Property of a Noblewoman (31 page)

“Did your mom get off okay?” Jane asked when she took a break, and he handed her a glass of white wine.

He grinned in answer to her question. “She was so happy to leave, it was embarrassing. She loves to travel, and she practically ran into the airport. She can’t wait to get to Naples and Rome. It’ll be good for her.” So much had happened to her recently, and the trip was going to be fun.

And at that moment, Valerie was chatting to the person sitting next to her on the plane, selecting a movie, and she had just ordered a meal and a glass of champagne. She was traveling Alitalia, and she had treated herself to business class, so she could sleep comfortably on the plane. When she’d mentioned it to Winnie, her now-aunt had chided her for the expense. And Valerie had responded that at their age they could indulge in some luxuries. There was no point saving it till they were a hundred. She was willing to spoil herself a little now, particularly after the jewelry sale. She had no intention of squandering it, but knew the trip would be easier and less arduous in business than coach, which seemed reasonable to her, though not to Winnie, who preferred to stay home and save the money entirely, and go nowhere.

She watched the movie and enjoyed her dinner of osso buco and pasta, with a glass of good Italian red wine, and then she settled down to sleep for what was left of the seven-hour flight. They were arriving at eight
A.M.
Roman time, and she hoped to be at the Hassler by ten, which would give her a full day in Rome. She had her mother’s address on a slip of paper in her purse. She wanted to go there before doing anything else. It was why she had come to Rome. She was planning to visit museums and churches for two days, enjoy the city, and walk around. And then she was going to Naples to see the château, which was going to be a high point for her, knowing that Marguerite had lived there for more than thirty years. She had lived in the apartment in Rome for twenty. Italy had really become her home, although Valerie knew from her letters that her mother had been happier in Naples with Umberto, than alone in Rome after he died. Valerie could only guess that her best years had been at the Castello di San Pignelli while he was alive. Her life must have been very lonely after that, with no relatives in the world.

Valerie slept lightly on the plane, had a cup of strong coffee before they landed on time, and was among the first off the plane. She took a cab to the Hotel Hassler, and was given a small room similar to Phillip’s when he was there in March, and she took a cab to her mother’s old Roman address, as soon as she had showered and changed into a long black cotton skirt, a T-shirt, sandals, and a Panama hat. She looked very casual and stylish with her long straight white hair streaming down her back, and she was wearing silver bangle bracelets on her arm. There was an arty, casual feeling to what she wore.

She stood outside her mother’s apartment building, wondering which apartment she’d lived in. It was so long ago that she was sure no one who was there would remember or even know. She just liked being there, knowing that this had been her mother’s neighborhood. It was a fashionable residential neighborhood called I Parioli, and people walked by her, or rode by on bicycles, as scooters wove through the cars in the heavy Roman traffic and horns sounded everywhere. She stayed there for a long time and then walked away, wandered into a little church nearby, and lit a candle for her mother, grateful that their paths had somehow crossed again. She touched the locket on her neck as she thought about it, and sat peacefully in the little church, thinking about her, as old ladies came and went to say rosaries or chat quietly with friends. Several nuns were cleaning the church, and it had a welcoming atmosphere. She wondered if her mother had ever gone there, and if she had still believed in any deity after the misfortunes that had happened to her. Valerie would have understood if she didn’t, and wouldn’t have blamed her if not.

It was a pretty neighborhood, and she felt safe there as she walked the fairly long distance back to the Piazza di Spagna, where the hotel was, and the shops on the Via Condotti nearby. It was touching discovering her mother’s world, and the life she had led during her half century in Italy, after she left the States. Valerie spent the rest of the day visiting small churches, and had a delicious lunch of fish and pasta at a sidewalk café. She practiced her Italian with the waiter, and he understood her despite her mistakes. And it amused her to notice that men looked at women in Rome of all ages – she saw several male heads turn as she walked by, and it made her smile. It could never have happened in New York, but it did here. Italian men made you feel female and desirable to the grave. And Valerie was still an attractive woman with her slim figure and still-beautiful face.

