Costanza nodded, but her eyes slid to the door.
Her mother pulled her by the chin. “Look at me, Costanza, and tell me that you understand.”
“I understand,” she replied.
“Good. Now, diamond earrings, yes, they’re very pretty, but I think we can do better. Come with me, I have far more beautiful diamonds in my jewelry box.” She tossed the earrings onto the dressing table.
* * *
Floriana ran down the hill, tears tumbling over her cheeks, a sob caught in her chest. It was only when she reached the beach that she let it out with a loud wail. She sat on the sand and hugged her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. How could it be that she hadn’t been sent an invitation? She thought Signora Bonfanti liked her, but she was just like the countess after all, dismissing her like a stray dog. She took a deep breath and gazed out over the sea. Somewhere, in the mist where the water met the sky, was Heaven. It was there that Jesus lived, in a palace of marble, too far away to hear her prayers.
Suddenly, a cold, wet nose pressed itself under her elbow. It was Good-Night. With a rush of affection she wrapped her arms around him and cried into his fur. He seemed to understand and leaned against her, sniffing her skin with his prickly muzzle. After a while she felt a little better. With Good-Night to give her strength she realized that it didn’t really matter whether or not she went to the party. It was, after all, only one night. Dante would be down for the whole summer. She’d have ample opportunity to see him. And anyway, he’d probably be so busy talking to all his parents’ friends that he wouldn’t have time to talk to her.
“I’m still going to marry him,” she told Good-Night, drying her face on his ear. “Then I’ll officially be your mother.”
The countess ran herself a bath. Graziella had closed the shutters and drawn the curtains. She undressed and slipped into a silk dressing gown. It was old and a little stained on one sleeve, but she didn’t have the money to buy another one. She couldn’t afford that sort of extravagance. But, if she was cunning, Costanza would marry well and she’d be able to afford the very best of everything again.
She looked around her bedroom, at the peeling plaster, the watermark in one corner where the rain had come in through a broken tile, the general shabbiness of the place. If she started to renovate the villa, she’d never stop. It needed so much work. Her husband was making money, but not enough to restore them to their former glory. At least they still had the appearance of grandeur—and their illustrious name.
She walked over to her chest of drawers. It was an antique, bought in Paris in the early days of their marriage, placed in the master bedroom in their palazzo in Rome. She sighed as she remembered the palazzo in Via del Corso. What a prestigious house that had been and how very fitting to live there. It grieved her greatly to recall the week they had packed up and left. Dark, dark days indeed. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a stiff white envelope. The words had been written in the finest calligraphy: “Signorina Floriana.”
She didn’t feel bad. It was the right thing to do. When Signora Bonfanti had given it to her to pass on to Floriana, the countess had seized her opportunity. It was for the best. Why give the girl a taste of a world she was never going to be able to live in? Surely that was crueler? It would only raise her expectations. She replaced the invitation and closed the drawer. It was for the child’s own good.
22.
The day of the party dawned. A perfect June morning to herald the return from America of Beppe’s only son and heir, who had graduated from one of the finest universities in the world, studied for a master’s degree, and then learned the ropes of business with associates of his father’s based in Chicago. The sky dazzled a sapphire blue, and the sun poured her golden light over the magnificent yellow villa, where an efficient army of staff bustled about importantly, putting the finishing touches to the preparations.
A midnight-blue canopy had been constructed at the end of the formal garden behind the villa, where two hundred guests would sit down to eat, listen to speeches, and dance until sunrise. It was designed to light up after dark with a thousand twinkling stars. Inside, the tables were draped in deep blue cloths with antique silver cutlery and crystal glasses brought up from the cellars beneath the house. Extravagant displays of rare blue orchids were placed in the center of each table in case anyone was in any doubt about the wealth and prestige of Beppe Bonfanti.
Outside, gardeners clipped the topiary and combed the borders for weeds that might have been overlooked. The stone steps descending from the villa were swept for the final time and lined with tea lights in midnight-blue tumblers. The effect was ravishing. Signora Bonfanti gave the garden one final touch of magic by placing the peacock beside the fountain, hoping that once guests arrived, he might open his tail and dazzle everyone with his beauty.