The following evening when Rosa was on her way home, she found Luciano waiting on the street corner for her. He had shaved off his beard and looked young and fresh.
‘I thought we could go for a walk,’ he said.
Rosa smiled, thankful that the revelations of the night before hadn’t left them awkward with each other. ‘Yes,’ she agreed.
They strolled in the direction of the Arno. The daylight was fading and the air was cool and fresh. They carried Sibilla’s basket between them, one handle each. Shopkeepers smiled at them and women stopped to admire Sibilla.
‘Che bella bambina! Che bella coppia!’ they said. ‘What a beautiful baby! What a beautiful couple!’
Rosa didn’t know how to react to the attention. She had become used to catcalls and hostile stares. When she walked along the street it was usually with her eyes downcast. But being with Luciano made all the difference. Rosa lifted her gaze and returned the greetings with pride. Was it possible to be this happy? Was it possible to be this normal? She felt the black hole in her heart close a little. Maybe she didn’t know who her parents were but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a family of her own.
They reached the place on the bank of the Arno where they had first met each other.
‘You had the sun in your eyes,’ Luciano said, bending to kiss Rosa on the forehead. She was sorry that she had destroyed his passion of the previous evening. But she knew they were both still confused by her reaction. She understood Luciano would wait for her, and that made her love him more.
Luciano and Rosa sat there with their arms linked and their heads together, speaking about insignificant things, until the moon rose. Then he stood up and extended his hand to her. ‘There is something I want you to hear,’ he said.
A few streets away he stopped in front of a house and told Rosa to sit with him on the doorstep. A beautiful operatic voice drifted from an open window of one of the houses on the opposite side of the street. Rosa caught a glimpse of the woman’s blonde hair set against the blood-red wallpaper of the room. She was singing an aria. There were bars on the window. The leaves of a potted palm poked through them and quivered in the breeze. The effect was to make the woman appear like an exotic bird in a cage. Her voice was poignant and sweet.
‘Who is she?’ Rosa asked.
‘A nightwatchman’s wife,’ he answered. ‘Every evening, after her husband has left for work, she sings.’
Rosa leaned against Luciano’s shoulder. The woman’s voice was remarkable. They could have been sitting in the royal box at the Teatro Comunale and they would not have heard anything more magnificent.
They listened a while longer until Luciano nudged Rosa. ‘Orietta will be getting dinner on the table, and we’d better take Sibilla home before it gets too cold.’ He picked up Sibilla’s basket and offered his arm to Rosa.
‘The woman has an extraordinary voice,’ Rosa said, entwining her arm with his.
‘Yes, she’s missed her calling.’
They walked along the streets, which were quieter now. Rosa puzzled over what Luciano had said about the nightwatchman’s wife. If Luciano’s father had not made the mistakes he had, Luciano would probably have gone to university or taken his place in the family business. He would not have been peddling goods door to door or labouring on building sites.
‘Do you feel you’ve missed your calling?’ she asked him.
Luciano frowned. ‘Missed it? No, not missed it,’ he replied. ‘I am sure that it is coming to me. I’m impatient for it.’
Rosa studied his firm profile. He was not like other people. There was something dynamic about him. Rosa agreed that he must have some special destiny. He seemed marked out for it. Didn’t I also feel destined for something once? Rosa recalled. Now my destiny is to be a mother. But she couldn’t complain. She loved her daughter more than life and working at Antonio’s shop was more a pleasure than a job.
Not long after Rosa had begun working for Antonio, he had started taking her to auctions, markets and estate sales.
‘Liking a piece and understanding its history is one thing,’ he told her at one pre-auction viewing. ‘But appraising it is quite another. You must be confident that you will find a customer who will like it as much as you do—otherwise a dealer is in danger of filling his shop with charming but unsaleable items. I’ve noticed you are fascinated by ornate furniture, but our clients want pieces that are practical as well as beautiful.’
He led Rosa to a walnut armoire with rocaille crowns. It had three bevelled-mirror doors and cabriole legs. Rosa ran her hands over the French piece. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said.
