Isabel and Pansy in Friendship

Chapter IV

Isabel and Pansy were once again united in their shared love for a walk in the Campagna, neither deterred by the overcast sky or the lack of interesting people. Osmond, who joined them on rare occasions complained, One tends to run into every shabby European at this time of year, and would pace about with an absent air in a diffident attitude. Isabel and Pansy looked upon their fellow-humans as a study in tolerance, a tableau to be regarded as education. When Osmond wasn’t in their company, Isabel would tell Pansy things her friend Henrietta Stackpole said: We are all of the same cloth and should take an intense interest in each other’s weave. Miss Henrietta Stackpole, a journalist had a deep curiosity about her fellow-species and could be rigorous in her inquiries. She never tired of them nor took a superior attitude unless it was a superior attitude she wished to admonish.

Isabel found herself thinking of Henrietta more often than she ever had. One might say with our heroine’s new independence, Henrietta Stackpole now figured once again. Mr. Bantling had long been Henrietta’s entourage, eventually they would have to settle. Isabel had no word from her friend since her cousin’s funeral, she did not know if she had married. She was curiously without curiosity and she wondered if that is the first aspect of a personality to go when corruption sets in. Isabel knew herself corrupted. She could not explain this, if she was forced to, but her allegiances were battered and she would lie awake most nights thinking about what she could do to recover herself but came up with no answer except that she had lost her once high regard of herself and tended toward self-absorption. This she knew was dangerous and wished she had more activity to take her out of herself.

“It’s nice to walk alone, isn’t it Mother?” So lightly did Pansy address the woman who was not her mother but whom she would prefer to call Mother.
“It is nice. We shall be very much alone I fear, we shall not see anyone out in such weather. There was a steady drizzle of rain, co-mingled with a gusty wind and the air was sharp for Rome. Discarded paper blew about their feet before shifting off into the horizon and Isabel and Pansy held each other’s arm and sought warmth within velvet capes that covered them fully. Isabel’s was dark azure, a color Madame Merle often wore and Isabel emulated before she had acquired a personal confidence in her clothing. Her husband had once said, Please do not feel you need to copy Madame Merle’s dress; she is not so glorious with her blues. Isabel remembered being afraid for a moment. She was on instant alert to Osmond’s mode of address, changing with the day. If Isabel annoyed him, and the wrong cape could do just that, he was glib with venomous irritation, such was his sense of aesthetic violation over small matters. After that, she was careful with her apparel and took to asking the opinion of her dressmaker more than previously. She stopped trusting her instincts; her husband saw to that. It was one more piece of confusion rattling around in her brain during the long nights, spent alone with her dismay. But that uncertainty was now in the past. She no longer cared what her husband thought of her appearance or attire and conversely, he no longer seemed to care about it either.

“Is Papa going to the little church tomorrow?” He said he would take me if the weather were nice. Do you think it will be?”
“I think I would not count on the weather. It seems to be getting worse and I think you will find your Papa will make an early departure without you--we will have to find something to occupy you, something equally nice. What might that be?”
“Oh, nothing is as nice as a ride in the carriage with Papa, oh…I mean, with you also Mother.”
“It is perfectly fine to love your father’s company for yourself, dear. Do not worry about my feelings, you need not detract or edit your words for my benefit.”
“Thank you Mother, but I am just as happy with you.”
The two walked to the end of a stony pathway and turned back looking forward to refreshment in the new tea room that had opened that summer. Pansy enjoyed watching the tea being made and cherished the time sitting in the elegant little room with the aromatic bouquet permeating the atmosphere.
“I would love to work here, making so many varieties of tea and serving it in such beautiful little pots,” she said after their first visit. Isabel laughed at her and said it was doubtful her father would ever approve but that she understood; it was a wonderful ambiance with ever so many interesting people, out in any weather.

As they were about to enter, their eyes sparkling with the brisk walk, their expectation of the warmth of the shop, the door opened from the inside and Isabel was face to face with Edward Rosier. With Pansy immediately behind her, she reached for her arm, preferring to keep him from her vision but they were far too close for evasion.
“Mrs. Osmond, Miss Osmond. How do you do, out on such a beastly day.”
“Mr. Rosier. You see my daughter and I find our entertainment despite the damp.” She had no desire to converse in the doorway and bade Pansy to move forward as one of the two owners greeted them affectionately offering the most desired seat. They wasted no time following her. It was a deliberate snub to Mr. Rosier, finely tuned to Osmond’s frequency, Isabel again recognizing the extent of her altered state.

Mr. Rosier buttoning his coat, adjusting his scarf retreated, his head high, his nostrils flared with the briefest hint of pomposity. Isabel immediately understood his reluctance to stop for conversation: he had a young lady with him she did not recognize, possibly French, younger than Pansy. Pansy showed not a flicker of discord and immediately took up the tea menu, making no mention of Mr. Rosier at all. It was as if she had never heard of him before. This gave Isabel pause. Could her stepdaughter have cut off her feelings so completely and if so, were they so vivid in the first place? She would have liked to know but she was reluctant to ask or bring up past hurts to Pansy.

After they were welcomed by the second of the lady owners and they had their tea, Pansy herself brought up the subject: “Don’t you think the lady with Mr. Rosier was lovely, Mother? I do not know when I have ever seen a hat so pretty. She looked like a Christmas ornament, a very precious one.”
“What makes you bring it up, dear?”
“Just that I want you to know you do not have to edit your words for me either. We can speak freely, can’t we? I am not very sophisticated, I know I am not worldly but you can teach me. I need to know more than I do, for social conversation, and to know how to take people. I am fond of Mr. Rosier, I wish always to be but it is not so simple, is it? Papa forbids me to talk to him and so he is now talking to another who looks at him…the way I did. He has found someone else because he is free. I am not free and have to wait until Papa approves of someone. I do not at all know how to act, what to say to young men. I do not wish to encourage them if Papa will not like them, as with Mr. Rosier. On the other hand, I like the young men who approach me and would like to know them better. Mr. Rosier was the only one willing to fight for me and I wish he could have made Papa see him differently. He is good and I believe he loved me.”
“I will be frank and say, dear, that your father did not think him good enough for you because he was not rich enough.”
“Yes, and I said that there is no reason for me to have a rich husband, I am not rich, I am not fashionable, I do not care about dresses or jewelry or opulence. I was raised in a convent.. Why must I have a rich husband? I want a gentle, kind husband.” She blushed at this and Isabel took her hand.
“Oh Pansy. It is so complicated and yet to you are so simple. Have patience, I will advise you. Tell me what’s in your heart, maybe I can help you. Don’t hold back, I will not let you down.”
“Thank you Mother. When I am confused, I will come to you. Can we go quickly? I am to have dinner with Papa. Will you join us?”
“No dear, I have plans tonight. Enjoy your time with your father. Do not mention Mr. Rosier just now. I don’t think he will call.”
“That is too bad. I should like to see him, I should like to meet the pretty lady…where do you think she is from?”
“From her dress, I would say Paris but that is only a guess and you need not concern yourself with her. I hope you are not too disappointed…I should not like that.”
“Don’t worry, Mother, I am at peace. Papa knows best for me, I think, still…”
“Yes, cara mia, still what?”
“Still I would like to have children.” She blushed again, this time putting her little gloved hands to her face.”
“That is a perfectly reasonable desire, my dear. There is no need to be embarrassed.”
“Yes, but first I will have to have a husband and I don’t know when or if Papa will approve of anyone.”
“Don’t worry. We will have a look around and this time, your wishes will prevail. Of that I am certain.”

