A Shadowed Fate Page 4

  When we arrived at our apartment, Trelawny ushered us inside and lit the gas lamp near the front door. As the flame illuminated our main parlor, I gasped and stepped backwards, clutching his arm. The room had been ransacked, with every piece of furniture tipped over, books strewn on the floor, and curtains ripped apart. Chaos and destruction everywhere.

  ‘Che disastro!’ Raphael held Paula back.

  Grasping the lamp, Trelawny held it high and surveyed the wreckage. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered, gesturing for Raphael to follow him.

  They disappeared inside as Paula clung to me, her hands trembling. I slipped my arm around her waist and held her close as we hovered in the doorway. ‘We must be strong – all will be fine.’ I knew better than to sound frightened; it would stoke her own fear even higher.

  The minutes passed in silence, except for the sound of their footsteps on the stone floor.

  Finally, Trelawny reappeared with the lamp, his features tight and grim. ‘Come in – it is safe now.’

  Relief flooded through me, though Paula did not release my arm. When Raphael emerged from the kitchen, she rushed to his side and he hugged her tightly, stroking her hair and murmuring soothing words in Italian.

  ‘This is the only room that has been vandalized,’ Trelawny said. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No, but I’ll survive.’ Leaning against the doorjamb, I felt a wave of despair at the sight of the broken china and shattered crystal. Our little world had been turned upside down yet again.

  Paula jerked her head up and exclaimed, ‘I must pick up Georgiana – now.’

  ‘But she will be asleep, and we must contact the police—’ I began.

  ‘No!’ she cut in quickly. ‘I must have her with me.’

  Raphael turned to me and said, ‘I will send word to the polizia after we have Georgiana.’

  Nodding, I waved them off.

  After they exited, I met Trelawny’s somber eyes. ‘Thank goodness I had locked my Byron/Shelley letters in my desk after the incident at the Boboli Gardens. Do you think they intended to steal them?’

  ‘Difficult to say.’ He scanned the room once more, his glance halting on a book of Byron’s poetry with its leather cover partially ripped away from the spine. Pages had been torn out and shredded into tiny, jagged fragments – and a knife pinned them to the floor in what appeared to be an act of rage. Leaning down, I retrieved a single page which had been left intact – it was the poem that Byron had written to me in the summer of 1816, beginning with the lines:

  There be none of Beauty’s daughters

  With a magic like thee …

  But the magic was gone.

  I let the sheet flutter to the floor.

  Trelawny cursed under his breath as he sifted through the books and papers. After a few minutes of hunting, he rose and turned to me with a somber expression. ‘I am sorry, Claire, but it appears the Cades sketch that we left on the table is missing.’

  Dio mio. Our last dream to escape poverty had just died.

  And with it, all hope.

  Palazzo Guiccioli, Ravenna, Italy

  July 1820

  Allegra’s story

  It was so nice to be living with my dear papa again.

  Lord Byron.

  When he finally sent for me, I could barely sleep until I set out from Venice. It was a long carriage ride to Ravenna – almost two days – but I did not mind because I was so excited to see him again. The sweet-faced nursemaid from England who traveled with me grew irritable by the hour because I chattered endlessly in Italian about my new home.

  What would it be like?

  Would I have a governess?

  How long would we stay there?

  She dabbed at her flushed cheeks with a handkerchief, complaining about the heat and demanding that I speak English, but I hardly remembered that language now. I spoke only Italian and that seemed to annoy her even more. But I did not care. Once we arrived and I was with my papa again, everything would be wonderful.

  La bella vita.

  When we drove up to the Palazzo Guiccioli on the Via Cavour in the late afternoon, I immediately sprang out of the carriage and beheld my new home. It was large and imposing, like all of Papa’s houses, with three stories built of brownish brick and lots of green shuttered windows. So elegant.

  Then I saw Papa standing in the doorway, wearing a white shirt open at the neck and black breeches.

  I heard the nursemaid catch her breath from inside the carriage.

