“He is a suspicious man, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I fear he is not interested in your charming blue eyes.”
“I’m glad of that! I have never met a man who gave me such an impression of cold cruelty.”
Miss Perkins’ reply was an anguished grunt, as the carriage lurched into and out of a deep hole. Then she let out an exclamation.
“Look, Francesca.”
Through the window on her side of the coach I saw a view that made me catch my breath. The trees and shrubs had vanished; we were traveling along the edge of a deep ravine, with nothing between the chasm and the wheels of the carriage. The slope was not really sheer, and the rock face was broken by innumerable hardy plants and small trees that clung tenaciously to the rough surface, but it was an alarming sight. How far down the cleft descended I could not tell; the lower slopes were hidden in vegetation. The sun’s rays, striking down through a break in the western hills, cast a strange and brilliant light on the upper levels of greenery, and I had an impression of uncontrolled, almost savage, exuberance—of vines and creepers and brambles twined in a tangled mass.
Then I realized that Miss Perkins had been looking, not at the ravine, but at what lay beyond, on the crest of the hill.
Only my nervous apprehension made Castello Tarconti appear ominous as it sprawled across the hilltop. With the rich light of evening gilding its stone and plastered walls, it really was quite an attractive sight; the outline of the towers and chimneys and quaint turrets against the evening sky had considerable charm. As I was to learn, it was even larger than it appeared—a jumble of wings and additions from different centuries, as multichambered as a beehive. The Princes of Tarconti had palaces in Rome and Florence, and a villa in the lake country, but this was their ancient family seat, and they preferred the bucolic pleasures of the country to the pageantry of cities and courts. So the original fortified tower had grown into a great château, surrounded by extensive gardens and provided with every modern comfort.
“A large place,” remarked Miss Perkins, rubbing her nose vigorously.
Neither of us spoke as the carriage strained up the last steep approach and passed under a sculptured arch into a long avenue lined with towering cypresses.
“At least the gate was open,” I said, as we rolled along a graveled avenue that was much smoother than the road.
Miss Perkins chuckled. ’That’s the spirit. We will regard the open gate as a good omen.”
The carriage emerged from the tree-bordered avenue into a broad park with fountains and flower beds. The facade of the house, immediately before us, was staggering in its sheer size. At each end were towers topped by turreted spires. A great staircase mounted superbly to a terrace whose balustrades were adorned with flowering plants in pots—roses, orange trees, gardenias and geraniums, all in bloom, perfuming the dying day.
To my relief we did not stop before the monumental ascent; I was sure I could never get up the steps without stumbling. Instead the carriage turned to the left and passed through a gateway into a walled courtyard.
With the assistance of the driver we descended from the carriage and stood looking about us. The courtyard was clean and well kept, its surface neatly paved with stone set in geometrical patterns. Shrubs and flowers fringed the perimeter and grew about the edges of a small fountain. The doorway of the house was surmounted by a carved stone crest, presumably that of the Tarcontis, but I could not make out its details, for it was badly worn by time and weather.
Interesting as these features were, they were overshadowed by the strange collection of objects that littered the courtyard. Broken columns and headless statues stood all about; fragments of sculpture were fastened to the stuccoed walls. Even the pots that held the plants were of antique vintage. In a spot of honor near the stairs, sheltered under an awning, was the strangest object of all: a great stone box, carved all over with reliefs, and surmounted by the semire-clining statue of a man. He was raised on his elbow, and his loose robe had fallen away from one shoulder. In his hand he held a cup, lifted as if in salute. The intimate gesture, the warm terra-cotta brown of the material, and the stiff, almost sinister smile that curved the carved lips gave the figure a frighteningly lifelike appearance. He seemed to be looking straight into my eyes; and I felt as if we had been greeted, if not welcomed, by the presiding genius of the place.
Miss Perkins let out a cry of delight. “It is Etruscan—I have seen engravings like it. An Etruscan sarcophagus, no less!”
“Yes,” I said. “No less, and no more. Do you suppose he is the only one who is going to greet us?”
I was learning to speak coolly in order to hide my real feelings—which, if I had displayed them, would have made me turn my back on the Etruscan gentleman’s unpleasant smile and scramble back into the shelter of the carriage. I might have done it—for Miss Perkins, abandoning me, had made straight for the carved coffin and was peering at the reliefs on its side—had not the door of the house swung open.