They left the tea room, the two lady entrepreneurs flush from the heady surroundings and their own goodwill bidding them a safe journey home, sending a valet to find them a hansom in which to depart. Pansy, flush from three cups of tea and her confession let herself be guided into the cab. Isabel, thoughtful from her stepdaughters heartfelt declaration, decided she would have to entertain more, take her to parties and dances again. It was a worthwhile project, something for her to put her mind to, something to dispel the dry tedium of her days now that she was established once again at the Palazzo Roccanera.

Hence, Isabel resumed her active life in Rome and within a fortnight, she opened her door on Thursday evening for the couple’s open house. The Palazzo Roccanera sparkled with a polished sheen that came from the hands of capable servants imported from England on the recommendation from Mrs. Touchett, a wedding gift she said. The palazzo, despite its somber exterior, presented an interior--with its pretension, its local color that can only be described as blood red, the carpets, the upholstery, the gilding, the paintings--illuminated in the newly installed electric lights.

Mrs. Osmond offered a brilliant, yet vacant smile that would have dazzled many men but left Osmond unmoved. He could not be more indifferent to his wife. This she knew subconsciously despite his warmer tone of recent. She still thought he hated her; she believed it but he did not hate her; he loathed her stupidity, to be sure, but he was mostly impassive to her needs. If she would not forsake all to him, he did not want her at all…it was that simple and yet that complex. To Gilbert Osmond, she simply meant a bank in London that allowed him to obtain the things he coveted, admired, required. As for the Palazzo Roccanera, he was indifferent even to that except as a showplace for his trophies. He wanted the world to see his success, envy it, and acknowledge his right to this success. That was his place in the world and he was proud that he did not settle until the almighty settled on him his due. Isabel was his due; he had only what was just. He had purposely forgotten that it was Madame Merle who put this success in his line of vision--he had a way of forgetting matters that did not conform to his vision of himself and having to patronize an old acquaintance was not in Osmond’s repertoire.

In the first years of their marriage, a part of Isabel’s role was appreciating her husband’s taste, his proclivities, his knowledge of her chosen country, his exquisite ideals. She used to do so with an eager response but now it was an acquired mannerism; the expected response, an unspoken agreement. She was not asked much--it was a pantomime publicly and apathy privately. She did not fight with her husband as she once had. He did not pick on her as he once had; her personality that rubbed him so ruefully in the past disappeared and he was able to feel nothing towards her, almost as if she were a au pair for his daughter. She had no taste that interested Osmond. He was glad she could afford the finest gowns, the most brilliant hairstyling. She was regal and that was what he wanted most--a queen by his side. He’d had to conquer her unruly temperament and he was arrogant enough to think that he had.

On the following Thursday after the talk between Mrs. Osmond and Pansy in the tea room, the Osmonds were in attendance for their guests. Isabel did not have social inhibitions. Nothing had changed outwardly; perhaps an astute observer would notice that the couple spoke less to each other. It is an old story on the continent: couples with means can pull off public displays of rapprochement. The evening began with a solid presentation of old nobility; some up, some down. Isabel had much protocol to attend to. She settled them, the old marchese, the nephew, a prince, whose eyes intent on Pansy for a second before returning to a mask-like edifice at his aunt’s grimace of reproval, demanding resolute obedience to the plan--to not give way by showing interest unnecessarily. Pansy neither knew nor seemed to notice the Italian prince. They were not in the same corner of the room and it was quite crowded. Pansy still served the tea in the second drawing room as she always had. But Osmond did not miss the flash of ardor that crossed the Italian’s expression. Though he would not care to marry his daughter to an Italian, he might be persuaded to open his mind. It would not be the worst thing to have your daughter married to a prince even if a younger son to a deposed family.

Osmond gave it scant thought before being deterred by an author whose book Isabel had read and enjoyed. Osmond was often forced to suffer fools though never gladly. It took him no time cutting through the premise of the proud author’s book and Osmond left him sputtering but undaunted. They argued for some time before the author’s wife came in search of her husband and found him quite red in the face, having lost the playful zip he displayed earlier. Osmond was not moved in any way; one would not be able to tell that a confrontation had just taken place; that the author had been not only insulted, but incriminated.
“Your little book manages to bore and blaspheme at once, though the former is the more egregious sin,” said Osmond with remorseless candor.
The author leaving the room in a stew of fury with his wife trailing after him, found their cloaks and made a hasty departure, muttering as they emerged into the night. “It is a pity Mr. Osmond is so odious as Mrs. Osmond is an utterly fascinating and charming woman,” said the baffled author to his wife. They both hoped they would be invited again to such a presentation of glittering festivity.

Mr. Rosier did indeed make an appearance near the evening’s end. He came alone. He greeted Isabel with polite civility, ignored Osmond and in the end spoke only to Pansy after searching for her with no intent toward subtlety. He clearly had something in mind when he approached her and did not bother with a formal greeting.
“I want to say to you that I forgive you,” he said to her in a hushed voice, barely discernible.
“Thank you, Mr. Rosier, but it is not my reasoning. My father forbids me to marry you…or to speak to you.”
“I would like you to know I am engaged to be married. I shall not say anything to your parents…to anyone…but you saw me in the tea room and I thought you must wonder…well there you are…you see your father can no longer matter to me. Tell him so. Tell your stepmother I need nothing from her. I shall not come back but I wanted to see you because you are the truth while everyone else is fraudulent, and I want you to know I was sincere in my words…my intentions. Your father is not lucid.”
“I cannot speak of my father with you.” She turned pale and fussed with the teacups in front of her.
"It's well you shouldn't. I shan't come back and I'll soon be living in Paris. I thought I should see you once before I...well, I wish you all the best, Miss Osmond. You are worth the world, I only wish you could find a way to...well, that is not my business anymore, is it? God bless you, Miss Osmond."

What Mr. Rosier really thought, but did not say, was that her father was quite mad, but he couldn’t utter such a statement to one as delicate as Pansy. That Osmond was diabolical, Edward Rosier was certain of, and his other opinion was that Isabel, once so spontaneous and lively, had turned to stone, a beautiful, collectable stone. They both depressed him and even Pansy did not impress him the way she had. She looked wan and vacant. He bade his farewell, dared not take her hand, and left hurriedly, not wishing to see or speak to the host or his wife. He felt he’d been lucky to get a pass on Osmond and though he had no contemplation of avowed revenge, it would not disturb him unduly if the fates made it so that a little retribution were to take place.

