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.