Twenty-Eight

UV

ITALY

Giorgio asks if you agree for Francesca to meet her natural father,” said Mario as he came into the breakfast room the next morning and bowed to the Havershams.

Giorgio had insisted that they stay at the house instead of the pensionne and had sent servants to retrieve their belongings.

“He promise the man that he would try to make a meeting, but if not, he understand. Much to think about, no? Giorgio is much tired this morning. He apologize he not come down. So much excitement.”

At the hint of the topic the night before, it had become the matter of an intense private conversation between the two of them after they retired. The shocking revelation that Francesca’s natural father was a stable boy had come as astonishing news, as they had assumed that he was a man of noble birth who was, perhaps, married.

Francesca had been so enthralled with meeting her grandfather and learning about her mother that she had been oblivious to the disclosure about her father, but the idea that Francesca would at some point ask to meet him was broached by her parents in private, and even after hours of discussion, they had not resolved on a course of action. The alarming realization that he was of low birth had led them to weigh the options and had prompted much soul-searching, particularly on John’s part. This fact could damage Francesca’s chances for a happy and successful future, were it to be known. He rejected the notion of making a decision for his daughter based on prejudice, as his own father would, but he had to acknowledge that her parentage was distinctly objectionable for a man of his rank and reputation, and he hated himself for it. He had wrestled with the question of what to do with this knowledge deep into the night. Now to learn that her natural father was actually expecting to meet Francesca …

“I am torn between feeling that he has a moral case for meeting her and—and I am ashamed to admit this—a feeling that we have a moral case for preventing such a meeting,” admitted John. Mario bowed in understanding. He well understood the politics of hierarchy.

“You should know that Antonio, that is his name, has climbed from stable boy to head groom. That is something, no?”

“Perhaps we should take the question to Francesca, my love?” suggested Emily.

“I fear that she does not possess the experience and wisdom necessary in making such an important decision. I fear that she will make the decision using only her sensibilities. Once the meeting has taken place, once the introduction has been made, it cannot be undone. He will, perhaps, demand a more permanent place in her life, which would jeopardize any prospects of marriage with a suitable English gentleman. Our first responsibility as her parents is to protect her. We must consider her future.”

“What about my future?” gasped Francesca, as she looked with fear from her mother to her father, on entering the room.

“I will leave you,” Mario said tactfully, then withdrew from the room.

Francesca dropped into a brocade chair, her brows pinched in panic. “We are not leaving already, are we?” she queried.

“No, no, do not fear. We have only just arrived.”

Her brow smoothed but her eyes grew curious, “Then what about my future?”

“Your birth father has asked to meet you. It is a matter that will require you to deliberate and weigh different options. Again, I would suggest that you take some time before making a hasty emotional decision.”

“If you require it, Papa, but what can you mean?”

“We mean, Francesca that you must decide whether it is wise to start a relationship with him.”

“Oh, I see …”

“I would advise you to appraise the situation using logic as well as your heart. Your father is not a gentleman as we had assumed; he is a groom.”

“Ah. I do not remember that being mentioned. Well, yes, that does change things,” she said thoughtfully.

She walked to the open glass doors and leaned against the frame, gazing out at the beautiful gardens. “You mean that this fact might taint me in the eyes of English society.”

“We do. Though hard to accept, given the facts as they are, it is one thing to be the illegitimate daughter of an unknown gentleman, but it is quite another to definitely be the daughter of a servant. This connection with the lower classes will have serious repercussions for your future prospects. Think if he were to demand access to you after your return to England. These are all things you must consider carefully.”

“But Papa, it seems so wrong to judge people by their wealth and position. Cannot a man be worthy who is not rich or of noble blood?”

“Of course, but you must be realistic. We live in a world where traditions of rank and class are the foundation of our civilization. You cannot snub these social rules without understanding the consequences—to do so will be a risk to your whole way of life and your reputation. Remember the reaction of your own grandfather when he merely suspected that your parentage was not noble. Society at large will be much less forgiving, and your mother and I will not live forever to be your protectors. Your chances of making a good marriage and finding protection through your husband’s position, if your birth father is to be a permanent part of your life, are very low, my dear. You may not like it, but it is the world in which we live and you will live or die by its rules, unfair as they may seem.”

Francesca sank onto the couch and hung her head in her hands in quiet despair. Emily and John looked at each other in sympathetic desperation. This was uncharted territory indeed.

They all sat still in quiet meditation for some time. John sent a prayer to the heavens and as he sat, the seed of an idea began to grow in his mind.

Francesca slowly raised her head, eyes raw from weeping, “I really do desire to meet him, Papa, but if you think it truly unwise, I will try to forbear.”

