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.

Isabel's Gain

Chapter VI

Isabel arrived in Florence on a wet late summer afternoon. Her aunt’s driver was waiting for her. She was taken to the Palazzo Crescentini, a spacious, looming presence with many servants and capacious accommodations. A pared-down comfort American style with a smattering of Italian eleganza and the old frescos in the drawing room gave an enchanted feel that was and was not its mistress. Her aunt left a message that they would meet at dinner giving Isabel time to rest before the often arduous process of communicating with her aunt--who did not appear to greet guests but left their settling in to a competent staff. Her aunt’s ways were original, her own. Isabel saw to the unpacking of her clothing, wrote a quick letter to Osmond, another to Pansy and changed for dinner.

At the appointed hour Isabel walked about the large drawing room before entering the dining hall, filled with marble and mirrors. Quite grand for the old American woman who had modest taste and aspiration. The two women briefly hugged, Mrs. Touchett as always, awkward in expressions of physical affection and slightly unnerved when anyone tried for a more tender touch. They were seated rather close together at the large table as Mrs. Touchett admitted she was going deaf in one ear. She brushed this off and talked in a loud raspish voice; to make others hear when it was she who needed a louder volume. Isabel found her slightly comical but had always found Mrs. Touchett’s company to be not only constructive, but heartfelt despite its quirks. She had a prickly American backbone but founded her home in Italy, the land of relaxed manners and insouciance. This incongruity appealed to Isabel’s sense of humor.

“You’ve always had a rather crisp peculiarly American voice, my dear. I never have trouble hearing you. I think Ralph enjoyed your voice, he once told me you sounded like a breath of American momentum. Ralph went in for a metaphor--seeing what isn’t there. He lived in a fantasy, you know Isabel. I humored him, I loved him, but rarely understood him. His father let him be who he was and I didn’t interfere. But a banker, he was certainly not. I suspect he had artistic leanings but he never showed an interest in capitalizing on any particular endeavor. He said the world needed less artists and more art, something to that effect, you know how Ralph talked, in fanciful terms arcane to me. I sometimes wondered how Mr. Touchett and myself produced such an offspring. He was nothing like either of us.”
“My cousin was only generous,” said Isabel knowing her aunt was just filling the air with words requiring no special commentary.
“To you, my dear, I’d say he most certainly was. I don’t suppose you wonder why he set you up, you understood each other…he said you would know what to do. Well, I hope you have done well, my dear, get ready because you are about to get another shock: Gardencourt has been left to you.”
“You can’t be serious, Aunt?”
“I never joke. It was all set up to be entrusted, bought and re-willed. It is to go to Isabel Archer Osmond for her personal use and/or the use by members of the Archer family or to rent and earn the income if she so chooses. That’s the gist of it. The lawyers will explain more fully tomorrow.”
“Aunt, I’m not sure I can take this on. I was at the reading of my cousin’s will. Gardencourt was to be sold and the proceeds to be used for a foundation of sorts. Lord Warburton the executor, I believe.”
“All that has changed by a few small codicils overlooked. The bank will handle the details. You only need say what you wish to do with the property. There is no hurry; take your time thinking about it. It’s only a house, not an estate. You can leave it empty if you choose. Only think of it as your place in England, and offer it to your sister or her children. Perhaps you will want to live there yourself some day. It wouldn’t be unthinkable. What are you to Italy? Your husband is not really Italian, it is not your language. You are still young, anything could happen. Don’t be put off. You know I don’t believe in divorce either. But I don’t believe in living the life of someone else. Go your own way Isabel. You’ll be much happier and more fulfilled.
“I intend to do something of that sort, Aunt Lydia. I’m looking about as Ralph would say. I’m continuing what I intended when I arrived here. It seems my husband does not see anything in me; I annoy him.”
“Your husband, while cultivating a most interesting persona, is only that; underneath, I suspect he’s as mean as a ravenous dog and just as greedy. You don’t have to say anything, I have my notions, I’ve a right--but don’t damage yourself unduly, Isabel, no one likes or respects a martyr. Don’t fall into traps and dogma. The Italians love dogma. It’s their way of entrapment. Still, I myself prefer Italy, but I’m not afraid of entrapment, I don’t go in for those things. You’ve always loved Gardencourt. Ralph said you had a superior appreciation for its special awkwardness. I admit the place is nothing to me but others think it very livable, including our old friend Serena Merle, whom I heard is in America and doing quite well for herself.”

