The House of Hawthorne (34 page)

T
he splashing of the Trevi Fountain can be heard through the open window of our snug apartment in Rome, overlooking the Piazza Poli. The autumn has been kind, and we have not experienced any despair, but rather a lifting, buoyed by our surroundings and the society of the Storys.

We delight in touring the galleries, the ancient sites, the gardens and cathedrals, and the children have grown much in their education from experiencing the world instead of simply reading about it. Poring over a text about the Colosseum is nothing compared to standing on its dirt, once red with blood, while the crumbling walls tower over us. Feeling the cold shadow of the looming Pantheon is so much more moving than trying to comprehend its greatness from a reproduced pencil sketch.

Still, in spite of our love of Italy and our frustration with the simmering political landscape of America, Nathaniel and I think
the children will soon need to return, or they will find themselves inhabitants of nowhere. As one who has borne the burden of feeling isolated even in a warm and familiar society, Nathaniel does not wish our children to suffer the same restlessness. I have already started making plans for our return, though we will stay on until the spring.

For now, I am recording all of my artistic impressions in my journal and sketch pad so I might copy and paint later. I must drink in my surroundings as much as possible as preparation for when they will be but a memory.

The ringing of the bells of St. Peter’s calls my eyes from the pages of my journal, and I notice that night falls fast. My heart pounds at the thought, because Ada and Una have not yet returned from their museum visit, and the air is not safe. Though the season of malaria is nearly concluded, Roman residents know to be home by six o’clock. I close my journal and step out to the parlor, where Nathaniel paces at the window.

“They are not yet back?” I ask.

“No, and I fear I will have to venture out to find them.”

“I wish you would,” I say. “Ada must have lost track of time or their way, and I cannot bear to think of them out late, for more reasons than one.”

Nathaniel pulls on his black cloak, and I am moved by the impressive figure he still casts. He is out the door within moments, and I hurry to the window and watch his dark form striding across the piazza. I have a flashing memory of the first time I beheld Nathaniel, when he walked toward my family’s house in Salem and lifted his face to the sun. That moment struck me so
that I had to back away from the window. My soul knew what was coming, and in spite of every difficulty we have faced, I would not trade one moment of our lives together.

Julian and Rose are reading by the warmth of the Franklin stove, and I join them with my copy of
Jane Eyre
, but I am unable to concentrate. I chew my nails, wiggle my legs, and again cross the room to the window. A chilly breeze drifts in, and I hasten to pull the shutters closed and lock out the elements. Though I admire the tranquil evening that touches everything with an amethyst glow, I cannot enjoy it.

“What’s wrong?” asks Julian.

I turn to him and attempt a smile. “Oh, I am just full of a mother’s worry. Ada and Una are not back yet.”

“They will be here before you know it,” he says. “Una said they wanted to sketch the Palace of the Caesars.”

“You must run, then, and tell your father, for he set off in another direction!”

Julian jumps into action like a little soldier, and pounds down the narrow staircase, while I call after him to hurry back if he cannot find his father. I watch him run on sturdy legs until he is out of sight, and am suddenly angry with myself for sending more members of my family into the elements. Rose joins me at the window and wraps her little arms around me. She is such a slight child; I am easily able to lift her, though she is seven years old. She rests her soft cheek against mine, giving me some comfort.

We hasten to open the door when we hear the ringing, but it is only the man who brings our dinner. We have no kitchen for
food preparations, so we take all of our meals on delivery from the delightful
ristorante
nearby. Rose helps me set the table, and our stomachs rumble in anticipation at the aroma of beef. Just as we pour the last glass of water, Julian calls to us and bounds up the stairs. Una and Ada follow, and finally Nathaniel.

“I do apologize,” says Ada. She wrings her hands, and her pretty forehead is wrinkled with worry. “We lost all track of time because we were so caught up in our sketching.”

“I found them first,” says Julian.

“We would have beaten the dark home,” says Una. “There is no need for alarm. Besides, after October there is no fear of Roman fever.”

“I am sure there is not,” says Nathaniel. “But let us not court danger while we are in the Eternal City, and spoil our dream of Italy.”

“It will not happen again,” says Ada. “I promise. I hope I did not worry you too awfully.”

Ada reaches for my hand, and I squeeze it so she knows she is forgiven.

“All is well,” I say. “Besides, I can sympathize with getting lost in a drawing and not noticing the passage of time.”

