The Man from Tuscany

My father, you see, was Hugh Edward Leyden, a respected lawyer; my mother, the former Isabelle Jacqueline Fontaine, a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, active on the board of directors of the Rhode Island Junior League and a prominent Newport society hostess.

As I was their only child, they had great hopes for me to marry well and make them proud. In the 1930s, not a great deal else was required of privileged daughters. If they’d attended the right schools, knew which fork to use, were mannerly, had traveled abroad, could speak a little French or Italian and gave of their time to worthy causes, they were considered a credit to their families.

So there I was, poised to leave on a limited version of the grand tour. Normally we’d have visited several countries, among them Germany and Spain, but Europe was in turmoil and it was decided we were safer to confine ourselves to Italy. We were to “do” Florence, Venice, Milan and Rome, and finish with a few days in Paris if the political climate allowed. At the end of August, I would return home, my enduring passion for great art at least partially satisfied, my exposure to the rich and varied culture of Italy an added bonus to my already sterling pedigree.

The morning we left, our good friends and next-door neighbors, John and Elaine Wexley and their son, Brian, joined my parents on the front terrace to wave us on our way. Brian was twenty-four and home from college for the summer, but despite the six-year age difference between us, we’d been as close as brother and sister since childhood.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said, giving me a hug. “Have a wonderful trip, Anna, and stay safe.”

Saying goodbye to my family was a tearful business. My mother and I wept unashamedly. My father composed his features into such stern lines that I knew he, too, was struggling to keep his emotions in check.

“Ye gods, Anna!” Genevieve exclaimed, at last managing to pry me away from them and stuff me in the car that was to take us to the railroad station. “Anyone would think you were never coming home again. I hope you’re not going to weep your way across the Atlantic. I’m told life on board the Queen Mary is one long, glamorous party and I shall take great exception if you’re being dreary the whole time.”

I smile in reminiscence….

“And were you?” Carly asked. “Dreary, I mean?”

H ER GRANDMOTHER laughed. “Oh, no! The minute we boarded the ship, excitement replaced homesickness. We’d heard about the kind of comfort the Cunard Line offered its first-class passengers, but nothing could have prepared us for the luxury. It was said that no two staterooms were alike, and I well believe it. Ours was fitted with inlaid wood paneling and the most wonderful art-deco furnishings. Next door, Aunt Patricia was surrounded by such a wealth of elegance that she hardly ever ventured from her quarters except for meals—which fell in perfectly with Genevieve’s plans.”

“Genevieve must’ve been fun. I wish I’d known her.”

“My cousin was a hellion!” Anna said with fond nostalgia. “You won’t remember her, Carly. She died twenty-one years and three husbands ago, when you were only three, but even all these years later, I smile when I think of her on that ship. Half the crew and most of the male passengers were in love with her before we sailed out of New York. Before we reached Southampton, she’d turned down five marriage proposals and broken more hearts than all the other women onboard put together.”

“And what about you, Gran? How many proposals did you receive?”

Anna laughed again. “Oh, Carly, no one noticed me! I was merely the quiet cousin, pleasant enough in my way, but not nearly as vivacious or memorable as Genevieve.”

“How unfair!”

“Not at all. I didn’t lack for escorts by day or for dance partners in the evening. I just didn’t inspire grand passion, that’s all—at least, not until we arrived in Florence and I met Marco.”

“What made him different?” Carly wondered aloud. “Was it that he noticed you and not her?”

“For a start, she wasn’t with me that day. I spent the morning roaming the halls of the Pitti Palace, but she had no interest in art galleries and wanted to go shopping. By then, Aunt Patricia realized that, left to her own devices, Genevieve was likely to run off with the first handsome Italian who caught her eye. I, on the other hand, was comme il faut, and could be relied upon to behave appropriately without being chaperoned every minute of the day. So, as much to preserve her own sanity as to protect her daughter’s reputation, wherever Genevieve went, Aunt Patricia went, too.”