‘No one will buy it unless they reduce the reserve price,’ Antonio told her.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s eight feet tall. Too tall for the average maid or lady of the house to reach the top shelves. Practicality as well as beauty must be our guide. There is a certain beauty in the utility of an item.’ He flashed her a smile.
Rosa had thought Antonio was condescending in his cynical attitude towards her ability to see the origins of things, but he obviously respected her intelligence if he was explaining his work to her. Although they used each other’s Christian names when out of the hearing of customers, their relationship was formal. Now Rosa found herself warming to him. She began to think of him as a friend.
‘Now, what about this piece?’ Antonio asked, pointing out a Spanish table in chestnut wood.
He reached into his pocket and took out a magnifying glass. He handed it Rosa. She searched the piecrust edging and lyre base for chips, cracks, scratches and discolourations as he had taught her to do. She was beginning to understand which defects were of little consequence, which reduced an item’s value and which enhanced it. She checked the maker’s mark. The legs were original, giving no indication of having been replaced or revived. She ran her fingers over the tabletop and examined it closely.
‘It’s been refinished,’ she said. ‘The original patina has been sanded back.’
‘And what does that mean?’ Antonio asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘Refinishing ruins the value of an antique.’
‘Because?’
‘Because the patina is the history of an object and shows what has happened over time. A crackled finish, a nick, a scratch—all these things give a piece character. The patina is what makes the piece a true antique. Otherwise one might as well buy new reproduction furniture.’
Antonio clapped his hands. ‘Excellent! Now you are not only lovely but knowledgeable as well!’
One of Rosa’s favourite tasks was to find an object that a customer had specifically requested, such as a particular style of mirror or table to finish off a room. Antonio would send her out to select possible pieces and would then examine them himself before deciding which was most suitable. She was delighted one day when he told her that he had received a request to find a unique present for a girl’s twelfth birthday.
‘The customer doesn’t need it until spring,’ Antonio explained, ‘so we have some time up our sleeves. Apparently she’s a bright girl who likes to write and sketch in a journal. There is a seller in Fiesole who is in the process of redecorating. We can go there tomorrow morning if you’d like to come. The family has always had a large proportion of daughters. We might find something suitable there.’
Rosa winced at the mention of Fiesole. She could leave Sibilla with Orietta for the morning, but she had a vision of pulling up with Antonio outside the Villa Scarfiotti. She had put that world out of her mind for many months now.
‘What’s the seller’s name?’ she asked.
Antonio looked at her interestedly. ‘Signora Armelli. Do you know her?’
Rosa shook her head. ‘I just wondered,’ she said, relieved that it wasn’t the Marchesa.
Signora Armelli’s villa was an eighteenth-century affair with a panoramic view of the Florentine hills. When Antonio brought his van to a stop in the driveway, Rosa was surprised to see two other Fiat vans already parked there.
‘Not to worry,’ said Antonio, opening the door for her. ‘They aren’t competition. They belong to Signor Risoli, who specialises in rare books and maps, and Signor Zalli, who collects hatpins and buttons.’
Rosa and Antonio were led by the butler down a corridor to a room stacked with furniture and household items. Every surface was covered in knick-knacks. Antonio’s attention was taken by a mahogany corner cabinet while Rosa stood in the doorway a moment, absorbing the scene. There were oriental rugs piled on the floor, along with wrought-iron furniture, botanical prints, chandeliers and sconces, and a pair of Venetian mirrors. She spotted a marble chessboard on an extendable table and caught a glimpse of two old men playing at it, until the vision faded away.
There were a couple of porcelain dolls and some mother-of-pearl hand mirrors, but Rosa sensed the customer seeking the birthday gift wasn’t after objects like those. She looked through a drawer of lace and ivory fans before she noticed a pair of candelabra piled on an old dresser. Between them was an object half-covered by a silk table runner. Rosa moved towards the dresser, wondering what the object could be. She lifted the runner and discovered a rosewood writing box with rounded edges. It was decorated with inlaid pewter depicting deer in a forest. Inside was an embossed velvet writing surface with compartments for paper and writing instruments. Rosa felt around the box and found a spring mechanism. She released it and gave a cry of joy when she discovered a secret drawer.