She walked for hours that afternoon, and had dinner at a small restaurant near the hotel. She didn’t like going to restaurants alone, but traveling without a companion, she had no other choice and didn’t want to eat in her room, so she just did it, and enjoyed the food and a strong espresso afterward before going back to the hotel. She wrote postcards that night to Phillip, Winnie, and the Babcocks. Her family had grown. And the Babcocks were coming to New York for a visit in the fall, to meet Phillip, and had invited her to dinner and a Broadway play.

She did more of the same the next day, exploring churches and galleries, admiring fountains and statues, soaking up the atmosphere of Rome and watching the people around her. And the day after, she flew to Naples. She had several texts from Phillip asking how she was, and assured him she was fine and enjoying Rome. She took a cab from the airport to the Hotel Excelsior, where she and Lawrence had stayed years before, and watched the sights along the way. She saw Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples, and remembered taking Phillip to Pompeii and his utter amazement and fascination with it, when she explained to him what had happened there.

And not wanting to drive around Naples alone and risk getting lost, she hired a car and driver at the hotel, who was available that afternoon.

She had lunch on the terrace of the hotel, and went outside to meet the driver afterward, armed with her mother’s address, just as Phillip had done. She had Saverio Salvatore’s phone numbers with her, but hadn’t called him, and didn’t want to disturb him if possible. She just wanted to see the château, and bask in a private moment, thinking of her mother as a young girl of eighteen with the man she loved, not long after Valerie was born.

The driver explained the sights to her as they drove past them. He spoke English very well, and pointed out churches and important buildings and homes, and told her some of the history of Naples. But the history that interested her most was her own. There was a lot of traffic in the city, and it took them a while to get to the far edge of the city where the castello was located, and when they got there, he stopped, and she got out of the car in silence, looking up with awe at what had been her mother’s home. Marguerite had been a countess by then, loved by Umberto, and respected by all who knew her, according to what Saverio Salvatore had told Phillip when he was there.

Valerie stood at the gate for a long moment, cautiously, not wanting to intrude, but no one was there. The gates were standing wide open, and the courtyard was empty. There was a red Ferrari parked in an open garage that looked like an old stable, but the grounds were deserted. And feeling like a burglar, she walked in quietly in her sandals and jeans and the crisp white shirt she had worn on the trip with her Panama hat. It was a hot day, but the heat was dry, and her hat shielded her from the sun. No one stopped her, and she walked around for a little while, through orchards and past vineyards and gardens and then walked back toward the château. She could easily imagine her mother walking there with Umberto, enjoying the view of the bay. It was a beautiful, peaceful place, and apparently very well kept. She saw two gardeners in the distance, but they never approached. She was halfway across the courtyard on her way back to her car when a silver Lamborghini roared into the courtyard, with the top down, driven by a man with white hair. He almost looked like Umberto for a moment, and Valerie was startled and embarrassed when he looked at her and frowned. He got out of the car quickly and came toward her with a questioning look.

“Sí Signora? Cosa sta cercando?”
She knew he was asking what she was looking for, and she would have felt stupid answering “My mother,” and he would have thought she was crazy. He probably did anyway. She didn’t feel properly dressed to be trespassing, in sandals and jeans and her battered old Borsalino straw hat.

“Scusi,”
she said, feeling flustered as she apologized to him.
“Che casa bellissima,”
she said, pointing at the house and telling him how beautiful it was.

“È una proprietà privata,”
he reminded her. It was private property. And she decided to shoot for the moon, at the risk of seeming even more foolish or intrusive.

“Mia mamma era in questa casa molti anni fa,”
she said, feeling lame, telling him her mother had been in the house many years before, which was the best she could do in her rusty Italian. “La Contessa di San Pignelli,” she said, groping for an excuse for her intrusion.
“Sono la sua figlia.”
He frowned then as he looked at her. She had told him she was Marguerite’s daughter.

“Davvero?”
For real? “It is true?” he said, switching to English, which was easier for her, if not for him. He looked intrigued.

“My son came to see the house some months ago. I believe you met him, Phillip Lawton. He sent you some photographs of my mother and stepfather, the count and countess. He gave me your card. Signore Salvatore,” she said shyly, and he looked thunderstruck.

“He did not tell me they are his grandparents.”

