Some of her traits annoyed me, however. One of the most annoying was the way she behaved toward Stefano, when he chose to grace us with his presence. It would not be quite accurate to say she flirted with him, for she seemed a little in awe of him; but she hung on his words with a breathless attention I found disgusting. He was not particularly responsive; in fact his attitude was reminiscent of the way a man might look at a favorite puppy or kitten, if the little creature should suddenly break into human speech.
One evening she chose a seat on a footstool next to his chair and never took her big black eyes off his face as he discussed antiquities with Miss Perkins. Stefano left early that evening; and next morning, as Galiana and I were preparing to go out, I spoke to her about it.
“I didn’t realize you were so interested in ancient history, Galiana.”
“I am not.” Galiana giggled. She had a sweet, highpitched little laugh. “No, not at all.”
“Then it must be Stefano who interests you.” I said, concentrating on tying my veil.
“But he is the heir,” Galiana said calmly. “One day he will be Prince Tarconti.”
“Isn’t that rather mercenary?” I exclaimed.
She didn’t understand me at first. Neither of us spoke French all that well, and we often had slight difficulty in communicating. I was somewhat hesitant about explaining myself; my exclamation had been made in the warmth of surprise; but when she understood my meaning, she laughed and shrugged.
“It is always done,” she said. “Oh, to be sure, l’amour— c’est belle, certainement, mais n’est pas pratique. Perhaps I will have a lover after I am married. And Stefano is not ugly. He is not as handsome as Andrea, but he will do quite well.”
I found this terribly cold-blooded, but I had to admit it was the acceptable attitude for her nation and social class. In fact, it was the common attitude in England as well. I had often listened to the older girls at school discussing marriage; the question of dowries and settlements and titles entered into the matter pretty frequently.
Galiana hummed to herself as she studied her reflection in the mirror. I felt a stab of jealousy run through me. My new riding costume was finished and I had thought I looked rather well. The black wool was becoming and the dashing cut of the jacket set off my too-slim figure quite nicely. The swoop of the plume and veil against my fair hair was good too. But next to Galiana I looked like a child. She was deliciously plump. I knew her neat little waist owed a good deal to tight lacing, but the effect was excellent. Her riding costume was a daring shade of crimson that set off her vivid coloring. It was a little shabby, and if I had been more generous I might have been moved to suggest that she share in the bounty of new clothes I was getting. Grandfather would never have objected. But I was not noble enough to rise above the challenge of her bouncing black ringlets and rosy cheeks. Feeling a little out of sorts, I turned from the mirror.
“Let’s go,” I said. “The sky is clouding over; I don’t want to be caught in the rain.”
We were going to the village. It was not far away, at the foot of the hill where the castle stood, and I couldn’t see why we were not allowed to go alone; but whenever I rode out, a groom in the Tarconti livery followed at a discreet distance. This was not only a question of propriety, but also of safety; for there were bandits in the hills, not only the mysterious Falcon’s followers, but men who had taken up a life of crime as a result of poverty or their own vicious inclinations.
A trip to the village was a treat only because we got out so seldom. According to Galiana, it had little to offer. We had hoped of getting to Viterbo, or even Florence, eventually, but in the meantime even Isola Turna was a novelty to me. The shop in the village (there was only one of importance) had ribbons and buttons, sufficient excuse for two bored girls to seek it out.
The sun had gone under the clouds by the time we reached the town, making it look even more somber than it ordinarily appeared. The houses were of dull gray stone, with narrow, suspicious-looking windows. There were no trees and no flowers, not even window boxes, such as I had seen in other Italian towns. A few lean dogs sprawled in the dust of the main street. The central square was not unattractive, but it was very dirty. The fountain had floating debris of all kinds in the water, and the statue in its center was streaked with bird droppings.
The church, dedicated to Saint Sebastian, had a facade of the same gray stone. A single window and a flight of stairs leading up to the door were the only features that broke the monotony of the flat front wall. Even the bell tower was short and squat. Apparently the church wall served as a sort of public notice board; a few tattered papers flapped loose corners in the wind.
One side of the piazza had houses a little more pretentious than the others we had seen, with stone balconies and handsome windows. There were also a few small shops. One was a café with rusty iron chairs set out on the stone paving. When we came into sight the chairs were pushed back, conversation stopped, and the patrons—roughly dressed, bearded men—stared at us as hard as they could.
