The Watercolourist (26 page)

Her heart, though, belongs to hellebores. Until now she has only known the kind that grow in English gardens, clouded with frost, candid and simple, with a few striations of green and pink. The
ones that Berto brings her have double and triple blossoms; they are opulent, of an intense violet and blue, and in stark contrast with the cream-coloured stamens. Sometimes they are fringed with
purple, reminding her of the veils of frivolous widows. Often they are green, almost an acid shade, and veined with crimson. There are some that are speckled like wild beasts, dotted with lavender
on pale pink.

‘They are strong but delicate. Just like you,’ Berto tells her after they have been working together for some time. ‘They must be planted in the ground. They will die in
pots.’

They agree that he will bring her several of these plants when they are ready to return to the country. She is sure the poet will be happy to add them to his list of experiments. Meanwhile she
is content to place pots of them on the balcony on the first floor of the great hall. As far as shade is concerned, the garden, though barren, provides enough because it is walled in. Hellebores
love darkness and it is winter after all. She waits until their blooms reach their peak and then despondently cuts back the stems, hurrying to wash her hands afterwards because the flowers are full
of poison. She places the cuttings in a tall, narrow vase, their heads tilting as if they are looking around perplexed at their new arrangement. And then she begins to draw them. She uses an
infinite range of hues for the pinks, violets and crimsons; the minuteness of the pistils, which vary from kind to kind, like small eyes; the webbed veins on the petals, rosy-cheeked children who
have played too long outdoors.

The drawings are a great success. All the ladies want to have one of Bianca’s hellebores, maybe even two or three, to hang above their nightstands or in their studies, to look at while
they write love letters.

‘And to think that in nature they seem so very modest, almost invisible,’ one of them says when she comes to retrieve her very own portrait of the flower.

‘There never was a flower more suited to you, Signorina,’ Bernocchi says to the guest. She turns, smiles lightly, and walks away, convinced that this is a coded compliment.

‘Do you know, Bianca,’ he continues, winking, ‘what hellebore means in the language of flowers? It means scandal.’

Innes frowns and tries to catch Bianca’s eye, but she is not in the mood and simply sighs. Bernocchi has become a coat rack, a tea cosy, an embroidered fireguard; he is a household object
of communal use, ready to come alive when one least expects it. Fortunately, no one pays any attention to him. Unfortunately, he is always around.

If only she could just let go of those thoughts about Pia. If only she could let herself enjoy the present. Every so often doubts like these brush through her. She knows she is
doing the right thing by acting on Pia’s behalf, though, so she stops questioning, and focuses on confirming her suspicions. Pia will gain her fair advantage, her rights will be restored, and
she will have a future. But what about Bianca? She’ll have to be content with the shadows.

Now that she is, in one form or another, a young and successful portraitist, Bianca can interrupt her work temporarily and pursue her hunt. She devises a plan as she is drawing, her hand moving
spontaneously across the paper, and it seems perfect in its simplicity. Naturally, if she could confide in someone she would feel more certain, but she has her own certainties to rely on. She
doesn’t worry that the picture is missing either details or precision. She owes this to Pia, her young benefactress who has inspired the path of black and white. At first she has simply been
curious, but now her courage is kindled by gratitude. And anyway, what will it take? She has only to make a visit, knock on a front door, ask some questions. The worst thing that could happen will
be that the front door will be locked, or there will be no answer. She needs to prepare.

She chooses to wear a grey dress with silk trimming, which conveniently ages her, and a flimsy hat that ties with a big bow under her chin. She slips on her grey kid gloves and fastens their
rows of tiny buttons. She places the precious token she discovered and a couple of coins in her green purse. She leaves the house, careful not to run into anyone so she won’t have to lie
about where she is going, and hails a coach on the street by the gardens. She reasons that a lady being chauffeured is more credible than a lady on foot, even if the journey isn’t very
far.