  Papa always had that effect on people – men and women. Because he was so famous, they would often be awestruck in his presence. Staring and stammering. He would be polite to them, but I could tell that he was uncomfortable with such behavior, especially when they stared down at his club foot.

  He was just Papa to me, the generous man who bought me silk dresses and china dolls when we lived in Venice. On rare evenings when he stayed in, he would read English poetry to me in a soft, melodious voice, even though I did not understand most of the words. Sometimes he would stop reciting and stare off into the distance with a sad look in his eyes, but he never said what was wrong.

  When he moved to Ravenna, he said he would send for me – and it finally happened. He had not forgotten about me.

  Running toward him, I stretched out my arms. He allowed me a brief hug, then told me to go inside while he had a servant see to my luggage.

  I waved farewell to the nursemaid, but she had eyes only for Papa. He said something in English to her, dismissed the carriage driver, and then followed me into the palazzo. As I entered the foyer and scanned the rich surroundings, my eyes widened at the marble floors and gilt-edged furniture. Truly, a palace.

  Then I spied Papa’s cats scurrying about with two small dogs; they tumbled over each other in playful romps until the peacock appeared and began squawking. The animals scurried off and Papa laughed. After he ushered me up the stairs to the third floor, we stepped into his study – a large, high-ceilinged room lined with books on every side. I recognized the desk and furnishings from Venice. It felt like home.

  A pretty lady with blond hair stood near the painted screen by the window; she was chatting with a young man who looked like her – both charming and amiable. When they saw me, the conversation stopped abruptly.

  ‘This is Contessa Guiccioli and her brother, Pietro Gamba,’ Papa said.

  The lady inclined her head and glided over to the sofa; she patted the cushion next to her with an inviting smile, and I immediately skipped over to take my seat. ‘Buongiorno, Allegra,’ she greeted me as she stroked my hair with a tender touch. She smelled like jasmine flowers.

  ‘Buongiorno, Contessa.’

  She then asked me about my journey, and I told her about seeing the Adriatic coast and watching the water birds feeding at the Isola d’Ariano – enchanting.

  ‘Si … incantevole,’ she agreed.

  As the contessa told me about her family in Ravenna, I noted that Papa had joined Pietro and they began to converse quietly in Italian. I could not catch any of the words except turba and d’apprentis. Mob. Apprentice. It made no sense to me.

  Just then, a huge and black-bearded man strode into the room. I jumped up and exclaimed, ‘Tita!’

  ‘Allegrina!’ Laughing, he swept me up in his massive arms in tight embrace. Tita Falcieri was a gondolier who had become Papa’s manservant. Powerful, with a booming voice, he always wore a hat with a plume of feathers and a sword in his sash. He also brought me fritole when we lived in Venice. I especially liked the ones stuffed with chocolate.

  He put me down again and patted me on the head before he joined Papa and Pietro.

  Tita was quickly drawn into their conversation – and their voices rose in agitation. I thought I heard the word Carbonari and asked them what that meant. No one replied.

  Quickly, the contessa asked me if I would like to see my new room, but I did not want to leave Papa when I had just arrived. I began to whimper and pout until he promised to read a poem to me afte
r supper.

  My happiness restored, I let the contessa take me by the hand to lead me out.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Papa, but he was deep in conversation with Tita and Pietro again.

  They looked worried.

  TWO

  ‘The sense of earth and earthly things come back,

  Corrosive passions, feelings, dull and low …’

  The Prophecy of Dante, I, 131–132

  Florence, Italy

  July 1873

  I was exhausted.

  An aching, heavy fatigue had settled into every part of my body, and I struggled to remain awake.

  Since we had returned to find my apartment at the Palazzo Cruciato vandalized, the polizia remained for hours questioning each of us in turn – first in Italian, then in English to make certain we understood their intent. Lieutenant Baldini, the chief of police who had visited me after Father Gianni’s death, was in charge again. A young man with a serious face and polite manner, he quietly conducted his investigation, taking copious notes but making only an occasional comment. In spite of my tiredness, I found his presence quite comforting.

