‘And so do I sometimes,’ she said; ‘and I thought I knew; but last night—— My dear Francesca, when I am sure I will tell you. But, indeed, perhaps it is neither of them,’ she added, with a sigh.
Francesca shook her head.
‘Madame would say that perhaps it is bose.’
I have not thought it necessary always to put down Francesca’s broken English, nor the mixture of languages in which she spoke. It might be gratifying to the writer to be able to show a certain acquaintance with those tongues; but it is always doubtful whether the reader will share that gratification. But when she addressed her mistress, Francesca spoke Italian, and consequently used much better language than when she was compelled to toil through all the confusing sibilants and ths of the English tongue.
‘I do not know—I cannot tell,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Take the tray, mia buona amica. You shall know when I know. And now I think I must get up. One can’t stay in bed, you know, all day.’
When her mistress thus changed the subject, Francesca saw that it was no longer convenient to continue it. She was not satisfied that Mrs. Anderson did not know, but she understood that she was in the meantime to make her own observations. Keener eyes were never applied to such a purpose, but at the present moment Francesca was too much puzzled to come to any speedy decision on the subject; and notwithstanding her love for Ombra, who was supreme in her eyes, Francesca was moved to a feeling for Kate which had not occurred to the other ladies. ‘Santissima Madonna! it is hard—very hard for the little one,’ she said to herself, as she mused over the matter. ‘Who is to defend her from Fate? She will see them every day—she is young—they are young—what can anyone expect? Ah! Madonna mia, send some good young marchesino, some piccolo principe, to make the Signorina a great lady, and save her from breaking her little heart. It would be good for la patria, too,’ Francesca resumed, piously thinking of Kate’s wealth.
She was a servant of the old Italian type, to whom it was natural to identify herself with her family. She did not even ‘toil for duty, not for meed,’ but planned and deliberated over all their affairs with the much more spontaneous and undoubting sentiment that their affairs were her own, and that they mutually belonged to each other. She said ‘our Ombra’ with as perfect good faith as if her young mistress had been her own child—and so indeed she was. The bond between them was too real to be discussed or even described—and consequently it was with the natural interest of one pondering her own business that Francesca turned it all over in her mind, and considered how she could best serve Kate, and keep her unharmed by Ombra’s uncertainty.
When Count Antonio Buoncompagni came with his card and his inquiries, the whole landscape lighted up around her. Francesca was a Florentine of the Florentines. She knew all about the Buoncompagni; her aunt’s husband’s sister had been cameriera to the old Duchessa, Antonio’s grandmother; so that in a manner, she said to herself, she belonged to the family. The Contessina, his mother, had made her first communion along with Francesca’s younger sister, Angiola. This made a certain spiritual bond between them. The consequence of all these important facts, taken together, was that Francesca felt herself the natural champion of Count Buoncompagni, who seemed thus to have stepped in at the most suitable moment, and as if in answer to her appeal to the Madonna, to lighten her anxieties, and free her child Ombra from the responsibility of harming another. The Count Antonio was young and very good-looking. He addressed Francesca in those frank and friendly tones which she had so missed in England; he called her amica mia, though he had never seen her before. ‘Ah! Santissima Madonna, quella differenza!’ she said to herself, as he went down the long stair, and the young Englishmen, who had known her for years, and were very friendly to the old woman, came up, and got themselves admitted without one unnecessary word. They had no caressing friendly phrase for her as they went and came. Francesca was true as steel to her mistress and all her house; she would have gone through fire and water for them; but it never occurred to her that to take the part of confidante and abettor to the young Count, should he mean to present himself as a suitor to Kate, would be treacherous to them or their trust. Of all things that could happen to the Signorina, the best possible thing—the good fortune most to be desired—would be that she should get a noble young husband, who would be very fond of her, and to whose house she would bring joy and prosperity. The Buoncompagni, unfortunately, though noble as the king himself, were poor; and Francesca knew very well what a difference it would make in the faded grand palazzo if Kate went there with her wealth. Even so much wealth as she had brought to her aunt would, Francesca thought, make a great difference; and what, then, would not the whole fabulous amount of Kate’s fortunes do? ‘It will be good for la patria, too,’ she repeated to herself; and this not guiltily, like a conscious conspirator, but with the truest sense of duty.
She carried in Count Antonio’s card to the salone where the ladies were sitting with their visitors. Ombra was seated at one of the windows, looking out; beside her stood Bertie Hardwick, not saying much; while his cousin, scarcely less silent, listened to Kate’s chatter. Kate’s gay voice was in full career; she was going over all last night’s proceedings, giving them a dramatic account of her feelings. She was describing her own anger, mortification, and dismay; then her relief, when she caught sight of the two young men. ‘Not because it was you,’ she said gaily, ‘but because you were men—or boys—things we could dance with; and because you knew us, and could not help asking us.’
‘That is not a pleasant way of stating it,’ said Bertie Eldridge. ‘If you had known our delight and amaze and happiness in finding you, and how transported we were——’