‘The children!’ Signor Fiorelli reared up and looked around him, one hand clasped to his breast. ‘I forgot the children!’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘They’re over there.’ I pointed to where they sat on the wall further down the harbour, playing with a collection of seagull feathers.
‘Come,’ he said, taking my hand again.
I looked down at his strong brown fingers enfolding my pale ones and felt a flicker of hope or happiness, I wasn’t quite sure which.
He rubbed his thumb over my wrist. ‘Signorina Barton, will you call me Alessandro?’ he said. ‘In private, at least. I cannot bear to think of you so very alone.’ He glanced up at me, his expression tense. ‘I want you to know I am your very good friend.’
A comforting warmth, tinged with elation, blossomed inside my chest. I gripped his hand. ‘That means a great deal to me, Alessandro.’
He laughed and kissed my hand. ‘Emilia,’ he said. ‘Such a pretty name, like its owner.’
Upstairs, the banging and hammering reached a crescendo as carpenters constructed bookshelves for the new library, while the Princess paced up and down the salone muttering under her breath. Countess Oldi and I bent our heads over our sewing.
At last I could stand it no longer. ‘Is there something I can do for you, Ma’am?’ I enquired.
The Princess’s face was flushed with anger. ‘My husband continues to plot against me!’ She threw herself down on the sofa beside me.
I put down my needle.
‘My lawyer came from Milan to see me this morning,’ she said. ‘Avvocato Codazzi tells me that snake in the grass Louise Demont was called to testify to the Milan Commission last month. They have employed an architect to make a plan of the Villa d’Este, where I used to live in Como. He went there with Louise and bribed the doorkeeper to let them in. The architect made sketches while Louise informed him of the former occupants of each of the bedrooms.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I said.
The Princess sighed. ‘The Commission hope to provide proof that my relationship with the Baron is adulterous because our rooms were near to one another’s.’
‘But that doesn’t prove anything,’ I said. The Baron and the Princess had adjacent rooms at Villa Vittoria but, despite their apparent affection for each other, I’d never seen any evidence of wrongdoing between them.
‘The Prince of Wales goes too far!’ hissed the Princess. ‘He wants to be rid of me but it is impossible for him to prove any adultery, no matter how many lies they tell about me.’ Her chin quivered. ‘In the beginning, I tried to be a good wife, despite the continuous humiliations and his lack of consideration for my feelings.’ She dabbed her eyes, smudging the charcoal on her darkened eyebrows. ‘The first time I saw him I was disappointed. He was so fat and not at all like his portrait, but still I smiled and tried to be jolly.’ She gave me a wan smile. ‘Did you know I was forced to have my husband’s mistress, Lady Jersey, as my waiting woman? It was…’ She swallowed. ‘Intolerable.’
‘How humiliating for you.’
‘Princesses rarely marry for love,’ she said, ‘but both parties must make the best of the situation.’ The expression in her eyes was inexpressibly sad. ‘George never even tried.’
‘Is there no way,’ I said, treading carefully, ‘that you can agree to part amicably?’
‘If we divorce it is I who will come out badly, far worse than he will, and my allowance would be cut yet again. I’m already in debt. As a divorced woman I would never be able to return to England.’
‘But, forgive me, Ma’am, do you want to return there?’
Countess Oldi put down her sewing and watched the Princess intently with her unfathomable dark gaze.
The Princess stared down at her hands. After a long pause, she sighed. ‘Now that my Charlotte is dead there is little reason to return, I admit. I have never been so happy in my life as I am here with my Italian family.’
Countess Oldi dropped her scrutiny of the Princess and lifted up her sewing again, a smile curving her lips.
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘you might agree to a divorce if he made you one large payment, enough to live on for the rest of your life? Once you had the funds, there need be no further concern that your allowance might be cut.’
The Princess paced the floor. ‘I wish my old adviser, Henry Brougham, were here to discuss this with me.’ Her face brightened. ‘But my trustees are sending his brother James to see me about my accounts. I will ask him to pass a message to Henry when he returns to England.’ She sat down on the arm of the sofa and patted my hand. ‘I’m very happy you came to live here, Signora Barton,’ she said. ‘Not only are we sisters in our sorrow but you always speak such good sense.’
Chapter 9
The Fiorelli family, including Alessandro’s sister Delfina, her husband Franco and their baby Enzo, was gathered around the table. Signora Fiorelli presided over the vast dish of oxtail stew while Dottore Fiorelli poured red wine. Even little Alfio had a splash of it in his water.
‘Is your family always as noisy as this?’ I said to Alessandro.
He laughed. ‘You should hear it when we argue! Since there are so many of us we always have to shout to make ourselves heard.’
The baby began to cry, his wails rising above the hubbub, and Signora Fiorelli lifted him to her shoulder and sang to him, nuzzling into his little neck.
