The American Lady(140)

“She has childbed fever? That can be fatal, can’t it?” With every word she spoke, Wanda’s heart pounded harder with fear. Her mother had often told her about the women she saw in the New York hospitals’ indigent wards. They gave birth in insanitary conditions and then died of childbed fever soon after they were brought to the hospital.

A shiver ran down Wanda’s spine. “I have to see her, now, just for a little while!”

Patrizia took Wanda’s hand. Her fingers were cool. “Believe me, we are doing everything we can for Marie. But she must not become unnecessarily excited by visitors. The doctor says if she does not have complete rest . . .”

Wanda drew her hand away. She had rarely felt such horror at another person’s touch. If not—then what?

A moment later the countess was on her feet, and her posture clearly conveyed that she considered the conversation over. She didn’t say a word about when Wanda could come again. And she certainly wasn’t going to invite Wanda to live in the palazzo until Marie was better.

What now? Wanda felt as though she were acting in a play in which the director had forgotten to give the actors their script. The whole situation was so absurd that it frightened her. She had come all the way from Germany to visit Marie, and gotten no farther than this ghastly anteroom. And now Marie’s mother-in-law wanted to put her off with vague excuses. She said that Franco was away on urgent business—and then nothing more about her son’s absence.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

To buy herself a little time, Wanda teased a handkerchief from her pocket while she watched Marie’s mother-in-law from under hooded lids. The countess was already standing in the doorway. The way she held her back ramrod straight as she gazed into the middle distance with a forced smile on her lips reminded Wanda of her mother, who always struck that pose when she had to be polite to people she couldn’t stand. It was a mask behind which anything at all might be hiding.

What does the countess have to hide? Wanda wondered as she dabbed at nonexistent drops of sweat with her handkerchief. She tried desperately to order her thoughts a little and not to let this cold-eyed woman intimidate her.

Was something wrong with the baby? The idea was so dreadful that Wanda could hardly think what it might mean. Or was there a greater danger to Marie’s health that the countess had not told her about? If there was, then wasn’t it even more urgent that Wanda be allowed to visit her now?

At that moment she wished for nothing in the world so much as to have Johanna there at her side. Or her mother.

But she was on her own, and Marie needed her. Needed her more than anyone.

At last she rose to her feet and went toward the door, stopping only when she was standing face-to-face with Patrizia. How stern the woman looked! Wanda could well imagine that most people would bow their heads and turn away from the look in Patrizia’s eyes, forget their request, and leave without further ado. But not Wanda Miles! Anyone who had run the gauntlet of the Sonneberg wholesalers had nothing to fear from an Italian countess. Without even the faintest note of hesitation in her voice, she said, “I would like to be taken to Marie this instant. If not, then . . .”

She hoped that the implication was enough of a threat in itself. Since she had not the least idea how she could have finished the sentence.



The hissing of the flame grows louder. Soon it will be the right temperature to blow a glass globe. A large one. A glittering globe, with all the colors of a soap bubble. Like the soap bubbles that Father used to . . .

“Aunt Marie, are you awake?”

Marie groaned. Don’t shake me! The soap bubbles will burst.

“Aunt Marie, can you hear me? I . . . can wait till you’ve had some more rest.”

Pop! Pop! Pop! and they burst, one by one.

“Wanda?” Marie’s arm trembled as she tried to sit up. She blinked in the darkness of the room. “Is that really you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Wanda answered.

Such a soft voice . . . like an angel’s . . . not like Wanda, always so lively and excited . . .

Marie struggled to concentrate. To see clearly. Was Wanda really standing there by her bed or did she only exist in her head, like all the others? And then—a hand on her hand, soft and warm. It must really be Wanda.

“You . . . came. All this way. How did you know that . . .” All at once Marie didn’t know which question to ask first. She began to cry. How did you get here? Are you well? And how’s Johanna? Her head was so full. A tangle of thoughts from which she could not tease out what was important from what was not.

“I have to tell you something . . .” Marie began softly. “I—”