She descends from the carriage in front of Santa Caterina alla Ruota, the driver not hiding his vague disapproval at the choice of destination. From a distance she sees the pass-through wooden
drawer in the church’s door that Minna has told her about. Her curiosity becomes mixed with a feeling of unease. Up close it doesn’t look so strange, though. It is a kind of rough
wooden cradle. She has imagined it differently, more like an object of torture. She knocks on the door and waits. Behind the grated peephole an old woman’s face appears. She wears a kerchief
on her head like a peasant.

‘What do you want?’ the woman asks.

‘I am here because I need some information about a girl,’ Bianca replies.

‘We can’t give out information to just anyone. Are you family?’

‘No, but I have her pledge token.’ She opens her purse and shows a corner of the small pillow.

The peephole closes and the door opens with a clamour of locks and bolts. The old woman lets her in, closes the door, and walks away without saying a word. Bianca hesitates for a moment and then
follows her down a long hallway illuminated by tall, barred windows. Seen from up close, her guide isn’t all that old, and her manners reveal a certain genteelness. Her outdated black dress
contains a trace of elegance in the tubular sleeves, and her kerchief is neatly folded and tied behind her head, not under her chin like the townsfolk. Walking swiftly, she pauses and turns around
for a moment to inspect Bianca, who clutches her own fashionable hat with an intent expression. Bianca hopes that she doesn’t seem too frivolous and that she has chosen the right dress for
the occasion. Instinctively, she lowers her head and folds her hands together as if she were in church.

They walk together through an area of the cloisters that is sleepy with cold. The woman appears both clumsy and cautious in her movements, like someone with bone problems, but her feet move
rapidly and silently. Bianca glances to her side and sees a wall of headstones, the graves of men and women, with phrases engraved into the stone in Latin. Her guide stops in front of a small, low
doorway. She ducks into it. Bianca goes to follow, but is stopped halfway.

‘You wait here.’

The small door shuts firmly. Bianca looks around. She stamps her feet to keep warm. The chill grows more intense. Maybe the humidity of past centuries held within these thick walls is designed
to mercilessly ward off intruders. There are no voices, though, no crying. The door creaks and the woman reappears.

‘The Signora will see you now,’ she says, holding the door open for Bianca, then closing it behind her after she’s passed through.

The room is small with a high ceiling and a remote window – part cell, part study. There, a heavy woman dressed in black sits at a monk’s table. Her hair is a shiny white. It neatly
frames her severe, though almost youthful face. The contrast between her white hair and smooth skin is surprising.

The woman does not stand. She inspects Bianca and then points to the straight-backed chair in front of her.

‘Biagina informed me of your request. Can I ask who you are, why you are here, and what is your intention, if I may be so bold?’ She speaks in an authoritative tone. ‘And how
did you come to be in possession of the pledge token?’

Bianca bears the scrutiny of those serene brown eyes and, as clearly as possible, explains the whole story. Her version of it, at least. She pieces the tale together, relying on gossip, real
events and conjecture. Saying it out loud makes it feel even more concrete. If it isn’t really the truth, she is close at least. An abandoned child was entrusted to an elderly couple. The
wife was the sister of the town priest. The married couple lived with the priest. The little girl brought sunlight into the home of the elderly couple. She was bright and alert. Unlike her peers,
who were condemned to forced labour by families who earned from them, this girl was raised with all possible comforts, given her situation. She had pretty clothes, good food, toys and affection.
The priest, her uncle, taught her how to read and write. Her adopted parents passed away when the girl was too young to take care of the priest but old enough for it to cause rumour and gossip if
she did. So she was sent to work in the household of the local lord, enjoying a privilege or two above the rest of the maids due to her vivacious intelligence and the priest’s protection.
Bianca mentions that all of this should appear in legal documents.

The old woman takes notes, scratching away at a piece of paper. At the end of Bianca’s speech, she puts down her quill and sighs.

