Osmond’s Ire

Chapter XXIII

Gilbert Osmond entered the Caffe Greco at eleven on a rainy Tuesday morning in an aggravated disposition having just come from his art dealer, Roberto Durelli, where to his utter amazement he learned that a picture had been sold for a substantial sum to none other than his very own wife, Isabel, and she had not requested the discount usually reserved for the better customers, of which, as his wife and he a frequent buyer, she was entitled to, though this is not first and foremost what had him in a furor.

No, what had him in such a fury was that she was buying a work of the so-called Impressionists, a laughable style of no redeeming value perpetrated by dealers in Paris to make fools of naive Americans and significantly line their own pockets while encouraging artists of lesser merit in their hostile campaign against all that was deemed intelligently sublime in the art and craft of painting as it had been practiced for many centuries. That his foolish wife of little taste should be among such gullibility was an outrage to Osmond, more so, as he had been negotiating for a superb Gian Lorenzo Bernini architectural drawing that was to be offered for a considerable sum, and Osmond hoping to extract this sum from his wife’s bank was incensed that she should part with one half the needed cash for this daub by the irascible James McNeill Whistler, a poseur, a hack, possibly the worst of the assemblage calling themselves Impressionists.

Now he was to learn by an indirect route that his duplicitous wife had purchased a mere chalk and pastel drawing of a of the Campanile Santa Margherita in Venice, a more weak, unfulfilled representation one was likely to find of a motif that had been rendered by greater artists in the past but leave it to Isabel to be willfully obtuse - her central ideas having been born in ignorance, encouraged by a society gone mad.

She also had to know he would not hang this piece of humbug in the Palazzo Roccanera - she was therefore planning to hang it in Gardencourt, her house in England - a fact Osmond found as disagreeable as the artist she chose to sponsor and where Whistler made his home although he did not place the two facts within the same frame.

Osmond ordered a Campari and soda and took a corner table when he chanced to see a personage he vaguely recognized, that of Edward Rosier, a collector of objects de art, old lace and enamels, and once a suitor of his daughter Pansy to no avail, a face he did not immediately distinguish - the gentleman had grown stout and now sported a full beard - and before Osmond could place him, wishing thoroughly to ignore him on principle, could not but take the offered hand as Mr. Rosier approached his table - though inviting him to a seat would have been beyond Osmond’s sociable endurance.

“Ah, Mr. Osmond, don’t tell me you are now looking to establish in your drawing rooms a sampling of the Impressionists? I would never have taken you for one who falls for such shenanigans but it is all the rage these days so you may have made a good investment.”
Mr. Osmond glared at the man, his eyes ablaze with rancor and deigned not to answer this mocking accusation but instead return the jab: “I don’t in the least know what you mean, Mr. Rosier, is it? Ah, yes, now I remember you and your little collection, you sold it, did you not? And got a good price too if I recall.”
Mr. Rosier colored a little at the obvious reminder of their shared past and decided to continue his, he thought, subtle attack on a man he considered possibly mad. “I’ve just come from Durelli’s and I couldn’t help but notice that you and Mrs. Osmond now possess a Whistler pastel drawing, might I congratulate you?” he said with a factious grin.
“You may congratulate my wife if that is what it is, I myself know nothing of Whistler nor care about his amateurish daubs.”
“So you do know some small thing? I understand your wife is a great friend of the artist? He’s quite sought after. Quite the darling of the public. I hear he is to paint Mrs. Osmond’s portrait. You are tolerant: sitting for Mr. Whistler can take considerable time. Many ladies have been quite worn out posing for hours on end…he takes great pains with his portrayals.” With that he gave a robust laugh, tipped his hat and left Osmond to his stewing.

Osmond’s mood was blackening to a deadly rage as he contemplated what the insufferable man Rosier told him. If it were true, he would surely have to rein in his obdurate wife again. She would become a blot on his reputation as a collector of fine art and antiquities. There would be no Impressionist doodling in his habitation and the sooner she learned this, the better. He would begin by demanding Durelli refund the money for the Whistler drawing and put it toward the Bernini. As for the alleged portrait, tolerance had never been Osmond’s forte and it would not now be practiced in any way regarding the Impressionists, a trend soon to be consigned to a brief bout of madness.

He returned home, eager to seek out his wife, still on edge, wet, vaguely feverish, uncertain how to approach her and the contentious topic of the Impressionists. She could be purposely oblique when it suited her, but today he had no intention of letting her off on that sort of scheming with large sums of money at stake. He had his limits as well as his own refinement that must be defended.

“I cannot quite believe what I happened upon in Durelli’s today,” said an agitated Gilbert Osmond to his wife, finding her in a small parlor on the second floor having tea alone, engrossed in an English-language journal he had never before seen.

Isabel Osmond about to be confronted by her husband about the purchase of a Whistler drawing, knew this moment would eventually arrive, steadied her resolve, an American trait that her husband found willful but in her own country might be seen as steely, admirable even - but even her own countrymen saw it as a liability for a woman, her brother-in-law thought she spoke in a higher key than what was generally sought in the softer sex.

Isabel had been in Europe and even further abroad for seven years and although she had taken a good look around and settled in the city she thought had the most benevolence, would treat her with a kind regard, a supple inclusion, she failed to take into account that a rich, attractive woman is given a certain latitude in almost any city in Europe as well as in America but that Rome retained the right to confound all. That she found Rome to her liking had more to do with the preferences of her husband, in whose opinion, in the beginning, she enthusiastically sought and adhered to.

But that was only in the beginning. After almost five years of marriage she no longer concerned herself with the likes or dislikes of her husband, she followed her own dictates for the most part though she still went through the motions of marital accord when it suited her. She was more on her own than she had ever been and she found this to her liking as time passed.

Isabel, after setting her teacup gently into its accompanying saucer, swallowing its last comforting sip, wiping her mouth delicately with a small, though beatifically embroidered napkin, said, “And what was that?” knowing by the tone of his voice, he was about to confront her with sighting her name on a sheet of paper in the foyer of Durell’s Gallery next to a red dot that announced to anyone who cared to look, that she was the owner of a drawing currently on exhibition, a delicately rendered scene in Venice by James McNeill Whistler. It could also have been learned she purchased a small oil by Berthe Morisot that had as of yet been notated on the list of sold items.
“That my wife, who has access to a very fine collection in her own home, some of the finest artists ever to apply paint, chalk or pencil to panel, paper or wall, should find it necessary to purchase an inconsequential daub by an American shyster for a ludicrous sum, without mind you, consulting her husband who not inconsequently is something of a connoisseur of art, should, with only her own sense of discernment, hardly developed, take it upon herself to add to their formidable collection a mere scribble by a man unworthy to call himself an artist, as Raphael, as DaVinci, as Michaelangelo could, with no shame do so. Is there an accounting for this blasphemy?”
“There are many, Gilbert, who regard Mr. Whistler a very fine artist and I happen to be one of them. I also happen to be an acquaintance of Mr. Whistler, a brief acquaintance only I admit, and I admire his sensibility. In fact, this is the second work of Mr. Whistler’s I have purchased. The other is at Gardencourt. An oil, quite evocative, and if you’d ever care to visit Gardencourt, you would learn that I have been collecting paintings to restore my cousin’s gallery and I am, in fact, only just beginning. So you see, Gilbert, if you took a closer look, made a more thorough examination of your wife’s mind and activities instead of plotting how best to marginalize her, you would have learned that like you, I too have been bitten by the collecting bug. It’s quite exhilarating, I must say. Captivating. I see how it could occupy many hours of the day. I now have a better understanding of you: the quest, the taking possession, the display of a recent acquisition, your taste on view, your judgment ready for approbation or approval. Oh, I don’t pretend to have your acumen, your extensive knowledge but in my own meandering way, am also proud of my findings. Money does offer one more than just a secure living…you can actually purchase respect, if you will.”
“If that your motive, I’d advise you to look a little further. There are many who look upon the so-called Impressionists as charlatans, it is not only myself. You might find that these knowledgeable minds would not treat your collection as anything but a joke and you as a gullible woman easily taken in and for my part, I do not care to have my wife associated with a joke.”
“I’m grateful for your concern but you needn’t bother about it unduly. The collection is for Gardencourt. It is something for me and for Ralph’s memory.”
“Ah, that’s it. Always you - you and your pervasive will. I should have known. Well, if you are not concerned with your reputation, or mine, perhaps you will consider the sums spent. They will not appreciate as my Giotto panels or my Caravaggio. No, you will be the proud possessor of a collection that will one day be considered a brief madness. You will hide them in the attic as you do outdated fashions. Perhaps burn them for firewood.”
“The prices of the Impressionists are rising rather quickly. I’m surprised Mr. Durelli hasn’t told you.”
“He knows my views on these sketches. He only reluctantly told me of your purchase as I did not care to glance at the ledger for these absurd works if that is what they can be called.”
“I’m sorry you don’t approve. I find I am quite taken with them myself. If you are right and they are a madness, I will no doubt have to burn them from the shame but if I am right, I will feel quite proud of my vision, of my instincts. I’m willing to take that chance.”
“Well, I do know Mrs. Osmond, that it is useless to talk to you…you are obstinate to a perilous degree when you wish to prevail. I know it only too well. I don’t suppose you care that I have in my sights Correggio’s lost Madonna of Albinea, worth more than an entire gallery of Impressionists?”
“You will do your pursuing, and I will stick to Mr. Whistler and Monsieur Monet. Oh and, by the way, Mr. Whistler may be coming to dine when he arrives in Rome. He will be invited everywhere so I wanted to secure his company immediately. I hope you will put your disdain aside, Gilbert.”
“I shall be prepared to meeting this charlatan in the flesh. My disdain however, goes where it will.”
“I have no fear for Mr. Whistler. He is quite capable of handling anything that might come his way from either friend or foe. I put you on your guard; you will not offend him easily nor get him to back down.”
“You’ve taken quite an interest in the man, I see. I want you to know I find that indefensible as my wife.”
“You need not worry about my personal regard for the artist, he is just one of many I plan to sponsor. But I look forward to his presence again. He had the most entertaining luncheons in London. I suppose that also doesn’t interest you but I should like very much to show him a great hospitality while in Rome.”
“As you wish. I consider it my duty, after all, you so much as told me; we each play our part. Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with the Marchesa Viticonti regarding my collection. I might wish to be informed on the purchase of artworks in future so I am not taken unawares by my dealer but I know how you like secrets.”
“Ah, Gilbert. Never speak to me of secrets. You are the master and I will never rise above you in that department.”
“Always the sarcasm. I do believe you may one day outdo my sister in that regard.”
“I’ve learned that from you, Gilbert, you see, you’ve given me so much. But my love of art is the only lasting value I place on our mutual exchange at this point. For that I am grateful. And speaking of secrets, is your Madonna in the hands of the Viticontis?”
“If you were grateful or learning anything, you would not be spending on your collection of hacks but I leave you with your own proclivities. You’ve been forewarned in any case.”
“You have not answered me on your lost Correggio. Is there something I should know? I assume it will require a fount of financial support, should I be forewarned on this acquisition? To whom will I be writing a check?”

