“They’re drunk!” The count made a face.
“Father’s right. Many people drink more than is good for them on a night like this. You wouldn’t enjoy being shoved and elbowed in the crowd.”
“Whether Marie would enjoy it or not is irrelevant. It is beneath the dignity of a de Lucca to go out into the streets with the mob,” the count interrupted. “Listen to them shouting and roaring!” He shook his head, disgusted.
“What’s the problem if the men have a little drink? It’s the last night of the year! At least the folks down there have a bit of life in them!” Marie retorted. Unlike you, she wanted to add, but instead she clamped her lips together to suppress a groan. As always when she got herself worked up, there was a painful twinge in her womb, and it scared her. It was as though a hungry wolf were growling and snapping after the child. She reached over to Franco and gripped his arm tight.
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you well, mia cara? Perhaps you should lie down a little?” He drew back her chair without waiting for an answer and helped her to her feet, shooting an apologetic look at his father. Marie knew perfectly well what the look meant—women and their moods. All the same she let Franco take her up to their room.
She stopped in the hallway and put a hand to the side of her belly. Breathe deeply now, it will be better soon . . .
She could hear Patrizia’s harsh voice from the dining room. Doubtless she was complaining about Marie’s behavior again.
“What was all that about? Why do you always argue with Father?” Franco looked at Marie accusingly. “On New Year’s Eve of all evenings.”
“On New Year’s Eve especially! The first one we’ve ever celebrated together! And we’re sitting there with your parents as though we were old and gray ourselves!” she shot back without bothering to lower her voice. Let them all hear how angry she was! “And all this ridiculous self-importance! As though the de Luccas were the lords of the earth and everybody else just scum. Things are not what they seem, though I realized that long ago! You all think I don’t see what’s going on!”
“What do you mean?” There was a dangerous gleam in Franco’s eyes now, but Marie didn’t care.
“Oh, I see how stiff and anxious the visitors are when they come here,” she told him bitterly. “They’re happy to get out of the palazzo as quick as they can. I can’t imagine you have many friends among ‘the mob.’ In fact I think your family is very unpopular! You should see how people behave when Peter or Johanna take a stroll through Lauscha! They can hardly go ten steps without stopping to shake someone’s hand or share a few words!”
Instead of being angry as Marie had expected, Franco seemed almost relieved. He laughed. “If that’s the worst of your worries! My father isn’t the man of the people your brother-in-law seems to be, that’s true. We do business on a much larger scale, you know, so we can hardly stay friends with everybody. But you must have gotten used to him and his ways by now. Surely you see he doesn’t mean any harm.”
Marie wasn’t quite so sure about that, but she held her tongue. Her temper had vanished as quickly as it had flared up.
Franco put a hand to her chin and lifted her face fondly. “What’s really wrong, mia cara? Aren’t you looking forward to the year to come? To our child?”
Tears came to Marie’s eyes. How could she tell him that she missed her family so much it hurt? Instead she sobbed, “Of course I’m looking forward to our child! And to 1911. But I thought that New Year’s Eve would be different somehow—more Italian, more lively, more joyful—like the festival we went to in New York, on Mulberry Street!”
“Marie, please don’t cry.” Franco held her close.
“I can’t help it,” she sniffled. “I feel so alone.” She missed Pandora and Sherlain and the other women from Monte Verità. She missed the conversations as they sunbathed. The childish pranks. Marie couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed a good laugh.
Franco stroked her hair. “You still have me,” he said hoarsely. When she didn’t answer, he said, “I think everyone feels a little alone on the last night of the year.”
Marie looked up, her eyes full of tears. There was something unfamiliar in his voice. Despair? Loneliness? Whatever it was, it didn’t make her feel any safer, any less vulnerable.
“Just hold me tight,” she said.
After Marie had recovered from her fit of weeping, she enjoyed the fireworks after all. She even admitted that the uppermost terrace of the palazzo really did offer the best view of the harbor. She gasped in wonder at every whirl and burst of light. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Franco felt as though he were watching the show for the first time. Even his father declared that the pyrotechnicians had done a particularly good job this year. When his mother raised her glass and proposed a toast to the next de Lucca heir, Franco felt light at heart. Everything was all right.