The American Lady(81)

“Can you read my mind?” she asked, burying her face in the hollow between his chin and throat. His rough stubble scratched her cheek, but she snuggled closer. “Back home in Lauscha they say it’s work that makes life sweet, not lying about doing nothing.”

“You Germans have no idea.” Franco ran the index finger of his right hand gently around her breast. “Though I could perhaps be persuaded to go from lying around doing nothing to, well, lying around doing something.” He had already pushed Marie’s nightgown up and now closed his lips over her nipple. A thousand tiny sparks shot through her body.

“And what will your father say when we don’t come down for breakfast again?” she murmured once she could finally breathe. Without waiting for an answer, she sprinkled the back of his neck with kisses. But soon that wasn’t enough and she dived down beneath the covers. She grasped Franco’s manhood with both hands and began to stroke it, then smiled when he gasped impatiently.

“Slowly now, mia cara,” she whispered. Two could play at that game after all.



“Are you going to have coffee with Mother today?” Franco asked with feigned indifference as he put on his socks.

Marie looked over at him from the bed. How handsome he was, her Italian! She stroked her belly, which was just beginning to grow round, with both hands.

“I don’t think so,” she said just as offhandedly. “As you know, I want to finally finish the Four Elements.”

“She would be pleased if you did. You could have a chat, get to know one another a little better. Perhaps if you showed her your new glass pictures, drew her in a little, so to speak, she might be a little less confused about what it is you actually do . . .”

“Your mother is perfectly welcome to come by anytime she likes,” Marie said, glancing over to the door that led to her glass studio. She knew perfectly well, however, that she could wait until she was blue in the face before the countess would ever deign to visit! She was astonished how little she cared that Franco’s mother disliked her. Nothing could break through the cocoon of happiness that enveloped her and Franco and their child.

“Marie, why do you always have to be so hard on her?” Franco asked, coming over to the bed and kneeling down next to her.

“I’m hard on her?” Marie snorted. Who stared at her all the time as though she had just crawled out from under a stone? Who was it who barely spoke a word to her unless Franco was in the room? “You have no idea,” she said quietly.

“It’s not easy for Mother to get used to . . . how things have changed. And she was shocked to find that her daughter-in-law works with her hands. But once the child is born . . .”

“How’s that going to change anything? Do you think I’ll abandon my bench and lamp?” Marie asked, sitting bolt upright. “Remember what you promised me. I wouldn’t have . . .”

“Of course, of course,” Franco soothed her, then left the room, his hands held high, as though surrendering.

Marie frowned and watched him go. She would have liked a little quarrel just then—at least he would have stayed with her. What she didn’t want was to have to make one more painful attempt to cozy up to Franco’s parents. She lay sulkily back down in bed.

It wasn’t that the count and countess treated her badly—at least not so anyone would notice. But they had other ways of showing her that they were anything but pleased with Franco’s sudden, secret wedding. As she walked down the hallways, doors closed in front of her face as though by an invisible hand. Conversations were hastily broken off or reduced to whispers at her approach. The count treated her politely enough at mealtimes—he was almost friendly, albeit in a cool and distant way—but Patrizia acted as though Marie simply weren’t there. Marie also sensed that her mother-in-law spoke deliberately fast to make it difficult for her to take part in a conversation. Patrizia had received the news of Marie’s pregnancy with marked indifference—contrary to Franco’s expectations. She had given Marie a rather startled look and then rattled away in Italian to Franco. Marie had only caught one word. Vecchietta. Old woman.

Marie grinned sourly and stroked her belly. Old, indeed! The word could never hurt her now. She felt younger than she ever had in her life!

Never mind all that. They could mutter in corners as much as they liked. The palazzo was big enough for them all to keep out of one another’s way. For the time being at least.

Perhaps she would become closer to Franco’s mother after the child was born. That always happened in the stories—a dear little baby was born and melted the mother-in-law’s stony heart.