I wrote a couple different openings for my sequel to "The Portrait of a Lady." I lost the notebook with the first one but didn't mind because I knew I could do better. Earlier this week I found the missing notebook and decided to post the original first chapter. I'm sticking with the second version: this one sounds a little Danielle Steel(ish), not that I'm knocking her, I've enjoyed quite a few of her books. But she's no Henry James.
ISABEL RETURNS
Isabel Osmond returning to Italy on a wet, wintry day, after traveling through the night in a car that could have been warmer, could have moved faster, could have been more resplendent in any number of ways, but were largely unnoticed, her thoughts elsewhere. Mrs. Osmond was returning home after a month in England, her return to the Palazzo Roccanera would correspond to the anniversary of her marriage, five year to the day, her marriage she now knew a sham. She needed no reminder; had thought of nothing else for the past month since learning things she should have discerned, might have learned, but was obtuse, a word her husband used in reprimanding her, when he wanted to show his disdain for her simple equations. She marveled at her gullibility, but nevertheless, married she was and that is where her journey would set her down.
Her beloved cousin Ralph was now buried and for him she would grieve. She also learned what he’d done for her. And he understood how his gift had harmed her, indeed, knew it all along. She could only blush for shame at her naiveté, that she, Isabel Archer was so intelligent, so moral, so high-minded she need not heed the warning of those most concerned for her welfare. No, she will have the distinction of having deliberately planned a life--a union that was to fall so short of her measurements. That the man, Gilbert Osmond married her for her money, was not the worst thing in the world, it’s often done, but her husband was set up by his former mistress to marry a fortune.
How low Isabel felt riding the train through the night over a cold distant Europe who did not play fair, did not give Isabel Archer her due but took from her much more than money: She would never again possess her innocence or her trustful nature but perhaps at the age of twenty-seven it was just as well. Look where it had gotten her?
Isabel telegraphed her impending arrival to her husband who made no response. Isabel scarcely knew what would be awaiting her return. Her husband did not take disobedience lightly, and Isabel had greatly vexed her him by traveling to England to see her cousin as he lay dying. Isabel wrote of Ralph’s death but received not a word from the Palazzo Roccanera. Osmond felt Isabel made her choice and now she would live with it--he would be certain, could be depended upon to sink the blade of his rancor into her psyche.
Osmond married her for her money and now disliked entirely what or who was Isabel herself in inverse proportion to how much he cherished his newly acquired power. That he couldn’t control his wife was a bitter pill, but she knew his secret now, his wretched sister had betrayed him, and he knew not where this knowledge would lead. His wife knew that he, the great idealist, independent, detached from those shabby motives that drive other men, had in fact done something so shallow as to seek monetary gain for himself, he who had for years denounced all that came with position, possession and power, succumbed to the disorderly base action of marrying a woman who not only controlled the purse strings but would if Osmond wasn’t careful, control him, a thought too bilious to countenance.
“Dreadful woman!” he spat. She exasperated him. He had no patience with her ideas and most especially her friends. Now that her odious cousin actually had the decency to expire after threatening it for years, Osmond would be put in the position of feigning sympathy or forgiveness, neither of which he had the least stomach for. He would neither forget nor forgive his wife. She must pay and be made to kneel, only this would suffice.
Osmond had an idea just how much she would pay: he had discovered an early sixteenth-century altarpiece that he believed was painted by Giotto and would soon be put on the market if he didn’t come up with the required sum, costly of course, but for which his estranged wife would gladly disburse hard currency to win his favor. Gilbert could be merciless and his wife would not be allowed in from the cold until the altarpiece was prominently displayed in the main salon of the Palazzo Roccanera.
Isabel arrived in Rome with the early dawn and quickly found a carriage to take her to the Palazzo Roccanera. She braced herself for what would take place. Her husband’s anger was a formidable challenge and after a month, she knew not how they would greet each other. She could never quite tell what form his animosity would take. It could roil on the surface of his personality or simmer on a back burner ready to scorch at the slightest change of temperament. She was cold and tired and needed to rest before facing her husband.
But Mrs. Osmond had learned the truth and that truth would free her. How she would use her new freedom would be subject to many variables not the least of which was her stepdaughter’s wishes. She had returned to save Pansy. It would be one way to redeem her shattered self-image. Her life, she felt, was a shambles. She entered her rooms and fell into her ornately carved bed murmuring, “Oh, to sleep once again, to have again what I have lost...”
After a night a heavy dreaming, she awoke to find the sun streaming into her room. It took her a moment to remember where she was. Oh yes, she thought, here, and she found she was glad to be home, back in Rome. Her maid entered and asked if she would like breakfast in bed. “No, I must dress and see my husband. Please send a note letting him know I’m back and will see him in one hour,” she ordered. She then prepared to steady her nerves because no matter what transpired between them, she would not be taking the compliant road ever again. That would be the obdurate beginning of Isabel’s next chapter--it was a start. Then she would seek out her stepdaughter and begin anew.
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