Pansy may have looked pale to her former suitor, but with her stepmother’s return color was restoring itself to her fair complexion. Her mind as well was opening since the day in the tea room they’d agreed to talk freely, to become friends. She felt a new hope.

Isabel began planning on Pansy’s behalf; her real mother had been disabled effectively by Osmond but Isabel would do what Madame Merle had wished all along--to take care of her daughter and do what she could for the young woman’s future. She didn’t do it for Madame Merle or for her husband but for her own redemption. She was not completely absolved…she may never be; never for an instant did she feel blameless.

That is the power her husband and his former mistress had over Isabel.

Osmond's Spite

Chapter III

Gilbert Osmond did not spend the night of his wife’s return in such an exalted state, nor did he dream of transcendence. Or repentance for that matter. Osmond did not have in him the propensity for self-flagellation that was apparent in Isabel Osmond. Osmond’s ego brooked no deference to anyone, least of all a deity he never found succor in. Though he was devoted to the Bible, its homilies and characters in theory, he had never been touched by the Holy Spirit in which, in his opinion, lesser mortals succumbed. He thought it all a beautiful morality tale of which he personally had no use but recognized its usefulness in controlling the troubling mass. He admired the Pope above all others; he considered one who could live in such an exalted sphere and yet espouse of diet of paucity for others an art form more spectacular than the deity itself was able to perform.

No, Gilbert Osmond spent the evening after Isabel’s early retirement planning his strategy for the procurement of his altarpiece, the subject of which remained paramount in his mind since he saw it in a small church subject to demolition on the outskirts of Rome, an old village long integrated into the city of Rome proper, its inhabitants blending in with The Eternal City’s possibility. The church barely stood on a ravine that grew in proportion to the area’s demise. The altarpiece would soon attract buyers from all over the world if its existence were to become known and it was Osmond’s most fervent wish that such an occurrence did not happen. He was in negotiations with the church council to buy it and knew it could be his in a day if he were to offer a sizable amount of cash, were to show up with a bulk of raw currency in hand. He knew the simple men of the town would not be able to look away from the bills, would not let Osmond leave before it was safely in their hands. The altarpiece that meant nothing to them, would be in Osmond’s possession before dusk approached. Obtaining the cash would be the purpose of the coming days; he would need his wife to procure the bills from the English bank. That he could persuade his wife would not be so difficult; he’d gotten much larger sums to furnish the Palazzo Roccanera. What was uncertain was what he would have to say and in what manner to convince her of the necessity of obtaining this piece. She trusted not only his taste in such matters, but his knowledge of the history of Italian art. Osmond’s needs led him to resurrect in his mind what had gone on since Isabel left for England and his own trajectory.

To be sure, Madame Merle had paid him a visit shortly after his wife’s departure. Osmond was still in the dark about his Isabel’s acquaintance with certain particulars. He had not yet learned of his sister’s betrayal though Madame Merle knew something to the effect and enlightened him. When the Countess Gemini confessed, when the altercation took place and he banished her from Palazzo Roccanera once and for all, Osmond had to rethink matters. He knew he had lost a great deal of leverage, it would never return and he would have to fight to control his wife’s propensity to moralize, a personality trait he thought he would be able to subdue, in fact had subdued. Now he realized that a new modus operandi would have to be established beginning with the expulsion of Madame Merle herself, which held no remorse for him. She was seated on a small gilt chair in his sitting room before the fire.
“We meet for the last time, it seems,” said Osmond with more edge than he intended. His eyes held a nervous flame the lady was familiar with.
“Yes, it seems.”
“Our little drama has come to full closure at last.”
“It had to happen, Gilbert. I would like to say I will miss you, but I cannot. You have done more damage to me than I once thought possible; I’m sorry if I offend you.”
“Not at all, Madame. I have no further use of you either. You’ve quite done enough. I have a much better use of my time than with the various and sundry manner of your presence. No, to me you are already dead. What once was has long left the field of my vision. You are no more than a ghostly apparition.” His anger ignited him to stark cruelty.
Madame Merle blanched slightly, grew a shade of pale not usually seen in her robust countenance but did not trade barbs with her former lover, knowing she could not prevail, could never sink to his level of acrimony.
“So you go to America, I take it?” asked Osmond, more to end the discussion than any interest in her travels. He moved away and began looking at a small porcelain figurine that sat on his desk.
“I leave in two days.”
“Your plans are open? Extensive?”
“Six months at least, possibly more.”
“Well, I wish you bon voyage. No need to write.”
“I would like to hear of our daughter now and again. How should I handle that? Write to her directly? I can’t write to Isabel, that opening is closed. Perhaps I shall keep a line of communication open with your sister though she does not care for me and I can no longer abide her if I ever did.”
“Please disregard our daughter. That was the agreement. I put it to your honor to stay the course we decided on many years ago. If you have no such honor, I will see to it for you, do you understand me?”
Madame Merle was visibly shaken but recovered herself momentarily. “Very well, Gilbert.” She paused for some time and pretended to look at a picture on the wall before she continued. “You are a hard man, Mr. Osmond. You will be punished, you know.”
“Please Serena, don’t lecture me. I care for nothing you say.”
Madame Merle stood looking at Osmond with sober contempt, enough to shake his composure momentarily, but only that. She knew she was beaten, that her treachery, her deceit had come full-force back at her. She did not care unduly. She had lost the ability to care years ago through gradual awakening to the true nature of her lover…just as Isabel had. She felt only pity for Mrs. Osmond though if she examined her true feelings, they could also include envy. She could do nothing for her now but remove herself from Rome though it was not at all certain Mrs. Osmond would return.

“Do you think your wife will return to Rome? She may decide to stay at Gardencourt; a more restful, innocent place cannot be found in all of Europe, I’ve always said.” She was baiting him. After years of experience she could play the game of tit for tat with Osmond to perfection though she always felt tarnished afterward. “It would certainly serve you right if she never returned. You are not kind to her. I thought you would be. Nevertheless, I wish for Mrs. Osmond’s return for Pansy’s sake.
“Pansy will get on without her just as before and I don’t care a fig at this point if she returns or not.” Osmond would not admit to defeat. His outward dignity would suffer if she abandoned him but the inner man would continue behind his façade so carefully calculated and built up over the years. His social standing would diminish; he would hide himself as he had before he married Isabel but with ever so many more valuable possessions, his authority intact. He was a shallow man who had learned the art of “depth” though Madame Merle. Only his love for their daughter was genuine, this she had to believe. That was the comfort she took. That, and Isabel’s inherent decency and affection for Pansy. Madame Merle could take herself out of the tableau with some assurance her daughter would be cared for, such a simple soul who required little. It was too bad she had not been able to see Pansy married; she would have liked to know she was settled even if it had been only Mr. Rosier. Lord Warburton, she could not hope for, Isabel had seen to that. Now she would settle for a minor character. Perhaps Mr. Rosier would prevail though he had gone to Paris after conceding defeat with Pansy. Well, she could do nothing now. It would be up to Osmond to settle her and Osmond may soon be unsettled himself. She could not dwell on this for long. She had to have strength for America and what was to come. She must shake herself loose once and for all, it was a mistake to carry on with the Osmonds for as long as she did. One of so many mistakes in her failed life, she thought mournfully upon leaving the Palazzo Roccanera for the last time. She glanced up at little Pansy’s window and saw that she had returned from the convent, her face so grave in the glass. She waved a timid goodbye, and Pansy the obedient child she was, waved back, equally timid. Madame Merle entered her carriage with only one teardrop to remind her she was still human; and of all she had lost. Damn you, Gilbert Osmond, she thought. Your conscious is not pristine, do not deceive yourself. Your time is coming.

