“Are you all right?”
It was Gian Andrea. He squatted down and peered at Sophie’s face.
“Just a little dizzy,” she said, sitting up and blinking.
“You didn’t fast, did you?” He took her arm and helped her up. “You don’t need to fast if you are not taking communion, you know.”
Sophie tried to remember when she had last eaten. Her appetite had been poor lately. Sometimes, after the glasses of sweet wine in the afternoon, she couldn’t eat supper at all.
“I don’t go to mass very often any longer,” he was saying. He still had her arm. “But Donna Paolina asked me to go, as a favor, and of course, since she is my hostess, I thought it would be rude to refuse.”
Bettina, who had been seated in back with the servants, bore down on them and almost snatched Sophie away. Gian Andrea didn’t seem to mind. “She’s looking a bit piqued,” he told Bettina, as though Sophie were not there. “She should rest if she is coming to the banquet later.”
Sophie roused herself at the word “banquet.” “Are you coming?” she said, trying to sound casual. “To the banquet, I mean?” Her terror did an abrupt about-face: What if she and Pauline had gone to all this trouble and he did not appear? She suddenly wanted, more than anything, to have Gian Andrea see her in the blue dress. Yes, and kiss her. And maybe even other things.
“Of course I am coming.” He smiled down at her, his dark eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “I am escorting you. Didn’t your cousin tell you?” He strode away, nodding slightly to Bettina.
Sophie gazed after him until he disappeared.
“Holy Saint John protect us,” muttered Bettina under her breath, looking from the star-struck Sophie to the receding figure of Gian Andrea. “Now what is that puttana up to?”
ELEVEN
Gian Andrea did not follow Pauline’s script. When he met Sophie as she arrived at the bottom of the scissor staircase in the main palace (“There is something very appealing for men about watching a woman descend to their level,” Pauline had said), he stepped back, not forward.
“Sophie?” he said, incredulous.
She didn’t follow the script, either. She laughed and whirled around in front of him. The motion lifted the chiffon overskirt in little waves around the blue silk and sent the fringe fluttering at her ankles.
He did take her hands then, but not to bow over them. He held her still and surveyed her, from head to toe and back again. “You look—”
“Different?”
It had taken three hours to get ready; she had a headache from tilting her neck to have her hair put up; her bodice was so tight she could feel every stitch of the seam. And she was gloriously, deliciously happy, because when she had looked in the mirror, she had seen a complete stranger. Willowy, not thin. Blond, not straw-haired. This Sophie had dark eyelashes and delicately curved brown eyebrows, setting off her blue-gray eyes. This Sophie smiled.
Even Bettina had been impressed. “Look at you!” she had gasped, before she had remembered that this was all vanity of vanities and repeated her warnings about young men and wine and dancing.
There was to be dancing. First the banquet, then dancing, then a late supper and fireworks. In this dress, Sophie knew she could dance. Not like those other times, when she tripped, or stopped at the wrong part of the music, or went up the line when she should have gone down.
“Shall we?” He was offering her his arm.
She tucked her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow but held him back when he started toward the state dining room. “We’re to wait. The prince and princess will be here in a minute, and we are to follow them.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right. The princess mentioned that to me.” He looked expectantly up at the landing. Sophie just stood there, drinking in the delicious feeling of his arm enfolding hers. Every once in a while she would steal a glance at his fierce profile and then turn away, or lift her hand slightly and then settle it again, so that she could enjoy the contrast: not looking, looking. Not touching, touching.
It was not a minute, or even two, but it was less than a quarter-hour. A sudden hush fell over the group assembled at the foot of the stairs, and Camillo and Pauline appeared at either side of the gallery on the floor above. They bowed to each other across the intervening space, then began to descend, crossing in front of each other twice as the separate stairways met and parted again. Both were dressed in white; as they drew closer, Sophie could see that Camillo’s jacket and waistcoat were embroidered with gold and silver thread. Pauline’s gown, however, was completely unadorned. It fastened at one shoulder with a small gold brooch and swept down to her feet from the cinch beneath her breasts. She wore a small gold necklace at her throat, and her hair was caught up with a simple band of pearls. When she reached the bottom, at exactly the same moment as Camillo, they turned in unison and joined each other in the middle of the lofty receiving hall, as though they were performing the steps of a dance.
