Twenty-Six

UV

FRANCE

They had roused the driver from his siesta and driven back to the hotel without incident, quietly contented with reviewing their visit.

“You love it too, don’t you?” said Emily.

“I can honestly say I would be quite happy to live here for the rest of my days!” exclaimed Francesca.

She looked out of the carriage window and saw a magnificent bird of prey swoop past. She followed his flight path eagerly and then pulled back sharply as he dropped to feast upon some poor dead forest creature. The jarring image burst her mood completely and left her feeling strangely unsettled.

They arrived at the hotel in time for tea and entered the dining room to find a pleasant array of pastries arranged most artfully. Upon looking around the crowded room, Francesca was disappointed to see that the only table with three seats available was with the Sladdens. She looked at her mother and frowned in disappointment. Her mother ignored her and, wearing a bright smile, led the way to the table to join them.

“Have you had a marvelous afternoon?” inquired the Reverend Sladden.

“Indeed, we have! We have been showing Francesca the villa we occupied when she was born.”

“Have you, my word! I had not realized that the fair Francesca had been born in these parts. Is that perhaps the reason for her unconventional name?”

Francesca took instant offense at the perceived slight as she had already decided to dislike the Reverend Sladden. Unconventional indeed! It was a perfectly beautiful name!

Her mother, however, was possessed of better manners and chose not to take offense at all. “It is, sir! We had been childless for many years and her coming to us was such a blessing that we chose a name that paid homage to the place where she came to us. I suppose it was rather unconventional, but then her two middle names are in honor of her grandmothers.”

“Jolly good, jolly good! I myself have three grown sons, and my dearest Charity has taken to mothering them like a duck to water.” He bestowed upon his wife an awkward, twisted smile, more proper in a pimply youth that a man of a certain age. His wife blushed with pride and love.

Her father did not seem to notice the embarrassing show of affection and engaged them in pleasant, if rather dull, conversation. Francesca concentrated on her pastries and the mint tisane that had been brought for her, looking around at the other occupants of the room so as not to have to contribute to the discussion.

Her attention snapped back when she heard the word Hampshire, and she shook herself from her reverie to listen.

“—we are very fortunate in the living we were given. Though small, it is perfect for us, and we are next to a much larger parish administered by the Reverend Gray.”

At mention of this name, Francesca gave him her full attention. “The Reverend Gray, you say?”

“Why, yes! Do you know the gentleman?”

“Not personally, but a friend of mine has recently made his acquaintance and told me that he is a very kind and genial person.”

“He is indeed! What a coincidence that you should know of him. He is the best of men, a credit to our profession. He is ever willing to give me aid if I need it and in fact has loaned his curate to my flock while I am away on my honeymoon.”

With her heart in her mouth, Francesca said, “I understand from my friend that they have a grown daughter still at home.”

“Your information is accurate, Miss Haversham. I have known her since she was a child, when my own boys were still quite young. She was a lovely child, though a little rambunctious in her early years, but she grew out of it. More than one of my sons lost his head over her!”

He stopped and smiled as if his account were done, avoiding condemning Miss Gray for the indiscretion, of which he must have been well aware. Francesca, though, was strangely curious to have the facts confirmed by a third party, to learn if the Reverend Sladden could throw any more light on the subject, and though worried about how to broach the subject of Miss Gray’s downfall without appearing to be a common gossip, searched for the perfect question. She felt humbled that this man, whom she had belittled as a dullard, was loyally guarding Anne Gray’s secret, not using the opportunity of distance to indulge in idle talk.

“She never married then? Such a beauty as that, I am surprised.” She tried to appear completely indifferent, but the longing to know was building, and she was on a precipice of anticipation. She glanced at her parents, fearful that her attitude would arouse their suspicions, but they were thankfully engaged in a conversation with Mrs. Sladden.

The Reverend’s expression fell and he lowered his voice. “I hesitate to share the young lady’s story for fear of appearing malicious but as a young lady yourself, let me just say that her story is a cautionary tale to all young ladies of the world and I, for one, do not censure her.

