Read Online A Lady of Good Family by Jeanne Mackin - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeanne Mackin
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That young man still waving at you from across the room will claim my place. Then, I will guard it with all my strength.”
That seemed to be the end of their conversation. They sat there, side by side, neither looking at nor touching each other, yet conscious only of the other, as if the soiree was a mere stage setting for what was to occur between them, except they had forgotten their lines.
Had she really met him only that afternoon? Why the sense that he had always been there, at her side? When he brushed at a bit of lint on his coat sleeve, she felt it was a gesture she already knew. She had already known his evening cologne would be vetiver, and that the handkerchief in his pocket would be simple linen with neither lace nor monogram.
The waltz ended. From the next room she could hear subdued applause, a woman’s voice announcing a set of songs she would perform accompanied by the violinists. The musicians played the opening notes of Zerlina’s aria from
Don Giovanni
, the song that promises a remedy for pain and ends with Zerlina placing Don Giovanni’s hand over her heart. There was a problem, a false start. The soprano cleared her throat and the violinists began again. This time she joined them, her coloratura voice sending the sensation of honey through Beatrix’s veins.
“A fine love song,” Signor Massimo said when she had finished.
“Her final notes seemed to quaver.”
“It is true her voice no longer has the clarity for which she was so famous in her youth. But still, it is a fine love song.”
From across the room, she could see Timothy Whipple staring at her and whispering to another young man at his side. Their faces were stormy with disapproval until two young women stopped before them, laughing, saying something that made the two boys bend closer to their whispers, forgetting Beatrix and the Roman who seemed to have claimed her for the entire evening.
“How long are you staying in Rome?” Amerigo asked, still not looking at her.
“Just days. I am here to see the gardens and monuments, and then there are other cities I must visit.”
“Ah! You wish to return home and style your gardens in the European manner.”
“Not just my gardens. Others as well. I am to work in the profession. And no, not exclusively in the European style. We need a new style for our New World.”
“But that is the work of laborers, of men,” he protested.
“There are some who believe it can also be women’s work,” she answered quietly.
“Americans.” He smiled and shook his head. “So industrious, so new in their thinking in that New World.”
“Not all of them.” Her father, the man she hadn’t seen for years, had sent a letter of complaint when he heard his daughter was pruning trees and turning compost at the Boston arboretum. “She will ruin her hands. Who will marry her?” Beatrix had read the letter after her mother had crumpled it into a ball and left it for the maid to take away.
“Your father doesn’t approve,” Amerigo guessed. “They are a difficult breed to please, fathers. Mine as well.”
They sat in silence as the music changed from Mozart arias to Brahms’
Liebeslieder
. Beatrix understood enough German to appreciate the lyrics: “The underbrush is trembling, struck by a bird in flight. My soul trembles in the same way.” Gardens for joy; dark woods for danger. Brahms knew how to place love, she thought.
No, she told herself. This is not love. She sat up straighter, lifted her chin higher, and purposely looked in the opposite direction, where Amerigo’s face could not fill her peripheral vision. She carried a fan Minnie had given her, and she opened it now, revealing the antique garden painted on the silk mount. It caught his eye and he reached over to touch it with admiration.
“It is beautifully painted,” he said. “May I see it?”
“Certainly.” She gave him the fan, still avoiding his gaze, pretending to be entranced by the dancers. They were so careful to
That seemed to be the end of their conversation. They sat there, side by side, neither looking at nor touching each other, yet conscious only of the other, as if the soiree was a mere stage setting for what was to occur between them, except they had forgotten their lines.
Had she really met him only that afternoon? Why the sense that he had always been there, at her side? When he brushed at a bit of lint on his coat sleeve, she felt it was a gesture she already knew. She had already known his evening cologne would be vetiver, and that the handkerchief in his pocket would be simple linen with neither lace nor monogram.
The waltz ended. From the next room she could hear subdued applause, a woman’s voice announcing a set of songs she would perform accompanied by the violinists. The musicians played the opening notes of Zerlina’s aria from
Don Giovanni
, the song that promises a remedy for pain and ends with Zerlina placing Don Giovanni’s hand over her heart. There was a problem, a false start. The soprano cleared her throat and the violinists began again. This time she joined them, her coloratura voice sending the sensation of honey through Beatrix’s veins.
“A fine love song,” Signor Massimo said when she had finished.
“Her final notes seemed to quaver.”
“It is true her voice no longer has the clarity for which she was so famous in her youth. But still, it is a fine love song.”
From across the room, she could see Timothy Whipple staring at her and whispering to another young man at his side. Their faces were stormy with disapproval until two young women stopped before them, laughing, saying something that made the two boys bend closer to their whispers, forgetting Beatrix and the Roman who seemed to have claimed her for the entire evening.
“How long are you staying in Rome?” Amerigo asked, still not looking at her.
“Just days. I am here to see the gardens and monuments, and then there are other cities I must visit.”
“Ah! You wish to return home and style your gardens in the European manner.”
“Not just my gardens. Others as well. I am to work in the profession. And no, not exclusively in the European style. We need a new style for our New World.”
“But that is the work of laborers, of men,” he protested.
“There are some who believe it can also be women’s work,” she answered quietly.
“Americans.” He smiled and shook his head. “So industrious, so new in their thinking in that New World.”
“Not all of them.” Her father, the man she hadn’t seen for years, had sent a letter of complaint when he heard his daughter was pruning trees and turning compost at the Boston arboretum. “She will ruin her hands. Who will marry her?” Beatrix had read the letter after her mother had crumpled it into a ball and left it for the maid to take away.
“Your father doesn’t approve,” Amerigo guessed. “They are a difficult breed to please, fathers. Mine as well.”
They sat in silence as the music changed from Mozart arias to Brahms’
Liebeslieder
. Beatrix understood enough German to appreciate the lyrics: “The underbrush is trembling, struck by a bird in flight. My soul trembles in the same way.” Gardens for joy; dark woods for danger. Brahms knew how to place love, she thought.
No, she told herself. This is not love. She sat up straighter, lifted her chin higher, and purposely looked in the opposite direction, where Amerigo’s face could not fill her peripheral vision. She carried a fan Minnie had given her, and she opened it now, revealing the antique garden painted on the silk mount. It caught his eye and he reached over to touch it with admiration.
“It is beautifully painted,” he said. “May I see it?”
“Certainly.” She gave him the fan, still avoiding his gaze, pretending to be entranced by the dancers. They were so careful to
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