“My dear Miss Perkins, are you sure you and Andrea found the right Miss Fairbourn? This infant doesn’t look old enough to be out of the schoolroom. What on earth am I to call her? I don’t know her well enough to use a pet name, and the more formal mode of address—”
“Francesca will do nicely,” I interrupted. I had felt sorry for him when I saw his infirmity, but his sarcastic manner of speaking about me, as if I were the infant he had called me, irritated me very much.
His thin smile broadened.
“I see you have a mind of your own—and a tongue to go with it. But pray be seated, Francesca, and you too, Miss Perkins. There are several matters to be explained before you meet the rest of the family. From now on regard me merely as a voice. I am here to translate; the sentiments I express will be those of his Excellency. He understands English—better, I sometimes think, than any of us realize…”
He turned his sardonic smile on the old gentleman, who glowered back at him without making the slightest indication that he had comprehended; but I rather thought that he did understand quite well.
“In any event,” Stefano went on, “he refuses to speak the language. It is his way of annoying Miss Rhoda. So, I am here. And I must first tell you that initially he was opposed to your coming. When your father’s letter arrived he was unbearable for several days—muttering curses like a stage Shylock. It was Andrea who persuaded him to behave sensibly. Andrea is the favorite here; Andrea can persuade him to do almost anything. It is to your advantage, Francesca, to keep on the good side of Andrea.”
“I only wish I could,” I replied. “I had hoped he would be here.”
“Oh. he has gone off on some jaunt or other,” Stefano replied, with a curl of his lip. “He is quite a gay blade, my handsome, athletic brother. …But he was here long enough to tell us of the unfortunate situation in which he discovered you.”
The tone and the implication were cruel. I felt tears of shame and vexation rise to my eyes. Before they could spill over and disgrace me completely, Grandfather burst into a torrent of agitated Italian. He even went so far as to shake a fist under his grandson’s nose. Stefano laughed.
“The Prince says I must apologize. He also remarks that Andrea’s conduct was worthy of his name. You see how it is? By murdering a man, my brother has raised himself in our grandfather’s esteem. But”—as the old man began sputtering again—“perhaps we should abandon that subject. Andrea, in short, insisted that you could not be abandoned; and the Prince agreed that you might come here so long as you kept out of his way. Is it clear now to whom you owe your reception?”
I nodded and exchanged a meaningful glance with Miss Perkins, who had been listening as interestedly as I. She had been quite right about Miss Rhoda; however antagonistic the woman might be, she would not have risked a direct lie. Again Andrea had been my good agent. It was like his modesty to have given so much of the credit to his brother.
Stefano continued to watch me with the same fixed smile. His mouth was a contradiction; the lower lip was full, a sign of passion and sensuality, while the upper lip was so narrowly cut as to be almost invisible. If the laws of physiognomy were true, his was a nature in which the emotions warred with the intellect—and his sour, cynical look showed that resentment had overcome both his intellect and his other emotions.
“Very well,” he said, after a moment or two. “The next question is this: Why did our esteemed ancestor change his attitude toward you? For I am to inform you that you are the new favorite. If Andrea doesn’t take care, you will supersede him. I am myself in the dark as to this. Do you have any ideas?”
I said nothing, and after a moment the keen blue eyes moved from me to Miss Perkins. She shook her head.
“Hmmm,” said Stefano. “The Prince refuses to explain himself. He always does. Well, then, I am to inform you that you are his dear granddaughter and the beloved daughter of the house. Pleasant, is it not? But I fear you must face some hostility, Francesca. Miss Rhoda is not well disposed toward you. She dislikes almost everyone, and she was very jealous of your grandmother, the Prince’s second wife. Then there is Galiana—”
Here he was again interrupted by Grandfather, who had been listening with increasing signs of impatience. I had suspected that we were getting quite a few of Stefano’s personal opinions, in spite of his claim to be merely a translator. I thought the Prince said much the same. Stefano continued to smile.
“I am relieved of my duties,” he said, with mock distress. “We are to go in to the others now. What?” He turned to the Prince. “Oh, yes, I am to assure you of his affection; you are to come to him with any difficulties, and you are to tell him that you understand what I have told you.”
I turned to the old gentleman, who was leaning forward in his chair watching me with affectionate anxiety. Words seemed too flat—especially English words—so I smiled and put my hand on his. He clasped it tightly, then raised it to his lips.
“A touching moment,” said the dry voice I had already learned to dislike.
A footman appeared out of nowhere, as a good servant should, and opened the door. I cast an appealing glance at Miss Perkins. Imagine my surprise when I saw that Stefano was offering her his arm in a most gentlemanlike fashion. He walked with a perceptible limp, but more nimbly than I had expected, though he leaned heavily on his cane.
