arms outside a cemetery. Their blonde hair, lace dresses and sensible shoes reminded Rosa of her English-language tutor at the convent, Mrs Richards, who had helped the students with pronunciation when the nuns could not.

‘The English are everywhere on Via Tornabuoni,’ said Giuseppe. ‘You will see. It’s like being in London.’

I will see, thought Rosa. There was no doubt that her old life was diminishing and a new one was opening up before her. Despite her apprehension, she began to feel a tingle of excitement.

The car sped uphill and magnificent villas came into sight alongside the road, each one more elaborate than the last. Rosa noticed a sprawling villa with pietra serena columns and a loggia overlooking a garden of magnolia and olive trees, and then another with an ornate tower and windows with stone surrounds and corbels. Was this how the Scarfiotti family lived, she wondered. They passed some more villas and then some fields, and Rosa glimpsed the view of Florence below.

Giuseppe glanced over his shoulder. ‘Would you like to see it?’ he asked.

Rosa told him that she would and he pulled the car to the side of the road and opened the door for her. A breeze tickled the grass around her knees as she inched her way towards the slope. Florence in all its magnificence stretched out before her. The clusters of red-roofed buildings, churches and convents huddled together with the Basilica and Brunelleschi’s dome towering above them all. Although she could not see the convent she could hear the bells of the city’s churches ringing and she knew the nuns would be going to their prayers. It was hard to believe that she had
been playing her flute in the convent’s chapel only a few hours ago. Tears pricked her eyes when she realised that she would never play there again.

‘You will miss the nuns, yes?’ asked Giuseppe, looking at her sympathetically.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

He nodded but said nothing more. Rosa found it odd that he didn’t try to reassure her by telling her how pleasant life would be with the Scarfiotti family.

They returned to the car and, a short while later, entered a road bordered on either side by stone walls. Rosa stretched her neck to see trees or other features of the landscape over the walls but could glimpse nothing. She felt as if the car was barrelling down a tunnel. The sensation lasted until they came to a wrought-iron gate with stone mastiffs either side of it and a gatehouse set back from the fence and surrounded by a tall hedge. Giuseppe sounded the horn. The door to the gatehouse opened and an unshaven man with shoulder-length grey hair and wearing a shirt and vest peered out. He headed towards the gates and fixed his large hands on the lock to open them so Giuseppe could drive through. Despite the man’s rumpled appearance, his posture was strong and erect. Giuseppe eased the car forward. Rosa looked at the gatekeeper, intrigued by his air of dignity, but he kept his eyes averted.

The drive to the villa was through a wood. Suddenly the trees gave way and the Villa Scarfiotti came into view. The house was four storeys high, with the central section set back from the wings. From each floor eight windows looked out over the lawns. The railings and trimmings were covered with verdigris, and the bluish-green patina was repeated on the fountain at the centre of the driveway and the pillars and ornamental urns that bordered the steps leading to the imposing bronze doors. Dozens of classical statues dotted the lawns: maidens with urns and men with swords. Each statue seemed frozen in its activity, as if it had once been a real person whom an enchantress had turned to stone. There were no lemon trees in terracotta pots or flowerbeds bursting with
zinnias and white stocks such as Rosa had seen on the terraces of the villas lining the road. The garden of the Villa Scarfiotti was a sudden cutting away of the woods with only box hedges and oleanders to soften it. The other villas Rosa had passed had been graceful, smaller in scale and in harmony with the surrounding countryside. The Villa Scarfiotti was imposing, as if the original designer had intended to make those who approached it feel daunted rather than welcomed.

Giuseppe brought the car to a stop, took out Rosa’s flute case and bag and opened the door for her. Rosa heard the locks on the twelve-foot-high doors open and waited on the stone steps with Giuseppe, bracing herself to meet the Marchesa. But it was not a noblewoman who appeared before them but a housekeeper in a black uniform.

‘Where’s the Marchese?’ the housekeeper asked Giuseppe, a scowl on her face.

‘He is still in the city.’

The woman’s fierce eyes fixed on Giuseppe. She had blonde-grey hair pulled severely back from her face and skin like crepe paper. ‘Who is this?’ she asked him, indicating Rosa.

‘The new governess.’

The wrinkles around the housekeeper’s mouth twitched. ‘What’s she doing here? The Marchesa won’t be back until tomorrow. They are still in Venice.’

Rosa’s feelings of anticipation at seeing the Villa Scarfiotti faded with the housekeeper’s sharpness. She wondered if Don Marzoli and the Badessa had any idea of the chaotic arrangements of the Scarfiotti household. Then a troubling thought occurred to her: now she was out of the convent, Don Marzoli and the Badessa were no longer responsible for her welfare. She was on her own.

‘The Marchese thought it would be more convenient if Signorina Bellocchi came here today,’ Giuseppe told the woman. ‘To settle in.’

A shrewish look passed over the housekeeper’s face at the mention of Rosa’s name. It meant ‘beautiful eyes’ and the nuns had
chosen it for Rosa because she had no parents to give her their own surname. Even though Innocenti and Nocentini were the names usually given to foundlings, Rosa could tell the curious name had aroused the housekeeper’s suspicions and she cringed inwardly. The suggestion that she was an orphan, or, even worse, illegitimate, would only make the woman despise her more. Rosa recalled that the Marchese had told her she would report directly to him and she felt grateful that her position was not overseen by the housekeeper.

‘Convenient for whom?’ the woman replied to Giuseppe. ‘No one has told me which room to give her.’

‘Put her in the nursemaid’s room,’ he suggested.

Giuseppe spoke calmly but the twinkle in his eye made Rosa think he enjoyed baiting the woman.

‘That’s on the fourth floor,’ said the housekeeper with emphasis. ‘I won’t do that without the Marchesa’s instructions. She can sleep in the scullery maid’s room until I’m told otherwise.’

Giuseppe glanced at Rosa and shrugged.

‘Come then,’ the housekeeper said to Rosa, jerking her head towards the door. ‘You will have to make up your own room. I am the only one here today. You are not above that, I hope, Signorina
Bellocchi.’

Rosa followed the housekeeper dutifully. She was used to the contempt people showed towards orphans, and had suffered taunts from the paying students at the convent, especially when the teaching nuns refused to put her at the back of the classroom where they and their parents thought foundlings belonged. ‘You are by far the brightest pupil,’ Suor Maddalena had explained to her. ‘Suor Camilla and Suor Grazia want the others to follow your example, not the other way around.’