She called to Antonio: ‘I think I’ve found something for that twelve-year-old girl.’
Antonio was impressed by Rosa’s find and said that he would take her to Casa dei Bomboloni, which was famous for its doughnuts, to celebrate.
‘They have a rather ingenious system for making the bomboloni,’ he told her, once they were in the van and heading back to Florence. ‘They are dropped down a herringbone slide to shake off excess oil before they land in the sugar tray.’
At the Casa dei Bomboloni, Rosa and Antonio took a seat by the window. Rosa, who had never eaten a doughnut before, was lost in its sweet, doughy flavour.
‘Good?’ asked Antonio, reaching across the table to wipe a crumb from her chin.
‘Very good,’ Rosa replied, embarrassed that she’d had food on her face and not noticed.
The radio was playing a popular tune of the day:
When you smile, I always laugh.
When you laugh, I always smile…
The lyrics made no sense but the tune was catchy and Rosa tapped her foot in time to the beat. The song was interrupted by a blast of the Giovinezza and then an announcement that Il Duce was about to speak. Everyone in the Casa dei Bomboloni stood up to attention. The counter staff stopped serving customers and doughnuts no longer fell from the chute. Antonio raised himself to his feet and Rosa did likewise, although she hated herself for doing so. But to not stand up when Mussolini spoke would draw attention and could result in her being arrested. She wasn’t going to risk that.
Mussolini’s announcement was a long-winded explanation of his concept of fascism: ‘The state is everything. The individual is only accepted as far as his interests coincide with the state’s…’
When it was over, Antonio drove Rosa back to the store. She couldn’t help dwelling on Mussolini’s statement that no human or spiritual values existed outside of the state. Luciano would not have stood up for a proclamation like that. She felt weak for having crumbled in the face of such insipid indoctrination.
Antonio could see that something was troubling her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘I’m not a fascist,’ Rosa told him. ‘I want you to know that.’
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you think I am?’
She turned to him, relieved but not convinced. ‘But you have a Fascist Party card. I’ve seen it in the office files.’
Antonio shrugged. ‘Every businessman has one, otherwise the fascists will come and bust up the shop. We don our black shirts when necessary, wave our arms about as required, then go back to our work and leave the stupid buffoonery behind us. Besides, my grandparents were Jewish. I can’t take risks.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Rosa said, recalling her vision about the torcheres. ‘I thought your mother was Catholic.’
Antonio looked puzzled; he must have been wondering how she knew that. ‘My father converted to marry my mother,’ he said. ‘I was brought up Catholic. But it seems in Germany those things don’t matter, and Hitler and Mussolini are too good friends for comfort.’
Rosa remembered that while the troupe was on tour, Luciano had spoken about the boycotting of Jewish businesses that was encouraged in Germany. ‘Do you think that sort of racial discrimination will happen here?’ she asked Antonio.
He shook his head. ‘No, the Italians are brava gente. They are not racists like the Germans. Mussolini himself has a Jewish mistress. But the fascist thugs…well, one always has to be cautious. They could be influenced by anybody with an agenda.’
‘So you are nervous?’ Rosa asked.
Antonio laughed. ‘Life’s too short to always be worried. I say, “Take care of this day and tomorrow will take care of itself.” None of us can predict the future. Idiots like Mussolini come and go. It’s been like that since the Roman Empire. Eventually the pendulum will swing back to rampant liberalism.’
At first Rosa was shocked by Antonio’s pragmatism, but then she saw the sense behind it. Fascism was like a wildfire: it was too big to fight so it was better to let it burn out on its own. She leaned back in the seat. As guilty as it made her feel, she was glad to hear someone making light of Italy’s politics for a change. She admired Antonio’s approach to life, although she was sure Luciano would not approve of it.
Rosa often thought that her work was like a treasure hunt. She attended houses that were being redecorated and also deceased estates.
‘Don’t you find that macabre?’ Orietta asked her one day. ‘Looking through a dead person’s things?’
