Supporting Galiana, Miss Perkins and I obeyed. As I passed the fallen body I had a last glimpse of De Merode’s face—the dark eyes glazed, and the white lips still set in a snarl of rage.
II
When we returned to the library an hour later, De Merode’s body had been removed. The castle was in our hands. Stefano had signaled his supporters, who included most of the able-bodied servants in the castle, led by Piero. Demoralized by the death of their leader, the soldiers were easily disarmed.
I will never forget the moment when Andrea, freed of his bonds, came striding into the library where Stefano was giving orders to Piero. He went straight to his brother and flung his arms around him.
“Why did you not tell me?” he demanded, his eyes dimmed by tears. “Couldn’t you trust me, Stefano?”
“You know it was not lack of trust,” Stefano replied, trying to free himself of his brother’s impetuous embrace. “Andrea, I am touched by your emotion, but if your aren’t careful, you will finish the job De Merode began. My ribs…”
Then silence fell, as Grandfather came into the room.
Italians are considered by the English to be overemotional. All I can say is that I have become quite accustomed to their outbursts of sentiment, and for my part I find them quite beautiful. There are times, though, when the emotional climate becomes almost unendurable; and this was one such moment, when the stately old man tried to kneel to ask the forgiveness of the man he had misjudged. As Stefano bent to prevent this. I realized how hard it had been for him to appear as a weakling in the eyes of the old man he loved.
There was little time for prolonged emotion, or for explanations. Time was passing, and Stefano was not the man to be distracted from what he considered his duty. A few hours later we stood on the terrace and watched the little band ride away to Parezzo and battle. We were all very brave. Grandfather stood straight as a soldier, his eyes shining with pride, and we women smiled till our jaws ached. Andrea, riding beside his brother, turned and waved the torch he was carrying in a flamboyant gesture of farewell. But Stefano did not turn, and as his tall, erect figure melted in the darkness of the long avenue, I knew I might have seen him for the last time.
Everyone knows what happened after that. On September 11 the Bersaglieri of Piedmont crossed the frontier, and within a month Umbria and the Marches were part of the new kingdom of Italy. Only a small strip of territory around Rome itself was left to the rule of Pius the Ninth. It was ten years later before Rome succumbed, and the ancient capital became the capital of the new Italy, ending a struggle for freedom that had taken almost half a century and cost the lives of many gallant men.
I fear we were less concerned, in the next weeks, with the epic struggle taking place elsewhere than we were with our own selfish concerns. Galiana was lucky; Andrea was slightly wounded in the fighting at Parezzo and was forced to stay at home after that, alternately cursing his bad fortune and basking in Galiana’s adoring care. I was not so fortunate. After the papal garrison at Parezzo surrendered, Stefano joined one of the Piedmontese regiments as a liaison officer and followed the troops of Victor Emmanuel throughout the entire campaign. From time to time we would receive messages, or word of him; he was fighting with the gallantry we expected, and surviving; that was all we knew for weeks. The suspense was well-nigh unendurable, particularly because I had no assurance that Stefano ever devoted a moment’s thought to me, while I thought of nothing else. By the time a week had passed, I was convinced he cared nothing for me. He had never demonstrated any affection; quite the contrary; he had done nothing but sneer and joke at me since I came.
The only consolation I had during those weeks was the love of those around me. Galiana and Andrea, who were awaiting only the return of Stefano to make plans for their marriage, could not do enough for me. Andrea’s love comforted Galiana during her mother’s illness. The Contessa’s mind had given way altogether. She recognized no one except her daughter, whom she persisted in addressing as the Princess Tarconti. The doctors said she would not live long, but while she lived she would have the constant care and supervision her state required. It was she who had corrupted the mind of poor Bianca; everything the woman had done had been at the orders of the Contessa. Bianca was not mad, she was only weakminded and susceptible.
The object of her attacks had always been Stefano. Miss Perkins explained this to me during the hours we spent together. We talked over the whole affair, and the first thing I did was take her to task for deceiving me.
“After all our talk of spies, you were an English spy,” I said, half jokingly.
“I thought surely you would wonder how Count Andrea found me so easily,” Miss Perkins said, not at all abashed. “He told you the truth when he said Count Stefano had planned the entire business. He sent Andrea to certain parties in London, sympathizers with the Italian cause, who recommended me. I fear I did lie to you when I told you the Count had hired me through an employment bureau. But I assure you, Francesca, that I was not in Count Stefano’s confidence, not until the very end.”
“But you suspected him, not Andrea. I can’t see how.”
