The Countess Gemini In From The Cold

Chapter XXIV

Pansy Osmond was quietly embroidering the border of a delicate handkerchief she planned to give to her stepmother for Christmas. She needed to keep her hands busy lest her imagination take hold. Her mind was capable of conjuring a less than desirable outcome for her future. She did not have an active imagination, she knew it, but thought it best to keep occupied nevertheless. Her future was very much on her mind but she was not unduly worried about it; her concern was more toward the present which had lost its sanguinity with a proposal of marriage from Prince Viticonti one week previous.

That she refused the prince had her father wildly agitated though he had not as yet spoke with her or determined how to rebuke his obstinate daughter. The fact was, Osmond had written Sister Catherine about having his daughter spend time with the sisters until “certain matters were attended to.” Her reply left him little in the way of options in that regard. Though we love her dear self so, she wrote to Osmond, we feel this is not the best place for her; we have girls in need of what we offer, your daughter has had the benefit and now must make her way in the world.

Pansy had taken it upon herself to retreat; she kept to her room purposely - the solitude gave her time to not only think - she had much to think about these days - but to work on her gifts. She finished the watercolour sketch she planned to give her father of their courtyard before the sprawling oak tree had been felled in a storm one of the most damaging in recorded history in Italy. She knitted Harold Ludlow two pairs of socks and a scarf to keep his neck warm. He wrote to her of how cold England was and how chilling a damp climate was to his bones. Just hearing these words from her beloved set her fingers immediately to work and with each stitch she thought of how cozy he would be, how sheltered, in a sense, she would be keeping him. As she worked she thought of nothing else and each stitch was mired in her love, feeling thus, was what her future was about. How it would come about, she was not sure but she was certain that it would. She had a vision and her vision held. Meeting Harold Ludlow had released the imagination she was said to have lacked. She gave little attention to this; but if she would have, she would say she was changed, had become a grown woman and this she thought, infinitely for the better.

She was also embroidering a handkerchief for her aunt, the Countess Gemini. Her stepmother let her know the countess would soon be in Rome, thought not to be staying with them at the Palazzo Roccanera.
“Why does she not stay with us, Mother? Why is she in a hotel? Has she quarreled with Papa?”
“She has, dear, but it is time for a reunion. We will go see her at the first chance.”
“Thank you. I miss her.”
“You do? I never knew if you cared for her especially. She can be abrasive and insensitive.”
“Yes, she was confusing to me when I was younger but I was fascinated - with her clothing, her manner, her speech. She was certainly like no one I encountered in the convent. I would like to see her again, talk with her…”
“So we shall, my dear, we certainly shall.”

This conversation took place a week ago and Pansy did not know if the countess was yet in Rome. Her stepmother seemed preoccupied and busy entertaining friends from England. She went out much and would sleep late, staying in her room most mornings. They had not spoken since the day of the prince’s proposal and then very little was said. Her stepmother held her hand when she emerged from the drawing room where she had been left alone with the prince; this was the first time she had ever been left alone with any man although her father and the Marchesa Viticonti were in the next room viewing the artworks on display. Her stepmother hovered in the vicinity unusually anxious, fearing what was coming, whether Pansy accepted or declined. Isabel wished she could take her place and do her bidding; she had much experience declining the offers of gentlemen but it was never a pleasant experience. For Pansy it would doubtless be agonizing - she had not her stepmother’s verve.

Pansy retreated immediately, slightly bewildered though not at a loss for her natural poise, but heard her father and stepmother arguing later that afternoon and her stepmother then took her dinner in her rooms. She wanted to go to her and tell her not to take pains on her account - she was an adult and though she could not determine her own fate entirely, she had determined who she would and would not marry.

There had been no family gathering since; Osmond suffered a virus and took to his bed the next day. She went to his room to let him know she cared for him, that she wanted to sit with him in his illness but he brushed her aside and said he wished to be alone. Pansy was hurt but knew she couldn’t expect a sick man to wish his daughter by his side, especially when he was surely vexed with her. She wanted to explain but he blocked her opening sentences and said, “I am not a tyrant, my girl, I do not force a marriage on you. I am only disappointed you chose to refuse a fine man so inequitably. You will never see such an offer again, I’m afraid.” He then turned his head to the wall and Pansy crept out of his room, saddened but without self-reproach toward herself for her position. She would have to tell her father why she could not accept the prince but sensed it was not the moment. When he was well, she would confess.

After being turned out of her father’s room, she made the decision to retreat to her own room and be as quiet as possible. She did not write letters or visit her bother’s grave. She did not venture into the kitchen to try the new recipes sent to her from America by Harold’s mother. She stayed, alone, occupied, and found sustenance within the framework of her own mind. Silence had always been her very best friend.

Isabel Osmond was occupied also but it was not locked within her own mind and was indisputably not in quietude. Mr. Whistler had been in Rome for a nine days and she found herself in much demand. She was invited to several dinner parties, gave two elaborate parties in return, attended a ball and the opening of the Impressionists first exhibit in Italy. She and Mr. Whistler, with a grouping of various admirers and sycophants, visited the prominent sights of Rome and the surrounding area. They had picnics, luncheons in prestigious homes as well as restaurants. Mr. Whistler, it seems, had taken up Mrs. Osmond with a force and she found herself after years in Rome, suddenly on the inside of its society, at least the expatriate social circle though a few nobles made their way into the drawing rooms of this lately-come moneyed class. Most of these activities did not include her husband, not because he was excluded, but because he declined the invitations.
“You know my views on Impressionism, I cannot hide them.” Conversing with its practitioners, even if the artist had an extensive knowledge of art and, Osmond granted, exquisite taste for the most part, was more than he could stand for. He thought the man a poseur, a mountebank. He was polite to him when he dined in their home but said to his wife, “I would not go out of my way to seek his company. I leave him to you; I know how your taste runs.” To which Isabel only rolled her eyes and left him to his sketching. She had no more rancor toward her husband’s narrowness, it had somehow been dispelled.

Pansy was invited to participate in some of the daytime activities but she too declined. She told her stepmother that she was making her gifts, she was behind with her needlework and had rather more gifts to send out this year. Isabel waited some days before approaching her with the subject of which she knew her stepdaughter did not wish to dwell upon. She was curious as to how Pansy held her own; she would have liked her to confide but Pansy seemed locked away in a world of her own and could not be reached easily. Finally, Isabel broached the subject on a day when they met in the kitchen corridor to sort linens.
“Tell me dear, what did you say to the prince? How did you express yourself? Your father is quite of the mind that you insulted him but I know that is not possible. Do you wish to talk about it?”
“The less said, Mother, the better, I think. I hope I did not insult the prince, I did not try for that, but a prince can be insulted in ways we might not be aware of. If he was, that was not my intention.”
“But you did not give him the response he was seeking, you disappointed him?”
“He shouldn’t have asked such a thing. I never gave him any idea I would be…I would find his offer acceptable. Why did no one warn me? Why did not you or Papa tell me in advance so I was not taken unawares. If the prince was insulted, I am not responsible. I may have not had the poise I should have had but I was disarmed. I am irritated that Papa gave permission to speak to me on this subject. I am no more a child.”