‘No,’ answered Rosa. ‘If you can’t take your worldly goods with you, someone else may as well enjoy them. Besides, all antiques are “dead person’s things".’
But there was one aspect of her work that Rosa had not been prepared for. One day, Antonio sent her to a house in Via della Pergola.
‘Go and see if there is anything you think worthwhile,’ he said.
The house was white with green shutters. The polished oak door and the wrought-iron balcony above it gave the house an air of elegance. Rosa shivered in anticipation of the beautiful things she hoped to find inside. She was about to cross the narrow street towards the house when a truck with an open tray pulled up in front of it. A few moments later a woman and two children appeared in the doorway, each carrying a suitcase. The boy and the girl were dressed in expensive woollen coats and the woman wore strings of pearls, but their faces were grim. The driver of the truck loaded the suitcases, and helped the children into the tray and the woman into the seat beside him. The next person out of the door was a slender man in his mid-forties. He dragged a trunk out and the driver helped him load it. The man glanced at the woman but she stiffened and turned away. He disappeared into the house again. An elderly couple peered from the window of the house next door, but the woman ignored them.
The front door opened again and this time two men in overalls came out carrying a velvet chaise longue with gold tassels. They did not put it on the truck but propped it up on the pavement. They went back into the house and returned with a pair of filigree lamps and a terracotta pot. The slender man came out with a couple of paintings. He patted the girl’s cheek and touched the boy’s hair. But when he turned and saw the workmen carting out a child’s bed with angels carved into the headboard, his composure broke. His hands trembled and his lips quivered. It dawned on Rosa that the family was being evicted. The realisation twisted her gut and caused her physical pain.
A white spitz dog appeared at one of the downstairs windows and pressed his face to it, scratching the glass with his paw. He was joined by a white cat with black cap and saddle markings. She sat on the windowsill and peered out.
‘Ambrosio! Allegra!’ the girl called out. Turning to the man, she asked, ‘Babbo, they are coming too, aren’t they?’
Her brother, who was older, looked to his father. The man shook his head.
‘No!’ the girl cried. ‘We can’t leave them behind! Everything else but them!’
The man glanced at his feet, then quickly opened the passenger door of the truck and climbed in alongside his wife. The driver started the engine. The girl clung to the sides of the tray, her face and knuckles white. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her dog barked desperately. The cat meowed. The truck gained speed and disappeared around the corner. Rosa stood glued to the spot. All she could think about was the Montagnanis being evicted from their home. The dreadful scene had been brought to life before her. Sobs she couldn’t repress shook her.
She was about to leave when a man in a suit came out of the door and spotted her.
‘Signora Bellocchi?’ he called. ‘I am Fabio Mirra. Signor Parigi said to watch out for you. I’ve saved a dining suite I think he would like.’
He must be the debt collector, Rosa thought. She couldn’t believe that he could be so composed after having evicted a man and his family. He was the same age as the slender man and could have been a father himself. But he didn’t have the ruthless appearance she might have expected. Rosa took a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her cheeks before stepping towards him.
Signor Mirra laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘It doesn’t pay to get emotionally involved,’ he said in a paternal tone. ‘That man was born into more wealth than you and I will ever know. But he gambled it away. It’s like a disease in some people. Of course I feel sorry for his wife and children. That’s the hard part.’
Rosa remembered the stricken look on the little girl’s face. What did that man think when he saw his humiliated wife and distressed children? Did it affect him to know that he had brought calamity to the people who depended on him? She couldn’t help thinking of Luciano’s father. At least the man she had seen had stayed with his family to share their fate.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rosa said, composing herself as best she could. ‘When Signor Parigi sent me here, I didn’t know it was…’
‘An eviction?’ Signor Mirra nodded sympathetically and guided Rosa into the house.
The interior was as beautiful as she had expected, with cream-and-white wallpaper, rosewood panelling and parquet floors. But it didn’t hold any magic for her now.
‘Does Signor Parigi often buy from evictions?’ Rosa asked.
She was fond of Antonio. It pained her to think he might be a vulture, profiting from misery.
