Read The Mermaid Garden Online
Authors: Santa Montefiore
imagine Floriana in Milan? It’s unthinkable. No, this is a lovely sum-
mer romance, but it will end. It pains me to say it, really it does.” She put a hand on her heart and pulled a sad face. “I can’t bear to think of little Floriana suffering after all she has already been through, but it is inevitable. You would be a good friend to her if you were able to warn her.”
“I couldn’t do that!”
“Then leave it to Fate.”
Or me
, the countess thought maliciously.
When Dante told his mother that Floriana’s birthday was fast ap-
proaching, Violetta decided to throw her a surprise dinner party with
the family. Beppe was conveniently in Milan, giving her free reign to
spoil Floriana. The table was set up on the terrace with a silver balloon attached to the back of each chair. A cake was made in the image of
Good-Night, and tall flutes were arranged for champagne. Violetta was
sure that Floriana had never been given a birthday party and wanted to
make it special—overcompensating, perhaps, for the disappointment
that would surely strike come September. She bought her a gold brace-
let, which rattled with little charms, and took great care in wrapping it with pretty pink paper and ribbon. The chef cooked a buffet-style dinner that was laid out like a banquet.
Dante kept Floriana away, taking her down to the beach until it was
time to return to the villa. She knew he had a surprise for her, and she was sure he was going to take her out to dinner at a fine restaurant.
She had put on her best dress especially. But when they returned to La
Magdalena, she realized that he had planned something else and hadn’t
a clue what it could be.
They walked through the house hand in hand. As they entered the
drawing room she saw the table and balloons through the French doors
and put her hand to her mouth in astonishment. Outside, the family
awaited her: Giovanna and Costanza, Damiana and her two best girl
friends, Rosaria and Allegra, and Violetta, gift in hand and smile lighting up her delicate face.
Floriana’s fears were now swept away for good. Violetta could not
have given her blessing more clearly had she voiced it out loud. With
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tears in her eyes and pink-cheeked with pleasure, Floriana approached
the table. She noticed everything: the little flowers scattered over the tablecloth, the gifts piled onto her plate, beautifully wrapped with
pretty paper and ribbons tied in bows, and the bounty of food. All
for her.
Violetta embraced her affectionately and held out her gift. “Darling
child,” she said, “you deserve this more than anyone I know. I wish
you happiness and health and many fruitful years ahead.” She briefly
touched Floriana’s cheek with the back of her hand, gazing onto her
face as a mother to a daughter.
Floriana sat down and opened the gift. She pulled out the bracelet
and stared at it in disbelief. Violetta attached it to her wrist. “I chose the charms individually. Look, here’s Good-Night, and F for your name, a
bird, a cricket, a flower, a little house that opens to reveal two hearts, a church, and a cross.”
Floriana laughed through her tears and shook her head, and every-
one laughed too, realizing her emotions prevented her from speaking.
She opened her other gifts: a dress from Damiana, a necklace from
Giovanna, a poetry book from Rosaria, and a bottle of Yves Saint-
Laurent perfume from Allegra. The countess had taken Costanza
shopping and bought Floriana a pretty leather handbag with a match-
ing purse, leaving Costanza in no doubt that her mother was really very fond of her.
Drunk on happiness, Floriana sipped champagne and ate from the
delicious spread of food. Dante sat beside her, squeezing her hand
under the table every now and then to remind her that he loved her.
As the light faded and the candlelight grew stronger, the chef stepped
out of the house with the cake. The table cheered at the sight of Good-
Night re-created in sponge and icing, and Floriana clapped her hands
in delight. She blew out the sixteen candles and reluctantly plunged the knife into the dog’s paw, closing her eyes to make a wish.
Violetta knew what she was wishing for, and her pleasure was at
once marred with apprehension. She wished this night could go on
forever, then no one would get hurt.
But time ticked on without consideration for Violetta’s feelings, and
at the end of the evening Dante drove Floriana home.
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They stopped in a secluded place, overlooking the sea, and Dante
pulled a little box out of his breast pocket. “And this is my gift to you,”
he said, handing it to her.
“What is it?” she asked, turning it over.
“Open it and see.” Floriana did as she was told and carefully opened
the wrapping. Inside was a little red box. With trembling fingers she
lifted the lid to reveal an eternity ring glittering with white diamonds.
Without a word he lifted it from the velvet cushion and took her hand
in his. “We’re too young to marry, Floriana, but with this ring I promise you that I will love you for eternity.” He solemnly slipped it onto the third finger of her right hand.
Floriana gasped and watched it sparkle like little stars in the moon-
light. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, it’s the second most beautiful thing
I’ve
ever seen.”
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. “Thank you,
Dante. I’ve had the most wonderful day. The best day I’ve ever had in
my life. I won’t ever forget it.”
“This is only the beginning,
piccolina
. I’m going to have such pleasure in spoiling you.”
When Floriana returned home, there was no one to share her day
with. Her father slept noisily in the room next door, and Signora Bru-
no’s apartment was dark. So, she sat by the window and gazed up at the
stars. She wondered whether the same moon was shining down upon
her mother and whether she ever looked up at it and thought of her.
“Mamma,” she said softly, “I’d like to tell you about Dante . . .”
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26.
