by Jane Peart
"Love? Love has many faces, Dru. I think she was fascinated, infatuated, but in love . . . I don't know."
"But what about Brett?"
"Oh, he was devastated." Mama shook her head. "Everyone was afraid he might do something reckless. Such a headstrong boy! We all held our breath at the wedding, I can assure you."
"I remember," I nodded. "At least I think I was aware of the stir he created."
Mama bit off the end of a thread. "Afterward, he went out West, you know. Became a cowboy for a while, we heard. I think he even went to California to try his hand at gold mining. He came back here when his father died."
"What then?"
Mama gave a deep sigh. "Well, the Tollivers had lost everything—their land, the house. The new owners hired Brett on for the stables. He lives above them. A sad end for a proud man. Brett is one of the real casualties of the South's defeat. He grew up where there was nothing for a young man to hope for."
"But Mama, look at Uncle Rod. He was actually in the war. Yet he's made a successful life for himself."
"Rod is a survivor in the best sense of the word," she declared firmly. "But he's had his own defeats—"
I wanted to get back to the subject of Brett Tolliver and his relationship with Alair. "But if Alair really loved Brett, why didn't she marry him? Maybe she could have helped him make something of his life."
"Alair looked delicate, fragile even, but she was a stubborn little thing. I think she made up her mind to accept all that Randall Bondurant had to offer."
I let a full minute go by before asking another question. "So what does Brett Tolliver do now?"
My mother looked up, an ambivalent expression on her face. "You mean besides imbibing strong spirits?"
"He drinks?"
"Heavily, sad to say. Nominally, he is caretaker for the estate that used to belong to his family. The new owners travel a great deal. But, mostly, I understand he drinks, broods. . . . But, come now, surely there's a more pleasant topic of conversation. Do tell me about the little girls—"
So we left the subject of Brett Tolliver. But I had a clearer picture of him now, of what he had become, and why he had come to Bon Chance that day and confronted Randall so wildly. His allegations were probably the product of his own liquor-clouded mind, the fevered imaginings of a bitter, morose drunk. He had lost Alair long ago, but kept their young love alive in his tormented heart. If Randall knew all this, why had he reacted so strongly? Why had such idle threats prompted him to uproot us all and leave the country?
For the rest of the afternoon I regaled Mama with accounts of the Bondurant sisters—their precocity, their unexpected wit and charm, their surprisingly mature prayers, but in the very midst of this recital, a part of my mind was occupied with the perplexing puzzle of the strange romantic triangle.
As the day of our actual parting dawned, I think Mama and I both realized how long it might be before we would see each other again.
"I wish you were coming," I told her, taking both her hands in mine. "I wish we were going to see Italy together. It isn't fair. You would so love to see the museums, the art galleries, the great cathedrals—" I raised her small hand to my cheek lovingly.
Tears brightened her eyes for a moment, but she smiled at me. "You must write letters, tell me everything you see, experience, feel. That way, I can travel with you."
"Oh, I will, Mama! I promise."
As she helped me pack, she said, "I think Garnet will be in England in the spring. She and Jeremy often go to the Continent as well. Perhaps there will be a chance for you to see her. I should think that by then you would welcome a familiar face from home."
Suddenly a thought occurred to me, and I suppose my indignation showed. "Why hasn't Aunt Garnet invited you to visit her? She could well afford it!" It seemed odd to me that these two sisters-in-law who had shared responsibilities, sorrows, and frustrations during the war now lived in such different worlds.
Mama looked shocked. "But she has, dear. Many times. It just isn't possible to leave Auntie Nell."
I looked at my mother, thinking of Aunt Garnet's life of ease and affluence compared to Mama's service to others, and pondered the curious disparity of their paths. Did my mother never envy nor wish she could trade places with Aunt Garnet?
