Tuscan Rose (6 page)

‘I will ask the staff dressmaker to sew something suitable for you to wear to the city,’ the Marchese said.

Before he left, he asked Rosa to make a list of books she thought Clementina might need. ‘I will obtain them,’ he said. ‘We also have a library here that you are welcome to use any time you
wish.’ With a kind smile he added, ‘I noticed a dent in your flute when you played for me at the convent.’ He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled down an address before handing it to Rosa. ‘When you are in Florence, take it to this repair shop and they will fix it. Tell them to put it on the villa account.’

The offer to fix her flute was an unexpected courtesy. It was impossible for Rosa to forget that the Marchese was an adulterer but in her eyes he now had two redeeming characteristics: he was kinder than his aloof manners conveyed; and he loved his daughter.

As the Marchese left the schoolroom, Rosa saw something about him that she hadn’t noticed before: a dark mist seemed to be shadowing him. It was another reminder of how her perception of things seemed to be heightened at the villa. She remembered her dream of the previous evening in which Ada had said that witches were trying to gain her attention. Rosa shivered. It was a sin even to consider such a possibility. But what about the things that were happening to her? The shadow around the Marchese; the visions she had seen during the lunch that had made her faint? Did they come from God or somewhere else?

‘Signorina Bellocchi, are you feeling all right?’

Rosa turned to see Clementina looking at her with her china blue eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m all right. Let’s get started on French.’

When the morning’s lessons were over, Maria brought up a tray for lunch. Rosa sensed there was something different about the maid and then noticed that her hair was pulled back into a sleek roll. She caught a whiff of lavender water on Maria’s skin when she brushed by her to place the tray on a table next to the window. Ada had warned Rosa that the Marchesa was particular about grooming and she wondered if that was the reason the Marchese had wanted her to have a new dress.

When Maria left the room, Rosa sat down with Clementina to eat. She gingerly lifted the covers from the dishes and was relieved to see that Ada had made them a white bean soup with sage and tomato, served with fresh bread.

‘My favourite soup,’ said Clementina. ‘Have you tried it before, Signorina Bellocchi?’

Rosa shook her head and breathed in the aroma of the sage before dipping her spoon into the hearty stew. The beans were tender and the snappy taste of the cheese was softened by the sweetness of the garlic and tomato. Rosa imagined a bean shoot bursting through the dark soil and into the brilliant light. She closed her eyes, envisaging dozens of green globes on vines slowly turning red in the sun before women with wrinkled hands and scarves on their heads picked the tomatoes. The food was full of the earth’s energy. Rosa opened her eyes again and saw that Clementina was looking at her curiously.

‘I like to imagine where my food has come from. It is my way of saying grace,’ Rosa explained, which wasn’t quite true because her visions of the sources of things were not a voluntary response.

The villa’s driveway and the woods were visible from the schoolroom window. Rosa thought the statues in the garden resembled chess pieces in the midst of a complicated game. There was a clearing in the woods, not far from the villa, with a summerhouse and parterre garden. Rosa saw a glimmer in the trees and noticed a car parked near the summerhouse. A chauffeur was leaning against the bonnet, but it wasn’t Giuseppe or either of the Marchesa’s drivers.

Clementina stood up and leaned towards the window to see what had captured Rosa’s attention. The French doors of the summerhouse suddenly flew open and a woman in a moss green suit and a silk turban rushed out. Rosa thought it was the Marchesa but then realised the woman was older. The Marchesa and Vittorio also emerged from the summerhouse and the three became engaged in a lively conversation. The stranger shrugged her shoulders and threw her hands in the air.

‘That’s my grandmother,’ said Clementina. ‘She visits once a year.’

‘Oh,’ said Rosa, taken aback. ‘Would you like to greet her?’

Clementina shook her head. ‘Babbo doesn’t allow it.’

