Osmond’s Ire

Chapter XXIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isabel’s Infatuation

Chapter XVII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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