“That’s quite a lecture Aunt. I will let it pass but to say I am coming into my own. I have found a path of least resistance and I’m going to take it. Oh, I’ll go my own way, as you say, but I am not ready to give up on Italy yet. Rome is marvelous. It’s subtle, intriguing and filled with treasures. And it’s pleasant to have a stepdaughter. Osmond has made a deal with me. I bargained, Aunt. I put myself out. I really did. I asked for something in return for something. He agreed. It couldn’t have been more perfunctory. A thing in itself. As for our friend, I wish her the best. I’m holding no grudge; everyone suffers because of her manipulations. Osmond is not happy; nor am I, we were both mistaken.”
“Mistaken?” Well that is something I know little of. I plan well. I think clearly.”
“But you did not prefer to live with Mr. Touchett, you separated.”
“Well, I’ve always preferred Florence but that is me. My living with my husband, you know all about, it’s an old story. In any case, the keys to Gardencourt will be presented with papers for you to sign. We will meet tomorrow morning with the attorney from Mr. Touchett’s bank; he will have you look over certain documents. He wants to talk to you about options for keeping it out of Italian hands, free from the marriage contracts of Italy which do not in any way favor women. Of course they don’t in England either but it is more transparent there.”
“But Aunt, women can’t inherit property in England.”
“You are not English, nor was my husband and his property as such is not restricted by English law. It is as American as Henrietta Stackpole. By the way, she wrote me, she is to arrive tomorrow and gave me the address of the hotel she and Mr. Bantling, I assume, are staying. Not a word on a wedding. She is a sly one. Well, I never got on with her but she’s good for you. She’s got her mind and her life in two worlds now. I wonder if she will become English; so thoroughly the American that she is, but then so am I. So are you, Isabel, don’t turn your back on your native country.”
“I’m not worried about America just now, Aunt. I’m trying to digest England. What will I do with Gardencourt?”
“Wait and see what is presented to you.”
“You mean what the attorney says--is there more to it?”
“Attorneys. Two. Not that I’m aware of. Now let’s have one more cup of tea and talk of other things. Do you know your sister plans to visit Europe next month? No, I thought as much. She’s practically on her way here. Did you know your nephew Harold is set for Oxford in the fall and has been in England for the past month? Your sister said she wrote you. Is the mail in Rome delivered by donkeys? Harold’s to study medicine. Apparently, he is quite intelligent, possibly a genius, and has received a prestigious scholarship. He’s not a bad looking boy either. His father is coarse material but the son is quite of another weave. He looks a bit like you Isabel. I don‘t suppose you have seen him since he was a boy. Well, that will all change if he is in Europe. You know, Isabel, it’s not so bad that you are to have Gardencourt. Perhaps your sisters will make use of it.”

The dishes were removed, the room had grown dark and a few candles were lit for the ladies by the old servant.
“Aunt, if you will excuse me, I’d like to write to my sister. Can I help you to your room?”
“I’m not that old, dear, I can still find my room.”

Her nephew in England. This was news to Isabel. She hadn’t seen him since he was thirteen years old, on leaving Albany. Now he is grown and in college. Isabel felt so distanced from her family--her life took a complete turn from her younger days through her marriage, her wealth and her country of choice, now she thought she might like to know them again. Who were they? Isabel asked herself these things. Should she meet her nephew before returning to Rome? Would her sister really come over? What will she do with Gardencourt? What will Osmond say to any of it? She planned to have a good long chat with her friend Henrietta after she was settled. They had a great deal to discuss as it turned out.

Isabel was in her better brocade, her hair had been done up by her maid, so gifted in the art of hairstyling that Isabel could look only grand as she ascended the steps of a government building, tall and drafty with loud echoes that bounced around the Doric columns that predominated the grand entryway. Isabel felt like a speck in its corridor. She found the door to the meeting room, entered and found her aunt already in attendance. Mrs. Touchett was encased in a somber gray dress that she wore with a certain dignity that a only a finely woven wool dress, stitched in Italy by skilled dressmakers could give--a slight hint of the fashionably conscious though this was one accusation her aunt would never entertain.”
“Good morning, Aunt.”
“I see you are in fine form today, Isabel. You have, I think, topped Madame Merle in style: so subtlety appropriate. Well, Serena had a grand style, I’ll give her that.”
“I was thinking the same thing of your dress. But I owe much to Osmond. He is immediately displeased if I happen to be wearing the wrong gown, that is, one that doesn’t appeal to his fine sense of aesthetics, he actually takes it out on me somehow. I must change the subject before I lose my gaiety. Has my nephew come alone then, Aunt?”
“As far as I know. He’s made all of his arrangements. It has been a year in the planning. I gave him a small allowance to begin his residency at Oxford. He wrote thanking me but has said nothing else. Ralph left him something so he will be able to pay his way for the most part. He has visited Gardencourt. He came to know Ralph a little. He was very much interested as he plans to study the sort of things Ralph was afflicted with. They made great games together. Ralph said he reminded him of you and this made him happy. They both loved sprawling conversation and had a matched set of wits.”
“I will be pleased to know a friend of my cousin, a source of agreeable memories.”

