29. Florence
29
FLORENCE
TAORMINA, 1890
TOURMALINE: Protects, cleanses; disperses negativity, connects to spiritual energy
T he cousins lived at Hotel Timeo for many years, delighting in the view of terraced lines of olives and the scent of freshly picked oranges. Florence met a kind-hearted doctor, Salvatore , and their combined concern for animals and nature sowed the seeds for a contented and lasting relationship. She held soirees and salons, and opened her home to artists and intellects, authors and explorers of the unknown, as had Aunt Pauline before her. Salvatore often acted as host. When he proposed marriage, Florence prepared to move into his capacious villa, close to the ruins of the ancient Teatro Greco .
However , over the years, Louisa had become decidedly disgruntled. Her nerves flared up at the oddest of times. Even her few visits back to England to attend to family matters did more to inflame than appease her moods. She frequented her room and avoided Florence’s guests, even those whose works she professed to admire. Some might have called it envy at Florence’s good fortune. Florence believed it was because Louisa loved and protected her, perhaps too dearly.
As the wedding drew closer, servants reported Louisa had been heard whispering to herself and laughing in the shadows more frequently. It was only then that Florence considered there might more that troubled Louisa than their exile. She questioned the merit of taking Louisa into her confidence, regretting that by sharing the weight her own secret, she had placed a burden on her cousin that was more than Louisa’s nerves could bear.
Florence dearly loved Salvatore and insisted they begin their marriage with open honesty. Start as you mean to continue. Along with easing her conscience, she hoped by explaining about Isabella , it might ease Louisa’s angst too.
Instead , it only served to drive a wedge between them.
In the week before the wedding, the cousins walked in the privacy of the courtyard. The sun was shining, and the warmed scent of frangipani lingered as dragonflies danced in the sea breeze. Florence’s forthcoming union appeared blessed.
But all Louisa saw was doom.
‘ Surely there was no need to tell him about her, Florence ? For shame!’ Sibilant words hissed through her gritted teeth. ‘ A child born out of wedlock is an abomination he need know nothing about. What if he exposes your past and uses the information against you? Knowledge is power, my father always told me. And as for secrets…they are best left buried.’
Florence took Louisa’s hands in hers. ‘ Salvatore loves me, Louisa . He well understands my desire to search for my daughter.’
Salvatore was a gentle soul with kind eyes and a thick wave of grey hair that tangled around his spectacles. When Florence had first told him of Isabella , he had listened to her story with his brow wrinkled in concern, and then held her to him, whispering in melodic Italian while her body convulsed, racked with grief and pent-up emotion. Florence explained how she had done what she thought was best and confessed how deeply in love she had been with the father of her child.
‘ But I do not understand why you pursue it, my dearest. You were informed of her death…’ Louisa twisted her hands and looked away.
‘ Please do not, Louisa …’
‘ I believe Isabella is out there somewhere. I feel she is still alive. I shall return to the Foundling Hospital in person to seek clarification as soon as I give Salvatore an heir.’
Florence noticed the rosy flush on Louisa’s face and cursed under her breath. She should never have spoken of such an intimacy that her cousin failed to comprehend.
‘ For pity’s sake, dearest! What of the…the father….’
‘ I loved him, Louisa , and we could never be together, as you well know—’ She broke off, the familiar pang of guilt halting further comment.
Now the Conte di Prato , Isabella’s father had become a great man in political circles—the splendid orator and ardent humanitarian she had ever expected. However , his political leanings were on the opposing side of the current government. It was not wise to admit to a relationship with Orlando Vincenzi .
‘ You must understand in your heart why I had to tell Salvatore .’
‘ I think it foolish, indeed.’ Louisa sniffed.
Florence handed her the handkerchief from her pocket. ‘ Louisa , he loves me, and I am grateful he understands. Won’t you find it in your heart to be happy for me too, dear cousin?’
T he night before the wedding, long golden fringing swayed on the edges of the heavy drapes as maids closed them across the parlour windows, blocking the beautiful view of the bay from sight. Florence wanted no distractions. Once and for all she would know the truth.
Cloaked in darkness her guests took their places around the circular table, and a tingle of energy pulsed through the room. It was the perfect ambience for a seance—a spiritual quest, seeking the truth.
Florence recalled the day the letter had arrived from the Foundling Hospital . It reported of a particularly cold winter, during which, along with several children of a similar age, her daughter had caught pneumonia. Isabella had suffered a short but severe attack in the harsh London climate and had tragically perished. The hospital offered Florence sincere condolences for her loss, assuring her that her child had been buried with church rites and put to rest in a cemetery. Florence was inconsolable.
Louisa remained vigilant during her period of mourning, stepping quietly around her with tenderness, allowing her to walk the coastline and watch the horizon alone with her memories.
But after grief came frustration—until anger took Florence’s body by force. What she needed more than tea and sympathy was the truth. Deep inside she sensed the representatives of the institution were not being entirely honest. And so, Florence wrote frequently, seeking further details of Isabella’s short life.
