Osmond's Eye

Chapter IX

Gilbert Osmond received the news of the marriage of his former mistress, Serena Merle, with slight reaction. It was not something he would have expected but found he was more interested in her gain than he might let on. Not that he cared one way or the other. He no longer lingered on the past; for Osmond, it was dead. She hadn’t wired him her news and his wife did not bother to inform him and he knew by her reticence that she considered Madame Merle history.

His wife knew of his past association and nothing had changed. He was still in command of his life, his daughter was with him and his wife was at home, placing her duties as mistress of the Palazzo Roccanera first, which is what after all, what is required. He’d by chance ran into an old acquaintance walking in St. Peter’s who mentioned he’d just come from Florence and had been a guest of Count and Countess Gemini for a dinner party and this topic was much discussed. There was curiosity, that was to be expected, and the supposition that the couple would be in Rome within the week. Osmond expected no sign from his former mistress. She knew when, where and how long she was welcome, her protocol never wanting in exactitude.

For himself, he spent his days moving around the altarpiece he’d finally managed to procure, examining the details with an eye toward Giotto’s hand for several weeks before beginning the restoration which would require time and expense. He was expecting Signore Salvatore Cellini, the foremost authority of Giotto and a conservator of artworks, Italy’s most authoritative eye for a consultation. The man was traveling from Bologna where he had been working to restore another Giotto that had long been missing. It had recently turned up in the shed on an old estate, no one any the wiser of where and how it ended up there. It had been authenticated and officially sanctioned by this foremost authority on Italian art, with a special knowledge of Giotto.

It had taken Osmond some persuasion to get the expert to Rome; old paintings, he condescendingly informed Osmond, often turned up in odd locales, usually of a more recent vintage - either an outright forgery, or a replica by a lesser known hand, perhaps from the atelier of the artist but more often, a copy commissioned by an obscure church. Signore Cellini’s time was valuable, his knowledge extensive and his eye the surest of them all.

Osmond was waiting his arrival having sent a carriage for the man over an hour ago. He was impatient and wondered how long it would take to settle Signore Cellini in, how long he would need to recover from the journey, how much he required in food and drink before he would be ready to take a look at Osmond’s altarpiece. He was to stay at the Palazzo Roccanera for as long as he needed to make a judgment and advise Osmond on the restoration. Osmond hoped it would be a quick appraisal so he could get on with the cleaning. He longed to see his triptych in its full glory. He was also impatient to know on authority that his own assessment had been correct, and to make sure that all of Italy recognize his astute judgment, his clever eye. How the voracious collectors would envy him, vie to be invited to the Palazzo Roccanera for a viewing. If Osmond was correct, and he was sure he was, the world would beat a path to his door. At least the only world he cared about.

While Osmond was waiting for his Giotto to be officially authenticated he had kept a close eye on another old masterpiece first seen at a dinner party he and Isabel had attended during the early days of their settlement in Rome. Osmond wasted no time in inviting the notables of Rome to his drawing rooms. He had been in exile in Florence for time enough: he was anxious for the recognition of Italian society, the inclusion he had long thought eluded him. The couple had entertained lavishly and in due course invitations to Rome’s most fortified castles were delivered to their door. In one such visit Osmond noted a fine old master of little renown with a dark film concealing what was, Osmond thought, a Correggio; the long lost Madonna of Albinea, if his perception was correct.

On the occasion, Osmond demonstrated not a flicker of curiosity but kept one eye on the painting and another on his hostess, an ancient marchioness barely able to see, hear or walk but able to thoroughly dominate her room, its visitors and servants, royal to her fingertips. Osmond dare not move in to have a closer look on the first visit but he had been several times back and on the third visit was able to make a closer examination while the old noblewoman greeted a throng of relatives from Naples, descended upon her castle with expectation of entertainment and refreshment on their way to Florence. Osmond’s heart pounded while he stood erect, casually gazing at the painting, pretending to look at others of lesser stature as well, hands behind his back, a slight look of bemused pleasure on his handsome face. His hostess, so overtaken with her guests, gave Osmond more than enough time to circle back toward the Correggio, vexed that it was placed so high on the old stone wall that to see a hint of a signature would require a ladder. How he longed to take it down and get a good look. If it were indeed the lost Correggio, its value would be astronomical. To own such a painting would be a godsend.

Signore Cellini knocked on the door to Osmond’s study an hour after being delivered to the massive doors of the Palazzo Roccanera, refreshed and ready to greet his host and hostess. Mrs. Osmond was not then available and he and Mr. Osmond were able to talk freely about their favorite subject, Italian art. The old man saw the altarpiece covered in large sheets and begged to be given an opportunity to make his first impression. He did not expect to find a piece of this size a genuine Giotto: surely others would have learned of its presence near the outskirts of Rome before this? There was some talk, he’d heard something mentioned maybe fifteen, twenty years ago but the talk had ended when the foremost expert on pre-Renaissance art at the time had declared it nothing more than a copy, possibly commissioned by the church, as is often the case. For centuries after the demise of the great masters, copies were still being painted, some for sentimental reasons, some for outright criminal intent. Signore Cellini believed this would be a case of the former but was told Mr. and Mrs. Osmond entertained beautifully, the accommodations in their home lavish in the American style and that Mrs. Osmond a delightful combination of grace, style, wit and empathy. Only an American woman could combine these attributes these days and then very rarely, he was told by a French businessman who called on the art expert to examine an old manuscript that turned out to be a forgery. The Frenchman was amiable and did not desire to kill the messenger but laughed off his gullibility as only someone of great wealth could afford to do. He invited Signore Cellini to luncheon, fed him copiously and offered the finest wines forming a friendship between them that still today, surprised the old Italian.

It was on the Frenchman’s urging that Signore Cellini was convinced of the necessity of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Osmond and partaking of their fine hospitality. So what if Mr. Osmond thought he had a Giotto? It would not be Signore Cellini’s fault if it turned out to be a dashed-off replica from the 18th century. Meanwhile he would have a rest and visit some of the masterpieces at the Vatican. An art lover could never be bored in Rome.

Osmond began removing the sheets as Signore Cellini adjusted his spectacles and prepared to have a thorough look; prepared to do Mr. Osmond and his altarpiece all justice. If he was lucky it would prove to be a painting from the 14th century, of some value, possibly by one of Giotto’s students. That would not be such a waste of his time, he could assure the Osmonds of its value, Mr. Osmond’s excellent eye and then drink a glass of grappa and talk of Italy’s artistic past that no one had surpassed or was ever likely to. Signore Cellini had many stories to tell to alleviate any disappointment an art collector might have and he would soon be on his way to Bologna, back to the genuine Giotto he was lovingly repairing.

