“I'm sorry.” He gently touched her elbow as though to convey his apology in case she did not speak his language. “Do you speak English?” His eyes combed her face, and he was instantly struck by her perfect creamy satin beauty, the wheat-gold hair, the huge green eyes, but he noticed too the stiff way she pulled away from him after their brief collision, and then the chilly way she looked at him once she had regained her composure, caught her breath, and stepped back. She seemed not to understand what he was saying, and he smiled and said a few words to her in Italian. “Scusi, signorina. Mi displace molto. …” And then he faltered with a captivating smile. But Serena did not appear captivated, inclined her head, indicating that she understood and murmured, “Grazie.” Her attitude would have annoyed him except that in the brief moments he had watched her he had seen the pain lurking deep within the bright green eyes. He had seen others like her. Everyone had suffered in the war. The Ice Maiden, he dubbed her to himself as he went on his way.

He had noticed instantly her spectacular beauty, but chasing the locals had never been Major B. J. Fullerton's forte. He had managed not to do any of that since he had arrived. He had ample reason not to. The major was engaged to one of the most beautiful young socialites in New York. Pattie Atherton had been the most ravishing debutante of 1940, and now at twenty-three, she was engaged to be his wife. B.J. smiled to himself again, with a little whistle as he hurried down the steps to the waiting limousine. He had a lot to do that morning, and his encounter with Serena slipped quickly from his mind.

Inside, Serena had pondered the available desks for a quiet moment, headed toward one marked EMPLOYMENT, with a subheading in Italian LAVORO, and had then explained in halting English what it was she wanted in the way of work. She was anxious not to let them know how well she spoke English. It was none of their business, she had decided. And above all, she did not want a job as translator, or as Marcella had suggested, as a secretary. All she wanted was to scrub floors in her old home, beside Marcella, and for that she barely needed to speak English at all.

“You're familiar with the existing housekeeper, you say, miss?” She nodded. “Did she send you here?” The Americans spoke loudly and precisely to the Italians, assuming that they were both stupid and deaf. Serena nodded again. “How well do you speak English? A little? More than that? Can you understand me?”

“Si. Un po' … a leetle. Enough.” Enough to clean floors and polish silver, she thought to herself, and apparently the woman in uniform at the desk thought so too.

“All right. The major moves in on Tuesday. His aide-de-camp will be there too, and the sergeant who attends to his household. In addition, there will be three orderlies. I think they're going to be housed in some old servants' rooms upstairs.” Serena knew immediately which ones. The rooms under the roof were hot but well aired, and had been occupied by several of her parents' servants over the years. The better quarters were belowstairs, and she was pleased that she and Marcella were keeping those. “We haven't found another girl yet, but we're still looking. Do you think that, in the meantime, you and this woman Marcella can handle it alone?”

“Yes.” Serena answered quickly. She was not anxious to have an intruder belowstairs.

“The other woman seemed quite old when I saw her. What about heavy work?”

“I'll do.” Serena stood to her full height and made an effort to stand even straighter and taller than usual. “I am nineteen.”

“Good. Then maybe we won't need another girl.” The American woman mused, as suddenly Serena realized that if she did the heavy work and discouraged them from hiring another young woman to help her, then she would be spending most of her time upstairs with “them,” in the rooms she had hoped to avoid. But one couldn't have everything. She would just have to brace herself and do it. It was worth it, not to have a stranger around, downstairs with her and Marcella. She would have resented that more than she resented the American officers living upstairs in what had once been her house. It was crazy really, this business of her living with Marcella in a house that had once belonged to her family and now belonged to someone else and was being rented to the American army. What in hell was she doing there? She wasn't really sure, but for the moment it seemed to feel right, so she'd stay. “We'll send someone out to inspect the place on Monday and give you any necessary details. Please see to it that all the rooms are clean, especially the master bedroom. The major”—she smiled coquettishly and Serena thought she looked absurd—”is used to very handsome quarters.” The comment was wasted on Serena, who didn't really care. The American woman stood up then, handed Serena some papers to sign, and explained that she'd be paid in lire on the first and fifteenth of every month. Fifty dollars a month plus room and board was what it amounted to. And it sounded good to Serena. Very good. She left the building on the Piazza della Repubblica with a happy grin, and by the time she got back to her own house and stepped into her little apartment with Marcella in the basement, she was singing old familiar songs.

“My, my, so happy. They must have hired you to work for the general.”

“No.” She grinned at Marcella. “Or should I say yes? They hired me to work for my very own general: you.” For a blank moment Marcella didn't seem to understand her.

“What?”

“You heard me. I will be working for you. Starting on Monday. Or before, if you'd like.”

“Here?” Marcella looked stunned. “In the palazzo?”

“That's right.”

“No!” Marcella turned on her instantly, outraged. “You tricked me! I gave you that address so that you could get a good job! Not a job like this!”

“This is a good job.” And then gently, “It's good enough for you, Celia. And I want to be here with you. I don't want to work in an office. I just want to be here. In the house.”

“But not like that. Santa Maria … what an insanity. But you're crazy. You can't do that?”

“Why not?”

And then it began. “Because,” Marcella railed at her, “you are forgetting who you are again, Principessa.”

Serena's eyes began to flash green fire as she looked down at the little woman who had worked for her family for forty-seven years. “And you'd better forget it too, Marcella. Those days are over. And whatever my title, I don't have a dime to my name. Nothing. If it weren't for you taking me in, I'd be sleeping in some fleabag, and if it weren't for their giving me work scrubbing floors, I would starve to death damn soon. I'm no different than you are now, Marcella. That's all. It's that simple. And if I am satisfied with that, then you'd damn well better be too.”

The older woman was silenced by Serena's speech, at least temporarily. And late that night, on tiptoe, Serena ventured upstairs at last. The visit was less painful than she had feared it would be. Almost all the furniture she had loved was gone now. All that remained were a few couches, an enormous grand piano, and in her mother's room the extraordinary canopied antique bed. It had been left here because it would fit nowhere else. It was only that that distressed Serena. That bed in which she could still see her mother, radiant and lovely in the morning when Serena had come in to see her for a few moments before school. Only in that room did she truly suffer. In the others she stood for a quiet moment, seeing things that were no more, remembering evenings and afternoons and dinners, Christmas parties with all of her parents' friends, and tea parties when her grandmother visited from Venice … visits with Sergio … and others. It was a quiet pilgrimage from room to room, and when she came back downstairs to Marcella, she looked strangely peaceful, as though she had laid the ghosts to rest at last. There was nothing left that she was afraid of. It was only a house now, and she would be able to work in it for the Americans, doing whatever she had to, to go on living there, in the palazzo, and to stay in Rome.





5

“You look ridiculous in that outfit.” Marcella looked at her with instant disapproval as she poured their coffee and the first hint of daylight crept over the hills. “Why don't you wear something decent, for God's sake?” But Serena said nothing to the old woman. She only smiled as she sipped the hot coffee and closed her eyes in the hot steam as she held the cup in her hands. “What do you think the Americans will think of you wearing that old dress, Serena?”