The hall was very long, lighted by candles set in heavy silver sconces. Grandfather chatted cheerfully, smiling down at me and patting my hand as we walked side by side. Stefano and Miss Perkins were behind us. They were speaking, but I was unable to overhear them.
At least Stefano had been courteous to Miss Perkins. She had been unusually silent during the interview; but then she had not been given a chance to speak. I was somewhat surprised that no one had questioned her about the trip and the arrangements Andrea had made with her. Well, but we were here, safe and sound; there was no need to go into unnecessary detail.
I was occupied with such speculations as we walked the length of the long, quiet hall, my hand on my Grandfather’s arm. With his affection to support me I was not afraid of meeting the other residents of the castle, but if Miss Rhoda was an example of what I had to expect I was not looking forward to the others.
Then the footman opened a pair of doors at the far end of the corridor, and stood back. There were several people in the great drawing room. Miss Rhoda I knew. The other two were strangers. My eyes fixed themselves on one of them. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.
Chapter 4
Girls know when they are pretty. Mirrors may lie, but the eyes of young men do not, and even in our unworldly school atmosphere we had not been totally deprived of masculine company. Brothers, fathers, and uncles had been allowed to visit; the Misses Smith had entertained us with occasional evening soirees at which gentlemen of under thirty might appear; even in church, when our minds ought to have been on higher things, we had not been unmindful of the young men who took advantage of those occasions to survey the Misses Smith’s students.
I knew I was not ugly. My complexion was the favored pink and white, my features were regular, my eyes blue. I also knew that my flaxen hair would be appreciated in a country where the people are predominantly brunette. I was, as my cousin had mockingly observed, of small stature. I had no reason to become stout. I must confess that I had a fairly good opinion of myself when I walked into the drawing room that night.
But this girl! A mass of coal-black hair, shining in the candlelight; great black eyes, soft as velvet, framed by feathery lashes and brows that might have been shaped by the brush of a master painter; a mouth. …Well, in my jealousy I thought her mouth a little too small, a little petulant. But it was a perfectly shaped Cupid’s bow, and the features I have not mentioned were no less exquisite.
As we entered, she moved her embroidery frame out of the way and rose. Her height and her figure were as perfect as her face. She bent in a curtsy that displayed the grace of her movements and the abundance of her flowing locks.
The older ladies had to be presented first. I was forced to turn my eyes away from the girl, but I was conscious of every move she made.
Miss Rhoda had not risen in deference to my grandfather’s rank. From her expression it was clear that nothing less than the presence of royalty—British royalty—would have brought her to her feet. She wore a magnificent gown of plum-colored velvet with skirts so wide they completely hid the chair in which she was sitting, giving her a startling appearance of sitting on air. A Gorgon would have looked less grim.
The other elderly lady’s gentle face was in pleasing contrast to Miss Rhoda’s. She wore mourning that was extreme even by the severe standards of her class. Not a touch of white or color, not even the deepest purple, lightened the somber black of her gown. Her jewels—bracelets, rings, and a collarlike necklace—were of jet beads. From her widow’s cap hung a heavy black veil that framed her magnificent pure-white hair. Her face was almost as pale as her pearly hair, without a trace of color in lips or cheeks, but her eyes, though sunken, were as bright and black as the jet beads. She was a striking study in moonlight and shadow, and I could see that once she must have been as lovely as the dark girl—her daughter, if resemblance was any clue.
So fascinated was I by this study of past and present beauty that I was slow in hearing the name by which the two were introduced. When I realized what Grandfather had said. I started. The lady of pearl and jet smiled faintly.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, signorina,” she murmured.
“Contessa.” I made a rather clumsy curtsy and turned to acknowledge the introduction of her daughter. “Con-tessa…”
I could not say the name. I knew it well from my father’s stories of the past. Count Fosilini, the pursuer of my mother, the cruel rival of my father…Could these two be his widow and daughter? The two families had been friendly, distantly connected, if I remembered correctly. This was a shock I had not expected in all my worst forebodings.
Then I told myself firmly that I was being foolish. The old rivalry was far in the past. Neither of the Fosilini ladies showed any signs of recalling it. The younger countess smiled in a particularly friendly manner and indicated a chair near her own, which I took. She did not speak at first; but after the others had begun to converse, she leaned toward me and said softly in French,
“I hope you will be happy here, Mademoiselle Fairbourn. It will be a pleasure for me to have a young lady of my own age to talk to.”
Her French was not very good, but her accent was adorable. I thought she seemed shy. I was soon to learn that this impression was erroneous, and that the young lady was far from subdued when her mother was not present.
“You are very kind,” I said, returning her smile. “If we are to be friends, as I hope, you must call me Francesca.”
