Societal politics was a peculiar game to play.
I took a sip of my champagne. “I am well aware of Zeno’s reputation, Contessa. But thank you for being so forthcoming. It is more than welcome.”
She smiled. “Call me Pia.”
“Then call me Caresa.”
I clinked my glass against hers. “I’m guessing the baronessa is one of Zeno’s conquests?”
Pia nodded. “I live in Florence, Caresa. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she is just one of many.”
“I thought as much. She has been weighing me up since she arrived.”
“At least you’re not crying into your pasta over the news that your fiancé is a cad. Then again, one would have to be naïve to believe that these elaborate marriages we enter into are for love, no?”
“I knew I’d like you,” I said to Pia and laughed when she threw back her head.
The other ladies were watching us, deeply intrigued. “Pia was just telling a funny story about my fiancé,” I said. The women seemed satisfied by my vague explanation.
“We all have stories, Duchessa,” Baronessa Russo said under her breath. The awkward tension from the women in her vicinity was palpable.
“I suspect you do,” I quipped back, letting her know I had heard. Her embarrassed, flushed cheeks were but a small victory.
“How are you enjoying life in the country?” Pia asked, loud enough for the whole table to hear.
“It is beautiful. The estate is no doubt the most magical place I have ever seen.”
“What do you do here for fun?” Contessa Bianchi asked.
My mind traveled to Achille. Unable to refrain from speaking the truth, I said, “Ride. Mainly dressage. I like to walk. Jog. I spend a great deal of my time doing that. And of course, I watch the harvest.”
“The king owned a dressage team, did you know that? They were frequently the national champions. King Santo was horse-mad,” Pia informed us; my interest was piqued.
“How quaint. But I’m not sure watching the harvest constitutes fun, Duchessa,” Baronessa Russo said, pulling my attention from Pia.
“On the contrary,” I replied. “This is the jewel in Savona Wines’ crown. My family is tied into the business, as well you all know. I have been a part of this industry my whole life.” I hid a smile as I added, “Zeno has been extremely happy with my interest. He will soon have a wife who understands his entire world—both his status and his business. I can share in all his victories.”
A collective sigh came from all but Baronessa Russo and Pia. Baronessa Russo because she had meant what she said as a slight. And Pia because she knew the game I played.
“Did you work with your father in Manhattan, Duchessa? With Savona Wines?” Viscontessa Lori asked.
I shook my head. “No, I was at college. I had just finished my master’s degree when I came here.”
“In what?” Pia asked.
“Educational psychology. I would have loved to have pursued a career in education. Working with children and adults to overcome learning difficulties.”
“There are many charities under the king’s name that promote work such as that. I’m sure now he has passed, the chairs of those charities would appreciate the future queen taking his place,” Viscontessa Lori told me. Excitement lit up my heart. I hadn’t known about that side of the king’s business.
“Thank you, Viscontessa,” I said sincerely. “I will look into the possibilities immediately.”
The entrée of tortelli di zucca was placed before us, and I inhaled the scent of the Bella Collina olive oil drizzled over the fresh pumpkin-filled pasta, curls of Parmigiano-Reggiano lying gently on top. “A treat from my home,” I said, pointing to the dish. “I know we are in Umbria, but I wanted to bring a little of Parma to the table. Please, eat.”
I ate my meal, listening to the ladies talk about the charities they were involved in or about their husbands and betrotheds. Contessa Bianchi had the table enraptured with a tale of a “commoner” she had once had a fling with.
“Caresa?” Pia said in a low voice.
“Yes?”
“Do you know methods of helping those who struggle to read or write? Those with learning difficulties?”
Her comment took me by surprise. “Yes,” I replied. “I worked for many charities and schools during my studies, and assisted some of the best educational psychologists in Manhattan. I didn’t get as far as I would have liked in the field, but I am proficient.”
Pia glanced around to check no one was listening. She looked into my eyes. “My nephew.” She cleared her throat. “He doesn’t always do well in school. My sister married well, and her husband is ashamed that their son struggles to read and write. I love my nephew—when I talk to him he is bright and knowledgeable. But academically, he is weak. Very weak. He struggles with such simple tasks as holding a pen. He can barely write, and worse, he confided to my sister and me that when he reads, the words jump around the page. He can never focus enough to make out a single sentence.”
My heart broke for Pia and her sister. “It sounds like he is dyslexic and maybe has dyspraxia. It is scary for the person at first, as they see everyone else doing these things with ease, but there are methods to help overcome the challenges.”
Pia’s eyes filled with tears. “Really?” I nodded. “His father, he won’t help. He won’t have his reputation damaged by his son being regarded as slow. He is threatening to send him away to a Swiss boarding school.”
I covered Pia’s hand. “If you want my help, Pia, it’s yours. No one need know.”
“You would do that?”
“Of course,” I assured her. She squeezed my fingers in appreciation. She didn’t speak for a while after that. I could see she was still teary.
As the dessert of limoncello gelato was placed before us, Pia said, “It was just little things at first. He would make up the stories for the books he was assigned to read as homework for school. He would get angry when we questioned him on silly mistakes in his class work. It wasn’t until my sister gave him a book she knew by heart and asked him to read it and tell her about it that she realized he was fabricating stories about what he was supposed to be reading. He broke down after that and explained his troubles. It’s . . .” Pia sighed. “It’s been quite a challenge. But the worst part is seeing the frustration he bears. He is a kind, shy boy, but can explode with bouts of aggression when his pride is threatened.”
I knew Pia kept talking to me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard her voice telling me more of her nephew’s plight. But I couldn’t make out what she had said. Because I was too busy feeling my face pale as a cold realization began to hit.
The newspaper story . . . the labels . . . the illegible tick . . . the holding of the pen . . . the shaking . . . asking me to circle the mistakes . . . asking me to leave . . . the pain and fear in his beautiful eyes . . .
He struggled to read and write. Or . . . maybe he couldn’t read or write at all.
Achille, I thought, a stab of sympathy hitting me like a knife in my stomach. How did I not see it? Caresa, you stupid, stupid girl.
“Caresa?” Pia’s questioning voice called me from my inner turmoil. I faked a smile and, somehow, for the next two hours, managed to make small talk as the ladies and I made our way to the grand reception room for drinks. I was sure I agreed to more dinner and charity functions than I could truly commit to, but I couldn’t remember a single one.
Pia was the last to leave, taking with her my promise to see her nephew very soon. The minute she left, I told Maria I needed to lie down—a sudden headache, I explained. I just needed to rest after such a long function.
I didn’t even bother changing from my white cap-sleeved Roland Mouret dress or my matching Prada heels. I didn’t take off the Harry Winston diamond chandelier earrings that hung in my ears, or tie back my hair that had been curled into 1940s pin curls and left in flowing waves to my shoulders. Instead, the minute my bedroom door was locked, I fled through my balcony exit and hurried toward Achille’s home.