Free The Watercolourist by Beatrice Masini Page A

forever.’ She sighs and puffs out her taffeta chest, and with another gesture – her hands are never still –
she shoos away a thought. ‘But we are all much simpler and happier now. A little wild, but happy. Isn’t that right, Julie? Isn’t that right, my son?’
    ‘Really, you are very special,’ says Annina Maffei, a dark-haired lady in an intricate dress. ‘You’ve created your own entourage. You pride yourself on being simple and
rustic, but deep down you are very unique. You have a governess for the children, whom you refer to as Nanny even though she’s French. You have dear Stuart for English, which, if you
don’t mind my saying, is an incomprehensible and violent language, worse than German. You even have a domestic painter and a poet in residence. Everyone in Milan gossips about you. And here
you all are, hiding out. What I would do to bring you to a show at La Scala!’
    Donna Clara seizes on this comment.
    ‘Have you seen the most recent performance by Signorina Galli? How is she?’
    ‘Signorina Brignani is far better, in my modest opinion,’ replies Bernocchi. ‘Signorina Galli is always the same. Exquisite and angelic, a little too much so. Signorina
Brignani is small, exotic and spicy . . . if you know what I mean,’ he adds, looking for signs of understanding from the men. ‘But anything’s better than the sylph-like doldrums
of Signorina Pallarini.’
    Tommaso nods with an all-too brief smile. Innes contemplates a corolla of tulips in a vase on a table behind him. Don Titta assumes that distanced stare which is his usual defence against the
world. Don Dionisio, the old priest, is immersed in his own private meditations, which look dangerously similar to sleep. And Bernocchi is vexed: he hates it when his quips fall flat. So he stares
at Bianca, cocking his head slightly to one side and wetting his lips lasciviously. Despite herself, she blushes. A second later, his gaze drifts over to Pia, who ought to have been dismissed by
now but who stands staring at Contessa Maffei’s too ornate but nonetheless extremely enchanting gown. Pia neither notices Bernocchi nor feels his gaze on her, which even from a distance
lingers a little too long.

    Bianca dismisses herself with a curtsey, which always works for a person of her status – somewhere between hired help and guest. But when she realizes that she has left
her mother’s ivory fan downstairs, rather than wait until the next day to retrieve it and risk finding it broken, she returns. Shrewdly, she stops at the threshold. Young Count Bernocchi is
talking about her.
    ‘It seems as though that awful Albion has given us the gift of an authentic gem. A coarse gem, of course, as brusque as she is pleasant. She needs only to be cleaned and polished with
patience. Do you really think she will stay and draw all your flowers? You, my friend, are an eccentric man. It is you that everyone talks about in the city. Our poet peasant.’
    ‘It’s a shame she has freckles. She looks like a quail’s egg,’ Donna Annina says.
    ‘And what about a man? Will you find her a husband? Or is she one of those modern girls who want to be “independent”?’

    ‘We must marry her off.’
    This had been declared at every dinner with both insistence and some menace. Bartolo used to announce it to their father without even looking at her, as if she were merely one of the
furnishings.
    ‘By all means, we must not,’ her father would reply, steadfast and unwavering. ‘Bianca doesn’t need to be married. We have given her the independence she needs to choose
what she wants, even a husband if she so desires. But only if she desires.’
    ‘But, Father, really. She is in her prime. Who will want her in five years? She will end up being an independent old maid with ink on her fingers and too much pride.’ Bartolo spoke
with sarcasm.
    ‘Bartolomeo, I don’t want to discuss this any further. Your sister will do what she pleases.’
    Bartolo’s face