‘All the dealers do, high and low,’ Signor Mirra replied, leading Rosa towards the dining room, which featured a Bohemian crystal chandelier. ‘You have to think, Signora Bellocchi, that you are helping these people in a way. The more you buy, the more they can repay their debts. Signor Parigi didn’t tell the man to gamble his fortune away, did he?’
Rosa shook her head. ‘I suppose not.’
The dining suite Signor Mirra had put aside for her to look at was as stunning as he had indicated. The table was in Louis XVI style and the matching medallion chairs were upholstered in toile depicting pastoral scenes of shepherds and shepherdesses. The chairs were slightly faded but not stained and the table had not been altered in any way. Rosa knew that its simple elegance would appeal to many customers.
‘It is a fine suite, I am sure Signor Parigi will like it,’ said Rosa. ‘Can you hold it until this afternoon?’
‘Of course,’ said Signor Mirra with a slight bow.
Rosa followed him back down the corridor and heard the dog barking. ‘What will happen to the animals?’ she asked.
Signor Mirra shrugged. ‘The cat I can let go to catch mice, but the dog…well, it’s against the law to let them onto the streets in case of rabies. I will have to take him to the police station to be…’
‘Shot?’
‘Put down.’
The euphemism didn’t soften the image. She remembered the shattered look on the girl’s face. The cat and dog had been beloved pets. They passed by the drawing room and Rosa saw the cat sticking its paw under the door. She hesitated and looked at a Pompeii fresco on the wall.
Signor Mirra turned to her. ‘Is there something else that interests you, Signora Bellocchi?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied, straightening her coat. ‘I’d like to take the dog and cat.’
Antonio looked from the cat curled up on the windowsill to the dog sitting at his heels. ‘The dining suite, I understand,’ he said. ‘But explain to me again how I came to be the master of these noble animals?’
Allegra jumped off the windowsill and rubbed against Rosa’s leg. She emitted a purr so loud that she could have been a truck starting up.
‘I can’t understand people who abandon their animals any more than I can understand people who give away their children,’ said Rosa, bending down to scratch the cat under her chin. She looked up and saw Antonio was smiling at her and shaking his head.
‘Well, the dog, I like,’ he said. ‘He’s Italian. A volpino italiano. A little fox. They’ve been favoured by royalty for hundreds of years. Michelangelo had one. But the cat…well, I don’t like cats.’
Rosa straightened. ‘You can’t get rid of her…they are like brother and sister.’
Antonio fought the faint smile that was tickling his lips. Rosa had no idea what to make of the sparkle in his eyes.
‘All right, all right, she can stay,’ he said. ‘But you’re in charge of removing cat fur and stopping her from scratching anything.’
When she returned home that evening, Rosa gave Luciano a long embrace.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.
Rosa didn’t want to tell him that she had witnessed an eviction and bring up his own pain. But the look of despair on the little girl’s face had burnt into her memory. Her heart ached with the suffering she had seen. The only way she felt she could relieve it was to have taken care of Allegra and Ambrosio.
‘I’m just tired,’ she said, placing Sibilla’s basket by the stove.
‘I want to show you something,’ Luciano said, leading her into the corridor.
They left the building and re-entered the one next door, climbing up several flights of stairs to a one-room apartment with a view of the street. A double bed with a ruffled cover took up most of the space. A small armoire and Sibilla’s cot had been placed in one corner. Luciano fluffed up the embroidered pillows on the bed.
‘Lie down,’ he said. ‘This is our place now.’ He threw himself on the bed and patted the space next to him. ‘Orietta sewed all the covers.’
Rosa couldn’t move. Luciano had gone to a lot of trouble to make the room appealing to her. Was he intending to marry her? Rosa’s heart swelled with the idea: a husband, a child, a sweet little room. What more could she want?
‘Come, Rosa,’ he said. ‘Lie down and rest. I can see how tired you are.’
Rosa slipped off her shoes and lay down next to him. He put his arms around her and she felt instant comfort in his strength. Although they hadn’t been physically intimate yet, Rosa knew that Luciano thought of her as his woman.
