on a wonderful carousel ride.
One day, through an open window, Bianca hears Nanny complaining.
‘Oh, that Miss Bianca . . . she’s going to take him from me. I know it. And she doesn’t even speak French!’
Bianca is astounded: Nanny is revealing her feelings to a maid! And probably a smart one like Pia. She wonders what would happen if she were to make a dramatic entrance, draw back the curtains,
as in a Goldoni comedy, and say, ‘You’re wrong, mademoiselle. Innes is all yours. I’m looking elsewhere.’ The foolish girl would be at peace but it might also kindle the
fires of her hope, which is a mere illusion. She ought to realize on her own that Innes is unattainable. Maybe she wants to delude herself. Maybe it makes this house, her prison, more tolerable.
But the children will grow up, Nanny will have to find another home, and by then Innes will surely be far away. He doesn’t strike Bianca as the type to stay fixed in one spot for very long.
Not here, anyway. He is a dreamer. And the dreams will ultimately carry him away.
She stands very still, thinking and listening. Pia, surprisingly, comes to Bianca’s defence.
‘What are you talking about? Miss Bianca isn’t a bad person . . .’
Bianca wishes that she could transform herself into a beautiful statuette. No one would notice her; she would simply be an ornament, an ornament preferable to the one she feels she already is.
Words would simply slide off her smooth skin. She recalls a French story her father used to tell, the one about an ancient statue, a Venus in a garden somewhere, that fell in love with a young man.
Every night the statue would visit him, leaving mysterious traces of dirt in the hallways of the villa. To prevent him from marrying his flesh-and-blood fiancée, she held him so tightly that
she killed him. Even statues have a soul. The advantage is that no one knows it, and they can conceal or reveal them as they please.
As she turns the corner of the house, Innes comes towards her, as though he has been waiting for her behind the bushes.
‘And where are you off to, Miss Bianca? To explore the wild moors?’
Bianca turns to look behind her. If she has seen this exchange, Nanny will have fainted, her suspicions all but confirmed.
‘I was just going to walk down to the fields, where it is a bit less wild,’ she says with a smile.
They start walking together. He has to slow down and she has to quicken her pace. Once their initial differences are dealt with and the doses of irony are measured out and understood, Bianca
realizes that not only does she enjoy Innes’s company, but she also doesn’t care what Nanny thinks.
‘Were you referring earlier, perhaps, to our employer’s wild habits?’ he says. They exchange a smile of understanding, but he then becomes serious. ‘He is a great man,
you know. I feel fortunate to work for him. And so should you. The bourgeoisie of the Po Valley, the landed gentry, the aristocrats who inhabit these spaces that exist somewhere between land and
sky, are rarely so enlightened. More often than not they are simply satisfied with conforming to the landscape.’ And then Innes changes both the subject and his expression. ‘I have
something for you. It has just come from London, where it seems to be a great hit. It’s a romance novel and I am sure you will appreciate it.’
‘Don’t you want to read it first?’ Bianca asks, trying to suppress her curiosity.
‘I’ve already read it. My nights are inhabited by books. It’s the only benefit of having insomnia: one has more time to dedicate to passions. I also sleep a little during the
day, when it’s nap time for the children.’
She notices his paleness. His eyes are more deeply set than usual. In the vivid daylight, barely screened by the leafy treetops, she notices, too, a vertical line that runs from the corner of
his eye down his cheek. It looks like a scar from a duel but is merely a crease of age, perhaps a distinctive
One day, through an open window, Bianca hears Nanny complaining.
‘Oh, that Miss Bianca . . . she’s going to take him from me. I know it. And she doesn’t even speak French!’
Bianca is astounded: Nanny is revealing her feelings to a maid! And probably a smart one like Pia. She wonders what would happen if she were to make a dramatic entrance, draw back the curtains,
as in a Goldoni comedy, and say, ‘You’re wrong, mademoiselle. Innes is all yours. I’m looking elsewhere.’ The foolish girl would be at peace but it might also kindle the
fires of her hope, which is a mere illusion. She ought to realize on her own that Innes is unattainable. Maybe she wants to delude herself. Maybe it makes this house, her prison, more tolerable.
But the children will grow up, Nanny will have to find another home, and by then Innes will surely be far away. He doesn’t strike Bianca as the type to stay fixed in one spot for very long.
Not here, anyway. He is a dreamer. And the dreams will ultimately carry him away.
She stands very still, thinking and listening. Pia, surprisingly, comes to Bianca’s defence.
‘What are you talking about? Miss Bianca isn’t a bad person . . .’
Bianca wishes that she could transform herself into a beautiful statuette. No one would notice her; she would simply be an ornament, an ornament preferable to the one she feels she already is.
Words would simply slide off her smooth skin. She recalls a French story her father used to tell, the one about an ancient statue, a Venus in a garden somewhere, that fell in love with a young man.
Every night the statue would visit him, leaving mysterious traces of dirt in the hallways of the villa. To prevent him from marrying his flesh-and-blood fiancée, she held him so tightly that
she killed him. Even statues have a soul. The advantage is that no one knows it, and they can conceal or reveal them as they please.
As she turns the corner of the house, Innes comes towards her, as though he has been waiting for her behind the bushes.
‘And where are you off to, Miss Bianca? To explore the wild moors?’
Bianca turns to look behind her. If she has seen this exchange, Nanny will have fainted, her suspicions all but confirmed.
‘I was just going to walk down to the fields, where it is a bit less wild,’ she says with a smile.
They start walking together. He has to slow down and she has to quicken her pace. Once their initial differences are dealt with and the doses of irony are measured out and understood, Bianca
realizes that not only does she enjoy Innes’s company, but she also doesn’t care what Nanny thinks.
‘Were you referring earlier, perhaps, to our employer’s wild habits?’ he says. They exchange a smile of understanding, but he then becomes serious. ‘He is a great man,
you know. I feel fortunate to work for him. And so should you. The bourgeoisie of the Po Valley, the landed gentry, the aristocrats who inhabit these spaces that exist somewhere between land and
sky, are rarely so enlightened. More often than not they are simply satisfied with conforming to the landscape.’ And then Innes changes both the subject and his expression. ‘I have
something for you. It has just come from London, where it seems to be a great hit. It’s a romance novel and I am sure you will appreciate it.’
‘Don’t you want to read it first?’ Bianca asks, trying to suppress her curiosity.
‘I’ve already read it. My nights are inhabited by books. It’s the only benefit of having insomnia: one has more time to dedicate to passions. I also sleep a little during the
day, when it’s nap time for the children.’
She notices his paleness. His eyes are more deeply set than usual. In the vivid daylight, barely screened by the leafy treetops, she notices, too, a vertical line that runs from the corner of
his eye down his cheek. It looks like a scar from a duel but is merely a crease of age, perhaps a distinctive
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