The Contessa was the first to rise. Her departure—with Galiana, of course—ended the entertainment, and soon afterwards we all said good night.
It seemed to me that I had hardly fallen asleep when I was awakened by sounds outside my door. I heard Miss Perkins’ voice—subdue it as she might, it was a resonant, resounding voice—and footsteps moving quickly. I got up and slipped into a dressing gown.
Miss Perkins’ door stood open. Her bed was not occupied. Now I began to be alarmed. I went to the end of the corridor, and below, at the bottom of the stair, I saw light. I descended into the west wing. The family apartments were on that floor, and there were more lights in that direction. I felt sure now that something had happened.
The door of one of the bedchambers was open and a beam of yellow candlelight spilled out into the hall. The room was filled with people. One of them was Miss Rhoda, almost unrecognizable with her hair up in curl papers and her bony figure undisguised by the limp folds of her dressing gown. As I peered in, she gave a sharp order.
“Get out, all of you. I don’t need any of you except the signora.”
The signora—a courtesy title—was Miss Perkins, who was looking down at the bed with an expression of concern. I could not see the occupant of the bed for the servants who stood around—two of the footmen and several maids. These people obeyed the order to leave, and as they came toward the door, I saw Andrea.
His eyes were half closed and their blue brilliance was dimmed. On his brow and his bared breast were white cloths; as I watched, Miss Rhoda removed one of these and replaced it with another, which she had wrung out with water from a basin. I caught a glimpse of Andrea’s tanned body before the cloth was replaced, and at first I thought he must be wounded; there was a small reddish mark, roughly circular, on his right side just under the collarbone.
As I moved aside to let the servants out, Miss Rhoda saw me. “This is no place for you, Francesca,” she said sharply. “Go back to bed.”
“Is he wounded?” I asked anxiously. “Can’t I do something to help?”
“No, no, child.” Miss Perkins was helping to place the cold cloths on Andrea’s head. “He isn’t wounded, but he is feverish; some illness he contracted in Sicily. It is very unhealthy country. He may be infectious, so don’t come any closer.”
“But you,” I began, unwilling to leave the poor sufferer until I had been assured he was not in danger.
“I sent for Miss Perkins because she told me she had had nurse’s training,” Miss Rhoda said. It was quite a condescension for her to explain anything; I knew she must be too worried to maintain her usual haughty dignity, and that increased my anxiety.
“I am too tough to catch anything,” said Miss Perkins with a smile. “Go back to bed, my dear. There is nothing to worry about. The Count is in no danger. He is young and healthy; I have seldom seen so splendid a physique.”
With that I had to agree. I gave the handsome invalid one last look and reluctantly departed. I would have liked to nurse him; it would have been a fitting return for his gallantry to me. If we had been in a novel, no doubt that is how it would have transpired. Instead he had two middle-aged ladies working over him, and I am sure he recovered much more quickly as a consequence.
He was better next day and on his feet again within the week, seemingly unhurt by his illness and as energetic as ever. Our quiet lives became full of activity, as Andrea invented schemes for our amusement. He took me to task, in his quaintly humorous fashion, for being so lazy about my riding, and under his brisk tutelage I soon became a fairly competent horsewoman. Scarcely a day went by that we did not ride out, visiting various beauty spots in the neighborhood. Andrea was quite a keen naturalist and knew a lot about the flora and fauna of the region. To see him holding a delicate flower in his big brown hand, earnestly discoursing on its beauty, was a most engaging sight.
Sometimes Galiana accompanied us. More often her mother found reasons for her to remain at home. The poor girl’s morose face, on these occasions, should have cast a slight shadow over my selfish pleasure, but I’m afraid I didn’t let it bother me much. I wondered if the Contessa suspected that the two young people were becoming too attached to one another. I could see no basis for such a suspicion. Andrea was charming to Galiana, but he was charming to everyone. Of course I fancied myself in love with him. Why not? He was a delightful companion, he had saved me from a fate worse than death and had risked his life to avenge me; he was incredibly handsome, brave as a lion, romantic as a hero of legend. I yearned to see him again in his dashing red shirt, and I tried to question him about his adventures in Sicily.