The two attorneys entered the chamber where the women had been conversing in a low timbre. The air was hushed as the proceedings began. Isabel was to receive Gardencourt in a limited fashion: she would have use of it for life but after her death it would revert to the bank. Isabel would have first right of buying it if the bank wished to sell but it is for her protection that it stay in the hands of the American branch of a bank, where it will not be subject to laws in Italy. Isabel had only to sign and take possession.

“In the meantime, Mrs. Osmond, the caretaker and his wife are on the property and Lord Warburton will look in. It would be better if you had someone living there, to maintain the property; it is of some value for hunting land, but it has no income. It could be rented, however. The bank would handle the details and probably find the new tenant but you could handle this if you so choose. You have freedom, here. Your cousin wanted it to be so, he did not want to encumber you but he wanted your comfort and security. At the eleventh hour, Mrs. Osmond, Mr. Touchett wanted you to have the use of it as you please. He wanted you protected somehow. He said something about sheltered from Italy. We did not know exactly what he meant, he was always something of a puzzle, he spoke in riddles to men of my ilk, Mrs. Osmond. By the way, he left this for you.”
Mr. Forsyth handed her a letter, a personal letter she could see although it had not Ralph’s, idiosyncratic hand. She put it in her handbag for later reading. She was also given a set of keys and several documents and she was glad she had brought a large enough bag to carry everything. She felt she had become a woman of some business. In Rome, they had an office assistant who took care of the details concerning the Palazzo Roccanera. She never ventured into a street carrying anything but a parasol. She liked the feeling. Her carefully constructed Italian leather satchel felt important in her hand as she walked the cobbled street of Florence, the sun glinting in dancing patches across the square, the dresses of the ladies swaying while the men gallantly shielded them. The smell of wild honeysuckle from a nearby hedge filled her nostrils and gave her a keen sense of aliveness, of being centered in the milieu. She had a swift realization of how pure the air was when it wasn’t soiled by Osmond’s personae, as her aunt implied. And she had Gardencourt. A refuge. Osmond could take it or leave it, she herself would take it in perfect freedom.

That evening she was tired. She walked all over the city of Florence, she meandered about and even visited a tearoom on her own. Henrietta would be arriving in the morning. Isabel planned to meet her and Mr. Bantling. She grew happy thinking of her craggy, yet so delightful Henrietta. A letter from Henrietta arrived with the afternoon post. She delivered two beguiling announcements: the first that Madame Merle was on the train from London with Henrietta and Mr. Bantling and she had with her a husband though Henrietta did not speak to them.
Isabel went to sleep thinking about the ramifications. She had hoped never to see Madame Merle again, she still hoped she wouldn’t…and she had Gardencourt.

Mrs. Osmond came down to breakfast at an unusually early hour. Her aunt followed. They had a quiet desultory repast without conversation. Isabel had her own thoughts though she was surprised when her aunt finally spoke.
“I’ve heard a rumor about our friend.”
Isabel stiffened but did not flinch from the topic. She suspected she knew what her aunt was about to impart. “I have also, Aunt.”
“You go first.”
“No, you brought it up.”
“I have it from a respectable source that Madame Merle has been married.”
“Isabel sat in studied silence. This was unexpected news. But then again, Madame Merle was not ancient. “To whom did she marry?”
“To an American manufacturer, of all things. Can you picture it? While she beautifully renders a Mozart sonata to a captive gathering…”
“He could be a cultivated man, Aunt. America has been known to produce a few.”
“Well, you perhaps see more than I do. I couldn’t tell you about cultivated. I am only familiar with the useful. Or adaptable.”
“Will you write her?”
“I don’t think I will. I severed my connection with her and I may not be inclined to start it up for the curiosity of seeing an American factory owner, I can see them for myself when I am there.”
“Don’t tell me you are a snob, Aunt Lydia?” Isabel made a brief attempt at teasing this venerable old relic of the land of the brave, home of the free.
“Just discerning, my dear. Besides I have no time for new people. What is your news?”
“Oh, the same as yours. Will you excuse me if I leave you early? I’m meeting Henrietta and I must write my sister.”
“No mind at all, dear. I’m a tried old woman these days. We’ll meet tomorrow then. Unless you have more new for me. I‘m always up for a little gossip now that I’m retired. I no longer care about offending anyone. A marvelous invention, freedom.”
Isabel rose and went to kiss her aunt. She was a starchy old thing but she was generous and wanted the best for those related to her.

After she retired to her room to await Henrietta’s hour of arrival, she could not relax thinking of her new options. Yes, she did love Gardencourt but doubted she would live in England. Her place was in Rome. Osmond would never consent to live in England especially not in the house of her cousin whom he disliked before his death. He disliked anything or anyone he could not control or confabulate with. She thought of her sister and family. Would they like to live at Gardencourt if their son was in England? Maybe Pansy would like to see Gardencourt finally, she’d heard much about it. Would her father consent or obstruct? Lord Warburton would have a new wife and they could not be avoided. Meanwhile Henrietta would be living in England permanently so Isabel could open Gardencourt to her. So many possibilities.

