"Ah, I see." He withdrew gently from her body, covered them both with the blankets and pulled her close for a long good-night kiss which rewarded her sweetly for her courage and for her honest uninhibited sexuality. Being married was so much better than he had expected, he reflected as her slender body relaxed in his arms. She was improving every day. She was so brave. She was also unutterably sweet. How she had escaped that situation with her tenderness and affection and sense of humor intact was beyond him. Day after day, as he tried to help her heal, he was rewarded with an outpouring of the best of a woman’s heart. It was close to love already. So close. He wasn’t sure if she would recognize it in herself, but he did. And as for Christopher, he had been hovering on the brink for days. Tonight had tipped the scales. Any woman who could take a rough loving like that and emerge smiling was worth her weight in gold. He did love her. He did. It felt wonderful. And he kissed her forehead and slowly drifted to sleep, amazed by the beauty of their relationship.
******
All told, the voyage took nine more days. They were fortunate. The winds hurried the vessel along but only turned once into a storm. That had been a difficult night for Christopher’s poor seasick wife. But at last they sailed smoothly into the port of Livorno and within a short space of time were emerging down the gangplank over the glistening turquoise waters of the Mediterranean onto solid ground.
"I quite understand why some travelers kiss the earth after a sea voyage," Katerina told her husband fervently, "the thought of doing this again makes me feel faint."
"It won’t be soon," he reminded her, "we’ll be here until the middle of March."
"Thank heaven. You know, it’s only a little warmer here than in England." She snuggled deeper into her shawl.
"You’re right. I suppose winter is winter."
"I suppose, and this is not the southernmost part of Italy either."
"True. Well, love, are you feeling courageous?"
"Perhaps. Why?"
"I don’t speak Italian. If we’re going to get anywhere, it will be up to you to handle the conversations."
"Oh, that’s right. I think I can manage."
Last month she would not have been able, she knew, but Christopher was like the sun, all warmth and life-giving brightness, and in his arms she was blossoming like a spring flower. It had taken no time at all for the affection and gratitude of their wedding day to deepen and strengthen. This… thing she felt would be good for their lifetime, and she was looking forward to exploring it every day.
He found a cab and she arranged for it to take them to the train station. The baggage was quickly loaded and the couple stared out the window at the sight of their first Italian town. How different this was from London; colorful and sun-drenched, the winter sky a dazzling blue.
At the station, Katerina requested tickets to Florence, which she called Firenze. They would have a two hour wait, and so they walked to a little restaurant whose façade was covered in creamy plaster. They sat outside at a little wrought iron table, enjoying the scenery of the little golden stone buildings with their bright red roofs. The aroma of roasted garlic washed over them. It was quite chilly, and the bowls of soup they devoured were perfectly suited, though the taste was strange to Christopher. It was served with triangles of flat bread soaked in the best olive oil. Delicious. Katerina found the food comforting. Her parents’ original cook, who had left after her mother’s death, had come with them from Italy, and this tasty concoction of vegetables and white beans recalled a childhood that felt… better than her adolescence, though still tense, and filled with uncertainty.
They made that simple lunch last a long time, busily examining the town.
"You look happy, love," Christopher told his wife.
"I think I am."
"Not sure?"
"Well, I have a very good feeling. If this is happy, then yes. I am. Something about this place speaks to me, though I’ve never been here before. I’m so glad to be exploring it, and having you here makes it best of all."
"How sweet. Thank you, love. This is quite an adventure for a staunch British sort like me."
"Ha." She replied, "In a bygone generation you would have gone to sea as a privateer."
"Why do you say so?"
"I don’t exactly know. You wear the trappings of a middle-class gentleman, but there’s a wild romantic adventurer in your soul. I mean, just look at what you did for me."
"Perhaps. At any rate, I’m glad to be here with you as well." He raised her fingers and kissed them gently. She stroked his cheek. "Well, sweet girl, shall we go back to the station and await our train?"
"Yes, I think so."
The train ride to Florence took a little longer than their previous one, and it was fully dark when they arrived at the station. The couple emerged and were immediately set upon by an elderly Italian gentleman. He was about sixty years of age, but in robust health, with gleaming white hair which contrasted with his bushy black eyebrows.
"Katerina?"
"Sì."
What followed was a conversation in lilting Italian of which Christopher could understand nothing. His years studying French helped very little because the sounds of the languages were so very different.
Then the gentleman scooped his wife into a tight embrace, squashing her. She was smiling.
"Christopher, this is my nonno, my grandfather."
Christopher reached out and shook hands with the other man. Katerina’s nonno had a powerful grip. Here was another man who worked frequently with his hands.
"Nonno, this is my husband, Christopher Bennett."
"Pleased to meet you, signore, I am Alessandro Bianchi. Katerina’s mother was my daughter." His accent was heavy, but his English was quite understandable.
"A pleasure, sir. I’ve been looking forward to meeting the rest of my wife’s family. I admit, I wasn’t impressed with her father."
"Bastardo," Alessandro muttered under his breath. The meaning was obvious even to Christopher, and Katerina blushed and giggled.
"Step into my carriage, and let’s head home. It’s quite a drive and there is a lovely hot dinner waiting for us."