The shop we entered was dimly lighted and so filthy that no respectable English merchant would have admitted to owning it. I found Signor Carpaccio, the owner, unpleasantly obsequious; and I could not help contrasting him with crusty old Mr. Peters, who had owned the sweetshop in the village in Yorkshire.
The ribbons were not very pretty, but we bought several yards of lilac twill, just to be buying something, and Galiana found a crude little statue of Saint Sebastian for her mother. Poking around on a shelf filled with carved stone figures, I selected a rather nice little image of a cat. So we had several parcels when we came out of the shop.
The clouds had thickened, and we made haste to remount. Galiana shivered. She was a creature of the sun, and often complained of the cold at temperatures I found pleasantly mild.
“Brrr! It is going to rain, I think. Let us hurry, Francesca.”
She set her horse into a canter at once and I followed, with the groom behind me. We were almost out of town when a child darted out of a side street, no wider than an alley, right under my horse’s feet.
I jerked on the reins so suddenly and so awkwardly that even my gentle Stella was forced to rear, and I came close to tumbling off. I dismounted as quickly as I could, without waiting for the groom to help me. The child lay still, face down in the dirt.
I should not have moved it. Miss Perkins told me that, later, but I was too frightened to be sensible. I caught the little thing up and lifted it onto my lap. I use the indefinite pronoun because I couldn’t tell whether it was a boy or a girl. It wore the loose robe-shirt all tiny children wore before they graduated to skirts or trousers, and its hair was cropped crudely around its ears. It was very slight; its bones felt as fragile as a bird’s under my hands.
Its face was pale under a solid coating of dirt, and its eyes were closed. My heart gave a great leap and seemed to stop. Then the eyes opened.
“Thank God,” I cried, forgetting my hard-won Italian in my agitation. “Are you hurt, child?”
The groom, a stocky young fellow named Piero, was now beside me. His Italian was difficult to follow, he spoke only the harsh local dialect; but after he had passed his hands over the child’s body and limbs, he smiled reassuringly and spoke slowly. I caught the word “bene.” That, and his smile, made me feel better. The child continued to lie in my lap, staring up at me with great velvety eyes. It looked very solemn for such a young child. It was also very dirty.
Galiana had not dismounted.
“Come along, Francesca,” she said impatiently. “It will rain any moment. We will be soaked.”
“But the child,” I began.
“You heard Piero say it is not hurt. Put it down and hurry.”
Angrily I gathered the child into my arms and stood up. It weighed nothing at all. I was looking around, wondering how to ask Piero if he could locate its home, when the door of a nearby house opened and a woman ran out. The shawl had fallen back from her gray hair, and her lined face was anxious. She limped as she ran. I thought it must be the child’s grandmother. The small face came alive at the sight of her. Stretching out two bony little arms, it cried, “Mamma.’
The woman took the child, an operation made slightly more difficult than it needed to have been because she was simultaneously trying to curtsy. When the exchange was effected she pressed the infant to her bosom and wrapped her shawl around its bare feet and legs. I was still stunned by the revelation of the child’s cry; the woman looked far too old to be the mother. When the woman looked up at me she was smiling, and I saw, with another shock, that her teeth were brown and broken. I had expected her to rail at me. and I wouldn’t have blamed her; the child had moved too quickly for me to avoid it, but a mother’s concern is inexcusable. Instead she snatched at my hand and tried to kiss it. I fumbled in my purse and pressed a coin into her hand.
“For medicine,” I said. “Or a doctor, if…. Oh, Galiana. tell her. will you, she doesn’t understand me. A doctor should see the child.”
“Doctor?” Galiana looked baffled. “There is no doctor in the village, Francesca. Do come! Such a fuss over a peasant child. They are just like animals, my dear, they aren’t easily hurt. If you don’t come now, I shan’t wait for you.”
Tossing her head, she rode away.
The woman was retreating, bowing with every step. The child lay in her bosom; it was placidly sucking its thumb and still staring at me. I looked helplessly at Piero. With a smile, he bent and held his hands for me to mount. There seemed to be nothing else to do, so I clambered back onto Stella and followed Galiana.
I made no attempt to catch up with her immediately. I was puzzled and shocked by her attitude. It made me feel quite unfriendly toward her. But she reined up and waited for me with an angelic smile on her pretty face.
“I have just thought of something very amusing,” she said. “Did you hear what the woman said to you when she was mumbling over your hand?”
“I couldn’t understand her,” I said shortly.
