“Ah. a good Italian name! Mine is Galiana. It was the name of a famous beauty of olden days, a lady so lovely that her native town went to war to keep her safe from the evil man who wanted to marry her against her will.”
Her tone was so complacent, and her pretty face so smug as she told this little anecdote, that I was forced to laugh. I laughed too loudly; Miss Rhoda broke off her interrogation of Miss Perkins and stared balefully at me. I lowered my voice.
“How nicely you embroider,” I said admiringly, leaning forward to examine the square of ivory satin on which Galiana was working a design of flowers in bright silk thread.
“Thank you. My mother has tried to teach me, but I will never embroider as well as she. That is the second altar cloth she is making for the chapel.”
Then I realized that the Contessa had been watching us. She smiled sweetly as I looked at her, and turned her embroidery frame so that I could see what she was doing. The work was certainly marvelous. The background was a rich crimson velvet, on which her ingenious fingers had fashioned little figures of saints and prophets. Their robes were done in gold thread, with such intricate stitchery that the folds of the drapery looked three-dimensional. Tiny pearls and brilliants adorned the crowns of the female saints, and a border of Latin verse surrounded the whole.
“It is lovely,” I said respectfully. The Contessa inclined her head but did not reply, and I was groping wildly for some means of continuing the conversation when the door opened and a servant announced that the meal was served.
Just at that moment, when I ought to have been relaxing and appreciating the fact that still another apprehension had proved groundless, I was conscious of a strange sensation. It was almost physical in its intensity, like an insect sting squarely between my shoulder blades. I had risen; now I turned, unconsciously defensive, and met the intent stare of a woman who had appeared as if by magic behind the chairs on which Galiana and I had been sitting.
She was short and squat, with a broad peasant face. Her features were coarse and unprepossessing; they were rendered even less attractive by the abundance of hair distributed about her countenance. The hair on her head was as coarse as black wire and as lusterless as the fur of a dead animal. Her eyebrows were half an inch thick; they grew together in a single bar and were paralleled by a distinct moustache. She was clad all in black, of a peculiarly rusty appearance, and her expression, as she stared at me…
I decided I must have been mistaken about her inimical look. As soon as I turned, her black eyes lowered submissively. Moving with a stealth surprising to so large a woman, she picked up the Contessa’s embroidery frame and workbag. She moved bent over at the waist, as if in a perpetual state of obeisance, and the Contessa paid her no heed whatever. No one else seemed to see anything out of the way, either, except for Miss Perkins, who was staring at the woman as openly as I was.
Grandfather had offered his arm to the Contessa, while Stefano escorted his aunt. That left Galiana and me and Miss Perkins to go in together. As we followed the others, I whispered to Galiana, “Who is that woman?”
“What woman?” said Galiana.
“The one in black, who took your mother’s work for her.”
“Oh, Bianca,” said Galiana indifferently. “She is the Contessa’s maid.”
“That unsightly creature?” Miss Perkins exclaimed. “Not that I mean to be unkind, but—”
“Oh, she is ugly, very ugly,” Galiana said cheerfully. “She is also dumb, and very stupid. But she adores my mother; she would do anything for her.”
“One of the Contessa’s charities?” said Miss Perkins. “How good it is of her to protect someone whom no one else would employ.”
“My mother is a saint,” Galiana said seriously. “She would have entered a convent after Father’s death, if it had not been for me. As it is, she works endlessly for the Church. Her charities—”
But here she was forced to stop. We had entered the dining salon and were shown to our places.
The main meal of the day was in the early afternoon, so this was supposedly only a slight repast before retiring. As course followed formal course, I began to think that if this was a sample of a light meal, I should soon become plump. Fish, soup, game, poultry, salads of all kinds, fruit, elaborate sweets…We were waited on by half a dozen footmen and served a different wine with each course.
I sat next to Grandfather, who kept urging me to eat. Conversation was general and rather stilted because of the presence of the servants; but there was one lively exchange, when Miss Perkins, in response to a question about our journey, described our encounter with Captain De Merode. She censored the account considerably, avoiding any mention of acquaintance with the two “brigands” whom the Captain had been pursuing, but even in its abridged version the story produced shocked exclamations from the audience. Grandfather was indignant until I explained that the Captain had been quite courteous after he learned who I was.
