The American Lady(137)

The midwife’s right hand was hidden inside Marie. She was concentrating, feeling for the child who refused to be born.

“Send her away! I don’t want this. It hurts so much . . .” Hot tears ran down Marie’s face. Then she howled as another wave of pain ripped through her before she had recovered from the last.

The young midwife had only ever delivered four babies before now. She drew back her hand, covered in blood, and Marie’s groans diminished a little. Eleonore’s face showed clearly how helpless she felt as she took a damp cloth and dabbed at Marie’s forehead.

Theoretically she knew exactly how to take hold of the child and turn it so that the head was in the right place. But the textbook hadn’t told her anything about what to do when the mother was thrashing like a mad thing! Whenever she had hold of the head, Marie bucked and twisted and the head slipped out of her grasp. When she had studied with the matrona, all the women had stayed calm and done what the old midwife had told them. “Let them scream as much as they like,” the matrona always told her. “Screaming helps.” Well, this German woman was screaming until it seemed her throat might burst, but it didn’t seem to be making the birth one bit easier.

If only it weren’t so hot! Eleonore tried to loosen her blouse a little, which was drenched with sweat. Then her glance fell on the clock on the wall and she gave a start. So late already!

Six hours had passed, and the child had hardly changed position at all.

For the first time Eleonore felt a touch of panic. She had to do something, or else the child’s life would not be the only one in danger.

“What is it, how long are you going to flap that wet cloth around in her face?” the countess snapped at the young woman. “Can’t you see that she’s almost lost consciousness? Her pulse is getting weaker . . .” She let go of Marie’s wrist. The arm fell onto the bed as if Marie were a lifeless puppet.

Eleonore took a deep breath.

“If she won’t lie still I can’t take hold of the baby’s head.” She tried to put a note of authority into her voice. Neither of the other women would like what she was going to say next. “We will have to tie the signora down.”





28

The next morning everything happened so fast that there was no time for painful farewells. Richard was terribly nervous, which he tried to explain away by saying that there was a lot at stake for him at the art fair. Wanda knew, however, that he didn’t like the idea of traveling the last leg of the journey on his own.

After one last kiss on the platform, they promised to meet the following Sunday at Richard’s hotel—and then Wanda had to urge him off, waving good-bye.

Unlike the first part of the journey, she hardly noticed anything on her train ride from Bozen to Milan and then on to Genoa. The orchards gradually gave way to vast wheat fields, which were still tinged with green at this time of year. The light in her eyes was caused not by the beauties of the Italian landscape but by the passion of the previous night, which still glowed within her.

“Now you are really mine,” Richard had whispered to her as they lay next to one another, sated. And then he added, “Let’s get married as soon as we get back from Italy.”

She had nodded without saying a word. The hot tears made it impossible to speak. It didn’t matter. She could never have found the words for how happy she felt at that moment.

She knew one thing for certain: not for an instant did she regret last night, even though she had broken every promise she had made to Johanna and her parents.

Richard . . . her man . . . What was he doing at this moment?

Suddenly she was terribly tired. Soon she would be able to tell Marie everything, woman to woman. That was Wanda’s last thought as she fell fast asleep, leaning against the window, utterly exhausted.



Despite her fears, Wanda found it easy enough to ask her way to the de Lucca family home in Genoa. When she hailed a cab in front of the railway station and gave the driver the address, the driver shook his head sullenly before she could even climb in. He gestured as he talked, and she understood enough to realize that Marie’s home was only two streets away, so it was not worth his while to take her fare. Wanda pointed to her luggage and insisted. The driver grumbled but took her all the same. A few minutes later they stopped in front of a vast rectangular pile with a discreet brass plate on the door that read “Palazzo Delizioso.”

So this was a building by the famous Italian architect Palladio! Marie had written pages and pages about him and the dozens of splendid villas he had built so Wanda was surprised to see how plain the exterior was here. Certainly the Palladian style was impressive, but it was also unusually severe. She wasn’t here to study Italian architecture, though. Wanda tugged the bell pull to the right of the door.