To think that earlier in the year her life had seemed like a dark whirling abyss ready to consume her. Now she knew she was destined to live and to live well. Osmond was a portentous force in her life but he was becoming less of a burden. He knew he’d lost honor, no small point with him. It wasn’t his diminished honor that irritated him, but that someone should know it. That Isabel knew it rankled him but he was growing used to it. Her money and the things it could buy more than made up for his loss. To the world, the façade was completely in place and he had nothing but a few small pangs when he caught his wife looking at him with an astute eye. He wasn’t sure what she was thinking. Nor was he aware she was looking at what her money bought and weighing the value of her purchase. She knew she had been swindled and that he knew this only bothered him when he saw that look. He’d live with it. He did not give her the moral ground: he felt she was inherently, at fault. Avoidance equaled harmony at the Palazzo Roccanera and the couple perfected its employ.

Osmond's Delight, Isabel's Relief

Chapter V

Mr. and Mrs. Osmond, traveling north by carriage, were to look again at the alleged Giotto altarpiece and, if Osmond could prevail, make the purchase. Endless entanglements, conciliation, obscure implications and subterfuge filled Osmond’s days and the outright duplicity and dissimulation gave him an air of self-importance. No one thrived on perceived treachery as much as Osmond. Isabel would have never made the journey through the rutted roads, over hill and dale in a carriage with a wheel that threatened abdication but that she was on her way to Florence to see her aunt, Mrs. Touchett, on practical matters. Her aunt was now eighty-seven years old and had begun to slow down. Mrs. Touchett requested a visit from her niece as there were, she said, “surprising legal and financial matters to discuss.” Isabel wanted to see how she fared since Ralph’s death two months previous.

Henrietta Stackpole she would meet again, old friends reunited, none of which Osmond knew or cared to know of. The couple had settled very quickly into a routine based on the mutual benefit derived from their collusion and Isabel often questioned why a thing once struck her so deeply and then was gone, all emotion spent. She marveled at this newly discovered lack of inner turmoil and wondered if she could ever trust her emotions again. She no longer cared about the things that had once troubled her with sharp obdurate penetration regarding her husband. It might be said she adapted quickly once she had gained leverage. Only when Osmond broached certain subjects did Isabel feel the old flare in her chest, the need of a quick retort on her lips, but she quelled the rancor before it came out of her mouth, a victory of sorts. She no longer shared her thoughts or feelings with her husband and found it was a great freedom. She suspected she was corrupted, she did not care to fight it. Learning how bad was her husband, how badly she had chosen, had been a stake in her heart. But she no longer gave precedence to her heart and that too was a great freedom.

Mr. and Mrs. Osmond entered the small stone church, so lovingly built in 1369. It had been flooded, was falling into a ravine and most of the interior wood was warped badly. The altarpiece was a triptych painted on panels, which Osmond believed was painted by Giotto in the fourteenth century for this diminutive church in an out of the way locale at the beginning of his career. The painting was sadly diminished by centuries of age, neglect, sunlight and candle wax. He knew the altarpiece, few others did. The church was plain and of little interest. Osmond was going to take a chance on being right; he’d been right before. The piece had never been examined by a professional curator, this was in Osmond’s favor and he planned to purchase the altarpiece the moment he heard of the flood putting in an appearance the next day to look over the crumbling construction. Osmond had been traveling the six miles regularly in an attempt to convince the councilmen it was wise to get this artwork out of harm’s way, while conversely pretending it was of no particular importance other than for sentimental value. On other days he would admonish the men saying they owed it to Italy to save this piece, the men only giving scant thought to the painting they had grown up seeing--not really seeing it, as we tend to dismiss what is seen everyday--but now wondering if it was maybe of some importance…and yes, a little cash would be good for the rebuilding of the church. Still cash had not changed hands and Osmond was beginning to suspect someone else visiting with the town council and they trying to figure a way to capitalize on both offers. Osmond suspected competition and roiled inwardly.

He was jittery on his way to make the purchase that day, his pockets lined with bills. He was bringing his wife along though she made him tense when he needed to calmly think of his tactics. But she was necessary; they would not falter in her presence. Once the deal was completed she would travel to Florence by train and Osmond would stay to transfer the altarpiece to the Palazzo Roccanera.