Watching the baby’s head nodding against his grandmother’s cheek as he fell asleep, I wondered for a moment if my real mother had cared for me so tenderly. The pain of not remembering her was sharp.
I looked around at Alessandro’s family and saw how they touched each other all the time: Jacopo playfully punching Fabrizio on his shoulder, Delfina tucking a loose curl into Gina’s hairband, Dottore Fiorelli trailing his fingers over his wife’s arm as he passed by and tickling Alfio’s neck.
‘Will you hold him a moment?’ Signora Fiorelli handed the baby to me while she fetched cheese and fruit to the table.
The infant was warm and milk-scented, heavy in my arms as he slept.
‘Beautiful, isn’t he?’ said Alessandro, dropping a kiss on his nephew’s forehead. ‘It doesn’t seem five minutes since Alfio was this small.’
‘Am I holding him properly?’ I asked. ‘I’ve had so little to do with babies.’
Alessandro laughed. ‘Don’t be nervous. Babies are tough little creatures.’
Did I imagine that Signora Fiorelli had a speculative gleam in her eyes as she looked at us? I bent my head to study Enzo’s tiny fingernails and hide my blushes.
After supper, we retired to the salone and Cosima played the piano while the rest of us sang.
Later, I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and touched Alessandro’s sleeve. ‘I must go,’ I said. ‘The Baron locks the doors after dark.’
I said my goodbyes to each member of the family and left with a chorus of good wishes resounding in my ears. Flushed with wine, song and good company, Alessandro and I went out into the darkening evening.
‘What a lovely family you have,’ I said to him.
‘I thank God for them every day.’
Hand in hand, we walked along the tree-lined lane and climbed the hill.
As we walked, I imagined what it would be like to be part of such a family. The safety and security of it would be wonderful but there would be little privacy or space to think your own thoughts.
‘You’re very quiet,’ said Alessandro later, when we reached the avenue of cypress trees leading to Villa Vittoria.
‘I was wondering about my lost family,’ I said.
He squeezed my hand. ‘You’ll make a family of your own one day.’
‘I hope so.’
He took me by my shoulders. ‘You will,’ he said. And then he kissed me.
His lips were warm and he held me as lightly as thistledown.
A tremor ran through my limbs and I closed my eyes, enjoying the strange sensation.
Then he released
me. ‘Goodnight, Emilia,’ he murmured.
‘Goodnight, Alessandro,’ I said. I wanted him to kiss me again but he set off home.
Reluctantly, I set off down the avenue. Halfway along, I turned and saw him wave to me before fading into the gloaming.
The servants’ dining room was full of gossip about the Princess’s visitor.
‘Faustina took wine and olives to him while he was talking to the Baron,’ Mariette said as we ate our soup. ‘James Brougham, he’s called,’ she said, struggling with the unfamiliar pronunciation. ‘He’s come to look at the Princess’s accounts.’
‘The Princess mentioned he was expected,’ I said.
Mariette whispered, ‘Everyone knows the Princess has big debts in England as well as here. She had to sell the Villa d’Este to pay some of them off and came to Pesaro because she can live more cheaply here.’
‘Was the Villa d’Este very grand, then?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes!’ Mariette opened her brown eyes wide.
‘What a pity she had to sell it! Still, Villa Vittoria is being renovated.’
‘It’s hardly a palace, though, is it?’ said Mariette. ‘But then, she doesn’t live like a princess.’ She mopped up the last of her soup with a piece of bread. ‘Oh, well, best get on. There’s to be a party tonight to welcome Mr Brougham.’
‘I wrote the invitation cards,’ I said. ‘Cardinal Albani will be here, along with the cream of Pesaro society.’
Mariette made a face. ‘More work for us mere servants, then.’
I returned to the Princess’s dressing room to sew a piece of lace onto the frill of her shift.
Later that afternoon, the Baron pushed open the dressing-room door. ‘Signorina Barton,’ he said, ‘the Princess wants you in the salone. You’re to write a letter for her.’
Downstairs, a man with a large nose and a determined chin was sitting with the Princess.
The Baron strode over to lean his elbow on the mantelpiece and rest one booted foot on the fender. As usual, he appeared entirely at ease.
The Princess gestured me towards the writing desk. I took out a piece of paper, a pen and the inkwell.
The visitor, James Brougham, glanced at me and then at the Princess with one eyebrow raised.
‘Signorina Barton is my Mistress of the Wardrobe and my secretary,’ she said. ‘You may speak freely before her.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Brougham, looking me up and down.
I decided I didn’t like him.
‘I wish to attempt negotiations again with the Prince of Wales,’ said the Princess. ‘My previous allowance of thirty-five thousand pounds a year is insufficient for my responsibilities now. It cannot be less than fifty thousand.’
I hoped my gasp hadn’t been audible and hurriedly dipped the pen in the inkwell.
‘The Prince of Wales may not agree,’ said Mr Brougham. ‘Perhaps a lump sum and a smaller income to follow?’