Osmond took his time removing the sheets, building suspense not unaware of the portentous time that would follow. If Signore Cellini was hesitant, he Gilbert Osmond, would not fail to inform the old man, whose eyesight might not be all that accurate why he was certain it was by the hand of Giotto. Nevertheless, he would need the old man’s verification if wanted to impress Roman society.
“So, my good man, there you have it. I will let you examine it at your leisure without breathing down your neck, take your time, I will leave you for say, a half an hour. When I return, we will have a little dinner and discuss your findings. There is no hurry at all, no pressure, speak honestly, I have nothing to lose or gain at this point: I have purchased the piece and only require your expert opinion.”
“I see it has been left unattended so to speak, it is very dark. Do you mind if I do a little scraping, oh, nothing remarkable, just to get an idea of the signature, the age of the paint that sort of thing?”
“Of course. That is your job. I will leave you now. You will be quite alone. Ring for a servant if you should require anything, anything at all.”
“Thank you Mr. Osmond. I’m quite comfortable and look forward to examining your altarpiece though I cannot promise a verdict this afternoon.”
“Naturally, one would not expect it. You will have all the time you need.”

With that, Osmond left the room, gently closing the door, heading for the outdoors. He had to walk, to still his mind. He did not care for the old man’s attitude. He sensed a certain condescending predisposition against his purchase. There was a certain quizzical humor he did not appreciate in one so able to make or break his hypothesis. He did not wish to have Isabel witness this man’s dismissal of his own decree - that it was indeed a Giotto. He would need her approval if he were to go after the Correggio, they would need to pursue the painting with patience and cunning. He must have his wife on board for this; they would have to entertain dull people frequently in the coming months, not the least of which, the old marchioness and her nephew Prince Viticonti, a young man of considerable looks, position and fatuity. The prince showed a marked attention to Pansy that could work in Osmond’s favor. But first he would have to investigate the young man. He would not be able to call on Madame Merle or his sister. Isabel tended to shun gossip and vulgar tales of the nobility. She didn’t seem to realize that is the way society functioned in this country. He couldn’t depend on her; she of a disposition that bordered on the puerile. No matter. He would do what he had to do.

It was during this walk he learned of Madame Merle’s return. She would be in a position to advise him of the Viticonti clan but he dared not meet her. His sister he had no intention of speaking to. He would have to use discretion but that too was one of Osmond’s talents. He thought for a moment about his his old co-conspirator, wondering with whom she might have aligned herself after all these years. She must be nearing fifty, he thought to himself. He couldn’t remember her exact age but it was old enough to expect she would remain Madame Merle for her lifetime. Not for the first time did Osmond puzzle over American culture. Who would marry an aging woman without money or title? Only in America, he thought. Well, it was no concern to him. Her arrival once again in Rome might prove bothersome but Osmond had mellowed. All was right in his world. Or would be once his Giotto was authenticated. Until then, life rewarded him consistently. His wife had ceased to be the thorn in his side - she was a partner with a pocketbook. He could have done worse for himself, he thought. And with that in mind he made his way back to the Palazzo Roccanera reassured of his superiority; in all the ways that counted.

Old World Begone!

Chapter VIII

Mrs. Touchett was having an early breakfast when Isabel came into the small dining alcove adjacent to the kitchen. Isabel entered from the courtyard having spent the morning admiring the gabled fountain and the few wildflowers coming through the crevices in the old stone floor. When she saw her aunt, she joined her with the intention of letting her know she had invited the Bantlings to luncheon.
“Quite on my own instincts, Aunt, I invited Mr. and Mrs. Bantling to luncheon today. Yes, they are married. I hope you don’t mind. If you are unavailable, I shall entertain them on my own but it would be so nice if you joined us; you know well Mr. Bantling - he was Ralph’s closest friend.”
Her aunt was looking at her with some peculiarity but that was not unusual, her aunt looked at everyone with an “eye” as Ralph often said. “Well, as it happens, I am in today. I don’t suppose anyone really cares if I am or not, your friend goes her own way and does not abide by my will. However, Mr. Bantling is another matter. I have always been fond of that gentleman. He was very good to my son. I should be pleased to lunch and will tell the kitchen to make it especially festive for the newlyweds. So your friend will now take the English for a turn?”
“That may be an understatement. She’s to start a magazine. I don’t have the details but Ralph’s legacy to her was not in vain; she took it to heart. Britain will have Mrs. Henrietta Stackpole Bantling to contend with now. I look with anticipation to see what she does.”
“Yes, that will be interesting,” said her aunt pronouncing “interesting” in a way that gave one reason to think the old woman was being wry.
“I will send a message to the hotel for them to be here at one o’ clock sharp if that’s right by you.”
“Yes, fine. I look forward to some company. It gets lonely here though I dare say, I have enough visitors during the season. Speaking of which, Mrs. Bantling is not the only newlywed: Madame Merle has returned from America with her new husband. They are in England at the moment but plan on coming to Italy soon. She’s going to give up her apartment in Rome, I hear. I dare say not grand enough for her now.”

Isabel sat still absorbing the information while drinking a cup of tea. She wasn’t expecting Madame Merle back in Rome so soon and wondered what it would mean. Surely she would not come to Palazzo Roccanera but would she wish to see Pansy? She could hardly do so without some word from Osmond and he would not likely give her a word. “So the fastidious lady finally met her match. And so quickly. She had only been in America for three months, how did she manage? Well, I’m glad. She will be diverted,” said Isabel.
“I don’t suppose she’s such a threat to you, she seems to have been banished all around.”
“Osmond is done with her, if that’s what you mean. She has no further use.”
“Ah, you’re bitter, child. Well, she made use of you, I can see why, but don’t let it consume you. It’s not worth it.”
“I’m not bitter. I’ve thought a lot about my own part in my deception. I blame no one buy myself if I am unhappy.”
“And are you unhappy?”
“No. I am not. I would be awfully ungrateful if I were.”
“That’s the right attitude. Go your own way, as I say, but I won't lecture you. You are of your own mind. I know how far that gets me.”

With that, her aunt left the breakfast room and went into the kitchen. Isabel could hear her devising an impromptu menu and the kitchen staff fully engaged in the post-wedding planning. Isabel was left again with her thoughts and a plate of cream scones, none of which she ate, she would be having a very good lunch in a few hours if she heard the staff right: she was happy all over again for her friend and only wished Ralph would be here too. Would she ever stop missing her cousin?