Osmond determined to ignore the question for now. His negotiations were still a way off. He had no details to present, only a wild magical thinking. The prince had yet to speak to Pansy. Negotiations could begin soon after if she accepted his offer. Osmond would not leave it to chance but would speak to her before Sunday. He planned on taking her riding this afternoon and then taking tea with the Marchesa. He felt renewed; that his maneuvers would soon see fruition. He left his wife to her journal regretting that he had not held sway over her ridiculous purchase; he had not mentioned the Bernini drawing that was a far better investment nor had be broached the subject of an alleged portrait to be painted by Whistler. These things would have to be discussed when he felt better, regained his strength, after the prince made his proposal. This was his paramount interest, the others, merely background material that could wait.

Isabel thought she handled her husband with a mild use of her will. She didn’t care what he thought but she did hope that she would be proven right. It had never seemed more important that she be right about the Impressionists. She said she was a sponsor but that did not accurately describe her role. She was as yet, mostly unknown in the art world. But having said it to her husband, vowed she would do more for them. Going back to England would be necessary. She missed Gardencourt and her new gallery. She would return soon, as soon as she could convince Osmond to let her take Pansy. She sensed another battle and wondered if she were up for it and then remembered that she promised Pansy to fight for her and her resolve returned. She gleaned some intimation of what Osmond was up to: he wanted a painting hanging in the castle of the Marchesa. Well, she would not let him trade Pansy for all the Renaissance works in Italy if that was what he was doing, which was low even for Osmond. She didn’t press the point; she had little information to go on. Before Sunday, she would seek another audience with her husband. She had to put a few pieces of the puzzle together and then she would do battle if required. She hoped it would not be.

Later that day she received two missives: the first from Mr. Whistler accepting her invitation to dine while in Rome in two weeks time. Osmond and Whistler; no telling how that would come off, she mused. She had no fears for either. The other was from her sister-in-law in Florence that said little but implied much. That she would be in Rome was the main tenet and that was quite enough. Another touchy topic of conversation to be had with Osmond; why was the countess not writing to him? This and more was what was on Isabel’s mind as she headed to the kitchen to plan her menus for the week. Truth be told, she had Mr. Whistler and the Impressionist exhibit on her mind to the deprivation of Pansy, Osmond or his sister. Ah, the joys of connoisseurship.

Pansy Into The Bargain?

Chapter XXII

Gilbert Osmond sat on a stool placed before his altarpiece, in a ruminative mood, with many disparate thoughts in mind. Yesterday Prince Viticonti demanded an answer to his proposal for Pansy’s hand. “Will you, Signore Osmond, give me permission to speak to Miss Pansy? My aunt says it is time for our arrangements to be finalized. I would very much like to walk with Miss Pansy on Sunday. We will attend Mass together, my aunt says this is appropriate as she will attend with us. I will make my proposal to her afterward. Do you find this acceptable?”
“I have not yet spoken of our arrangement, as you say, to my wife. She will need to be informed of your intentions. I will speak to her as soon as possible; she will have a part in the proceedings, naturally.”
“Naturally. I’m surprised you have not presented my proposal to her. It is not everyday that a prince makes such a request.”

The prince took a pinch of snuff and regally put it to his nostril. Osmond for a moment wanted to slap it out of his hand but was not sure if it was the impudence of his remark or the disdain for the ornately enameled snuffbox the prince held in his left hand. There was something about the color combination that did not sit with Osmond’s taste. It was an insipid green, with a pink border amidst a curling of overwrought gold laticework, the likes of which Osmond had never before encountered in enameling and he had encountered much.

Perhaps I am under the weather, he said to himself. The rain had been pouring without letup for several days and he was restless. His wife and daughter returned from England but neither was able to shake him from the lethargy; Pansy seemed lost in a dream and Isabel seemed to have developed more opinions, added ideas of which Osmond could only hope to ignore. He did not want to quarrel, especially over things that did not concern him, but he did have a premonition that his wife was more engaged with life in London than in Rome and this did concern him. For the present, he needed her to be engaged in the doings at the Palazzo Roccanera. A wedding might do just that although he could not take an immediate interest in it himself. He was tired of the prince and although he enjoyed the Marchesa and some of her more eccentric relatives, even she was beginning to pall. Osmond thought the prince might begin to work on his nerves but once Pansy was settled he could move on to the negotiations for the Correggio. Yes, he was impatient, that’s all. Things were not moving quickly enough. Osmond had once been adept at waiting, considered his life was nothing more than a waiting game. Now that he’d won the game, he was put out at having to loiter in the wings of his own imagination, unable to move forward at a pace that suited his temperament.

He put his gaze on his altarpiece, in its brilliance, ready to refurbish his tired mind, a joy to contemplate. He remembered his first glimpse of it. He thought of a wedding in the little church ten years before when his keen eye with nothing more stimulating to observe than some discolored stained-glass, studied the panels set upon the altar, darkened with age, and came to the opinion while waiting for the bride to march down the aisle, that it might possibly have been painted by none other than Giotto de Bondone. He wasn’t at all certain but it gave him something to consider while suffering an impatience he was unable to prevent in the most convivial of occasions.

He hadn’t wanted to attend this wedding, of the daughter of old friends of his parents when they were alive, but his sister, the Countess Gemini, insisted they make an appearance. Osmond could find no real enthusiasm for the prospect but agreed to escort his sister to the largely unknown church on the outskirts of Rome. He barely remembered the family and had become irritated with the long drive over muddy roads and the subsequent delay. It was only the altarpiece that gave him pause: despite its darkened surface, something told him it was more important than its setting would indicate. But if it was a Giotto, why was no mention ever made of it? The collectors and curators were rabid for works from the Renaissance and the period proceeding. Surely someone knew of it? These musings kept Osmond occupied while his sister fluttered and fanned herself, issuing universal banalities he took no interest in, reminding him once again what a tiresome companion she could be.

When the church was flooded, he paid a visit to gauge the damage. When it was flooded a second time and began its descent into a ravine, he knew it was just a matter of time and discretion. Osmond then haggled for months, appealing to patriotic pride, the obligation to salvage Italy’s glorious art history and when he got little response from the church elders, reduced his bargaining to hard cash, something the men could understand. After three months, Osmond placed a cache of bills into the out-stretched hands of the church elders and the altarpiece was carted to the Palazzo Roccanera where a special studio he had set up for its restoration. The price was more than Osmond had ever paid for a work of art but if it proved to be authentic, it would be a paltry sum.

Now restored, Osmond was delighted at how little invasive refurbishment was required considering it resided in perishable surroundings since the early fourteenth century. By some miracle, the panels had not been warped though mildew had set into the bottom left corner, the paint badly flaked. Signore Cellini said it was not dire considering the water damage it could have suffered. He made the repairs, diligently removing centuries of grime, wax and old varnish. He told Osmond to be thankful, many old works on panel required extensive renovation including the repainting of large areas.

The altarpiece, a triptych, with the Madonna and child in the center surrounded by birds and animals, God’s creatures, was a thing of rare beauty and in Osmond’s estimation, could only have been created by the hand of Giotto. He had diligently studied every work by the artist in Italy and his eye had never failed him yet. He could discern the slightest line variation as a handwriting expert could. Osmond had the astute eye of a connoisseur, and with a hunger for all that was desirable, decorative and evocative, he had unearthed works of great value by Italy’s artistic masters by trusting completely his own instincts.

And that is what was on his mind as he contemplated his panels. He had been disappointed that Signore Cellini had not confirmed officially that it was indeed a Giotto. Osmond had transported Signore Cellini from Bologna to work on his altarpiece at great expense. He and his assistant had lived at the Palazzo Roccanera for five months. When the work was completed, he would not give his seal of approval - he hesitated. This made Osmond furious and the two men had violent arguments. This went on for a week and Signore Cellini left unable to bear Mr. Osmond’s temper any longer. Now Osmond sat with his beautiful altarpiece, awash in glorious color, stunning lines and moving sentiment. It could only be by the master, he thought not for the first time, but for possibly the hundredth. He had hoped to have it grace the first floor salon, ready for viewing, exclusive only, for the Christmas season. All he was missing was the authentication that was essential, at least to Osmond.

There was a knock on the cavernous studio door that had been set up for the restoration. The tools had been put away and the room was now barren except for the altarpiece. “Enter,” Osmond feebly said, expecting Higgins with a telegram he was waiting for. Instead he was surprised to see his wife enter the room.
“Hello Gilbert. I thought I’d find you here. Her eyes immediately traveled to the Giotto. “Oh my, your altarpiece is glorious. It will be splendid in the front drawing room. Are you pleased?” She was always ready to praise her husband’s acumen when it came to artworks. The couple disagreed on many topics but Mrs. Osmond knew Osmond had the gift of recognizing artistic greatness my the subtlest means.
“Yes, he mumbled. So it is.” He was pacing before it. “What brings you into alien territory?”
“I want to discuss something with you…it concerns Pansy.”
“Yes, well, I wish to talk to you of Pansy also. I was just coming to find you.”
“Gilbert, Pansy should marry. I’ve had many enjoyable hours talking with her. You know I said I would find out what’s in her heart and if possible, help her act on it. I thought maybe after...well, certain disillusionments, she would not be interested in marriage. But that is not the case. She wishes to marry and very much desires children.”
“Well, if that’s what she wants, she shall have it. A proposal has, in fact, been made. That is what we need to discuss.”

Isabel stiffened. She could not be sure if he was aware of her nephew; it would not be outside the realm of possibility that Harold had written to Osmond with his request. The boy was impetuous and acted quickly when an enthusiasm took hold of him. And it was not entirely out of the question that Pansy herself broached the subject. But she had Pansy’s full confidence and her stepdaughter promised to let Isabel speak to Osmond first. She was put off her guard for a moment but then reassured herself that Osmond had a way of summoning up the exact words that would unsettled her. He was clairvoyant at times.

