Nun (9781609459109) Read Free

Marescialla had told her cook to add crushed ice—and the house servants, who remained behind while the other servants went back to their respective stables and kitchens, were still laughing at Don Peppino’s witticisms. Donna Gesuela listened, lips twisted in a smile, an absent gaze in her eyes. Suddenly she exclaimed: “Who brushed the formal uniforms? Have the white gloves been washed?” This time she wanted an answer, and so she broke up the party. Then, having received no reply whatsoever, she retraced her steps in furious haste, followed by Anna Carolina and Carmela. Before crossing the threshold, she shot one last parting glare of reproof at Agata, but Agata was looking at her father, who had bent down to pick up the fan her mother had dropped and was now extending it to her. Donna Gesuela arched her handsome eyebrows and did nothing to retrieve the fan. Then she strode off, entering the room, swinging her hips.
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    â€œWhere’s Anna Carolina?” her father asked.
    â€œShe’s fixing her hair. A curl from her hairpiece fell into her cup of chamomile tea!” Agata giggled.
    â€œHair is a very important matter for a young woman who is going to be engaged today,” her father reproached her. “I can just imagine the state you would be in, if the same thing happened to you.” The field marshal ran his wrinkled fingers through his daughter’s chestnut ringlets. “You’re thirteen years old. Your mother was already my wife, and if I’m not mistaken, a mother as well, at that age.” He paused. Agata, shorter than Gesuela, resembled her closely. She was likely to be even prettier than her mother, because she had the grey Padellani eyes—sloe-eyed, with the oriental eyelids introduced into the family by a Mongol princess who had captured the heart of one of their forefathers. The field marshal wanted his little Agatina to be happy and loved. “Start casting your gaze around you, and tell me who it is that pleases you . . . ” Then he withdrew his hand, and his voice grew serious: “But remember, it’s my decision. You must have a husband who is wealthy and worthy of you and of our family.” Agata blushed. “Ah, so there’s already a sweetheart? Well, we’ll talk it over, after Anna Carolina’s engagement . . . one daughter at a time, otherwise you’ll wear me out. I really am becoming an old man.” And Don Peppino fixed his eyes on the green-and-white herringbone majolica tile. He was sweating: his chest was heaving faster than it had been, while the hand that was fluttering the fan was slowing down. But Agata noticed nothing. She’d been thinking of Giacomo.
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    It had all begun in February. She regularly woke up before her sisters and went out to sit on the balcony and read; spring was already in the air and a light shawl over her shoulders was enough to keep her warm. The street was deserted. He was sitting on the balcony across the way. They hardly knew one another: they certainly frequented the same drawing rooms, but Giacomo was twenty, and for months he’d paid no attention to her. They fell in love on the basis of stealthy glances, followed by bold direct gazes, then by holding up the title pages of the books they were reading and communicating by hand signals. Giacomo had sent her a note and she had replied. During the Carnival season, her mother threw open their house every night, for a succession of balls, and he hadn’t missed a single one. But the two of them had never been alone together. Their true moments of intimacy came during the long early morning gazes from one balcony to the other.
    Giacomo Lepre, the only son of a dynasty of notaries and the heir to three bachelor uncles, was an excellent catch. Agata’s mother had warned her that the Lepres were looking for a bride with a substantial dowry for their son. Now, even though the Padellanis had no such dowry to offer, if Agata