Isabel Plans

Chapter XIII

Isabel received a telegram early the next morning as her maid was finishing her hair announcing the arrival of her friend Henrietta. She experienced a jolt of renewed vivacity with the arrival of the missive and made immediate arrangements to go to the Hotel de Londres, a short journey by hansom, letting Pansy know she would be unavailable for the morning. She also had to check in with Osmond; to let him know of her friend’s arrival though he would not show any marked enthusiasm. He, with a few curt words could cause her light to diminish as a fast-moving cloud obscured the sun.

She knocked on his study door to see if he was in almost hoping he would be out and she could leave a message without any danger to her equilibrium. Higgins answered the door and indicated that the her husband was in. Isabel entered and noticed a watercolour sketch on the large ornate easel he used to showcase works on loan or less frequently these days, his latest effort.

“Ah, Isabel. What brings you to my sphere so early? Bad news again?”
“I’m not always the bearer of bad news, Gilbert, you exaggerate and look for it. It seems I am unable to enjoy your approval for anything I might have to say, or to offer; you pretend scorn even if it is of some interest.”
“If you have come to rile me again today, Mrs. Osmond, please know that I keep score.”
“That is something you need never remind me of, Gilbert. I am familiar with your scorecard.”
“Well, what is it you want? Don’t tell me you’ve set my daughter to laundering now.”
“Your daughter likes to keep busy. She is not indolent or lazy and it is not odd that a girl might like to learn cooking. She told me she often helped in the kitchen at the convent and it was something she looked forward to each day. It won’t hurt her, even if she never has the need to cook. She is not the first person to find some art in this pursuit. I believe it’s harmless.”
“I might wish she would concentrate on skills more marketable for one of her breeding. It’s unseemly to see one’s daughter mopping her brow in a hot kitchen with the servants. Better she should practice the piano a little more, or perhaps improve her watercolour technique.”
“We all have our individual interests, Gilbert. Pansy says she has no feel for the piano and that she will never draw like you or…” She stopped. It was not a name that they could casually converse over.
“Or Madame Merle I suppose you were going to say? Don’t worry Isabel, she is not on my mind but we can’t very well tell Pansy never to mention her name, now can we? I only hope that some day she will forget the name as we both have. Until then, it’s not anything we need bother ourselves about.” He moved to the other side of the room and stood before an arched window looking out on the garden.
“I did not come here to discuss Madame Merle or Pansy, Gilbert. I simply came to tell you I am going to meet Henrietta and Mr. Bantling for luncheon. I wanted to know your position…you mentioned you would not mind meeting Mr. Bantling and if that is still your desire, I wish to invite them. Of course, I will invite them for our Thursday evenings but I thought I should like something before then - that is if they have no other plans and they wish to come.”
“You mean, wish to see me?”
“As you say.”
“How rich. Your friend hasn’t an ounce of ingratiation and yet I am made to feel like an ogre in my own home.”
“Please let’s not quarrel, Gilbert. I only came to make sure of your hospitality, your willingness to extend yourself for Mr. and Mrs. Bantling. I never really know what mood you will be in or how you will take something.”
“Yes, it’s always me who is at fault; always me who causes suffering. I tell you, Isabel, I’m perfectly willing to meet Mr. and Mrs. Bantling whenever you choose to invite them. I will be graciousness itself. You have no need to fear me. Haven’t I always been on hand to help enliven your little soirees?”
“I think you do not enliven as much as deign to put in an appearance where you would rather not and it is always obvious.”
“All the same.”
“And I do the same for your company. I am rather tired of the Marchesa Viticonti, her nephew and the rest of the old entourage she keeps about her but I know you are up to something…I do my part equally, Gilbert.”
“I would like Pansy to favor us a little with her presence when Prince Viticonti visits. It’s not every day a prince graces our home. He asks for her if he doesn’t see her and I am made to feel as if my daughter is snubbing him, a most unwelcome impression if I may say so. Surely she can leave the kitchen now and again to dignify us with her company for an hour.”
“Pansy understands what you are up to and she doesn’t care for the prince. He eyes her as if she were a choice morsel on the dessert tray.”
“Perhaps she smells of the baking oven these days.” He said this with a bemused expression, still able to charm if the mood struck him.
“Pansy plays her part beautifully; you cannot fault her. Her manners are excellent.”
“Now that she spends her time with a scullery maid and a laundress among fishmongers and greengrocers, may we expect to see her with her head swathed in rags talking with a cigarette dangling in her mouth.”
“Not our girl. She’s perfection. They take excellent care of her in the kitchen. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not sure a prince would feel elated about a wife who does the cooking.”
“Gilbert, surely you’re not expecting her to marry the prince?”
“Why not? Do you prefer your friend, what was his name, Mr. Rosier? The collector of lace and enamels?”
“Mr. Rosier no longer carries a hope for Pansy. You’ve managed to ward him off. In fact, I believe he may be engaged to a French girl, a friend of his family.”
“Well, good for Mr. Rosier. I wish him a long and happy life in France or anywhere but upon my door slobbering over my daughter.”
“You are insulting, Gilbert. What do you get out of it?”
“My dear, I get nothing out of it, but I do place my daughter in a higher bracket if you won‘t.”
“I don’t wish to discuss Mr. Rosier again. Let’s have his name be another we do not mention in the future.”
“I agree wholeheartedly for once.” He laughed congenially. He was in excellent spirits. Signore Cellini was nearly finished with the first step in the cleaning of his altarpiece and it was a thing of great beauty. It was everything that Osmond had anticipated. Even the old man looked appreciative of the spectacle and Osmond felt pride in his purchase. “Bring on your friends, Isabel. I can wait no longer to offer my congratulations to a man brave enough to marry Henrietta Stackpole, lady journalist and obvious bore.”

