I couldn’t imagine the duke not yielding; he seemed so pliant, affably so, to Ofelia’s will.
“And now, here my sister is, not hidden away or even in dark halls of the palazzo but on top of the hill, the lady of Villa Miraggio, the duke’s staff her own.” She reached out for me, held my narrow shoulders in the warm cups of her broad hands. I felt like a girl about to be turned out into the world, though Emerika, like her sister, was younger than me. She dropped her hands from their hold to her hips. “You could learn from her, Miss Jüül. I suppose we all can.”
I was too old already to learn, though I was still curious. “And so.” I paused. “How does she do it, then?”
Emerika crooked an eyebrow and laughed. “How indeed? My little sister had both our parents twisted around her pinky fingers as well, so you’d think I’d know her ways by now. I suppose it’s not that she feels that she’s better than anyone else, it’s that she’s never felt less than.”
“And she’s always been like this?”
“I can’t remember her otherwise. At one point, I thought it was because she was the baby of the family. She’s always been sickly, our Ofelia, delicate. We weren’t nobility, but my family had enough to keep her well taken care of. She’s used to people doing as she asks – but it’s more than that.” Emerika was now looking at herself in a mirror, turning her chin from side to side, patting the hair at her temples. A cool regard like a stern mother preparing a daughter for school.
She looked back to me, ring fingers on the tips of her eyebrows as though propping them up, with a small smile, not quite a smirk, but one more of knowledge than joy. She dropped her hands. “I believe that some people are simply born with a sense of entitlement – perhaps we all have this as babies, crying with the indignity of whatever needs are not immediately met. And perhaps some people hold onto that feeling for a lifetime. Who knows? Perhaps more of us should, Miss Jüül.”
* * *
Eventually, Emerika went home to Florence, and we began to dine with the duke’s family at the palazzo more often. Dinner with the Caetanis lasted for hours, often until nearly midnight. One night, as we left, when Ofelia was saying goodbye to Duchess Ada, Marguerite – the American who had married Leone’s brother Roffredo – leaned toward my ear as though we were confidants. “The duchess does seem to genuinely like Ofelia.” She stood straight to wave at Michelangelo, who raised his hat to us, then bent toward me again. “She’s extremely lucky, of course, to be so warmly welcomed.”
I remained looking ahead, my expression neutral, I hoped.
“It’s unfortunate, it really is, that the child will never carry the Caetani name.”
Then I turned to her. “What do you mean?”
“As much as Duchess Ada seems to like Ofelia, and utterly adores her granddaughter, of course, it’s still Rome and they are still Catholics. Sveva may grow up as a Caetani, but she’ll never carry the name, never be officially recognized as such.”
Ofelia had never talked about any of this, nor had the duke, and while it seemed obvious as Margeurite spoke, I hadn’t previously thought of whether Sveva would be recognized or not within Roman society. It was as though Rome, for me, was lived entirely between the walls and courtyards of Villa Miraggio and Palazzo Caetani. Ofelia was not a Caetani, so her daughter wouldn’t be either. I’d once thought the birth of children and formation of families were inevitable, everyone’s right, including my own. I hadn’t known it could be more of a privilege and that my own fate would veer, quite doggedly, to the unfortunate.
Fifty-Two
When she was well enough, Ofelia was invited to play cards with Duchess Ada at her quarters in the palazzo. While they played, the governess and I trailed Sveva as she toddled from room to room, hall to hall, and kept her hands away from statues, suits of armour, icons and the velvet cloths that hung over paintings. As we scurried after Sveva in the courtyard, a woman and a young man came down one of the stairways, stopped and stared at us. The way the woman watched us made me stop. She stepped toward me slowly and asked, “Who is that little girl?”
I reached for Sveva, who slipped from my hold, giggling, and kept my eyes on the woman the entire time. “She’s Duke Leone’s daughter.”
