Tuscan Rose (7 page)

‘It will stretch.’

The shopgirl urged Rosa out of the booth. ‘Never cross a milliner,’ she told her. ‘They are intimate with your head. It’s like being unfaithful to your husband.’

Rosa could see that from the vehemency of the gossip about the Scarfiotti family.

‘You’re from a convent, aren’t you?’ the shopgirl asked.

Rosa wondered where she’d obtained her information. Then she remembered Signora Guerrini had called to say she would be coming.

The shopgirl directed Rosa to the door. ‘Their last nursemaid was a pretty French girl. I guess after the scandal they wanted someone more…plain.’

Plain? It was probably a vengeful comment for not participating in the gossip, but it stung Rosa all the same. It reminded her of how the paying students at the convent used to refer to her as ‘No Name’ when out of earshot of the nuns. Rosa glanced at the flamingo pink hat on the stand when she passed by. One day I am
going to wear a hat as beautiful as that one, she told herself. And I’ll show that girl that I’m not plain.

Out on Via Tornabuoni again, Rosa caught her breath. She was going to have to hurry to buy new shoes and drop off her flute to be repaired. She couldn’t imagine the Marchese being sympathetic if she didn’t manage to finish her errands, especially as they were all for her. But she couldn’t help looking at the beautiful things in the windows. Not the furs and leathers—they disgusted her because she was aware of the suffering that was the source of them—but she fell in love with some tourmaline filigree earrings in the jeweller’s window, and the etched vases and Raffaellesco ceramics in the glassware shop. She understood why the nuns of Santo Spirito rarely ventured from the convent and never looked at themselves in mirrors. There was too much vanity everywhere. And now she was caught up in it. ‘Plain’ would have been considered a virtue by Suor Maddalena, but the idea of being nothing special bit Rosa to the core. She stopped for a moment to admire a glass-topped table in the window of a shop called Parigi’s Antiques and Fine Furniture, then, seeing the smooth opaline vase next to it, could not resist the temptation to venture inside.

The shop was attractively laid out with tapestries and etchings on the walls. The armoires were polished to a high shine and the armchairs and sofas were accented with silk cushions. An arrangement of Murano glassware drew Rosa’s eye to a chestnut table with turned legs in the centre of the store. She inhaled, breathing in the rich mix of scents: beeswax, wood, incense, linen and coffee. There wasn’t a hint of dust in the air, which she thought unusual. The furniture and carpets at the convent always smelled musty.

The elegantly dressed sales clerk was talking to a woman with a florid complexion and her stooped husband. The clerk was tall with a high-domed forehead and the deep-set blue eyes of a northern Italian. Rosa admired his dove grey suit and the white gardenia in his buttonhole. He glanced in her direction and nodded. ‘I will be with you in a moment, signorina.’

He turned back to his customers. ‘You must consider these chairs for your reception room. They will complete the feeling we have been working towards.’ His voice had a calm, persuasive tone that was charming and definite. Rosa tried to guess his accent. Venetian? And his age? She put it somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. The pieces he referred to were a pair of upholstered rectangular seats with swan-shaped armrests and outward-scrolling feet.

The male customer blinked behind his spectacles and grudgingly touched the chairs. ‘They are very fine, Signor Parigi, but…’

Rosa realised her mistake. The elegant man was not a sales clerk but the owner of the store. He was young to have such a sophisticated establishment, she thought.

‘They are unique,’ said Signor Parigi, crossing his arms.

The woman sniffed and peered at the chairs. ‘We are looking for something more…modern.’

‘But that’s the trick,’ replied Signor Parigi. ‘To place something worth talking about in a room that is otherwise stripped to the essentials.’

The man shook his head. ‘We don’t see the point of investing in old furniture when we have purposely sought out the latest materials.’

Signor Parigi’s mouth tightened but his manner remained courteous. ‘Then come this way,’ he said, directing the couple towards a pair of leather armchairs.

Rosa sensed his irritation. Compared to his clients, he exuded style. His suit jacket sat perfectly on his shoulders with a hint of shirt showing beneath the sleeve cuffs, while his client’s suit, although made of fine wool, was slouchy and his sleeves hung to his knuckles. The woman had pulled up her hair under her hat in a way that did nothing to flatter her face and emphasised the pouches under her eyes.