  ‘Signora Clairmont, I apologize for keeping you so late, but I have a few more questions.’ He slowly paced around my sitting room with a small notebook in hand, while I remained on the settee, Trelawny next to me. Gas lamps illuminated the room’s disheveled interior with books and papers strewn on the floor along with a few broken china knickknacks.

  I had not taken an inventory beyond the Cades sketch – and checking to make certain my Byron letters remained untouched.

  Mr Rossetti eventually departed after giving his account of the evening, and Paula and Raphael were still in the kitchen conversing with two of Baldini’s officers. Little Georgiana lay asleep on my bed, blissfully unaware of the chaotic events around her in the sweet repose of a child. How I envied her.

  ‘Is it necessary to continue this conversation tonight?’ Trelawny asked, drumming his fingers on the settee’s armrest. Not known for his patience or calm temper – especially in the face of uncertainty – Trelawny grew more and more agitated. He was always the man who took charge and did not like being compliant, especially with a police officer.

  ‘Si.’ Baldini picked up the book of Byron’s poetry that had been slashed with a knife, contemplated it for a few moments, then set it on the tea table again next to the silver filigreed inkwell that Shelley had given to me. It, too, was untouched – my treasured possession that had been a token of his friendship. I never had been able to part with it. ‘The immediacy of my fact-finding may initiate a quick arrest.’

  ‘I understand.’ Blinking a few times to refocus my eyes, I continued, ‘The past two weeks or so have been jarring, to say the least. After Matteo was arrested, I thought our lives would return to the uneventful days of the past, but that seems unlikely at this point.’

  ‘Questo dipende.’ He moved toward the fireplace, stepping around a smashed etched-glass flower vase, its contents spilled on the floor – water and crushed rose petals splattered about. ‘It depends on the intruder’s motivation—’

  Trelawny made a scoffing sound. ‘You question that? When Signora Clairmont’s valuable Cades sketch seems to be the only stolen item?’

  ‘I meant that the original goal may have been to steal your letters, but the thieves changed their plan when they could not find them quickly. It is well known around Firenze that you possess letters from the famous poet himself. But what intrigues me is how the robbers would know to look for the drawing.’ Baldini’s gaze came to rest on me. ‘If I understand what you told me, you took possession of the sketch only recently. Who else would know about it besides your immediate family and friends?’

  ‘I … I cannot say.’ A slight chill had crept in, and I pulled my shawl tighter. ‘I am not sure who might have known about the sketch. Mr Rossetti arrived in Florence with it more than two weeks ago, having brought it from England – until that time, his mother owned it, though it was not on display in her home. He then gave it to me that night after Matteo tried to kill me. Did you ask him if he shared the drawing’s existence with anyone else?’

  Baldini nodded. ‘Apparently, he showed it only to his brother, Dante Gabriel – an artist himself – who was sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘So we have no idea as to the thief’s motivation …’ I said, half to myself.

  ‘This is a somewhat delicate inquiry, but do you believe Raphael and your niece to be completely … trustworthy?’ Baldini’s words came out haltingly, as if he were treading upon an uneven path. ‘I do not mean to suggest that they deliberately engineered the theft, but perhaps one of them unwittingly mentioned the Cades drawing to a friend or neighbor in passing; the artist’s name would be recognized by most Italians and might have caused an unscrupulous person to steal it.’

  I mentally sorted through every person with whom Paula and Raphael regularly had contact. The carriage driver? No, he was a young man of earnest character. Our neighbors who sometimes watched Georgiana? Again – no. They were a pleasant couple with two young children of their own. The local macellaio – butcher? Unlikely. We had known them all for years, and none of them seemed capable of thievery.

  I raised my brows at the lieutenant’s suggestion. ‘I assume you asked Paula and Raphael and they both denied mentioning the sketch?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Then I believe them.’ Stifling a yawn, I felt my shoulders begin to sag.

