child, would never be enough for her. She yearned for danger, for challenges and excitement, and she was determined to get back to her real existence as soon as possible.
Part Three
Civil War
‘When women take up a cause you can assume it has been won!’
Italian proverb
Fifteen
Rome
September 1943
It had been several weeks since Vicenzo’s party, and Isabella hadn’t received either flowers or even a phone call from him. Normally, if they parted on bad terms, he would make it up to her within days. His silence worried her, and she yearned for reassurance. If she could just speak to him and hear his voice, she would know whether he still loved her. But each time she picked up the phone to call him, she hesitated, eventually replacing the receiver. Better perhaps to live in ignorance than to have your fears confirmed, she thought to herself.
Eventually, driven mad by curiosity and jealousy, she decided to confront him in person. Every day she would walk to his house, but her nerve always failed her. Rather than going boldly to the front door, she would hide just out of sight on the pavement, waiting behind a hedge. What she was watching for, she couldn’t really explain – a glimpse of an unfamiliar woman… the girl from Florence perhaps?
On one occasion, the dogs nearly gave her away. Vicenzo emerged one morning, the dogs following closely behind. Suddenly, they caught Isabella’s scent and ran down the drive, barking, heading straight towards her. She stood frozen, hidden from view, wanting to run, but she knew the dogs would only follow her if she did. Still hiding on the pavement, she let them nuzzle against her legs, sniff her hands and lick her fingers. She heard Vicenzo’s footsteps as he walked down the drive towards them. Terrified she would be discovered, she flapped her hands at the dogs. ‘Go home,’ she whispered. ‘Good boys, go home.’ They looked up at her, questioningly. To her relief, Vicenzo called their names and whistled to them. The dogs pricked up their ears, and bounded back to the house. Filled with shame, and desperate to get away, she ran into the park, only stopping to catch her breath when she was out of sight.
She had never chased a man like this before, nor ever spied on anyone. She thought she had felt true love for the soldier aristocrat, Ludovico, but that was nothing compared to the intensity of her feelings for Vicenzo. She was tortured by the realisation that this girl, Livia, was exactly the sort of girl a man like Vicenzo would be expected to marry. He had known her all his life and she was from a good family. She remembered her final meeting with Ludovico’s mother, when the Baroness had made it quite clear that Isabella would never be good enough for her son. Now she felt the same humiliation and disappointment she had felt then, like a stab through the heart.
‘Did you have a nice walk?’ her mother asked, when she got home. ‘Where do you go every day – round the park?’
‘Just around,’ Isabella replied guardedly.
‘Well, if you have nothing better to do, why don’t you come and help us? Housework doesn’t do itself, you know.’ Giovanna was making pasta with her sister Ariana. They were rolling out the dough with white floury hands.
‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Isabella, ‘I’m no good at making pasta.’
‘Only because you don’t practise,’ replied her mother, pushing a small round of dough towards her. ‘Don’t waste it… it was hard enough getting hold of the flour.’
Isabella joined the two women at the table, and began to roll out the dough, sighing repeatedly.
‘What’s the matter, Isabella?’ Giovanna asked impatiently. ‘Is it work?’
‘No, not particularly,’ replied Isabella. ‘There is no work, of course, and that makes me a bit miserable.’
‘Is it money, then?’
‘No,’ said Isabella firmly. ‘We have enough. The house is paid for, we’re no longer paying the staff, and I have a few savings.’
‘Well, what is it then?’ her mother asked.
Isabella glanced uneasily towards her aunt. Giovanna whispered to her sister, who wiped her floury fingers on her apron and left the room.
‘Now, we’re alone. So tell me – what’s the matter?’ asked Giovanna. ‘Is it that director?’
Isabella slumped down on a chair and began to cry.
‘Crying won’t help,’ Giovanna said coolly. ‘Are you in love with him?’
Isabella nodded.
‘But he doesn’t love you, is that it?’
‘He says he does,’ said Isabella, wiping away her tears, ‘but something always holds him back. He won’t commit