it was two servants dressed up. Rosa had heard that ponies could be bad-tempered, but the little horse behaved docilely, even with the children hopping and skipping alongside it.
Baron Derveaux, a man with gangly legs and winged eyebrows, joined in to help. His tender manner when he lifted the children into the saddle made him seem like an agreeable man. Rosa wondered why Miss Butterfield found so much in her employers to complain about.
‘A complete disaster,’ said Miss Butterfield, shaking her head. ‘What a lack of decorum! Baron Derveaux is like a child himself. It’s the French, they never grow up.’
Rosa dismissed Miss Butterfield as someone with a pessimistic view of the world. She thought the Derveaux twins were lovely and their parents seemed charming. She recalled a quote from the English poet John Milton: The mind can make a heaven out of hell or a hell out of heaven. Miss Butterfield would do well to listen to her countryman. The story about the Marchesa’s mother dancing in a bar probably wasn’t true at all.
When the party was over and the guests were ready to leave, Signor Bonizzoni instructed Rosa and Maria to assist him with the bomboniere because the Marchesa’s personal maid was busy with the guest book and Signora Guerrini was organising the other maids to tidy up. The two young women passed the packages to the Marchese and Marchesa to give out as their guests departed. The men received a silver pen with Clementina’s name and the date engraved on it, while the women were given crystal perfume bottles etched with the same. The children received tulle bags of sugared almonds. Clementina curtseyed gracefully to each parting guest.
Rosa noticed the bomboniere were tied with violet posies. ‘It’s a pity the gardener didn’t have the roses ready. They would have been so elegant,’ she said to Maria.
Spots of colour came to Maria’s cheeks and she averted her eyes. Rosa realised that she had embarrassed her without understanding why. She saw the Marchese glance in Maria’s direction and wondered if he had noticed her crumpled skirt. She hoped the maid would not be reprimanded.
Baron and Baroness Derveaux were the last guests to leave. Rosa reached to take a pen to pass to the Marchese and when sheturned back she saw the Baron was staring at her with a puzzled expression on his face.
‘I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘But have I seen you somewhere before?’
The Marchese raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s impossible, François. She was cloistered in a convent until she came here.’
The Baron nodded apologetically.
‘Perhaps it was on Via Tornabuoni,’ offered Rosa. ‘I was there a few weeks ago having my flute repaired. Or somewhere else in the city? I run errands there on Wednesdays.’
‘Ah, but I never go to the city if I can help it,’ said the Baron, a wry smile coming to his face. ‘My wife loves Florence but I can’t abide it. Too many Florentines to tell me that theirs is the most beautiful language, the finest wine, the purest olive oil, the loveliest art. They will even tell you the best walking canes are made in Florence! I spend my time within the grounds of our villa here in Fiesole whenever we are in Italy. I did that as a child when my family came to holiday here.’
The Marchesa turned and studied Rosa. It was the first time Rosa thought she had really looked at her. ‘Who does she remind you of, François?’ the Marchesa asked.
The Baron was quiet for a moment before he answered. ‘It’s when she turned a certain way…Well, perhaps it is a trick of the light.’
‘Or a trick of the champagne,’ laughed the Baroness, linking her arm with her husband’s.
The Baron smiled but Rosa could see he was perplexed.
The Baron’s driver brought his Alfa Romeo to the front steps and opened the doors. Signor Bonizzoni sent Maria away to help the other maids and returned into the house himself. The Marchese and Marchesa, with Clementina and Rosa
Baron Derveaux, a man with gangly legs and winged eyebrows, joined in to help. His tender manner when he lifted the children into the saddle made him seem like an agreeable man. Rosa wondered why Miss Butterfield found so much in her employers to complain about.
‘A complete disaster,’ said Miss Butterfield, shaking her head. ‘What a lack of decorum! Baron Derveaux is like a child himself. It’s the French, they never grow up.’
Rosa dismissed Miss Butterfield as someone with a pessimistic view of the world. She thought the Derveaux twins were lovely and their parents seemed charming. She recalled a quote from the English poet John Milton: The mind can make a heaven out of hell or a hell out of heaven. Miss Butterfield would do well to listen to her countryman. The story about the Marchesa’s mother dancing in a bar probably wasn’t true at all.
When the party was over and the guests were ready to leave, Signor Bonizzoni instructed Rosa and Maria to assist him with the bomboniere because the Marchesa’s personal maid was busy with the guest book and Signora Guerrini was organising the other maids to tidy up. The two young women passed the packages to the Marchese and Marchesa to give out as their guests departed. The men received a silver pen with Clementina’s name and the date engraved on it, while the women were given crystal perfume bottles etched with the same. The children received tulle bags of sugared almonds. Clementina curtseyed gracefully to each parting guest.
Rosa noticed the bomboniere were tied with violet posies. ‘It’s a pity the gardener didn’t have the roses ready. They would have been so elegant,’ she said to Maria.
Spots of colour came to Maria’s cheeks and she averted her eyes. Rosa realised that she had embarrassed her without understanding why. She saw the Marchese glance in Maria’s direction and wondered if he had noticed her crumpled skirt. She hoped the maid would not be reprimanded.
Baron and Baroness Derveaux were the last guests to leave. Rosa reached to take a pen to pass to the Marchese and when sheturned back she saw the Baron was staring at her with a puzzled expression on his face.
‘I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘But have I seen you somewhere before?’
The Marchese raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s impossible, François. She was cloistered in a convent until she came here.’
The Baron nodded apologetically.
‘Perhaps it was on Via Tornabuoni,’ offered Rosa. ‘I was there a few weeks ago having my flute repaired. Or somewhere else in the city? I run errands there on Wednesdays.’
‘Ah, but I never go to the city if I can help it,’ said the Baron, a wry smile coming to his face. ‘My wife loves Florence but I can’t abide it. Too many Florentines to tell me that theirs is the most beautiful language, the finest wine, the purest olive oil, the loveliest art. They will even tell you the best walking canes are made in Florence! I spend my time within the grounds of our villa here in Fiesole whenever we are in Italy. I did that as a child when my family came to holiday here.’
The Marchesa turned and studied Rosa. It was the first time Rosa thought she had really looked at her. ‘Who does she remind you of, François?’ the Marchesa asked.
The Baron was quiet for a moment before he answered. ‘It’s when she turned a certain way…Well, perhaps it is a trick of the light.’
‘Or a trick of the champagne,’ laughed the Baroness, linking her arm with her husband’s.
The Baron smiled but Rosa could see he was perplexed.
The Baron’s driver brought his Alfa Romeo to the front steps and opened the doors. Signor Bonizzoni sent Maria away to help the other maids and returned into the house himself. The Marchese and Marchesa, with Clementina and Rosa
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