Gilbert Osmond knew or cared nothing of Madame Merle’s feelings or projections; he only felt a relief at her departure. He did give some thought to his wife’s exodus and her eventual homecoming. He was not at all confident of this but Pansy told him she promised to come back and so he was able to hope that she would eventually. He had no intention of forgiving her; that was impossible, but he did have plans for his life that included her continued presence. He felt a great deal of relief when the telegram announcing her return was delivered and even more when she presented herself in person. She looked weathered by storms such as Osmond himself never suffered. He would use them to his advantage. He would wear her down further and when he was set, he would brush her off as a speck of dust in the street of an old Italian town. He would see what she planned for his daughter; agree if he could, fight if he couldn’t. He was certain he’d seen the last of Mr. Rosier, heard of his return to Paris and hoped Isabel would look to other fortunes for Pansy. He would bide his time. Tomorrow he would be kindness itself to his wife. She would wire for cash, he could easily sell her on the idea as he had others. He would take her to see it, traveling in style, be ever so considerate to her ladyship, he would charm her as he had during their courtship. He felt a certain distaste for these maneuvers, felt she should placate him: he had been the one wronged. He would feign indifference to her rebellion, temporarily, he had fooled her once, he could do it again. She came back after all, there was meaning in that. She threatened him today but he saw through that, she didn’t have the strength to fight him, she admitted that. He didn’t want to fight either; he had no further need to push things. As far as he was concerned, he’d won the struggle for power with her return. Now he would patiently explain how things stood as if to a sick patient. She would take her medicine, he would see that she suffered but only so much. He needed her society, the grand lady, a part she’d readily taken to. Only he knew what a absurd pose it all was. Ridiculous, but necessary, in any case.

Osmond went to bed with an easy mind but he dreamt Mr. Rosier was at the small church admiring the altarpiece before they arrived. He was told Mr. Rosier had shown a large amount of bills that were now tucked in the mayor’s pockets. Mr. Rosier laughed and slapped Osmond on the back demanding congratulations for such a find.
“The rumor is Mr. Osmond, it’s a Giotto, it will be worth quite a bit once it’s been appraised and cleaned,” said a gleeful Mr. Rosier. The mayor laughed at Osmond while Isabel looked at him with a smirking disdain.

Osmond awoke in a nervous state, grappling for water, the dust of the town in his throat. It took him an hour to calm down and fall back to sleep. He then saw his daughter marrying Mr. Rosier in front of the altarpiece with Isabel and Madame Merle looking on jubilantly. He awoke again, a queasy feeling in his stomach, his mind in a scurrilous reverberation. This time he would not go back to sleep. He was glad he put no stock in dreams, hardly ever had them, and waited uneasily for the morning light.

TO BE CONTINUED

Isabel's Gratitude

Chapter II

Isabel, alone in her room in the late afternoon duskiness, sent a servant to tell Pansy she was returned and to request an interview. It may seem a stilted, formal method for family but form was a requirement of the Osmond household. She was not at all certain of Pansy’s response; Isabel had been away for just over a month and did not know her stepdaughter’s frame of mind. Her father had stipulated she not write and she was nothing if not an obedient child.

When Pansy knocked on her door a half hour later, more anxious for her stepmother’s well-being than anything regarding herself Isabel relaxed. She kissed Isabel and they held each other close. Isabel felt the tension in the young girl’s slight frame and judged that things had not gone easily in her absence.
“Tell me dear girl, how have you been? How long have you been home from the convent?“
“I’ve been home for two weeks today. Mother Catherine thought it best.”
“Was it so terrible? Your father does not mean to hurt you, he thought that a time for reflection was important.”
“I did not mean to cause any disquiet. I stayed in my room and thought about Papa and you and what the future would bring. You did not seem happy when last we met, I was afraid for you…afraid you may not come back.”
“Ah, dear, I’ve come back as you see. I could not stay away from you and our home.”
“And Papa?”
“That is more complicated, dear, and not something you need worry about. I am back and we can carry on as before. We’ll take our rides, visit our favorite sites and talk of things that concern ourselves. We’ll laugh and be as before.”
“I am sorry about your cousin. I have never met Mr. Touchett certainly but if he is your cousin he can be nothing but splendid. What was England like? Did you see Lord Warburton?”
“My cousin was a most wonderful companion to me. He was light-hearted, generous; the best of men. I wish you could have met him but he was so very ill when he was last here I could not take you to him. Lord Warburton is his neighbor and a most excellent friend. He was at the funeral to be sure and invited me to his home to meet his two sisters again but I did not go. He is soon to be married, in fact may be so at this time.”
“I’m glad he has found someone. Such a handsome man should have just such a fine wife.”
“He will be as happy as he can and we need not concern ourselves with Lord Warburton’s well-being. We will concern ourselves with you, sweet girl, we must see that you are happy, for that is my goal. I feel I have not been fair to you, that maybe you were confused and I should not like that, Pansy. You are young and I wish you the joy, the freedom to do something that brings pleasure to your spirit, such a very fine spirit, my dear daughter.” Isabel hugged Pansy again and felt the girl’s rigidity lessened. “I am a little tired today, but tomorrow we shall be back to our old selves and there is much to catch up on. We will visit the Coliseum and the galleries, we shall have picnics and ride to our heart’s content.”
“Oh Mother, I am so glad of your return. I was not sure…”
“You see, I am returned and we are reunited. Nothing can make us sad.”
“Was Papa glad to see you? He seemed angry and even Madame Merle has not visited us. And then he quarreled with my aunt…”
“Papa was expecting me…he had no cause for alarm. Only you, you silly girl, doubted my return. Now you will dress for dinner and we will talk no more today. I must rest up for our outings, I think you may need a new dress and a cloak, summer will be here soon enough, what do you think?”
“I have no need of anything but your company. Papa has not taken me out, nor have we had many visitors in your absence. I think he was sad without you but maybe now we shall have guests…and music…oh, I am so glad of your return.” Pansy wrapped her frail arms around her stepmother and the two held each other close for a minute. She then made her way across the room and blew a kiss to Isabel before darting quickly out of the door with a smile of gratitude on her small, pretty face; the first in many weeks.