With that note of disparagement though offered in a, rare for Osmond, humorous light, Isabel took her departure eager to see her friends again. She found a hansom and was soon on her way. The morning was brilliant and the air had an aroma that you only find in Italy; that of coffee, fresh bread, animal scents, greased wheels and dying foliage. Never had Rome seemed so enticing or friendly as when Isabel greeted her oldest friend Henrietta Stackpole Bantling with her vibrant, fearless character and her attentive husband bent on her every move, always in service to this person he was lucky enough to find at the age of forty. He did not find her in any way a bore and he never had.

“Oh Isabel, you look wonderful. Such fine clothing you wear. Do you know if you are not careful you may soon be referred to as a lady of high fashion.”
Isabel hugged her friend in the lobby of the hotel and shook hands with Mr. Bantling. They strode toward the dining room at the encouragement of Mr. Bantling who was always up for a luncheon. Isabel walked arm in arm with both of these amiable people - friends who would give her spirit a much needed lift.
“Henrietta, my dear, you yourself look ravishing and it is not entirely your gown. Marriage certainly agrees with you. Mr. Bantling, have you ever seen our Henrietta look quite so fine?”
Mr. Bantling’s eyes had a twinkle but he said nothing. He was busy with the major domo, organizing the procurement of a table amid the jostle of a hungry crowd. The place was overflowing with English-speaking patrons and Mr. Bantling recognized several acquaintances who greeted him effusively. He had to introduce his new wife and her friend and all this took a good deal of time before they were seated in a large settee in the corner of the room. Mr. Bantling ordered a whiskey with soda and the ladies ordered tea. A tray of sandwiches, scones and cakes were delivered and the party couldn’t have been more animated.
“So my dear Isabel, what has been going on since you left Florence? What I mean to ask is, what did your husband think of you inheriting Gardencourt? Does he express an interest in visiting England?”
“To tell you the truth, Henrietta, I haven’t told him.”
“You haven’t told him! That’s incredible - such important news. Why do you withhold it from him?” Henrietta could think of a few plausible reasons but chose not to air them and listen to what Isabel said.
“Well, I haven’t decided quite what I’m going to do with it, it was my cousin’s house, and Osmond was not particularly fond of Ralph and well, I just haven’t broached the subject because my cousin is a sore topic between us.”
“I can believe that. Does that mean you haven’t given any thought to staying at Gardencourt in the near future?”
“No, I haven’t. I’d like to bring my stepdaughter to visit; she has expressed a wish many times to see England but her father would have to approve of the travel and I haven’t brought up that subject either. He has recently purchased an altarpiece, a triptych that he believes will be very valuable - he’s awfully busy with the restorer, an old Italian who will authenticate it. He is with us at the Palazzo Roccanera hard at work with an assistant. Meanwhile, Osmond thinks he has located another painting, a lost Correggio and has his mind on that. It belongs to an old family of the nobility and he is hoping to strike a deal for it. Of course they will never agree to sell it unless they can get a very good price and even then, they will flinch at the slightest transgression. You know how the Italians are about their possessions? It has to do with their standing.”