“Yes, there has been a proposal of sorts,” she said. “I was not aware that you knew about it.”
“Knew about it? How could I not know? A suitor comes through the father, or am I behind the times? Is it now through the stepmother a proposal is made? If that is the case, I must thoroughly object.”
Once again Isabel hesitated, unsure of the ground she was standing upon. “I just thought, since it is my nephew…well, since we were in England…tell me of this proposal that’s been offered, Gilbert, I’m quite in the dark.”
“The Prince Viticonti has requested my daughter’s hand, what is it you are you referring to? What about your nephew? I know nothing of a nephew. What has he to do with Pansy?”
“You have not met my nephew, Harold Ludlow, Lily’s son. You were in Florence when he visited Rome at summer’s end. He is at Oxford studying medicine.”
“And? Go on. Are you telling me a medical student also has set his sights on my daughter? I hope you discouraged him. Good God, where do they keep coming from, these inconsequential Americans?”
Isabel, her old temper flaring once again, said, “He is not insignificant to me or to Pansy. He is a fine, intelligent boy with character and a future.”
“As a doctor? Please, Isabel. Does he wish my daughter to assist with his blood-letting?” Osmond snickered though no real expression of humor could be attributed to him. His face quickly restored itself to a dry grimace, its habitual display for the several days previous.

Isabel was now completely on her guard and knew not where to take the conversation. Her mind flailed, hoping for the right words to fall from her lips. She suspected Osmond was up to something with the Viticontis but had not thought it had gone this far. Pansy would be horrified. She’d only the day before mentioned that she wished her father would entertain the prince without need of her company. She said the prince made her uncomfortable, that for a short time she thought he was pleasant to look at but that she could not see him as anything but a child now. She was hoping her stepmother could relieve her of the duty of conversing with the prince so much, as he seemed to persistently seek her out. It was on hearing this from Pansy, not one for personal conceit, that Isabel had an idea of where her husband was going with the cultivation of the noble family. But what was he to gain?

“A proposal from the prince? Why would a worldly prince be interested in our girl?” Isabel asked.
“Why should he not be? She is charming, she is pure and uncorrupted.”
“And comes with a large dowry? Was that discussed, Gilbert?”
“It was not, per se. Of course, there will be a dowry, you offered it last spring, if you recall. But I don’t believe it was discussed, no…of course, they will assume…”
“Ah yes. They will assume. And does this idea of marriage to Pansy come directly from the prince or is his aunt behind it?”
“You’re cynical. Do you think they haven’t other options?”
“I have no idea what their options are. I just wonder why they would court an inconsequential American, as you put it.”
“Pansy is Italian by birth.”
“Without a drop of royalty.”
“Yes, well, royalty has come down. Nevertheless, he has made his proposal through the proper channels.”
“Tell me you haven’t given him an answer without telling Pansy?”
“No, I have not. That is why I agreed to Pansy’s trip to England. It would give me time to mull it over. I have not yet given an answer but the prince is anxious to speak to Pansy. He would like to make his offer to her on Sunday after Mass. I have given consent to that. Pansy needs to know of the intentions of the prince. It is in her favor. And as you say, she wishes to marry. So you see, Papa comes up with a suitor. It all works out.”
“Gilbert, there is more to Pansy’s wish…”
“Such as? Tell me what have you been hatching with my daughter?”
“I have not been hatching, as you say. Your daughter has found a suitor on her own.”
“Do you mean your nephew, the medical student?”
“Exactly.”
“And I suppose you let this go on behind my back in England, in your cousin’s home, where I let you take my daughter in all confidence she would be protected?”
“Pansy and Harold met here in Rome in our courtyard when he paid a call to me out of courtesy. You were in Florence, as I said, and Harold was in Rome for ten days. He dined here several times and we once met with his student group to visit the Pantheon and a few other sites of interest. Signore Cellini was with us, acting as our guide. He gave the American students quite a valuable lesson in the Renaissance. It was when the Bantlings were here. We formed a large group. We then had a picnic in the Borghese gardens. Pansy and Harold formed a friendship during that week. And it evolved into a more serious attachment in London. My sister and Harold were with us at Gardencourt. That is all I know except that Pansy told me she had made a ‘promise.’ I believe she intends to keep it.”
“And this promise…?”
“To marry when Harold has his medical degree.”
“Without a word to me! Isabel, what do you take me for?”
“I don’t take you for anything. I informed them both they would have to go through you. They understand that. But Harold has two years at Oxford before he returns to America. There is time.”
“Time for your nephew perhaps but the prince is waiting for an answer and I’ll thank you to stay out of it, Isabel. I warn you, do not trifle with me.” His voice lost all pretense of the mild manner he was assiduously aiming for. He was trembling and smoking one cigarette after another. Isabel could see he was not just in a mood, but had a sharp cough that punctuated his remonstrances.
“Gilbert, are you feeling well enough? You look pale. You have a bad cough. Should you see a doctor?”
“I am fine. You continue to add injury to my days. How is it that you have the uncanny knack of upsetting my plans without even knowing of them? Are you to remain by my side as a thorn I continually have to remove at my own peril?”
“You are dramatizing, Gilbert, as you so often accuse me of.”
“You have let my daughter carry on with a medical student after I placed her in your care. I went against my own wishes and permitted you take her to England. And this is the result? When will your interfering end, Isabel? Can we set a date? A date when you will leave well enough alone; a date when you will keep your infernal friends and family from disrupting my life? Is it conceivably possible?”

He was beginning to bark and Isabel shrunk into the corner of the studio once again bewildered and confused. She had no idea where she could go with this altercation that took on an ominous quality, a fearful trajectory that she had forgotten was a part of her marriage. It had been some times since their arguments reached a pitched hysteria and she was frightened anew. “I think we had better postpone this conversation for another day, Gilbert. You aren’t feeling well and I do not know what to say about the prince. I do not know him well, I assume you have learned something of him?”

Osmond was taken up short. He would not admit to a sketchy knowledge. He planned to look further into it once the engagement was set. Then he would have time, with access to more information. He planned for a long engagement, long enough to ascertain the character of the prince. If necessary he would consult his sister though he would prefer not to involve her. Mrs. Halpern may not be enough help but he was still counting on her connections and what maternal instincts she possessed. “Be assured, I will know all I need to know before a wedding takes place,” he said calmly. In the meantime, there is nothing to dissuade me from considering the prince a suitable candidate for my daughter’s hand. He has been nothing but chivalrous. I cannot say the same about your nephew, the first-year medical student.”
“I do not wish to discuss my nephew with you in this mood.”

Isabel, to regain her composure, changed the subject to the altarpiece. She strode briskly to the front of it, taking a measured look at the surface. “I know you’ve been greatly disappointed by Signore Cellini’s verdict, or lack of verdict. I was hoping for your sake a good outcome - that the provenance be confirmed. It is unfortunate but a more renowned scholar could be brought here. I know you have been considering this. I think you should go ahead and hang it in the first floor drawing room and let the public view it. Word will get out and others will want to weigh in. Someone else will recognize its authenticity. I think you should proceed as if it were by Giotto. In time opinion will bear you out, Gilbert. I have no doubts about your facility to judge.”

She changed tactic abruptly, wanting to assuage her husband and he took note. He still had the power to reduce her will to pulp. He had no longer a taste for these games of command but was not adverse to using what marital power he still possessed. His daughter was his one high card and he was not adverse to using her either. He just hoped it would all be worth it in the end. In a much calmer voice he said, “I proceed not as if it were by Giotto, but with the assurance that it is by Giotto, but thank you for your unsolicited advice.”

Isabel left the studio the worse for wear and avoided Pansy for the rest of the day. Pansy would know she was rattled; Isabel wanted to keep the news she’d learned from her. She would be bewildered and shaken to her core to know the prince planned on offering her marriage and her father gave a tentative consent. How would such a timid, obedient girl be able to withstand her father’s aspiration? Isabel could not imagine her little face when the prince spoke his words. She would not be able to articulate a proper response. She would blush and seek a way to escape his attentions. She was not sophisticated nor adept at contrariness. She aimed to please, always. She would crumble when she saw her father’s disapproving gaze. Would her desire to please her father behoove her into accepting the prince?

No, Isabel knew that for Pansy a promise was sacred. She would be there to stand with her stepdaughter Sunday after Mass. For now she would keep quiet - she must. Osmond would not truck any interference beforehand. What she had to discover was what he was to gain by this. Surely there was something. An Italian title did not hold sway as it once might have although Prince Viticonti would be considered a fine match for a girl without a heritage. She would have to bluntly ask her husband what was in it for him - another odious task for the week ahead. He might level with her and again, he may obfuscate. In any case, finding out the nature of the bargain would be her duty, she would not shrink from this no matter how hateful her husband’s response. Oh, poor Pansy!

The Countess Gemini Returns

Chapter XXI

The Countess Gemini was a rather forlorn woman after her brother, Gilbert Osmond, banished her from his kingdom. She laughed haughtily, took her leave but she was more aggravated than she let on at the time. How would she spend time in Rome without the hospitality of her brother and his wife? How would she see her niece? She had expected she might have a hand in unearthing a husband for Pansy who was of the age to be married. With Madame Merle then in America, her stepmother in England and her father lost in his own pursuits, selfish when it came to his daughter, how would a husband be found?

She wanted to write Osmond about this, was on the verge of doing so when, without any expectation found herself at a dinner party with Mrs. Touchett, a woman she knew more or less as Isabel Osmond’s aunt, never having been invited to the lady’s home. No, visits to the Palazzo Crescentini had never been forthcoming for the Countess Gemini, she had a reputation and Mrs. Touchett’s taste did not run to tawdry implications or loose morals. She tolerated the brother of the countess and look where it had gotten her? The man courted her niece Isabel right under her roof and this she had not quite found reason to condone. It was a perversity, she felt. Gilbert Osmond for all of his pretensions, was not about anything in her opinion. It was his sister’s opinion, precisely. That he, it was rumored, was making her niece unhappy, well that was to be expected, but did nothing to earn the lady’s esteem. His sister, never having had any esteem, was ignored by Mrs. Touchett until introduced. Nothing to be done about it.

“Mrs. Touchett, I’d like to introduce a dear friend of mine, the Countess Gemini,” said Mrs. Bellingham, wife of the American ambassador to Italy. Mrs. Touchett stood, blandly untouched by the arrival of a woman who fluttered like a preening bird before an audience.
The countess pulled in her wings, a bemused smile on her face. “Ah, but we’ve met before,” said the countess. “We do not know each other well but I think we should get to know one another, after all, we are related by marriage.”
Mrs. Touchett looked evenly, placidly at the countess and did not offer her hand. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of this suggestion nor what to say to this woman wearing such a garish costume with too much of a nervous energy for Mrs. Touchett's taste. Mrs. Touchett thought she had never before encountered such a combined fluttering of superficiality and artistry that only made one look harder to see what might control this mass of uncertainty. She only replied, “The countess and I have met, I believe.”