Rosa couldn’t resist looking at the upholstered chairs Signor Parigi had been keen to persuade the couple to purchase. She
admired the dark grain of the wood and ran her fingers over the swan necks. A vibration buzzed through her hand. She saw a tropical forest running down to the sea. Colourful parrots squawked in the trees. The sound of wood being chopped rang in the air. She heard someone singing in a language that sounded similar to her own but not quite. A sweet fragrance tickled her nostrils. It was as if she were flipping over the pages of the past. A bearded man in an imperial uniform appeared on one of the chairs. On the other chair sat a young woman with melancholic eyes and sloping shoulders. Rosa shivered. She had seen animals before but never people. Who were they? The man pressed his hand on top of the young woman’s. ‘I leave you free to choose, but to refuse will bring misfortune upon our family and country,’ he said.

The pair faded. Rosa’s heart pounded in her chest. Her head felt as if it might burst. ‘This rosewood came from a forest in Brazil,’ she said aloud. ‘The tree was over two hundred years old when it was felled and had been home to many birds. The chairs were fashioned by a furniture maker in Sardinia who loved nothing more than the fragrance of cut wood, the oily texture of it under his fingers, and to sing while he worked. They are the very chairs in which Victor Emmanuel sat with his beloved daughter Maria Clotilde in 1858 when he told her that she must marry the repulsive Prince Napoleon to secure the future of Italy. The chairs were sold to a merchant when the king’s private quarters were redecorated after the Risorgimento.’

The couple and Signor Parigi turned to Rosa and stared. She half-expected them to accuse her of witchcraft or trickery or at least to hustle her out of the store. Instead, the woman’s eyes filled with tears. She rushed back to take another look at the chairs. It seemed as though she were imagining every word and gesture of that awful conversation between a daughter whose happiness was about to be sacrificed and the father who would go on to be the first king of a united Italy.

‘Agostino,’ the woman said to her husband, ‘perhaps Signor Parigi is correct. These chairs would make an interesting statement.’

Her husband joined her, a greedy look flickering in his eyes. ‘Why didn’t you ask your assistant to explain their history sooner?’ he said to Signor Parigi. Rosa wondered if he was considering how much the chairs would impress his friends and acquaintances.

The couple’s new enthusiasm had manifested itself so unexpectedly that Signor Parigi took a moment to collect himself.

‘Of course I am right,’ he said, with a smile and a wink to Rosa. ‘Look at the berried cresting and the charming glaze on the swan heads.’

‘We must take these chairs immediately,’ the man said.

‘Certainly. Please, come this way and we will make the arrangements,’ Signor Parigi said, ushering the couple towards his office at the rear of the shop.

He returned to Rosa, reached into his pocket and slipped some notes into her hand. She was too surprised to refuse them.

‘Are you looking for work?’ he asked, his eyes sweeping over her face. ‘You dated that furniture accurately. How did you become so knowledgeable? You don’t look a day over fifteen.’

He stood so close that Rosa could admire his fine skin and high cheekbones. She could even smell the lemony scent of his cologne. She was glad for her new dress and hat. She hoped he wouldn’t look down at her clogs.

‘No,’ she said.

Signor Parigi smiled. ‘No, you aren’t looking for work? Or no, you aren’t a day over fifteen? Which is it? If you are looking for work, I’ll hire you on the spot. You’re a charming saleswoman.’

Rosa blushed. She felt an unfamiliar tingle in her stomach. She’d never been so close to a man before, and certainly not one as attractive as Signor Parigi.

‘I have a job,’ she told him, realising that he thought she had made the story up. ‘I must go now. I’m late.’

Signor Parigi looked puzzled. Rosa guessed he was wondering what she was doing in his shop if she wasn’t after a job, and would have asked her if he wasn’t so keen to get back to his clients before they changed their minds about the chairs. He cocked his eyebrow
and smiled at her with his perfect teeth. ‘Well, just come back then,’ he said. ‘You don’t need a reason. I like people who know their furniture.’

Rosa’s face turned hot and she couldn’t make herself meet his eyes. She found it easier to back towards the door. When she reached it, she finally lifted her gaze to Signor Parigi and saw that he was looking at her with an amused expression on his face.

‘I’m not fifteen,’ she told him. ‘I’m fifteen and a half.’

With that, she ran back onto the street. Dallying had cost her precious time. She decided to go to the shoe store next, then drop into the music repair shop on her way back to Giuseppe and the car.