Mr. and Mrs. Bantling arrived a on the dot and found a dining room replete with flowers, fruits, ornate silver, shimmering porcelain and two women very happy to see them. Henrietta was wearing a pale rose organza gown of the sort one never had occasion to see her wearing in her incarnation as Henrietta Stackpole, American journalist. Mr. Bantling was as usual, in the proper dress for a man of his distinction, given to fastidiousness. His gloves were spotless and of just the right hue.
“Oh Isabel, you are too beautiful,” she said kissing her friend warmly on both cheeks. Ah, Mrs. Touchett so wonderful to see you again. I did not have a chance to talk with you at the funeral of your darling son, I hope we are not disturbing your mourning. I told Isabel if you were not up to anything so insignificant as the nuptial celebration of myself and Mr. Bantling I would certainly understand. Still I am very happy to see you.”
“As you see, I am still in mourning but that needn’t stop me from having lunch in my own rooms. My son was ill for some time. I had plenty of opportunity to mourn him; I am not given to emotional excess. I think of my son in my own way, I always have.”
“Ah Mrs. Touchett, you are your same marvelous self. I am happy we have a reason to be together. Mrs. Osmond so kindly invited us and we accepted with enthusiasm,” said Mr. Bantling.
“I am happy to see the friends of my son. It is like having him here though I dare say, he would do nothing but tease and make jokes…Isabel tells me you are to settle in London now?”
“Henrietta has agreed to take on my country though we shall not give up America entirely. I have affection for your country though I certainly can’t pretend to understand much of it. Still, wonderful inventions, customs. I look forward to a long relationship with the American way.”
“I understand Mrs. Bantling that you are to start a magazine. What is the subject of this publication? I had thought it was to be a newspaper though I don’t think London needs another newspaper.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Henrietta. Then a friend in publishing in New York suggested the field was not too terribly crowded for a magazine and has offered to help a little with the financial end. It will be a magazine for expatriates living in Europe informing our countrymen of the vagaries of European life and culture and Europeans with a view toward understanding us; a cultural exchange, if you will.”
“Ah, that could be useful. I’ve often thought we need someone to guide us while living here in the Old World. Not myself, of course, I’ve been here forever but for the newcomers who get confused at times. I’ve seen many a woman learn the hard way what society will and will not tolerate here. We are quite a different breed, you know, and you Mrs. Bantling are just the one to set everyone straight. I wish you the best of luck with your venture,” said Mrs. Touchett. The champagne she ordered was brought in and glasses were handed around. She did not drink during the day but was happy to offer her niece a chance to toast her friends.

Isabel who had been quiet now held up her glass and said “To the most lovely couple in all of England, I wish you the best of health, the most awfully grand success on your magazine and years of devoted affection.”
The glasses were touched, the luncheon was served after which Mrs. Touchett excused herself, Mr. Bantling departed on an errand and Isabel and Henrietta sat in the courtyard with their tea.

“You haven’t said anything Henrietta on Madame Merle’s return to Europe. Have you seen her?”
“She and I do not really get on though I actually know the man she is now married to. Mr. Roger Halpern of Indiana. He owns a factory that makes wheels for carriages and various equipage parts. Not too exciting for the grand lady of art and culture but I dare say she will certainly make good use of his money. He is very rich, you know.”
“I’m glad for her,” said Isabel without a too much zeal. “How did they meet?”
“Oh, the usual, a party given in someone’s honor in a grand Fifth Avenue house. Apparently, he saw her at the piano, listened to a Schubert something or other and fell promptly in love. And no time to waste. She’s not young, nor is he. He’s a widower. You and she were such great friends at one time. Has your marriage put you off her?”
“She is not so much a friend at present. We have had our falling out, so to speak. Osmond is tired of her.”
“Ah yes, your husband. I suspect he tires of friends easily.”
“And wives.”
“Oh Isabel, have you thought of leaving Rome? It’s not impossible, you know. Especially now that you have the lovely Gardencourt?”
“No, I will stay in Rome for the time being. I have duties and interests.”
“Yes, so you say. Well, I hope they are worth your time. You know, you could help me with the magazine. I could offer you all sorts of interesting prospects, you could have your pick. Editor, reporter, features, reviews…you used to love writing when we were in school.”
“Thank you dear. I’ll keep it in mind but I’ve no inclination to put pen to paper. I have nothing to say in particular. I am growing passive. Does that strike you as detestable? I simply have no need to mark my presence. I barely remember what it was I was so all-fired up about when I first came to Europe.”
“That is your husband’s doing. He has put you down. You are no longer the dynamic American you once were.”
“Have I become corrupted, do you think?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that; but you’ve lost some spark. I can’t quite put my finger on it but you are wearing down and yet you are still young.”
“I think life wears one down naturally. I can’t be the eager novice I once was. I am a married woman with responsibilities, cares.”
“Well I hope life does not wear me down so quickly as a married woman. I intend that it shall invigorate me.”
“I hope it does, dear friend. Do you plan to have children?”
“Oh larky, I haven’t time for that. My magazine will take up my time. I told Mr. Bantling if he expected an heir, he would have to take care of it, I might be rather busy. He only laughed and said it would be God’s will and he would do his part. Isn’t he just delightful, Isabel? He is never bad. By that I mean, he is always in great good form, always willing to carry off on any of my projects, always ready with a happy word or a lovely deed. To think he is the first man I laid eyes on in Europe. I have you to thank for that, Isabel. You and Ralph. You know what had been my opinion of European morals: I never expected to find someone so unadulterated as my husband…Oh, I do go on. Forgive me, I am a newlywed.”
“Henrietta, your happiness thrills me, I will never tire of your good fortune.”

Henrietta admitted she had capitulated to the Old World. She wasn’t proud of it but here she was. But she was going to do her part she said to bring the Old World a breath of modernity. Isabel admired her fortitude and courage. She wondered at her own lack of spirit in this area but decided to accept her shortcomings; after all, she started married life on a pretext, how lacking in wisdom could one get?
“I will help you in any way I can, dear but I feel I’m not up to much,” said Isabel.
“I’m afraid your husband may balk at any help you may offer me. Oh, but that is your business; I interfere a little too much, I’m going to let you handle your marriage. You’ve a good head, I expect gallant things of you yet. I offer you all of my support, that goes without saying, dear girl.“
“Yet? I hear a slight rebuke but thank you Henrietta. Don’t count me out yet. We didn’t get a chance to talk about my cousin’s gift to your ‘expansion in literature.’”
“Your cousin made it plain in his last days that I must do something. He was only joking as he can’t be serious for long but he put an idea into my head; something he said. He was spot on and it only just slipped into my mind for a second or two but I thought of it one long night on a train. I remembered something. I actually think I heard his voice but I was tired and not myself. Mr. Bantling takes care of me at these times, but that is beside the point. What I heard was your cousin saying, You are going to have a great influence for the good. Now you know me Isabel. I am not vain, I don't wish to inflate my abilities but I took it to heart. Whether my influence will be great may be an overstatement but I intend to give it my best effort, I live to work."

Before the conversation went any further, Mr. Bantling returned carrying a handful of letters and telegrams. He was at his most officious best and was warmly greeted again.
“Henrietta was just telling me of her plans for a magazine, Mr. Bantling. Are you ready for that?” said Isabel with a little teasing in her voice.
“Well London is not going to like a lady journalist in its midst but by George, she’ll have a real go at them. She plans to make an assault on British journalism, Mrs. Osmond.” He was in obvious delight at the prospect of haranguing the old guard and Isabel could barely get a word in.
“When will you start your magazine, Henrietta? Have you sold my cousin’s books?” Her cousin Ralph left a surprising legacy, decreed in his will, that his rare book collection should go to Henrietta Stackpole, that she should sell them at Christies, many rare and valuable, and start a newspaper. That, according to his mother, Mrs. Touchett, was quite the joke but Henrietta took it literally and began selling them almost immediately. Some she would keep for a small reference library at the magazine.
"I've already begun looking for its home. I may have found a place."
“I think you are wonderful Henrietta. I will be the first subscriber, certainly in Rome, and will enjoy the effect it will have on my husband enormously.”
“Well, well, well…there was a time you would have hid it under your bed before showing him anything with my name on it. This is the new Isabel? Shameless? The two women had a fit of giggling as only women who have known each other as girls would have.
"It will be brilliant. I will be so proud.” Isabel threw her arms around her friend. And then they laughed some more while the good Mr. Bantling smiled at them both, ever ready to do whatever his wife deemed appropriate.