This was the most vehement Pansy had ever been to Isabel’s knowledge. Her stepdaughter indeed, was no more a girl. Isabel admired the way she stood up for herself, as she herself had when approached with a proposition she was not seeking, it being handsome, only made matters less concise, fraught with insistence. In the past, Pansy crumbled or went silent. Now she not only seemed to know what she is about, but equally so, who she was not.
“Pansy, I didn’t tell you because your father forbid me to speak until he had a chance. He said he would talk to you beforehand. I trusted that he would find the chance. But he became ill and the prince demanded an audience with you and he let it take place. He meant to talk with you, I believe. He thought you would be so pleased to have such an offer - the prince so handsome, so charming. You would have a grand life.”
“It would be someone’s grand life but not mine. What would I do, dress several times a day to sit around with stuffy people I do not know and be silly and idle? Draped in silks and satins to sit in drafty rooms alone because I couldn’t go out anywhere or speak to most of the population of Italy. That is not my life. That is the life for a different woman. I hope the prince finds her and is very happy. I told him so. I was very kind to him. I wished him every happiness.”
“I think the prince connected his happiness with you and was dismayed to find you were not enamored of the role of princess.”
“Let us not speak of it further, I wish to forget about it, I have my thoughts elsewhere and I think you know what they include. Or should I say, whom.”
“Yes dear. Is it still your wish to marry Harold?”
“Of course it is, Mother. I am not fickle. I hold to my promise. I’m sure Harold will hold to his. We have only to wait. I wish we could wait at Gardencourt. Can we really go there in the spring?”
“First we have to tell your father of your intentions. We must do this soon. As soon as he is well. Then we will make our plans. Let’s take good care of him while he is ill, have a beautiful Christmas and begin the new year with hope. That is what we can do, what we should do.”
“Yes, Mother. I’m happy to know there is a plan, that I can depend on you, that you will take any confusion I have and see me through. Thank you.”

Isabel hugged her stepdaughter tightly. They stood before the window, in each others arms for a moment. They heard the clicking of horses hoofs echoing in the drive in front of the Palazzo Roccanera and assumed it was the doctor who was coming to look in on Osmond. After a time Isabel made to leave Pansy’s room when a knock was heard on her door. Both women were more than a little astonished when who should make her entrance but the Countess Gemini, resplendent in a vermillion cloak over an emerald silk day dress with matching gloves. There was an replicated bird of various hues situated on her hat, its tail feathers fanning the forehead of the grand lady, elaborate even for the inspired tastes of the countess.
“My dears, I am at last, here for you. Oh my delightful niece, how you’ve grown in just this year. Why you are a proper lady altogether. I mean, darling, you have become a woman. Oh, give your old aunt a hug, I’ve come a long way just for this moment. You can’t imagine how I’ve missed you, longed to see you.” She held out her arms and Pansy could do nothing but enter them and return the affection.
“Aunt, I’ve missed you too. I was just telling…I was just saying that if you quarreled with Papa you should see him and make it up. He is ill but maybe he would like to see you.”
“My dear girl, your Papa has it in his head I did him an injustice but I did not. Oh, let’s not talk of that. I want to know all about your recent proposal. Is it true you have refused a prince? I was so astounded at this droll idea I came at once despite my brother’s intention to keep me away. I am at your service. Tell me all about it. Maybe I can help.”
“Hello Countess,” said Isabel, ignored up to this point. The two women lightly kissed each other’s cheek.
“Oh, Isabel, I’ve missed you too. How I’ve wondered about you, your feelings, your thoughts. If only she would write I kept saying to myself. Why have you not? Do you think I did you a disservice? Surely you are not as petty as my brother? I give you credit for more than his brand of narrow-mindedness.”
“I was not expecting you but it is good to see you, Countess. As you can see, we are well, although your brother has a virus and is indisposed at the moment. We thought you were the doctor arriving. As for help, what would you help with? We had just now finished talking of the subject you allude to and it is now closed. I do not think the prince will make a second offer and would not be encouraged to do so.”
“I see. Well, we’ll talk more. Do you think you could rummage up a cup of tea for a family member who has come so far?
“Let us go downstairs, Countess and leave Pansy to her needlework. I’ll arrange luncheon if you like.”
“No, just tea. I couldn’t eat a thing so anxious was I about my niece.”
“There is no need for anxiety, Countess. She is quite well, as you see.”
“So you say.”