Florence steered her mind back to the parlour, to the present, and squeezed Salvatore’s hand, having noticed his frown when he gazed towards the medium at the opposite end of the table. Dear Salvatore . Florence’s heartbeat quickened, and she took a deep breath. He was as nervous as she. They both dared to hope the seance would lead them into the realm of the afterlife and reveal Isabella’s fate. If she had passed over, the medium might be offered the opportunity to speak to her in the spirit realm. Then , she could beg Isabella’s forgiveness for leaving her at the Foundling Hospital all those years ago. If not, she would find her. Either way, she would learn what had become of her daughter.
‘ Take the hands of those beside you and rest them on the table. Close your eyes to the light. Open your mind to the darkness.’ The clipped vowels of a Scottish brogue commanded the assembled group.
Florence had made the acquaintance of her guests during their vacation in Sicily . They were followers of the occultist Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn . William Sharp’s deep voice reverberated throughout the room, and a tremor of nervous energy surged in Florence’s body like lightning over Etna on a summer’s night. She grasped the clammy palm of Mr Yeats beside her. The esteemed poet’s lover, the actress Miss Maud Gonne , smiled briefly and cleared her throat. Maud had also experienced the loss of a child and had spoken at length about her belief in reincarnation. However horrible the thought of Isabella’s death, the idea of her returning in the form of another made Florence’s heart ache even more.
The sound of rustling skirts came from the passageway outside. Florence shuffled in her seat. Louisa , listening at keyholes again. Her cousin had refused to join them, complaining of a headache and excusing herself some time before.
Louisa had made it clear she had no time for Florence’s visitors, who were far too liberal in their private lives for her liking. When they accepted Florence’s invitation to stay, Louisa had offered forth an endless array of excuses as to why she couldn’t join them. It was no surprise that on this unsettled summer night in July , Louisa once again blended silently into the background.
Florence waited until all eyes were shut and then positioned herself in readiness. As the light lowered, a glow shone about William’s head and gave the illusion of a king wearing a crown. Her last sight was a flash of twinkling pink on the sideboard in front of her as teardrop pendants trembled atop a rose glass lustre vase.
‘ We speak to you, spirit, and call to you now. Come forth. Show us who you are.’
She held her breath and felt Salvatore’s fingers twitch in hers.
‘ Who is there? Who are you? Speak to us, spirit…’
Her face glowed with heat, and she ached with longing. Are you there, Isabella , my love?
The group of five sat in silence as the grandfather clock ticked back and forth in the hallway. In the distance, Florence heard the gate to the walled garden close below her, and its rusty latch lifted and clunked into place. Louisa . Where was she going now? Their recent disagreement had unsettled Florence , along with the anticipation of the seance. She tried to calm her breathing, to ready herself for contact with the spirits.
Thoughts of Louisa’s habits disappeared into the ether as Florence’s breathing relaxed and oxygen flowed more freely through her body.
‘ Yes , I hear you. I can hear your voice. Tell me your name.’ William’s voice rose theatrically.
Florence gasped in surprise. ‘ Is it her?’ she whispered.
Salvatore clasped her hand tighter, pumping it in two short bursts. His thigh pressed against hers beneath the table, giving strength and support as always.
‘ No —this is a man,’ William continued. ‘ Our search is for a girl. Can you hear us? Come . Speak if you are here.’
Florence refocused her breathing and waited for William’s words to flow. At irregular intervals he made noises of agreement in a private conversation of humpfs and ahems muttered beneath his breath. She waited for him to repeat it.
‘ We call forth the spirit of Isabella . No , you say? Are you quite certain?’
Her eyes flicked open with a surge of excitement. If Isabella’s spirit was unable to be reached, surely she must be alive?
The news confirming her death was more difficult to bear given it was the only letter ever received from the hospital. An act beyond cruelty. Her twice-yearly requests to the director of the Foundling Hospital seeking further information remained unanswered. A sensation gnawed at Florence that could not be denied. She felt certain she would have known instinctively if her daughter was no longer alive. Her faith in Isabella’s existence had never dwindled.
William communed with the spirit he had conjured forth. His eyelids twitched and shuttered over bulbous eyeballs. The rest of the group remained trancelike, hands interlaced like a human daisy chain.
A few moments later he continued. ‘ Are you certain, I say? She is still amongst us, living in this realm? It is true— Isabella has not passed.’
Florence’s heart lurched at his words. Her prayers were answered. The spirits had spoken, and her instincts proven correct.
Now there was a grain of hope that Florence might find her.
On the morning of her wedding, Florence dressed in a gown of dove-grey silk edged with Honiton lace and draped a luminous string of pearls around her neck, ready for life as Salvatore’s wife. But when she knocked on Louisa’s door, with a cup of tea in her hand by way of truce, the rooms were empty. The striped travelling trunk that had stood in the corner of Louisa’s dressing room was missing, along with the picture of Florence from its place by her bedside. Her belongings were packed, and she was gone. Without so much as a goodbye.