I bit my lip, but Mama, quick to discern my thoughts, leaned over and patted my cheek. "Don't worry about me, darling. I am happy and content. Believe me. Read Philippians 4:11 and you'll understand." She went on folding the beribboned cotton chemises. "I decided early on that I would not be overcome by circumstances, that regardless of events in my life, I would simply trust the Lord and try to be happy. Life is not easy for anybody, Dru. Appearances are often deceiving, and what may seem like perfection to outsiders often masks secret sorrows."
She then turned to the ruffled petticoats and started placing them in neat piles on top. "It's best to look upon life as a challenge. Then, whatever we are given, we can remember that others are looking to us for example, and that helps us to be strong and courageous."
I went over to her then with the tears streaming down my face. Holding her close, I murmured, "Mama dearest, how very wonderful you are."
"Nonsense!" Her voice took on a stern note, then she laughed that light, girlish laugh that had not changed with the years. "Now that's enough sermonizing for today. Let's wait until Sunday and see what wisdom Reverend Miller will impart."
On the train back to Mayfield Monday morning I thought about the church service we had attended the day before and realized that what Mama had said to me had stamped itself more strongly on my consciousness than the minister's words.
The hymn selected had, however, affected me profoundly. Music always ministered to me and, along with the clickety-clack of the train's wheels on the steel rails, the lyrics rang in my mind.
Wide as the ocean, deep as desert sands,
God's love reaches, God's love extends.
Tho' we travel to far-off lands,
Cross uncharted seas,
His love follows unreservedly.
No matter the distance,
It can be anywhere,
God's love reaches,
We are always in His care.
I prayed that was true, that the "blessed assurance" I had been taught to believe in would sustain me in whatever lay ahead. For the first time since Randall had announced our destination, however, I felt a tiny tickle of fear.
Part II
September 1883
chapter
11
September 1883
Dearest Mama,
We took the children on deck for their first sight of land after nearly two weeks at sea. They have been good sailors throughout this long journey, but naturally we all longed to set our feet on solid ground once more. Gibraltar!
One of the ship's officers, Lt. Mason, who has been very kind and attentive the whole trip, came alongside us while we stood at the railing—to point out Spain on one side of the ship, Africa on the other. Imagine!
The harbor was full of ships, yachts, and little boats. We were to have a full day here while our ship took on fresh supplies, so Randall hired an open carriage with a fringed canvas top, and we rode through the town, which is much larger and more picturesque than I had imagined. I wished for my paintbox more than once, for I'd have loved to capture this place in watercolors.
Everywhere I looked was a perfect landscape—fascinating narrow, little streets; brilliant flowers; and, surrounding us, the beautiful blue of the Mediterranean, rimmed by the bold profile of the mountains.
All too soon we had to hurry back to make the six o'clock departure of the ship. I stood at the railing again as we steamed away between the coasts of two continents!
Ever your loving daughter,
Druscilla
September 1883
Dearest Mama,
The sky was cloudy and overcast when we sailed into the Bay of Naples, and I thought to myself, Where is the sunny Italy I've heard so much abo
ut?
Then we anchored and were soon surrounded by small boats filled with Italian sailors in flamboyant attire, all chattering and shouting to us and to one another. Of course, we couldn't understand a word they were saying, but it was all very exhilarating. I felt as if we were actually at the end of our long journey.
We drove through the noisy, crowded streets to our hotel, which is really quite grand. The girls and I have a lovely suite of rooms. We lunched on the terrace, now in bright sunshine, and Randall suggested we take a drive to San Marino.
The town rests atop a long, winding hill from which we had a magnificent view of Naples. There is this marvelous blue haze with the sun glistening through clouds. At last we saw the spectacle Randall had promised—Vesuvius itself! Every day brings new surprises! One day soon we shall go to Pompeii.
Ever your loving daughter,
Druscilla
October 1883
Dearest Mama,
We are now at the Villa Florabella, the house Randall has rented for our stay. I will try to describe it, though I shall not do it justice. It deserves to be experienced!