Isabel led the countess to the first floor parlor she used for afternoon guests. She rang for tea to be brought in. The countess wasted no time with her interlocution. “Isabel, tell me what really went on with the prince. Hints and innuendos come my way but I could not believe half of what I heard. Rather than listen to rumor, I decided to learn the facts. Surely you do not begrudge me that when it involves my niece?”
“I do not begrudge you anything, Countess.”
“You say that but you look as if you are still put out. Do you really dislike me for what I said to you when we last met? It has been some time now, almost a year. Can’t you forgive me?”
“Countess, I have nothing to forgive. You tried to help me. I never thanked you but at the time I was suffering.”
“Suffering over my brother?”
“Suffering over my cousin and my husband’s …”
“Your husband’s reluctance to have you see him one last time.”
“Yes. It all came down on me at once and I needed time to think.”
“And what have you thought? Obviously, you did not stay away. I thought you might. I thought we may never see you again. I dare say even my brother, arrogant and assured as he is, thought you might not come back. He was peevish, I can tell you. He barred me from your home. I’ve had no word on you or my niece since. It was only that I had the pleasure of talking briefly with Mrs. Touchett that I decided I would come to Rome and see for myself.”
“Mrs. Touchett? You spoke with my aunt?”
“My dear, Florence is a small society. It is more unlikely that we never meet.”
“And how is my aunt?”
“She is thoroughly American. I like her so. Oh, she keeps her distance from me, that is to be expected, but she granted me a few words. Like me, she wonders about you. She said you do not confide in her. I’m afraid our one topic of commonality was limited by what neither of us knew about the doings in the Palazzo Roccanera.”
“There is nothing to know. I came back as expected and life goes on.”
“She did tell me you inherited your cousin’s house. That must be gratifying. If only I could inherit a house separate from my husband. How I should love that. To get away, seek my own way…”
“Yes, it is very nice. Pansy and I have recently returned from Gardencourt where we had a wonderful visit from my sister. And my friends the Bantlings, you remember Henrietta? She is now married and settled in London.”
“Interesting. I heard she is to start a magazine.”
“We have already seen the first issue. I will show it to you. Perhaps you would like to subscribe since you are an expatriate, of sorts.”
“I don’t go in for reading, but if there is anything interestingly juicy, I could make an exception.”
Isabel laughed. “You know, Countess, I have missed you too. I forgot that you can lighten a mood. In truth, I wanted to write you…I just wasn’t sure what to say.”
“Say anything. You know me, it does not have to ring with sincerity or cleverness. I’m undemanding, really. No need to hesitate with me. I’m always ready for whatever people put on offer. I’m not wedded to ideas, you know. I take what comes my way.”
“Yes. I think I may admire that.”
“Really? It’s good of you to say so. I’d like to be admired for something. I’m not at all. No one gives me much thought. It is only by stirring things up that anyone pays any attention at all to me.”
“Is that what you do - stir things up for attention?”
“I am not malicious, Isabel. I hoped you would know that. I never do anything to hurt anyone. It’s just that people take themselves so seriously. My brother is a prime example of that.”
“You brother has mellowed. He is not quite so set in his ways as he once was. He goes his own way and allows others to do the same. Oh, he still has his arrogance and will not suffer fools easily but he is not quite so inflexible. His art collection keeps him busy and focused.”
“So you give him a good allowance, I take it?”
“I give him what he needs or asks for. I take no pleasure in depriving him. His collecting is harmless and a good investment. His artworks will never depreciate unlike some other investments. He has me convinced we can’t go wrong with fine art. Of this he is assured.”
“Ah yes, Osmond and his trinkets. Well, better than keeping women.”
“They are more than trinkets these days. We have quite a marvelous gallery. Would you like to see it?”
“Perhaps later. Art means little to me. I admit it. I’m a philistine, as my brother once refereed to my husband.”
“How is your husband?”
“Odious. How else can he be? He has no other way. There is no nuance.”
“Ah, Countess, you are too funny. How long are you in Rome?”
“I dare say as long as I’m needed. Oh, I’ll go home for the holidays but until then, I’m free as a bird.”
“And what are your plans for Rome?”
“My plans are negligible. I wanted to see my niece. I’ve seen her. But of course she will not confide in her aunt. She hasn’t much use for me. She is like you.”
“What do you wish to know?”
“How this proposal by the prince came about. I know the Viticontis, they would not rush to include an obscure American into their famille without a strong incentive. What have you offered them?”
“I have not offered them anything. Pansy does have a dowry, however. I’ve settled that on her. Osmond has been with the Marchesa frequently. We have entertained the prince and his aunt and have been invited to them. Osmond thought the prince a good choice for Pansy, he seemed to be interested in her, we are both of the mind that she should be married soon.”
“Soon! My dear, it is past soon. That is why I’m here. I am in society, I meet many people, know of many eligible young men. I worried so that Pansy was sheltered by her father and you…well, I don’t understand you, Isabel. I don’t pretend to know what moves you, your reasoning. I am simple. You are not. I need things spelled out. What are you doing to find a husband for my niece? I have no gift for conjecture.”
“Countess, I believe it has all been taken care of.”
“Really? Now you are being mysterious again. Has she changed her mind on the prince? Have I heard falsities? Has she really accepted him?”
“The prince is out of the running. Pansy has made her preferences clear to me and I am not at liberty to say more but just to assure you, Pansy has made her choice.”
“Her choice? Oh, Isabel, you can’t keep me in the dark. Who is this choice?”
“I do not wish to name him until her father has heard. He is ill, we have not spoken yet of Pansy. She needs to tell him first. He’s upset about her refusal of the prince. I think he had quite come into the idea of being related through marriage to the nobility. He has suffered a disappointment.”
“Let him suffer a little. Can’t you give me a hint? Some such morsel of information that will tell me you have forgiven me a little?”
“I will tell you that he is American.”
“Ah, wonderful. That is, if he’s rich. A rich American is preferable to a poor noble I always say.”
“Yes, you always say many things that are nonsensical and charming. I’m so happy you have come to us.”
“Really? I think I’m going to cry a little. I've missed you so.”

Osmond’s Inquiry

Chapter XVI

Gilbert Osmond sat waiting impatiently for his former mistress to arrive at their appointed rendezvous. Not for a minute did he think she would fail to show. He knew her well enough to know curiosity would bring her to the Café Greco especially since her husband was not in Rome and needed no consideration. Within a mere four minutes the lady in question made her appearance, splendid in a indigo brocade cloak with a ecru lace mantle. She wore an elaborate hat that hid her face; though Osmond needed nothing more than her presence to identify it was she.

“So Mr. Osmond, you see I was summoned and dutifully answered the summons. What can it possibly mean that you request an interview? You let me understand that I was to relinquish any communication, any future relations whatsoever with you. And now here we are, meeting in a shady corner without our spouses to what purpose I’m sure I cannot imagine despite a prodigious imagination.”
“Please Serena, spare me the dramatics. Old friends meet. We have certain links, mutual concerns.”
“Pray whatever, Osmond? You also let me know that my link to you is to be severed. I believe you threatened me.”
“Let us confine ourselves to the present. How long do you plan to be in Rome?”
“It is not definite but you heard me say last night at dinner that my husband and I would be in Rome for a year.”
“I’d like you to help me with something.”
“Really? What is it I could possibly help you with? What haven’t I helped you with already?”
“I wish you would leave the past alone. Concentrate on the present and the future.”
“Very well. The present. What have you need of in the present? I would think your wife would provide all your needs. She did return to you.”
“This is not about my wife. Leave her out of it. It concerns Pansy.”
“What about Pansy?”
“I have received a request to marry my daughter. From a very high personage. Not an English lord to be certain, but not a nobody who collects bric-a-brac either.”
“Do you mean Prince Viticonti?”
“You guessed?”
“I saw you with him last night at dinner. It didn’t take much guessing, Osmond. You used to be more inscrutable. Don’t tell me you are becoming obvious?”
Osmond’s jaw tightened as he sat for a moment staring at the woman he at one time found so simpatico. He did not in the least appreciate this new woman who could mock him, demean him at will. He needed a friend. She had been that. “I hope you will consider me your friend, Madame. We have a long history and are both quasi-Americans. We know the nuances and peculiarities of Italy. And yes, it is Prince Viticonti who has made a proposal for Pansy’s hand. I have not given him an answer. He may not be good enough. I’ve done some inquiries but can only go so far. I must play a close hand. I want something from this transaction.”
“Naturally. And what is this want you are willing to sell your daughter for?”
“Serena, sarcasm does not become you. Don’t play innocent with me. You know perfectly well nothing is given nor gained on purely altruistic grounds in Italy or anyplace else for all I know. Don’t trifle with me.”
“What is it you want to know, Gilbert?”