The countess, having decided she needed to converse with Mrs. Touchett, would do her best to get information about the Palazzo Roccanera in Rome. This she must accomplish without tipping her own hand. She did not want Mrs. Touchett to know she had been removed from her brother’s home and she was very keen to learn what had happened there since the return of Mrs. Osmond from England. She had been kept in Florence for too long, she thought, and was dying to get to Rome. If only Isabel would write, make some effort, she could be reestablished at the Palazzo Roccanera. What she dearly wanted to know was if Isabel held her a grudge: if she blamed her for anything.

She had only done what any woman should do for another. Any other woman would be grateful, once the news was digested, but Isabel was not any woman and had an odd way of looking at the world, at least the countess thought so. So moral, so disdainful of little improprieties that one usually overlooks in society. She held herself above things that are of no importance at all while lowering herself in ways the countess would never. Instead of using her position for advantage, she locks herself away in a dreary house, content with her stepdaughter who while enchanting, not compelling company for a grown woman. She could have anything in the world and yet she puts up with Osmond’s dreary assertions and entertains tedious people when she could be the crème of society. The countess had discovered no way to connect to her sister-in-law but did sorely want to be invited by her to Rome. She could stand up to Osmond if she wanted to. The countess never understood her reluctance to go against her husband who did not deserve such acclaim. Who was he anyway? No one as far as the countess could tell. What right did he have to keep her from her niece? From society? She must find a way to regain her lost stature and she would have to start with Mrs. Touchett even though she knew the lady did not care to associate with her.

“How is dear Isabel these days? It’s been an age since I’ve seen her. She’s been in England I hear. Has she returned to Rome?” chirped the countess.
“My niece is in Rome. I’m surprised you have to ask, don’t you speak to your brother?” Mrs. Touchett was not one for mincing words and the countess was taken aback at such forthrightness. She was not used to this sort of blunt reaction. Europeans generally spoke in gradation, at least in society. She sometimes forgot that Americans had a way of address that struck the ears of a European reminiscent of an accusation. Her brother often commented on this and thought Isabel had herself this mode; it set one’s teeth on edge, he would say.

The countess recovered herself to say “My brother is once again in a pique and I have not been to Rome since early spring just before your neice left for England the first time. With Isabel in England so much, the society in the Palazzo Roccanera is not quite what it could be.” She had almost made the blunder of saying when her cousin summoned her to Gardencourt. She was sure the old lady would not appreciate having her son’s death a topic of social conversation. In society, the countess had quick instincts.
“I’m sure I don’t know about the society of Rome, I rarely go there myself. My niece visited me this summer on business and I know she has been back to England since then. She has inherited my son’s home. I suspect she will spend a great deal of time there. She has always loved it; I quite expected her to leave Rome and settle there permanently though she has never said anything like that to me. She is sticking to her Roman adventure for the time being.”
“My dear lady, she is married and settled in Rome. I would call that many things but have never thought of it as an adventure that one is able to shed like a watering hole one has grown weary of.”
Mrs. Touchett continued starring at the countess, not sure how far she wanted to take this conversation but wishing for a little news herself. Her niece was rarely as confidential as her aunt felt she might be. “There’s no telling what Isabel will do. She goes her own way. I disapproved of the marriage, you probably know, but I leave her to it. She does not entrust her secrets to me. She was on very good terms with my son, Ralph, but he is gone. I fear Isabel is much alone in Rome. I think Gardencourt a more suitable place for her especially now that her friend Henrietta Stackpole, now Mrs. Bantling, lives in London. But you are right. She married and one doesn’t throw that off so easily.”
“Ah, if only it were that easy. Husbands can be so tiresome. I feel I can tell you, Mrs. Touchett, I was against the marriage myself. I know my brother. And I know his friend Madame Merle well. Together they are dangerous - I am not betraying them, I speak as frankly to them. I don't hold my tongue. I know the lady was once your good friend. Are you still? Of course you don’t have to answer that, I’m being impertinent but that is my way, I often speak without thinking. Do not begrudge me. I am ridiculous. But I did feel sorry for your niece. I wanted myself to advise her against the marriage but am a little afraid of my brother, not to mention his friend. And I like Isabel. I thought it wonderful to have her in my family, such as it is, I was selfish. But then Pansy took such a liking to her and Isabel is wonderful to her, I didn’t intervene but when I saw how unhappy Osmond made Isabel, I did. I don’t suppose you know it, but I let a few secrets out of the bag. Oh, I know, I probably shouldn’t have but I was tired of seeing Isabel efface herself to my odious brother who could so easily manipulate her…why is a woman born clever, beautiful and rich only to be walked upon by a man who is not worth her little finger? And what is my thanks? I am spurned. I can’t even get word of my poor niece who is old enough to be in society and needs to find a husband. If it were left to my brother, she will remain an old maid, tending to his garden, his needs - another woman forsaken for a man not worth so much. Oh, here I am talking on and maybe you don’t want to hear any of this. Well, forgive me, Mrs. Touchett, I do go on, but I’m harmless, really. I would so like to hear something of Isabel. I had no idea she inherited your son‘s home. That explains why she is so often in England.”

Mrs. Touchett could only listen, pleased to note she did not have to contribute to this conversation she had no way of confirming. The countess was quite a chatterbox, she thought. But if what she said was true, Isabel was under more strain than she previously thought. She wondered what the little secrets might be though she was not inclined toward gossip in general. She would have to write Isabel and see if she would visit her in Florence. Mrs. Touchett did not care to make the journey to Rome or to live under the roof of Mr. Osmond whom she did not trust entirely but perhaps they could meet in England. She lost track of the countess’s ramblings when she changed the subject to a certain nobleman who was in the news for his bankruptcy that was threatening to bring down the Florentine business world. It was all the talk in Italy.

The Countess Gemini took leave of Mrs. Toucett and flailed and flickered around several rooms enjoying the company of more men than was deemed presentable but that was old news in Italian society. The one other thing she learned from her talk with Mrs. Touchett was that the lady journalist had settled in London. That was news. The countess had once helped Henrietta Stackpole with a story on Italian society, something she enjoyed very much. She had other inside news that the journalist might be interested in. She wondered how she could get in touch with her. She decided she would write Isabel that evening. It was time to make amends and reunite with her family. It was only right. She did nothing wrong, and Isabel should thank her or at least acknowledge having done her a service. What woman in this day and age wanted to be in the dark? Isabel was indeed dense if that was her attitude. Well, she would write, she could tell her of meeting her aunt, she could tell her how he missed Pansy and to please forgive her transgressions. Then she would contact Mrs. Bantling and spill more beans. She collected beans at a rapid rate these days. The one thing about being talkative, people thought you weren’t listening and said the most delicious things. She would love the ear of a journalist, especially one who had no European loyalties.

Pansy’s Growing Impatience

Chapter XX

Pansy Osmond, after warmly and sincerely greeting her father on her return from England, spent the weeks after subjected to an agitation she heretofore had not felt before her trip to England. She was not without feelings previously nor was she without annoyances. She had felt all that and more being sent back to the convent after her father forbid her engagement to Mr. Rosier. But looking back on that lackluster period - two weeks and three days - the feelings experienced were those of a different person. She scarcely remembered that forlorn girl. She did not express it but she was angry at her Papa and conversely, grateful when he sent for her - requested she be returned to the Palazzo Roccanera. So grateful was her heart she vowed to never give her father reason to be dissatisfied with her presence or her preferences. She kept a low profile except when he requested her company and at those times, she did all she might to please him. She practiced the piano with diligence, several hours a day, if he might like to have her play for him. She drew tepid landscapes from her bedroom window and in the courtyard with the fountain, never so charming since the gnarled oak tree was taken down by forceful gales. She made sure to put the tree in her compositions - she knew her father had been upset over the loss of the shade that had made the courtyard so pleasant in the summer months. Pansy tried in all ways to please her father; she had learned what happens if he were not so. She was a simple girl who did not, indeed could not, hold onto a grudge. She had not been raised to find dissatisfaction, demand her own way or look to others for cause of any discomfort she might feel.

When her stepmother returned to Rome and their home, Pansy could breathe once again. She did not know she had not been breathing but her relief at her stepmother’s appearance was palpable. Her stepmother put all her attention on Pansy and for that she was more than grateful. The two women became friends as they’d never been and with this friendship came a renewal of spirit for both of them. Pansy’s father was increasingly in the background, busy with is art collection. At one time all Pansy wanted was time spent in his company, she now relied less on his reassurance as her stepmother took her in hand and helped navigate her days that became increasingly troublesome to the young woman as she had no occupations whatsoever or at least any that fulfilled. She could practice the piano for hours on end but it would never mean anything to her. She just did not care about it, nor did she wish to emulate Madame Merle and play for guests. She shriveled at the prospect and in time, her father let it go, at least publicly.

What she did find to occupy herself when her stepmother was not available was in the kitchen where she enjoyed the art of baking, taught to her by their English cook, Mrs. Trotter, who had a magical way with the simple use of flour, eggs, butter and salt. With the addition of fruit or nuts, readily available, innumerable recipes could be concocted and Pansy never grew tired of watching Mrs. Trotter create confabulations with a few ingredients and practiced skill. She sat wistfully in the corner watching for many weeks before she was invited to assist on a day when Mary Prine, the scullery maid, was sick and more importantly her father was away. From that day, Pansy would not be put off and used any excuse to spend her afternoons beside Mrs. Trotter and as time went on, she became quite adept at rolling out pastry dough, conceiving of unusual combinations and ways to use the fruit, vegetables and herbs grown in the patch of garden outside the kitchen door or in the small greenhouse off the pantry.

“She’s a right little baker, that one,” said Mrs. Trotter to Mr. Higgins. “Not that she will ever have need for it. As it is, her Pa ain’t too thrilled findin’ her over the stove top. Poor girl needs a husband is what I say. Needs her own house to tend to. What are Mr. and Mrs. Osmond thinking of? She’ll soon be too old though she’s young for twenty. Gracious me own daughter was married with three babes at twenty.”
“Her parents are cautious,” said Higgins. She’s been sheltered and her father wants a good marriage for her. Not willing to settle his girl for less than her due.”
“If he’s not careful, she’ll end up by herself and that would be a shame. Such a fine healthy lass, so gentle. Why, when the baby was with us, God bless his soul, she was the perfect little mother, she was. No, it’s time to settle that one.”
“I believe Mr. Osmond is working to that end.”
“Someone’s got to do something for her. I always thought her aunt, the countess, would be the one to jigger up a suitable match but she’s been sidelined, I reckon. Ain’t seen her likes about for a good many months. Quiet around her without ‘er. Wonder what ‘appened there?”