“Magnificent!” breathed Gian Andrea. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Pauline during the two minutes it took to execute the stately, carefully timed descent. And really, thought Sophie, you could hardly blame him. It was magnificent. She was magnificent. Every single person in the room, male and female, was staring at Pauline. That was just the way it was.
Dinner was magnificent, as well. There were sixty guests in the state dining room, and at times it seemed to Sophie that there were sixty different courses. The palace kitchen had endeavored to please both local palates and the imperial couple, and so pigeons in cream sauce jostled against vol-au-vents; truffled veal sat next to courgettes carved into elaborate shapes and piped with cream; the traditional Piedmontese bonet was served for dessert in plain glass custard bowls while an intricate centerpiece of spun sugar and pastry in the shape of the dome of the royal chapel was carefully cut and handed round after tantalizing diners all during the meal.
Sophie barely ate. Nervous, exhilarated, and half-strangled by her gown, she preferred to sit and look around and sip her wine. It was lighter and easier to drink than the dark gold liquor Pauline served; she had several glasses before the second course was even removed. Gian Andrea, too, seemed nervous. He would look at Sophie, smile absently, then pick at his food. She noticed that he hardly drank any wine. Toward the end of the meal, he beckoned over a page, whispered something to him, and sent him off to the head of the table.
Sophie, her heart sinking, watched the page head for Pauline. What was it? A note? An agreement to meet later? The page slipped behind the royal couple, leaned forward—and said something to Camillo.
The prince looked up, surprised. The page turned, indicated Gian Andrea, and said something else.
Gian Andrea had gone completely still next to her. His hand was gripping his untouched wineglass; he seemed afraid to move.
Camillo looked straight at him and nodded. And smiled.
That was what Sophie remembered afterward: Camillo’s smile. Friendly, a little curious, a little drowsy; the smile of a man who has just fed sixty people a delicious dinner in his palace.
“Now we shall see,” Gian Andrea said to her in a low voice, his eyes glittering.
“What is it?” Sophie looked at Camillo, at Gian Andrea, back at Camillo.
“I asked if I could offer a toast, after the mayor. On behalf of the people of Milan.” He leaned back in his chair. “My ancestors were Dukes of Milan, you know. Three hundred years before the Borgheses swindled their way into the papacy.”
“You’re not going to say anything like that, are you?” Sophie asked, alarmed at his expression.
“No.” He pulled a thin, leather-bound octavo volume out of his jacket. “Just some historical stuff, about his name.”
“Oh.” Sophie didn’t think anyone could make much trouble talking about Philip of Neri. From what she could gather from Bettina’s comments after mass that morning, he had spent his life tending the poor and sick, in classic saintly fashion.
The footmen began clearin
g away the plates; the prince and princess rose and led the way to the ballroom. More guests were to join the diners here; many had already arrived and were milling about between the marble columns. The orchestra was in place, tuning their instruments.
“When do you suppose the dancing will begin?” Sophie said, looking down the expanse of the polished floor. She had her hand tucked into his arm again; he seemed very stiff, his shoulder unyielding and tense.
“First there will be the toasts,” he said. “See?” A small army of footmen in green and gold had entered, carrying trays of champagne. Sophie took a glass and let the bubbles break under her chin. She loved champagne, but she didn’t think she could swallow anything else without bursting a seam. Gian Andrea waved the servant away. “Come on,” he said, pushing through the crowd. “We have to be up front, with the prince.”
The mayor was already speaking. Sophie couldn’t hear very well; people were still talking, and new arrivals, crowding in, were calling the footmen over to obtain their share of the champagne. As they grew closer, she could see him, though, a short, stout figure with a sash across his chest, gesturing expansively and bowing repeatedly toward Camillo and Pauline. His voice faded in and out, like music heard through a window:
“… signal honor of Your Excellencies’ hospitality … this happy occasion … His Imperial Majesty … many blessings …”
He was just finishing as they pushed their way through to the open space around Camillo and Pauline, and was cheered loudly, if for no other reason than because everyone finally felt free to drink the champagne they had been holding. Camillo’s short speech of thanks was completely drowned in the applause and the clink of glasses.