“I want to know how much money the Viticontis still posses since the king has been dethroned. I want to know how desperate they are. I am interested in a painting they own. I’d very much like to purchase it but can’t come right out and make an offer. I don’t want to alert them to the fact that it might be valuable. I want to give the impression that I am taking some old relics off their hands for a decent sum of money. I want to do it with a certain finesse or they won’t part with anything. I am not going to name the painting specifically because I do not want them to entertain offers from other parties. I plan to offer a sum for a grouping, some incidental works and one important work. I have been trying to find out if they know the work or the origin of it without too much attention paid toward any one piece. I’ve gone as far as I can without making an outright offer. The old Marchesa is closed-up about the artworks and I can’t figure out if she’s indifferent to art or the contrary, planning to bring one or two to market, so to speak, speaking of inscrutable. The prince is also a funny character. He knows fully the value of almost everything, he is obsessed with values yet I can’t get him to elaborate on the art collection or he too, is playing a close hand. I would like you to find out some of the things I can’t be so bold as to inquire about regarding their financial position. It’s for Pansy. Yes, I want the painting, but I must also be certain of the prince. In some ways he seems as innocent and sheltered as Pansy and yet, he talks of racehorses and wines that says he is much more sophisticated than he shows in the company of his aunt. His father is dead, and no one knows anything about his mother. Or is talking.”

“Gilbert, all of these questions could easily be answered by your sister. Why have you not asked her? She is a fount of information on Roman nobility and society.”
“I am not speaking to my sister. She has done me damage. I forbid her presence…I have no wish to involve her.”
“I see. Poor Osmond, plotting and scheming alone. I take it your wife is not involved in any of this?”
“Not yet. I want to feel the situation out first, before I commit either funds or my daughter’s hand.”
“What does Pansy say about the prince? Is she partial to him?”
“She is withdrawn as she should be. She keeps her poise. The prince entertains her at dinner but they have never been left alone to my knowledge. They once took a walk in the courtyard together but that is all. I have not asked her; she will do as I say. She does not have it in her, after all, to refuse a prince. She was willing to marry what was his name, the little American with the small fortune…”
“Mr. Rosier, you know perfectly well his name.”
“Yes, Mr. Rosier. Well I packed him off. If I remember correctly, you were keen on helping him.”
“Not necessarily. Not once I learned an English lord was interested in our daughter.”
“Yes, Lord Warburton. I believe my wife said he has married.”
“Yes, he has. And even our little Mr. Rosier is engaged, I hear.”
“Yes, well, if Pansy could encourage him, she surely cannot find fault with a prince; a very handsome prince.”
“She is not like that.”
“How do you know what she is like?”
“I know she has been raised to value other things. We saw to it. She is not shallow.”
“Nevertheless, a handsome prince has requested her hand in marriage and she will do well to accept once I have ascertained his merit and those of his antecedents. I have a month. Isabel is taking Pansy to England. I could have refused, was tempted to, but once the prince made his offer, I thought it would give me time to do some investigating. I am gaining some ground by having her out of the way for a month. Seeing you was quite unexpected I must say but my first thought before sleeping last night was that it is prophetic.”
“In that I could be counted on to do your dirty work?”
“There you go again, Madame. There is nothing dirty about it. I merely want to inquire into the exact nature of a future-son-in-law. That is a father’s prerogative, is it not? What sort of father would hand over his daughter to a man if there is any doubt about his suitability or his ability to make her happy and prosperous? As her mother, you should feel the same.”
“Ah, now I am her mother. Less than a few months ago, I was nothing. I was not even to write. How quickly things change.”
“Yes, my dear, they changed very quickly in your case. How long was it before you snagged your American? What does he do, by the way, to make you so entitled? That you can carry yourself with the utmost dignity in such fine silks and brocades? Is he so very rich?”
“He is.”
“Well, let me congratulate you again. I could ask you for more details but propriety forbids me. Instead, let me appeal to your maternal instincts and hope you present me with the information I need before the month is out. I will be quite alone, so feel free to call on me. Can I count on meeting this Mr. Halpern in person?”
“I haven’t decided. Give me some time. I will find out what I can but I am not going to do anything to damage my standing in Rome. I am not going to be seen doing your bidding. I did that once and paid a price.”
“I never asked you to interfere in my life. I do not even necessarily thank you.”
“No. But you are in a better position nevertheless. You must have days when you realize that.”
“Are you implying something?”
“Nothing at all. But you are planning on buying artworks off the walls of the nobility. You must have means available to you not previously enjoyed.”
“Serena, if you are going to speculate on the spoils of my marriage to your friend, please keep it to yourself. My wife’s fortune is a disagreeable source of annoyance to me.”
“Really? I find that very hard to swallow. In any case, I've lost her friendship, haven’t I?”
“You do not know me as well as you think. I married in good faith. It is my wife who has fallen short of the mark.”
“Oh yes, I know, she bores you. She did not fall into line.”
“Oh, what line is that?”
“Why the only one - your line.”
“Please Serena. You do me a disservice. I quite leave my wife to her own proclivities.”
“Yes. I’m sure you do. Once you found out she had a mind of her own I’m sure you quite distanced yourself from it.”
“It was my sister who betrayed me, but you were not careful yourself. You let things slip.”
“Have it your way. You will never admit to a fault, I know that. I’ll leave you.”

Osmond did not reply. He had no real interest in the conversation. She was right, his wife did bore him. The subject was one of many he rarely let enter is conscious these days. The lost Madonna of Albinea, now there was a woman who thrilled his soul. He would not rest until he had it under his own lock and key. He paid the bill for the drinks and considered the meeting a success. His old friend and lover would never let him down. Or so he thought as he made his way into the quiet street of the Roman summer, stopping to look at a drawing in a gallery window and immediately discerning it was not worth his consideration.