"Sounds wonderful. We’ve had nothing since a bowl of soup in Livorno, and I don’t know about my wife, but to me a hot meal sounds very promising."
"Yes, I agree," she seconded. "Thank you, Nonno."
He nodded in acknowledgement and sent them up into the carriage. Once everyone was comfortably seated, Alessandro took up the conversation again.
"So, Signor Bennett, what do you do?"
"My father owns a cotton mill. We make fabric."
"Cotton mill?" The bushy eyebrows came together in an unmistakable expression of disapproval.
"No, Nonno, not that kind of mill," Katerina defended her husband, "Christopher and his father run a progressive mill. They have safeguards for the employees, pay decent wages. They do everything they can to make their mill a pleasant place to work. They’re so generous that some social reformers won’t buy fabric from anyone else."
"Ah, I see. Well then, Mr. Bennett, I suppose you know where I can get good quality cotton?"
"I think that can be arranged."
"Do you offer a family discount?"
"Perhaps. I’ll have to talk to my father, but it seems likely."
"Buono."
"And you, sir?"
"Our family has owned a large olive grove for generations. We export oil all over the world. We also have a small vineyard. It’s not as expansive as the orchard, but we make a good amount of wine which the people of Firenze buy for restaurants, and for our family to use. Would you be interested in a glass with your dinner?"
"That sounds wonderful, Nonno," Katerina assured him.
Christopher nodded in agreement. After so much travel, a nice glass of wine would be very soothing.
Alessandro was regarding his granddaughter with a considering expression.
"Cara," he said to her finally in Italian, "How did your mother die?"
She looked at him, her eyes suddenly haunted. "She had a fever," Katerina replied at last, in the same language, quite forgetting her husband did not understand.
"So it was a natural disease?"
"Are you sure you want me to answer that question?"
"Sì."
"The fever undoubtedly killed her, but the source of the fever was not natural disease."
"Did that figlio di puttana cause it?"
"Si." Her expression looked stricken.
Christopher took her hand. He didn’t understand a word of their Italian conversation, except ‘madre,’ but between that and her face, he had an idea where the conversation was headed and stroked her fingers soothingly.
"And you, Cara? Were you in danger too?"
"Sì."
"Did he hurt you?"
"Sì, but Christopher rescued me."
"By marrying you?"
She nodded. "He is my hero."
"Then I’m very glad to know him."
"Nonno, why did Mother marry my father?"
He thought for a moment. "She insisted. We didn’t want her to. No matter the scandal, we would have stood by her, no matter what. Understand, Katerina, your mother was a good girl, but very young. Your father… manipulated her."
"Was she… incinta?"
"Sì."
"With me?"
"Sì."
"So I’m responsible."
"No, no one thinks that. You were just a baby. HE was the one."
"Right. Nonno, I would rather have been born a bastard."
"I’m sure. But you’re safe now. And you have a kind husband to look after you."
"I do."
"I’m so glad." He looked away for a long moment.
"What was that all about?" Christopher asked his wife quietly.
"He wanted to be sure I was safe. He knew about my father’s behavior."
Seeing Alessandro’s attention was far away, Christopher hugged his wife gently. She leaned into his embrace. They turned together to watch the hills outside the carriage window. A river was running parallel to the road. The Arno, their research had told them. On the other side, a massive olive grove shivered its myriad branches in the evening breeze.
After a little time passed, Alessandro returned his attention to his guests. They were still snuggled together. He raised his eyebrows, but both looked back steadily at him, unwilling to release each other.
"Well, this brings up another question," Alessandro addressed them both in English. "In the past when I have had visitors from England, husbands and wives have demanded separate rooms."
"One will do," Katerina told her grandfather firmly.
"I suspected as much. That will be fine. Well, children, here we are. Come along."
They climbed down into the chilly evening air and walked quickly to a gracious tile-roofed home made of golden stones. It was quite dark by now, concealing the olive trees from view, but the house was lit by lanterns and the golden glow complimented the warm sunshine yellow of the stones and the creamy thick mortar between.
It was an irregularly shaped construction, charming in its eccentricity; a two-story rectangle, with a sharply protruding exterior wall to the right, and a recessed area in the center. All with sloping roofs appeared, like the buildings in Livorno, to be of bumpy red tile, although in the dark, the detail was rather hard to discern. As they approached the front entrance with its massive, solid arched double door, Katerina noticed that to the left, what appeared to be a square stone tower rose two stories above the normal roofline of the house.
The chill had turned biting, so they hurried through the door and down a hallway lined with cream plaster walls. An ancient wood floor gleamed in the dim light of the lamps fueled with olive oil. They entered the dining room and sat at a massive table. There, as promised, a hot meal was waiting. It seemed to be a kind of stew or casserole made of beans and sausage, piled on thick yellow plates decorated with a simple green ring around the edge. Even Christopher found this delicious and the three ate eagerly. The rich red table wine was as tasty as Alessandro had promised. As they devoured the repast, Katerina asked her grandfather a question.
"Nonno, where is my grandmother?"
Alessandro’s eyes turned sad. "She passed away about six years ago."