Rosa saw the chauffeur open the car door for Clementina’s grandmother. Why would the Marchese forbid his daughter from seeing her? Rosa watched the black saloon emerge from the trees and head down the driveway. The car was surrounded by a gloomy presence. That’s the shadow, Rosa thought. That woman has something to do with the darkness I saw around the Marchese. But why him and no-one else?

That evening, the Marchese and his wife had guests for dinner, so Clementina and Rosa ate a supper of rosemary pancakes and rice pudding torte together in Clementina’s room. Rosa was charmed by her young charge’s cheerful chatter about her recent trip to Egypt and France, and the lilies, honeysuckle and hydrangeas that would soon be planted in the garden borders in honour of her ninth birthday.

‘Babbo has promised me a pony,’ Clementina said. ‘You can ride her any time you wish, Signorina Bellocchi.’

‘Thank you,’ Rosa laughed. She thought her charge was as bright as a sunbeam.

Clementina’s room was yellow-themed with frescoes on the walls of chickens and roosters, palm trees and a giant sun. On a shelf that ran the length of one wall was a display of miniature theatre sets replicating scenes from famous operas. Rosa had never been to the opera but she could guess from the pieces of music she’d studied that the set with the pyramid was a scene from
Aida;
that the Paris street scene was from
La Bohéme;
and that the grand staircase was from
Eugene Onegin.
She admired the detail of the houses and the miniature furniture.

‘My aunt made them,’ Clementina said.

One of the sets wasn’t from an opera that Rosa could recognise and yet it seemed familiar. Then she realised that she was looking at a replica of the Villa Scarfiotti. The house was as imposing in miniature as it was in real life. The grounds included the woods and even the cemetery. Rosa saw that the graves had been accurately depicted, except the tomb with the tall surround and statue. That had not been included.

‘Where does your aunt live?’ Rosa asked Clementina. ‘She’s a talented artist.’

The girl bit her lip and shrugged. ‘She died before I was born.’

Rosa sensed from the way Clementina averted her eyes that it was not a subject she should pursue.
Buona notte, mia cara sorella.
The grave with the surround must belong to Clementina’s aunt. That’s why it wasn’t included in the replica.

‘Come, let’s get you into your nightdress,’ Rosa said.

The Marchese had instructed Rosa to have Clementina asleep by eight o’clock. After listening to the girl’s prayers and tucking her into bed, Rosa returned to her own room. While she undressed and brushed her hair she thought about the strange atmosphere at the villa and the increased intensity of her visions, the shadow around the Marchese, and the oddness of his wife and Vittorio. Maybe there is some sinister force at work here, she thought, climbing into bed. Then she remembered Ada’s advice—
Keep to your work and mind your own business
—
that’s how I’ve managed here
—and decided she would do her utmost to follow it. But when she laid her head on the pillow and pulled the covers over her, her eyes closing with drowsiness, a deeper intuition told her that she was being drawn into something over whose outcome she had little control.

T
he following Wednesday Giuseppe drove Rosa and Clementina into Florence. The branch of Piccole Italiane that Clementina belonged to met near the Piazza della Repubblica. The seriousness of Clementina’s uniform—a white blouse and black pleated skirt worn with long socks and a beret—matched the expression on her face.

‘The boys’ club is much better,’ Clementina confided in Rosa. ‘They do rowing and cycling. We have to do dumb rhythm dancing and embroidery.’

Giuseppe pulled the car up in front of a gymnasium. Strung across the front of it was a banner that read:
The Piccole Italiane follow the orders of Il Duce for the cause of the Fascist Revolution.

Rosa accompanied Clementina inside. Rows of girls were performing star jumps and sit-ups. Others danced around a pole or exercised with hoops. Some older girls passed a doll wrapped like a baby to each other. ‘Support his head, don’t let it droop,’ their instructress told them. ‘Il Duce needs you to produce good soldiers.’

‘That’s my group,’ said Clementina, pointing to a cluster of girls the same age as herself. A woman with slicked-back hair was calling out a roll. The hard look in her eyes reminded Rosa of Signora Guerrini.