Osmond’s Impatience

Chapter XI

Signore Salvatore Cellini had been en residence with the Osmonds for seven days before the subject of the authenticity of the altarpiece was broached. Signore Cellini seemed reluctant to discuss it after the first three days; indeed, he seemed to have lost his curiosity, a cause for dismay by Osmond. Signore Cellini was much more interested in Mrs. Osmond who from the first day, was graciousness itself. They visited museums and cathedrals together, walked in the campagna each day and enjoyed tea in the courtyard with the golden light of a Roman afternoon imbuing a simple repast of bread and orange marmalade with a sense of poetic leniency. To say Signore Cellini had developed a reverence for Mrs. Osmond may not, in so far as it went, be an exaggeration. His devotion to Osmond’s Giotto was receding as his adulation for his hostess expanded. Osmond knew not how to break his wife’s spell on their guest but was not content to watch him eat and drink heartily at his table each night only to sleep for most of the morning until such time as he thought Mrs. Osmond might be serving tea in one of her drawing rooms or the courtyard. That is, unless he was seen gallantly holding the door of the carriage for Isabel and Pansy, the three en route to one of Rome’s numerous points of interest. Often Mrs. Osmond had guests for luncheon, many of whom were art lovers so the art expert had fine company and was able to expound on any topic pertaining to the craft of painting or, depending on which room they were taking their repast, the collection of the Palazzo Roccanera which made Osmond’s temper short, noticeable by only a twitching in his left jaw while vigorously maintaining an outward demeanor to hide his seething. He left the room during these discourses or avoided it altogether. At these times he missed Madame Merle: Only she would be attuned to Osmond’s ire; only with her would he allow himself to vent with his own brand of mockery. He depended upon her indulgence; he could not get it from is wife.

Many days Isabel and her stepdaughter were alone in the afternoon and Signore Cellini had their attentions unto himself. Signore Cellini noted Osmond’s absence and wondered why the husband of such a charming wife would stay away. He also noted that very little was said between them at dinner or during their Thursday evening salon, they made no eye contact or much of anything resembling communication. At times the lady looked saddened, one might say morose but it was only for a second before she put on a mask of affable charm. This, the old Italian of finite receptivity could easily discern. How could such a lady be ignored so cruelly? But then Mr. Osmond was not an Italian - but a strange hybrid of European and American sensibilities. There was no accounting for such apathy. He was much more enthralled by his musty old altarpiece than by the beauty and wit of his wife, so regal in her black gowns graced with cameo broaches of the finest Italian carving, accentuated with strands of corpulent pearls. Signore Cellini was unable to take his bleary eyes off such a illustrious model. He’d heard that American women were harsh, ignoble, almost crude. This could not be said of Mrs. Osmond on even her worst day.

Signore Cellini entered Osmond’s study on the eighth day of his residency. Osmond had sent Higgins for the man, unable to endure his fawning over Isabel any longer. He preferred his sycophantic talents to be used on his altarpiece which is what he was, after all, paid to attend to but this he could not tell the man in so many words. Not yet. He knew he should humor him but a sense of humor had never been Osmond’s strong suit.

“So, my good man, in your opinion, can you tell me that my altarpiece is by the master’s hand?”
“No, Signore Osmond, I cannot tell you that it is by the master’s hand nor can I tell you that it is not by his hand.”
“Come now, Signore Cellini, surely you with your expert eye have some opinion. What is your guess, if it is to be an uncertainty?”
“My guess is that it may be by a student of Giotto.”
“What is your reasoning?”
“The master’s hand was a little more fluid, if you will. He had a grace that of course, everyone tried to copy but no one really did, it was for the master alone, his gift.”
“I understand the master’s fluidity, his gift precisely. That is why I believe the altarpiece is by the hand of Giotto. An early work no doubt.”
“Of course, once it is cleaned, we will be able to determine more. When did you plan to begin the cleaning, Signore Osmond?”
“I’d would like to begin the cleaning today, Signore Cellini. Are you interested in the job?”
The expert rubbed his eyes, seeming to concentrate on a bottom corner of the right panel. “It would require me to stay on here at your beautiful home for some time, Signore Osmond. Unless you would like to transport the altarpiece to my workshop in Bologna.”
“What do you recommend, Signore Cellini?”
“Naturally it would be better to have it remain in one place. Moving old works of art over the crumbling roads of Italy, over hill and dale is not in the best interest of preservation.”
“So do we begin immediately, Signore Cellini; are you saying you will stay on for the restoration?”
“As you wish, sir. Though I will have to send for one, possibly two of my assistants unless assistance can be found in Rome, but I have trained my men thoroughly, I can trust them to do exactly what is needed and no more. We do not want a heavy hand anywhere near a work of this value.” He was now placating Osmond whom he felt might be easily riled.
“I wish you to tell me it is a Giotto as soon as possible. You see I’ve examined the work before it was as darkened as you see it today. I’ve studied it closely over the years. The church was recently flooded, the wood has been penetrated severely by moisture; it has given it a rather turgid appearance that is deceiving. I thought so myself when I first entered the church early last spring after the flood. Before that, it was grimy, to be sure, but I saw the color, the light, the beauty of the figures. I don’t believe I am mistaken, Signore Cellini.”
“You may be right, Signore Osmond, we shall see what we shall see.”

Osmond knew the old man was stalling for time. He knew his wife had so enamored him he couldn’t see what was in front of him. Damn Isabel! If everyone only realized how simple and tedious her mind was. Her moralizing was a thing of prosaic dross. He found her insufferable. The only thing he deemed worthy in her was her attention to his daughter, her willingness to play a grand role when it was required and her generosity. He would give her that. She did not withhold. She did not resort to petty humiliations. He did not know quite how he would handle her if she started down that road. If he was made at all to grovel, a murderous rage would be his daily diet. Perhaps his wife knew this, she was quick, she had strong instincts. Clever, everyone said. Osmond was sick to death of his wife’s cleverness but recognized that it was only he who felt this way. He was even sicker of Signore Cellini’s presence in his home but for now he would have to accept him. But he would be no more with his wife. He would, from now on, be working on the Giotto. Osmond had really had enough of the old Italian’s obsequiousness that carried with it no results.