Higgins was privy to more information than he was willing to impart, he did not traffic in gossip or at least not much. What he did know for a fact was without credibility. But what he suspected was that Osmond had his sights on a prince. That much was apparent. What wasn’t apparent was how the young miss would take to the prince. From what Higgins could ascertain, she had no special attraction for the boy, handsome and rigged-out as he was. The young miss showed no special regard to his presence nor did she seek out his attention with her conversation or the more subtle powers of her sex. The prince was not likely to note she, with her own hands, produced the plum tart he seemed to enjoy. Where Mr. Osmond had his eye, kitchen matters had no place; he was more likely to forbid the kitchen play. Higgins had heard him make remarks to that end - he heard Mrs. Osmond tell him it was a harmless occupation and gave the girl something to do. Mrs. Trotter was right; everyone sensed it was past due to find the young lady a proper husband. No one seemed to guess that the young lady had found the proper husband on her own. No one thought she could accomplish anything on her own. She was just seen as a lovely maiden, waiting for her prince to rescue her.

It is true, the maiden was waiting; but it was not for a prince. Isabel noted how expectant her stepdaughter was and she understood perfectly the reason. She had developed a deep affection for her nephew, Harold. Though Pansy tried to deflect from her absorption, Isabel had seen and registered the adoration between the couple. Harold had told her as much: he was not at all reticent on the subject and informed Isabel that he would marry her stepdaughter as soon as he had his medical degree. “You will have to speak to her father and that will be no simple matter,” she said. Harold, being an American and much like his aunt, did not doubt he would win the hand he sought. Isabel explained to her nephew this was not a certainty but said nothing more to diminish his dream. She would have to broach the subject with Osmond herself, planned to do this as soon as an opportunity arose and if possible take Pansy to Gardencourt in the spring.

Isabel had not expected this to be as contentious as the experience with Mr. Rosier until she returned to Rome and realized her husband had been making plans for his daughter that did not include a medical student at Oxford. In his wife’s absence, had been with the Prince Viticonti and his family regularly. She had no firm information to go on; nothing was said but that there was an interest was a certainty - Osmond did not give his time for nothing. Isabel was sure the Marchesa Viticonti did not suffer Americans of no rank if there was not something to gain. She sighed and wondered again if having money was to bring her nothing but trickery and skepticism. She would not want to be without it but...as her Aunt Lydia once said, money has its own price.

If Isabel had looked closely, she might have figured out the game but once again, she let the details reside in the dark corners, hesitating to look into those corners lest she come across things that did not sit well with her. Mrs. Osmond had changed in a good many respects since her marriage but in one respect she had not: she retained the desire not to probe or look into the motives of others. She was, again, sure of her own motives, willing to keep an open heart. Again, she put her trust in her husband, thinking the truce had set her free to make her plans, that included Pansy’s future. Italy and its customs still eluded her. She did not quite accept that her American values, her way of looking at a thing did not necessarily translate into Italian. If her sister-in-law were at hand, Isabel would be less likely to trust outright; that lady would have more than a few conjectures and speculations on her brother's aims and ambitions. Isabel was guilty once again of an obstinate faith.

Pansy, having learned the most exquisite manners from birth, while keeping her mind firmly fixed on Harold Ludlow, was seen as acquiescence itself though it was in fact, a dodge, the little lady’s first attempt at maneuvering. She had scant interest in the prince or his talk of horses, wine and the fashions of the day. Pansy had scarce exposure to anything of the sort and found it difficult to place any curiosity in his talk. That is where her manners stood her in good stead: she poured the tea with gracious form, served small cakes and savories that pleased the old Marchesa who had no idea the daughter of the house had baked them herself. This Osmond failed to mention, not particularly delighted to have his daughter working in the kitchen with the servants. Her stepmother did not dissuade her in this pursuit and Osmond gave way hoping it would be a passing fancy. “Why would one be in the kitchen when there was a staff of servants to do all the necessary work?” he asked his wife.

When Pansy one day admitted that the small walnut biscuits the Marchesa was enjoying had been produced by her own hand, the Marchesa looked at her and thought she must have heard wrong and did not mention them again. Osmond laughed and said, “Yes, my daughter has taken up a fascination with culinary labors but of course, our wonderful English cook makes our delicacies.” Pansy felt a momentary slight, such as an artist who has had his work diminished by the master as no more than a diminutive effort would feel. The prince ate his little cake and gave no thought to anything regarding its production; the prince rarely thought of household matters at all and vaguely wondered why the talk had turned to the kitchen. Wine of course, he could discuss and thoughtfully swallowed his glass of Madeira wondering what origin produced such an engaging vintage and where he could get more for his own table.

By contrast, when Harold Ludlow spooned into an apricot pudding Pansy had made at Gardencourt he could hardly contain his pleasure. “She cooks, Ma,” he shouted to Mrs. Ludlow. “By gosh I’ve found one swell girl here. Do you think she’ll marry me?” He chortled, Mrs. Ludlow chuckled, Isabel brushed his exuberance off lightly, feeling momentarily fearful while Pansy glistened. This is what Pansy was thinking of while the prince continued on about a wine he’d had at the home of a duke in France, a varietal he hoped to plant himself.

Pansy was growing impatient with the prince and his visits and hoped her stepmother would be able to glean her attitude and find a way to let her off - to realize that she was not quite able to entertain the old nobility the way her stepmother could. She did not mention her father’s inducement to pay attention to the prince; she would be embarrassed at such a state of affairs for herself and was not exactly sure what her father had in mind. He mostly talked of art and when they visited the castle of the Marchesa, he spent the time admiring the paintings, frescoes and tapestries on the walls while Pansy was left to sit with the prince. Having used up what little conversation she had, she resorted to bowing her head in a show of bashfulness, a show of ignorance of the topics discussed but was instead thinking of a medical student in England for whom she never tired of listening to or availing herself of his conversation. When he talked of setting limbs, routing out infection, making plaster adhesives or lancing a boil, she never strayed from the most ardent attention. She found these topics fascinating, more so than the art of the Renaissance or the breed of a horse if she were asked, though she was never asked.

Pansy longed to be needed. She questioned as she often had, how a woman could be useful. When Harold talked of volunteering in a children’s hospital, of helping to deliver babies, Pansy was rapturous. Harold took her to a hospital when they were in London. Never had she been more enthralled, never had she felt more at home. She wanted desperately to volunteer but of course, she would be leaving London soon. How she wished she could solicit her stepmother to help her become a nurses aid. That was something she could do while waiting. But she sensed her stepmother had her own agenda and she had to wait and watch, and wait…Pansy thought she might be waiting forever, drinking tea with people whose laughter made her uncomfortable, whose idea of fun was not within her realm and whose company made her restless with boredom. If only her aunt would come and stay - she would help her with the correct form she was to take but what she mostly wanted was for time to pass quickly.

Seated in her room after the guests had left, she quietly and meticulously transcribed recipes from a French cookbook to try her hand on the cook’s next baking day. She wrote another letter to her beloved telling him what little news she had, thankful that he was out there in the world, waiting like she was, for time to pass, the future to begin.

Isabel, watching the proceedings of the day with their noble guests and her husband, decided she would speak to Osmond the next day. Things with Prince Viticonti should go no further, in her view. She would have to find out what her husband was planning and to intervene if necessary and that was no task she looked forward to. Keeping out of Osmond's business was her modus operandi. But keeping out of Pansy's business was not possible. She had a goal in regards her stepdaughter as well as a promise made. Tomorrow I will have to buck up, as they say,and forge onward, she said to herself as she drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow it will have to be.

Isabel And Pansy Optimistic

Chapter IXX

Isabel Osmond walking up St. Regents Street at a brisk pace with a mere three days left in England was wondering if she were doing the right thing. She was planning to enter a gallery and make a purchase of three paintings by artists calling themselves Impressionists. She had been in the gallery on four separate visits analyzing the works but more so probing her own insight and sensibilities. When one’s husband was an important collector of Old Masters, it would not enhance Isabel’s self-confidence to be proved a neophyte who made expensive mistakes.

Impressionism was a new fashion in painting and the opinions varied on its validity and lasting value. Some thought it pure insanity; an outrageous joke, in fact many did, but Americans were purchasing these paintings, so much so the prices were rising and Isabel felt if she didn’t act now, they would soon be beyond her ability to refurbish the gallery at Gardencourt. Her cousin’s art collection had been moved to Lockleigh and Lord Warburton's gallery. Isabel wanted very much to reassemble the rectangular room that had once been the joy of that house. Her cousin’s collection had made a deep impression on her when she first arrived in Europe and she did not like to see the space emptied; it struck her as a missing tooth in a beautiful woman. There were still ghostly squares and rectangles where the paintings had once been in place.

How sad the room now looked, she thought. It was Isabel’s idea to bring it back to its original splendor with a collection of Impressionist paintings. She had thought long into many nights about this idea. It had been a month since she and the Bantlings visited the London gallery and she had been back twice on her own and once with Miss Mary Cassatt, the only American artist of the group calling themselves Impressionists unless you want to call Mr. Whistler American, which he certainly was, but had made London his artistic home for many years. He was also ambivalent about calling himself an Impressionist, a true iconoclast was this artist that joining any group did not quite suit his natural instincts.

Isabel had been introduced to Mary Cassatt and her mother by Henrietta and Miss Cassatt was giving Isabel lessons in what the movement was about, who were its favored practitioners and why. Miss Cassatt journeyed to Gardencourt and Isabel was able to impress the artist with her zeal to fill the empty gallery and since the artist’s paintings in the London gallery had all been sold, she donated a pastel drawing to Isabel’s effort, a gift she wanted to bestow on the spirited lady who made her home in Italy but had a charming Tudor house in the English countryside. It was not altogether a gift - the artist knew it would be the beginning - that Mrs. Osmond would become a collector. The American artist was helping the affluent American lady who appeared to Miss Cassatt to be a little lost, while helping her fellow artists, a winning situation all around.

“I had expected Mr. Whistler to join our little party this weekend but he had to cancel. I was disappointed but he promises to be in Rome in a month.”
“Yes, we are to exhibit in Rome. It will not be the expansive exhibit that is on display here in London, but it will be quite a good showing nevertheless. Monsieur Degas is participating and also expects to be in Italy. I hope you will get a chance to meet him.”
“Is he a good friend of yours?”
“Well yes, as much as one can call oneself a friend of such an intricate personality.”
“Is he like Mr. Whistler; all chimera and reverberation?”
Miss Cassatt laughed, the first full laugh Isabel had the pleasure to note in the lady artist. “My dear, he is not nearly so buoyant, he is subdued, the opposite of Mr. Whistler. He is I think, the best of the Impressionists. He has a classical training. Indeed, he is often annoyed with the term which he feels has nothing to do with his own style but he has thrown in his lot with us - begrudgingly perhaps.”
“I admired his painting of the horses - I’m afraid I can’t recall the title.”
“Yes, he has a lovely feel for horses and the figure.”
“Will you be in Italy also, Miss Cassatt?”
“No. I’m afraid I am setting off for the States next week. I expect to spend the winter there and return to France in the spring.”
“I’m sorry you are leaving so soon. I will look forward to our next meeting whenever that may be.” Miss Cassatt was taking leave and Isabel wanted to say something that would cement their friendship - she wanted American friends but more than that, she wanted other women to consult, to feel at ease with.
“Trust your instincts, my dear,” said Miss Cassatt as she entered her carriage. “You have them. You will put together a fine collection and I look forward to seeing this lovely room when next I am in London. You are not making a mistake in collecting the Impressionists; it is most definitely not a fad. It is the future.”

