Tuscan Rose (4 page)

‘What do you mean?’

The nursemaid’s room was on the top floor, but when they reached the third floor Maria stopped and opened the door leading into the main part of the house.

‘This is the Marchesa’s quarters,’ she whispered, urging Rosa to follow her. ‘Only the older maids are allowed on this floor on account of the artefacts.’

Rosa found that she and Maria were standing in a corridor decorated with bronze Nubian slaves brandishing massive candelabra. At the end of it stood a life-size figure in an Egyptian dancing costume with a serpent twined around her leg. The serpent’s zircon eyes glowed in the darkness.

‘The Marchesa has Egyptian blood,’ Maria explained. ‘Come, look at this…before anyone arrives.’

Maria pushed open a set of gilded doors and ushered Rosa into a room where the walls were covered in pictures. The light through the shutters fell across the Peking rug and left the artworks in shadow. Rosa approached an oil painting of a woman with a long torso and neck clutching a ruffled fan to her breast. The woman’s pale face and blood-red lips held Rosa’s attention before she turned to the china ink drawing next to it. A naked woman with
lean hips stood with her arms stretched skyward and her face upturned. At her feet lay a slain bear. Further along the wall was a photograph of a woman dressed in sheer black lace with a greyhound by her side. The kohl around the woman’s eyes, along with her death-like pallor, made her seem other-worldly. Rosa’s gaze drifted to a marble bust sitting on a walnut cabinet. The blank eyes seemed to peer at her. All the works gleamed with a life of their own, and in that moment she realised that the subject of each piece was the same. She took in the mystery of the room before turning to Maria.

‘The Marchesa?’

‘They say she is very beautiful,’ Maria whispered. ‘That she captivates men. But I find her rather ghoulish…’ Maria stopped herself. There was a noise in the hall. ‘Quick, this way,’ she said, digging her nails into Rosa’s arm and pulling her towards a door at the end of the room.

Rosa followed her through it and once again found herself in the servants’ corridor. She caught a glimpse of a maid with a duster hurrying into the room. Maria quietly closed the door.

‘Too close,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve shown you the room but you must not go there again. It’s our secret.’

Maria led the way up the stairs to the floor above. While the rest of the house was ultra-modern, the room assigned to Rosa belonged to the previous century. The walls and ceilings were adorned with frescoes of angels floating in an azure heaven together with garlands of flowers. The bedroom was mostly taken up by the canopied bed, but there was also a sitting room, similarly decorated, a bathroom and a dressing room with a round mirror in a scrolled frame above a chest of drawers. The schoolroom, which was across the hall, was sparsely furnished with a large wooden desk and a wall of bookshelves. The style of the rooms on the fourth floor was so different from the exotic décor of the Marchesa’s quarters that Rosa thought she could have stepped into another villa.

‘I’ll fetch your things from downstairs,’ Maria said, leaving Rosa alone in the bedroom.

Rosa looked at the salmon pink bed linens, the hand-carved armoire and the desk inlaid with lapis lazuli. The room was more elegant than the scullery maid’s room in the cellar and more luxurious than anything she could have imagined while living at the convent. She glanced at the clock on the wall; she had an hour before the Marchesa was due to arrive. The stationery shelf on the writing desk was well supplied with paper. Rosa sat down and began to compose a letter to Suor Maddalena, to let her know that she had arrived safely. But she stopped after a few sentences, unable to rid herself of the image of those dark eyes all around the Marchesa’s room, which seemed to have burnt into her soul.

An hour later, Maria knocked on the door. ‘The Marchesa’s cars are approaching,’ she said. ‘You must join with the others to greet her.’

Remembering Ada’s advice, Rosa quickly tidied her hair and collar before following Maria down the stairs. The household staff were gathered on the steps outside, ranked by order. Maria joined the maids while the butler, who Rosa had not seen before, ushered her to the bottom step to stand next to Giuseppe.

‘I am Eugenio Bonizzoni,’ the butler said, lifting his chin and looking at Rosa with weary eyes. ‘Stand up straight.’

Ada and Paolina were waiting to the right with the scullery maid. Ada caught Rosa’s eye and winked.

‘Here he is,’ Rosa heard Maria whisper with a giggle.

The maids exchanged glances and smoothed their skirts when the Marchese hurried down the stairs. He was wearing a speckled-grey suit and his golden waves were slicked back from his forehead. He must have arrived just now, Rosa thought. Signora Corvetto was not with him, confirming Rosa’s suspicion that she was his mistress.