‘You’d better hurry,’ Rosa said, nudging Clementina.

She watched the girl take her place with the others and was seized by an impulse to snatch her back again. What sort of mother would entrust her child to these zealots? Their regimental discipline would destroy Clementina’s spirit.

The woman with the severe hair finished the roll and flicked her wrists, indicating that the girls were to sing. Rosa recognised the
Giovinezza,
its original lyrics adapted by Mussolini to glorify war. She watched the girls with their baby faces and innocent eyes singing without understanding the implications of the words. I have to get Clementina out of here, she thought. Then she noticed that Clementina was singing the loudest of all, stretching her mouth to enunciate every word with uninhibited enthusiasm. It’s the influence of that fanatical mother and uncle of hers, thought Rosa. It’s not her fault.

But then she realised that Clementina’s voice was shrill, not at all the lovely sound Rosa had heard when she accompanied her on the piano during their music lessons together. Clementina turned and winked at Rosa, and Rosa had to suppress a smile when she realised the girl was making fun of the anthem. Perhaps Clementina’s spirit was not in any danger, after all.

The address of the instrument repairer the Marchese had given Rosa was in Via Tornabuoni. Giuseppe drove her to the top end of the street.

‘I’ll wait for you here,’ he said, pulling into a side street. Other chauffeurs had gathered there, leaning on their employers’ Bugattis and Alfa Romeos while talking and smoking with each other. ‘We don’t have to pick up Signorina Scarfiotti for another three hours.’

Via Tornabuoni was bordered by Renaissance palaces, the ground floors of which housed jewellers, perfumeries, florists and stores selling silks and tapestries. Rosa understood why the Marchese could not allow a representative of the Villa Scarfiotti to walk around Florence in shabby clothes. She was pleased with the new dress that had been made for her, and relished the softness of
the jersey against her skin and the way the neckline sat loosely on her collarbone. It was a far cry from the scratchy dresses with Peter Pan collars she had brought with her from the convent. She was still wearing her old hat and shoes, but the Marchese had given her the address of a milliner and a shoemaker to purchase new items. He was paying for everything.

Rosa was amazed to see English signs everywhere: doctors, dentists, chemists, banks. Giuseppe had said that walking down Via Tornabuoni was like being in London and now she could see what he had meant. There were shops selling mackintoshes, croquet sets and tweeds. She passed an English-language bookshop and a tea-house with scones and seedcake on the menu. She admired the ladies’ crinoline hats and the men’s grey flannel suits and Oxford shoes and the way the patrons sipped their tea as if they had all day to do so. Even the cocker spaniels and beagles lying at their masters’ feet looked relaxed. Rosa glanced at the T-bar straps on the shoes of a young woman reading the newspaper and savouring a glass of tomato juice. How beautiful those shoes were compared to Rosa’s heavy clogs.

She noticed a shoe store across the way. It wasn’t the one the Marchese had written down for her, but she couldn’t resist inspecting it. She saw a forlorn-looking monkey sitting in the store window, then blinked and realised there wasn’t a monkey there at all, only a pair of shoes made from black suede and monkey fur. Next to them was a pair of evening slippers finished in green silk with mother-of-pearl buckles, and on the shelf below was a pair of ankle boots fashioned from leopard fur and leather. Something moved behind the glass and Rosa stepped back, terrified she might find herself face to face with a big cat from the jungle. But it was only a man with a pencil moustache. He glared at her and made a shooing gesture with his hands. Rosa blushed, wondering what she had done to offend him. But she forgot the sales clerk when she caught sight of a woman wearing a satin bolero jacket and a hat sprouting crimson plumes entering the store. She was holding the diamond-encrusted leash of a poodle dyed the same colour as the
feathers in her hat. The flamboyant Florentine woman left the conservative English women in her wake. A few minutes later, a woman came out of the store wearing a magenta suit with eyes embroidered over it. Her platform shoes were five inches high.

