Read Online A Lady of Good Family by Jeanne Mackin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeanne Mackin
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never, as far as she could tell, been in love, and she was terribly vulnerable.
She held herself responsible for this, for her daughter’s childhood filled with the cold, bitter silences of an estranged husband and wife, that singular witnessing of the death of love rather than its inception. It is a shame, she thought, that children are born after the fact, after the passion.
No. She would make no inquiries about the Italian. He had a good face and good manners. That would have to be enough. Even if the coincidental meetings turned into a love affair and the affair went wrong and became heartbreak, her daughter would have experienced those days, even just minutes, that can make an entire lifetime worthwhile. She would have had what Edith called “heart history.”
As for marriage, for a daughter living in Italy, she could not force herself to think about it.
• • • •
T he next day began with a cloudburst. Rain glittered in the air, catching brief reflections of light like jewels shining in a woman’s dark hair. In the hotel’s dining room, voices were hushed and the waiters moved silently through the thick, humid atmosphere of white cloths, chandeliers, and silver services.
“Shall we cancel our sightseeing?” Edith asked, pouring cream into her coffee. She broke off a corner of buttered toast andfed it to her little dog, who sat next to her chair, dark eyes large with longing.
“Fine with me,” Teddy grumbled. “Beastly weather. These eggs are cold. Waiter!”
The three women waited patiently as Teddy complained loudly to the waiter and demanded a fresh plate. The other diners in the hotel restaurant seemed evenly divided into two groups on this matter of service: the Americans and English nodded agreement, while the French and Germans smirked into their napkins. Since the hotel catered mostly to Americans, Teddy had a largely sympathetic cohort. Still, Beatrix was embarrassed. Why couldn’t her uncle eat as the Romans ate, a simple breakfast of bread and cheese or cold meat? Why insist on eating as New Yorkers did even when they were not in New York?
“As I was saying,” Edith continued, once the new plate of hot eggs arrived. “What shall we do today?”
“I think we should alter our plan to suit the day,” Minnie said, “and visit the catacombs instead of the forum. Stay out of the weather.”
“Another old pile of stones,” Teddy grumbled, forking eggs into his mouth.
“No, dear,” Edith said. “The catacombs are underground, so it should be called another old hole in the ground, by your standards.”
Teddy glared and pulled at his waistcoat. He always put on weight when he accompanied Edith abroad, sacrificing, he complained, his sturdy sportsman’s figure to Edith’s peripatetic whims. He missed his horses and his hounds.
“What do you think, Beatrix?” Minnie asked.
Since there were gardens in neither the forum nor the catacombs, Beatrix didn’t really care which they visited. She’d had a sudden vision of leaves dancing overhead, boughs of oak reaching toward one another. There was a nest of robins in one of the branches, chirps rising in the breeze as the mother robin, worm in beak, landed on the edge of the nesting twigs to feed her brood. A memory. Bar Harbor in the spring. Such simplicity: strange to remember it amid the Michelangelos and Corinthian columns of Rome.
“It is decided, then,” Edith said, though it hadn’t been decided at all. “I’ll arrange for a guide. We leave in one hour.”
Exactly one hour later they walked out of their hotel and down the congested Corso to the church of San Sebastiano. The rain had turned to a fine drizzle, dulling the already dull colors of the ancient ochre city and muffling their steps.
Even on the widest streets of Rome, Beatrix felt hemmed in, confined. True, streets were congested in New York and some of the new buildings jutted up past a comfortable horizon. Even so, New York had more sky, more
She held herself responsible for this, for her daughter’s childhood filled with the cold, bitter silences of an estranged husband and wife, that singular witnessing of the death of love rather than its inception. It is a shame, she thought, that children are born after the fact, after the passion.
No. She would make no inquiries about the Italian. He had a good face and good manners. That would have to be enough. Even if the coincidental meetings turned into a love affair and the affair went wrong and became heartbreak, her daughter would have experienced those days, even just minutes, that can make an entire lifetime worthwhile. She would have had what Edith called “heart history.”
As for marriage, for a daughter living in Italy, she could not force herself to think about it.
• • • •
T he next day began with a cloudburst. Rain glittered in the air, catching brief reflections of light like jewels shining in a woman’s dark hair. In the hotel’s dining room, voices were hushed and the waiters moved silently through the thick, humid atmosphere of white cloths, chandeliers, and silver services.
“Shall we cancel our sightseeing?” Edith asked, pouring cream into her coffee. She broke off a corner of buttered toast andfed it to her little dog, who sat next to her chair, dark eyes large with longing.
“Fine with me,” Teddy grumbled. “Beastly weather. These eggs are cold. Waiter!”
The three women waited patiently as Teddy complained loudly to the waiter and demanded a fresh plate. The other diners in the hotel restaurant seemed evenly divided into two groups on this matter of service: the Americans and English nodded agreement, while the French and Germans smirked into their napkins. Since the hotel catered mostly to Americans, Teddy had a largely sympathetic cohort. Still, Beatrix was embarrassed. Why couldn’t her uncle eat as the Romans ate, a simple breakfast of bread and cheese or cold meat? Why insist on eating as New Yorkers did even when they were not in New York?
“As I was saying,” Edith continued, once the new plate of hot eggs arrived. “What shall we do today?”
“I think we should alter our plan to suit the day,” Minnie said, “and visit the catacombs instead of the forum. Stay out of the weather.”
“Another old pile of stones,” Teddy grumbled, forking eggs into his mouth.
“No, dear,” Edith said. “The catacombs are underground, so it should be called another old hole in the ground, by your standards.”
Teddy glared and pulled at his waistcoat. He always put on weight when he accompanied Edith abroad, sacrificing, he complained, his sturdy sportsman’s figure to Edith’s peripatetic whims. He missed his horses and his hounds.
“What do you think, Beatrix?” Minnie asked.
Since there were gardens in neither the forum nor the catacombs, Beatrix didn’t really care which they visited. She’d had a sudden vision of leaves dancing overhead, boughs of oak reaching toward one another. There was a nest of robins in one of the branches, chirps rising in the breeze as the mother robin, worm in beak, landed on the edge of the nesting twigs to feed her brood. A memory. Bar Harbor in the spring. Such simplicity: strange to remember it amid the Michelangelos and Corinthian columns of Rome.
“It is decided, then,” Edith said, though it hadn’t been decided at all. “I’ll arrange for a guide. We leave in one hour.”
Exactly one hour later they walked out of their hotel and down the congested Corso to the church of San Sebastiano. The rain had turned to a fine drizzle, dulling the already dull colors of the ancient ochre city and muffling their steps.
Even on the widest streets of Rome, Beatrix felt hemmed in, confined. True, streets were congested in New York and some of the new buildings jutted up past a comfortable horizon. Even so, New York had more sky, more
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