The next morning he met his wife having her breakfast in the small courtyard in the center of the palace. Signore Cellini thankfully was not with her. Nor was Pansy. She was pouring a dark coffee from a silver pot and had pealed an orange but had not yet broken it apart. She was startled by Osmond’s abrupt presence, he did not usually seek her company in the early hours.
“I have given Signore Cellini notice that he is to begin the restoration of the Giotto immediately and he is to take to the task rigorously without delay or side trips to the Villa Borghesa or any of the other highlights of Rome with you and my daughter in attendance. He seems to be taking your hospitality for granted and I do not want to see you burdened with his company. He is nothing to you and I cannot see my daughter socializing with his sort.”
“What sort is that, Gilbert?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Isabel. I’m not in the mood.”
“What mood are you in Gilbert?”
“I am in one of exasperation that the man I hired to work on an important project for me instead plays on my wife’s generosity and my good manners while ignoring the task at hand.”
“Very well, Gilbert. I can find other ways to spend my time. I was trying to placate him for your sake, surely I didn’t invite him to stay. It is up to you to arrange the timetable of your guest. But I will shake Signore Cellini if you insist. I have plenty to do, and many people to give attention to. As a matter of fact, I didn’t mention it before but Henrietta and her husband are in Italy and will soon be in Rome. We were together in Florence. In addition, my sister Lily is in England and I may invite her to visit. Or I may meet her somewhere; she’s to be in Paris for several weeks. Her son Harold is with her.”
“Well, you’ve been keeping secrets again, haven’t you. It seems that is your specialty.”
“No Gilbert, that is your specialty. Mine is trying to keep you from any anxiety my friends or family might cause you.”
“I am perfectly ready to meet your sisters whenever they wish to show themselves at our door. Miss Stackpole or Mrs. Bantling now, is another matter but even for her, with her grating laughter and crude innuendo, I can make an effort with enough warning. I’ve become hardened to your peculiar choice of friends.”
“You may not have to concern yourself. They will in all likelihood stay in a hotel.”
“Even better. I shall, nevertheless, be on hand if they should visit our humble home.”
“She doesn’t like you, I may not invite them here.”
“Oh that’s rich! She doesn’t like me. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. If such a woman as that did like me, I should wonder at my total being.”
“Her husband is very gallant. A military man. Very straightforward. I don‘t think you would find objection to him though he knows very little of the artistic milieu.”
“He must have nerves of steel and a spine of rubber. I should like to meet such a man who would marry your friend. He must be very close to a saint.”
“Yes, Gilbert you might find him so. He is pleasant, thoughtful, honest and quite in love with his wife.”
“As I am not, you infer, any of those things?”
“Please Gilbert, let’s not carp. I have heard you on Signore Cellini. You may have him to yourself.”

Osmond stayed a moment looking down on her as she sat drinking her coffee. On rare occasion he remembered the woman he was once infatuated with. He did not often think of that anymore. She had come down so far in his estimation it seemed another time, another woman. He did not regret marrying her: it was too much of a grand coup to be regretted. He only wished she were the girl she presented herself as. He had been deceived. He thought her malleable, their union a creative experiment in conjugal blessing. How foolish he felt over such sentimentality. Well, it would never happen again. They would go on forever, married but only in the most perfunctory manner. A shame, but not the only one in this old world. It wasn’t good enough but it would have to do. It was going to be a long life without companionship. Maybe in time he would take a mistress but now was not the time. He must be careful with Isabel; she was not reasonable and had a repellent penchant for didacticism. At least Pansy was happy. She felt nothing but love for her stepmother. The marriage hadn’t been a complete loss. He hadn’t been all wrong. His love of art would have to be his salvation, his collection his pride. And Isabel would have to practice the art he’d mastered over the lean years in Florence: Acceptance.

All this Osmond mused on while walking to the studio he had set up for Signore Cellini in a vacant room with a northern exposure and a massive pine table that had been used in an earlier time by a haberdasher to an old Roman family of noble standing. The first assistant would arrive in three days time. He hoped to unveil the triptych by Christmas. If Signore Cellini’s opinion was in doubt, he would call in a second opinion. He'd hesitated to call in the curators with their politics and petulance. But it may be necessary. There are some things that cannot be accepted.

Family Loss

Chapter X

Miss Pansy Osmond, sheltered in her father’s embraces, was growing restless, touchy. She knew these personal proclivities did not correspond with the teachings she had received in the convent where she spent he formative years until coming of age. What she missed was activity. In the convent she did not sit around waiting for things to happen. She had chores assigned to her. Prayers to offer, Mass to attend, children to oversee. Convent life was far from idle. Life in the Palazzo Roccanera often was. Her stepmother would take her on outings; they visited many people, they brought food and medicine to the impoverished, they occasionally went to the new tearoom recently opened by two English women catering to the expatriate community, a growing assemblage in Rome. Still, her life was without meaning, as she dared say to herself one particularly dull night at home.

She could not put her mind on how exactly she was lacking or the cause of her pent up energy that seemed to have no proper outlet. She no longer found it restful to sit with her father in his studio while he drew or studied. How she savored those moments when she was a girl, home from school, happy to be in his presence. Her aunt would bring around visitors. Madame Merle would be ever on hand though Pansy did not enjoy her visits as much as she did her aunt’s. Her aunt was difficult for a sedate nature such as her own, but Pansy would listen to her, understanding little enough, but fascinated by her confabulations, her fluttering extravagant apparel. She lived in a world Pansy would never traverse, her father would never allow her to penetrate, but she provided a coloring to the emaciated days spent with only her father’s company.

When her father married Miss Archer, Pansy was overcome with joy. Now she would have a friend near at hand. She could talk to Miss Archer. And she seemed to make her father smile rather more. When her stepmothers was to give birth, when a son was born, a brother, Pansy’s heart wept with gratitude. She could not imagine anything more lovely in the world than to have a baby brother. How happy her father was. He vibrated with well-being such as Pansy had never before witnessed in him. There was no piece of art in his collection that pleased him as much as his son. Isabel too was in an exalted state. She and her stepmother spent hours together playing with the baby. Pansy became a little mother, dressing her brother, taking care of him. The nurse Osmond hired found she was scarcely needed, so complete were Pansy’s ministrations. When the baby was nearing six months old, he was taken outdoors for the first time. For one week Pansy and Isabel took him for a daily walk, just a short distance, to get him used to the air of Rome. How Pansy loved pushing his perambulator through the park. Perhaps people thought she was the mother - this thought was delightful to her intrinsic being. But she always referred to him as her brother, eager to never permit a misinformed notion.

The baby was soon to be baptized; Isabel wanted it to be in the Protestant church, the first bone of contention between her father and her stepmother. Osmond wished for all the pomp of a Catholic ceremony and what accompanied a Catholic baptismal. Osmond felt that since Pansy was baptized in St. Peter’s and was raised Catholic, his son should be also. He and Isabel, heretofore a couple who could be described as synchronized, began to show the first sign of a rivalry. Isabel wanted a Protestant baptism and Osmond wanted something else. He wanted his son to belong to the great church of Rome, not a secondary, small church of loosely affiliated transients.

As it was in the beginning of this marriage, Osmond’s wishes dictated. Not wanting discord in her home or marriage, she agreed to the Catholic baptism scheduled for one week after the child reached six months. Osmond was in a flurry of preparations; it was to be a grand ceremony with a festive luncheon at the Palazzo Roccanera afterwards. Everyone who was worth knowing would attend. Isabel’s sister Mrs. Lilian Ludlow would be the child’s godmother. She, at great expense arrived in Rome, prepared to do her duty by Isabel and her new nephew, only mildly uncomfortable with the Catholic ritual that seemed to her American sensibilities as vaguely overwrought, obviously pompous. She put her alarms aside for this was to be an Italian child who would no doubt be raised with different values than her own American children. She also did not care for Osmond’s authority. That he ruled the home was evident from the first - but Mrs. Ludlow could not quite manage the change in her sister. Isabel had always been the opposite of the persona she now presented. In America, she was considered “intimidating” to the young men in their circle. A fellow had to know something to be able to talk to her, said a school friend. She had been sought out especially by the shrewd Caspar Goodwood but had not felt ready to capitulate to a stronger will than her own. Now here she was bowing to the slightly insignificant Gilbert Osmond, a man she married to support, a man who should by all rights be deferential to her. Oh, not that Mrs. Ludlow thought marriage should be a power struggle, quite the opposite. It’s just that in America, men often listened to their wives, especially on matters of the home and family. That was the woman’s domain and it was here she was able to express herself. The Palazzo Roccanera presented a tableau of a dissimilar tenor.