Our driver, who had been unloading our belongings, straightened and called out.
The person in the doorway came trotting down the stairs. It was not my grandfather, or any of the other members of the family, but a stout, elderly woman whose face was the color of oak and who wore a peasant costume—a white apron brightly embroidered, a laced bodice, and a high, fluttering cap. She came straight to me. dropped a stiff curtsy, and broke into a flood of speech. My Italian was improving. but I understood only a word or two of her dialect—enough, however, to believe that my arrival had been expected. Miss Perkins understood a little more. She looked as relieved as I felt.
“It is not courteous, though,” she remarked, as we followed the servant into the house. “One of the family might have come to welcome you.”
“To be truthful, I am too tired to care,” I replied—though not quite truthfully. “If there is a room prepared for us, and some water with which to wash off the stains of travel, I will be content.”
Tired and worried though I was, my first impression of the place was not unpleasant. There was no Gothic gloom in the entrance hall, with its broad flight of curving stairs, nor in the handsome drawing room into which the servant escorted us. It was a room of considerable grandeur, in the French style, with large windows and light-painted paneling. There were paintings on the ceilings and on the paneled walls, and fine carpets covered the floor. The furniture was upholstered in rich velvets and brocades. A pianoforte of rosewood and a great gilded harp stood in a bay formed by the curved windows. Before the fireplace, like a throne, stood a big red velvet chair. The servant indicated the person who was sitting in this chair and immediately withdrew, closing the door behind her.
For some time no one spoke. I realized that the person who had received us was deliberately postponing speech in order to increase our discomfort. We stood there weary and travel-strained, like beggars come to ask a favor of a great lady.
It was a lady who sat there, and I had no doubt as to her identity. I had seen women of her type often; she was as typically English as the old servant had been typically Italian. We were in the presence of Andrea’s Aunt Rhoda.
She was extremely thin and, I thought, tall, although the fact that she was seated made it hard for me to ascertain her exact height. Her face was long and narrow, her hair gray. Her eyes were gray too, almost colorless. She wore a gown of heavy black wool, with the latest-style hoops puffing out her skirts. Her hands, holding a piece of needlework, were so long and thin and white they looked like naked bone.
“Good evening, Aunt Rhoda,” I said.
The lady, who had been staring curiously at poor Miss Perkins, turned her icy gaze on me.
“I am not your aunt,” she said. “You may address me as Miss Rhoda.”
I bowed my head without replying. I was beginning to be angry. She might at least have the courtesy to ask us to take seats!
Like a subaltern making his report, Miss Perkins introduced herself and explained how she had come to be employed by Andrea. She concluded by asking after his health.
“My great-nephew is quite well,” said Miss Rhoda. She sounded a little less hostile, as if she had decided that this strange-looking female did know how to behave, even if her bonnet was not à la mode. “Unfortunately he is not here at present. He is an irresponsible young man. It was only last week that we learned of your coming. I have had rooms prepared for you. You will be shown to them shortly. I detain you now because it is necessary that you should understand the basis on which you are to be received here.”
“Then,” I said, “perhaps you will allow Miss Perkins to sit down. We have had a tiring journey.”
Miss Perkins made a deprecatory noise. Miss Rhoda ignored her, she looked at me, if not with warmth, with a little more interest than she had hitherto displayed.
“She may sit. You, miss, will remain standing before your elders. And I suggest that you do not adopt that tone with me. Your status is not so secure that you can afford to be insolent.”
“What is my status?” I inquired. Miss Perkins did not sit down. She shifted a little closer to me, and I was conscious of her approval and support. I knew I could not allow this woman to bully me or she would continue to make my life miserable. After all, she had less standing in the family than I. She was not even related by blood.
“That of a dependent.” said Miss Rhoda bluntly. “You have a certain moral claim, no doubt; but it was not that consideration that prompted the Prince to receive you here. I pointed out to him that his family honor demanded that you be rescued from the disgrace and infamy into which you would descend without his charity. Your father—”
“My late father,” I interrupted.
I could say no more. I hoped that would be enough to remind Miss Rhoda of the newness of my bereavement, for I knew if she spoke disparagingly of my father I would cry. I did not want to cry in front of her. As I was to learn, she was hard, but she had a strong sense of propriety. She nodded grudgingly.