The rumble of motors had everyone standing to attention. Rosa was bemused when one of the older maids crossed herself. Two touring cars, one with tortoiseshell side panels, appeared through the trees and headed towards the house, coming to a stop at the
bottom of the steps. From where Rosa was standing, it appeared that the first car contained only luggage. But, to her surprise, the chauffeur stepped out and opened the door on the opposite side.

‘Babbo!’ cried a tiny voice. A girl came rushing around the back of the car and ran straight towards the Marchese, reaching up and throwing her arms around his waist. The Marchese bent down and hoisted the child onto his hip, kissing her cheeks. His serious expression disappeared and he laughed joyfully. Clementina, who Rosa guessed to be about eight years old, had inherited her father’s wavy hair but not his chiselled looks. The red-blonde ringlets that framed her face emphasised her pouch-like cheeks and when she smiled she revealed only her bottom teeth. Yet she had a vitality about her that was instantly appealing.

‘Oh, Babbo, we saw so many things,’ Clementina gushed. ‘Great pyramids and men swallowing fire while riding bicycles.’ The girl pressed her cheek to her father’s. ‘But it would have been so much better if you had been there,’ she confided to him. ‘Mamma is not much fun. That’s why I travelled with Rinaldo in the luggage car.’

‘You prefer the company of a junior chauffeur to your mother and uncle?’ asked the Marchese. He frowned but Rosa could see from the sparkle in his eyes that it was a mock scolding.

Signor Bonizzoni instructed the menservents to remove the luggage from the car. Rosa watched with amazement as trunks, hatboxes and suitcases were retrieved by the servants and spirited into the house. One of the hatboxes slipped and landed near her feet. It was embossed with the crest of a human-headed hawk. The cuoio grasso leather made her shiver. She saw the doomed veal calf from which it had been made: it was crying for its mother and awaiting its grim death in a dark, cramped stall. Rosa was so disturbed by the image that at first she did not notice the figures emerging from the second car. She turned to see a man in jackboots and a black shirt make his way towards the Marchese. The man was in his thirties but his hair was already receding, revealing a long scar from his left eyebrow to his temple. He had a martial air
about him and the coldest eyes Rosa had ever seen. The smile vanished from the Marchese’s face when the man approached although he returned the straight-armed salute the man delivered. Rosa’s gaze fell to the skull-and-crossbones insignia on the man’s shirt. She knew little about the fascists, only that they had marched on Rome in 1922 and seized power over the government and that the nuns had prayed against them. He must be Clementina’s uncle, Rosa thought. But whose brother was he—the Marchese’s or the Marchesa’s?

Rosa forgot the fascist, however, when she saw the Marchesa’s gloved hand emerge from the car. The chauffeur took it and helped her down the step. The Marchesa was the image of the painting Rosa had seen on the third floor that morning. Her face was a death mask of white powder and her eyes were rimmed thickly in kohl. Her willowy frame was wrapped in a fitted dress and around her swan-like neck dangled a scarab necklace. Her ebony hair was hidden under a velvet hat and the whole outfit was finished with a pair of cyclamen pink pumps with heels so high and narrow it was impractical for her to walk on the gravel and her chauffeur had to carry her to the steps. The Marchesa was not so much beautiful as she was striking, Rosa thought.

When the chauffeur placed her on the steps, the Marchesa looked around at the staff as if noticing them for the first time. She seemed astonished to find herself before an audience. Any charm she might have possessed was muted by her hostile stare. ‘The eyes of Il Duce are on all of you,’ she said in a low, languid voice.

Il Duce was Mussolini. It was a strange greeting to give her staff, Rosa thought, but no-one seemed surprised.

‘Welcome home, dear,’ the Marchese said. ‘It sounds as though your visit with Il Duce was a success. What a trip you’ve had: Ancient Egypt and the Holy Roman Empire. You must be exhausted.’

The Marchese’s manner was all concern over his wife but his comment was sarcastic. Mussolini saw himself as the new Roman emperor.

‘Don’t try to be funny,’ the Marchesa replied flatly. ‘You know that only little people get tired.’

Rosa glanced at the staff gathered on the steps. She understood that by ‘little people’ the Marchesa had not been referring to children, like Clementina, but to all of them.