‘What does this mean?’ she asked him.
Luciano didn’t answer straightaway and Rosa’s heart sank. Maybe he was like most men and didn’t want to marry a woman who wasn’t a virgin.
He sighed. ‘I would love to marry you, Rosa, more than anything in the world.’ He hesitated and slid off the bed, moving to the window and looking out.
‘But?’ she prompted him.
Luciano turned to her. ‘Now is not the time,’ he said. ‘I want to marry you when I can give you and Sibilla a country free of the fascists. A real Italy.’
‘That’s quite a wedding gift,’ said Rosa, sitting up. She was trying to make light of the situation but her heart was breaking. She knew Luciano’s anti-fascist activities were important to him, but didn’t see why they should interfere with their having a life together.
Luciano came back to the bed and brushed Rosa’s hair from her forehead. ‘Can you trust me to keep my promise?’ he asked her.
She looked into his eyes. Unwed single mothers in Italy were unacceptable but unwed couples were different. Many working-class men and women lived together but didn’t marry until they could afford at least a wedding bed. Rosa turned away. She loved Luciano but she wanted more. She wanted a name, a real name. She wanted to appear somewhere on someone’s family tree. And she wanted a father for Sibilla. Then another thought occurred to her about why Luciano was hesitant to marry.
‘Are Sibilla and I in danger? Does moving us have something to do with the pamphlets?’
Luciano’s faced turned grim. ‘They caught that woman who delivered the pamphlets to me when we were in Lucca. She’s a tough nut. I don’t think she’ll talk, but she might.’
‘Then it’s you who’s in danger,’ said Rosa. ‘She barely took any notice of me.’
Luciano shook his head. ‘The fascists use wives and children to get at the men who oppose them. I want to keep you and Sibilla safe. I have to keep you separate from me…for now. It won’t always be like this, I promise.’
Rosa squeezed her hands together. Now she understood why Luciano had chosen an apartment with a view of the street—so she could escape with Sibilla if she saw he was arrested. She was torn. She loved Luciano but she feared going back to prison. But even more, she was afraid for her daughter. If Rosa was arrested, she’d be left an orphan.
The day the customer who had ordered the present for the twelve-year-old girl was due to collect it, Rosa arrived with Sibilla at the shop before her usual time. Sibilla had been too big for a basket for a while now and Antonio had given Rosa a wicker pram that he claimed to have picked up ‘for nothing’ at an estate sale. But Rosa could see it was made in England and the lining was new. She was embarrassed but grateful. When Luciano saw it, Rosa lied to spare his feelings. She said it was given to her by the benefactor of a deceased estate. She needed the pram: Sibilla was too heavy to carry the distance from the apartment to the shop.
That morning, Rosa headed towards the backroom and stopped in her tracks when she heard raised voices. Antonio was arguing with someone. She recognised Signora Visconti’s voice.
‘What has brought this on?’ she shouted. ‘We’ve been happy for years.’
‘We’ve never been happy,’ Antonio answered.
‘What has your father threatened now?’ Signora Visconti asked. ‘That if you don’t marry he will give all your inheritance to the Church?’
‘I don’t care if he does,’ Antonio snapped back. ‘That’s never been the point. It’s…he’s getting on now and he has no grandchildren.’
‘Well, marry then!’ Signora Visconti said. Her tone did not sound convincing to Rosa.
‘How can I? The only woman I have ever loved is you.’
Rosa could hear the pain in Antonio’s voice. He was going to make someone a fine husband one day, but Rosa suspected it wouldn’t be Signora Visconti.
It was far too intimate a conversation to be overhearing and Rosa retreated to her desk at the front of the shop. She took Sibilla out of her pram and placed her on the floor next to her. Sibilla was starting to walk herself by gripping onto furniture. There was a playpen in the backroom, but out in the shop Rosa had to keep an eye on Sibilla every second. As tolerant as Antonio was of Rosa bringing her child to work, and of Ambrosio and Allegra as the shop pets, she didn’t think he’d be thrilled at the sight of an eleven-month-old child drooling onto a two-hundred-year-old sofa. Rosa sighed at her daughter’s happy smile. Sibilla had begun to wean herself earlier than Rosa expected and was more interested in soft-boiled eggs than in Rosa’s breasts. In a short while Rosa would have to leave Sibilla with Orietta, who worked from the apartment all the time now.