Isabel thought one could see at a glance her friend was changed from the radical young woman who came to Europe to have a look around six years previous - had had her look and was now satisfied there was a place for a woman of her type, her style of journalism. Isabel did not want to speak of her own affairs, there was nothing interesting to talk about and she was more than happy to turn the attention to her friend who elaborated on plans and projects for her magazine. Isabel took it all in and was grateful. She was coming into the realization that she had a life to live and had to find a purpose for it. Italian gossip, flirtations and avarice did not appeal to her American spirit of self-improvement.

Peace had reigned at Palazzo Roccanera for the past month. Isabel did not have so much control that she could bring her stepdaughter to Florence on this trip; she did not have enough authority to take her to Gardencourt. But she was gaining ground. For now Pansy was content with her father, her father happy to have her at home. He’d won this battle after all: Mr. Rosier had been sidelined forever. Isabel did not ask too much of him.

She is subdued, thought Osmond not without some satisfaction. They ceased talking of personal matters leaving Osmond to talk of his favorite subject; the altarpiece; how certain he was that it was the hand of Giotto. Isabel listened - her husband was erudite on art - and as he talked she could distance herself. She began during these times to think of other places, other pursuits. If a outside observer saw her, he or she might say she was placidly participating in conversation with her husband but that is because she had to hide euphoria from Osmond, it had become, as a rule, her method. If aware of a glint of pleasure in her, he would crush it. She kept her joy to herself until later in her room…she had time…she would see Pansy was given the opportunity to find her place in life, her self-expression. Her own pursuits, whatever they might be, could wait.

Henrietta Aglow

Chapter VII

The next day was brimming with sunshine and happiness for Isabel. The Florentine air was never more enlivening, never so serene. The old city had a duality that Isabel found captivating. She understood why Mrs. Touchett chose it. It could not fail to please. The climate was lovely, the people were charming, the size was manageable, the vibration had a briskness that was not felt in Rome. Henrietta’s train arrived at the scheduled time and Isabel was at the station to greet her old friend.
“Good lord, Isabel Osmond! I never expected to see you here.” Henrietta hugged her friend, wrapping her in flapping waves of fabric and kissing her on both cheeks.
“I’ve been here for two days on business and thought I would surprise you. You once met me after an arduous journey and it felt the most unbelievable respite from weariness so I wanted to return the favor. Hello Mr. Bantling. It is so good to see you again,” she said offering her hand to her friend’s fiancé.
“Very good to see you looking so well, Mrs. Osmond. I fancy Florence agrees with you?”
“Very much so. But what brings you both here? I was never so surprised to get your telegrams.”
“Oh, I am writing a piece on small Italian museums, the more out-of-the-way Italian towns and what they have to offer art lovers for the Interviewer and Florence still evades my senses so I said to Mr. Bantling, we must go over and see some of the place first-hand and maybe take a run down to see Isabel and here you are, we need go no further. As you know, I’m quite done with Rome for our readers. I plan to interview the Countess Gemini and some others though she said you would not be interested in her views on Florence and would not even want to see her though she expressed concern for your well-being and wished to hear something of you. She said she is not welcome at the Palazzo Roccanera, her brother’s orders I take it and she has not even been able to see her niece. Oh, but I do go on, don’t I? We must get settled in my little hotel so we can have a real chat. I’ve a million things to tell you, not the least of which is that Mr. Bantling and I are married, don’t say anything, it was all quite sudden, we were married quietly, without a lot of fuss and here we are. This is a sort of honeymoon though it is a working honeymoon for me. Mr. Bantling, of course, always has some work to do, he’s getting ready to try for a seat in the House of Commons, if you can imagine.” Henrietta went on in her staccato voice all the while Mr. Bantling, blushing and tapping his walking stick, watched in hopeful anticipation for their luggage.
“You’re married! Why Henrietta, I never thought, but of course, with such a companion as Mr. Bantling, there is nothing so surprising. Congratulations dear and to you also Mr. Bantling. May I say, it is wonderfully concise of you to marry in so secret a way. But that won’t absolve you from sharing your joy with your friends…I absolutely insist on a festive dinner as my guest before we leave Florence.” She hugged her friend again and kissed Mr. Bantling on the cheek which got him blushing all over again before he went in search of the baggage.
“Oh Isabel, I can’t tell you how happy I am. And happy to see you looking so well. Ralph’s funeral saw you looking close to death. I knew you were so unhappy losing your cousin but there was more to it than that. Can you bear to tell me how things are for you at the Palazzo Roccanera? Is Osmond in Florence, by the way?”
“No dear, he is not. And I am staying with my aunt. You won’t believe it but it seems I have inherited Gardencourt after all.”
“Good golly, Isabel Archer, that’s wonderful! Now you can be join me in my British residency.”
“You forget I’m Isabel Osmond. No, I’m not moving to Gardencourt, Henrietta, my place is in Rome but…”
“Your place can’t be in any house of gloom, you are too fine, Isabel.”
“My husband and I have called for a truce.”
“A truce. Is that what passes for marriage in Italy?”
“I don’t know what it passes for, but it is working for us. We go our own way, have little contact and follow the path of least resistance. Meanwhile, I have been given the care of Pansy, I plan to see her married.”
“Oh well, the poor girl could do worse. That’s very generous of you. Do you think you can find someone her father will approve of?”
“I’m not interested in someone Osmond might approve of. I’m looking out for Pansy’s interest.”
“Wasn’t there a young man interested, an American her father did not go in for?”
“That’s in the past.”

They were now walking at a brisk pace, being ushered into a carriage by Mr. Bantling’s capable instruction with Henrietta instructing him while her mind was a whirl of commingled planning. Isabel kept up with her friend, thankful she was wearing a sturdy shoe and together they entered the small pension Henrietta Stackpole Bantling used while in Florence. It was not grand; the descendant of egalitarian principle had no wish for that though Mr. Bantling did not mind a touch of grandeur but Mr. Bantling never countered his wife; he knew her to be inflexible on certain matters but as he found her to be quite adaptable on others and so far had no complaint of his wife of three weeks. She said he was as clear as glass, and though he wouldn’t go so far as to accuse his wife of such clarity, he was able to discern her prevarications if not precisely, with at least a percentage of accuracy that allowed the good English gentleman some comfort. He was very happy these days and one only had to look upon his cheerful demeanor to see that marriage was agreeing with him in as much as he always suspected it might. It took some time to bring Henrietta Stackpole around to this way of thinking but they seemed to come to the same conclusion at about the same time. Their hesitation evaporated at just the right time and temperature.

