I glanced at her, wondering if she jested once more, but she’d turned her head to continue our walk, and her bonnet hid her face from me.
We went north through the piazza, Donata pausing to take in the grand fountains along the way. The violinist was firmly gone, and I hoped he’d reached a safe place to continue his playing.
Bells rang out from church towers around us, marking the hour as we exited the square. I kept a sharp eye out as we traversed the narrow lanes to Proietti’s abode, though most of the passers-by had no interest in us, and I saw no sign of our attacker from Naples and Pompeii. I hoped the man had stayed at the bay and had not ventured to Rome.
I found the door with chipped paint in the narrow lane and knocked upon it. After a few moments, the retainer who’d answered before flung it open, no reticence this time.
“Capitano, entra, entra.” He was agitated and harried. When the man caught sight of Donata behind me, his eyes widened, and he executed a low bow. “Signora, perdonami.”
“It is no bother,” Donata said in English. “Admit us, please.”
The servant might not understand the words, but he recognized the command. He opened the door wide, stepping back from it so we’d have plenty of room to enter.
He continued his apologies as he closed the door and led us to the stairs. Voices raised in argument poured down the staircase as we ascended it behind the retainer, and he turned a sorrowful face to us.
“Sua figlia,”he said. “È tornata.”
“Figlia?”I asked in surprise. “His daughter?”
“Si, si, capitano.”
The man did not sound happy. I heard the high-pitched but lovely voice of the young lady I’d met at Trevisan’s home. Answering her was Proietti, in a blazing fury.
“Perhaps we should not interfere,” I said.
Donata apparently did not agree with me. She released my arm and marched up the stairs, the retainer trotting to keep ahead of her. It was obvious from which chamber the argument emerged. Donata went straight to it, and the servant quickly opened the door of a small sitting room.
Proietti was in full voice. He stood several feet from his daughter, arms raised to make a point. Gisela faced him, head up, mouth set in a stubborn line, not cowed one whit by her raging father.
“Good afternoon,” Donata said into the noise.
She did not shout, but her words cut through Proietti’s rampage and Gisela’s impassioned ripostes.
Proietti whirled, arms still high. An expression of amazement crossed his face, and his arms came down.
“Signora? Chi sei?”I stepped into the room behind Donata, and Proietti became even more nonplussed. “Captain Lacey?”
“Proietti,” I said hastily. “May I present my wife, Mrs. Lacey.”
Proietti’s face went crimson. Gisela stared with as much embarrassment and bewilderment. Father and daughter looked very alike at this moment.
“Perhaps, my dear, you will explain to me why you are bellowing enough to shake the walls,” Donata said to Gisela. “You may translate, Signor Proietti. My husband has written to me all about you, and I am interested in your dilemma.”
Gisela, today dressed in ivory cotton, sleeves gathered at her wrists with a fall of ribbons, unlocked her frozen stance and gave Donata a practiced and deferential curtsy.
“Please, madame.” Gisela drew a large armchair from the shadows, positioning it near the warm stove. She then gave an order to the retainer, delivering it in dulcet tones, very unlike the infuriated ones I’d heard on the way up the stairs.
The manservant rushed away and quickly returned with a tray bearing cups and a decanter of wine. Gisela carried a footstool to Donata, solicitous of her comfort.
“You have very pretty manners, my dear.” Donata smoothed her skirt and accepted the cup of wine from the manservant. “Which is likely why you are in this predicament now. A harridan would hardly have caught this conte’s eye, from what I hear of him.”
Proietti and I stood away from the ladies, watching the little tableau, making no move to intervene. The manservant brought me a wine cup, and I took it gratefully but did not drink.
“Thank you, madame,” Gisela said quietly. I could see that Gisela wanted to argue, but also that she’d been raised to be deferential to her elders, in spite of what I’d just heard between her and her father. Her parents had not taken the spirit out of her, but neither had she become harsh and spoiled.
“I can understand why Conte Trevisan is taken with you,” Donata continued. “And more than that, why his mother did not kick up a fuss when he brought you home.”
“Contessa Trevisan is a great lady,” Gisela assured her. “She is good to me.”