That evening, Isabel sat alone in the small parlor where she entertained afternoon guests, examining the drawing, letting the mood and the dappled light sink into her core. It was of a mother and child that at first Isabel couldn’t quite look at so poignantly did it strike her. Having lost her own child at six months, she had not really consigned her grief to history yet; she thought she had, she was long out of mourning but was she really? When Miss Cassatt presented the pastel, Isabel drew back for a moment so sharp did the imagery jab her heart. Miss Cassatt had no way of knowing of her loss and Isabel chastised herself for her childish reaction that did not go unnoticed by the artist who was too polite to ask Mrs. Osmond if she did not care for the drawing. Isabel noted that she had affected Miss Cassatt and neither woman said anything for a moment, both at a loss as to the meaning of this gift offered in all sincerity.
“My dear Miss Cassatt, I am quite beside myself, it is the finest thing anyone has ever given me. I do not mean to give any other impression. It is splendid. I cannot begin to thank you. It fills my heart.”
“You are most welcome, my dear. Consider it the beginning of your collection.”
Isabel regained her composure and with many more thanks to the artist, saw her and her maid into a carriage for the train station.

Isabel was hard on herself afterward. After all, Rome was full of Madonnas with child, this motif could be seen everywhere including the Palazzo Roccanera where her husband’s growing collection contained more than a few of this solid Catholic motif. But they were not real to Isabel. Most of them she looked on as iconic, lacking realistic interpretation with the exception of Raphael. Most were wooden and did not speak of reality to Isabel.

But this simple drawing spoke of life, of movement, the mother’s caress brought back vividly Isabel’s own arms holding her boy, playing with him. She wept that night for her lost boy. She really hadn’t much before; not from callousness nor unfeeling, but a cold disdain for her husband ruled her emotional state after the death of their son. Osmond managed to take precedence even then. She felt ashamed. She would not in all likelihood experience motherhood again. She gave way to her emotions for the remainder of the night. Miss Cassatt’s picture of a mother and her child had awoken in Isabel a stream of grief she hardly knew she was carrying within. She let it roll over her, it had been long in coming and she welcomed its presence. She thought she might like to cry until the end of time but she also knew she would not. Her volatility, her excess of temperament were attributes of the past. Charged sensations she learned, were not at all helpful if you wanted to view the world with clarity and Isabel most certainly did want clarity. She sought it desperately at times. She longed to have someone tell her how to live her life; the results of clouded vision. She thought at one time she might die of it.

But she had not. The next morning, dry-eyed, she was able to lose herself in the drawing’s attributes in and of themselves - she thoroughly grasped the power in the Impressionist style. She would champion the cause of these artists who could make her feel more deeply than all of Italy’s treasures. Isabel took an early train to London the next day, entered the gallery and purchased a Renoir still life, a Pissarro landscape and a Monet cityscape and asked to have a Degas drawing put on hold until she talked to her banker. She coveted a Manet flower painting that had been sold. She was told that Manet was ill and therefore his works in the Impressionist style would be rare and very valuable. “Please inform me when you acquire other works by Monsieur Manet,” she said. “Consider me a good customer, I am refurbishing a gallery in my home. I shall look to you for assistance.”

With that, she made her way into the beckoning sun that had just made an appearance after a week without its warming presence. The gallery owner could only smile the smile of one who had just sold a number of paintings before the clock had struck noon. He considered closing up for a leisurely lunch but had an appointment with an English artist whose work he didn’t care for but was the nephew of an important collector. Instead, he stood in the window and watched the American lady let the hansom go as she walked, quite alone and independent, down St. Regent Street, not at all in a hurry to be anywhere.

When word got out that a new adherent joined the ranks of collectors of Impressionist works, she found a new coterie of friends starting with Mr. Whistler whose invitation to dine she had readily accepted. The following day she went to Mr. Whistler’s studio and purchased a small oil of the Thames at dusk. Ralph she knew, would approve. It was a subject he always came back to in his own collecting.

And so Ralph’s gallery would be brought back to life. Seven weeks in England had wrought much. She and Miss Cassatt were friends, Mr. Whistler would visit Rome when the Impressionists were having an exhibition at the Roberto Durelli Gallery and both he and Mrs. Osmond were expressive in their enthusiasm for this visit, the opening of the first Impressionist exhibit in Rome. Mrs. Osmond would be a patron and friend.

With the start of her collection in place, Isabel too was ready to leave for Rome. Pansy was prepared to leave now that Harold Ludlow was back at Oxford. She had seen and instantly loved Gardencourt and quite a bit of the city of London. She had a fresh complexion and a new energy that had been lacking but was now fully apparent in the shy convent-raised girl. She no longer looked like a girl nor spoke like one. She had several new dresses that were not those of a girl but they could not be described as gowns for one who was planning seduction. She knew where she was going and it was not into the world of fashion or frivolity. They were beautifully practical. Gardencourt had transformed her into a quite different specimen altogether. Isabel did not know what Osmond would make of her, she hoped he would be pleased with his daughter, that she would be marrying soon. Isabel had no doubt that Pansy would marry her nephew. Osmond would have to consider the possibility that his daughter would live in America. But that was some years off yet. Until then, they would wait, as the young woman so adroitly put it.

They did not know how Osmond was losing patience waiting for their return. They were innocently unaware what forces were being put in place. The two women, arm in arm, boarded the train in the happiest frame of mind, certain that life could only offer more of the same.

Madame Merle’s Visit

Chapter XVIII

Gilbert Osmond was not particularly keen on the fact that his wife and daughter remained in England for six weeks but there was a certain lifting of the atmosphere without her presence at the Palazzo Roccanera, her company that Osmond stoically tolerated, with no subtleties regarding his attitude to her ideas, her activities or her state of mind but no outright antagonisms. For the most part he ignored her, it was that simple, other than what was expected for sociable intercourse.

His wife, he thought, detested him, but this he did not take seriously. He was used to her petulance and gave as good as he got. He did not hate her though she often said he did. That she had a penchant for martyrdom, was another opinion he’d formed about his wife, not without a certain scorn. He wished she would grow out of it. He did not hate her but she was a yoke around his neck with her weary round of duties, none of which she seemed to enjoy. Osmond believed in enjoyment even if there was little to be found in society these days. He could enjoy quite well on his own and wondered why his wife did not cultivate interests that would give pleasure. She was rich; what was the point of being unhappily engaged? Osmond thought it was not for him to entertain his wife. He failed to interest her in any way even though he made an effort when she returned home after their rupture. Now he let her be. She spent a great deal of time with Pansy - made Pansy happy and for that he was appreciative. He did not always approve of the places they went, but he had to admit his daughter needed to be treated in a manner that differed from a child or even a jeune fille. He also knew she needed to be married soon. She was almost twenty-one though young for her age. Osmond had this on his mind in her absence; he waited patiently, too patiently, he thought, for the return of his wife and daughter. He did not at all appreciate that they were away longer than he was given assurances of. His wife would answer to it, but he needed her good humor in the coming months and would not intentionally make waves. Isabel could fold up; become inaccessible to him. He had to keep her in a certain line, using a determined line.

Osmond was seeing much of Prince Viticonti since his request for Pansy’s hand. He could see his plan gliding smoothly to an eventual finish; to court the old Marchesa Viticonti who without knowing it, possessed a lost Correggio that she, as far as Osmond could ascertain, was unaware of. The prince could not be expected to know of its province and seemed indifferent to the artworks on the walls of the family castle. Osmond could not figure out what the prince did have an interest in besides horses or the most ornate, though tasteless snuffboxes. The prince did not seem interested in the history or the art of his country which Osmond thought somewhat appalling but typical. Though he seemed knowledgeable on Italy’s wine production and varietals and enjoyed a Vivaldi String Quartet when it was presented at the Palazzo Roccanera, he had both a wandering attention span and eye. Osmond had not as of yet found anything to reproach the prince for other than a lack of intellectual weight, not uncommon with the nobility or any milieu for that matter, having long ago taken the measure of his fellowman and found it wanting in almost all respects. He was glad he enjoyed his own company - there wasn’t much to most people encountered and he had long ago quit expecting any enlightenment from them. Occasionally he met a specimen such as the American Caspar Goodwood who amused him with his stiff back and utter lack of curiosity that nevertheless earned him a great fortune, but the man’s interest in Isabel put Osmond on his guard after noting the hangdog look her presence produced on Goodwood. Another of her conquests, he mused. Osmond couldn’t imagine that the American thought someone as imaginative as his wife would ever have given this genus a second thought but he suspected there had been something between them once. It was no matter now, the man had been killed in a fire in his cotton mill earlier in the year. Isabel received a telegram from Mrs. Bantling and relayed the news to Osmond with little emotional effect but who knew what was in the heart of Mrs. Osmond? Certainly not her husband who had given up that pursuit of knowledge.
“I trust you are not going to rush to Boston to grieve over him, are you?” he had said to her.
“No Gilbert. I have no aptitude for grieving these days. You’ve turned me as cold as yourself.”

Isabel somehow could not unbend but instead met his sarcasm with a gritty determined need to rebut forcefully when a light rejoinder would have served. It wasn’t true about her aptitude for coldness but her reply, given before temporizing, resonated with churlishness in the dull air between them. Whenever her husband made a remark that carried a lethal sarcasm she could still rise to the attack but otherwise she kept her own council and they did not, as a rule, trade barbs. It could be said that Mrs. Osmond was the one to lack a sense of humor as she once accused her husband of. If she had been told this, she would feel it was another way in which her marriage had changed her, and not for the better. Then she would vow to remedy this aspect of herself wanting no attribute of her husband to rub off on herself.