“It’s a long story, but he didn’t know then.”

“And you are the beautiful countess’s daughter. The photographs are in the house.” He waved vaguely at the castello, fascinated by her now, as Valerie smiled back at him, grateful that he had remembered Phillip, and not told her to leave.

“I’m terribly sorry to intrude on you like this,” she apologized, still feeling flustered and rude. “I came to Naples to see where my mother lived with the count. It’s silly, I know. She’s dead now, and I wanted to come to Italy to see her home.” She didn’t explain that she’d never known her in her entire life, and had only just discovered that Marguerite was her mother. It was too convoluted to explain in either language.

“Do you wish to see the house?” he asked politely, and she couldn’t stop herself from nodding. She was desperate to. It was why she had come, and the main reason for her trip.

He took her on a more extensive tour than he had given Phillip. He showed her the count and countess’s bedroom, where he slept now, their private suite with a beautiful library of antique books, and the little study where Umberto had worked at whatever he did, which Valerie didn’t know or want to ask. There was a lovely boudoir and dressing room that had been her mother’s that was empty now, with antique wallpaper that had been hand-painted, and looked like something from Venice in the seventeenth century and probably was. There were sitting rooms, and spare bedrooms that Saverio had turned into guest rooms, majestic chandeliers lit with candles, a noble dining room with a long table and tapestries and graceful chairs, the living room he used to entertain, and a big homey kitchen also with the view of the bay. The house was large and distinguished but not too large to be comfortable and inviting. She wished she could close her eyes and imagine her mother there, and she saw one of the photographs Phillip had sent him, on a grand piano, in a silver frame, in a place of honor. And as Phillip had, she noticed the impressive contemporary art the new owner had successfully mingled with the antiques, which had married well. He had either a good decorator, or great taste. The tour ended in the kitchen, where he offered her a glass of wine, and she hesitated. She didn’t want to overstay or exploit his kindness unduly.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” she said, looking uncomfortable, and he smiled.

“I know how it is with families. My mother die when I was a young boy . . . I always want to know about her. Like you perhaps?” he asked as he poured the chilled white wine into a glass and handed it to her, and then one for himself. He walked her out to a terrace where they sat down, and could view the perfectly manicured gardens, which he had restored. “A mother is very special,” he said, and took a sip of the cool wine. “I like your son very much when I meet him. He is a good man.” She smiled at the compliment for Phillip.

“Thank you. I think so too. Do you have children?” she asked him, and he smiled easily and held up two fingers.

“Two.
Un ragazzo a Roma
,” a boy in Rome, she understood. “
E la mia figlia a Firenze.
My daughter work with me in my gallery. My son is the director of my gallery in Rome. Art,” he said pointing at the paintings inside the house. “Your son sells art for Christie’s,” he said, remembering,
“e gioielli.”
Jewels.

“Yes. I only have one son.” She held up one finger with a smile. “And I’m an artist.” She pantomimed painting, and he looked impressed.

“Brava!”
he complimented her, and they sat looking at the view for a moment, as she thought about her mother again. She could almost feel her here, where she had lived for a long time, and hopefully been happy. It was a warm, inviting place, and he explained to Valerie that he loved it, and touched his heart, as he had with Phillip. “You go to Capri now? Or Amalfi? Sorrento? Positano? On holiday?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Firenze.” Florence. She hadn’t wanted to go to a beach resort alone, and she knew that Capri was overrun with tourists at that time of year, and it hadn’t appealed to her. The cities with their art treasures did. She’d been debating about going to Venice too. There was more to see there than in Positano or Capri, and museums and galleries she loved to visit.

“Me too,” he said. “I go back to Firenze in a few days, to work. I am here to rest,” he said, but wasn’t convincing. He had driven in at full speed in the Lamborghini, which didn’t seem restful to her. “I come here one time, two time in a month to relax.” That made sense to her. “Otherwise, Firenze, Roma, Londra, Parigi. Business.” She nodded her understanding of the cities where he worked, and they sat peacefully for a while, and then she stood up, having imposed on him for long enough. “Please call me when you come to Firenze, visit my gallery and meet my daughter,” he said hospitably. “You have lunch with us.”