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Authors: Danielle Steel
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began. “Because,” Marcella railed at her, “you are forgetting who you are again, Principessa.”
Serena's eyes began to flash green fire as she looked down at the little woman who had worked for her family for forty-seven years. “And you'd better forget it too, Marcella. Those days are over. And whatever my title, I don't have a dime to my name. Nothing. If it weren't for you taking me in, I'd be sleeping in some fleabag, and if it weren't for their giving me work scrubbing floors, I would starve to death damn soon. I'm no different than you are now, Marcella. That's all. It's that simple. And if I am satisfied with that, then you'd damn well better be too.”
The older woman was silenced by Serena's speech, at least temporarily. And late that night, on tiptoe, Serena ventured upstairs at last. The visit was less painful than she had feared it would be. Almost all the furniture she had loved was gone now. All that remained were a few couches, an enormous grand piano, and in her mother's room the extraordinary canopied antique bed. It had been left here because it would fit nowhere else. It was only that that distressed Serena. That bed in which she could still see her mother, radiant and lovely in the morning when Serena had come in to see her for a few moments before school. Only in that room did she truly suffer. In the others she stood for a quiet moment, seeing things that were no more, remembering evenings and afternoons and dinners, Christmas parties with all of her parents' friends, and tea parties when her grandmother visited from Venice … visits with Sergio … and others. It was a quiet pilgrimage from room to room, and when she came back downstairs to Marcella, she looked strangely peaceful, as though she had laid the ghosts to rest at last. There was nothing left that she was afraid of. It was only a house now, and she would be able to work in it for the Americans, doing whatever she had to, to go on living there, in the palazzo, and to stay in Rome.
5
Serena was up at the crack of dawn the next morning. She washed and pulled her golden hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, and then concealed it beneath another dark cotton scarf. She wound the piece of navy blue cloth around her head, bandanna fashion, and then slipped into an old blue cotton dress, which she had worn at the convent in Upstate New York to go berry picking with the younger girls. It had already been patched in a number of places, and it was faded to a color that suggested long years of use. Beneath the dress Serena put on thick dark stockings, sturdy shoes, and over the front of the blue dress she tied a clean white apron, and then looked into the mirror with a serious face. It was certainly not an outfit for a principessa. But even with the dark blue bandanna there was no concealing the beautiful face. If anything, it seemed to provide a contrast for the pale peach hue of her cheeks and the brilliant green of her eyes.
“You look ridiculous in that outfit.” Marcella looked at her with instant disapproval as she poured their coffee and the first hint of daylight crept over the hills. “Why don't you wear something decent, for God's sake?” But Serena said nothing to the old woman. She only smiled as she sipped the hot coffee and closed her eyes in the hot steam as she held the cup in her hands. “What do you think the Americans will think of you wearing that old dress, Serena?”
“They will think that I'm a hard worker, Marcella.” The green eyes met hers quietly over the cup of coffee, and she looked older and wiser than her years.
“Ah … nonsense!” She looked more annoyed than she had the night before. She thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Worse than that, she felt guilty for suggesting to Serena that she get a job at all. She was still hoping that Serena would forget herself and speak to her new employers in good English and that by the next morning she would be working for the commanding officer as his
Serena's eyes began to flash green fire as she looked down at the little woman who had worked for her family for forty-seven years. “And you'd better forget it too, Marcella. Those days are over. And whatever my title, I don't have a dime to my name. Nothing. If it weren't for you taking me in, I'd be sleeping in some fleabag, and if it weren't for their giving me work scrubbing floors, I would starve to death damn soon. I'm no different than you are now, Marcella. That's all. It's that simple. And if I am satisfied with that, then you'd damn well better be too.”
The older woman was silenced by Serena's speech, at least temporarily. And late that night, on tiptoe, Serena ventured upstairs at last. The visit was less painful than she had feared it would be. Almost all the furniture she had loved was gone now. All that remained were a few couches, an enormous grand piano, and in her mother's room the extraordinary canopied antique bed. It had been left here because it would fit nowhere else. It was only that that distressed Serena. That bed in which she could still see her mother, radiant and lovely in the morning when Serena had come in to see her for a few moments before school. Only in that room did she truly suffer. In the others she stood for a quiet moment, seeing things that were no more, remembering evenings and afternoons and dinners, Christmas parties with all of her parents' friends, and tea parties when her grandmother visited from Venice … visits with Sergio … and others. It was a quiet pilgrimage from room to room, and when she came back downstairs to Marcella, she looked strangely peaceful, as though she had laid the ghosts to rest at last. There was nothing left that she was afraid of. It was only a house now, and she would be able to work in it for the Americans, doing whatever she had to, to go on living there, in the palazzo, and to stay in Rome.
5
Serena was up at the crack of dawn the next morning. She washed and pulled her golden hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, and then concealed it beneath another dark cotton scarf. She wound the piece of navy blue cloth around her head, bandanna fashion, and then slipped into an old blue cotton dress, which she had worn at the convent in Upstate New York to go berry picking with the younger girls. It had already been patched in a number of places, and it was faded to a color that suggested long years of use. Beneath the dress Serena put on thick dark stockings, sturdy shoes, and over the front of the blue dress she tied a clean white apron, and then looked into the mirror with a serious face. It was certainly not an outfit for a principessa. But even with the dark blue bandanna there was no concealing the beautiful face. If anything, it seemed to provide a contrast for the pale peach hue of her cheeks and the brilliant green of her eyes.
“You look ridiculous in that outfit.” Marcella looked at her with instant disapproval as she poured their coffee and the first hint of daylight crept over the hills. “Why don't you wear something decent, for God's sake?” But Serena said nothing to the old woman. She only smiled as she sipped the hot coffee and closed her eyes in the hot steam as she held the cup in her hands. “What do you think the Americans will think of you wearing that old dress, Serena?”
“They will think that I'm a hard worker, Marcella.” The green eyes met hers quietly over the cup of coffee, and she looked older and wiser than her years.
“Ah … nonsense!” She looked more annoyed than she had the night before. She thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Worse than that, she felt guilty for suggesting to Serena that she get a job at all. She was still hoping that Serena would forget herself and speak to her new employers in good English and that by the next morning she would be working for the commanding officer as his
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