"Oh, I never knew. I’m sorry."
"Thank you, dear. I miss her still."
"What was her name?"
"Caterina, just like you, but with a C."
"It’s not normal to use the K, is it?" Christopher asked before taking a hearty bite of hot homemade bread. Oddly it had no salt, but the fierce seasoning of the stew compensated for its blandness.
"No. That was Carolina’s idea. Since the child, you, Cara, was born in England, the K seemed easier for the locals to understand."
"I see."
"Oh, and Cara, Signor Bennett, I have organized a party in honor of your visit."
Katerina looked uncomfortable.
"Please, we’re family. Christopher will do."
"Buono. Then you must call me Alessandro."
"Certainly."
"What’s wrong, Cara?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, not wanting to disappoint her grandfather.
Christopher spoke for her. "She doesn’t care for parties. She’s very shy. But if you have a pianoforte, that will help immensely."
"Of course I have a pianoforte. I also have a musician."
"Yes?"
"Her name is Aimée St. Jean. She’s a French soprano, and I’ve hired her to entertain at our little festa."
"How nice. Isn’t that nice, Katerina?"
"Oh yes, very nice. Thank you, grandfather. I’m looking forward to hearing her."
"Well," Alessandro said abruptly, changing the subject, "I can see you’re both finished. Your bags should be unpacked in your room by now, and I imagine you are both tired from you travels. Would you care to retire?"
"Yes, thank you, Nonno. That’s just what I was hoping for."
"In the morning, I will give you a tour of the house and estate. The festa is next week."
"Perfect. Grazie."
"Yes, thank you."
"Follow me." He led them through the corridors of the house to a spacious suite of rooms with crimson fabrics hanging at the windows and around the bed, where, as promised, their clothing and accoutrements were unpacked. Alessandro shook Christopher’s hand again, hugged Katerina tight, and left them.
They undressed in silence and got ready for bed before snuggling up together. Katerina had guessed what would happen and left off her nightgown until later, and sure enough her husband pulled her close so they could make love tenderly, in celebration of their arrival, before falling into a deep sleep.
***Chapter 16 ***
Morning dawned, brightly sunny but with a winter chill which could be detected even through the walls of the house. They ate a quick breakfast of hot sweet rolls and devastatingly strong coffee before meeting Alessandro in the parlor of his spacious manor. It was a gorgeous room, boasting several floor to ceiling windows decorated with ornate cream-colored wood frames and moldings and delicate blue walls. The wood floor was covered with a huge rug that was mostly red, but accented in a blue which complimented the walls.
Cream and dark wood furniture was arranged in several seating areas around the massive space. All the staff was assembled there and he introduced them to his granddaughter and her husband with eyes glowing with pride. Many were older, and remembered her mother. Like their employer, they had been appalled at her ill-conceived marriage, and had grieved her death. They were delighted to see her lovely daughter. To all appearances Katerina was lovely, healthy, and happy, if a bit shy, on the arm of a kind husband.
One particularly round barrel of a woman approached Katerina and they conversed for several minutes in Italian before she kissed her on both cheeks and lumbered away.
"Who on earth was that?"
"Oh, she’s the cook. She knew my mother growing up. They
were… friendly, I suppose. She thought I was too skinny and is currently planning to cook something decadent to fatten me up." Katerina grinned. "She might just succeed."
"Do you think you might share?"
"It depends," she teased him with a flirtatious glance.
"All right you two," Alessandro growled, "don’t shock my servants." He dismissed the staff with a word and led the couple on a tour of the house. The first floor sported the massive parlor, Alessandro’s study, a cavernous library with books stacked floor to ceiling on oiled wooden shelves, as well as the dining room.
Finally they arrived at the kitchen. The room sported a ceiling of rough-hewn and weathered gray boards and was bathed in a permanent aroma of garlic and olive oil. The cook grinned at them and insisted they each snack on a little pastry before heading on. The sweet little treat made Katerina’s eyes roll back in her head.
It wouldn’t be hard to gain weight in this place. Then they headed up the broad staircase to the second floor. There wasn’t much to see here, as it was all bedrooms, mostly for guests, each decorated in a different color: golden yellow, rust, or blue. Alessandro did not offer to show them his suite of rooms, which appeared to consist of all the three floors of that odd little tower. Finally they returned to the ground floor, ending up in the music room.
Compared to the tiny space in the Bennetts’ London townhouse, the Bianchi music room was huge. It sported a beautifully carved pianoforte AND a harpsichord along with various other instruments which were displayed on tables and hung on the wall. In particular Katerina’s eyes were snared by a small instrument that resembled a guitar. It was clearly Spanish in origin, and heavily decorated with inlaid wood. She looked at it for a moment before being drawn by the magnetic pull of the pianoforte. Sliding onto the bench she played a series of lightening fast scales, and smiled. The tone was lovely.
"Does anyone play this?" She asked her grandfather.
"Sometimes, when I have parties. Your grandmother played."
"I see." And then she gifted them with a lilting little number by Chopin.
"Very nice," Alessandro told her when she was finished, "you’re quite accomplished."
Keeping Katerina (The Victorians) Page 14
