Tuscan Rose by Belinda Alexandra

guilty conscience needs no accuser,’ she sniffed. Her mother had suffered arthritis all her life and now Miss Butterfield, who looked robustly healthy to Rosa, seemed destined to suffer the same. ‘How my knees throbbed this winter,’ she said. ‘I thought I might perish with the pain.’ There were problems with sore teeth, a weak chest, aching bones and constipation. Miss Butterfield’s greatest disappointment was her ‘beloved’ suitor who in the end married her younger sister. ‘She stole him away, right from under my nose. Like a thief in the night. Gone! All my hopes for a happy life!’
    Rosa tried to show concern but realised it was only encouraging Miss Butterfield to continue. She was relieved when she saw Ada and Paolina bringing platters of fruit tarts, slices of castagnaccio and cenci dusted in sugar down the path towards them. A manservent and maid followed behind, carrying jugs of fruit punch and glasses.
    ‘Look! They are bringing the treats,’ Rosa said, standing up. She organised the children to each take a napkin and to sit on the carpet that had been laid out for them.
    The maid with the fruit punch sidled up to Maria. ‘The men are very dashing today,’ she said to her. ‘Especially him.’
    ‘He’s always dashing,’ Maria giggled.
    Rosa glanced towards the adult party, wondering who the maids were talking about. The Marchese was still nowhere to be seen. The young man with the cowlick was continuing to follow the Marchesa’s every move with his blazing eyes. His features were even but his expression was like that of a man fixed on a problem. Rosa could not imagine him ever laughing. The only other man under forty was Vittorio and surely the maids couldn’t be referring to him. The Marchesa’s brother was strutting among the guests in his jackboots and black shirt. His only concession to the celebration was a gardenia in his buttonhole. Rosa thought he was the most unattractive human being she had ever seen and the most stupid. Once, at one of the torturous dinners she shared with the Scarfiotti family, she had heard him claim, ‘War is not anunfortunate necessity but an expression of man’s virility’, and a few moments later whine like an infant because his soup was cold. Paolina had told her that Vittorio had participated in D’Annunzio’s daring expedition to Fiume and that the scar on his forehead was from a raid with the squadristi on a communist meeting. ‘But one day when he discovered a boil on his back, he took to bed and moaned as if he had been visited by the Black Death,’ she said.
    Ada showed more sympathy for Vittorio. ‘He took a blow to the head in battle and has been having trouble adjusting to a quiet life since he came back from the war,’ she explained. ‘Signora Guerrini said that he is suffering a form of amnesia and can’t remember anything of his childhood or youth. All he knows is how to fight.’
    Rosa watched Vittorio give some Austrian guests the fascist salute. Even in the short time she had known him, he seemed to be deteriorating further into madness.
    Ada nudged Rosa. ‘Those girls have men on the brain,’ she said, indicating Maria and the maid. ‘Mind you don’t go the same way. They aren’t worth it.’
    The children finished their sweets and licked their fingers. They wiped their icing-sugar-covered hands on their smock dresses and sailor suits and bustled around Rosa, urging her to let them play a game of ice witch. Rosa turned to ask Maria to assist her but the maid had disappeared. She assumed she had returned to the house with Ada to help in the kitchen.
    ‘They pay me a meagre allowance for clothes,’ said Miss Butterfield, after Rosa had settled the children into their game and sat down to watch them. ‘They say it is because the Baroness gives me her mother’s dresses after they have been worn only a few times. Can you imagine? Hand-me-downs! What an insult! Look at this one, for instance: it’s almost