‘But how I shall miss your pretty face,’ Rosa said, kneeling to kiss Sibilla.
She took out the catalogue to update it but the voices from the backroom grew louder.
‘I can’t divorce Stefano and marry you. This is Florence not Hollywood!’ Signora Visconti shouted.
‘Why did you marry the buffoon in the first place?’ Antonio hissed.
‘Because he can give me things you can’t!’
‘A palazzo and a country house! But you don’t love him!’
Signora Visconti was crying now. ‘No, I love you! But I can’t do it! The Church would not have it! I don’t want to burn in hell!’
Rosa froze, wondering what she should do. Antonio knew little about her private life and never pried. She didn’t want to learn more about his than was necessary. She stood up with the idea of taking Sibilla for a walk or to a cafe for a while. She was putting on her coat when a teary-eyed Signora Visconti burst from the backroom. She ran past Rosa with barely a glance towards her and rushed out of the shop. Rosa turned to see a stricken-looking Antonio standing behind her. She averted her eyes.
‘Buon giorno, Rosa,’ he said.
‘Buon giorno,’ she replied, blushing. ‘Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?’
‘Thank you. I could do with a cup of tea.’
Rosa picked up Sibilla and walked to the backroom to put the kettle on the stove. Antonio sat down at his desk and began making telephone calls to customers. Both of them kept up a semblance of normality, but the air was thick with tension.
In the afternoon, Antonio went to visit some craftsmen and Rosa stayed in the shop to meet with the customer coming to collect the writing box. Antonio had provided a list of other items to consider in case the customer did not like the box, but Rosa was convinced that it was the perfect gift. She was cleaning some crystal vases when the bell to the shop tinkled. There was a swish of a skirt and the smell of orange blossoms. Rosa turned and froze to the spot. The red-blonde hair and the blue eyes were unmistakable. It was Signora Corvetto, the Marchese Scarfiotti’s mistress.
‘Buon giorno, signora,’ Rosa said, trying to recover her composure.
Signora Corvetto smiled but in a puzzled way. She had recognised Rosa but seemed to be having trouble placing where she had seen her before. Memories flooded back to Rosa. She remembered the day she had left the convent. Signora Corvetto had been in the car when the Marchese had picked her up. She had thrown her ermine wrap over Rosa’s knees.
‘Have you come about the writing box?’ Rosa managed to say.
‘Yes,’ answered Signora Corvetto, taking the seat Rosa offered to her. ‘Signor Parigi said it is a particularly beautiful one.’
Rosa smiled to hide her inner turmoil. Signora Corvetto would recognise her eventually. Then what would happen? Would she tell Antonio? Would she tell the Marchese Scarfiotti? Rosa had kept her agreement to stay away from the Scarfiotti family and to never mention them to anybody. But it seemed the past had caught up to her, whether she wanted it to or not.
Rosa brought the box to Signora Corvetto, who gave a gasp of delight when she saw it. She ran her fingers over the rosewood then undid the latch and looked inside. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘How clever of you to think of it.’
‘It has a secret compartment,’ said Rosa, demonstrating the springlock.
‘It’s perfect,’ said Signora Corvetto. ‘Would I be able to have it engraved?’
Rosa took out her notebook to write down Signora Corvetto’s instructions. Antonio hated people engraving objects; it destroyed the value of the antique. But Rosa understood Signora Corvetto was looking for an exquisite gift, not for something to be resold.
‘What would you like the engraving to say?’ she asked.
‘For Clementina. Eighth of May, 1933.’
Rosa’s hand trembled but she did her best to appear calm. Darling Clementina. She remembered the garden party held in honour of her ninth birthday at the Villa Scarfiotti. Signora Corvetto is very nice. She comes to see me every birthday, Clementina had said. Memories Rosa had pushed down for years rose to the surface: Clementina in the schoolroom at the crack of dawn, eager for her classes; reading Le tigri di Mompracem together; the anxiety Rosa had felt when she had to entrust Clementina to the instructors at Piccole Italiane.