Once settled in their room, Henrietta excused her husband who was always on the lookout for luncheon despite his wife’s indifference to eating for the most part. She called for tea to be served and the two women began talking at once.
“Married! My aunt just his morning called you a ‘sly one.’ Why didn’t you tell me? Where did this marriage ceremony take place?” Isabel was full of questions but it was partly to keep from the discussion she knew she would eventually have: Madame Merle’s return to Europe and the Countess Gemini’s banishment from Rome. Isabel would have some difficulty explaining both without tipping her own hand which she was reluctant to do. Not because she wanted secrets from her friend but because she was having a pleasant visit in Florence and did not at all want to talk of her marriage, her husband and the secret she found out before her cousin’s death.

Henrietta suspected much foul play at the hands of Gilbert Osmond, nothing would shock her; she had gotten over her apprehension of European deception. She by no means planned to conspire with such artifice but she was less intent on seeing and reporting her findings than when she was first abroad. Henrietta had become acclimatize to the Old World’s modes and manners. She was still full of scolding when the notion took her but the notion did not take her with just such vigor these days. Henrietta had mellowed. She now looked positively content if one could be called content with a blazing radiance. She was almost beautiful. Isabel wished Ralph could see her; he would tease her mercilessly, this friend, who had turned out to be more of a friend than anyone expected. Henrietta attended to her cousin Ralph on his journey from Rome to England where he went to breath his last breathe in his own home. Henrietta went to great length to comfort Ralph when Isabel herself could not be there for him. Osmond’s wrath had so settled around Isabel then that she hardly knew how to be anything other than the cowered wife of a imperious husband. She blushed to think of it now.

“Well, dear, it was at Lady Pensil’s house in the country. Only a few family members were there, old cousins of Mr. Bantling’s mother, an aunt, his sister and her family and believe it or not, my own mother and father crossed the pond to be there. They were visiting and we decided if they were to see their daughter married, it would have to be now and it took Lady Pensil only a week to put it all together. Oh, it was nothing fancy; my parents are not grand but I think Lady Pensil was pleased with her handiwork. She is most happy to see her brother married. She didn’t take to me at first but I think she has come around. I intrigue her. I am not of a type she is used to seeing but she cannot quite put me off. She suspects I might still add some stature to the old family name. She’s not prepared to throw me over just yet.”
“Who would throw you over, you marvelous thing?” gushed Isabel, relaxing in the company of someone who knew her so well. She drank tea, nibbled at cake and found amusement in Henrietta’s portrayal of her in-laws. Such charming open views, she thought. For a moment she remembered her own closed, fearful relationship, especially in the early days as she began to see her husband for the petty tyrant he was. She felt a pang of remorse for her old innocent self who looked at the world with fresh eyes and a forgiving spirit. Osmond made her doubt everything.

“Oh, I know that look. You are thinking now of your husband. I can always tell, the light goes out in your eyes. Please tell me, dear friend, what you really have been up to.”
“Just as I said. We have a bargain. I let him expand his collection of paintings and coins and he lets me plan for his daughter. That was the agreement and he has lived up to it.” She did not want to go further with confession. She did not care for pity or disapproval. She was still married to Osmond and felt culpable in talking of his faults. They were the business of no one and she still had some pride.

“I’m afraid I have to leave you, dear. My aunt is expecting me.” Madame Merle’s name had not come up yet so Isabel decided to end the visit. They would meet again tomorrow. Isabel invited her friend to luncheon at Mrs. Touchett’s without exactly getting the old woman’s approval but she thought her aunt might like some company. Who would not like Mr. and Mrs. Bantling’s company? Their joy was palpable.

Isabel's Gain

Chapter VI

Isabel arrived in Florence on a wet late summer afternoon. Her aunt’s driver was waiting for her. She was taken to the Palazzo Crescentini, a spacious, looming presence with many servants and capacious accommodations. A pared-down comfort American style with a smattering of Italian eleganza and the old frescos in the drawing room gave an enchanted feel that was and was not its mistress. Her aunt left a message that they would meet at dinner giving Isabel time to rest before the often arduous process of communicating with her aunt--who did not appear to greet guests but left their settling in to a competent staff. Her aunt’s ways were original, her own. Isabel saw to the unpacking of her clothing, wrote a quick letter to Osmond, another to Pansy and changed for dinner.

At the appointed hour Isabel walked about the large drawing room before entering the dining hall, filled with marble and mirrors. Quite grand for the old American woman who had modest taste and aspiration. The two women briefly hugged, Mrs. Touchett as always, awkward in expressions of physical affection and slightly unnerved when anyone tried for a more tender touch. They were seated rather close together at the large table as Mrs. Touchett admitted she was going deaf in one ear. She brushed this off and talked in a loud raspish voice; to make others hear when it was she who needed a louder volume. Isabel found her slightly comical but had always found Mrs. Touchett’s company to be not only constructive, but heartfelt despite its quirks. She had a prickly American backbone but founded her home in Italy, the land of relaxed manners and insouciance. This incongruity appealed to Isabel’s sense of humor.

“You’ve always had a rather crisp peculiarly American voice, my dear. I never have trouble hearing you. I think Ralph enjoyed your voice, he once told me you sounded like a breath of American momentum. Ralph went in for a metaphor--seeing what isn’t there. He lived in a fantasy, you know Isabel. I humored him, I loved him, but rarely understood him. His father let him be who he was and I didn’t interfere. But a banker, he was certainly not. I suspect he had artistic leanings but he never showed an interest in capitalizing on any particular endeavor. He said the world needed less artists and more art, something to that effect, you know how Ralph talked, in fanciful terms arcane to me. I sometimes wondered how Mr. Touchett and myself produced such an offspring. He was nothing like either of us.”
“My cousin was only generous,” said Isabel knowing her aunt was just filling the air with words requiring no special commentary.
“To you, my dear, I’d say he most certainly was. I don’t suppose you wonder why he set you up, you understood each other…he said you would know what to do. Well, I hope you have done well, my dear, get ready because you are about to get another shock: Gardencourt has been left to you.”
“You can’t be serious, Aunt?”
“I never joke. It was all set up to be entrusted, bought and re-willed. It is to go to Isabel Archer Osmond for her personal use and/or the use by members of the Archer family or to rent and earn the income if she so chooses. That’s the gist of it. The lawyers will explain more fully tomorrow.”
“Aunt, I’m not sure I can take this on. I was at the reading of my cousin’s will. Gardencourt was to be sold and the proceeds to be used for a foundation of sorts. Lord Warburton the executor, I believe.”
“All that has changed by a few small codicils overlooked. The bank will handle the details. You only need say what you wish to do with the property. There is no hurry; take your time thinking about it. It’s only a house, not an estate. You can leave it empty if you choose. Only think of it as your place in England, and offer it to your sister or her children. Perhaps you will want to live there yourself some day. It wouldn’t be unthinkable. What are you to Italy? Your husband is not really Italian, it is not your language. You are still young, anything could happen. Don’t be put off. You know I don’t believe in divorce either. But I don’t believe in living the life of someone else. Go your own way Isabel. You’ll be much happier and more fulfilled.
“I intend to do something of that sort, Aunt Lydia. I’m looking about as Ralph would say. I’m continuing what I intended when I arrived here. It seems my husband does not see anything in me; I annoy him.”
“Your husband, while cultivating a most interesting persona, is only that; underneath, I suspect he’s as mean as a ravenous dog and just as greedy. You don’t have to say anything, I have my notions, I’ve a right--but don’t damage yourself unduly, Isabel, no one likes or respects a martyr. Don’t fall into traps and dogma. The Italians love dogma. It’s their way of entrapment. Still, I myself prefer Italy, but I’m not afraid of entrapment, I don’t go in for those things. You’ve always loved Gardencourt. Ralph said you had a superior appreciation for its special awkwardness. I admit the place is nothing to me but others think it very livable, including our old friend Serena Merle, whom I heard is in America and doing quite well for herself.”