Isabel sat in her opulently upholstered armchair looking at the expanse of a small park that began outside of the Palazzo Roccanera, her home for four years, since her marriage to Osmond began. He chose their dwelling, as he chose everything in it; his taste not to be denied in all matters of art and decorum. Isabel had to forgo many ideas she’d once had; Osmond had ruled in all but a few matters. He would have preferred to choose everything but in one area she would not give way; her relationship to her cousin, Ralph, and her friends, though to placate him she kept them away from him as much as possible. She regretted this; but she would no longer need to appease him. His friendship with Madame Merle, though possibly concluded, had stripped him of his moral superiority. She had no intention of ever receiving Madame Merle in her home and did not think the woman, so rigorous in manner would show herself for the foreseeable future. That she was Pansy’s real mother would never leave Isabel’s conscious, that it would always live in the cloudy province between herself and her husband was a certainty but she knew it would factor less as time went on, especially if Madam Merle was in America for a prolonged visit as Isabel had heard she would be.

With the afternoon’s abrupt end, the park grew still in the enveloping darkness, the trees swayed in the wind, a subtle moonlight cast a romantic haze over the scene. This would invoke an evening of energized contemplation for Isabel. It had been a long day, began in the very early hours with her return to Rome. She would take dinner in her room and sleep peacefully in her own bed. She was home, such as it was. She’d confronted Osmond; she’d bargained for Pansy and won her major point. She knew Osmond would never brook any argument against his “magnificent form” but she would press it as little as possible. She would do what she said she would; see what was in Pansy’s heart and act accordingly. She had not mentioned Mr. Rossier nor had Pansy. Perhaps the flame in her heart had gone out. She was young though Isabel suspected she may be romantic enough to insist on its everlasting dominion in her heart. She hoped not. Though Mr. Rossier was honorable in the straight and narrow leaning, he was not a man of heroic intentions. That he had loved Pansy, Isabel knew to be true. He proved it by selling his bibelots to please Osmond and garner Pansy’s hand in marriage to no avail. She wondered if he still retained his affection, if he was as bitter as he was when last they met, if he was in Rome.

She had much to catch up on and for the first time since learning of her husband’s betrayal, her cousin’s bequest and subsequent death, Isabel felt she could breath. She meant what she said to Osmond; she would find a way to have a meaningful life within her failed marriage; that was all she could do. She’d entered it in good faith and she would live with it in the same manner. Osmond would have no grievance against her behavior. She would honor the form he so assiduously embraced. Then she would do what she wished. I must go on, she thought, I cannot live under a shroud any longer, I cannot cry over my mistakes but must find a way to move forward, to live up to my cousin’s expectations: that I should experience the world and mark my existence with aptitude, with wit.

Isabel thought of her cousin’s wit, his dry humor that so lightened the atmosphere in sickness and even death. Osmond had no humor; that Isabel soon learned when dealing with her husband’s moods. He carried a deadly seriousness about him that made Isabel’s insides shrivel.

Oh well, enough with the self-pity, Isabel Archer, she said to herself. Get on with it. She may not have the romantic alliance she had once sought, but she did have many other resources and must remember to be grateful. As her sister-in-law, the Countess Gemini, said, Nothing's impossible for you, my dear. Why else are you rich and clever and good?

Her resolve renewed, Isabel undressed, pulled back the covers on her large carved, canopied bed and undid her hair from its underpinning. She did not call her maid, she had given her the day off. Isabel was content with just her own company and thoughts. A small tray was brought to her but she found she was not hungry and nibbled at a few early strawberries. The day had been filled with food for thought and that was all she needed tonight. Tomorrow she would begin a new phase of her life, much of it uncertain but the one conviction she could afford no longer, a girl’s vanity, she would put aside. She would take the reins and drive herself and her stepdaughter to the higher ground. She looked forward to the rarefied air, the glorious view and her feet authentically planted in the old Roman soil.

With these enlightened thoughts, Isabel fell into the first real sleep she’d had since her coarsely conceived conversation with the Countess Gemini, seemingly years ago but in reality less than six weeks. She dreamt of her cousin Ralph and in her dream he said to her, Go easy on yourself, my dearest friend, you are much loved and highly capable. Hearing those words, softly whispered close to her ear by her most beloved relative, Isabel slumbered in the deep realm of the angels and when she awoke, the sun was shining, the air was chaste and her maid was smiling with expectancy carrying a large silver tray bearing a vase of small pink wild roses, a basket of fruit and freshly baked bread--all that was beautiful to begin one’s day--and as she poured the delicious aromatic coffee only to be had in Italy, Isabel’s heart sang a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

TO BE CONTINUED

Mrs. Osmond Returns

Chapter I

Isabel Osmond, returning to Italy in the early morning dawn, the night's quietude holding as the darkness fades, an hour usually unlived by most, felt a chill upon leaving the train and wrapped her cloak tightly around her as the porter ever so respectful of the lady, held out a hand to guide her from the car as her maid was left to scurry for the scant baggage. Isabel had left Rome in a hurry, traveling light, though heavy in heart. There was a carriage waiting for her though it had not been sent by her husband who continued to ignore her return with less contempt than might be imagined. Gilbert Osmond was anxious for his wife's return for any number of reasons, but he would make sure she would not know that. She would be punished for her departure, that he knew, for sitting at another man's dying bed. He had given her fair warning. That the man was her cousin was not a concern to Osmond, disobedience was her sin and like his daughter, she would learn not to displease. He skulked about his room, nervous, preoccupied, rearranged a drawer, filed his personal correspondence and began to think of how he would conduct his marriage on his wife’s return. He wished he could be somewhere else and had considered going to Florence to avoid her but decided it would not look natural; the servants would talk, his daughter though too timid to question him would register his apathy. Lately she had looked at him in a way she never had before--with a serious confounded stare. This he could not bear in one he so lovingly reared, another thing Isabel must answer for, but he would nevertheless, be at home when she returned, a number of factors ruled it to be so.

With a light tap, his butler Higgins entered the room with a tray of coffee, a newspaper and a light breakfast.
“Sir, Mrs. Osmond returns this morning. Shall I send the carriage to await her arrival?“
“No, let Mrs. Osmond take care of herself,” he said. “We don’t know her exact hour of arrival. Better to leave it in her hands.”
Higgins did not think this was at all the way to greet Mrs. Osmond on her return and was tempted to go against his employer and send the carriage. She was a great lady after all. He sensed the discord between the couple, it was in fact discussed freely downstairs and there was speculation that Mrs. Osmond may not ever return from England. He was happy when she confirmed by telegram her impending arrival, the house had been dull without her especially with Miss Pansy away at the convent.