“I know they will sell anything on their walls if they can do it while saving face,” said Mr. Bantling. “It is the same in England and to a lesser degree in France. No one wants to be the one selling off the family heirlooms but with poorly managed estates and the need to modernize, sometimes they can be talked into parting with an old picture they really haven’t looked at for years. They balk and pretend to be offended, especially if it is to go to America which, these days, is usually the case.”
“I would think Osmond would be curious about the paintings at Gardencourt. There are some very fine specimens,” said Henrietta.
“The paintings, I’m afraid have all been left to Lord Warburton. I’m not sure if they have been removed yet, but that was in Ralph’s will. If the gallery at Gardencourt was to remain intact, I might have told my husband immediately. That would surely have interested him and we would be planning a trip to England. As it is, I would like to make sure of Lord Warburton’s plans before I do anything.”
“No doubt. Well, I can’t see not telling him; he has to know at some time and meanwhile he will be more than a little miffed at your keeping a secret from him,” said Henrietta, taking her third sandwich. “I’d tell him soon, if I were you, Isabel.”
“My you are hungry, Henrietta. I’ve never known you to care about food. You were always more interested in your environment, the milieu, the people around you…”
Henrietta stopped eating, slowly drained her teacup, placed it in the saucer with a tremulous hand and looked at Mr. Bantling. He looked in her eyes knowing what was coming. “Well, Isabel, you must congratulate me again…Mr. Bantling and I are expecting a child.”
“Oh Henrietta, Mr. Bantling, that is too exquisite. Oh, no wonder you look so splendid, oh, dear, I’m so very happy for you.” Isabel had tears in her eyes as she reached out and took her friend’s hand. Mr. Bantling sat very still, beaming at his wife. “Mr. Bantling, my most heartfelt congratulations!” Isabel could not keep from crying though Henrietta, a woman of lesser sentiment, managed to remain dry-eyed through her announcement though if an outside observer happened upon the scene he would have wondered at the slight moisture beneath Mr. Bantling’s right eye.

After the tray was removed, the emotions recovered, Mr. Bantling made his departure, needing to send a telegram to his sister, Lady Pensil, though he promised to give away nothing until they were home in England and both husband and wife could relay the good news. The two friends were left alone and more tea was ordered. They continued talking about the expected child, Henrietta’s career and how it would all fit together. Henrietta said she could no more give up the magazine than she could her husband. Everyone would have to share her energies and she expected with such a helpful husband and a nurse, she would have no problems. She said she planned on taking her baby as well as the nurse to the newsroom as she planned to breast-feed for the first six weeks, having read how important it was for a baby’s development. She was aglow with plans and Isabel could not help but think what a sad affair her own convalescence had been: her husband had turned cold, he spoke to no one of their expected child and kept Isabel in a state of emotional torpor throughout her time of withdrawal. When she bore a son, he proceeded to act as if he alone were responsible and immediately took charge with a pompous, rigid, possessive attitude that frightened her. When their son died after six months, a chill settled in the Palazzo Roccanera that had not yet abated. Isabel mourned alone, as did Osmond though Isabel had frequent letters from her friends and family. Osmond was never to speak to anyone of his son and no one dared breach his fortress of silence. Pansy looked on in ignorance not knowing what went wrong with her father and his wife. Every night she said a prayer for her brother; we know she visited the cemetery alone.