A long line of cypress trees leads from a scrolled iron gate up to the house, a large imposing structure of terra-cotta stucco, with tile roof and white marble accents. In the entrance hall there are twisted columns of white marble veined in purple, and beautiful mosaic tile floors. All the rooms have high ceilings—even higher than the rooms at Montclair—and tall windows, looking out on terraces and gardens, which are themselves works of art— winding paths with pools and fountains, statues in curved niches in the walls, flowers and brightly blooming plants everywhere!
Inside, you have to wonder if this villa once belonged to a Roman senator or perhaps a prince. The furniture is very elaborate, and I feel sure the paintings are priceless. The walls and ceilings are painted with scenes, many of them the artist's ideas of celestial dwellings. Cherubs abound, along with garlanded mirrors, inlaid tables, and gold-leafed and tapestried chairs.
I cannot imagine ever thinking of this place as "home," but someone once did! There is an aura of antiquity about the place. What stories could be told by these silent stones.
At the end of the garden steps a path winds up a gentle hill. From there we have a view of Rome!
I can hardly wait to begin seeing it. Randall means for us to explore the city, and we will plan many little trips after we are more settled. He is hiring a tutor to instruct us in Italian, which will be very helpful in dealing with the servants here as well as with merchants, carriage drivers, and other natives.
Rosalba, a lovely young girl with eyes like black olives, is to be personal maid to the girls and me. Nora and Lally already adore her, and she is wonderful with them. She told me in her halting English that she has eight younger brothers and sisters and so is quite experienced in caring for children.
So, dear Mama, you can see that this is going to be not only an exciting adventure, but an educational experience. I intend to master the language in order to appreciate the culture, the arts, the music of Italy so much more . . . and to better share it with you!
Ever your loving daughter,
Druscilla
November 1883
Dearest Mama,
Our Italian lessons are going quite well. Signor Pietro Orsini is a charming young man with sad dark eyes, a courtly manner, and a delightful way with the children. When we stumble and make mistakes when trying to converse in Italian, he is most gentle in his correction. We laugh a great deal because many of the words sound alike. When we mispronounce them, our version produces an entirely different meaning, which he points out to us.
I have been intrigued by Signor Orsini's background. He has such a noble bearing, such exquisite manners, and his accent is perfect, unlike the speech of the servants. I could not help wondering why a man of such obvious breeding should hire out as a tutor.
Today I learned something about the circumstances in which he now finds himself. It seems that while he was a student at the university, Signor Orsini became involved with some revolutionary groups, even worked on a paper put out by people seeking a more democratic form of government. Since his family is an old and prestigious one, his association with these groups enraged his father. Consequently, they are estranged, and he is cut off from any support from his family and so maintains himself by giving music lessons and tutoring.
He is so immensely intelligent, so intense, yet still works for change in the status quo that I quite admire him. He has a struggle just to survive, I gathered, although he is in no way self-pitying nor resentful. He said he understands his father's feelings even if they cannot agree.
Somehow this put me in mind of our family's former attitude toward Randall Bondurant. At least, I hope this estrangement is in the past, for he has been very considerate of me—
Ever your loving daughter,
Druscilla
December 1883
Dearest Mama,
What a lovely day! We have just returned from a visit to Florence, where we drove through the hills above the town. The hillsides are dotted with silvery olive trees—groves and groves of them! All along the way groups of peasants in colorful dress waved and smiled at us as we passed in our open carriage.
At the top of one hill overlooking the town we enjoyed a basket picnic lunch. From there the town looked like a toy village, with tiny pink and yellow stucco houses strung together on streets like silver ribbons. We were ravenous and dined on delicious crusty Italian bread, thinly sliced ham, cheeses of many kinds, and luscious fruit. No wonder so many of the Italian women are amply built! I'm hoping not to outgrow the lovely frocks you made for me just before we sailed!
The view beyond the town itself was glorious—the valley of the Arno and Campagna stretching off like a rolling sea, crested with waves of blue hills and snowcapped mountains. I made a quick sketch that I shall later try to paint.