Her father relaxed his face and suggested, “What if we were to engage the services of a lawyer?”

Francesca’s head tilted to the side like a puppy, listening to its master.

“Go on,” said Emily.

“I am sure your birth father is an intelligent man. He has risen to be head groom according to Mario, and that is no easy task. He could be made to appreciate the threat his presence is to your way of life if he were to insist on associating with you in England. Perhaps we can draw up a legal document to protect you. Suppose we explain the situation and ask him to sign a contract promising that he will not attempt to visit you in England but that you will come to Italy to visit him on a regular basis if he so desires it.”

“Do you not think that will seem rather rude, Papa? Perhaps it will make him angry.”

“It will depend on what manner of man he is, dearest. If he is a worthy man, he will be happy that you want to meet him, and the contract will show good faith that you desire to continue the relationship in the future.”

“What if I don’t like him … or you and Mama don’t like him?”

“Here is what I suggest. We prepare the document and send it to him before any meeting, allowing him time to overcome any hurt to his pride and giving him time to consider what is best for you. What do you think?”

Emily leaned forward. “It does seem to be a solution, Francesca. It will protect you and give him hope for an association.”

“I will think on it, Papa.”

Francesca kissed them both and went out into the gardens. She wandered around the tended area and then glided into the rows of vines. The grapes were immature; small and green, but the branches were loaded, which promised a good harvest.

Her mind churned like the bottom of a water mill. Papa was right; her heart wanted to run to her natural father, but she was not a child, and she could well understand the ramifications. A legal document that protected her might be the answer. She was not even entirely sure yet that she was wholly comfortable with the knowledge that her father was of low birth. She had been raised to believe that there were intellectual and social differences between the classes, as well as cultural ones. What if she was revolted by her natural father’s manners or way of speech? Did she feel that a relationship with a servant, though he be her father, was beneath her? If he sensed that she was ashamed of him, how would that make him feel? She honestly could not anticipate her reaction, though she hoped that she would behave well. She had felt such an instant kinship with Giorgio. Would she feel such a one with her natural father? The questions chased around and around in her head.

“Francesca!”

She looked up to see her grandfather sitting on a bench and smiling and rushed to his side, seeking comfort.

Though oral language was a barrier, the language of love was universal. He took her hand, placing her head on his shoulder and they sat together in a companionable silence, drinking in one another’s presence.

T

After they had eaten lunch and Francesca had talked about her thoughts and feelings on the matter, John presented the arguments to Mario so that he might translate for Giorgio.

After a short silence, Giorgio spoke and Mario’s expression became more serious.

“Giorgio say that he think Francesca’s birth father would take offense in beginning, if a contract like this come to him, but after some time he would see that it is wise. But he can see also could make a barrier between them. I Mario agree. It is how I would feel.”

Giorgio nodded and continued. “Francesca, it your decision. I met your father. He intelligent man. It is risk, but worth it.”

Francesca nodded. “After listening to everyone’s opinions and after much consideration on the topic myself, I believe that the legal document is the most prudent way forward, though I do agree with Papa, it is only fair to send him the document in advance.”

“Good!” replied John. “Then let us secure the services of a lawyer.”

T

ENGLAND

“My lady, we have rung the gong and his Lordship has not appeared. Shall we begin serving dinner or should we wait … ?” The butler pursed his lips in anticipation.

“Well, what could be keeping him?” said Lady Augusta, “Wait a while and I will go in search of him.”

A worrying train of thought was standing off the stage in the wings of her consciousness and she shooed it away until it turned tail and ran. She opened the door to her husband’s study but it was dark and smelled stale. She closed the door and moved on to the library. It was quiet and heavy.

Ascending the stairs to enter his changing room, she found it was empty as well, but as she swept her skirt behind her to exit the room, she thought she heard a primal, guttural sound. Her first thought was that an animal was trapped in the room. However, as she entered further, she realized that the sound was emanating from the other side of the door. She placed her hand on the cold door knob and turned it slowly, terrified of what might lay beyond. As the door cracked open, no light escaped, and on opening it fully, she could see that the room was entirely black. She felt her way over to the bed and as her eyes adjusted, became aware of a large shape on the bed that was shaking.

“John?” she ventured, in a strangled whisper.

The black shape groaned and she clasped her heart, the ugly fears inching back to the wings of her mind. Going to the window, she opened the curtain a fraction to let in a sliver of light but the figure on the bed moaned and raised an arm to block it.

“Are you ill, John?”

She desperately hoped this was the cause of his malaise as the alternative was too awful to contemplate. The unnerving sound of a grown man weeping shook her to her foundations.

“Oh, that I were only ill!” moaned the figure. “We are ruined, Augusta. Ruined!”