Isabel returned to the Palazzo Roccanera with the promise of the couple to dine the following evening. She wondered how she should tell Osmond about Gardencourt. It was foolish to keep it from him but she, at the time, was unsure of the status of their union. As the days progressed and she found that life went on with or without passion or even friendship, she retreated into her own world and left Osmond to his. Now she was questioning the wisdom of keeping another secret. He was sure to be offended but then he kept his own secrets, of this she was certain. What they were, she couldn’t have told anyone. She didn’t dwell on these matters but instead tried to form a plan for her own life. Gardencourt remained in the background of these imaginings only as a setting that had as yet no characterization. But yes, she would have to tell him - tonight. She did not want the topic to come up unexpectedly leaving Osmond in the position of an unenlightened husband, sure to rankle and humiliate him, adding to his scorecard of grievance against his wife. She could not do that to him, nor live with the anxiety of his reaction and decided to inform him immediately upon arriving home. He would be disdainfully rude or conversely, charmingly indifferent. She hoped the latter.

Osmond was out for the evening and Isabel and Pansy dined without him. She waited for his return in the front parlor and eventually went to bed. It was past midnight when he returned, she was awake, but decided to talk to him in the morning. She fell into a deep sleep dreaming that she left for Gardencourt only to find he had arrived before her - already installed - lord of the manor. She awoke briefly, feeling strangled and in a panic with nowhere to find escape. He laughed at her fear; he depended upon its continued renewal. That was where his strength lay. It was, however, only a dream, thought Isabel, and she went back to sleep hoping for respite. In so many ways.

Isabel knocked on her husband’s studio door the next morning, intent on conversation, hoping he wasn’t in a mood. Lately he had been drinking quite a bit with the endless round of dinner parties and socializing that kept him busy. Most of it had to do with his art collection and he usually left Isabel out of that equation unless her presence could affect whatever outcome he was seeking.

