“Most delightfully unfeminine of you, my dear.”
Chapter 6
It was a scorching, humid day, as only a day in August could be in Rome. Giana wished for nothing more than a tub of cold water she could sink into and sleep. Her layers of petticoats felt like a deadweight, and her damp underclothes chafed against her skin. She gingerly wiped a drop of perspiration from her lip before it could fall on the swatch of white embroidered linen she held. Many wealthy Roman families had weeks before escaped the heat and journeyed with their households to the cool mountains to the north. They had all gone except for the Pallis, the Salvados, and the Condes, and even they had packed their children off. It had been with a sigh of relief that Giana had bid good-bye to Cametta Palli and Bianca Salvado. It was only Angela Cavour, who had been gone for three weeks now, that Giana missed. Soft-spoken, gentle Angela. Giana, of course, could not go with her. Brothels were always open, even in August.
Giana let out a sigh of boredom and jerked her needle again through the linen. She was aware that Mirabella del Conde had stirred herself to watch her again, and as luck would have it, the needle was well laced and the light brown silk thread pulled through easily.
“Nice even stitches,” Mirabella said in her flat voice. “I like the shades of brown. They will make lovely seat covers for the solarium chairs.”
Giana merely nodded, so bored with the eternal embroidery and their endless conversations that she wanted to scream. There has to be more to life than this. Once the thought had finally spoken itself in her mind, the reply was not long in coming. There is more to life—and your mother has found it.
Giana shook away the thought. She was simply out of sorts with the ghastly heat. And the ghastly boring company of these ladies. Giana realized that Camilla Palli was speaking to her. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I was saying, my dear child, that Cametta much enjoyed the outing with you last month to the Villa d’Este. She wished that you could have accompanied her to the mountains.”
“It was interesting, ma’am. On a day like today, I wish I were splashing in a fountain somewhere.”
“One becomes accustomed to the warmer weather,” Luciana Salvado said. She lowered her eyes to her embroidery and continued in a reproachful voice, “I only wish you had enjoyed all the young people on your outing.”
“But I did,” Giana said.
“That is not what Bianca told me,” Mirabella said. “She said that you left poor Bruno sadly cast down.”
“I sincerely trust not, ma’am. He is very pleasant. It is just that I found his attentions rather awkward. He is immature, I think.”
Camilla Palli tittered, a sound very much like her daughter, Cametta, made, and just as grating. “You, dear child, are only seventeen. I daresay he would make a fine husband.”
“You forget, ma’am,” Giana said, jutting out her chin, “that my fiancé awaits me in England.”
“Dear Bruno is related to me,” Camilla explained. “His mother is my cousin.”
Ah, Giana thought, and you are piqued because I can’t be nabbed.
“Englishmen are so cold, I have heard,” Mirabella said to no one in particular, threading her needle.
“The climate in England is cooler than it is here,” Giana said blandly.
“That is not what Mirabella meant,” Luciana said sharply.
When Mirabella’s eyes went to the clock, Giana’s gaze followed hers, and with a relieved smile she rose. “It is time for me to meet my uncle,” she said.
“But you have not yet finished the chair cover,” Mirabella said.
“I fear it will have to wait, ma’am. Uncle Daniele will not.” Even the thought of spending the evening at Madame Lucienne’s brothel seemed preferable to this.
“Your gown looks quite limp, Giana,” Luciana said. “You should lace your corset more tightly. It prevents wrinkles.”
“I fear I would faint if I did, ma’am. It is so warm.”
“Still,” Camilla pursued in Luciana’s wake, “a lady should always appear immaculate. I am certain your dear mother would give you the same advice.”
“Perhaps,” Giana said, inching toward the door of the salon.
“Let me ring for a servant,” Mirabella said finally, seeing that Giana was set upon leaving. “Where has the time gone?” she said brightly. “It is already four o’clock. My dear husband does not work so late now in August. I expect him home soon, yes, quite soon now.”
Daniele settled back against the leather squabs of the carriage, enjoying the stirring of a slight evening breeze against his skin. Giana sat silently beside him in the open carriage, staring toward the Tiber, sluggish and muddy in late summer.
“You were always such a chatterer, Giana. Has the Roman heat tired your tongue?”