‘Convincing, indeed,’ she comments. ‘But this could be the story of tens of hundreds of abandoned girls over the last two centuries. You certainly have not gone out of your way
to come here and tell me a fairy tale, though. You must have good reasons. Let’s be frank, young lady.’ And here it seems to Bianca as though the woman is stressing the words
‘
young
lady’. ‘Are you the mother?’

‘Oh, no. No, no, no,’ Bianca replies hastily. She hasn’t considered the possibility of being so grossly misinterpreted. ‘I am . . . too young. I’m just a
friend.’

‘Whose friend?’

‘A friend of the child. Of the girl. Of the daughter, I mean.’ Bianca catches her breath. ‘And to confirm everything that I have so far said, I have brought this.’

This is her
coup de théâtre
. She puts her hand inside her purse and pulls out the small velvet pillow, which she has wrapped in a white cloth. She uncovers it and places it
on the table, between herself and the woman, who takes it, turns it over in her fingers, lightly palpates it, and then smells it. She returns it to the table and looks at Bianca.

‘It was found on the border of the property where the girl lives,’ Bianca explains. It isn’t a lie. It is the truth, only somewhat modified. ‘I have reason to believe
that a woman left this with you, a woman who every so often makes an appearance there. Someone who deserves, more than any other woman, the right to know the fate of this girl. I believe that this
woman is her mother.’

Bianca lets the sentence fade out. They both sit in silence. The older lady picks up her quill and then puts it down again.

‘We shall see,’ she says. She excuses herself and stands, leaving Bianca alone in the room. She is definitely a lady. One can tell from the shape of her hands, from the way she
walks, by the elegant cut of her dress. It is difficult to know what she is doing here, why she is here and not outside, riding through the city in a carriage. Perhaps she is freshly widowed. This,
more than her position, would explain the black dress. Perhaps she is one of those generous souls who, unsatisfied with living their own life, take up the causes of others. Donna Clara would know,
but Bianca cannot ask her. And nor does Bianca know how she can drop Donna Clara’s name into the conversation without putting the whole endeavour at risk.

The woman re-enters the room through a side door, holding in both hands a large green book stuffed with papers and objects.

‘It ought to be in here.’

She places the book on the desk, opens it and traces her finger down the pages. Bianca tries to read upside down but in vain: the handwriting is too small, oblique and somewhat faded; a damp
stain extends across one page, eating away at many of the sentences.

‘Here.’

The woman takes the token again, turning it over in her hand.

‘The description matches. “A pink and green pledge with the image of a lamb embroidered in gold and silver thread. A thin linen shirt with the initials cut out. Fine linen swaddling
with initials cut out. The baby girl, in good health, one month old, was received and given to the custody of Berenice A. on such and such a date. The child was passed on to the care of family M.
in such and such year, with the following belongings, etc., etc.”’

She turns the page. This time the
coup de théâtre
is all hers. There is the pledge. It is the twin of the one that Bianca has brought, only less aged. It has the same pink
and green embroidery and small embroidered roses. Bianca reaches out a hand but the woman shuts the book quickly. The volume is full of irregular lumps. It surely contains more of those awkward and
strange relics.

‘And so?’ asks Bianca, after a brief moment of silence.

‘And so what?’ The gaze of the woman is precise and penetrating.

‘The two tokens are identical. This proves that my story is true.’ Bianca ends her sentence by placing both hands on the table, one next to the other.

‘It only proves that there are two identical tokens in existence,’ objects the woman. ‘The story which you so compassionately shared with me could be true just as it could be
false. Try to understand: I have no reason to doubt your good nature. You seem like an honest young lady, prompted by the desire to help and perhaps driven too by a certain, natural curiosity
– which in itself is not bad, but could lead to harm. I do not know what secrets people have told you to make you come here today. But in any case, there are rules to this game. The fact that
you have the token does not give you any more rights than if you had come here empty-handed.’