The musicians picked up their instruments; the concertmaster looked at Camillo expectantly. The prince shook his head. No, wait, his gesture said. He motioned Gian Andrea forward.
Holding Sophie like a shield, Gian Andrea stepped out into the empty circle facing the prince.
“Citizens of Turin,” he began. His voice was clear and pitched to carry. Some people stopped talking and turned, curious to see what was happening, but most did not. “Citizens of Italy!” he tried again, louder.
Sophie had been to many, many banquets by now. She had heard many toasts. They did not begin with the word “citizens”—at least, not since her childhood, during the Terror. They began with “Your Excellency, Your Imperial Highness, and distinguished guests.” Or “Your Holiness, Your Eminence, and distinguished guests.” Or “Your Majesty, Lord Mayor, and distinguished guests.” She tried to move away from Gian Andrea, but he was holding her arm clenched to his side in an unbreakable grip.
That second, louder “citizens” had done it. Into the hush that followed, Gian Andrea spoke. “Fellow guests,” he said, “as a small and inadequate acknowledgment of the hospitality I have received these past few weeks from the prince, I have asked him for permission to honor his name-day with this toast. Indeed, as a Visconti, as a son of Milan, I consider it my right and my duty to celebrate the history of the great families of our nation.”
There were some approving murmurs and a gracious smile from Pauline.
“This morning,” he went on, “in the chapel adjoining this ballroom, we honored Saint Philip, and remembered his generosity and concern for those who were weak and suffering.”
More nods. Footmen were circulating unobtrusively, topping up glasses for the unexpected second toast.
“I ask you now to remember and honor someone else, someone whose name the prince also bears: the great Roman hero Camillus.” He pulled out the book and flourished it like a sword. “Here,” he said, holding it up, “in the pages of Livy, we find his story. How he led the people of Rome to victory after victory, conquering all the neighboring towns.”
There were a few murmurs at this, some surprised, most impatient. Sophie was trying to remember if she knew anything about Camillus. Was it Camillus who held the bridge? No, that was Horatius.
“And his greatest achievement, of course, was after the invasion of the Gauls.”
Suddenly there was complete silence.
“The Romans, besieged and starving, had given up. They had surrendered. They were actually weighing out the gold, the ransom for their cowardly lives, into their barbarian conqueror’s hands,” Gian Andrea went on. His voice echoed down the line of columns. “But at the very last moment Camillus appeared with his army and ordered the Romans to take back the ransom and prepare for battle. He would not allow the Romans to pay tribute to Gaulish brigands.”
A woman laughed, nervously, and was instantly shushed.
“He told them this: ‘Ransom your country with swords, not gold.’” He glared around the room, then repeated slowly, “Swords, not gold. Then he and his men defeated the invaders and drove them back out of Roman territory.” Now he let Sophie go, but only so that he could take her glass—he had none—and raise it, holding it up next to the book. “I give you Camillus,” he shouted, “a true Roman hero. May all the Gallic invaders of Italy meet a like fate!”
There was complete pandemonium. Men roared in anger; women screamed; some of the soldiers present dashed for the door; others headed purposefully for Gian Andrea. Camillo, standing next to Sophie, looked tired. “Young fool,” he muttered. He stepped forward and raised his hand.
The crowd began hushing each other; the soldiers paused.
“Thank you, Cousin, for that reminder of Rome’s noble past,” he said. “But now I think we have been waiting too long for the promised ball. Princess?” He held out his hand to Pauline; the musicians struck up a local country dance. The soldiers, moving again toward Gian Andrea, suddenly found a line of dancers forming.
“Cousin?” said Sophie, seizing on the smallest of the many things she did not understand at the moment. “You’re not his cousin, are you?” Somehow, she didn’t know how, she had ended up with both the book and the glass of champagne. Gian Andrea had spilled most of it when he gestured at the end of his speech.