Osmond thought his wife incorrigible; if she wanted to play by her own rules, rules he found unsupportable then she would reap the consequences. He knew Higgins looked at his behavior as an aberration, he did not care what a hired hand thought of him. He, Gilbert Osmond, could hire and fire all the English servants on the continent. Insufferable the English, he thought as he sat down to his breakfast. So many problems his wife’s departure had made for him. Yes, she would have to pay, he thought, his jaw clenched, his hands in a fist, though he did his best to appear unruffled in Higgins's presence, not to betray himself over an impertinent remark. Higgins poured coffee from the silver tray and bowed out gracefully.

Isabel being driven through Rome in the early dawn had time to reflect on what she would say to her husband when again they met. Perhaps he would not be at home but then that would not look appropriate and Osmond never did anything without thinking of appearances. Osmond was the lead in his own drama and his role was to play the supportive husband to the regal wife. It galled him but he was enough of a realist to know he could not at this time do without her, more chagrin that, but he would not, at this time, let her know in so many words how insufferable this position had become to him.

Isabel went straight to her apartment upon arriving home and did not summon a servant to impart a message to her husband. She did not go to him. She did not go near his rooms. Overt impassiveness was the mode they each used to manage their marriage. They would meet again in the second sitting room on the first floor of the Palazzo Roccanera that Osmond often used as a study. In this large, sunny room with the faded fresco on the north-facing wall he did his watercolor painting, studied his folios and looked for imperfection in the variety of objects de art he had on loan, the light so effervescent from the eastern view in the morning. That is where his wife would find him when the time came for a meeting.

She would knock on his door and wait for admittance. She wanted no excess irritation on her husband's part, she wanted to placate him to a point but would not be demeaned; she had been on a journey for the past month, it was a journey of her soul when she finally learned things she might have learned before had she not been so gullible, so naive. She chastised herself for her ignorance; no one had more, she thought. Her blind arrogance had ruled the day and she cringed when she thought of it. Her beloved cousin Ralph was now gone. She had no more reason for concealment but neither was she eager to announce her folly to one and all. It was apparent to those who might take notice; all those who loved her, regarded her with pleasure for her fine spirit, whose warnings she dismissed, so casual in her disregard for what others knew or suspected. Her cousin, when she finally announced her engagement had been so very disappointed, had called Osmond "small." How astutely she had defended his smallness, his want of worldly pleasure, his reclusive life that seemed so much finer than that lived by her fellow Americans with their continuous striving noise. How she, with her new-found wealth would set aright a wrong; that a person so decent would be without adequate means to fulfill the proper destiny for himself and his lovely, unspoiled daughter, Pansy. Her blindness filled her with dismay as she paced around her room, suddenly weighed down with the prospect of meeting Osmond again.

Yes, she married, against the counsel of those most dear to her, what she had thought was a mild-mannered artiste, an intellectual, someone whose cut was so exact he could not, would not play the world's shabby games. Instead she learned quickly that she had married and rewarded considerably, a bully, a snob, someone who had nothing but contempt for his fellow-man, a boorish dilettante without a heart. Her cousin had been kind with his assessment. “Small” did not begin to describe Osmond. When Isabel came to this realization it was the darkest day of her life. Three days later her son was born, her son who lived for six months, the darling, leaving the world of Isabel and Osmond and taking with him all that had been between them as husband and wife and left in his wake a power struggle that absorbed Osmond completely and engulfed Isabel in shame though she was not quite ready to admit defeat.

Osmond, for his part, played his hand in a more subtle fashion. The defection of Lord Warburton, after paying his daughter attention only to dispense with it at the slightest flicker from Isabel’s eye had rankled. Osmond was forced to admit defeat but only to himself. Just another grievance against his wife, a debt that must, and would be squared in the future.

Osmond had been winning until his wretched sister, the Countess Gemini, exposed his hand for which Osmond would never exonerate her. It would be a cold day before she ever darkened his door or saw her niece again. Osmond had given instructions to bar her entrance to his home. She had crossed the line. Osmond only barely tolerated her as it was, with her illicit affairs, her tawdry reputation because she was his sister, his only remaining family. That would be no more. He had no sister, he had written to her. She arrived at his door within forty-eight hours and found her way to Osmond’s study without announcement. He pounced on her, a lethal cat, his nerves taut, his eyes molten flames but the countess had very little fear of her brother. He ordered her to leave his house.
“I will not have you here, I will not listen to your excuses,” he bellowed. “You have done me untold harm. For nothing. What do you get out of this?”
“Oh Osmond, spare me. You're overreacting. Secrets have a way of damning up the works. You married Isabel under a cloak of secrecy for her money, with a good deal of trickery performed by your former mistress.”
“Leave Madame Merle out of this. She at least has the dignity of refrain.”
“I’ve never liked her, you know that but I could never speak against her and I never have.”
"What makes you break with propriety now?" he hissed.
“I like Isabel even though she doesn’t like me. I was weary of keeping secrets from her, I have no patience with naivety after a certain age. It was unseemly,” said the Countess Gemini. “And you are not good to her, I felt sorry for her, so upright, so in need of your approval.” The Countess herself had to bear a heavy load with her husband and thought Isabel should not be absolved from the world’s harshness. “Besides, I was tired of her superiority, not to mention yours and that of Serena Merle. Now Isabel will be on our level. She’s young, perhaps she will find a lover.” She said this with a certain glee knowing it to cut deeply into her brother’s warped sense of morality.
“You dare to come here proffering such claptrap. My wife will never descend to your level. Leave, take your blight from my home, your inferiority astounds me,” he roared and then realized she was playing with him as she did when they were children and quickly regained control. He smoothed his brow, leveled his eyes and stopped pacing but stood before the fireplace with his back to her.
“Maybe not to my level, brother dear, but how long before she stoops to your level?”
“You are an outrage, Countess.” Osmond’s face was red, his placid demeanor destroyed. He was drained of energy from her presence in less than fifteen minutes. He should not let her get to him this way.

When she had made her point--and it was sharply rendered, the Countess left, feeling justified, taking with her Osmond’s good mood. He had just returned from a visit to an old church where he was certain a fourteenth-century altarpiece that would soon be sold was in fact a Giotto. To acquire it, he would need Isabel and her checkbook back in Italy, his sister banished forever, his daughter at home and Madame Merle far away. He thought he might be able to recover his equilibrium, regain his peace of mind if he kept minor blandishments from irritating him. He was going to need his wits to put all that was necessary in place, to obtain this miraculous altarpiece.

Isabel, rattling around in her rooms, nervous, strained from her journey and her cousin's funeral wondered if her stepdaughter had been brought home from the convent, if she might go to her. Her father had sent her back to the convent when she had shown a yearning for a marriage to the one she most regarded. That her father did not think much of her choice and put her back into the seclusion of convent life hurt Pansy badly. She begged Isabel not to forsake her and Isabel promised she would return to her. That promise was what brought her back to Italy: the forlorn tremor in Pansy's little voice haunted her in England. She made one sure decision while at Gardencourt, her cousin’s home, a place she loved, that represented her life before its defilement: she would not forsake Pansy. Isabel still honored her word; she had not strayed in principle. She would fight for her stepdaughter in whatever way she could.

