Autumn 1818, the Piacentine Hills
It was a square stone dwelling, remote from any town, with three windows on the first floor and one each side of the door. Built by someone with pretensions, maybe sixty years ago: the Count’s old estate manager, Leontina’s father Amadeo said, with the money he’d screwed out of the very poorest. He didn’t seem to want to tell her any more about the man, or even name him, but he was happy enough to be living in this house while the other mouldered in his unvisited grave. She presumed Amadeo saw this as some sort of belated revenge, and she could hardly blame him, given the nature of what he’d endured as a child and young man, an unfree person, a mezzadro. She couldn’t remember any of that life, of course – they’d left for England, on foot, when she was five – but she knew the stories.
At any rate, the place had a fine open view out over the wooded valley, and captured the breezes on the hottest days. There was a spring at the back, of fresh, clean water that never dried up, which was presumably why the building was here at all. It was a perfect retreat for the summer and autumn, and suited them just now, but it’d be a nightmare in winter, when the wind came howling down from the Apennines and brought the heavy snow with it. The other houses in the villages and hamlets here weren’t built like this, in such a recklessly exposed position; they huddled together for warmth and company, and their doors opened into inner courtyards. When the weather was really bad and the wolf packs came running down from the mountains like dark shadows, desperate for prey, the entrances to courtyards could be barricaded, to keep the people and the livestock safe. But they’d be gone by then. They were just renting the place, cheap, from a distant cousin, who’d inherited it through the new Napoleonic code and couldn’t find anyone rash enough to buy it from him. He’d knock it down to reuse the stone for something more practical, he said, one day. No rush. Amadeo was out with him just now, inspecting the vines, or some such manufactured errand; just an excuse for two old men to gossip and reminisce without their womenfolk overhearing their silly chatter.
It would be time to leave soon, she knew, before the first snows made travelling difficult. Leontina hoped to persuade her stubborn father that they would be more comfortable spending the cold months by the sea, in Liguria, or up by one of the lakes, rather than in the city. The fog down in the Po Valley was heavy, wet, depressing, and could last for months. Amadeo Schiavi was ninety or thereabouts; he needed to be careful with his health. And his eyesight was fading, his vision no longer sharp as it had been. Fog would be bad for him.
Mrs Constantine realised she’d been standing still for many minutes, looking out towards the mountain across the way without really seeing it, even though it was well worth her attention. The leaves in the chestnut woods were changing colour in a blaze of glory, and the church spire poking above the trees marked the site of the Roman ruins that people came from far away to visit.
She’d miss this place, it was in her bones somehow, even though she’d lived most of her life in London and had always considered herself to be a creature of the city. They could take ship from Genoa to England, of course, if it came to it, though they’d have to go soon or endure a rough winter passage. They could afford it. Poor people still walked to England in search of a better life, but they were past that now. They had achieved all they’d set out to do, and more. But London winters were no pleasure either. It was foggy there too, and dirty. A million people crammed together – hard to imagine, from here.
She was holding a letter that had arrived that morning, delivered by another cousin coming back from market – that was what had distracted her from the rhythm of her chores. Not that she had much to do most of the time, because they had no crops or animals to tend to, being temporary residents, and were living very simply here with just one young maid to help her cook and clean.
The letter told her that two of her daughters were in Italy now, and proposed coming to see her, Bianca with her new husband, Beatrice with her female companion. She’d not met either of these people yet, but that wasn’t the problem. She could all too easily picture the reaction of her neighbours and relations here, when a fancy coach, or two coaches, drew up and all the fine English gentlefolk in silks and furs stepped out, looking extraordinarily out of place.
Nobody here really understood, because she was a cautious woman, not a boastful one, how well her daughters had married. Bianca was a countess now, Viola a duchess; Allegra was wed to a British Member of Parliament, Cecilia to a retired major, a country magistrate, and Sabrina’s husband was a prosperous merchant. The younger girls were heiresses, too, and yet she’d told nobody. But that wasn’t the problem either, because she didn’t really care what people here thought of her, or what they whispered behind her back. They were bound to think she was an outsider anyway, and gave herself city airs; she’d been away so long, and her ways weren’t their ways any more. She was no farmer’s wife, no contadina, even if she was playing at being one for a season.
Leontina’s problem was that only one of her six children, Allegra, who had found out by pure accident, was aware that they had a grandfather living, and knew their true family history of illegitimacy, poverty, and serfdom. And if they came here, she’d have to tell them everything – all the secrets she’d kept so close for so long, all the things she’d told them about their elevated origins that were purest fiction.
It was time, she supposed. There was no need for anxiety any more, though it had become a habit with her. They were all safe and secure and settled – her web of lies about her supposedly noble background must have helped with that, or so she chose to believe – and now she could let go of it all and tell them the unvarnished truth at last. It would be a relief. She sighed, and went inside to find paper and ink, and write a letter of acceptance. Yes, it was time.
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