Free Tuscan Rose by Belinda Alexandra Page B

‘Not so the Marchesa Milanese. Only Paris will do for her. She doesn’t approveof our Tuscan ways. That’s why she took that beautiful villa and turned the interior into some hideous statement of modern art.’
    Rosa’s brain ticked. Signora Lucchesi was talking about the Marchesa Scarfiotti. So she was originally from Milan?
    ‘She does strut her title,’ said the shopgirl, returning to take another measurement of Rosa’s head. ‘They say her mother is an Egyptian princess.’
    ‘I don’t know anything about her mother,’ replied Signora Lucchesi. ‘But my husband tells me that her father, Generale Caleffi, was charming and brilliant.’
    A milliner walked into the room carrying a natural straw hat with velvet ribbon woven through it. It seemed she was intending to show it to Signora Lucchesi but became caught up in the conversation. ‘I heard that the Marchesa is covered in make-up like a…well, you know what.’
    ‘It’s probably to hide the wrinkles,’ laughed Signora Lucchesi, who had a few of her own. ‘She’s probably older than she says.’
    The milliner put the hat down and leaned against one of the chairs. ‘The Marchese must have been very much in love—’
    ‘Until they married?’ Signora Lucchesi finished her sentence. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I heard from a reliable source that they dismissed their latest nursemaid for the same reason all the others were packed off home. The Marchesa took her daughter away with her to avoid a scandal.’
    Rosa was embarrassed to be listening to the gossip even though she wasn’t contributing to it. She didn’t like the Marchesa but the woman was still her mistress. Rosa realised that she had been sitting on her hands and they had gone to sleep. She shook her palms in front of her, trying to rid herself of the painful pins and needles and at the same time separate herself from the conversation.
    ‘Surely not?’ sniggered the milliner. ‘Not someone so below his station?’
    ‘What’s wrong with the man? He’s a dish and he’s rich. He could have any woman he wants,’ said the shopgirl, beforedisappearing into the workroom again. Rosa wished whoever was adjusting her hat would hurry.
    The milliner sent her a glance. ‘Perhaps the Marchesa is too demanding? And I have heard that she has lovers of her own.’
    It was an invitation for Rosa to join in the gossip. But apart from the fact she had nothing to add, she liked her position and wanted to keep it. What if word got back to the Marchesa about what these women were saying and that Rosa had been involved?
    ‘You know, it is very strange,’ said Signora Lucchesi. ‘I knew the Marchese as a boy. He was so jealous. He’d break your fingers if you even so much as touched one of his toys. I saw him slap his sister once…and he adored her. Yet he turns a blind eye to his wife’s dalliances.’
    The shopgirl returned and thrust the adjusted hat onto Rosa’s head. ‘There, perfect,’ she said.
    The band cut into Rosa’s forehead. She felt as though her scalp was being squeezed into a jar. ‘It’s tight,’ she told the girl.
    ‘It will stretch.’
    The shopgirl urged Rosa out of the booth. ‘Never cross a milliner,’ she told her. ‘They are intimate with your head. It’s like being unfaithful to your husband.’
    Rosa could see that from the vehemency of the gossip about the Scarfiotti family.
    ‘You’re from a convent, aren’t you?’ the shopgirl asked.
    Rosa wondered where she’d obtained her information. Then she remembered Signora Guerrini had called to say she would be coming.
    The shopgirl directed Rosa to the door. ‘Their last nursemaid was a pretty French girl. I guess after the scandal they wanted someone more…plain.’
    Plain? It was probably a vengeful comment for not participating in the gossip, but it stung Rosa all the same. It reminded her of how the paying students at the convent used to refer to her as ‘No Name’ when out of earshot of the nuns. Rosa glanced