As September drew closer, like a river flowing inescapably towards a
sharp waterfall, Dante began to feel the cold chill of the approach-
ing descent. The summer had been a blissful plateau of long, lazy days
in the sunshine, romantic drives through the Tuscan countryside, idle
walks up and down the beach, and wishes tossed into the poppy fields
like magical seeds to flower into happy endings. But now those poppies
had withered back into the ground, and the last days of August finally
drained away. Beppe summoned Dante to Milan.
Dante didn’t know how to say good-bye to Floriana. He loved her
with all his heart and soul, but he hadn’t considered the practicalities of sustaining a long-distance relationship. He wished he could take her with him to Milan but that was as impossible as his father giving his
consent to marry her. Until she was twenty-one they were bound by
law to his command—and even then, he couldn’t imagine disobeying
his father. In his daydreams, he swept her into his arms and ran off with her, to marry in some foreign country far away where no one could stop
them. But they were only fantasies. The reality remained: Dante had to
go to Milan to work with his father, and he loved his home and family
too much to elope.
The day before his departure he found Floriana at home, alone. Her
father was out, or slumped against a wall somewhere. Signora Bruno
let him in and showed him up to her small apartment. At first Floriana
was mortified that he had witnessed her poverty, but her mortification
quickly dissolved when she realized he had come to say good-bye.
Fearful that her father might suddenly appear, she took him into her
bedroom where they could speak in private. The room was small and
simple, with a large cross on the white wall behind the bed and cool
floor tiles beneath their feet. A chest of drawers stood opposite the
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iron bed, and the window was wide open, but neither was aware of the
sounds of the town that blew in on the breeze.
They remained a moment staring at each other, suddenly daunted
by the scale of all that stood between them. The languid summer days
seemed far away now, gone with their carefree laughter and courageous
dreams, and they searched each other’s eyes for confirmation that their love could be nurtured, like hands cupped around a fragile flame as the wind blows closer.
He pulled her into his arms and clung to her. “I’ll write and drive
down as often as I can,” he explained, closing his eyes and savoring
the vanilla scent of her skin with a sharp sense of longing for what was soon to be lost.
“I’ll wait for you, Dante,” she replied. “Whatever happens, I’ll wait.”
Those words “whatever happens” struck his heart with the full force
of their implication, and he let his grief consume him. He no longer
thought rationally. He imagined her alone in Herba, without anyone to
protect her from the lurid intentions of malevolent men. The thought
of her vulnerable to predators filled him with a raging jealousy and an unbearable sense of helplessness.
Dizzy with homesickness, he let his passion carry him away. He
kissed her deeply, and she held him tighter than she had ever held him.
A wild, uncontrollable desire overcame him, so that his instincts took
over where his reason should have prevailed. He carried her onto the
bed and lay down beside her. Floriana was willing to give herself to
Dante, to do whatever he wanted. Without a mother to guide her, she
barely knew what was happening, aware only of the deliciously warm
feeling that saturated her loins as he ran his hands over her dark and
secret places. And then he was inside her, moaning as he moved rhyth-
mically to his own escalating pleasure. Beads of sweat gathered on his
brow as he thrust deeper, claiming her for himself. Floriana bit her
lip and withstood the initial discomfort, sure that
this
union would tie them together for all eternity.
When it was over, they lay entwined. Dante trembled with remorse,
suddenly aware of what he had done. Floriana smiled in her ignorance,
flushed with happiness, for now they really belonged to each other in
all but name.
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“This must remain a secret,” he said seriously. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
“I’m glad you did, Dante. I gave myself to you willingly.”
“But you’re only sixteen. I could go to prison!”
“I won’t tell a soul. It’ll be our secret, I promise.”
Encouraged by her words, he kissed her forehead. “Now you’re really
mine.”
“I always have been. From the moment you let me into your gardens,
I was yours.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry.” He kissed her again, pulling her closer.
“Don’t be sorry. Isn’t that the way it
should
be?”
Dante didn’t know, having never deflowered a woman before. As re-
ality shone an unforgiving light onto his recklessness, he was left with the suffocating sense of having made a very deep commitment. He
wrapped his arms around her more tightly and kissed her temple, whis-
pering “I love you,” over and over again.
Then he was gone.
Floriana waited for rain, but it did not come. She wanted the skies to
cloud over and the rain to wash the summer away, so it couldn’t linger
to torment her. But it lingered in long, hazy days and golden evenings, and she felt Dante’s absence as sharply as a knife to her chest.
When she went to La Magdalena, the family had left for Milan. The
house was quiet—only the staff were there tidying up, closing shutters, and laying dust sheets over the furniture. Good-Night welcomed her
in the same affectionate way he always had, but Violetta, Giovanna,
Damiana, and Dante were all gone. She wandered around the gardens
like a pining dog, besieged by the ghostly echoes of summer carried
mournfully on the autumn wind.
School started again, but Floriana got a full-time job in a restaurant.
The countess hired a private tutor for Costanza as the count’s summer
of networking paid off, rewarding him with various offers of work. They began to discuss the very real possibility of returning to Rome. The
two girls saw each other very rarely. Once they had shared everything,
but now the gap between them widened, and their brief meetings,
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outside church after Mass, or sometimes in the town when Costanza
came in to shop, were awkward. Costanza had made many friends over
the summer; Floriana’s one friend was gone, leaving her isolated and
alone.
Dante wrote daily, and Floriana replied, expressing her enduring
love in small, deliberate handwriting. She treasured his letters and kept them in a drawer in her dressing table, tied with the pink ribbon Violetta had used to wrap her bracelet. Her diamond ring was her most