She had many things to catch up on despite the ill-will from her husband she was sure to receive but she had an advantage now: she would no longer be sulking in the dark. She knew not how this would change her life, she only knew that for a long time she had been living in a shadow cast by her husband with his friend, Madame Merle, abetting its mysterious power. She would consent no more to it, this she knew for certain. She was going reestablish a life of meaning with or without Osmond. She may decide not to live with him but she would never divorce. He was her shield. They would have to speak a new language and she was determined Osmond would learn it. This time she would be the teacher and he would listen to her. His reign of authority was at an end. He had nothing on her now: The truth had set her free.

***

Ah, the truth. Nothing so simple, nothing so elusive. Gilbert Osmond was in his study when a forthright knock on the door alerted him to Isabel's presence. He of course did know she had returned, he was, after all, master of his domain unequivocally. He'd received her telegrams but had no interest in the role of eager husband ready to forgive his wife her trespasses of which Osmond could enumerate at length and did so in the days and hours since her sudden departure to England to sit at the bed of her dying cousin. He did not believe Ralph Touchett was dying; that he was proved wrong did nothing to mitigate his anger. His wife belonged with him in Italy and nowhere else. There were appearances to keep up--Osmond was nothing if not a stickler for appearance. He'd spent his life composing a visage that allowed for no precipitous handling, no rough adornment. Leave it to an American to not understand what was called for, the delicacy, the subtle assertions required, he thought.

Isabel entered the lavish room without a response from her husband. Higgins answered her knock and quickly disappeared.
"Good afternoon, Gilbert, you see I have returned,” she said with timidity, hesitating before his louche countenance. “My cousin Ralph has died, as I wrote...you see, he really was dying." She remained standing at the outskirts of Osmond's study, uncertain as to where this meeting would likely go and if she had the strength for it.
"I am not concerned with your cousin as I expressly told you before you fled our home to sit at his bedside. I do care for propriety, for the way things are prescribed in this country. Do you think I would cast all decorum and decency aside for your cousin whom I care nothing about?"
"Do not disparage my cousin now nor in the future. He is gone, I shall miss him forever. I will not have him belittled in my home. As for propriety, do you not think it appears somewhat shabby that your former mistress made a match for you, that you then courted and married the hand-picked specimen your mistress found for you: You who would despise a bounder but nevertheless allowed yourself to take what was offered and then make a show of indifference to the world's opinion? Shame on you Gilbert. You were at one time above the crass opportunity you embraced by marrying me, pitifully dumb American girl so easily swayed by a few pompous lectures, plausible trinkets, a masterpiece or two, kind phrases to captivate her imagination.”
“I married you in good faith,” he said shocked by his wife’s lack of discretion. Because he was not certain of all she knew, he did not want to tangle with this line of inquiry. “It is you who have fallen out of our vows, Isabel. I regard them as sacred.” He was holding a small carved crucifix while he paced back and forth. He took the high road whenever his wife had reason for complaint; as he did in all encounters with others, he knew any other way was to descend into the querulous games that lesser mortals played at.
She ignored his platitudes and continued on with her own speech before she lost heart. “Yet all would be forgiven had you the capability of regarding me as anything but dreary conduit to endless funding, had you been able to show me the compassion you show your art collection. How dishonorable, Gilbert.”
“What do you know about my reasons? You listen to my sister with her assassination attempt on me. I married you in good faith, I tell you. It is your faith that has wavered, my dear.”
“I know everything, Gilbert, including Pansy’s maternity. No need to deny or attempt to disprove anything. I had much time to think in England you see. If it weren't for your former mistress I might still be in doubt but she was unable to stay away from Pansy, a mother couldn't, after you banished her to the convent. Yes, she was just as keen as you were on a marriage to Lord Warburton. She showed her hand and from there I had only to put your sister’s assertions into play. Oh, I know, it has taken me some time to piece things together and I still may not have but for your sister’s free-range tongue but be glad I am not so set on appearances otherwise I should lie down and die for the form I show the world; a woman who was taken for her money only to find it is not enough, what was expected was her soul along with it. It's only too bad Pansy had other ideas for her future. Where is she, by the way, still under lock and key?"
"Pansy is here at home. You would know that if you'd been in your rightful place. Mother Catherine recommended she be here; she was unhappy it seems at the convent, the sanctuary that was once her happy home now made intolerable by your interference, your stupid meddling in affairs that do not concern you. Or do they? Was your conquest of Lord Warburton unassailable?"
"My conquest, if you choose to call it that, I do not, of Lord Warburton is history. It is of no importance and I refuse to give it any. Lord Warburton will soon be married and we need not think of him again. You need not receive him. Nor will I receive him. You see, I've had time to think and what I think matters greatly to me if it doesn't to you. We are at an impasse, Gilbert, for which I blame myself. Things have happened that take us out of ourselves. I want to make peace with you. I won't fight you any longer or be at odds. You are a lover of art and fine things, certainly you can rise to the occasion of a fine partnership for lack of a better word, a more promising ideal, you have nothing to fear from me: I am done in by your wrath and you know it so there is no need to continue pounding on me.
“Tell me, Mrs. Osmond, does this mean you wave a white flag?”
“I haven't in the least surrendered Gilbert, but I am calling for a truce. I will give you what you want and in return you will give Pansy a life of her choosing."
"That's all, my dear, nothing for yourself?"
"That is for myself. I have no needs that I cannot fulfill on my own. But Pansy cannot fight you and I can. And will."
"Spoken like a true American woman. How tedious, Isabel, as if you could command the unspoken into action."
"My needs aren't that complicated. Pansy's needs are and will continue to be unless you really believe in self-effacement, Gilbert, you cannot be that primitive."
"On the contrary, my dear wife, you overestimate me; I can indeed invoke the primitive man, the patriarch, if you will. I will protect my daughter from a dingy life. I will not sell… settle her for less than her due."
"She is not yours to sell! And you will find that if you do not love your daughter more than yourself, your precious image, you will never win. She has been where love resides, Gilbert, so don't think you will bluff her. And when she turns away, you will have lost something so precious that you will be unable to sleep for the rest of your days. You may have won, but your loss will be greater, so much greater,”
"Such deep philosophy coming from one who so seldom quiets down enough to contemplate the mysteries of meaning, but now has my child figured out and is qualified to give me a lecture on my daughter's love for me, her father, whom she knows only seeks her happiness. Don't be daft, Isabel. You of all people should lecture me? A wife such as you are. Not what I have bargained for either, my dear.”
"Gilbert, I'm asking something of you, because I could divorce you, I'd very much like to divorce you, but while I am in Italy I shall abide by the rules. But I may one day be in England or America or even France. And when and if that time comes, I may choose to do something different. So you see Gilbert, your hand should be played as precautionary: keep me in Italy, see to it that I'm given the respect I deserve, both in private and in public. I am not perfect, of course, but I am your wife, I married you in good faith and I have shared with you as I had been shared with. In good faith, Gilbert. Now I want to get what I pay for: I want a decent partnership, I can't call it a marriage, nor even a friendship, but I wish that we work in conjunction instead fission.”
"Hah! That is what I’ve been trying to do all along. It is you who have worked against me.”
“No, Gilbert, that is not what you have been doing. You have played a game with me. A sordid game I was unfamiliar with. You kept me in suspense and brought great confusion and anxiety to my mind and my heart. I hoped it was a passing phase, wrought from our great loss but in time I began to see Gilbert that you do not see. You whose days are spent in looking at wondrous riches have no vision. You are just as petty and underhanded as the lowest peasant. You have a heart but it is brittle, strangled by your animosity which makes you greedy and self-serving, I’m sorry to be so beastly to you Gilbert, I do not want to fight, but you must understand, I’ve seen through you, you cannot make a fool of me any longer.”
“What I understand is that you are in the wrong, are admitting you are wrong and we should go on from there. If you are not admitting you are wrong, then we can go no further with this.”
“Oh Gilbert, from such a fine man as you claim to be. Why is it so hard to just let go your orthodoxy, your peevishness? Do you get pleasure from denigrating me and our friends?”
“Friends! Ha! We have no friends, Isabel. There is family and foe and in our case, all is forsaken. That is why I guard my daughter as I guard my small Caravaggio: Precious. Now you Isabel Osmond are my wife and as such, also family. So you say you will reward me with your presence in Italy, I say to you, dear wife, if I never see you again, it would suit me fine. You bore me immensely. On the other hand, I do not want to be the bloke whose rich wife left him for someone in England, or America, or France, as you pointed out, or having been cheated out of his rightful place in the hierarchy of the banking system, if you will, but I refuse to talk about anything so crass as your precious money. Do you know how it makes me feel that everywhere, everyone knows that I am provided for by you, my rich American wife who supports me in the style I‘m arrogant enough to think I deserve? Do you know that everyday I am humiliated in some way, some way that I've never experienced before?”
“It hasn’t seemed to bother you much, Gilbert. You turn out in style and substance. No one doubts your fidelity, your honor. If they do, they keep it hidden.”
“Thank you for the compliment but it wreaks of patronization which is beneath you, Isabel.”
“It wasn’t meant to compliment, Gilbert. But it is of no great importance either. What I’m asking of you is for a little civility and Pansy’s freedom. I want all girls to have the opportunity of freedom for as such time as can be given--before marriage and motherhood. We should all have the feeling of liberty once in our lives. But if my money galls you so, you can leave, go back to Florence, to your little hideaway in the hills. You were happy there before...”
“More philosophy. Your cousin’s death has made of you a scribe. Really, Isabel. How tiresome you could become.”
“Ah, you say ‘could.’ You mean I haven’t fallen completely? A triumph of sorts.”
“Don’t be literal, Isabel. What is it you plan to do with my daughter if I give her up to you?”
“I’m going to find out what she wants, what she needs. I’m going to listen to her. I’m going to take her into society to meet certain people and keep her away from a great many others. I will do my best to act in all principle to advise against or enact her heart’s desire, I hope the latter.”
“Spoken like an American woman--all sentiment and aggression.”
“If you’ve a better idea for her that is not banishing her from your kingdom like a mad tyrant, I haven’t seen it. You did not get what you wanted from Lord Warburton, you have caused friction within your family, you have failed as a husband.”
“Thank you my dear, always ready with a kind word.”
“Might you want platitudes from your wife?”
“Hardly. What I want is obedience and that is precisely what I have not gotten from this arrangement, or so it seems, will I ever.”
“Obedience! Surely you can come up with a more worthy desire than that. The most petty thug on the street wants obedience. Aren’t you a little more original than that, Gilbert?”
Osmond moved closer to Isabel who shrank back from the intensity of his glare. “I shall not expect it from you, Mrs. Osmond. I put it to rest. In the meantime, you are offering me a position. As your lawfully wedded husband, though not master, to play my role, and as I say to you, dearest wife, I play my role to perfection. You’ve no complaint. So why do you lecture me now? I’m always ready to play my part. Until death do us part. You say you desire a partnership, well that suits me. A little unoriginal but that is to be expected. We can adjust the terms as we see fit. Just know that I will not be under your thumb at any time.”
“And you are to understand that I will not be treated as you have treated me. Let me alone, stop hating me.”
“What is your part in this? How have you treated me? What about the disdain, the contempt you hold for me? Certainly you don't deny it?”
“I will never question your proclivities or your methods in other regards. We will be of course, platonic from here on in.”
“Of course. Why would I want to make love to a woman has offered to buy my daughter from me.”
“You go to far, Gilbert. I don’t know what to make of you. You are so exalted and then so very low. How does it happen? How do you sink so?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear, but you’d better think about what you are saying. I’ve been known to hold a grudge. I never forget. If you think I’ve forgotten something, I haven’t. It’s there, always ready to be recalled. Don’t forget, Isabel.” He moved away and wiped his brow hastily to avoid any detection of nerves spent.
“I consider myself warned Osmond. Now, while you are skipping around looking in the galleries, refining your technique for subterfuge and deception, I will be putting your daughter to the test. I will find out what is in her heart. Oh, don’t worry, I won’t make the same mistake with her as I did with my own fate; I will make sure she is treasured. You can count on that Gilbert."