If only Suor Maddalena could see this, thought Rosa. I wonder what she would she say? Rosa had not received any word from the convent about Suor Maddalena’s health. The Marchese had informed Rosa that she was to have one weekday off a month, with the first one due after three months of service. That left her with only Sundays free, when it was impossible to visit the convent. She would have no choice but to wait until the Badessa or Suor Maddalena herself sent some news.

She watched another client step out of her chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce. The woman wore a black rayon suit, and the Pomeranian that pattered along by her feet was fitted with a sequined cape. Compared to the previous two women, her outfit was conservative, but when the woman turned to enter the shop Rosa saw that the back of the woman’s suit was embroidered to look like the X-ray of a skeleton.

‘No servant girls,’ said the sales clerk, striding out of the store and waving his hands at Rosa. ‘Don’t you have something to do?’

Rosa moved away. She was too amazed by what she had seen to worry about asserting her right to stand on a public street. The realisation that she was no longer in the sheltered community of the convent or even the confines of the villa suddenly hit her. I am out in the world, she thought. She turned and came face to face with a street sweeper who had witnessed the sales clerk’s rebuff.

‘They say that Mussolini will ban newspapers from printing pictures of those skinny-hipped whores and their dogs,’ he whispered. ‘It is an affront to Italian motherhood!’

Was the whole of Florence like this, Rosa wondered. From one extreme to the other?

The haughtiness of the sales clerk led her to think of the Marchesa, who she had seen only twice since the fateful lunch. The
woman displayed no interest in Clementina, and from the way she looked through Rosa it seemed that she had no interest in ‘little people’ either.

Further along the street, Rosa found herself outside a clockmaker’s shop. She was dazzled by the dozens of faces all telling the same time. There were marble carriage clocks, brass cuckoo clocks and longcase clocks. Some of the clocks were shaped like hot air balloons while others were shaped like banjos or lanterns. There were statues of angels and Roman soldiers with clock faces embedded in their stomachs. Rosa’s gaze settled on a clock in the shape of a swan and she noticed what time it showed. One hour had already slipped away! She would have to hurry if she was to complete all her errands.

The millinery shop that the Marchese had recommended was called Signora Lucchesi’s. It was not as prestigious as those further up on Via Tornabuoni but the display of satin berets, pillbox hats, cocktail hats, skullcaps and tulle bridesmaids’ hats seemed luxurious to Rosa. The store was stocked for spring and the hat displays resembled bouquets of tulips, sunflowers, hyacinths and peach blossoms. Rosa’s eye fell on a flamingo pink hat with clusters of silk roses on the brim. It was the most beautiful hat she had ever seen. She brushed her fingertip over the fabric and felt a sea breeze kiss her face.

‘Buon giorno, Signorina.
It’s parabuntal, a fine straw made from the leaves of a palm tree.’

Rosa turned to see a shopgirl in a tailored black dress approaching her. The girl had porcelain skin and glossy hair. She was smiling but her expression changed when she laid eyes on Rosa’s old cloche hat.

‘You are the governess from the Villa Scarfiotti, yes?’ the shopgirl said, lifting her chin. ‘The Marchesa’s housekeeper telephoned to say you were coming. This way, please.’

The shopgirl did not touch Rosa but steered her past the satin and organza creations using nothing more than her erect head and stiff manner. She opened a curtain at the back of the shop and
ushered Rosa into a chair. The booth was full of boxes and unused hat trees. Rosa didn’t think it could be where the shop’s clientele usually tried on their hats; it was too dark. The shopgirl whipped off Rosa’s hat and tossed it into a basket of material scraps and loose threads before Rosa had time to protest. She then lifted a box from a shelf and took out a slouch hat. ‘Here,’ she said, dropping the hat onto Rosa’s head and holding up a mirror.

The hat was black felt with no ribbons or adornments. It was finer quality than the hat Rosa had been wearing and she would have thought it very becoming if she hadn’t seen the other headwear in the store. She lifted her chin to get a better look at herself in the mirror and the hat slipped.