What Mrs. Ludlow found, to her dismay, was the willful Isabel bending over to placate her husband, seemingly afraid of him. Afraid of one’s husband was a notion so foreign to Mrs. Ludlow it took her some time to quite figure out a response to her brother-in-law. She noted the air of authority with which he conducted the household matters, leaving Isabel prostrate before his administrations. “How odd,” was what Mrs. Ludlow wrote to their sister Edith in New York and was heard muttering under her breath the first week in Rome. She longed to ask Isabel how it was she had been brought to this state of subservience but Isabel seemed to have a shroud of protective covering that made even a close sister desist. The couple did seem to have forged a bond and Mrs. Ludlow decided to leave well enough alone. Isabel had settled in a foreign land. She was bound to change, each society having its own morays and manners.

Mrs. Ludlow was also willing to overlook her brother-in-law’s arrogance when she met his daughter. Pansy, to her, was all that a young woman should be. Mrs. Ludlow approved entirely of Pansy and thought if this were the result of a Catholic upbringing, she had no fault to find. The girl was as docile, as pleasing as an angel. Her demeanor, her dress, her articulations were perfection. She hoped her own sons in time would find such a lovely girl. Mrs. Ludlow each day took Pansy out in a carriage while Isabel attended to her own affairs. She bought her a dress for the ceremony, a small strand of pearls and a hat. The two visited the tearoom each day, walked in the campagna and visited the sites Rome is famous for. Mrs. Ludlow could not recall ever enjoying the city before, or at least as much. She had always wanted a daughter but had instead, three sons, truly wonderful boys in her opinion but still she missed something by not producing a girl to spoil. Pansy flourished in the glow of attention and activity. Not more so than when Mrs. Ludlow, braving the fully-staffed kitchen, instructed Pansy on how to make a Boston Cream Pie, an American favorite of the Archer/Ludlow family.

On the afternoon before the baptismal ceremony, Isabel and her sister were in the courtyard drinking tea and fanning themselves. Madame Merle had called earlier and they talked of her. Isabel did not like to gossip but told her sister that her friend had been in Rome for a fortnight having come from visiting a royal home in Denmark. They talked of the Count and Countess Gemini who were due to arrive in time for dinner. It was an unusually hot day for early summer and no one wanted to venture outside, content to eat fruit and rest in the shade of the old oak tree that spread its branches generously over the courtyard in the late afternoon. The fountain trickled lazily as if too restrained to splash. The moss on the side of the building lent an air of composure and a softening effect to the scene. A lemon tree drooped, heavy with fruit and a patch of jasmine, its sweet aroma mingled with the smell of the fruit, the moss, the desultory breeze. Our two ladies happy in each other’s company for the few hours that remained of the afternoon, spoke quietly, in a leisurely manner.

“What do you plan to do for the girl, Isabel?”
“Why, whatever she chooses, sister. Why do you ask?”
“Well, she needs a place. If you ask me, she needs a husband.”
“Oh Lily, you always think a husband is the answer to a woman’s life.”
“Of course I do. Usually it is. I know there are exceptions these days but Pansy is not one of that ilk.”
“No she is not.”
“Bring her to America next year.”
“You want to find her an American husband?”
“It could not hurt. She’s innocent. I suspect that Europeans are not quite as much, in general.”
“You know this for certain?”
“Of course not. I'm only a tourist. It’s just intuition.”
“Are you thinking of any one in particular?”
“Well she’s just a year older than Harold, but so much younger than girls her age.”
“What does Harold have to say?”
“He doesn’t know anything about it. I’ve just met your stepdaughter myself. She’s lovely. So gracious, so helpful. And with such a boorish…" she paused uncertain of how to retract her partial sentence. "Sorry, dear, I didn’t mean…”
“Boorish father you mean?”
“Well a stickler let’s say. She hasn’t inherited his manner.”
“They are very close.”
“Yes. So it seems. Nevertheless, a girl of seventeen will need a husband or the prospect of a husband. There comes a time when a father, no matter how attentive, is not enough. Don’t smother the poor thing. She’s made for motherhood. Anyone can see that by her care for your baby.”
“I have every intention of helping Pansy in any way I can but her father will decide on her future.”
“Let me take her to America for a year.”
“Her father wouldn’t agree.”
“How is her father helping her?”
“It remains to be seen.”
“Don’t rule out America, Isabel. You were given your chance to travel to foreign parts. Don’t impede your stepdaughter. America is the future.”
“I don’t think Pansy is tough enough for America.”
“She isn’t being given a chance to learn who she is.”
“Her father thinks she is exactly who she is meant to be and awaits a prince to carry her off.”
“Nonsense. Are you speaking metaphorically or do you have a royal prince in mind?”
“No one I can point out. At this time. But he wants a great match for her. But for now, she is still a child.”
“Not for long. Think about America. You ought to visit yourself.”

With that the women went to their quarters to rest before dinner. Pansy was with her brother in his nursery, he was unusually fretful in the heat. As a rule such a good baby, he spent the afternoon crying, unable to be consoled. He was hot, and Pansy rubbed him with a cool cloth and rocked him to sleep. It was not a sound sleep and the nurse intervened at that point and alerted Mrs. Osmond to the boy’s condition. She did not think it more than the heat and had a brief misgiving that maybe Miss Osmond should not have taken him out that morning. But she was a no-nonsense nurse, not prone to misgivings, a German woman who had raised twelve children and had an authority that even Osmond was wont to come up against. She believed in exposing a baby to the elements, not to pamper him, to pamper was to weaken. She gave the girl permission to take him for a short walk but not more than ten minutes. When they returned she could see the baby was irritable, overheated. She bathed him and gave him a fruit juice mixture and he seemed to improve. Now here it was getting close to dinner and he was feverish. Pansy held him, crooned to him, songs she’d learned in the convent, she prayed and hoped that he would settle down for the night. He would be baptized in the morning and she was sure he would be fine after receiving God’s blessing and protection. She hoped it would cool off overnight.

