“Posso aiutarla?” the man asked clearly in a deep sonorous voice. His face was lined, but his eyes were lively, and he looked nothing like the count in the photographs, who had long, lean aristocratic features, and was very thin and tall. This man appeared as though he enjoyed a good meal and a good laugh. His eyes were friendly but questioning as he gazed at Phillip, having asked what he could do to help him.
“Do you speak English?” Phillip asked him cautiously, not sure what he’d do if he didn’t. His motive in being there was too complicated to explain in sign language, and was sketchy at best. He really didn’t need to be there – he had just wanted to come, out of curiosity about Marguerite.
“Small,” the man answered, holding up two fingers to indicate very little, as he smiled.
“I wanted to see the château,” Phillip explained slowly, feeling slightly foolish. “I know someone who lived here a long time ago.” That was a stretch too, since he really hadn’t known her, but only about her.
The man nodded that he understood. “A parent? Grandmother?” he asked. Phillip didn’t know that the word for parent and relative in Italian was the same, but he got the idea and shook his head. And he could hardly say “No, a woman whose jewelry we’ll be selling at Christie’s, whom I never met but am fascinated by,” which was the case. And then he suddenly remembered the copies of the photographs of her he had in his computer case in the car, and went to get them, indicating to the man to wait, which he did patiently.
Phillip returned with them a moment later, and showed him the photographs of Umberto and Marguerite in front of the château, with the gardens and some of the stables, which Phillip guessed must have been behind the château, or maybe didn’t exist anymore. And when he saw the photographs, the older man’s face lit up immediately, and he nodded enthusiastically.
“Umberto and Marguerite di San Pignelli,” Phillip said, pointing at them, and the man nodded again.
“Il conte e la contessa.” He said their titles, and Phillip nodded and smiled.
“Are you of the same family?” Phillip asked him, and the man shook his head.
“No, I buy ten years ago,” he said clearly. “He die a long time ago. No family, no children. He die, she sold house, go to Rome. Other people buy, make house very broken, then sell to me. They have no money, so they sell me.” His English was broken, but he had no problem conveying to Phillip what had happened. Marguerite had sold the house after her husband’s death, moved to Rome, and the people she sold it to had run it into the ground for lack of money, and then sold it to him. And he seemed to be taking good care of the place. And the Ferrari and Lamborghini that Phillip could see in the courtyard indicated that he had the money to do it.
“Il conte era molto elegante, e lei bellissima,” he said, talking about how elegant Umberto was, and how beautiful Marguerite had been, as he looked through the photographs. “Very sad, no children for house,” he said. He would have liked to know more about Phillip’s interest in the place but didn’t have a sufficient grasp of English to ask him about it. Nonetheless, he beckoned Phillip to come inside and look around. And feeling grateful for the warm reception, he followed the new owner into the house. And once within the walls of the château, Phillip found himself walking through beautiful rooms with handsome antiques, and wonderful modern art that married well in the decor. The walls were painted soft, subtle pastel colors, and from the upper floors, where he took Phillip on a tour, he had a spectacular view of the sea.
“I love very much this house,” the man explained, touching his heart as Phillip nodded. “Good feeling, very warm. It belong to il conte’s family four hundred years. I am from Firenze, but now Napoli too. Sometimes Roma. Galleria d’arte,” he said, pointing at the paintings and then at himself, and Phillip assumed he meant that he was an art dealer, and the paintings on the walls were impressive, by well-known artists whom Phillip easily recognized. He took out his business card then, showing him as a vice president of Christie’s, which the owner of the château recognized immediately, and was visibly impressed.
“Gioielli?” he said, pointing to the word jewelry on Phillip’s card, and he nodded.
“Before, prima,” – Phillip used one of the few Italian words he knew – “art, paintings.” He pointed at the art on the walls. “Now, adesso, gioielli, but I prefer art.”
The man laughed as he understood, and seemed to agree, and then referred to Umberto and Marguerite again.
“La contessa aveva gioielli fantastici,” he said, pointing to the photographs of Marguerite in some of her jewels. “I hear this. Very famous jewels, but then no money when il conte died. Many cars, horses, gioielli, so she sell house. And maybe very sad here after he die, especially with no children.” Phillip nodded agreement. The owner of the château was creating a vision, even with few words, of a couple who had spent a great deal of money, and perhaps begun to run out of it at the time of Umberto’s death, so she had sold the château, and moved to an apartment in the building he’d driven past in Rome. She had probably lived on the proceeds from the château for quite some time, and then gone back to the States. From all Phillip had gleaned so far, from the small apartment where she had lived in Murray Hill, and the nursing home in Queens, she had lived simply in New York. Her days of glory had been here, while Umberto was still alive. After he died, all that was left was the value of the jewels, which was considerable. But she had never sold the jewelry for money to live on, perhaps out of love for him, with the exception of two rings. It had obviously been a powerful love story, the memory of which had endured for the rest of her life, and long after his.