Ever your loving daughter,
Druscilla
January 1884
Dearest Mama,
Your letters came today, and what a welcome sight was your handwriting on the envelopes! I can't believe I have been away so long, and that Christmas has come and gone in Virginia while it is like summer here!
You ask what a typical day is like for me here. I'm ashamed to admit that the sun is already up and shining by the time I awaken. The children have usually had their breakfast and are playing out in the garden under Rosalba's watchful eye while I am having breakfast on the little balcony outside my bedroom. I'm sure you think I am growing quite spoiled amid all this "Roman decadence"!
Seriously, after a leisurely beginning—so different from Thornycroft—my days are very full and scheduled.
Signor Orsini comes at ten for our Italian lessons and often accompanies us on some planned expedition. Because he knows Rome so well and is so at home in the language, he is the ideal guide when we visit a museum or church or gallery. Since the girls' attention span is short, they often seem tired or bored. I occasionally send them home with Rosalba, then I continue my guided tour with Signor Orsini.
I have been concerned that we might be taking up too much of his time on these excursions, for which he is not being paid by Bondurant, but he assures me that it is his pleasure to introduce others to the Italian treasures he loves so much.
Besides, he does not go to his job at the printing plant until late in the afternoon. I don't know when the poor man gets any sleep. Sometimes I think he looks so haggard, with shadows under those mournful dark eyes. He is also much too thin, and I have suggested to Rosalba to bring coffee and pastries up to us after our lesson in the mornings. I notice that Signor Orsini relishes these treats, and I'm glad if we can supplement what must be the meager diet he is able to afford on his small salary!
Christmas in Italy is in great contrast to our Virginia celebrations. I'm sure you would think the customs very strange indeed, though they seem appropriate for this setting.
In Italy Christmas is not especially
a time for exchanging gifts. People go to church, have family dinners, pay visits and send nosegays, violets being the flower of choice. To Italians, these speak the language of romance, and young men here send them to their amoratas or fiancees.
The celebration of Christmas begins weeks ahead of the date we mark. It is festival time for the peasants who come down from the hills to participate in a novena, or nine days of religious activity and gaiety. They have parades, carry banners and statues, play a sort of bagpipe, blow brass horns, and sing for hours on end.
Of course, I felt it important to keep some of our own traditions, so the girls hung their stockings on their bedposts on Christmas Eve, and Randall filled them with lovely presents he had ordered for them.
I took them to the small Anglican church for a service that seemed very quiet and formal compared to the noisy celebrations in the streets. Since the chapel is quite near our villa, we walked home and were surprised to find Signor Orsini waiting at the gate.
He had brought gifts for both girls and presented me with a little bouquet of violets, which both surprised and touched me. I realized at once that because of the rift in his family he would probably be spending the holiday alone, so, impulsively, I asked him to join us for our lunch.
Being separated from my own dear family makes me especially sensitive and compassionate to his situation, I suppose. And his instant acceptance and obvious gratitude for the invitation made me feel, spontaneous though it was, that it was the right thing to do.
Randall was dining with friends and would be gone for the evening. He has met a group of Americans and Englishmen who winter in Italy, and has become socially involved with them. They ride together in the mornings, lunch at the various villas, and go sightseeing together. The evenings are filled with all sorts of entertainment—dinner parties, soirées, concerts, balls, and of course, the opera. Since Randall seems happier than I have ever known him to be, I must assume that this kind of life is the answer to his moodiness and melancholy so apparent the last month we were in Virginia.
To finish about our Christmas . . . After we had lunched on the terrace in the lovely sunshine—I imagine Richmond and Mayfield were blanketed in snow?—the little girls played with their new Christmas toys, setting up a tea table for their big, wax dolls with real curls that Randall had ordered from France. Signor Orsini and I walked along the shady paths of the garden conversing—in Italian!