The next day was more of the same. A torpid heat mixed with a forceful wind. Dirt blew around the streets and the sun played an obstinate game of hide and seek. It would blaze murderously for fifteen minutes only to disappear with a slash of moisture that could not be called rain exactly but a heavy mist of heat and grime. The streets were empty as the carriage containing the Osmonds made its way to St. Peter’s Cathedral. The baby who slept intermittently during the night was quietly inert, lovingly held and caressed by his sister. The boy’s countenance suggested a dull acceptance that it would be his lot to travel in the heat for an appointment he knew nothing of nor cared, draped in several layers of silk and ribbons that swaddled him in fiery sartorial irritation. The nurse was in attendance in a hansom following a procession consisting of the Gemini entourage and of course Madame Merle in her own rented carriage.

A fussy infant, a nervous mother, a father who was occupied with the lavish luncheon to be hosted by him afterwards, visiting relatives and the worst heatwave Rome had experienced in more than twelve years was the backdrop for the child’s first foray into the city of Rome proper, his arrival at the exalted Catholic institution that was to be his for life. Bandaged in a precious garment that could not but be a hindrance to a normal body temperature, crowded in a carriage with sweating, agitated bodies, themselves longing for it to be over so they might cool themselves behind stone walls and cold drinks, they arrived at the church and entered the illustrious premise - the child’s first brush with God Almighty who would supposedly protect him from hell and damnation though a few people in the congregation thought they might be experiencing hell on earth during the ride in the various carriages.

Only Osmond looked fresh. He spoke with authority to one and all, presented his son to the bishop and for all intents and purposes was in his glory. Isabel looked wilted beside him, her sister tried but couldn’t quite restore Mrs. Osmond nor could Pansy’s composure and loving assistance. The Countess Gemini was over dressed in a florid gown with a high collar, a mantle of beading and a tight bodice that was nearly strangling her breathing apparatus. Madame Merle, with her usual sanguine expression watched the proceedings without any undue disturbance of her own. She was lost in thought of another baptism, one where she was again in the background, an observer, not a participant. She thought of how proud Osmond was to have a son. He had always taken to the role of parenthood. She was happy for him; glad that his marriage seemed solid, he was coming into his own. A late bloomer, she thought. Isabel she noted, was not at all blooming on that day, but was flaccid by his side. The baby blatted when the water splash his head but only feebly. His aunt Lily held him. He was blessed in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. He would henceforth be a child of God.

The baby's listlessness continued into the afternoon on the day he was baptized and Osmond was forced to cut short the luncheon. A doctor was called. Osmond paced outside the nursery, Isabel weakly hung onto her sister’s arm and the high temperatures continued in Rome with the newspapers reporting the number of deaths caused by this freakish weather for May. That was the scene as witnessed in the Palazzo Roccanera for three days after the ceremony. The aunts stood by ready to be of any use they could be, Pansy remained on her knees, never ceasing her prayers. The baby died on the fourth day at five o’clock in the afternoon. The heat subsided at about the same hour with a pelt of hail and a wind that ripped two branches off the oak tree in the courtyard. The rains came and never let up for two days. Pansy remained on her knees, Osmond disappeared and was not heard from, Isabel could not be comforted and the family members were stricken with grief. Malaria was the confirmed cause of death.

There was a funeral arranged by Mrs. Ludlow in the Protestant church so recently rejected. The baby was buried in the little cemetery adjacent to the church. Osmond, who was not present up to that point, arrived, ignored his family and with an aged deportment, bowed his now gray head until it was over. He left abruptly offering no words of comfort to his wife or his daughter and wanted no consolation in return. He sent a message to the Palazzo Roccanera later saying he would be gone for a fortnight not to think about him. Isabel, distraught, in need of her husband, the only person suffering as much as she, had to make due with her sister and her stepdaughter. She never forgave her husband for leaving her, for not sharing the sorrow they both would live with until they died. Her hurt feelings piled on top of her grief for her beloved son, later turned to rage, but that was not for some time yet. Rage requires strength for its proper expenditure.

She knew her sister Lily looked upon Osmond as an egotistical monster but she did not; she knew how great his suffering was. He wasn’t a monster, but he was not a husband either. When Madame Merle paid a visit of condolence to the Palazzo Roccanera, it was with an offering of gentle, exquisitely-worded comfort expressly for Isabel. When she proffered words to the effect that she knew also of Osmond’s pain, his withdrawal to his apartment in Florence, Isabel had her first obfuscated pang of jealousy. How did this woman know where her husband had gone but she did not? Madame Merle sensing she had committed a faux pas, unlike her, rushed in to say, Of course, I only know because a friend in Florence wired me… Even she could not quite put the correct tone on this slip and made a hasty retreat. Overheard by the Countess Gemini, and despite her own natural grief, she gleaned some small pleasure hearing the grand lady so at odds with her own careless words. Mrs. Ludlow was appalled when the countess relayed the story to her. But by this time, Mrs. Ludlow was appalled by many things she had witnessed.

Life does go on with or without our participation or approval. Isabel mourned for more time than society deemed necessary but in truth, she continued to mourn long after shedding the official black garb. Osmond came home as promised, Mrs. Ludlow reluctantly returned to America and Madame Merle made a point of visiting the Osmonds in their home less frequently. Osmond called on her in her apartment near the Coliseum when he wished to converse with his old friend.

Mr. and Mrs. Osmond never spoke of their son - as if he never existed. Nor did they entirely regain their close affinity though they each made some effort. They could not seem to act in harmony as they once had and petty disagreements, inconsequential incidents began to accumulate. Secretly Isabel blamed Osmond for the death because he had been caught up in a showy unnecessary ritual with too many people involved; that her son had to be dressed up and driven in an overheated carriage and shown off as some sort of prize when he was ill. Mostly she blamed herself because she too was lax in her attention. Osmond blamed Isabel for taking him for outings the previous week. They both blamed the nurse but derived little comfort in that. They blamed each other for being unlucky, punished. There was plenty of blame and little consolation.

Only Pansy visited the little Protestant cemetery each week, with her flowers that she picked herself in the summer and bought from a street vendor in the winter. She went alone, with only a housemaid, and stayed for approximately an hour. She swept and cleaned his grave and prayed for his salvation. She told him how much she missed him, how much his parents missed him. She talked of Jesus, she talked of what his life was like in the hands of God. Some of this she made up to keep a steady flow of conversation - she did not want to let him go and thought if she kept talking he would hear her and not be so far away. She too suffered guilt for the loss of the greatest gift bequeathed to the Osmond family. At the end of her prayers she whispered his name with rapt intention: Ivan. My darling brother, I will never forget you.

Osmond's Eye

Chapter IX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old World Begone!

Chapter VIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henrietta Aglow

Chapter VII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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