We all agree and settle like a flock of birds around the dining table, where we enjoy our meal and one another’s conversation. We finish the night around the card table, as we always do, and retire early. Nathaniel wraps his arms around me in the moonlight, and we lie in each other’s warmth, whispering of our travels and the future, and of how very much at home we feel this time in Rome.

As I sit alone in the early morning, journalizing on the art I have seen, sipping coffee and watching the rain streak down the windowpanes, a noise draws my attention to the doorway. What I see there so startles me that I stand, upsetting my cup and sending it tumbling to the carpet.

“Una!”

My girl is glassy-eyed and spectral, and makes a move toward me with outstretched arms. I barely reach her in time for her to faint into my grasp, and I am horror-struck at how she burns.

“Nathaniel!”

He emerges from our room in moments, confused from sleep and frightened to see me on the floor, crumpled under Una’s weight. Ada soon follows, and covers her mouth. Nathaniel is at my side. He lifts Una in a gallant motion and carries her to the sofa in his study. He rests his cheek against her forehead and then jerks back as if seared by a hot iron.

“Ada, go to the Storys’ immediately and see where we might find a doctor,” I say.

She wastes no time racing to her room and dressing. She pulls her hair into a knot as she hastens down the stairs, and lets the door slam on her way out.

I kneel beside where Una lies.

“Fret not,” I whisper. “Help is on the way.”

Una rocks her head back and forth, and she quakes fearsomely. I reach for her forehead and force myself to leave my cold hand on the burning heat, hoping to bring her some relief. She
leans toward me and opens her eyes to slits, where a single tear slides down the side of her face.

The ensuing months are a blur of sleeplessness filled with Una’s awful cries and tremors from the Roman fever, moments of lucidity punctuated by madness, doses of quinine administered every two hours by the intense and capable Dr. Franco. Our friends visit and comfort us, bringing food, flowers, and conversation to our stale rooms. Nathaniel is beside himself, sick with a lesser form of the fever, and working like mad on his newest romance. Even Ada contracts the illness for a time, but Dr. Franco is happy to nurse our beautiful governess back to health. Ada’s recovery gives me hope, and Dr. Franco is so confident of his cures and care, so noble and assertive, that I half believe the disease fears so worthy an opponent.

I sit in a constant vigil at Una’s bedside, and find a strange energy in nursing her that has never before possessed me. I can go for days without sleep, and it is a good thing, for Una wants only my care. She becomes inconsolable if I leave the room for even a few minutes, so I have set up a bed in the study, and take all of my meals there.

When Una is well enough, Nathaniel brings the other children into the room and we attempt to entertain her with cards or novels. When she is in her fits, he keeps the other children far away so they will not be frightened. Julian is frustrated by the upset to our household, for he is a boy of energy and vitality, and our depression of spirits in conjunction with the chill of winter
burdens him. Rose watches with large, dark eyes, but rarely comments aloud. She has become more withdrawn than before, and I fear that her sister’s illness will permeate her tender soul.

In the midnight hours, Rose sometimes comes and sleeps in the study, or rather, she lies with me, because we both have trouble sleeping. On one such dark night, she cuddles with me, and I run my fingers through her fine hair.

“The white lady in my bad dream was Una,” she whispers.

“Why do you say that?”

“Una has the look of her, and she scares me.”

“Una cannot help her fits, Rosebud. It is a symptom of the Roman fever.”

“Will she die?”

My throat seems to close and I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe deeply until my nerves are steady.

“I do not think so,” I say. “Do you see how Ada is better, how Father has beat the illness?”

“But it was not the same with them.”

Rose is right. They never burned with such intensity, or turned purple in the face, or became so saturated with quinine—the drug of succor that also threatens to kill. But Una is young and she is strong, and I have a feeling in my heart that God will not take her from us.

“Your sister will make it through this illness, but we must pray for her every minute of every day.”

“Will God listen?”

I do not know. Here in this city so populated with churches and statues honoring the savior, so influenced by the saints and
holy people of history, it seems the best place to seek intercession. But there is also a heavy feeling of death and coldness in Rome, and I fear that the darkness here could consume us if we are not vigilant.

“God always listens,” I say. What I do not utter is that His answers to our prayers are not always what we ask.

Franklin Pierce becomes the answer to one prayer; his arrival in Rome saves my husband’s sanity.