“The Contessa did, too. We older women, unlike you young girls, were not misled by dashing adventures and brave speeches. When you told me—and the Contessa, through Galiana—that you had identified the Falcon as your cousin, it was obvious that you based this on some physical characteristic. But Stefano and Andrea are twins, though most of us tended to forget this. It was equally obvious that Andrea was too heedless to maintain a disguise so long and plan his campaign so carefully. Stefano, on the other hand, was a perfect candidate—his habit of seclusion, his cool intelligence, his general character. The only thing against it was his physical disability, and you had hints enough, my dear, that that was put on. When he rescued you from the tomb, for instance. He acted without thinking then, and had to do some fast talking to cover up. I began to suspect quite early on, but it was not until after you had helped him escape from the village that I was sure. I watched Stefano after that, and it was obvious to me that he was in considerable physical distress. I taxed him with it and demanded to be allowed to help.”
“But the Contessa attacked him long before that,” I expostulated. “I turn hot with embarrassment, Miss Perkins, when I remember that I believed myself to be the endangered heroine!”
“You read too many bad novels at that school of yours, I expect,” Miss Perkins replied with a smile. “You ought to have read Miss Austen’s Northanger Abbey, in which she shows another young lady being led astray by sensational fiction.”
“I still don’t understand why the Contessa wanted to kill Stefano.” I said, blushing.
“It was logical, in a mad way,” Miss Perkins said, shaking her head. “The Contessa was determined to see her daughter Princess Tarconti. Until you came, she was in a fair way of bringing it off. She had the poor child under her influence; Galiana would have married Stefano if she could have. After a time the Contessa realized that Stefano would never marry her daughter. But if Stefano were dead…”
“His brother would be Prince Tarconti in time,” I said. “Yes, I see. She told me that, in her ravings, but I thought her mind was confused.”
“It was confused,” said Miss Perkins dryly. “You must admit that her methods were somewhat unorthodox. Yet they probably would have succeeded. Andrea has always loved Galiana, he would have married her in a moment. The Contessa told Bianca what she wanted, and the unfortunate woman proceeded to act whenever the opportunity arose. It was Stefano at whom the rock fall and the bullet were aimed. You happened to be with him on both occasions, but that was because he was seldom out of his house, and vulnerable, unless he was in your company. When he was within his own walls, with his loyal servants around him, it was almost impossible for an assassin to get at him.”
“But the bat,” I began.
“Pure accident. You didn’t seriously think that anyone could capture and control a creature like that? If the incident of the bat had occurred alone, without the other cases, you would never have dreamed it was anything but bad luck.”
“Is there ever any such thing as luck, I wonder,” I said thoughtfully. “I begin to think that life is one great complex pattern of interwoven acts and counteracts.”
“I am a believer in free will,” said Miss Perkins firmly. “Yet, you are right, in the sense that every act has unimaginable and far-reaching consequences. One of the most astounding results of De Merode’s plotting is the conversion of his Excellency. I do believe he is a firmer supporter of the cause of liberation than either of his sons, and he was once its greatest enemy.”
“That is because he found himself inconvenienced,” I said. “People often take up a cause when it suits their selfish motives.”
“I do not like to see a girl of your age so cynical,” said
Miss Perkins reproachfully.
Suddenly, to my shame, I felt my eyes flooding with tears.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, turning aside. “But it has been so long since he left, and he never said….”
“Jumping to conclusions is another fault of yours,” said Miss Perkins unsympathetically. “You have been wrong fairly consistently, Francesca; but if you still think that young man is cold and unemotional….”
Well, I knew he was not unemotional. What I did not know was whether he had any emotional attachment to me.
The last of the papal fortresses, Ancona, fell on September 24, after a gallant defense. We received the good news a few days later; but it was not until the end of the month that Stefano came home.
I was in the rose garden, and I did not know of his arrival until I looked up from my book and saw him coming down the path. He wore the dark-blue uniform of a Piedmontese officer. He had lost weight. His sunbleached hair formed a striking contrast to his tanned face, which was burned as brown as that of any peasant. I wondered how I could ever have thought Andrea was handsomer than he, and how I could have taken another man for him, even for an instant.
His long free stride faltered when he saw me, and he came on more slowly.
Any woman will understand why I acted as I did. For weeks I had been in agony over him; since the hard fighting at Ancona I had been convinced that he must have been killed, since we had heard nothing from him. Now I saw him safe—and in the reaction of relief I was absolutely furious with him. So when he stood before me, hat in hand, I said casually, “How nice to see you, Stefano. I do hope you enjoyed yourself.”
It was the first time I had ever seen him at a loss for words. The dark blood rushed into his cheeks. I found myself, perversely, enjoying the situation.
“Men do enjoy fighting,” I went on. “Don’t they? I suspect that is behind the heroism and the gallantry we poor women ignorantly applaud. You don’t fight from a sense of duty; you love it! While we sit at home and worry ourselves—”
Stefano put an end to this tirade, which was developing rather nicely, I thought, by picking me up off the bench and lifting me till my eyes were on a level with his. My feet dangled helplessly, a good ten inches off the ground.