With the transaction finally completed, Isabel, her duty also completed, was anxious to catch her train to Florence. “I will leave you, Gilbert. My train will be here shortly. You can reach me at my aunt’s at Palazzo Crescentini if you should need to. I will return in a fortnight.”
“I will be busy with my altarpiece and I am to dine with the Marchese Vitaconti tomorrow. Pansy will miss your presence…”
Isabel did not miss his meaning. She knew he did not regard her in the way he had of old, dismissed her as if she were nothing more than a servant. At one time this would have hurt her feelings but now she could only enjoy the impending freedom from his presence. “Yes, I’m lucky to have at least a devoted stepdaughter.”
“Let’s not separate on a note of disdain, Isabel. The day is too fine.”
“Yes, it is very much so.” With that she walked away from her husband and entered their carriage for the train station. She checked her gloves, straightened her bonnet, lifted her petticoat and watched as Osmond directed the loading of his treasure onto a cart giving little thought to their separation. We are worlds apart, she thought. Who would have ever thought I would make such a marriage? She sighed and let the movement of the carriage lull her along and before ten minutes passed she was being seated in a car on a train traveling further north with some speed. Isabel felt some of the happiness of old; when all the world was new and hers to contemplate.

Osmond no longer cared where Isabel went nor whom she might see--the truth had given him some consolation. The only important secret he carried was now acknowledged and nothing had changed. He had now a free conscious and a richer pocket. He had been contributing to the church to make his presence felt. He pretended to want nothing less than the restoration of the little church while waiting for the fall and the possession of the only thing of value in the musty cavern. It was a thing of beauty, covered in dirt. Osmond had looked at it in daylight and in darkness. He was waiting to take possession not knowing the sin of acquisitiveness is impermanence. Osmond did not believe in impermanence. He believed in possession, even more so, immortality. Osmond felt he was immortal and was in a quick snappish humor. He never looked more regal, riding through the northern tip of the Rome on a day late in June in search of an obscure church decoration and the sure knowledge that it was a valuable Giotto only he would possess.

How he would boast, thought Isabel, jostling over the terrain in a comfortable car. She did not know the importance of the acquisition nor its validity other than by Osmond’s word. She thought he might be right, he hated to be wrong, and to do him justice, he did know a thing or two about the history of Italian art and so she was willing to finance the feat. She would not buy clothes for one year, she didn’t mind, she was not vain about her appearance. She dressed smartly at first to impress her husband and his society. With his lack of appreciation she no longer bothered. Her views could not be more dissimilar than those prescribed by Italian society, its government, the Catholic Church or backwardness of any sort. She was a radical like her friend Henrietta Stackpole but only Henrietta recognized it in her attractive, rich friend wearing silk brocades of the finest weave as she did when she escorted her stepdaughter to parties and dances. Once Pansy was settled she would not need to attend frivolous affairs other than the couple’s Thursday evenings now more for Osmond’s sake. Once the Giotto was restored, authenticated and hung in the Palazzo Roccanera he would be in a heady rush to show it off. This she did not mind either. Her husband’s egotism ceased to matter to her, she’d taken its measure and found it best left unexamined.

Without much ado, Isabel decided it was for her to look around and find an occupation, a purpose. Her intent was to be free--not under the thumb of a man nor a society. She would use her money to good cause; what that was she had only a vague notion of--she had been blind to the world in the past and she chastised herself. She thought she’d found her world but it wasn’t hers at all. She was fighting for her very identity. The battlefield in the Old World was a lonely place for a quick-tempered American woman, rich or not. She sometimes laughed at her arrogance, her stupidity, but then remembered there was a time when she could not laugh. Her laughter too was a victory, she thought. There was still time for serious consideration; she knew there was much yet to do and she was ready as she never had been before. She wasn’t sure what she would gain by this trip to Florence but her heart had been light as she stepped into the car; relief from Osmond’s presence was an elevation she was ever more aware of. The murkiness that fell upon everything he came near was not something she could ignore but it no longer had the power it once had.

Isabel, stately in her seat, thought of the last time she was on a train, returning to she knew not what. She did not know if she had a marriage after her defection but things sorted themselves out little by little. Even Osmond could not sink her spirit that day as she felt the summer sun through the window of her berth, the rolling hills, the decrepit castles, the charming hillside villages. It all seemed to Isabel that day her gift of personal restoration.

Isabel smiled thinking of Osmond’s delight as the wooden panels were being loaded on a wagon enroute to central Rome. She did not mind making her husband happy in this way. It was something she could do. She approved of art, its power of salvation. She’d learned much from Osmond on this. She also knew the Palazzo Roccanera, her home, was made all the more valuable by Osmond’s diligence, it had earned some renown for its collection, as well as its restoration, which gave Osmond all the more pleasure to be able to exclude some from viewing it; omission one of Osmond’s more established games that he excelled at. Isabel once balked at his mean-spiritedness, now she was given to the Countess Gemini’s attitude: He cannot love, don’t expect it. How profane this statement reverberated from the mouth of his sister, how bewildered she had felt. That she had accepted it she knew was a form of duplicity but put it out of her mind for the time being. She would never be able to sell her sister Lily on such blasphemy and Henrietta understood only too well the weave of her husband’s cloth. Nevertheless, she would work on herself and her stepdaughter and leave her husband’s salvation to someone else. There was no shortage of Christian idolatry in his home and heart.