“Sadly, she was led away by a devil and has never recovered. Be very careful always to guard yourself against compromise, Miss Haversham. There are men of evil intent who find sport in taking advantage of the innocent.”

He lowered his lids as if in prayer, obviously deeply moved by the memory. Her esteem for the good reverend surged.

With a voice that trembled, in spite of her efforts, she sympathized, “That is the saddest of tales, to be sure.” She was reminded that, but for divine intervention, she, herself would have served as a cautionary tale.

The reverend re-opened his eyes. “I was able to repay her father’s kindness by taking his daughter away for a season to my married sons’ homes to avoid the wagging tongues and try to help her regain some degree of happiness, but it was to no avail, and to this day she is a recluse.”

Francesca raised her head, truly touched by the Reverend’s kindness. How quickly she had judged him. In fact, she could learn a great deal about true Christianity from Reverend Sladden. She felt truly ashamed. Not once did he chide Anne for bringing her misfortune upon herself. Mrs. Sladden was indeed a fortunate woman.

Her heart heavy from the memories that now beset her, she excused herself as in need of a rest and retired to her room to weep in private.

T

After several days of travel, they crossed the border into Italy and approached the area known as Florence. After the painful reminder of her brush with ruin, her thoughts had wandered to Phillip more than once. She thanked heaven that he had come to her rescue, and she found herself wishing he was there to share her new adventure.

As they neared her grandfather’s property, impatience set her emotions aflutter. It was late afternoon when their carriage pulled into the forecourt of yet another pensionne and her parents made as if to settle in for the night.

“Oh Mama, Papa. Can we not call upon Signore Giaccopazzi this evening? I have waited so long, and I fear that my patience is exhausted!”

“That would not be very good manners, my dear. We ought to send him word that we are in the region and indicate that we can visit him at his earliest convenience. He may still be ailing and require some time before we make his acquaintance. I understand your impatience, I do, but we must maintain decorum. We want him to know that you have been raised properly as an English gentlewoman. He will take great pride in that fact, I do not doubt,” said Emily.

Francesca’s lips turned down, and Emily glimpsed the child she had been. She patted her daughter’s hand. “Come, let us write the letter and move the process along!”

T

“Signore, they have arrived in Florence,” said Mario, handing Giorgio a letter.

Giorgio ripped open the letter with trembling hands. Mario had returned more than two months before, and Giorgio’s eagerness to finally meet his granddaughter had been unbearable.

Each morning, hope that today would be the day would crowd his heart then slowly drain away as sunset came. The mental stress did nothing to help the health of his heart. Now, at last, they had come!

“Write back immediately and invite them to dinner this very evening! I cannot bear for her to be in the same place and delay the meeting more! Make haste, make haste!”

Mario allowed himself to be pushed to the desk, a smile upon his lips, and wrote as Giorgio dictated.

As Mario left the room, Giorgio imagined how Francesca might look for the thousandth time. How happy he had been to hear that they had given her an Italian name! He had envisaged her with the thick hair of his countrymen but hoped she would also bear the wild curls of her mother. He had envisioned a round face, then a long face, and finally, a heart-shaped face. None seemed to fit. Would her eyes be dark brown like her mother or light brown with flecks of gold like her grandmother? Would she carry the image of her father? The girl he had conjured was a vague shadow of a woman, and he yearned to see the genuine article and direct his growing love to someone tangible.

He looked down and noticed that he was drumming the arms of his chair in a tattoo. He stopped his fingers but the tattoo continued in his unreliable, old heart. Since his attack, he had been aware that the regular rhythm of his heart had been replaced by a most irregular one. Fear of this was the only reason he was obeying his doctor’s orders to rest.

The door opened and Mario returned. Giorgio turned sharply and, beaming with anticipation, said, “Take down what I wish to have for dinner! Everything must be perfect!”