‘I doubt I’d ever receive it,’ said the Princess.
I held the pen ready. ‘Will you dictate, Ma’am?’
‘I never find the right words,’ said the Princess, ‘especially in English. No, you write it, Signorina Barton, and pass it to Mr Brougham to look at. Address it to Mr Henry Brougham.’
I frowned and the Princess smiled at my confusion. ‘Mr Henry Brougham, my adviser, is Mr James Brougham’s elder brother.’
‘I see,’ I said.
‘And don’t forget to tell the Prince of Wales that if he agrees to my terms, I will promise never to return to England.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ I bent my head over the paper. My previous duties as the Princess’s secretary had consisted of writing invitations to dinners or the occasional letter to an acquaintance but this was far more challenging. I took care to write neatly and to set out the proposal as discussed.
As my pen scratched across the paper the Princess and James Brougham continued their conversation while the Baron silently watched them.
‘Perhaps it is a good time to finalise a divorce now,’ said Mr Brougham, ‘before the Milan Commission report their findings to the Prince of Wales. It would be better for all parties if there was a dissolution of the marriage by Parliamentary Bill rather than in open court.’
The Princess shuddered. ‘I agree.’
Mr Brougham turned to the Baron. ‘I must see the account books to make my report to the trustees. Will you be on hand if required?’
‘Most certainly,’ said the Baron. ‘I shall bring them to you in the morning room.’
‘Really, I don’t know why my trustees are so anxious about a few trifling debts,’ said the Princess. ‘If I were to die tomorrow they could all be paid off at once. There are the horses and my jewels, for a start.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Mr Brougham, ‘your creditors require to be paid now, not at some distant date in the future.’
‘I doubt I’d have debts,’ grumbled the Princess, ‘if my gentlemen and servants before I came to Pesaro hadn’t been so incompetent or so determined to cheat me. Thankfully, the Baron is managing my affairs now.’ She smiled at him, busy cleaning his nails with a penknife as he leaned against the mantelpiece.
‘And you are content to live in Pesaro?’ asked Mr Brougham doubtfully. ‘It’s very provincial and this house does not befit someone of your position.’
‘I have rarely felt as settled as I do here amongst the Italians,’ said the Princess, ‘except for my fear that the Prince of Wales will send his spies to poison or kill me.’
I put down my pen and blotted the ink dry.
‘Finished?’ asked the Princess.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ I handed the letter to Mr Brougham and returned upstairs.
The dressing-room window was left open while I sewed, letting in a gentle spring breeze and the sound of the builders, hammering and sawing. My thoughts began to drift, reliving the warmth and gentleness of Alessandro’s kiss. He made my heart beat faster and I hoped, how very much I hoped, that he felt the same about me.
Through the half-open door to the Princess’s bedroom, I heard a floorboard creak. The maid had cleaned the room earlier so perhaps the Princess was preparing to take a nap. I tip-toed towards the door, intending to close it, and was surprised to glimpse Mr Brougham’s reflection in the mirror, examining the items on the dressing table.
‘May I help you?’ I asked.
He jumped and dropped a silver-backed hairbrush onto the dressing table with a clatter. ‘You startled me!’ he said.
I waited, aware that my position in the household did not empower me to accuse him of trespass.
Under my questioning gaze, Mr Brougham turned slightly pink. He cleared his throat. ‘You may wonder why I’m here…’
I waited.
He coughed again and examined his fingernails. His expression cleared. ‘The Princess’s trustees have charged me with the responsibility of determining how she lives.’
‘How she lives?’ I echoed.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘My purpose is to discuss ways and means for the Princess to make economies and structure a method of paying her creditors.’
‘And that relates to your presence here in the Princess’s private quarters?’
‘I am required to satisfy the trustees that she is not overly extravagant.’ Mr Brougham glanced around the bedroom until his eyes rested on Victorine’s bed and he frowned. ‘Does the child sleep here, with the Princess?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Every night?’
‘My quarters are downstairs so I couldn’t say.’
‘And the Baron’s bedchamber is adjacent to this room?’
‘The Princess must be protected,’ I said. ‘There have been threats to her life.’
‘I’ve finished here,’ said Mr Brougham. He sounded disappointed.
‘Do let me show you out, then.’
He followed me through the dressing-room door and paused to study the neatly arranged shelves and piles of hatboxes. He ran a finger over a pile of folded
nightshifts and lifted the lid of the ottoman to peep inside. ‘Does the Baron keep his clothes in here, too?’
‘Certainly not,’ I said, in as reproachful a tone as I could.
Mr Brougham sighed. ‘Would you say the Princess’s wardrobe is extravagant, Signorina Barton?’
‘Not at all,’ I said, ‘especially for a woman of her rank. Many of the Princess’s clothes have seen better days and I’m in the process of mending and refurbishing them.’
The Dressmaker’s Secret Page 9