Osmond sat staring wearily out of the arched window that looked onto a small courtyard with a marble fountain where barely a trickle flowed. The afternoon light was beginning to wan and springtime showed positive signs of the earthly flowering. His meeting with his wife went better than he had expected: he did not have to give her much. He saw that she was worn down by her cousin’s death, the journey and whatever else may have taken place in England. He had not been sure she would return, was relieved that she had but had no intention of playing into her hands. She wanted his daughter’s freedom, he could give her that. He could not keep Pansy locked up forever, she was becoming a woman. He would prefer no man to have her though he would willingly give her up to a prosperous union, anything less looked shabbily arranged. The Osmonds do no come cheap, he sneered to himself, lighting a cigarette.

Very well, he thought, Isabel could take her about. He had other things on his mind. He had begun the negotiations for the altarpiece that would require strategic maneuvers if he were not to be robbed. He coveted this piece and had every intention of purchasing it before other parties were made aware. He would need funds from Isabel, he’d gone through what was allotted him this quarter; troublesome bankers in England were sticklers for exactitude.

He also had another old master in his sights. The owner was short of money to keep the family’s castle from crumbling around them. He was going to shake the old bat down. He would need his wife's help persuading the Marchesa Viticonti, entertaining her in a royal style at their Thursday open house and in private as necessary.

Osmond had plenty to think about. He would agree to a suitable marriage for Pansy. He was estranged from Madame Merle, would avoid her at all costs, she was now a liability he could not afford. As for Isabel, he did not care to think of her; she was a torn filament and he, Gilbert Osmond, did not dwell on the less than perfect.

TO BE CONTINUED