it wonderful to be riding in one again?
At tree-lined, iron-fenced Louisburg Square, the plethora of cats that sunned themselves in the dappled shade and the general feeling of serenity reminded her of nothing so much as Europe before the war. Of languid and leisurely summer days spent in the tidy boroughs of Germany and the dignified neighborhoods of Vienna. They made her long for all that she had lost. So it was not with a sense of great awe or meek humility that Luciana descended the car; it was with a familiarity and ease, a sense of coming, if not home, then into her rightful domain.
Which is why, you see, she ought to be forgiven for walking right up to the front door.
The butler, upon understanding what her visit entailed, tried to shoo her around to the back, but Luciana didn’t understand him. She didn’t know what he was saying and her only acquaintance with a service entrance had been at Madame Fortier’s. In front of that house in Louisburg Square, she had quite forgotten, for a moment, whom she had become.
Eventually, Mrs. Quinn, bothered by the commotion at the front door, came out of her sitting room and into the hallway. Upon seeing her, Luciana stepped forward and offered up the sample books as the doorman made his mistress aware of the girl’s breach in etiquette. Soon both the man and the strega were berating her.
Luciana didn’t understand the words, though she understood the intent. She was being scolded. And the daughter of the Count of Roma didn’t take well to scolding. The more voluble Mrs. Quinn became, the more remote, the more patrician Luciana became. Until screeching at the girl became as satisfying as trying to engage her husband’s attention.
Finally, she did something Luciana understood. She pointed toward the door at the far end of the hallway.
Luciana went toward it as she was bid, though she had no idea what to do or where to go once she had reached it. She stopped once, halfway down the hall, and turned back toward the front door, but Mrs. Quinn and the doorman had disappeared.
Narrow doorways set into dark corners of hallways were not within her usual realm of existence. Before having fled to the North End, that is. In her experience, such things had usually been meant for servants. She was rather enjoying the prospect of a brightly lit hallway that smelled of nothing but furniture wax and carbolic. It was a well-proportioned hallway at that. Not marble, like she had been used to, but the wood paneling on the walls and the floorboards at her feet gleamed with quiet dignity. So she decided to enjoy that place of quiet and relative peace. And as she stood there, she made a decision. She decided that she needed to learn English. If for no other reason than to be able to understand people like the strega when they yelled at her.
For then, she would be able to yell back.
In any case, that’s where Billy came upon her. He’d long ago shed the suit he’d worn downtown. Clad now in his white duck outing pants and white canvas oxfords, he was on his way to The Tennis and Racquet Club.
Luciana was standing in front of a picture, head tilted, wondering if, in fact, it was the Canaletto it claimed to be. She had her doubts.
But he didn’t. It was definitely the beautiful girl from Madame Fortier’s shop who now stood in his hallway. “Delighted to see you again!”
12
Luciana jumped at his words.
He put out his hand in welcome. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Forgetting who she was trying to be, she put her hand into his. She expected that Billy would raise it to his lips, so she let it lie in his palm.
Billy, having expected to be given a hand to shake, had no idea what to do with such a treasure. But he was not his father’s son for nothing. Smiling in a way that displayed all of his innate Irish charm, he led her to the bench that sat in the hall. The invitation was unmistakable.
Luciana sat.
And he sat down beside her, elbows on his knees,
At tree-lined, iron-fenced Louisburg Square, the plethora of cats that sunned themselves in the dappled shade and the general feeling of serenity reminded her of nothing so much as Europe before the war. Of languid and leisurely summer days spent in the tidy boroughs of Germany and the dignified neighborhoods of Vienna. They made her long for all that she had lost. So it was not with a sense of great awe or meek humility that Luciana descended the car; it was with a familiarity and ease, a sense of coming, if not home, then into her rightful domain.
Which is why, you see, she ought to be forgiven for walking right up to the front door.
The butler, upon understanding what her visit entailed, tried to shoo her around to the back, but Luciana didn’t understand him. She didn’t know what he was saying and her only acquaintance with a service entrance had been at Madame Fortier’s. In front of that house in Louisburg Square, she had quite forgotten, for a moment, whom she had become.
Eventually, Mrs. Quinn, bothered by the commotion at the front door, came out of her sitting room and into the hallway. Upon seeing her, Luciana stepped forward and offered up the sample books as the doorman made his mistress aware of the girl’s breach in etiquette. Soon both the man and the strega were berating her.
Luciana didn’t understand the words, though she understood the intent. She was being scolded. And the daughter of the Count of Roma didn’t take well to scolding. The more voluble Mrs. Quinn became, the more remote, the more patrician Luciana became. Until screeching at the girl became as satisfying as trying to engage her husband’s attention.
Finally, she did something Luciana understood. She pointed toward the door at the far end of the hallway.
Luciana went toward it as she was bid, though she had no idea what to do or where to go once she had reached it. She stopped once, halfway down the hall, and turned back toward the front door, but Mrs. Quinn and the doorman had disappeared.
Narrow doorways set into dark corners of hallways were not within her usual realm of existence. Before having fled to the North End, that is. In her experience, such things had usually been meant for servants. She was rather enjoying the prospect of a brightly lit hallway that smelled of nothing but furniture wax and carbolic. It was a well-proportioned hallway at that. Not marble, like she had been used to, but the wood paneling on the walls and the floorboards at her feet gleamed with quiet dignity. So she decided to enjoy that place of quiet and relative peace. And as she stood there, she made a decision. She decided that she needed to learn English. If for no other reason than to be able to understand people like the strega when they yelled at her.
For then, she would be able to yell back.
In any case, that’s where Billy came upon her. He’d long ago shed the suit he’d worn downtown. Clad now in his white duck outing pants and white canvas oxfords, he was on his way to The Tennis and Racquet Club.
Luciana was standing in front of a picture, head tilted, wondering if, in fact, it was the Canaletto it claimed to be. She had her doubts.
But he didn’t. It was definitely the beautiful girl from Madame Fortier’s shop who now stood in his hallway. “Delighted to see you again!”
12
Luciana jumped at his words.
He put out his hand in welcome. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Forgetting who she was trying to be, she put her hand into his. She expected that Billy would raise it to his lips, so she let it lie in his palm.
Billy, having expected to be given a hand to shake, had no idea what to do with such a treasure. But he was not his father’s son for nothing. Smiling in a way that displayed all of his innate Irish charm, he led her to the bench that sat in the hall. The invitation was unmistakable.
Luciana sat.
And he sat down beside her, elbows on his knees,
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