‘It’s too big,’ she said.

The shopgirl sighed and grabbed a tape measure from her pocket and wrapped it around Rosa’s head. ‘I will get one of the apprentices to narrow the band for you,’ she said. ‘Wait here.’

Rosa wondered how long the resizing would take. She still had to visit the shoe store and music repair shop. She noticed a gap in the curtains next to her and peered into a room with burgundy wallpaper, scrolled mirrors and two armchairs. A woman was there in a dress with a ruffled collar that emphasised her enormous bosom. She held a cluster of wax cherries to the brim of a floppy sunhat perched on a block, before trying some silk flowers. She sighed, obviously having a hard time deciding between the two. She turned and caught sight of Rosa spying on her.

‘Ah!’ she said, placing her hand on her hip. ‘Our governess from the Villa Scarfiotti. How generous of the Marchese to send you to us.’

Rosa guessed the woman must be the shop owner, Signora Lucchesi. But her angry tone made Rosa wary. What had she done to provoke such a reaction?

‘The Old Marchese thought I was good enough to dress the heads of all the women of the Scarfiotti family,’ Signora Lucchesi said, her eyes narrowing like a cat about to scratch. ‘Not so the
Marchesa Milanese.
Only Paris will do for her. She doesn’t approve
of our Tuscan ways. That’s why she took that beautiful villa and turned the interior into some hideous statement of modern art.’

Rosa’s brain ticked. Signora Lucchesi was talking about the Marchesa Scarfiotti. So she was originally from Milan?

‘She does strut her title,’ said the shopgirl, returning to take another measurement of Rosa’s head. ‘They say her mother is an Egyptian princess.’

‘I don’t know anything about her mother,’ replied Signora Lucchesi. ‘But my husband tells me that her father, Generale Caleffi, was charming and brilliant.’

A milliner walked into the room carrying a natural straw hat with velvet ribbon woven through it. It seemed she was intending to show it to Signora Lucchesi but became caught up in the conversation. ‘I heard that the Marchesa is covered in make-up like a…well, you know what.’

‘It’s probably to hide the wrinkles,’ laughed Signora Lucchesi, who had a few of her own. ‘She’s probably older than she says.’

The milliner put the hat down and leaned against one of the chairs. ‘The Marchese must have been very much in love—’

‘Until they married?’ Signora Lucchesi finished her sentence. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I heard from a reliable source that they dismissed their latest nursemaid for the same reason all the others were packed off home. The Marchesa took her daughter away with her to avoid a scandal.’

Rosa was embarrassed to be listening to the gossip even though she wasn’t contributing to it. She didn’t like the Marchesa but the woman was still her mistress. Rosa realised that she had been sitting on her hands and they had gone to sleep. She shook her palms in front of her, trying to rid herself of the painful pins and needles and at the same time separate herself from the conversation.

‘Surely not?’ sniggered the milliner. ‘Not someone so below his station?’

‘What’s wrong with the man? He’s a dish and he’s rich. He could have any woman he wants,’ said the shopgirl, before
disappearing into the workroom again. Rosa wished whoever was adjusting her hat would hurry.

The milliner sent her a glance. ‘Perhaps the Marchesa is too demanding? And I have heard that she has lovers of her own.’

It was an invitation for Rosa to join in the gossip. But apart from the fact she had nothing to add, she liked her position and wanted to keep it. What if word got back to the Marchesa about what these women were saying and that Rosa had been involved?

‘You know, it is very strange,’ said Signora Lucchesi. ‘I knew the Marchese as a boy. He was so jealous. He’d break your fingers if you even so much as touched one of his toys. I saw him slap his sister once…and he adored her. Yet he turns a blind eye to his wife’s dalliances.’

The shopgirl returned and thrust the adjusted hat onto Rosa’s head. ‘There, perfect,’ she said.

The band cut into Rosa’s forehead. She felt as though her scalp was being squeezed into a jar. ‘It’s tight,’ she told the girl.