Osmond knew that his particular brand of sarcasm scratched his wife’s surface and in all fairness, he used in sparingly. In truth, he hoped to cajole her out of her perennial cheerless deportment that was a holdover from the first years of their marriage and subsequent adjustments. He had quite gotten over his own disappointment in their merger. He thought his wife clever when he met her but her charms had long vanished in his appraisal and her cleverness was overshadowed by her stubborn need to prevail, coupled with a streak of American rigidity that did not sit well in Italy nor anywhere on the Continent. He understood why she spent so much time with the Bantlings - simpletons without nuance, he said after the first dinner with them though when he noticed his wife’s immediate ire, relaxed his stance with a humorous take on both. I’m mellowing, he said to himself after she went to bed. He’s thoroughly odious, she thought to herself as she entered her rooms. And so the divide remained and the couple lived in a palazzo with plenty of space to separate them, the husband indifferent, the wife with a rigidity that her friends noted but Roman society took as only natural for someone with a fortune.

Osmond, it could be said looked forward to his wife’s return. He did not care to have Pansy away much longer while the prince so obviously vied for her company. A prince could forget the charms of his daughter if her absence was prolonged. She was a remarkable, untainted girl, he knew it best but what the prince actually thought was another matter though he spoke the correct words, expressed the proper form with regard to Pansy. As long as the prince felt he had a chance with his daughter, Osmond would be the recipient of frequent invitations from the old Marchesa and the continued observation of the lost Madonna of Albinea he hoped to make his own. He was maneuvering his way slowly to a possible opening for the negotiations to begin. His daughter’s presence was a necessity. The prince placed his eye on Pansy in the same way he himself had his on the lost Madonna and what Osmond knew to be absolute was that Pansy was the more valuable of the two - Isabel would settle a generous sum on her stepdaughter when she married and this, Osmond by subterranean method, had let be known. He could not fail to note and take pleasure in the effect this information had on the prince and his aunt.

During his daughter’s absence, he spent his time making inquiries into the character and prospects of the prince. Yes, he held a title, but the nobility did not have the cachet since the overthrow. He had asked Madame Merle, the new Mrs. Halpern, for help with his investigation but had not heard further from the lady. His impatience spread to include his former mistress; he was not used to being put off by her, he believed she would not let him down but he had not, as of yet, come to realize that his old friend was not the same friend he could once count on.

He sent a message to her hotel but had received no reply. This exasperated him and he was on the point of going to her in person when Higgins announced the lady’s presence in his own drawing room. She was shown into Osmond’s study immediately and there found a man agitated, wound up, smoking American cigarettes, pacing the length of the room. He was pale and slightly unkempt. This was the first thing Mrs. Halpern noticed. Osmond had always been scrupulously groomed, a point of honor in a mind that shunned the unclean, the slovenly, as a disease of contagion.

“Well, you have remembered the Palazzo Roccanera at last,” Osmond summarily greeted the grand lady.
“I told you I would be occupied. I am not at your service as I may have once been. I did not make promises.”
“You do not care about your daughter’s welfare then?”
“You keep referring to Pansy as my daughter but it was not so long ago that I was forbidden to regard her as such. You must be consistent if you wish my help.”
“Do not be obtuse, Serena. What have you learned?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. But you are right to question. The family is not destitute but they will not be able to keep up appearances forever. There have been family meetings to discuss how to proceed. They do own a vast tract of land in Tuscany as well as a large decrepit palazzo in Florence in dire need of refurbishment. They have borrowed money against it; they are hoping to produce wine and olive oil in the future but are not certain what it entails as the previous tenants on the land have let things slide. They have very little business acumen and are depending upon the prince to guide them. Meanwhile, it seems the prince owes quite a sum himself, lost in a Moroccan casino while shopping for a horse. The family is keeping that under wraps and billing him as a modern entrepreneurial prince, a new term and idea they picked up from relatives in France.”
“Are you implying he has a gambling problem?”
“I have no idea what problems the prince might or might not have. I only know what I was told privately from a fairly reliable source but you cannot believe everything you hear. Since the aristocracy has fallen from grace, there are those who wish nothing more than a complete collapse and are working toward it.”
“What is your opinion?”
“I have no opinion. I only met the prince briefly when you were present little over two months ago. Of course I have met his aunt on numerous occasions but she is as tightly secured as a vault. What does she tell you?”
“She tells me very little. She is maddening. At times she is shrewdly astute, at others like a dull old woman losing her bearings. She refuses to discuss her artworks, plays dumb on the subject but I’m quite certain she’s playing me.”
“Why don’t you just make an offer and see what she says? Why drag poor Pansy into it? She surely will respond to a sum of cash; no one is that proud these days.”
“Ah, the Viticontis are that exactly.”
“Well, they won’t be for much longer I suspect.”
“So you think it is bad for them?”
“I think they would take whatever cash they could lay hands on and yours is as good as any.”
“What I worry about is that they will call in a curator for appraisals if I show my hand.”
“You can’t predict what they will do.”
“I’m waiting for Pansy’s return. The prince has not spoken to her yet. It will make all the difference.”
“So you say. I’m not sure how or if that’s true.”
“I will be family, of sorts. I can proceed on a firmer footing.”
“What is the return date?”
“They are leaving England in two days.”
“Do you plan to go on with your scheme knowing that the prince may not be the innocent you thought?”
“I intend to learn exactly what it will take to obtain what I want.”
“Will you sacrifice our daughter?”
“Please, Serena. I’ve waited this long to relinquish her, it will not be to an impoverished man, even a prince.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that lest I must leap in to save my daughter.”
“And would you?”
“Leap in?”
“Save her?”

Mrs. Halpern did not answer but let the conversation slide as she took in the contents of the room, filled with artworks and objects de art, all recent acquisitions, collected since his move to Rome as the husband of a rich American. She did not comment on this but let her eye rest on a watercolour of Roman ruins with a row of cypress trees in the foreground placed on a small easel in the corner. “I see you still find time for sketching?”
“My time is my own and yes, on occasion. Yourself? Do you have time for the arts with a husband and I suspect a wider sociability?”
“I have not had much time for it. It seems like something from the past.”
“Of course you still play?”
“On occasion. Mostly for my husband. Classical music is something new for him, in fact, it is what attracted him to me. For that, my fingers will stay limber and my scales agile.”
“Lucky for him.”
“Yes, lucky for him.”
“And for yourself? Do you feel lucky?”
“Very much so. But I am not without my charms you know.”
“I know very well.”
“Yes, you know and yet do not know.”
“Always one for conundrums.”
“Yes, we did once go in for those. Some things do not change.”

The light was growing dim and Osmond ordered tea to be served as Mrs. Halpern showed no sign of taking her leave. She sat on a gilded chair in her fashionable costume, noting the teacups that had once been in a very fine collection of porcelain in a home she’d often visited. She had sipped from these very same cups but did not comment on it. The aristocracy had to sell and Mr. Osmond was now able to buy. The world changes. She found the things that they might have once talked about had ceased to interest her. She thought her former lover rather pitiable despite a more opulent lifestyle. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what was wrong with him but the word redundant came to mind. How he was redundant she would have to think about later in her suite.

Her husband was once again traveling for business and she was alone with her thoughts and memories though she did not dwell on those. She was a woman with a future to contemplate. Tonight she would have plenty to think about, not least of which would be her daughter who could be bartered…no, she would not look upon it that way. She was being cynical. It was possible the prince would make a fine husband for Pansy. He was a beautiful young man, well-mannered, not at all redundant. This she told herself but then she remembered seeing Pansy in the hotel lobby and the look of rapture on her little face as she gazed into the eyes of Isabel’s nephew. Yes, she thought, Osmond might have more than a few barriers to obtaining his Correggio. Well, that was not her business. But was Pansy her business? That is what she would have to think about in the quiet of her rooms…she had much to think about these days, not the least of which was how much should or could be revealed.

Isabel’s Infatuation

Chapter XVII

Mrs. Osmond was experiencing something of an infatuation herself. She had quite unexpectedly developed the collecting bug her husband was known for. But unlike her husband who collected from the Renaissance period and that immediately preceding it, she had become enthralled with a new style of painting called Impressionism.

While at Gardencourt to settle in her sister who would make it a second home also, she chanced to visit an exhibition in London of the works of Claude Monet, Camille Pissarro, Edgar Degas, Mary Cassatt, Berthe Morisot and Jean Renoir, a group of artists, mostly French calling themselves Impressionists. While roaming the gallery rooms with her friends Mr. and Mrs. Bantling, she heard a rather strident, raspish voice spouting opinion put forth in such a way as to brook no contention to a group of young men who seemed to worship the man opining. He was, she could tell by his accent, clearly American and Isabel was taken with his intonation that spoke of her childhood and fond memories of her father. The paintings were a whirl of intense color, bold brush stokes and an incandescent light that when examined at a closer range, was seen to be pure pigment aligned to make the eye see something that actually wasn’t there at all. Isabel was entranced.

At first she, like many others, thought it a sort of childish inanity but as she listened to the engaging American describe the effects she was at that moment feeling, it all began to make sense and she found herself to be more engrossed in painting than she’d ever in her life been before despite Osmond’s erudite lectures, extensive knowledge and a growing collection in her own home.

After the American cicerone left the gallery with his entourage, Isabel asked Mr. Bantling who had been lingering in a small room of arms and armor to whom the authoritative voice belonged. Mr. Bantling, who knew everything of importance happening in his city replied that it was indeed one of her countrymen, James Whistler, a well-known painter and etcher residing in London for these many years, a man of some scandal whose talents were considerable according to certain parties, negligible according to others.
“It has been said the man has a bigger talent for notoriety than the canvas,” he commented. “He is nevertheless quite the bon vivant and keeps London society in an uproar.” All this Mr. Bantling relayed with an amused air, always ready to find humor in the human spectacle especially if it involved something as innocent as the arts and did not concern Parliament or the trains. “Henrietta can tell you much more. I believe she interviewed him during his trial.”
“Trial? The man is a criminal?” said Isabel in mock horror.
“Believe it or not, he sued the critic John Ruskin, who had the terminus to insult one of Mr. Whistler’s paintings in print for which the artist took offense. It was quite a ground-breaking suit. No one had ever sued a critic, art is after all, subjective. But leave it to Mr. Whistler to start something. It was quite a stir, I tell you, Mrs. Osmond. Henrietta knows all about it, more than I do. Pity she’s left. Well you can ask her at tea later.”
“Left? I didn’t know she had done so.”
“She had an urgent message to return home. Said for us to follow. You were so deep in thought she didn’t want to rouse you.”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Bantling, I think I’d like to stay on and look at the paintings a little more. I can see myself back to the hotel.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Osmond? I’d be happy to see you in a cab.”
“Thank you, dear. I need some air and it’s not very far. I’ll be fine.”
“Well, if you think you can manage. I wouldn’t normally let a lady take leave on her own but Henrietta has me used to all sorts of modern ideas these days. She’s quite independent as you know. Not sure she’d like me leaving you in any case.”
“You can tell her I’m an independent woman and begged to be let alone. I’m sure she’ll understand.
“Very well, Mrs. Osmond. I bid you good-day and hope we see you tomorrow.” With that he placed his hat on his head and left the gallery certain he’d done all that could be expected. Mrs. Osmond could always get a cab. They would not hesitate to stop at her slightest gesture.