“That’s quite a lecture Aunt. I will let it pass but to say I am coming into my own. I have found a path of least resistance and I’m going to take it. Oh, I’ll go my own way, as you say, but I am not ready to give up on Italy yet. Rome is marvelous. It’s subtle, intriguing and filled with treasures. And it’s pleasant to have a stepdaughter. Osmond has made a deal with me. I bargained, Aunt. I put myself out. I really did. I asked for something in return for something. He agreed. It couldn’t have been more perfunctory. A thing in itself. As for our friend, I wish her the best. I’m holding no grudge; everyone suffers because of her manipulations. Osmond is not happy; nor am I, we were both mistaken.”
“Mistaken?” Well that is something I know little of. I plan well. I think clearly.”
“But you did not prefer to live with Mr. Touchett, you separated.”
“Well, I’ve always preferred Florence but that is me. My living with my husband, you know all about, it’s an old story. In any case, the keys to Gardencourt will be presented with papers for you to sign. We will meet tomorrow morning with the attorney from Mr. Touchett’s bank; he will have you look over certain documents. He wants to talk to you about options for keeping it out of Italian hands, free from the marriage contracts of Italy which do not in any way favor women. Of course they don’t in England either but it is more transparent there.”
“But Aunt, women can’t inherit property in England.”
“You are not English, nor was my husband and his property as such is not restricted by English law. It is as American as Henrietta Stackpole. By the way, she wrote me, she is to arrive tomorrow and gave me the address of the hotel she and Mr. Bantling, I assume, are staying. Not a word on a wedding. She is a sly one. Well, I never got on with her but she’s good for you. She’s got her mind and her life in two worlds now. I wonder if she will become English; so thoroughly the American that she is, but then so am I. So are you, Isabel, don’t turn your back on your native country.”
“I’m not worried about America just now, Aunt. I’m trying to digest England. What will I do with Gardencourt?”
“Wait and see what is presented to you.”
“You mean what the attorney says--is there more to it?”
“Attorneys. Two. Not that I’m aware of. Now let’s have one more cup of tea and talk of other things. Do you know your sister plans to visit Europe next month? No, I thought as much. She’s practically on her way here. Did you know your nephew Harold is set for Oxford in the fall and has been in England for the past month? Your sister said she wrote you. Is the mail in Rome delivered by donkeys? Harold’s to study medicine. Apparently, he is quite intelligent, possibly a genius, and has received a prestigious scholarship. He’s not a bad looking boy either. His father is coarse material but the son is quite of another weave. He looks a bit like you Isabel. I don‘t suppose you have seen him since he was a boy. Well, that will all change if he is in Europe. You know, Isabel, it’s not so bad that you are to have Gardencourt. Perhaps your sisters will make use of it.”

The dishes were removed, the room had grown dark and a few candles were lit for the ladies by the old servant.
“Aunt, if you will excuse me, I’d like to write to my sister. Can I help you to your room?”
“I’m not that old, dear, I can still find my room.”

Her nephew in England. This was news to Isabel. She hadn’t seen him since he was thirteen years old, on leaving Albany. Now he is grown and in college. Isabel felt so distanced from her family--her life took a complete turn from her younger days through her marriage, her wealth and her country of choice, now she thought she might like to know them again. Who were they? Isabel asked herself these things. Should she meet her nephew before returning to Rome? Would her sister really come over? What will she do with Gardencourt? What will Osmond say to any of it? She planned to have a good long chat with her friend Henrietta after she was settled. They had a great deal to discuss as it turned out.

Isabel was in her better brocade, her hair had been done up by her maid, so gifted in the art of hairstyling that Isabel could look only grand as she ascended the steps of a government building, tall and drafty with loud echoes that bounced around the Doric columns that predominated the grand entryway. Isabel felt like a speck in its corridor. She found the door to the meeting room, entered and found her aunt already in attendance. Mrs. Touchett was encased in a somber gray dress that she wore with a certain dignity that a only a finely woven wool dress, stitched in Italy by skilled dressmakers could give--a slight hint of the fashionably conscious though this was one accusation her aunt would never entertain.”
“Good morning, Aunt.”
“I see you are in fine form today, Isabel. You have, I think, topped Madame Merle in style: so subtlety appropriate. Well, Serena had a grand style, I’ll give her that.”
“I was thinking the same thing of your dress. But I owe much to Osmond. He is immediately displeased if I happen to be wearing the wrong gown, that is, one that doesn’t appeal to his fine sense of aesthetics, he actually takes it out on me somehow. I must change the subject before I lose my gaiety. Has my nephew come alone then, Aunt?”
“As far as I know. He’s made all of his arrangements. It has been a year in the planning. I gave him a small allowance to begin his residency at Oxford. He wrote thanking me but has said nothing else. Ralph left him something so he will be able to pay his way for the most part. He has visited Gardencourt. He came to know Ralph a little. He was very much interested as he plans to study the sort of things Ralph was afflicted with. They made great games together. Ralph said he reminded him of you and this made him happy. They both loved sprawling conversation and had a matched set of wits.”
“I will be pleased to know a friend of my cousin, a source of agreeable memories.”

The two attorneys entered the chamber where the women had been conversing in a low timbre. The air was hushed as the proceedings began. Isabel was to receive Gardencourt in a limited fashion: she would have use of it for life but after her death it would revert to the bank. Isabel would have first right of buying it if the bank wished to sell but it is for her protection that it stay in the hands of the American branch of a bank, where it will not be subject to laws in Italy. Isabel had only to sign and take possession.