Isabel and Pansy in Friendship

Chapter IV

Isabel and Pansy were once again united in their shared love for a walk in the Campagna, neither deterred by the overcast sky or the lack of interesting people. Osmond, who joined them on rare occasions complained, One tends to run into every shabby European at this time of year, and would pace about with an absent air in a diffident attitude. Isabel and Pansy looked upon their fellow-humans as a study in tolerance, a tableau to be regarded as education. When Osmond wasn’t in their company, Isabel would tell Pansy things her friend Henrietta Stackpole said: We are all of the same cloth and should take an intense interest in each other’s weave. Miss Henrietta Stackpole, a journalist had a deep curiosity about her fellow-species and could be rigorous in her inquiries. She never tired of them nor took a superior attitude unless it was a superior attitude she wished to admonish.

Isabel found herself thinking of Henrietta more often than she ever had. One might say with our heroine’s new independence, Henrietta Stackpole now figured once again. Mr. Bantling had long been Henrietta’s entourage, eventually they would have to settle. Isabel had no word from her friend since her cousin’s funeral, she did not know if she had married. She was curiously without curiosity and she wondered if that is the first aspect of a personality to go when corruption sets in. Isabel knew herself corrupted. She could not explain this, if she was forced to, but her allegiances were battered and she would lie awake most nights thinking about what she could do to recover herself but came up with no answer except that she had lost her once high regard of herself and tended toward self-absorption. This she knew was dangerous and wished she had more activity to take her out of herself.

“It’s nice to walk alone, isn’t it Mother?” So lightly did Pansy address the woman who was not her mother but whom she would prefer to call Mother.
“It is nice. We shall be very much alone I fear, we shall not see anyone out in such weather. There was a steady drizzle of rain, co-mingled with a gusty wind and the air was sharp for Rome. Discarded paper blew about their feet before shifting off into the horizon and Isabel and Pansy held each other’s arm and sought warmth within velvet capes that covered them fully. Isabel’s was dark azure, a color Madame Merle often wore and Isabel emulated before she had acquired a personal confidence in her clothing. Her husband had once said, Please do not feel you need to copy Madame Merle’s dress; she is not so glorious with her blues. Isabel remembered being afraid for a moment. She was on instant alert to Osmond’s mode of address, changing with the day. If Isabel annoyed him, and the wrong cape could do just that, he was glib with venomous irritation, such was his sense of aesthetic violation over small matters. After that, she was careful with her apparel and took to asking the opinion of her dressmaker more than previously. She stopped trusting her instincts; her husband saw to that. It was one more piece of confusion rattling around in her brain during the long nights, spent alone with her dismay. But that uncertainty was now in the past. She no longer cared what her husband thought of her appearance or attire and conversely, he no longer seemed to care about it either.

“Is Papa going to the little church tomorrow?” He said he would take me if the weather were nice. Do you think it will be?”
“I think I would not count on the weather. It seems to be getting worse and I think you will find your Papa will make an early departure without you--we will have to find something to occupy you, something equally nice. What might that be?”
“Oh, nothing is as nice as a ride in the carriage with Papa, oh…I mean, with you also Mother.”
“It is perfectly fine to love your father’s company for yourself, dear. Do not worry about my feelings, you need not detract or edit your words for my benefit.”
“Thank you Mother, but I am just as happy with you.”
The two walked to the end of a stony pathway and turned back looking forward to refreshment in the new tea room that had opened that summer. Pansy enjoyed watching the tea being made and cherished the time sitting in the elegant little room with the aromatic bouquet permeating the atmosphere.
“I would love to work here, making so many varieties of tea and serving it in such beautiful little pots,” she said after their first visit. Isabel laughed at her and said it was doubtful her father would ever approve but that she understood; it was a wonderful ambiance with ever so many interesting people, out in any weather.

As they were about to enter, their eyes sparkling with the brisk walk, their expectation of the warmth of the shop, the door opened from the inside and Isabel was face to face with Edward Rosier. With Pansy immediately behind her, she reached for her arm, preferring to keep him from her vision but they were far too close for evasion.
“Mrs. Osmond, Miss Osmond. How do you do, out on such a beastly day.”
“Mr. Rosier. You see my daughter and I find our entertainment despite the damp.” She had no desire to converse in the doorway and bade Pansy to move forward as one of the two owners greeted them affectionately offering the most desired seat. They wasted no time following her. It was a deliberate snub to Mr. Rosier, finely tuned to Osmond’s frequency, Isabel again recognizing the extent of her altered state.

Mr. Rosier buttoning his coat, adjusting his scarf retreated, his head high, his nostrils flared with the briefest hint of pomposity. Isabel immediately understood his reluctance to stop for conversation: he had a young lady with him she did not recognize, possibly French, younger than Pansy. Pansy showed not a flicker of discord and immediately took up the tea menu, making no mention of Mr. Rosier at all. It was as if she had never heard of him before. This gave Isabel pause. Could her stepdaughter have cut off her feelings so completely and if so, were they so vivid in the first place? She would have liked to know but she was reluctant to ask or bring up past hurts to Pansy.

