Tuscan Rose by Belinda Alexandra Page A

threadbare!’
    Miss Butterfield’s dress was made of mulberry crepe and was the slip-on type with an overblouse front that looked fashionable. It was nicer than anything Rosa owned. She began to feelimpatient with Miss Butterfield’s complaining. Perhaps the true reason her suitor had preferred her sister was because he had discerned there would be no pleasing her.
    A shrill laugh pierced the air. It startled Rosa. The Marchesa was talking with a man whose wide girth hung over his pants. She was sucking on a cigarette in a holder and blowing the smoke flirtatiously in the man’s direction. Rosa saw the man with the cowlick turn and flee towards the house.
    ‘You Italians create fantasies and everyone else believes them,’ Miss Butterfield sneered. ‘The Marchesa Scarfiotti! Oh, she loves the title, doesn’t she? The villa. The clothes. Everyone believes that preposterous story about her mother being an Egyptian princess! What a load of codswallop!’
    Rosa drew back at Miss Butterfield’s remark. She wasn’t fond of the Marchesa but she was growing tired of the gossip. She felt it was wrong to take wages from the Scarfiottis then talk about them behind their backs. Suor Maddalena had often quoted from Proverbs: Only a liar listens to gossip. Rosa turned away, hinting that she was not interested in any sordid details Miss Butterfield wished to share about her mistress, but the governess pressed on as if she hadn’t noticed.
    ‘One of my cousins was posted in Egypt. He knew Generale Caleffi. The Marchesa’s mother danced in a bar in Cairo. She tricked the general into marrying her and his family had to make something up to avoid the scandal.’
    Rosa drew a breath through clenched teeth. The Marchese was obviously proud of his family name and she doubted he would have chosen a wife who would sully it. Her mind turned back to the woman in the turban she had seen outside the summerhouse. Still, what Miss Butterfield said would explain why the Marchese would not allow Clementina to speak with her grandmother.
    Seeing that she had struck some interest in Rosa, Miss Butterfield became animated. ‘The Marchesa’s mother is ruthless. Why, my cousin used to say that the old general never died of dysentery. She—’
    Miss Butterfield was cut off by the appearance of Maria hurrying towards them from the direction of the loggia. Rosa was thankful. She did not like the direction Miss Butterfield’s story was taking.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Maria. ‘I remembered I had to see the gardener about roses for the bomboniere. They are making them up in the house now.’
    Maria’s cap was askew and her chin was red. Rosa reached up to help her straighten the cap and noticed a sour smell about her—like body odour and bleach. It struck Rosa as strange because Maria was fastidious about her grooming. It must have been because it was a warm day and she had been running.
    ‘It’s all right,’ said Rosa. ‘I was about to set the children up for the sack race.’
    Applause sounded through the gathering. The children began to cheer. Rosa and Maria turned to where everyone was looking. The Marchese was walking down the path leading a grey pony with a white mane. The pony’s pink saddle and bridle were engraved with stars and a pink plume was perched on its head. Clementina’s eyes grew wide with excitement. She rushed towards her father.
    ‘She’s come all the way from Scotland especially for you,’ the Marchese told her.
    ‘She’s beautiful,’ said Clementina, nestling her cheek to the pony’s flank. ‘What’s her name?’
    ‘Bonnie Lass,’ replied the Marchese in a mock Scottish accent that made the children laugh.
    The Marchese’s usual aloofness gave way to a face alive with love and pride when he led his daughter around the garden on the pony. After Clementina’s parade, he helped the other children take turns in riding it. He threw back his head and laughed when one boy asked if the pony was real or whether