“Well—and my poor nephew is attempting to bring three children safely through France, while their mother takes her ease in some watering-hole in Italy! I must write to my poor sister and Sir Thomas and encourage them to resolutely endure whatever may befall.”
For Mrs. Norris, despite her advanced years, had a spirit of activity, which could not be satisfied till she had written a long letter to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram, filled with her reflections upon the character and morals of Mrs. Edmund Bertram, and predicting all the possible ill consequences, which she shuddered to think of.
Chapter 13: Italy, Spring 1818
Mary Crawford Bertram came down from her apartment wearing an elegant crimson riding suit.
“Madame Ciampi,” she addressed her new landlady in excellent Italian. “Yesterday I arranged to hire a horse, which will be brought to the yard this morning. I shall take some coffee before I set out.”
“Certainly madame. And has Madame employed a guide to go with her?”
“I hardly think it necessary. There is only one road to the forest, is there not?”
“But Madame—”
“That will be all.”
The landlady was about to retort, then clamped her mouth shut firmly and walked away, elaborately shaking her head in disapproval or worry or both. This new summer tenant—was she truly a respectable woman? This was not Venice, thank the blessed saints—here in Tuscany people were sober and decent.
Madame Ciampi relieved her feelings by firmly closing the wooden shutters which framed the windows facing eastward over the Appenine hills, giving them an extra bang for emphasis. Before the war ended, Bagni di Lucca was the preserve of a few wealthy French families, even royalty, relatives of Napoleon himself. But since his downfall, the town had been invaded—taken over—by the English, who, deprived of the ability to tour the continent during the long years of war, poured out of their little island like a plague of locusts. Madame Ciampi was on her feet from morning ‘til night, changing linen, cooking breakfast, dusting and sweeping, and fetching more wine from the cellar.
Peculiar, arrogant, aloof and demanding as the English were, they had restored the old prosperity of Bagni di Lucca. The casino was open again, and a small orchestra played in the evening. In the streets, in the cafés, at the baths, one only heard English spoken. There were soldiers and navy men, taking their well-deserved ease. Nannies herded young children up and down the street. Gout-ridden old men availed themselves of the hot baths. The young English girls walked and rode about, and set up their easels, and sketched picturesque views, or sketched each other sketching picturesque views. The men stayed up very late, enjoying the cool night breezes, and they sat about drinking wine and arguing about who knows what, then slept until noon or later.
This new lodger was ready to go abroad before most of her countrymen awoke, arising from the breakfast table with eagerness when her horse arrived and hurrying outside to inspect her. She stroked the little brown mare’s nose and expertly checked the girth and the harness. How well she looked in her riding habit, how she floated up like a piece of thistledown when the groom assisted her onto her saddle, and how gracefully she sat! Madame Ciampi admitted that her newest lodger was perhaps the most elegant and fashionable-looking visitor in town.
“I shall return for dinner.”
“Very good, Madame Crawford.”
Mary had surprised herself by impulsively signing the register as “Mary Crawford.” But as she did, she felt a rush of elation, as though instead of assuming a disguise, she was throwing one off. She was not a clergyman’s wife, she was Mary Crawford, and the truth was, her marriage was now past saving. How strange to think that her last quarrel with Edmund was probably their final one.
There were few other tourists abroad at that early hour. Mary hoped she would encounter none of her acquaintance from the English expatriate community. She knew their friends in Rome were gossiping and speculating about them. Why had Edmund Bertram gone back to England without his wife? Edmund Bertram, who was the very pattern of a model husband! And the darling children—gone with him. Whatever could be the matter?
What indeed? Why did not anyone understand, least of all her husband, about the dissatisfaction and the disappointment and the resentment which used to rise within her, until she exploded with rage, and the nursery maids hurried the children away, and Edmund locked himself in his study? Why did she need to scream horrible things at him through the door, and finally retreat to her chamber to collapse, sobbing, on her bed?
“Mary, you have your fortune and your freedom,” Edmund had said. She could go anywhere and do anything. She could take an apartment in Paris or Vienna, she could rent a chalet on the shores of Lake Como. She could pursue the kind of life she was meant for, instead of Edmund’s smothering life of duty and obscurity. But how? What would she do first?
She came to Bagni di Lucca to formulate her future plans.
Mary directed her mount to climb the winding narrow road uphill through the town, keeping the mare at a slow walk, getting to know the horse and letting the horse get to know her. It felt so good to be on horseback again. She passed the villa which her landlady had described; the dwelling of Napoleon’s sister, the Princess Borghese. The Princess had lived apart from her husband for years, because royalty, even upstart Corsican royalty, could do as they pleased.
By now, she supposed, Edmund and the children would be visiting his parents at Everingham. Bitter resentment flooded over her. Everingham—her late brother’s estate, and she an exile from it, banished forever by the cold severity of her father-in-law