“In the meantime, Mrs. Osmond, the caretaker and his wife are on the property and Lord Warburton will look in. It would be better if you had someone living there, to maintain the property; it is of some value for hunting land, but it has no income. It could be rented, however. The bank would handle the details and probably find the new tenant but you could handle this if you so choose. You have freedom, here. Your cousin wanted it to be so, he did not want to encumber you but he wanted your comfort and security. At the eleventh hour, Mrs. Osmond, Mr. Touchett wanted you to have the use of it as you please. He wanted you protected somehow. He said something about sheltered from Italy. We did not know exactly what he meant, he was always something of a puzzle, he spoke in riddles to men of my ilk, Mrs. Osmond. By the way, he left this for you.”
Mr. Forsyth handed her a letter, a personal letter she could see although it had not Ralph’s, idiosyncratic hand. She put it in her handbag for later reading. She was also given a set of keys and several documents and she was glad she had brought a large enough bag to carry everything. She felt she had become a woman of some business. In Rome, they had an office assistant who took care of the details concerning the Palazzo Roccanera. She never ventured into a street carrying anything but a parasol. She liked the feeling. Her carefully constructed Italian leather satchel felt important in her hand as she walked the cobbled street of Florence, the sun glinting in dancing patches across the square, the dresses of the ladies swaying while the men gallantly shielded them. The smell of wild honeysuckle from a nearby hedge filled her nostrils and gave her a keen sense of aliveness, of being centered in the milieu. She had a swift realization of how pure the air was when it wasn’t soiled by Osmond’s personae, as her aunt implied. And she had Gardencourt. A refuge. Osmond could take it or leave it, she herself would take it in perfect freedom.

That evening she was tired. She walked all over the city of Florence, she meandered about and even visited a tearoom on her own. Henrietta would be arriving in the morning. Isabel planned to meet her and Mr. Bantling. She grew happy thinking of her craggy, yet so delightful Henrietta. A letter from Henrietta arrived with the afternoon post. She delivered two beguiling announcements: the first that Madame Merle was on the train from London with Henrietta and Mr. Bantling and she had with her a husband though Henrietta did not speak to them.
Isabel went to sleep thinking about the ramifications. She had hoped never to see Madame Merle again, she still hoped she wouldn’t…and she had Gardencourt.

Mrs. Osmond came down to breakfast at an unusually early hour. Her aunt followed. They had a quiet desultory repast without conversation. Isabel had her own thoughts though she was surprised when her aunt finally spoke.
“I’ve heard a rumor about our friend.”
Isabel stiffened but did not flinch from the topic. She suspected she knew what her aunt was about to impart. “I have also, Aunt.”
“You go first.”
“No, you brought it up.”
“I have it from a respectable source that Madame Merle has been married.”
“Isabel sat in studied silence. This was unexpected news. But then again, Madame Merle was not ancient. “To whom did she marry?”
“To an American manufacturer, of all things. Can you picture it? While she beautifully renders a Mozart sonata to a captive gathering…”
“He could be a cultivated man, Aunt. America has been known to produce a few.”
“Well, you perhaps see more than I do. I couldn’t tell you about cultivated. I am only familiar with the useful. Or adaptable.”
“Will you write her?”
“I don’t think I will. I severed my connection with her and I may not be inclined to start it up for the curiosity of seeing an American factory owner, I can see them for myself when I am there.”
“Don’t tell me you are a snob, Aunt Lydia?” Isabel made a brief attempt at teasing this venerable old relic of the land of the brave, home of the free.
“Just discerning, my dear. Besides I have no time for new people. What is your news?”
“Oh, the same as yours. Will you excuse me if I leave you early? I’m meeting Henrietta and I must write my sister.”
“No mind at all, dear. I’m a tried old woman these days. We’ll meet tomorrow then. Unless you have more new for me. I‘m always up for a little gossip now that I’m retired. I no longer care about offending anyone. A marvelous invention, freedom.”
Isabel rose and went to kiss her aunt. She was a starchy old thing but she was generous and wanted the best for those related to her.

After she retired to her room to await Henrietta’s hour of arrival, she could not relax thinking of her new options. Yes, she did love Gardencourt but doubted she would live in England. Her place was in Rome. Osmond would never consent to live in England especially not in the house of her cousin whom he disliked before his death. He disliked anything or anyone he could not control or confabulate with. She thought of her sister and family. Would they like to live at Gardencourt if their son was in England? Maybe Pansy would like to see Gardencourt finally, she’d heard much about it. Would her father consent or obstruct? Lord Warburton would have a new wife and they could not be avoided. Meanwhile Henrietta would be living in England permanently so Isabel could open Gardencourt to her. So many possibilities.

To think that earlier in the year her life had seemed like a dark whirling abyss ready to consume her. Now she knew she was destined to live and to live well. Osmond was a portentous force in her life but he was becoming less of a burden. He knew he’d lost honor, no small point with him. It wasn’t his diminished honor that irritated him, but that someone should know it. That Isabel knew it rankled him but he was growing used to it. Her money and the things it could buy more than made up for his loss. To the world, the façade was completely in place and he had nothing but a few small pangs when he caught his wife looking at him with an astute eye. He wasn’t sure what she was thinking. Nor was he aware she was looking at what her money bought and weighing the value of her purchase. She knew she had been swindled and that he knew this only bothered him when he saw that look. He’d live with it. He did not give her the moral ground: he felt she was inherently, at fault. Avoidance equaled harmony at the Palazzo Roccanera and the couple perfected its employ.

Osmond's Delight, Isabel's Relief

Chapter V

Mr. and Mrs. Osmond, traveling north by carriage, were to look again at the alleged Giotto altarpiece and, if Osmond could prevail, make the purchase. Endless entanglements, conciliation, obscure implications and subterfuge filled Osmond’s days and the outright duplicity and dissimulation gave him an air of self-importance. No one thrived on perceived treachery as much as Osmond. Isabel would have never made the journey through the rutted roads, over hill and dale in a carriage with a wheel that threatened abdication but that she was on her way to Florence to see her aunt, Mrs. Touchett, on practical matters. Her aunt was now eighty-seven years old and had begun to slow down. Mrs. Touchett requested a visit from her niece as there were, she said, “surprising legal and financial matters to discuss.” Isabel wanted to see how she fared since Ralph’s death two months previous.

Henrietta Stackpole she would meet again, old friends reunited, none of which Osmond knew or cared to know of. The couple had settled very quickly into a routine based on the mutual benefit derived from their collusion and Isabel often questioned why a thing once struck her so deeply and then was gone, all emotion spent. She marveled at this newly discovered lack of inner turmoil and wondered if she could ever trust her emotions again. She no longer cared about the things that had once troubled her with sharp obdurate penetration regarding her husband. It might be said she adapted quickly once she had gained leverage. Only when Osmond broached certain subjects did Isabel feel the old flare in her chest, the need of a quick retort on her lips, but she quelled the rancor before it came out of her mouth, a victory of sorts. She no longer shared her thoughts or feelings with her husband and found it was a great freedom. She suspected she was corrupted, she did not care to fight it. Learning how bad was her husband, how badly she had chosen, had been a stake in her heart. But she no longer gave precedence to her heart and that too was a great freedom.

