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.