  Trelawny gestured toward me with a raised hand. ‘This line of questioning is leading nowhere, and Signora Clairmont needs her rest – as do we all. Should she have anything to add, I can send word to you, but I doubt if there is anyone else in Florence who knew that Rossetti gave Claire the drawing.’

  A sudden thought occurred to me, in spite of the fatigue.

  No one … other than possibly the man in jail – he knew everything that occurred in the city.

  ‘What about Matteo Ricci?’ I queried. ‘He might have learned about the sketch … and could have directed someone to steal it.’

  ‘From prison?’ Trelawny shook his head. ‘A remote possibility at best, Claire.’

  ‘I agree,’ Baldini said.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Rubbing my temples, I closed my eyes briefly to summon a last wave of energy and strength during this endless night. ‘This may sound mad, but I want to come by the police station tomorrow to talk with him.’

  The two men drew in a collective breath.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Trelawny stared down at me as if I had, indeed, lost my mind.

  ‘Signora, perhaps I did not hear you correctly,’ Baldini began. ‘You want to visit the man who threatened to kill you?’

  Glancing back and forth between them, I hesitated – not because I doubted myself but, rather, I knew they both were already gauging whether or not to take my request seriously, and I was marshaling my defenses. I had not passed a lifetime in the company of men without learning a lesson or two about playing upon their sympathies. The delicate art of persuasion was sometimes a woman’s best tool. ‘I may be a bit foggy at this hour, but I think that Matteo might know about the stolen sketch – even you, Lieutenant, said that he probably has connections with thievery rings in Florence. And who better than I to ask him? Unlike the polizia, I am no threat to him since I am simply a … harmless woman.’

  Baldini managed a small smile. ‘Any man who would think that is a fool.’

  ‘You are not actually considering her request?’ Trelawny exclaimed in disbelief. ‘Prison is no place for a lady.’

  ‘Lei è molto persuasiva – I may consider it,’ he said shortly. ‘But I, too, am tired and want to consider the matter carefully. For now, I shall take my leave and will send a note tomorrow morning with my decision.’ The lieutenant gave a short bow and then called for his officers who were still in the kitchen.

  Trelawny showed them out, and I heard some hushed, urgent debate near the front door. He was trying one more time to influence Baldini’s decision. T
heir voices rose slightly in volume for a few minutes, but from the force of Trelawny’s slammed door behind them and succinct curse that followed, I assumed that my old friend had not prevailed.

  Still swearing under his breath, Trelawny strolled back into the sitting room. ‘I suppose there is nothing else I can say to dissuade you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I must remind you that Matteo is a criminal and has committed a murder.’ His tone hardened. ‘I have lived every day of my life with the guilt of my lies, but I could not go on if anything happened to you or your family.’ His eyes darkened with emotion as he pleaded for caution.

  My heart stirred slightly from his appeal, though it seemed a little too late in coming to express such devotion. ‘Let me do this – you can accompany me to the jail, should Baldini grant my request, and I will not leave your sight.’

  Trelawny glanced down and sighed heavily. ‘You are decided on this course?’

  ‘I am.’

  His head tilted upward again, staring forward. ‘Then I shall help you – with reservations, for certain.’

  But his warnings had struck a chord inside; I would remain vigilant. There were too many secrets that had swirled around me over the last two weeks, which had proved to be hiding evil intent. And more could follow.

  Somewhat revived after a short night’s sleep, I took breakfast with Paula and Raphael in our kitchen while Georgiana skipped around the room, humming to herself. A servant had appeared earlier with a note from Baldini for me, but I kept the news to myself until Paula set out the breakfast. Then I casually mentioned that I had proposed to visit Matteo in prison and just received word that Lieutenant Baldini agreed. Not surprisingly, they reacted with a mixture of alarm and disbelief. Even though Trelawny had acquiesced (albeit reluctantly) to my decision to see Matteo, they raised heated and passionate pleas for me to reconsider my plan – along with warnings about how dank, unhealthy prisons could be deadly for a woman of advanced age (I did not need to hear that).