Paula Cohen - Gramercy Park

The floor creaks behind her and she raises her face from her hands.

“Little love,” Alfieri says, slipping his arms around her and pressing a kiss on the top of her head, “our guests are all gone and it is time we were gone too. Have you said your farewells to this house?”

“Yes, Mario.”

“I wish that I could have saved it for you, sposa , but I had to choose between you and the house … and I had to have you. And in any case, you could not have stayed. One way or the other, it seems, your fate was to leave this place.” He strokes her hair. “Are you glad to be leaving with me?”

“Yes, Mario.”

He knows her well in two weeks. Seating himself on the sofa, he turns her around and pulls her to him, smiling and frowning. “What is it, dear heart? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Something, I think. Won’t you tell me?”

Coward from the start; coward still. She has not lived these two weeks in silence, only to tell him now and see the loathing in his eyes. She will be his wife first, for just one day. “Nothing. Only nerves.”

“Truly? There is nothing else?”

Paler than ever, she says: “What else could there be?”

He shrugs and busies himself straightening the brooch at her throat. “I do not know. I thought—perhaps—you might be frightened because everything has changed so quickly …”

She stares at him.

“Are you frightened, little girl?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Are you?”

“I?” He raises her chin. “Terrified. I have never been anyone’s husband before.”

Her laugh is like a sob. “Mario, listen …” But he puts his finger to her lips.

“Dear heart, this is so new for both of us. I must unlearn forty years of bad habits in order to be fit for my new wife, and you must learn that, in all things, I am for you. We must learn to be patient with each other, yes? Both the learning and the unlearning will take time.” He kisses her forehead. “And now the carriage is here to take us to the station. You would not wish to miss the train?”

Rising, he takes an envelope from his pocket and places it on the mantelpiece, leaning it upright against the wall beneath her portrait.

“What is that?”

“Nothing. A letter.”

“To whom?”

“To Mr. Chadwick. I think it only right that he learn from me what has happened to you.”

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