‘Are you all right, Signora…?’
Rosa recovered herself. ‘Montagnani,’ she said, finishing Signora Corvetto’s question. ‘I’m sorry, I thought I heard my daughter cry.’ She nodded towards the backroom, where Sibilla was visible playing with her toys in her pen.
Signora Corvetto turned in Sibilla’s direction. ‘What a beautiful child,’ she said. ‘Can I hold her? I love children.’
Rosa led Signora Corvetto towards the backroom and picked Sibilla up for her to hold.
‘Hello,’ said Signora Corvetto, ticking Sibilla’s nose.
Sibilla giggled in delight. With the Montagnani family always doting on her, she never shied from attention.
Signora Corvetto turned to Rosa. ‘You have your daughter with you while you work?’
‘Only for a short while longer,’ said Rosa with a resigned shrug. ‘When I was nursing her she had to be with me, but now she is becoming too active and will soon have to stay with her aunt.’
A distressed look passed over Signora Corvetto’s face. ‘It’s not easy to give your child up to someone else,’ she said. ‘But sometimes you have to do it for the best.’
The women returned to the shop where Rosa wrote out a bill of sale and attached the documents giving the details of the writing box. She had not had a vision of the box’s origins and now she wished she had tried. She attempted to peer into its past while she wrapped it in tissue paper to take to the engraver later, but nothing came to her. Perhaps her attachment to the future owner of the box prevented her from seeing its past ones.
Signora Corvetto paid for the box and Rosa handed her the bill of sale. When she did, their fingers touched and Rosa felt a tingle run through her.
‘I recognise you now,’ said Signora Corvetto. ‘You were Clementina’s first governess. Signorina Bellocchi.’
Rosa blushed to the roots of her hair.
‘Clementina missed you terribly,’ Signora Corvetto said. ‘I think she still does.’
‘I…I didn’t leave voluntarily,’ Rosa stammered.
Signora Corvetto looked at her, surprised. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I didn’t realise that. They told me that you’d found a placement elsewhere.’
Rosa’s mind raced. She wanted to beg Signora Corvetto not to tell anyone that she had seen her. What would happen if Antonio found out she wasn’t a widow? Or the Marchesa Scarfiotti discovered she was in Florence? Although she feared that to mention anything may make matters worse, she decided to take the risk.
‘The Marchesa Scarfiotti and I,’ Rosa began awkwardly, ‘we didn’t get along.’
Signora Corvetto fixed her eyes on Rosa’s face. ‘I quite understand,’ she said. ‘It must have been difficult for a young girl like you. She can be very intimidating.’
Rosa opened the shop door for Signora Corvetto. ‘Please,’ she said quietly, ‘don’t mention to anyone that you saw me.’
Signora Corvetto nodded. ‘No, of course not. You have a new life now with a husband and a baby. I wish you nothing but happiness.’
‘Thank you.’
Rosa watched Signora Corvetto walk down the street. She was an elegant woman but there was something lonely about her too. Rosa’s hand tingled again. She saw Signora Corvetto’s face loom up before her at the garden party. It became juxtaposed with Clementina’s and the revelation took Rosa’s breath away. The creamy skin, the red-blonde hair, the blue eyes…Signora Corvetto was Clementina’s birth mother!
Suddenly things that had happened made more sense. Now she understood why it was Signora Corvetto who had come with the Marchese to collect Rosa from the convent, and why she always visited Clementina on her birthdays. What had forced Signora Corvetto to surrender Clementina to the Marchesa? It’s not easy to give your child up to someone else. But sometimes you have to do it for the best, she had said.
Rosa thought it must be dreadful for a mother to be in such a situation: to see her daughter grow up before her eyes and never be able to acknowledge her. But most of all Rosa felt sorry for Clementina. She thought of Signora Corvetto and Clementina embracing at the garden party. The girl had been in the arms of her real mother and not known it.