“Ah,” Grandfather said, somewhat mollified. “Then it is excusable. I will speak to the Captain, all the same.”
“He is a man of good family, devoted to His Holiness,” said the Contessa, who had scarcely spoken up to that time. “His zeal is excusable—admirable, even—your Excellency.”
Miss Rhoda demanded a translation of the last two speeches. That is how I know what was said. When Stefano had obliged, Miss Rhoda shook her head.
“Such rudeness could never happen in England,” she said. “Do tell me, Miss Perkins, what is being worn at court these days.”
“That should be a safe topic,” said Stefano. “We don’t discuss serious matters at table, do we, Aunt? Only dull banalities. I feel sure Miss Perkins can hardly wait to describe the latest fashions.”
Miss Perkins did her best, but this was one topic on which she was not well informed. The rest of the meal passed in comparative silence, and finally we returned to the drawing room.
I could hardly wait to be alone with Miss Perkins, to talk over these new people and experiences. Before long, however, the fatigues of the day caught up with me. A yawn which I was unable to suppress drew Grandfather’s attention, and he immediately dismissed me. The military term is appropriate; it was clear that this household was run on patriarchal terms. Swaying with weariness as I was, I was amused to observe the nightly ritual, as each person stood before the Prince to bid him good night. The ladies curtsied and Stefano bowed formally. Grandfather acknowledged these gestures with as much condescension as a reigning monarch might have exhibited; but after I had curtsied he took me by the shoulders and kissed me gently on the brow.
Teresa was waiting for me when I reached my room, and I was glad of her help. I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to undress, and I slept instantly, without dreaming.
I always slept well in that cozy little room, and it was as well that I did, for the next days were so busy and so full of new impressions that I needed all my strength to keep up with the plans Grandfather made for me. He had the energy of a young man and the arrogance of an emperor.
He was also a busy man. The life of a leisured dilettante was not to his taste, and much of his wealth came from various business enterprises which he himself controlled. But he spent considerable time on my concerns. First and foremost was the refurbishing of the apartment he had selected for me. It had been my mother’s, and since it had not been touched since the day of her elopement, considerable work was necessary to make it habitable. The rooms—bedroom, salon, and several smaller chambers—were to be completely redecorated. Servants were sent riding posthaste to Urbino and Parezzo carrying the Prince’s instructions to linen drapers, cabinetmakers, and painters; and the following weeks were enlivened by the arrival of huge wagons bringing the new furnishings. In the meantime servants cleaned, painted, plastered: a wispy-looking little man arrived from Florence to restore the ceiling paintings, which had been damaged by rainwater.
I also had to have an entire new wardrobe. My grandfather’s vigorous criticism of my drab clothing required no translation. Among the battalions of servants—who were tucked away when not required, somewhere in the sprawling attics like unused tools—was a resident seamstress who was immediately set to work. It was during this long and, I must confess, most enjoyable procedure that I became better acquainted with Galiana.
I couldn’t help liking her. Her dark, somber beauty did not match her personality, which was as cheerful and gay as she was dark. We communicated in an odd mixture of languages, mostly French, although she did know a few words of English and helped me to improve my Italian.
“From the first I knew we should be friends,” she told me, in her prettily accented French. “You cannot know how good it is to have another girl here. Always when I come I am bored, bored!”
“Then you and your mother don’t live here?” I asked.
We were rummaging among the fabrics in a storeroom, trying to select something for a morning gown. I held up a length of rather faded lilac print.
“No, no,” Galiana exclaimed. “That, it is for housemaids, peasants.” She snatched the fabric from my hands and threw it on the floor with a theatrical gesture of disgust. “Live here? No. we have a house over the mountain; but we come here often to stay, since our roof leaks—is that the word?”
“That is the word,” I agreed, smiling. “But why don’t you have the roof mended?”
Galiana opened her big black eyes even wider.
“But there is no money. My father was not a sensible man. He spent it all, all. He was your mother’s lover, you know.”
I would have remonstrated with her regarding this term, but I realized that Galiana did not know its implications, in English or in French. So I said nothing, and she went rattling on.
