Please give my love to everyone and tell them that I miss you all dreadfully!
With love, Marie
Marie put down her pen, exhausted. Her eyes fell on the pendant watch that hung on its long chain from around her neck. Ten o’clock already! Where had the time gone? The answer was right there in front of her: a letter, several pages long. She couldn’t remember ever having written such a long letter before. Even though her stomach was beginning to grumble, she read everything through, adding a word or two here, crossing out there, putting little notes in the margin. When she was done, she hesitated for a moment. Wanda’s own letter had been so insistent, so hopeful—and she had sent it express! But Marie could see in every line that her niece was uncertain of what she was doing and that she wanted nothing in the world so much as approval and forgiveness for her bold plans. Marie couldn’t give her that, though—the news from Lauscha was too sudden, and she wasn’t quite sure yet what to make of it all. For the time being, it would have to be enough that she wished Wanda well.
Marie smiled as she folded the pages together and put them into the envelope that she already had on the desk. She dipped her pen into the inkwell once more and wrote the address. It would go to the post office tomorrow.
As she straightened up she felt the bones in her neck crack. She was stiff from sitting for so long. She massaged the muscles a little, and a shiver ran down her spine.
It was pitch dark all around, and cold. Only one small lamp hanging above the garden furniture gave off any light. Though the orangery was warm and gloriously scented during the day, it felt cold and decidedly unwelcoming now. When the sun shone, she was surrounded by palms and lemon trees, but at night there were only vague looming shadows.
All of a sudden she felt an urgent need to get back inside where it was warm and light. She gathered her pen and paper hastily and stood up.
The lights were on in the hallway that led to the bedroom. Franco! Marie hastened her step. He was probably already waiting for her. With any luck he would be in a good mood and not too worn out. Otherwise there was a chance he would disapprove of her plan just because he was tired.
“Franco, darling! Have you already had supper? If not, we can . . .” Marie stopped dead with her hand on the doorknob. The smile froze on her face. She looked at the bed, freshly made up with the sheets turned down by the maids, and felt a surge of anger. How long was the old count going to keep his son sitting up tonight? In a rage, she slammed down her things on the side table, and was just about to loosen the ribbon in her hair when she stopped.
She had no desire to sit here and wait. She would end up falling asleep from sheer boredom and then her news would have to wait until morning—when Franco might not have time for her once again.
Marie threw a shawl over her shoulders and left the room. She took the letter to Wanda with her. If she put it on the hall table, the errand boy would take it to the post office the next morning.
When she got halfway down the long hallway, she was briefly overcome by a wave of dizziness, but she fought it off and marched toward the office.
16
As the oak door of the office came into view, Marie was still brooding over whether to let Franco know how upset she was or whether she should try to charm him away from his work. On the one hand it would certainly make sense for her to . . .
“Telefono . . . dodici uomini . . . Firenze . . .”
Franco’s voice, loud behind the oak door, shouting, startled her back to her senses. She was just about to knock when Franco’s voice reached her once more.
“Questo è colpa nostra!”
Marie stopped in front of the door, dismayed, her hand on the doorknob. She had never heard her husband shouting like this. She suddenly wondered whether it was a good idea to interrupt. Franco had mentioned that a ship called the Firenze was due to dock in New York any day now with a load of de Lucca wine in its cargo. What had happened? What was “our fault” here?
“Annegati?”
Drowned? The count’s voice, raised in a question. One word like a whiplash.
“No, soffocati! . . . Firenze . . . una mancanza d’aria nel contenitore!”
Marie frowned. Who had suffocated? Not enough air in the shipping crate . . . what crate?
“Una morte misera! . . . dodici uomini soffocati, capisci?!”
A miserable death? Twelve men had . . . suffocated . . . on the crossing? Had she understood that properly or was her shaky knowledge of Italian letting her down? Oh God, something dreadful must have happened!
Marie swallowed. She felt a lump in her throat, felt disaster coming the way an animal smells danger on the wind. Run back to your room as fast as you can, shouted the voice in her head. Instead she stood rooted to the spot and went on listening.