The shoe store the Marchese had selected was a sombre affair compared to the shops she had seen on Via Tornabuoni. The shoes were stacked on floor-to-ceiling shelves and the only colours available were brown, black and navy. It was obviously a place where servants were outfitted.

The sales clerk was the same age as Rosa and as thin as a string bean. He measured her feet with care and traced their outlines. His friendly manner put her at ease.

‘What beautiful feet you have,’ he said. ‘Perfect dimensions. The second toe is longer than the first, the sign of an independent female.’

Rosa grinned. The nuns at the convent used to say that it was the sign of an aristocratic heritage. But Rosa knew it was merely hereditary. When she was younger she used to think she would recognise her mother by her longer second toe. The idea amused her now.

The sales clerk lifted some boxes from the shelves and selected shoes in black and navy.

‘Is it possible to have something that’s not leather or suede?’ Rosa asked, dreading seeing some poor creature running around her room each time she took off her shoes. ‘It irritates my skin.’

‘Of course,’ said the sales clerk. ‘I’ll check what we have in the storeroom.’

He disappeared for a few moments before returning with a pair of shoes made of satin with rubber soles. An embroidered strap crossed the top of the foot. They were much prettier than the standard shoes in the boxes. Rosa caught sight of the price tag. They were more expensive too.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said the sales clerk. ‘The Villa Scarfiotti sends all their staff here to be outfitted. We can make a generous discount for you.’

Rosa tried on the shoes. They fitted perfectly and were more comfortable than her clogs. She paraded around the room. The shoes were so light she thought she could dance in them, if she knew how to dance.

‘You don’t think the Marchese Scarfiotti will be displeased that I haven’t bought standard shoes?’

‘The Marchese doesn’t have to wear the shoes. You do,’ replied the sales clerk, his face breaking into a grin.

His cheekiness was contagious and Rosa couldn’t help smiling too.

Rosa reached the music store on Via Tornabuoni with only a quarter of an hour to spare before she had to return to Giuseppe. She was disappointed she had lingered so long at the other places because the music store enchanted her. It reeked of dust, wood varnish, mildew and old brass. Her new shoes padded on the scuffed wooden floor as she wandered between the display cases, first studying a rare Stradivarius violin before spotting a Spanish guitar with the sun painted around the sound hole. She stopped to admire a mandolin inlaid with opals and noticed there was a gilded harp in the corner of the store. She was heading towards it when she saw something move in the corner of her eye. A grey-striped cat was sitting on a wonky bookshelf. Rosa blinked in case it was another illusion but the cat yawned and curled up to sleep.

It’s a real cat, she thought with a smile.

‘Desidera, signorina?’

Rosa saw an old man standing in a doorway at the rear of the shop, behind the counter. She caught a glimpse of a younger man in an apron sitting in a workshop behind him. He was replacing cork on a clarinet.

‘The sales clerk has gone home,’ said the old man, stroking his walrus moustache. ‘Only the repair shop is open now.’

‘I have come to have my flute fixed,’ said Rosa, placing her case on the counter and opening it.

‘Ah, then I will introduce myself,’ said the old man. ‘I am Ernesto Morelli. I oversee the repairs in the shop.’

He hobbled towards Rosa and picked up the headpiece to examine the dent.

‘It shouldn’t be too difficult to fix,’ Signor Morelli said, looking over the top of his glasses at Rosa. ‘We will need two days. Can you come back on Friday afternoon?’

Rosa had not been without her flute since the nuns had given it to her when she was seven years old. She would miss it, although she had not dared to play it at the villa yet for fear of inducing one of the Marchesa’s migraines.

‘I can’t come back until next week,’ she replied.

‘My assistant will deliver it to you then,’ said Signor Morelli, indicating the man in the workshop. He opened a drawer in the counter and took out a notebook. ‘Where do you live?’

‘The Marchese Scarfiotti sent me here,’ Rosa told him. ‘I’m the governess at his villa in Fiesole. Is that too far to come?’

A change passed over Signor Morelli’s face. Rosa saw the assistant in the workshop put down the clarinet and begin polishing a French horn. She was sure he was listening. After a moment’s hesitation, Signor Morelli said, ‘I know the villa very well. Have you seen the Bösendorfer piano in the music room?’