“I see.” Two thin cords appeared along the woman’s neck, a flush of colour along her jawline. “You are her governess?” There was an edge to her tone that made me nervous, her words slow and measured as though strained through a tight throat.
“No. I am staff to the family, though.”
“You are, are you?” She looked over my head as she said this. Beside her, the young man stood at an odd angle, immaculately dressed, hat pressed low, his hands pulling repeatedly, almost rhythmically, at the cuffs of his suit. He didn’t meet my eyes, his gaze darting from side to side and then resting on a point directly above me before his eyes started to swing again.
Sveva and her governess were now gone from the courtyard and I felt uneasy. “Can I help you?”
“I would doubt that.” She faced me again, her eyes narrowing to a place above my face. “I don’t suppose that my husband, Duke Leone Caetani di Sermoneta, is here?” As she punctuated his name, the woman looked at me, her eyes large and dark against her pink skin.
“No, he’s not.”
“Well, I will see my mother-in-law, then.” She didn’t move and I wondered if this was my cue to let Duchess Ada know about her arrival, but the woman turned to the young man. “Come on then, Onorato, let’s go see your dear granny.” The two walked quickly across the courtyard in the direction of the duchess’s wing of the palazzo, the young man’s gait awkward and lopsided.
* * *
That night, I held Ofelia as she cried, sobs hacking out of her unevenly, an edge to them, ragged with as much anger as sadness. She sat up, pressed her hands over her eyes, covered part of her face. “You should have seen how that woman looked at me, Miss Jüül. You can’t even imagine – it wasn’t cruelty so much as disregard.”
I could imagine. Oh, I could so easily imagine.
“She looked at me as though I was nobody, as though I’d always be nobody, not only to her but to anyone.” Yes, I knew how this would feel. “When I told her that Leone was going to do everything – everything! – in his power to have their marriage annulled, she just laughed.”
“What was Duchess Ada doing during all of this?”
“Oh, she was trying to help, really. Trying to talk to her, calm her, but then when it seemed like the young man was getting upset, Ada led him out.”
“Was that the duke’s son?” I’d heard of him from other staff in the villa, never from Ofelia or the duke himself.
Ofelia’s hands were on her lap now, lying limp. She slumped when I asked this. “Yes.” She straightened up, took a breath and said, “I cannot – cannot! – imagine how Leone ever married her.”
“Was it –” I began, not knowing how to continue. “Was it more of a political or familial alliance than ...?” Than love, I thought, but didn’t say the word.
“You would think, wouldn’t you? That would be infinitely better, but no, he’s told me himself that he was the one who chose to propose – within only a day or two of meeting her. She captured his imagination, or some such fool thing, by riding a bicycle.”
“Riding a bicycle?”
“Yes, riding a bicycle. It didn’t last long. He realized that she wasn’t as carefree as she’d made herself out to be. And his ideals about equal rights and fair unions, she just scoffs at them.” I didn’t know the details of the duke’s ideals, but I was glad that Ofelia did. I heard them speaking late at night, their voices a low thrum through rooms. I heard his teasing tone, her laugh.
“Do you think,” I paused, “that she still loves him?”
“Good Lord, no! This has nothing to do with love. It has to do with how she appears in society. Leone cares nothing for all of that – nothing! – bu
t to her it’s everything.”
“Perhaps she wants to remain married for the boy’s sake.”
Ofelia wiped the tears from her eyes roughly, left the skin looking pink and raw. “You saw him. He’s nineteen or twenty now and – I’ll say it – there’s something wrong with him. No one has ever been sure what.” She paused, and when she began speaking again, her voice was quiet at first. “Leone loves his son – he does, Miss Jüül – but it’s been she who keeps him away from Leone and his family for months on end. She who treats Leone like more of a societal ally than a husband.”
“That is perhaps not so uncommon?”
“No, I suppose not. I suppose it is common.” Ofelia lowered her voice, as though uttering a curse or threat. “Imagine people like her realizing that she is, in fact, common.” She stood up from her bed, patted her hair and then kept her hands on her head as she turned to me. “That era, her era, is ending. Those foolish society balls during which so-called noblemen swap lovers or rear up new ones.” She dropped her arms, sighed. “What Leone and I have is different.”