After they were welcomed by the second of the lady owners and they had their tea, Pansy herself brought up the subject: “Don’t you think the lady with Mr. Rosier was lovely, Mother? I do not know when I have ever seen a hat so pretty. She looked like a Christmas ornament, a very precious one.”
“What makes you bring it up, dear?”
“Just that I want you to know you do not have to edit your words for me either. We can speak freely, can’t we? I am not very sophisticated, I know I am not worldly but you can teach me. I need to know more than I do, for social conversation, and to know how to take people. I am fond of Mr. Rosier, I wish always to be but it is not so simple, is it? Papa forbids me to talk to him and so he is now talking to another who looks at him…the way I did. He has found someone else because he is free. I am not free and have to wait until Papa approves of someone. I do not at all know how to act, what to say to young men. I do not wish to encourage them if Papa will not like them, as with Mr. Rosier. On the other hand, I like the young men who approach me and would like to know them better. Mr. Rosier was the only one willing to fight for me and I wish he could have made Papa see him differently. He is good and I believe he loved me.”
“I will be frank and say, dear, that your father did not think him good enough for you because he was not rich enough.”
“Yes, and I said that there is no reason for me to have a rich husband, I am not rich, I am not fashionable, I do not care about dresses or jewelry or opulence. I was raised in a convent.. Why must I have a rich husband? I want a gentle, kind husband.” She blushed at this and Isabel took her hand.
“Oh Pansy. It is so complicated and yet to you are so simple. Have patience, I will advise you. Tell me what’s in your heart, maybe I can help you. Don’t hold back, I will not let you down.”
“Thank you Mother. When I am confused, I will come to you. Can we go quickly? I am to have dinner with Papa. Will you join us?”
“No dear, I have plans tonight. Enjoy your time with your father. Do not mention Mr. Rosier just now. I don’t think he will call.”
“That is too bad. I should like to see him, I should like to meet the pretty lady…where do you think she is from?”
“From her dress, I would say Paris but that is only a guess and you need not concern yourself with her. I hope you are not too disappointed…I should not like that.”
“Don’t worry, Mother, I am at peace. Papa knows best for me, I think, still…”
“Yes, cara mia, still what?”
“Still I would like to have children.” She blushed again, this time putting her little gloved hands to her face.”
“That is a perfectly reasonable desire, my dear. There is no need to be embarrassed.”
“Yes, but first I will have to have a husband and I don’t know when or if Papa will approve of anyone.”
“Don’t worry. We will have a look around and this time, your wishes will prevail. Of that I am certain.”

They left the tea room, the two lady entrepreneurs flush from the heady surroundings and their own goodwill bidding them a safe journey home, sending a valet to find them a hansom in which to depart. Pansy, flush from three cups of tea and her confession let herself be guided into the cab. Isabel, thoughtful from her stepdaughters heartfelt declaration, decided she would have to entertain more, take her to parties and dances again. It was a worthwhile project, something for her to put her mind to, something to dispel the dry tedium of her days now that she was established once again at the Palazzo Roccanera.

Hence, Isabel resumed her active life in Rome and within a fortnight, she opened her door on Thursday evening for the couple’s open house. The Palazzo Roccanera sparkled with a polished sheen that came from the hands of capable servants imported from England on the recommendation from Mrs. Touchett, a wedding gift she said. The palazzo, despite its somber exterior, presented an interior--with its pretension, its local color that can only be described as blood red, the carpets, the upholstery, the gilding, the paintings--illuminated in the newly installed electric lights.

Mrs. Osmond offered a brilliant, yet vacant smile that would have dazzled many men but left Osmond unmoved. He could not be more indifferent to his wife. This she knew subconsciously despite his warmer tone of recent. She still thought he hated her; she believed it but he did not hate her; he loathed her stupidity, to be sure, but he was mostly impassive to her needs. If she would not forsake all to him, he did not want her at all…it was that simple and yet that complex. To Gilbert Osmond, she simply meant a bank in London that allowed him to obtain the things he coveted, admired, required. As for the Palazzo Roccanera, he was indifferent even to that except as a showplace for his trophies. He wanted the world to see his success, envy it, and acknowledge his right to this success. That was his place in the world and he was proud that he did not settle until the almighty settled on him his due. Isabel was his due; he had only what was just. He had purposely forgotten that it was Madame Merle who put this success in his line of vision--he had a way of forgetting matters that did not conform to his vision of himself and having to patronize an old acquaintance was not in Osmond’s repertoire.