The irony of the situation did not escape Carly, and she couldn’t resist a grin. “Leaving you, the good girl, free to have an illicit affair right under your aunt’s nose. Did she never suspect what you were up to?”

“Never. As far as she knew, I spent my days absorbing the history of the city and improving my Italian. I was always back at the hotel in time to change for dinner and always spent the evening with her and Genevieve.”

“And the nights?”

“Well…” A delicate flush tinted her grandmother’s cheeks.

Amused despite herself, Carly said, “Don’t tell me you snuck out every night as soon as poor old Aunt Patricia hit the sack, and Genevieve covered for you?”

“Not quite every night.”

But often enough for an unprincipled rat to put the moves on her naive and trusting grandmother! “So how did you meet this Marco? Was he trolling the halls of the Pitti Palace, looking for innocent young American girls to seduce?”

“He was doing nothing of the sort,” Anna said sharply. “I met him over lunch at an outdoor trattoria. He was at the table next to mine. I had trouble explaining to the waiter what I wanted to order, Marco overheard and stepped in to translate….”

T HE MENU overwhelmed me. Too much to choose from, and the plate of linguine covered with herb sauce the waiter set before me wasn’t what I thought I’d asked for. I hadn’t acquired a taste for pasta at that point. We never ate it at home. “No, grazie,” I told him, searching my little phrase book. “Voglio qualcosa…luce.”

“Luce?” He eyed me doubtfully.

“L…i…g…h…t,” I enunciated, slowly and very distinctly, the way English-speaking tourists tend to do when abroad and confronted by a foreign language. “I…want…something…light.”

“Ah, si! Capisco!” He reached into his vest pocket and produced a small box of matches. “Sigarette.”

“No!” I exclaimed, shocked by the very idea. “ Non sigarette. No fumo— I don’t smoke.”

The waiter threw up his hands, completely at a loss.

To my right, a chair scraped over the piazza’s ornately patterned paving stones, and another voice, deep and confident, joined the conversation. “ Per favore, signorina, may I help?”

I looked up and there he was—tall, dark, handsome and able to speak English. “Yes, please!” I replied fervently. “All I want is a light meal. But not a salad,” I was quick to add. I’d been warned to avoid any uncooked foods that had been washed in local water. “Just something…small.” I gestured at the linguine. “It’s too hot for a heavy meal like this.”

“I understand perfectly.” He engaged the waiter in discussion, and with nothing better to do, I simply stared at my gallant rescuer. He was perhaps five feet ten or eleven, with a slim, but powerful build, thick black hair that gleamed under the sun, and a face that left me dry-mouthed and reaching for my glass of acqua minerale ….

“A ND THE NEXT MOMENT , he asked if he could join you,” Carly observed dryly.

“Actually I asked him. It seemed the mannerly thing to do, considering how helpful he’d been. My Italian was obviously minimal, but his English was excellent. We struck up a conversation and when he discovered my interest in the historical buildings and churches of Florence, he offered to introduce me to his city.”

Carly rolled her eyes. “How original!”

“I thought he was very kind—not to mention knowledgeable. He was an architect, you see, and well qualified to give me a guided tour.”

“Right! And show you his etchings while he was at it.”

“Carly!”

“Well, you can’t blame me for wondering! So how long before you decided you were in love with him?”

“About five minutes.”

“Oh, come on, Gran! You don’t mean that.”

“I do. It really was love at first sight, for both of us. Parafulmine, Marco called it. A lightning bolt without the thunder. Fate’s way of letting us know we were meant to be.”

Unprincipled and smooth-talking, as well. Carly couldn’t repress the cynical thought. “Did he try to kiss you that first day?”

“He did better than that,” her grandmother said, fondling her gold heart pendant. “He proposed.”

“He did not!”

“He did. ‘Will you marry me, Anna?’ he said. And I said I would.”

Carly glanced again at the photograph. “Well, he was definitely attractive. I can see how you might’ve fallen for his good looks.”