Isabel continued looking at the paintings long after her friends departed. She was disinclined to leave just yet, her mind was a whirl of color and light, gardens, seascapes and farmland. She would find her own way back to the hotel, something she more than ever found reason to do. She liked nothing better than to walk the streets of a city alone to amble at her own pace, look in windows and stop for tea wherever she happened to find herself though this was not encouraged by any one she knew - ladies still did not venture out unaccompanied, as a rule, but Isabel, as a rule, did not care for this rule, as she told Henrietta, who also felt a woman should be able to get around on her own without help; anything else was childish and both women said it hampered living a full life. Just now she was wondering what Mr. Whistler’s painting that caused such a stir was of and thought she might look into it.

The next day upon questioning, Henrietta did indeed know more about Mr. Whistler and his “frivolous” lawsuit and was not only able to relay the story to Isabel but produce newspaper articles and pictures published during the trial. "Oh it was quite the thing," she said with laughter. "It became a farce and the cartoonists had a field day. Mr. Whistler was, of course, enthralled with the attention; that is what he was striving for. Of course, he lost, and nearly put Mr. Ruskin in his grave. Quite a spectacle it was."

Isabel found herself visiting the gallery again, this time unaccompanied. She was hypnotized by a large canvas by Claude Monet of woman in a garden, so much so she ventured to ask the price. It was not exorbitant but it was more than Mrs. Osmond dared part with and left the gallery pocketbook intact. The gallery owner suggested there were smaller paintings by the artist that could be had for less if Madame was interested. Isabel had immediate doubt as to whether or not her taste could be trusted. Osmond seemed to think she lacked discernment and possibly she might. But when back at Gardencourt on the weekend, looking at its empty gallery walls, the paintings having been removed to Lord Warburton’s house, she began thinking that maybe Monsieurs Monet, Pissarro, Sisley and Seurat might replace them. She visualized how she might restore the gallery that had meant so much to her cousin Ralph. She knew Osmond would laugh at her; he would say it would be impossible to replace Old Masters and eighteenth-century genre pictures at a reasonable cost on the open market, but why not something new? Something modern in spirit? Ralph would surely approve. She could hardly sleep that night thinking of those mad swirls of color and light gracing a place called Gardencourt. She began to see the feasibility of such a project. It excited her and her imagination seemed to expand to a larger circumference than her room could hold.

The one decision she did make that night, restless and wound up, was that she would seek the acquaintance and advice of Mr. Whistler. How she was to do this, she was not certain, but the Bantlings were sure to know someone who knew someone.

It turned out not to be so difficult. Henrietta knew personally Miss Mary Cassatt, one of the featured artists in the gallery and the only American of the group. Isabel and Henrietta were invited to tea at the flat of Miss Cassatt and her mother and from there they procured an invitation for Isabel and the Bantlings to attend Mr. Whistler’s open Sunday brunch where he served his famous buckwheat pancakes and regaled his guests with stories; some possibly true, others of a dubious origin but entertaining nevertheless. He was a shameless self-promoter but did not pretend otherwise. He solicited commissions, practiced a multitude of word games; puns, colloquies and verbal sparing of all types on all subjects. He was in constant motion and seemed to be fond of the sound of his own voice. Even Henrietta had trouble making her point. Mr. Bantling dared not say a word but enjoyed the display of wit.

The artist’s dining room was of a linear Japanese-style decorated with graceful paintings of ephemeral women that reminded Isabel of nothing she had ever seen in Western art. She simply fell in love with the man and his art. That is not to say she was in love, he was not a young man, but that she fell for his charm and wanted his friendship more than that of anyone she’d met since arriving in Europe seven years previous, unless you count Gilbert Osmond and Madame Merle, two personages that Isabel no longer thought about as material for her friendship. She was looking to replace Ralph Touchett as a benefactor and friend if truth be told although she was not aware of this. Our lady was nothing less than beguiled by the irascible artist. She persuaded Henrietta to invite him to dine at their home before she returned to Rome.

“Nothing could be simpler or more to my liking,” said Henrietta. “I’ve not quite finished with Mr. Whistler and you will be as good a draw as anyone, my dear.”
“She’s only looking for an excuse to have him appear in her drawing room where she might gain some ground,” said the jovial Mr. Bantling.
“No, I haven’t finished with Mr. Whistler. I have not spoken seriously with him since the verdict and his exile to Venice to repair his reputation and economies. Since his return, he is once again “in society” his oeuvre of Venice highly regarded, all forgiven, though for some, not forgotten. No, I’m ready to take on Mr. Whistler, I think. What about you, Robert?”
“Oh you know me, dearest, I take only the sideline. You have full possession of Mr. Whistler. The House of Commons is all the wind my sails will handle.”

The dinner was scheduled for the following Saturday with a warm response from the artist who was just as beguiled by Mrs. Osmond and possibly her American dollars. Isabel and Pansy would return to Rome in eight days. She wanted Mr. Whistler’s advice - to know if her idea could stand up to Osmond’s scrutiny. Could her will? If it could, if she had the assurance that the Impressionists were important, a worthwhile investment and not the absurdity some newspapers were declaring, then she would stand her ground. She suspected Osmond would give her trouble on this. Osmond only believed his own opinion on art and considered himself a high authority. Even Signore Cellini and his verdict would be brushed aside eventually. Osmond was not the type to take to a radical departure. She had never heard him express an opinion on this new art but he was unlikely to be anything but disparaging to an approach that so thoroughly went against tradition.

The dinner with Mr. Whistler was one of the more lively parties Isabel had the pleasure of attending. Her own in Rome, to her mind, were somewhat stagnant in subject matter, less than enlightened in conversation with an undercurrent of avarice that left Isabel not just bored, but put out. She could never quite explain to Osmond why she took offense at so many of the remarks made by her guests and more especially, the indifference to the poor, who as far as Isabel could see, struggled to survive in a country that had not the slightest interest in helping them, in fact, left it to a God they felt viewed the world exactly as they themselves did: that it was for them the world revolved and anyone born into a lesser sphere had no right to complain much less hatch revolutionary incitements. Isabel, who did not follow current affairs and knew little of the deposed Italian nobility except that they had been deposed, could not offer an opinion on the subject that preoccupied many of her guests; regaining their position and standing.

Henrietta laughed when Isabel said this. “My dear, they are deluded. Their time is up. How can you endure such retrogressive conversation? I should have trouble keeping a straight face.”
"I'm afraid I have trouble seeing the humor. Their cold assumptions leave me colder," said Isabel with a shiver.

Isabel was seated next to Mr. Whistler at dinner and the artist accepted her invitation to spend the weekend at Gardencourt. She wanted him to see the gallery that had once been so full of life when it contained her cousin’s collection. She would use him as her guide to purchasing a new collection. He would advise her, be her backup when Osmond ridiculed her purchases for she would tell him about them. Eventually.

The opportunistic artist knew a golden goose when it was presented to him in the form of a lovely, agreeable patron. In addition, Mrs. Bantling, while not quite so agreeable with her nose for the untoward, wanted to put his words before the public and he agreed to an interview for the first edition of her magazine, Expatriate Living. This would take place the weekend following at Gardencourt. The two American women were getting on with the business of life in England and both were energized and at their most charming.

Isabel wondered if Rome would satisfy her after London. And there was Pansy to consider. Harold Ludlow had installed himself at Gardencourt during their month’s stay. He and Pansy had been together often. Her sister Lily arrived shortly after Isabel and Pansy and encouraged the relationship wholeheartedly. She retained her love of Pansy, and pressed Isabel again to bring her to America. Isabel had regular missives from Osmond demanding that she return with his daughter when they were not back in Rome in the month as promised. Isabel knew if she didn’t return soon, unnecessary strife would greet her. She could put off leaving no longer. Pansy’s countenance appeared to crumble each time her stepmother hinted at a departure date. “I’m not ready to leave, Mother. I have not seen all that I would like to see. Please let us stay longer. Never have I loved a place as much as Gardencourt. Can’t you convince Papa we are happy and must stay longer?”
“I promised your father I would have you home in a month and we are now going on the sixth week. I cannot put him off much more. He is alone. He wishes our return.”
“He wishes me to entertain the prince. I won’t. I can’t…I…am otherwise entertained.”
“Whatever do you mean, dear?”
“I mean, I have made a promise.”
“Surely you are not secretly engaged?”
“I am not engaged. But I am not available to the prince. I want Papa to know this.”
“I’m afraid you will have to return to tell him.”
“I’m afraid of returning. He will do something to prevent…”
“Prevent what, dear? Please tell me so I can help you.”
“I am not engaged, but I have promised to wait for Mr. Ludlow.”
“To wait? For what are you to wait for?”
“For him to finish his studies so we can be married.”
“So you are engaged?”
“It is not official. It is only a promise.”
“I see. Well, we will have to let your father know, don’t you think?”
“He will try to prevent it. He will do anything.”
“No dear. He will not do anything. He will listen to you, I’m sure. We must go home and tell him. Otherwise he will have hopes of a different nature. We must be honest with him.”
“I’m afraid.”
“I will be there for you. Don’t be afraid.”

Isabel said these words but was not quite sure how much she believed them. Osmond was capable of anything just as his daughter said. Isabel had never known her stepdaughter to be quite so forthright. Shy, demur Pansy was now a woman with a will of her own. How Osmond would take to that was anybody’s guess. Isabel suspected she would be blamed for his daughter’s defection; she was blamed for just about everything anyway so was not unduly concerned. Nevertheless, they would be leaving in a week. Pansy would have to say goodbye to the Ludlows and resume her duties at the Palazzo Roccanera. Her face looked bleak when Isabel told her the date of their departure.

Isabel was not happy about leaving England either. The time was so enjoyable, so peaceful. She and her sister walked through the fields and woods along the riverbank. They had guests from America and entertained in a casual style unlike her entertainments in the Palazzo Roccanera.

And she was going to rebuild the gallery. Her one consolation was that Mr. Whistler promised to be in Rome in a month’s time. The Impressionists were having a show; he would be there to “drum up business” and would be more than delighted to call on Mrs. Osmond. Mrs. Ludlow left for America and Harold back to Oxford. She and Pansy would have Gardencourt to themselves for another week. With sadness, Pansy and Isabel said goodbye to Mrs. Ludlow and Harold, the latter promising to visit Rome at the first break of the school term.

Pansy stood squarely in view as Harold waved from the train. She saw her future clearly; now she would have to make others recognize it. Resolutely, she took her stepmother’s arm as they left the station.
“I’m ready to go home, Mother. I am ready to wait…”