“He’s trying to protect me,” Gian Andrea said scornfully. “Let them arrest me! I am ready for them.”
One of Pauline’s pages came running up. “She says you are to dance,” he whispered, breathless. “Right now. She is saving a place for you.”
And so, Sophie danced in her blue dress with Gian Andrea at the head of the long line of couples, right behind Pauline and Camillo. She dipped and twirled and stepped forward and back, moved in rhythm across the shining floor with her skirt brushing against the columns behind her. It was nothing like she had imagined it would be. She felt nothing now when he touched her arm or laid his hand briefly on her waist to steady her during a spin. He was not going to kiss her. She knew that now. He was going through the motions of the dance, but he was paying no attention to Sophie at all. He was drunk on his own bravado.
And Pauline, moving down the line next to Sophie, was watching Gian Andrea with a very familiar look on her face. It was the look a cat gives a canary. There was nothing Pauline liked better than a rebel.
Sophie left the dance early, pleading a headache. She did have a headache; she had had one all day. That had not mattered before that stupid toast, before Gian Andrea dragged her out into the middle of the ballroom and spouted treason while holding her hand. She would gladly have danced with a headache, and eaten ices, and walked in the royal gardens. But she had no desire to stay in the ballroom and watch Pauline circling Gian Andrea.
Bettina had already heard what had happened. The local servants had been terrified, convinced the militia would haul everyone in the palace off to jail. “Ungrateful, uncouth, boorish scum of a Visconti,” she fumed as she peeled off Sophie’s dress. Bettina was very jealous of the Borghese family honor. “Imagine telling the prince he wanted to give a toast, and then pulling a stunt like that! He should be horsewhipped.”
She slid the sapphire chain out of Sophie’s hair. “In the old days, he would have been called out. Right then and there. Pistols or swords.”
Bettina wasn�
�t much over thirty, so Sophie wasn’t sure how much she knew about “the old days.” But she was quite certain Gian Andrea would have been delighted to fight, with swords or guns or fists, on the slightest provocation. Earlier this evening, before Gian Andrea’s speech, the thought of a duel would have provoked a lovely, tragic daydream about weeping over his wounded body. Now she just felt sick and anxious. After Bettina left, she curled up in her nightgown on a seat by the window and waited for the fireworks. Her suite had a view of the gardens, and a small balcony, as well. She wondered drearily when Pauline would move her out—the rooms were right across from Pauline’s—and install Gian Andrea in her place.
Sophie was dozing when the first firecracker went off, and she woke with a start. One part of her wanted to close the balcony doors and go back to sleep, but she knew the noise would be too loud. She might as well see the display. Throwing on a shawl, she stepped outside and looked down into the garden.
The fireworks were at the far end, by the trees, and at first they were so bright against the dark sky that she saw nothing else. She could hear guests below her, talking and laughing, with an occasional burst of applause for an especially dazzling pinwheel or rocket. Gradually, as her eyes adjusted, she could make out the shapes of people right below her: just shapes, with occasional glimpses of white gloves or white dresses, or flashes of jewelry, when the rockets fired. All the lanterns had been quenched to highlight the display, so the only light was from the crescent moon overhead and the flash and trailing dust of the firecrackers. After a little longer, she could see the apparatus for the fireworks—wagons, dark silhouettes against the trees, visible for one moment as each rocket was fired. Every once in a while the artificers would wheel out something on a frame and light it: the little colored sparklers would flare up all at once on their board and make a shape or a word. There was an eagle, of course, and a dragon, for the Borghese house, and then, a bit later, a very elaborate one, lit in sections, row by row, which spelled out in fiery gold letters: HIS EXCELLENCY THE GOVERNOR-GENERAL SALUTES THE PEOPLE OF TURIN. That one burned for so long in one place that Sophie could see the men working with the rockets quite clearly, running back and forth and signaling to each other when it was time to light the next row of letters.
The Princess of Nowhere Page 16