Thinking the same thing, the Italian pointed to the pictures of them and touched his heart with a tender look, and Phillip nodded. That was precisely what had brought him here, and the man he was conversing with, however awkwardly, seemed to understand. He took his own business card out to give Phillip then, and he had guessed right. His name was Saverio Salvatore, and he owned an art gallery of the same name, with addresses in both Florence and Rome. It had been a fortuitous meeting, and Phillip enjoyed talking to him. As they walked back to the courtyard and Phillip thanked him in both Italian and English, Saverio looked at Phillip warmly and pointed to a particularly endearing photograph of Marguerite and Umberto.
“You send to me? I like for this house. It was their home for many years.” Phillip agreed to immediately, and said he would send him several. It touched him that the new owner wanted to have their photographs. Their love story endeared them to everyone.
The two men shook hands before Phillip walked out of the gate, and Saverio waved and wandered back into the house. They hadn’t toured the grounds, which were extensive, but Phillip had seen enough. He had gotten a strong sense of what their home had been like, and how and where they’d lived. It was a very grand life. And it gave him a warm feeling that the man who was living there cared about and respected them. Their memories were not forgotten. And Phillip felt a feeling of peace wash over him as he started the car and drove back to the hotel.
The trip to Naples had served no useful function for Christie’s, or the sale of Marguerite’s things, and yet he knew that in coming here, he had done the right thing. He was certain of it. And he was going to keep Saverio’s card, and hoped they’d meet again. He had every intention of fulfilling his promise, and sending him the photographs of Umberto and Marguerite.
Chapter 14
PHILLIP CALLED HIS mother that weekend, when he was back in New York. He wanted to have dinner with her on Sunday night, and tell her all he had learned about Marguerite, her jewelry, and that he had even seen the house where they’d lived. He knew that she’d be interested, and it gave more substance to the story now. Marguerite was no longer a complete mystery to them, she had been a woman with a home, a man who had loved her, and a favored life. She was not just a name on a safe deposit box at the bank, who had owned a collection of extremely valuable jewels. Knowing now that she was running out of money, was down to two tho
usand dollars when she died, lived in a tiny apartment for many years, had ended her days in a seedy nursing home in Queens, and hadn’t sold the jewels to live more comfortably, was even more touching and intriguing. The jewelry from Umberto had obviously meant a great deal to her.
He wanted to say all that to his mother, and tell her all about the auction in Paris, and the rest of his trip, including the dramatic moment when Marie-Antoinette’s tiara had been claimed by the government for the French museums. He knew she would love hearing about that. And he was surprised to hear her sounding somewhat somber when he called, or serious. And she said she wanted to see him too. She seemed as though she had something to say.
“Are you okay, Mom? Is something wrong?”
“No, I just want to talk. I have some decisions to make.”
“Is it your health?” he said, with a feeling of panic.
“No, darling, I’m fine. Just some other stuff. I want your excellent advice.” He knew that she sold some of his father’s stock certificates from time to time. She was invested in a solid fund, where she didn’t have to worry about the insurance money she had inherited when his father died. And she liked asking Phillip’s advice.
“Sunday night?”
“That’s fine, have a nice weekend.” But he was concerned about her after they talked. She gave him the impression that she had a serious matter on her mind, and he hoped she wasn’t lying to him, and that her health really was all right. As an only child, he felt responsible for her, and worried about her, no matter how youthful and independent she was. She was still seventy-four years old, even if she didn’t look it or act it.
He thought about Jane Willoughby again that weekend too. He wanted to call her and tell her about the results of his trip, and his research about Marguerite, and he decided to invite her to lunch again, boyfriend or not. He had learned a lot about Marguerite in Europe, and wanted to share it with her.
While he worked on his boat, Jane was moving into her new apartment. It was a small one bedroom in the meat-packing district near Alex, and she was delighted with it. Her parents were going to help her pay the rent, until she got a job. Jane hadn’t heard a word from John since she had moved out. The waters had closed over her without a trace. It was as though he had forgotten she’d existed, which was hurtful at best. And she assumed he was with Cara and didn’t care. It was a tough lesson for Jane, and she was sorry she hadn’t moved when things started to go sour months before. The last six months had been a total waste of time, and his blithe ignoring her, with the excuse of school and projects, had been insulting.
Jane had taken a day off from work that week and gone to IKEA to buy the basics she needed since she had no furniture, and Alex helped her put it together. She was good with a screwdriver and a hammer. And by Sunday night, Jane was moved in, and the place looked great. It gave her a new lease on life. She and Alex ate popcorn and watched a movie that night to initiate her new home.
Phillip left Long Island on Sunday afternoon a little earlier than usual. It was raining, he knew there would be traffic, and he was anxious to see his mother. He stopped and bought a bottle of rosé wine he knew she liked, and at five o’clock, he rang her doorbell, and she looked surprised to see him.
“You’re early!” she said with pleasure as he handed her the wine, which pleased her too.
“It sounds like we have a lot to talk about, so I thought I’d give us some more time,” he said easily as he walked into the apartment. He could tell she’d been working – he could smell the fresh oil paints, a familiar scent he loved and always associated with his mother, and had all his life.