The Marchesa turned and noticed Rosa. Her eyes seemed to pierce the young woman’s skin. Rosa’s stomach knotted. ‘And who is this person?’ the Marchesa asked her husband. ‘I don’t believe I’ve seen her before.’

‘That is Signorina Bellocchi, the governess I have chosen for Clementina,’ the Marchese replied. ‘I will introduce you formally this afternoon.’

The Marchesa waved her hand dismissively. ‘Bellocchi! What sort of a name is that? Well, I hope our daughter will be properly looked after.’ She turned and continued towards the villa’s entrance with her unhurried, regal step.

Rosa felt a cold shadow fall over her. Only Clementina, who turned and smiled at her, gave her any sense of encouragement.

After the Marchese and his wife, Clementina and the fascist had retired to the drawing room, the rest of the staff returned to the house, not through the main entrance but by a side passage near the kitchen. Only Rosa was allowed to follow Signor Bonizzoni through the main doors.

‘Wait here,’ he told her, ushering her into a reception room and indicating a chair before turning to go. ‘The Marchese will let me know when he wishes to speak to you.’

Rosa looked about the room. The walls were marbled rose-pink with mouldings in gold. The curtains were silver satin and the chairs and sofas had been upholstered in a matching fabric. In the centre of the room was a table fashioned from an amber-coloured wood Rosa had never seen before. The spider-like legs ended in brass accents. Rosa’s gaze fell to a side table on which sat a vase of orchids and a cast-iron clock. It was already midday and the scents of roasting garlic and fennel wafted from the kitchen. She caught a whiff of sage
and found herself lost in a memory, wandering through the garden at the convent with Suor Maddalena, picking the herbs as the dew was disappearing and before the day became too hot.

Opening her eyes, she was astonished to find water droplets on her fingertips. She stared at them in wonder before lifting her hands to her face and discovering that tears were running down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the heels of her palms, sensing that the Villa Scarfiotti was not a place to show weakness.

An hour later, she heard the squeak of Signor Bonizzoni’s shoes. He entered the reception room. ‘Lunch is served,’ he said, bowing slightly. A reflection from one of the lamps gleamed on his bald patch.

Rosa stood up and followed him, disappointed that her meeting with the Marchese and his family had been delayed. She was surprised when Signor Bonizzoni led her across the foyer rather than down the steps to the kitchen and ushered her into the dining room. The Marchese sat at the head of a purple-tinted beechwood table, with his wife and Clementina’s uncle on his right. Clementina sat on his left. The adults were in deep discussion and no-one except Clementina, who glanced in Rosa’s direction, acknowledged her when Signor Bonizzoni showed her to a setting further down the table.

Is this to be my place? Rosa wondered. Not with the servants but not quite with the family either?

‘We should imitate Il Duce alone,’ Clementina’s uncle was saying, ‘We should have no other example except him. I could have found you a girl from a good family to instruct my niece.’

The Marchese looked annoyed but shrugged off the comment. ‘Even Il Duce approves of the Catholic Church these days, doesn’t he, my good Vittorio? And Signorina Bellocchi comes from the same convent that educated my mother and grandmother. Her musicianship is quite extraordinary. I doubt I could find someone at her level anywhere in Florence, good family or not. I want Clementina to have a solid education, not to flit about with embroidery.’

‘Like American women with their egalitarian illusions,’ Vittorio sneered. ‘Childbirth is to a woman what war is to a man. It is their purpose. The character of the Italians must change if we are to become a great race again. We need to be more serious, harder…more—’

‘Militaristic?’ The Marchese finished the sentence.

Vittorio tossed his head in the direction of Rosa. ‘Women should not be learning Latin and philosophy. Such study taxes their brains.’

The Marchesa brushed her fingers over her neck. Rosa noticed that she had a profusion of fine hair on her arms. She turned and smiled at Vittorio. ‘You are quite right, my dear brother. Women should have fun. Men should be worrying about those things.’

Vittorio smiled but seemed unsure whether the Marchesa meant what she said.

Rosa glanced nervously around the room—at the marquetry sideboards and the strange beaten copper discs, like shields, hanging on the walls. Was it normal to talk about someone this way when they were in the room? Rosa remembered what Ada had said about the Scarfiotti family being strange. She understood now that Vittorio was the Marchesa’s brother. They were both as odd as each other. She coughed softly into her fist with some vain hope that maybe the Marchese hadn’t noticed her enter the room. But the conversation turned back to Mussolini.