speaking of such matters here on hallowed ground. But the gentleman who has vanished, he carried with him a warning. Of danger and peril.”
“Against the Gavis,” Falconer said. “Yes. Thank you. I already know of this.”
“Not the Gavis,” Nathan corrected. “Against you.”
Serafina returned from church with plenty to accomplish. Other than Mary, they had no female help around the house. Finding a suitable cook was going to be very difficult. Lillian Langston knew no one who had even the slightest idea of Italian cooking. And like most Italian men, Serafina’s father was very particular about his food. So Bettina said she would cook and teach her daughter at the same time. That evening they were playing host to Reginald and Lillian Langston. No proper Italian could say thanks without spreading a feast.
Serafina found great pleasure in the shopping and the preparations. The previous evening Serafina and her mother had spent hours making long sheets of pasta. The fresh dough was featherlight as they rolled it flat. Serafina had laid out streams of finely milled flour before her mother’s rolling pin, and the table upon which they had worked was covered with a wet cheesecloth, such that the pasta would adhere to the cloth and not peel or tear. Overnight the pasta and the cloth had dried together. Now Bettina peeled it away from the cloth and sliced the hardened pasta, rolling it gently so it would not break, as Serafina ladled in the fresh tomato sauce they had made that morning. They would then add spinach cooked with fresh basil and some cheese. The reggiano and mozzarella they would have used in Venice were not available. But they had bought an aged cheese made from cows’ milk by a German dairy farmer. They could only hope it would prove adequate.
Serafina loved the work and the closeness to her mother. It was a return to her happiest recollections. She recalled other such times, the two of them making pastries in the kitchen fronting the Venetian street or setting the table while gondoliers sang their way through sunlit waters in the canal beyond their dining room window. They laughed over such memories, as though the interim tragedy had never happened. They tasted sauces and kneaded dough for panini . Eventually her mother asked how she had fared in England. The question came naturally, two friends wishing to catch up on each other’s lives. Finally managing to speak of the lost weeks and months.
Serafina’s tale about Aunt Agatha and Harrow Hall took them through the rolling of the veal in ground pepper and sage and setting it in the oven to roast. She cleaned potatoes while her mother sliced carrots, and Serafina described the young lord’s attack and how Falconer had saved her. How he had taken her to church. How he had reintroduced her to hope.
Together they set the table as Serafina described Gareth and Erica Powers and their mission to abolish slavery on both sides of the Atlantic. Bettina Gavi made coffee as Serafina scrubbed the kitchen table and related their travels to the home of William Wilberforce and her two drawings for the pamphlet—the one of Falconer and the one politicizing the slave trade. She and her mother dipped biscotti into their demitasse cups as Serafina told of the pamphlet’s impact, the passage of the bill eradicating slavery within the British Empire.
When she finally stopped, the kitchen was filled with the fragrances of roasting meat and fresh spices. Her mother toyed with her tiny spoon and avoided her daughter’s eyes. “Stories upon stories,” she murmured.
“I did not mean to disturb you, Mama. Perhaps I should not have spoken so.” Serafina saw anew the fresh lines of age and worry in her mother’s lovely features and blinked back tears over being the cause. “If only I could change all the mistakes I have made.”
“Daughter, if I could wind back the hands of time, I would have done so long ago. We do not regret the past mistakes. We move on.” The
“Against the Gavis,” Falconer said. “Yes. Thank you. I already know of this.”
“Not the Gavis,” Nathan corrected. “Against you.”
Serafina returned from church with plenty to accomplish. Other than Mary, they had no female help around the house. Finding a suitable cook was going to be very difficult. Lillian Langston knew no one who had even the slightest idea of Italian cooking. And like most Italian men, Serafina’s father was very particular about his food. So Bettina said she would cook and teach her daughter at the same time. That evening they were playing host to Reginald and Lillian Langston. No proper Italian could say thanks without spreading a feast.
Serafina found great pleasure in the shopping and the preparations. The previous evening Serafina and her mother had spent hours making long sheets of pasta. The fresh dough was featherlight as they rolled it flat. Serafina had laid out streams of finely milled flour before her mother’s rolling pin, and the table upon which they had worked was covered with a wet cheesecloth, such that the pasta would adhere to the cloth and not peel or tear. Overnight the pasta and the cloth had dried together. Now Bettina peeled it away from the cloth and sliced the hardened pasta, rolling it gently so it would not break, as Serafina ladled in the fresh tomato sauce they had made that morning. They would then add spinach cooked with fresh basil and some cheese. The reggiano and mozzarella they would have used in Venice were not available. But they had bought an aged cheese made from cows’ milk by a German dairy farmer. They could only hope it would prove adequate.
Serafina loved the work and the closeness to her mother. It was a return to her happiest recollections. She recalled other such times, the two of them making pastries in the kitchen fronting the Venetian street or setting the table while gondoliers sang their way through sunlit waters in the canal beyond their dining room window. They laughed over such memories, as though the interim tragedy had never happened. They tasted sauces and kneaded dough for panini . Eventually her mother asked how she had fared in England. The question came naturally, two friends wishing to catch up on each other’s lives. Finally managing to speak of the lost weeks and months.
Serafina’s tale about Aunt Agatha and Harrow Hall took them through the rolling of the veal in ground pepper and sage and setting it in the oven to roast. She cleaned potatoes while her mother sliced carrots, and Serafina described the young lord’s attack and how Falconer had saved her. How he had taken her to church. How he had reintroduced her to hope.
Together they set the table as Serafina described Gareth and Erica Powers and their mission to abolish slavery on both sides of the Atlantic. Bettina Gavi made coffee as Serafina scrubbed the kitchen table and related their travels to the home of William Wilberforce and her two drawings for the pamphlet—the one of Falconer and the one politicizing the slave trade. She and her mother dipped biscotti into their demitasse cups as Serafina told of the pamphlet’s impact, the passage of the bill eradicating slavery within the British Empire.
When she finally stopped, the kitchen was filled with the fragrances of roasting meat and fresh spices. Her mother toyed with her tiny spoon and avoided her daughter’s eyes. “Stories upon stories,” she murmured.
“I did not mean to disturb you, Mama. Perhaps I should not have spoken so.” Serafina saw anew the fresh lines of age and worry in her mother’s lovely features and blinked back tears over being the cause. “If only I could change all the mistakes I have made.”
“Daughter, if I could wind back the hands of time, I would have done so long ago. We do not regret the past mistakes. We move on.” The
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