But on that subject Andrea’s facile tongue failed him. He told me about Garibaldi, whose men thought of him as superhuman—about the General’s courage, his tenderness toward the wounded, his cheerful acceptance of danger and discomfort. He narrated comical little anecdotes about the camp and the soldiers. But he would not talk about the fighting, and I finally came to realize that his memories were not the sort he could share with a young girl. I had sense enough to leave off questioning him when his face assumed an uncharacteristic expression of grim sorrow. But I did not have sense enough to realize that there was depths in him that I had not fathomed; that I had fallen in love with a handsome face instead of studying the real man.
Being in love is great fun, however, and I had a wonderful time. Miss Perkins often accompanied us on our expeditions; even Stefano joined us when the activity was not too strenuous for him. On the occasions when he was present, Galiana usually made one of the party too, but I could not decide whether she was allowed to go with us because Stefano was there, or whether it was he who sought out her company. Frankly, the subject did not interest me. It was no pleasure to have Stefano along; whenever he came there was an argument, usually about politics.
It was a dangerous topic at that time, and in our house. The Prince’s method of dealing with what he regarded as Andrea’s criminal folly in fighting with Garibaldi was characteristic of him; he simply ignored the subject as if no such thing had ever happened. Andrea went along with this. The brave, bright uniform did not appear again, nor was Garibaldi’s Hymn heard within the castle walls. He even shaved off his moustache. Outside the walls Andrea spoke freely enough especially when Stefano egged him on.
Grandfather might be able to erase unpalatable truths from his mind, but I suspected that the rest of the world might not be so accommodating. Ever since Andrea’s return I had been worried for fear the soldiers might ride up and arrest him. But when I expressed this worry, the others laughed at me. Andrea laughed loudest of all.
Stefano was more explicit.
“Andrea is protected by the outmoded feudal system he fought against in Sicily,” he said, with a mocking glance at his brother. “The Princes Tarconti are above the law; one might even say that, like ancient Roman tyrants, they are the law. Andrea had sense enough to misbehave outside the borders of Umbria. His actions would not be precisely favored in Rome, but they can’t be ignored—for favors rendered. Now if he had chosen to lead a band of rebels against Pio Nono, he might be in serious trouble. Not even our grandfather’s influence could protect him.”
Andrea’s eyes flashed blue fire.
“I do not expect the Prince or anyone else to answer for me,” he exclaimed. “Nor will I subdue my conscience to his. You may make jokes, Stefano, but you know Italy must be unified. Dismembered as we are, we are the plaything of the great powers. If you had seen the arrogant Austrian soldiers strutting down the streets of Florence, ogling the women—”
He broke off there, whether from delicacy or indignation I did not know. For a short while no one spoke.
We were sitting on the ground—or rather, on a handsome rug spread on the grass—in the sunshine. Galiana’s tumbled curls shone like a blackbird’s wings; the wild daisies she had twined in her hair looked like little stars in the night sky. Andrea, his coat discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up to display his muscular brown arms, was flushed and handsome in his enthusiasm. Miss Perkins, too, was flushed, but not with enthusiasm. She had gotten sunburned on our last outing, and her nose was peeling.
Only Stefano sat upright, on a small chair that a servant had brought for him. His controlled features showed little emotion, but I thought he had frowned slightly when Andrea mentioned the Austrians in Florence—perhaps because he did not like being reminded that he was no longer free to travel about as his brother did.
“What a tiring fellow you are, Andrea,” he said, with an affected yawn. “Do try to control your zeal; you are boring Galiana and Francesca—”
“He doesn’t bore me at all,” I broke in. “And I agree with everything he has said.”
“How can you agree with something you don’t understand?”