I knew so little of that world or its waning days, and I suspected Ofelia’s knowledge was based mostly on what she’d heard from the duke and his family. She seemed so certain in her pronouncements, though, and I admired her for that.
Fifty-Three
I’d kept up correspondence with some of the sisters and girls from the cloister – flippant, chatty postcards back and forth. It was a surprise, though, when one day the distant ringing of the bell at the entry to the villa was followed by a house girl coming to me to say, “There are sisters here to see you.” Sister Bertha and all the As – Sister Anna, Sister Adele, Sister Augustina – along with dear Clara, were lined up on the thin street outside the front gate.
“Come in! Come in!” I must have been shouting in my surprise to see them. Clara held my cheeks in both hands, then kissed each twice, three times. The sisters were more subdued in their greetings, but their faces were flushed pink, their eyes bright. They had been to the Vatican and were still intoxicated by it. I led them through the construction into a parlour that was complete, if not quite finished. A place to receive guests who weren’t quite nobility. Clara circled the room, looked at the rugs, the large vases – each holding a different floral display – stopped in front of the gilded mirror over the fireplace. She smiled at me in the reflection. “And here you are, living among Roman nobility, yes, our Marie?” she asked, the sisters giggling with the thought. They were like schoolgirls that afternoon.
“Yes, I suppose so.” I wanted to be more enthusiastic, grateful, but I suspected I sounded weary.
Sister Adele asked, “The duke, is he really a Muslim?”
I laughed at this. “Hardly! A scholar of the history of Islam. The family is quite Catholic, I assure you.” They knew so much, these women cloistered away from the world. I wondered how news travelled to them. I was always one or several steps behind.
“Does this mean you’ve finally converted?” asked Sister Anna, a beat in her voice.
“Not exactly. But don’t worry, there is hope for me yet.”
“Oh, we know,” said Sister Anna. “Has Mr. Wiinstead been by as well, then?” she asked.
“Oh no, no.” I hadn’t heard from him since he had arranged my meeting and departure with the duke.
“I’m surprised he hasn’t come and whisked you away back to the cloister as his wife, Jüülchen.” Sister Augustina blushed pink, as though she was saying something scandalous. “We can’t all be married to God.”
“I’d rather be married to God than Mr. Wiinstead.”
Clara, finished looking around the room, came up beside me and knocked her hip into mine lightly.
“Would you like some tea? Some biscuits? Wine? Tell me and I’ll get it for you.”
“No, no.” Sister Bertha adjusted her habit. “We can’t stay long. We just wanted to see you, our Jüülchen. We’ll send Mr. Wiinstead to come get you yet – just think, in marrying him, you can have all of us!” I laughed at this, kissed them all in turn.
Before they left, Clara turned to me and said, “There was someone at the cloister to see you, a man.”
“Who?” A tight heat rooted in my chest.
“I’m not sure. He’d known you in Egypt.”
The heat rose, hit the top of my skull and then spilled down my spine. “Did you tell him where I was?”
“Oh no. We wouldn’t do that. I can’t speak for Mr. Wiinstead, of course.”
After they left, I climbed to my room, lay down, tried to teach myself how to breathe. Of course, I thought of Hermann. I had sent him my new address and told him to write me in return, so I wondered why he would have gone to the cloister. But if not him, who else could it have been? Onkel, most likely, perhaps acting as a messenger again. I searched my mind for what word I was to receive, and why it couldn’t find a more direct way to me. I put a hand between my breasts, the other on my stomach. I felt the air rise and leave me, rise and leave. I began to sit up and felt a cramp sear my abdomen, as strong as pleasure had once flared through me with his touch. This wasn’t a pleasurable tightening, though, but a scorching fist, twisting. I gripped my stomach and fell on my side, brought my knees to my chest to try to stop the ache. I sobbed with it. I didn’t think anyone would hear me, but eventually Ofelia was in the room. “Miss Jüül, Miss Jüül, are you all right? Do you need a doctor?”
