Chapter 22 Rafaella
Rafaella
‘Mamma mia! Mamma mia!’
Her mother’s wails rang through the house and Rafaella heard the sound of curious feet slapping on the terracotta floors before there was another cry: ‘Get out! Basta!’
Rafaella reached her door in time to see her little brother Gio being sent away with a flea in his ear, unsuccessful in passing along the message that the Carosas had arrived outside. The wedding party was due to start their procession to church, but inside the farmhouse everything was in disarray.
Gio, like their father and Dado, was wearing his Sunday suit with a pale pink rose in his jacket buttonhole.
Rafaella too was ready, wearing her new, limp blue dress.
It never would have passed Silvana’s scrutiny if she hadn’t been so taken up with her own gown, but Rafaella had meant what she’d said to Romola that Sunday afternoon before they’d gone to El Ciolo: it didn’t matter how she looked.
She was far more concerned that her sister – hollow-eyed from late nights at the atelier and secretive about the design – was planning some sort of sartorial coup, only revealing the dress when there was no time left in which to change it.
From the cries echoing through the house as she walked down the hall to her sister’s room, she feared the worst. She could hear the two women bickering even before she had opened the door.
‘… Mamma?’
Silvana and her mother, both wet-eyed, looked back at her as Rafaella gasped.
The bride was indeed a revolutionary, a wasp-waisted corset unapologetically announcing itself, straddling the hips over a full satin skirt.
The lacework – as Silvana had promised – covered the corset and décolleté all the way up to her throat, and her arms were covered with tight bracelet sleeves, but that was scant comfort for their mother, who couldn’t ignore the shock value of an undergarment being worn as an overgarment.
‘Do you see what she has done?’ their mother cried, throwing her hands up. ‘How can she wear this? This?’
‘Mamma, please,’ Silvana cried, wheeling on her heel and pacing the room. ‘This is the fashion now! In all the movies—’
‘Movies? It is your wedding dress! You will be in church!’
‘Yes, and look – my arms are covered. My neck is covered. My legs—’
‘I see your ankles!’
‘Who cares about my ankles, Mamma?’ Silvana cried. ‘They are not blasphemous!’
‘Ai-ai!’ their mother cried, wringing her hands. ‘Father Tommaso! He will not marry you! Luchino will walk out!’
Rafaella came further into the room, putting an arm around their mother and feeling her shake. ‘Mamma, it’s not so bad as you think. Silvana is right. These are the fashions now.’
‘But not here!’
‘Everything always gets here eventually.’ Rafaella looked at her sister, seeing how her dark hair had been pulled back tightly, a narrow trellis of lacework pinned along her centre parting beneath the veil. ‘I think she looks beautiful.’
Silvana smiled gratefully, but their mother could not be mollified. ‘No! We are disgraced!’
‘Mamma, no. See? She has white gloves, too. She is perfectly modest – nobody will—’ A knock interrupted her.
‘Gio mio, if you don’t scram!’ their mother yelled.
To everyone’s surprise, Romola peered round the door. Like Rafaella, she gasped. ‘Silvana! Your dress!’
Irma Parisi gave a cry as the denunciations began.
‘– It is the most beautiful I have ever seen!’
Irma stopped mid-wail and stared at her. ‘Che?’
‘Signora Parisi, you must be so proud!’ Romola exclaimed, rushing into the room and clutching her by the hand.
She was wearing a sensational full-skirted navy net dress with red polka dots, and it was a testament to Silvana’s creativity that she still looked second-best in the room.
‘Never, anywhere, have I seen a wedding dress as beautiful as this!’
‘Che?’ Irma whispered again.
‘Si! Mamma took me to Florence for the couture and there was nothing, nothing, so lovely as this! Si bellissima! But modesto!’
Rafaella looked across at Silvana, the two sisters catching each other’s eye.
How long had Romola been standing out there?
She had to know that her opinion, as the duke’s daughter, carried weight.
They watched as Irma blotted her eyes, standing a little taller as she looked back at her eldest daughter, trying to see her with a new gaze.
‘Silvana, you must promise me – promise me, when I become a bride, you will make my dress,’ Romola insisted. ‘You must promise me now or I won’t let you leave this room!’
Silvana laughed. ‘Certo! If that is your wish.’
‘Then I shall tell Mamma it is agreed!’ Romola proclaimed, walking around her as if she was a mannequin, hands clasped over her heart as she marvelled at all the little features – the pleated detailing of the corset on the hips, the lace-covered buttons …
‘Thousands of hours must have gone into creating this.’
‘Si,’ Silvana agreed wearily.
‘And it shows! I will only wear a dress by Atelier Parisi, or I shall not marry at all.’
‘Atelier Parisi …?’ Irma murmured.
‘But before then, seeing as I have no groom …’ Romola gave a wry look. ‘You must let me order a dress from you before I go back to Rome! I will need a gown for a ball I am attending in October. All my friends will be begging for your number when they see me!’
Irma blinked, dazzled by this sudden reversal of fortune, and Rafaella spied her chance. ‘Mamma, they are here. The Carosas are waiting.’
‘Already?’ Irma breathed with a fresh look of alarm, patting her lashes dry and smoothing her hair.
‘Si. We must go.’
‘Si, si,’ Irma said, as Silvana pulled on her white gloves. She went over to her daughter to fuss over her veil. ‘We must hurry.’
Rafaella saw Silvana’s gaze snag upon her dress, a look of regret coming over her face now that the distraction of her own had been removed.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take Rafaella to help her get ready,’ Romola said, reaching for Rafaella’s arm.
The others – Rafaella included – looked at her in surprise. Amid all the drama, there hadn’t been time to wonder why exactly she was here.
‘You remember, Silvana, you admired my rosebud dress and asked whether Rafaella could wear it today?’ Romola asked the bride.
Silvana, to her credit, only paused for a half-beat. ‘Si!’ she cried. ‘I almost forgot! That is OK, isn’t it, Mamma? Rafaella needs something special too.’
‘Well, hurry then!’ Irma cried, too dazed and flustered to have another confrontation. And if it was a Franchetti’s dress … ‘The Carosas are waiting!’
‘What are you doing?’ Rafaella whispered as Romola pulled her from the room, giggling all the way along the hall back to her bedroom.
‘As if I would let you attend your sister’s wedding in that rag!’ Romola exclaimed, pinching the thin fabric.
‘But—’
There was a dress bag on Rafaella’s bed, and she walked over to it. Inside was an ivory silk dress embroidered with pink rosebuds. It had a narrow skirt and wide straps that sat on the edge of the clavicle, swooping into a deep criss-cross V front and back.
‘I cannot wear this!’ Rafaella exclaimed, stepping back. ‘It’s too beautiful!’
‘And what sort of ridiculous comment is that?’ Romola cried. ‘Dresses are made to be worn, Rafa! And if you won’t let me buy you something, then borrowing this will have to do. Hurry now … Hurry!’
Rafaella didn’t have time to disobey. She shrugged off the sundress and stepped into the cocktail gown, feeling the satin lining slip over her skin.
Romola was as skinny as she was but its couture construction hugged her every curve, making her feel like a woman for once and not a girl.
She didn’t even need to see herself in the mirror to know she loved it but Romola turned her to look anyway, her head on Rafaella’s shoulder as they admired her reflection. She looked elegant, sophisticated …
‘Si bellissima,’ Romola sighed.
‘Do I look like your friends back home?’ Rafaella asked, scarcely recognizing herself.
Romola kissed her cheek. ‘Silly! You are my friends back home.’