In the first years of their marriage, a part of Isabel’s role was appreciating her husband’s taste, his proclivities, his knowledge of her chosen country, his exquisite ideals. She used to do so with an eager response but now it was an acquired mannerism; the expected response, an unspoken agreement. She was not asked much--it was a pantomime publicly and apathy privately. She did not fight with her husband as she once had. He did not pick on her as he once had; her personality that rubbed him so ruefully in the past disappeared and he was able to feel nothing towards her, almost as if she were a au pair for his daughter. She had no taste that interested Osmond. He was glad she could afford the finest gowns, the most brilliant hairstyling. She was regal and that was what he wanted most--a queen by his side. He’d had to conquer her unruly temperament and he was arrogant enough to think that he had.

On the following Thursday after the talk between Mrs. Osmond and Pansy in the tea room, the Osmonds were in attendance for their guests. Isabel did not have social inhibitions. Nothing had changed outwardly; perhaps an astute observer would notice that the couple spoke less to each other. It is an old story on the continent: couples with means can pull off public displays of rapprochement. The evening began with a solid presentation of old nobility; some up, some down. Isabel had much protocol to attend to. She settled them, the old marchese, the nephew, a prince, whose eyes intent on Pansy for a second before returning to a mask-like edifice at his aunt’s grimace of reproval, demanding resolute obedience to the plan--to not give way by showing interest unnecessarily. Pansy neither knew nor seemed to notice the Italian prince. They were not in the same corner of the room and it was quite crowded. Pansy still served the tea in the second drawing room as she always had. But Osmond did not miss the flash of ardor that crossed the Italian’s expression. Though he would not care to marry his daughter to an Italian, he might be persuaded to open his mind. It would not be the worst thing to have your daughter married to a prince even if a younger son to a deposed family.

Osmond gave it scant thought before being deterred by an author whose book Isabel had read and enjoyed. Osmond was often forced to suffer fools though never gladly. It took him no time cutting through the premise of the proud author’s book and Osmond left him sputtering but undaunted. They argued for some time before the author’s wife came in search of her husband and found him quite red in the face, having lost the playful zip he displayed earlier. Osmond was not moved in any way; one would not be able to tell that a confrontation had just taken place; that the author had been not only insulted, but incriminated.
“Your little book manages to bore and blaspheme at once, though the former is the more egregious sin,” said Osmond with remorseless candor.
The author leaving the room in a stew of fury with his wife trailing after him, found their cloaks and made a hasty departure, muttering as they emerged into the night. “It is a pity Mr. Osmond is so odious as Mrs. Osmond is an utterly fascinating and charming woman,” said the baffled author to his wife. They both hoped they would be invited again to such a presentation of glittering festivity.

Mr. Rosier did indeed make an appearance near the evening’s end. He came alone. He greeted Isabel with polite civility, ignored Osmond and in the end spoke only to Pansy after searching for her with no intent toward subtlety. He clearly had something in mind when he approached her and did not bother with a formal greeting.
“I want to say to you that I forgive you,” he said to her in a hushed voice, barely discernible.
“Thank you, Mr. Rosier, but it is not my reasoning. My father forbids me to marry you…or to speak to you.”
“I would like you to know I am engaged to be married. I shall not say anything to your parents…to anyone…but you saw me in the tea room and I thought you must wonder…well there you are…you see your father can no longer matter to me. Tell him so. Tell your stepmother I need nothing from her. I shall not come back but I wanted to see you because you are the truth while everyone else is fraudulent, and I want you to know I was sincere in my words…my intentions. Your father is not lucid.”
“I cannot speak of my father with you.” She turned pale and fussed with the teacups in front of her.
"It's well you shouldn't. I shan't come back and I'll soon be living in Paris. I thought I should see you once before I...well, I wish you all the best, Miss Osmond. You are worth the world, I only wish you could find a way to...well, that is not my business anymore, is it? God bless you, Miss Osmond."

What Mr. Rosier really thought, but did not say, was that her father was quite mad, but he couldn’t utter such a statement to one as delicate as Pansy. That Osmond was diabolical, Edward Rosier was certain of, and his other opinion was that Isabel, once so spontaneous and lively, had turned to stone, a beautiful, collectable stone. They both depressed him and even Pansy did not impress him the way she had. She looked wan and vacant. He bade his farewell, dared not take her hand, and left hurriedly, not wishing to see or speak to the host or his wife. He felt he’d been lucky to get a pass on Osmond and though he had no contemplation of avowed revenge, it would not disturb him unduly if the fates made it so that a little retribution were to take place.

Pansy may have looked pale to her former suitor, but with her stepmother’s return color was restoring itself to her fair complexion. Her mind as well was opening since the day in the tea room they’d agreed to talk freely, to become friends. She felt a new hope.

Isabel began planning on Pansy’s behalf; her real mother had been disabled effectively by Osmond but Isabel would do what Madame Merle had wished all along--to take care of her daughter and do what she could for the young woman’s future. She didn’t do it for Madame Merle or for her husband but for her own redemption. She was not completely absolved…she may never be; never for an instant did she feel blameless.

That is the power her husband and his former mistress had over Isabel.