“Gilbert, good morning.” She waited in the doorway, to be invited into his orbit.
“Isabel. Again at my door so early. You must not sleep well. Could that be?”
“I do not sleep soundly if that is what you mean. I heard you come in. You often come in rather late. Have you become a member of the haut mode suddenly?”
“I do what I must to keep up appearances and…well, let’s not get into it. You are always welcome to join me, you tend to prefer your own company these days. I hope you will not let that be a habit, self-absorption gets one exactly nowhere.”
“And you know of whence you speak.”
“Thank you, as always, the cryptic phrases on the tip of your tongue.”
“I only came to tell you I have invited Mr. and Mrs. Bantling to dine tonight. I know it is short notice, I hope you will be here, I wanted you to meet Mr. Bantling especially.”
“At your service. I am even looking forward to it.”
“There’s another thing I must discuss with you, I haven’t before, I have been trying to think what to do…I had some unexpected news when I was in Florence with my aunt last month. It turns out I have inherited my cousin’s house in England. He left it to me in a last-minute codicil - I have the use of it for myself or my family for my lifetime. Then it reverts back to my uncle’s banking firm. It’s a rather nice house, Tudor. Old. Very pleasant. Madame Merle visited frequently. She said it…never mind."
"Ah, that name. Somehow it always finds its way into your conversation. You're not obsessed with the woman, are you? I assure you she rarely enters my consciousness except that you keep bringing up the name. Why is that?"
She ignored the implication and continued: "The point is, Gilbert, I would like to visit England soon, if only to see what remains after…well, after certain things have been removed, things my cousin willed to others, such as the art collection. I’m sorry to say, that has gone to Lord…”
“Lord Warburton. Another name from our list of unmentionables. So a lord owning half of England is left an art collection he probably has no need or appreciation of.”
“I do not know. He has his own gallery. My cousin’s paintings will grace a very fine room. Ralph had an excellent eye, you have that in common. He owned two Turners, several Gainsboroughs, and I believe a set of drawings by Claude Lorrain. Mostly English works. A few French mannerist paintings, oh, a small Tintoretto, that would have interested you. He recently acquired a Corot, his last purchase. There were about sixty works altogether.”
“Why are you telling me all this if they are no longer a part of your new home?”
“I’m just talking, Gilbert, just remembering.”
“Ah yes, remembering those happy days in your cousin’s home, with his elusive intellect, his acerbic wit.”
“He is gone, you can refrain from cynicism. There are other things to discuss.”
“So what are you telling me, Isabel? Are you planning to set down roots in England? What are you planning? With this secret kept for the past month you must have been hatching your schemes. One never knows where one stands with you. Here today, gone tomorrow.” His jaw clenched up, Isabel could see the vein in his forehead pulsing.
“I’m planning a dinner party tonight. After that, I have no formal plan. I would like to visit England before winter. I should like to take Pansy with me. You are welcome to come if you like…”
“Thank you. Such generosity from one’s wife.”
“Do not quibble or carp, Gilbert. Come with me, refuse to come, you are free. But I wish to take Pansy with me.”
“I need her here.”
“You do not. You need her to perform social functions of which she has no interest.”
“Whether she is interested or not, I need her here.”
“The prince does not interest her.”
“Be that as it may be, I need her here.”
“Please let her visit England. We shall only be a month. Your plans can surely wait a month. I have promised her to one day take her to England and I think that should be before she is settled.”
“Settled?.”
“In marriage, then.”
“Ah my daughter’s marriage. Do you have a campaign for that? I’ve not heard anything. Your Mr. Rosier is no more in the picture, Lord Warburton also has found a bride, what is it you offer her?”
“I want her to see England. It’s that simple. When she returns, we will have the winter to introduce her to high Roman society. We will do the season in style.”
“Very well. I’ll give you a month. Do not detain her in England. I want her here with me. This is her home.”
“Yes, her home,” Isabel sighed. She left that subject, not anxious to reopen old resentments. “I’ve invited a few other people for tonight, including Mr. Henry James, the author. Mr. James is in Rome, terribly busy working on a book but it seems he can find time for us. I met him in England a year ago. He knows Henrietta fairly well, they have a family connection. She would like to talk to him about a serialization in her magazine. So I’m helping my friend. Mr. James is agreeable. You can have no complaint with his company. He is American but lives in London. He spends time here in Italy. I don’t suppose you have ever read his books? Novels mostly.”
“No. I am not a reader of American novels. But by all means, bring him on. The last author we had here left in a huff, dangling his poor wife by the coat sleeve. It seems he couldn’t take a little friendly criticism. I hope your Mr. James is less delicate. In any case, I know nothing of novelists so I will have no reason to be offended, will I? I look forward to meeting another author. He cannot be any more disagreeable than many other Yanks I have been forced to endure for your sake.”
“He’s quite agreeable. You will not find better company.”

With that, Isabel left his studio, thankful he held no rancor over the Gardencourt secret. She made her way into the kitchen to examine the menu for the evening’s dinner party. She was excited to be able to tell Pansy they would be going to England for a short visit, but she would wait until she had a chance to finalize a timetable. She wanted her visit to coincide with that of her sister Lily. She walked down the long corridor to the kitchen’s stairway, a spring in her step. All things considered, having Mr. James to dine was not without a certain social cachet. Henrietta would be thrilled. Even her husband would find no fault with the illustrious author.

Late that afternoon while resting before her party preparations Isabel received a telegram. It was from her nephew Harold Ludlow saying he was in Rome with a student-group and at his mother’s insistence, wanted to let his aunt know he would be for a week, viewing the sites of Rome. He left an address but no message other than that of his presence. She sent a message asking him to come to the Palazzo Roccanera at noon the next day. She had many questions. Though only a boy when they last met, he was her favorite nephew and had also come to know her cousin Ralph before he died. She had an intense longing to see a member of the Archer family. Isabel, after nearly six years away from her country, was having a bout of homesickness.