Mr. and Mrs. Osmond entered the small stone church, so lovingly built in 1369. It had been flooded, was falling into a ravine and most of the interior wood was warped badly. The altarpiece was a triptych painted on panels, which Osmond believed was painted by Giotto in the fourteenth century for this diminutive church in an out of the way locale at the beginning of his career. The painting was sadly diminished by centuries of age, neglect, sunlight and candle wax. He knew the altarpiece, few others did. The church was plain and of little interest. Osmond was going to take a chance on being right; he’d been right before. The piece had never been examined by a professional curator, this was in Osmond’s favor and he planned to purchase the altarpiece the moment he heard of the flood putting in an appearance the next day to look over the crumbling construction. Osmond had been traveling the six miles regularly in an attempt to convince the councilmen it was wise to get this artwork out of harm’s way, while conversely pretending it was of no particular importance other than for sentimental value. On other days he would admonish the men saying they owed it to Italy to save this piece, the men only giving scant thought to the painting they had grown up seeing--not really seeing it, as we tend to dismiss what is seen everyday--but now wondering if it was maybe of some importance…and yes, a little cash would be good for the rebuilding of the church. Still cash had not changed hands and Osmond was beginning to suspect someone else visiting with the town council and they trying to figure a way to capitalize on both offers. Osmond suspected competition and roiled inwardly.

He was jittery on his way to make the purchase that day, his pockets lined with bills. He was bringing his wife along though she made him tense when he needed to calmly think of his tactics. But she was necessary; they would not falter in her presence. Once the deal was completed she would travel to Florence by train and Osmond would stay to transfer the altarpiece to the Palazzo Roccanera.

With the transaction finally completed, Isabel, her duty also completed, was anxious to catch her train to Florence. “I will leave you, Gilbert. My train will be here shortly. You can reach me at my aunt’s at Palazzo Crescentini if you should need to. I will return in a fortnight.”
“I will be busy with my altarpiece and I am to dine with the Marchese Vitaconti tomorrow. Pansy will miss your presence…”
Isabel did not miss his meaning. She knew he did not regard her in the way he had of old, dismissed her as if she were nothing more than a servant. At one time this would have hurt her feelings but now she could only enjoy the impending freedom from his presence. “Yes, I’m lucky to have at least a devoted stepdaughter.”
“Let’s not separate on a note of disdain, Isabel. The day is too fine.”
“Yes, it is very much so.” With that she walked away from her husband and entered their carriage for the train station. She checked her gloves, straightened her bonnet, lifted her petticoat and watched as Osmond directed the loading of his treasure onto a cart giving little thought to their separation. We are worlds apart, she thought. Who would have ever thought I would make such a marriage? She sighed and let the movement of the carriage lull her along and before ten minutes passed she was being seated in a car on a train traveling further north with some speed. Isabel felt some of the happiness of old; when all the world was new and hers to contemplate.

Osmond no longer cared where Isabel went nor whom she might see--the truth had given him some consolation. The only important secret he carried was now acknowledged and nothing had changed. He had now a free conscious and a richer pocket. He had been contributing to the church to make his presence felt. He pretended to want nothing less than the restoration of the little church while waiting for the fall and the possession of the only thing of value in the musty cavern. It was a thing of beauty, covered in dirt. Osmond had looked at it in daylight and in darkness. He was waiting to take possession not knowing the sin of acquisitiveness is impermanence. Osmond did not believe in impermanence. He believed in possession, even more so, immortality. Osmond felt he was immortal and was in a quick snappish humor. He never looked more regal, riding through the northern tip of the Rome on a day late in June in search of an obscure church decoration and the sure knowledge that it was a valuable Giotto only he would possess.

How he would boast, thought Isabel, jostling over the terrain in a comfortable car. She did not know the importance of the acquisition nor its validity other than by Osmond’s word. She thought he might be right, he hated to be wrong, and to do him justice, he did know a thing or two about the history of Italian art and so she was willing to finance the feat. She would not buy clothes for one year, she didn’t mind, she was not vain about her appearance. She dressed smartly at first to impress her husband and his society. With his lack of appreciation she no longer bothered. Her views could not be more dissimilar than those prescribed by Italian society, its government, the Catholic Church or backwardness of any sort. She was a radical like her friend Henrietta Stackpole but only Henrietta recognized it in her attractive, rich friend wearing silk brocades of the finest weave as she did when she escorted her stepdaughter to parties and dances. Once Pansy was settled she would not need to attend frivolous affairs other than the couple’s Thursday evenings now more for Osmond’s sake. Once the Giotto was restored, authenticated and hung in the Palazzo Roccanera he would be in a heady rush to show it off. This she did not mind either. Her husband’s egotism ceased to matter to her, she’d taken its measure and found it best left unexamined.

Without much ado, Isabel decided it was for her to look around and find an occupation, a purpose. Her intent was to be free--not under the thumb of a man nor a society. She would use her money to good cause; what that was she had only a vague notion of--she had been blind to the world in the past and she chastised herself. She thought she’d found her world but it wasn’t hers at all. She was fighting for her very identity. The battlefield in the Old World was a lonely place for a quick-tempered American woman, rich or not. She sometimes laughed at her arrogance, her stupidity, but then remembered there was a time when she could not laugh. Her laughter too was a victory, she thought. There was still time for serious consideration; she knew there was much yet to do and she was ready as she never had been before. She wasn’t sure what she would gain by this trip to Florence but her heart had been light as she stepped into the car; relief from Osmond’s presence was an elevation she was ever more aware of. The murkiness that fell upon everything he came near was not something she could ignore but it no longer had the power it once had.

Isabel, stately in her seat, thought of the last time she was on a train, returning to she knew not what. She did not know if she had a marriage after her defection but things sorted themselves out little by little. Even Osmond could not sink her spirit that day as she felt the summer sun through the window of her berth, the rolling hills, the decrepit castles, the charming hillside villages. It all seemed to Isabel that day her gift of personal restoration.

Isabel smiled thinking of Osmond’s delight as the wooden panels were being loaded on a wagon enroute to central Rome. She did not mind making her husband happy in this way. It was something she could do. She approved of art, its power of salvation. She’d learned much from Osmond on this. She also knew the Palazzo Roccanera, her home, was made all the more valuable by Osmond’s diligence, it had earned some renown for its collection, as well as its restoration, which gave Osmond all the more pleasure to be able to exclude some from viewing it; omission one of Osmond’s more established games that he excelled at. Isabel once balked at his mean-spiritedness, now she was given to the Countess Gemini’s attitude: He cannot love, don’t expect it. How profane this statement reverberated from the mouth of his sister, how bewildered she had felt. That she had accepted it she knew was a form of duplicity but put it out of her mind for the time being. She would never be able to sell her sister Lily on such blasphemy and Henrietta understood only too well the weave of her husband’s cloth. Nevertheless, she would work on herself and her stepdaughter and leave her husband’s salvation to someone else. There was no shortage of Christian idolatry in his home and heart.