“Splendid,” she said, in her most matter-of-fact voice. “If you really feel that way, then stop crying, wipe your eyes, and think how you can help that orphaned family. Come, take your hand from your eyes; watch me try to mount, that ought to make you laugh.”
I think she was clumsier than usual, on purpose.
So began my first exercises in benevolence. As I had expected, Galiana was very much amused by it all. Grandfather made no objections; charity, after all, was a suitable occupation for a lady. He let me rummage through the cupboards and storerooms for food, and watched with a smile while I laboriously sewed smocks and shirts for the children. I was a poor seamstress, and Giovanni wore my ill-made garments with a look of indignant suffering, but he did not complain. He was always a silent child. I think he was so used to having his thumb in his mouth he did not know that feature could be used for the purpose of speaking.
On one of my visits to the village, a strange thing happened. I had gone down with a basket of bread, fresh from the oven. I was greeted with the usual smiles and genuflections (which I was frail enough to enjoy more than I should) but I was also conscious of a sort of bustling in the background that I had not encountered before. As I entered, I saw the figure of a man slip through a door at the back of the house. For a moment he was silhouetted against the sunlight, and I had an impression of someone unusually tall, wearing a slouch hat pulled down low on his head. Then the door closed, and the people of the house seemed to relax. When I went up to the room occupied by the Messana family I found then eating a haunch of veal. I knew these people never saw meat unless they were given it; and I certainly had not brought this roast. Poaching did occur, but it was extremely dangerous and was usually limited to small game such as rabbits. They would never dare kill a calf.
When I asked, they looked at me with the bland expression oppressed people learn in order to conceal their feelings. Finally Alberto, the eldest boy, said something about the priest. I knew better, of course. Father Benedetto was a good man, who tried to relieve his flock; but he was as poor and uninfluential as any of the villagers.
I could not help connecting the unusual food with the mysterious visitor. A thrill ran through me. Surely I had seen that tall, agile figure before. The twist of his body as he slipped through the door reminded me of a similar movement—a sideways slip from the saddle, a sword arm extended.…I needed no further evidence to be convinced that I had seen the Falcon on one of his errands of mercy.
I was learning a little sense, though; so I said nothing to the Messanas. Miss Perkins was my only possible confidante. I sought her out as soon as I returned home, and she listened to my story with interest, but with a twinkling eye.
“My dear child, you are hopelessly romantic. It is very unlikely that your hero would occupy himself with such trivia. I know he is said to help the villagers whenever possible; he seems to have a special interest in this district. But surely he would send one of his men on such an errand.”
“I suppose so,” I said, disappointed. “He has been very quiet these last few weeks, hasn’t he? Since Andrea came home, in fact.”
Andrea’s stay was about to end, however. According to Galiana. he had already remained longer than he usually did. He found the castle very boring and went off frequently to seek amusement elsewhere.
“It is you he came to see,” said Galiana, looking at me slyly. “I think he will marry you, eh?”
“Why should he?” I inquired.
“It would be most suitable. The two parts of the family united; the two pets of your grandfather. He would be happy to see it, I think.”
“Would you be happy to see it?”
Galiana turned away, her face unusually sober.
“He is not for me. I must marry an elder son. We have no money, it is for me to restore the family.”
“That’s silly,” I said. “Andrea won’t be a pauper; he will have quite enough to live comfortably. Do you—do you care for him, Galiana? Lately I have thought.…”
“If I did, it would make no difference,” said Galiana sullenly. “I must marry an elder son. But you—you love him too.”
The betrayal in a simple three-letter word! I couldn’t smile, she looked so sad; and in fact her statement made me consider the question more seriously than I had done.
“I love him,” I said thoughtfully. “Certainly I do. But do I love him as a cousin, a kind friend—or as a man? I don’t know, Galiana.”
“Then you are a fool.” said Galiana. “Sometimes I wish you had never come here. Sometimes I almost…” And as I stared at her in shocked surprise, she burst into tears. “Oh, pay no attention to me, I never mean what I say,” she sobbed. “I am not in love, I must marry—”
“I know.” I said, putting my arms around her. “An eldest son. You are a bigger fool than I am, Galiana, if you really believe that.”
Andrea left us the next day, to visit a friend whose villa was located near Lake Como. I was sorry to see him go, and yet, after my conversation with Galiana, it was almost a relief to have him out of the way for a while. We slipped back into our old quiet ways. When the blow finally fell, it came all the more painfully for the calm that had preceded it, like a thunderclap out of a smiling blue sky—that unheralded thunder that was regarded by the Romans, and their Etruscan mentors, as a sign of the gods’ displeasure.
Chapter 8
One breathlessly hot afternoon a week or so after Andrea’s departure we were having tea in the drawing room. I remember thinking—how ironically, as events were to prove!—that the day was very dull. The heat seemed to have stupefied our wits, and the group that had never been noted for vivacity seemed even duller after having known Andrea’s laughter.
Then the bombshell fell. It was heralded by the bursting open of the great doors, and the appearance of Grandfather, flushed and panting. He was waving a paper. At first he was too breathless to speak.
The face of a scandalized footman appeared over his shoulder. I don’t think I had ever seen one of the family open a door since I arrived; a servant always appeared when he was needed. This time Grandfather’s unusual haste had anticipated the servant, but the man consoled himself by slamming the doors smartly after Grandfather had entered the room.
I rose and went to take his arm.
“What is it, Grandfather? Is something wrong?”
“No, no; it is good news, excellent news.” He waved the paper, his face aglow. “They have caught him! At last the rascal is behind bars!”
Miss Perkins made a queer gurgling sound and rose slowly to her feet. The others stared. It was Galiana who exclaimed.
“Il Falcone? I don’t believe it. Who is he, then, your Excellency?”
Some of the color faded from Grandfather’s face.
“Most unfortunate,” he said gruffly. “One of our best families.…It is the Cadorna boy—Antonio.”
I caught Miss Perkins’ glaring eyes in time to suppress my cry of distress. I had forgotten; I was not supposed to be acquainted with Antonio Cadorna. But Galiana did cry out.
“Antonio? Non è possible! He came to my parties, when I was small.…Is he not a friend of Andrea?”
“I am afraid it is only too true,” said Grandfather, ignoring the last question. “Yes; unfortunate; a fine old family. But the wretched boy deserves his fate. He was lucky to escape from the affair in Perugia so easily. Apparently he did not learn from that experience.”
“Oh, dear.”
I thought it was Miss Perkins who had emitted that particularly English expression of well-bred regret. Then I realized that the speaker was Miss Rhoda. The Contessa looked at her disapprovingly.
“I, too, regret the shame of a respectable family,” she said. “But Antonio deserves his fate. They will execute him, your Excellency? His family’s prominence will not excuse him this time?”
