Page 19 of The Tuscan Child
“A nursemaid? Then you are rich?”
He hesitated. “We have a big house. Not much money, but plenty of land and servants.”
“You are a milord?” She was looking at him with wonder now.
“My father is. I shall be when he dies. Not a lord, exactly. A baronet. A sir.”
“Sir Ugo. Imagine what they would say in the village if they knew I was speaking with a milord.” She said it with great drama, making him laugh.
“That all seems so irrelevant now, doesn’t it? Lords and chimney sweeps fight side by side and die side by side, and nobody cares what they once were.”
“That is so true. You must miss your poor wife very much.”
He hesitated thinking about this. Did he miss her? “I’m not sure how much. We were never very close. But I miss my former life. How easy it was, having someone to cook my meals, wash my clothes, saddle my horse for me. And I took it all for granted. But you clearly miss your husband.”
“Oh yes. I miss my Guido terribly. I was only eighteen when I met him. I had been raised in an orphanage in Lucca. Raised without love, you know. And when I was eighteen I was sent to be a servant at a big farm. Guido was working in the fields there as a hired hand.Gesù Maria!He was so handsome. And the way he smiled at me—I felt as if I was melting like candle wax. We fell in love instantly, and when his father died we married, and he brought me to his house in San Salvatore. His father had some land—not much, you understand, but enough: the olives we walked through, and pasture for the goats. We had a small flock of them, and we made goat’s cheese for the market. But we had only been there for a year when the war came to us and Guido was taken away.”
“And you were expecting a child.”
“Yes. It was the worst day of my life when I watched him get into the truck with the other men and be driven off. He waved to me and that was the last I ever saw of him.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She nodded, and he could see her fighting back tears. “Still, I must go on for the sake of my son. It is not easy. We pick the olives, then the Germans come and take most of our olive oil. We grow some vegetables and they come and take those, too.”
“And the goats?”
“They were taken long ago. I begged them to leave me one so that I could have milk for my child, who was not well at the time, but they didn’t speak Italian and I didn’t speak their language, so I had to watch my goats being loaded into a truck.” She pulled the shawl more tightly around her against the cold wind that blew in through the door opening. “I should not complain. It is the same for everyone. They take what we have—cows, chickens, even vegetables. All gone.”
“I heard a rooster crowing in your village, so someone must still have chickens,” he said.
“That is our mayor, Signor Pucci. He pretends to be friendly and helpful and they let him keep a couple of chickens. And one of the farmers still has a few sheep. The Germans do not like the taste of lamb.” She gave him a wry smile. “And so we exist. I am luckier than some. I grow corn and vegetables. I dry the beans from the summer crop. I make cornmeal for polenta. We will not starve, and neither will you, as long as I am here.”
Hugo had finished the soup. He felt its warmth spreading through his body.
“I can’t thank you enough.” He handed her back the empty bowl.
“It is nothing. And see, I have brought you other things.” She reached for the bag and produced items like a conjurer. “A blanket! It will help to keep off the worst of the cold. And an old sheet—it is clean. You can tear it up to make bandages for your wound.” She held up a small bottle. “This is grappa. It will help to keep out the cold. And I found this.” She held up what looked like a spoke from the back of a kitchen chair. “This may work as a splint while your bone heals itself.”
“You’re amazing,” Hugo said. “But won’t these things be missed?”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” She put her finger to her lips even though they were alone in the darkness. “My husband’s family has been in their house for many generations. The attic is full of unwanted things. When I have more time, I shall see what else I can find.”
“You must go now,” he said. “I will be content with food in my belly and a blanket. And tomorrow I may be feeling stronger.”
“Let us pray to Our Lady that you will. And I don’t know the saint of broken legs or wounds. I must ask Father Filippo. He’ll know.”
“Father Filippo?”
“Our parish priest. He is very wise. He knows everything.”
“Don’t tell him about me!” he said, his voice rising.
“I will have to, in confession. But the seal of the confessional is sacred. He may tell no one. He has made this promise to God. So do not worry.”
She patted his hand, stowed the basin in her bag, and draped the shawl around her head and shoulders again.
“Mayla Madonnawatch over you until I return, Milord Ugo.”