“No, no doctor. I’m in some pain, but I’m sure it will pass.”
“I can’t leave you like this.” She knelt beside me, a position in which I’d never seen her. “I’ll get you some of what Professor Manzonni gives me, just wait.” Ofelia returned with small vials and a spoon and fed me medicine like an infant. I slept easily after that, though I thought I woke once to feel Ofelia behind me, one of her hands wrapped around my waist. That couldn’t have been, though. When I woke again, it was the next afternoon and I’d missed most of a day.
Fifty-Four
Increasingly, I heard rows in the halls of Villa Miraggio between the duke and one of his brothers, Gelasio.
Their voices followed me down corridors, through rooms – the sound of his brother’s booming voice met with Leone’s even responses. “You have no right to lease off – practically give away! – our ancestral land.”
“I’m telling you, Gel, if we don’t freely lease some of our land it will – I stress, it will – be taken from us. You know as well as I that Mussolini is gnawing his way through parliament.”
“Is that so? And you know this, you who no longer holds a seat?”
“They will betray everything we hold true about this country. If you don’t know this now, you soon will.”
“You make pronouncements, grand gestures and – what? We’ll give away our land for what? Gestures count for so little, brother. So very little.”
At dinner one night at the palazzo, when Gelasio was not there, the duke announced that he would be leaving Italy. His mother put down her silverware and both Roffredo and Michelangelo stopped chewing and looked toward Leone. “You’re what?” asked Roffredo.
I remained staring straight ahead, a heat gathering behind my eyes, then willed myself to look at Ofelia across the table. She stared back, her face immobile.
“I can’t, in good conscience, remain in this country, more corrupt by the week, rotting from the inside out like a piece of decaying wood.”
“A poetic description, certainly, but you’re referring to what, exactly?” asked Michelangelo.
“Parliamentarians falling prey to Mussolini’s so-called reforms, either agreeing with them or remaining in denial as to how they will change not only parliament but this country.”
“You give that man too much credence, Leo,” said Roffredo. “He’s one of many who are justifiably frustrated at how we were shortchanged at Versailles.”
“Exactly, and he’s using that
to take away more and more rights from not only labour unions but from all of us – which has nothing to do with Versailles and will redress nothing.”
Ofelia and I sat still, facing each other, as the conversation moved around us. Neither of us ate, but she moved her hand toward her cutlery and stopped. I could see how she shook before she tucked her hands back onto her lap.
“Things are changing, yes, they always do, but perhaps in not such a dire direction as you seem convinced.” Roffredo leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. “Why would you think your leaving will make any difference, or any more of a difference than staying? You and Mussolini were on the same footing in parliament – now that you’re no longer in government, who says you can’t sway more people?”
“Our brother, the socialist prince.” Michelangelo took a bite of meat, slid his fork between his teeth. “You think you’re the only person who sees this as an evil takeover? You don’t think Nitti and the boys can keep Mussolini in line?”
The duke barked out one laugh. “Hardly, Miche. You know Nitti will be out by the end of the year.”
“Well, you seem to know a lot more about politics than do I – and a lot more about our bleak future! – so I’ll leave that to you, big brother.”
The duchess Ada had her fingers on her temples and her eyes closed. “Leone, what do you mean you’ll leave Italy?” She opened her eyes and looked at him, her expression almost hopeful. “You know that you’re always free to come and go – you all are.” She looked around the table at each of her adult children. “They can’t change your birthright or your titles.”
The duke sighed. “Birthrights and titles mean so little to me, Mother, you know that. I am leaving the country, and not just on a holiday junket. I’m emigrating, as it were – and this may well mean that I forfeit my holdings.”
“Our holdings,” Michelangelo corrected.
Little Fortress Page 29