She poured them each a glass of wine a few minutes later, and they sat down in the cozy living room. She was in her favorite old leather armchair, and he on the couch, as he looked at her quizzically. “So what’s up? You first.” He’d been worried about her for two days.
“It’s kind of a long story,” she said with a sigh, and took a sip of the wine. “I knew about it the last time I saw you, but I needed some time to think about it. It came as kind of a shock.” He was more sure than ever, as he listened to her, that she had a health problem, and he nearly held his breath as he listened, but in spite of what she was saying, she looked healthy to him, and no different than before.
“I told you that I went to see Fiona, my old nanny. I wanted her to help me make sense of something. When I looked at the photographs you gave me of Marguerite, nothing earth-shattering struck me about her. I guess I could see some vague family resemblance, but all she had were American Anglo-Saxon good looks, and let’s face it, all WASPs look the same,” she said dismissively, and he laughed at his mother’s typical irreverence.
“Well, not always,” he responded, and she smiled.
“I didn’t see anything remarkable about her, in terms of looks. But what rocked me to the core were the photographs of the little girl. There aren’t a lot of photographs of me as a child, as I didn’t have doting parents, to say the least, but when I looked at those pictures, I was certain that they were me. There is no name written on any of them, but I was the same age as that child on those dates, and in a couple of them, I was absolutely sure. What I couldn’t understand was why my photos were in the safe deposit box, what were they doing there?
“I went to see Winnie about it, and I had a strange idea. I was suddenly suspicious of the fact that there were no photographs of my older sister Marguerite. Supposedly, my mother was so devastated by her death that she destroyed them all, and any physical evidence of her, which always seemed odd to me. Wouldn’t she have carefully preserved every shred of memories of her lost daughter? Your grandparents were unbearably uptight, cold, judgmental people, and I suddenly began wondering what if Marguerite didn’t die? What if she had fallen in love with an Italian count, of which they would have strongly disapproved I’m sure, and what if they only said she died, and she had been alive and living with an Italian husband for all those years? What if it was not a coincidence of name, and Marguerite di San Pignelli was in fact my oldest sister? They are the same age, and I don’t know why but I suddenly became overwhelmingly convinced that might be the case. Winnie was only four when she left, and I was a baby, but I wondered if she’d ever suspected Marguerite was alive, or heard something that made her question what we’d been told.” Valerie looked at her son intently.
“And what did she say?” He was intrigued by what she said.
“That I was senile. That I’m insane, that our parents would never do a thing like that. She liked them a lot better than I did, and they were nicer to her. More important, she was just like them, I never was, so they always tried to pound me into thinking and behaving like them, and I couldn’t. She told me what I thought was preposterous, that our parents would never lie to us, and the photographs weren’t me of course, and all children looked and dressed like that at the time, which is partially true. But that child’s face was so like me, and my eyes. I got nowhere with Winnie, and we had a huge fight.
“And that night it occurred to me to go and see Fiona, and ask her what she knew. I figured she might know more about the circumstances in which my sister left. Years later, we were told that she had gone to study in Europe, in Switzerland, since there was a war on. But why would you let your daughter go there during a war, and if she went to England, why did she die in Italy? We were never allowed to ask questions about her, or even mention her name, and I was always curious about her. So I thought maybe Fiona could tell me something, and she’d recognize the photographs of Marguerite, if it was she, since she came to work for us two years before my sister left. So I drove to New Hampshire to see her. She’s ninety-four, but clear as a bell.” Valerie seemed breathless as she went on with the story, and Phillip listened, with no idea what would come next.
“I showed her the photographs and asked her if Marguerite di San Pignelli was my sister. And I was heartbroken when she said no. But I was in no way prepared for what she said next. She told me that Marguerite was my mothe
r. She got pregnant by a boy she loved at seventeen. He was just shy of eighteen at the time. Both sets of parents were outraged, and wouldn’t let them get married and separated them. Marguerite was sent away to a home for wayward girls in Maine, to have the baby in hiding and give it up for adoption. A few weeks after she left the city, the Japanese hit Pearl Harbor, the boy was drafted and sent to boot camp, and then to California for training, and was killed in an accident almost immediately, and apparently Marguerite refused to give up the baby, so her parents, my grandparents, disappeared with her, and returned to New York a few months after the baby was born, pretending the baby was theirs, but obviously hating every minute of it. They put Marguerite on a neutral Swedish ship to Lisbon, from where she went to London. She was never going to Switzerland. And a year later they said she died of influenza, and got rid of her forever, as far as they were concerned. In actual fact, she met the count in London when she got there. She was alone at eighteen in a foreign country, with a war on. He was kind to her, they married very quickly, and he took her back to Italy with him, to live at his family home in Naples. But her parents had banished their own child, Phillip. Their firstborn daughter, just to avoid a scandal,” she said with a look of outrage, and tears in her eyes. “They just cut her out of their lives forever, and kept her baby, even if they didn’t want it, and never loved it. Fiona says that Marguerite and the count tried to get her baby back several years later, and her parents did everything to defeat her and scare her off and threaten her, to keep the story quiet, and she eventually gave up. And all Fiona could do was send her photographs of her daughter periodically, until she left us ten years later.
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