“I do understand!” I rose to my knees—and had to snatch at my skirts as my hoops bounced higher than decency allowed. Stefano laughed, and I went on indignantly. “This country is still in the Dark Ages, it is ripe for revolution! Why, I heard of a case, this very year, in Civitavecchia. Some young men had asked permission to show their respect for a deceased friend by carrying his coffin to the grave instead of allowing it to be carried by the religious society in control of funerals. They were granted permission, but several days after the funeral they were all arrested and sent to the state prison without trial. Such a stupid petty offense—even if it had been an offense, which it wasn’t, because they had asked and been granted—”
“Yes, yes, I heard of the matter,” said Stefano, speaking with difficulty through his laughter. “If you would stop to take a breath occasionally, Cousin, your speeches would sound more professional. The voice is the voice of Francesca, but the words, I suspect, are those of Miss Perkins. Dear lady, you mustn’t turn my little cousin into a revolutionary. Life is very pleasant here; why don’t you both enjoy it and forget your radical ideas?”
That ended the argument for the day; Galiana began to pelt Andrea with daisies, and a mock battle ensued. But it did not end the subject, for Stefano seemed to delight in stirring up controversy, and Miss Perkins was always ready to debate her favorite cause.
We received several newspapers. Grandfather pretended to read only the official organ of the Roman government, but occasionally he might be caught peeking into the Tuscan Monitore or even the Gazzetta Piemontese. Miss Perkins read them all, from front page to back. As the summer wore on, she became more and more excited. Garibaldi had been proclaimed dictator of Sicily, and there were rumors that he planned to attack the mainland. King Victor Emmanuel of Piedmont and his wily Prime Minister Cavour had spoken out against this move. Cavour was reluctant to have Naples owe its freedom to the guerrilla leader. He wanted his king to be the liberator of Italy. But there was a report that Victor Emmanuel, though publicly forbidding Garibaldi to cross the Straits of Messina, had privately written to the General encouraging him to go ahead. At the same time Piedmontese agents were trying to promote an uprising in Naples, so that Victor Emmanuel would have an excuse to march into Neapolitan territory himself in order to restore law and order.
Ironically, we were less well informed about what was happening in our own province than we were about events as far away as Sicily. The reasons for this were obvious; censorship ruled with an iron hand in the Papal States, and the wildest rumors flew about in lieu of facts. “Our busy friend the Falcon,” as Stefano sarcastically called him, was busy indeed; his illegal newspapers and pamphlets blew about the province like snowflakes. They reached a wider audience than one might have supposed. When we rode to the village we would sometimes see a group of people clustered around one of the tables at the café, listening intently as one of their number read aloud from a crudely printed paper. The paper would disappear and the group would disperse as we approached, but none of us doubted what the subject of the paper had been.
A few of the posters even reached the castle. They were found in the most unexpected places; one morning the major domo discovered one pinned to the front door. There was a tacit conspiracy to keep these papers from Grandfather, but the rest of us read them avidly, and Miss Perkins was loud in her admiration of the writer’s skill. Stefano enjoyed reading them aloud and commenting on the grammatical and rhetorical errors of the text.
Politics were not our sole concern, of course. Miss Perkins was almost as interested in antiquities, and one day, at her urging, we agreed to make an expedition to the Etruscan cemetery. I shrank from returning to the place where I had had such a terrifying experience, but I could hardly have avoided going without appearing conspicuous, for the entire household was to take part in the plan. Grandfather was eager to display his family treasures to Miss Perkins, and even the Contessa agreed to make one of the party. It was possible to reach the spot by carriage if one followed a long roundabout road through the hills. The older ladies and Stefano took this route, accompanied by a wagonload of servants carrying all the requisites for a formal meal alfresco. The rest of us rode by the direct path.
We set out early in order to do our exploring before the greatest heat of the day. It was a glorious morning, sunny and bright; but as we rode along the rustic trail, one could see the first hints of autumn in an occasional branch of reddening leaves. Taking a shorter path, we riders reached the spot before the others did, but agreed to wait for them before exploring the tombs.
Grandfather was in fine spirits. It was obvious that he had no recollection of having been here with me. I knew I had nothing to fear; Galiana and Andrea were with us, not to mention half a dozen servants. But I confess I felt a cold chill as I saw the high green mound that concealed the tomb of the princess.
Galiana looked lovely in a gown of white printed with scarlet flowers and a wide-brimmed straw hat tied under her chin with scarlet ribbons. Andrea was teasing her because this was her first visit to our celebrated cemetery.
