"Betsy?"
Betsy almost didn't respond. It had been years since she'd been called that name and even longer since the man in front of her had said it. She had been Betta since that spring in 1914, Betta or carissima or stellina, Elisabetta or piccola to Marco's aunts, Signora Regali when she went to the market or to Mass with Marco, draped with his mother's black lace mantilla. Letters came with the old name but they had seemed to be from another world, the New World her old world, where puny was used instead of bella, onion sandwiches took the place of a steaming bowl of fettucine on a Sunday night. She remembered snow but it was as if she had only ever dreamt it.
It had been that trip to Fusina. She and Marco had had the field and the shore to themselves; it seemed like the sky had been made only to rise above them, shades of blue an enameller would have had to spend hours to capture before spangling a jewel-box with gold. She had said something, she could never recall what, and Marco had taken her hand in his and brushed a kiss swiftly against her palm. She had thrilled to it and stumbled, just the least bit, but he'd caught her and the next kiss was on her parted lips. There had been no thought left in her head except his name and the throb of her heart was for him alone; for once, for the first time, they had been utterly alone together without the memory of a pair of blue eyes haunting her, the gleam of silvery blond hair nothing to the feeling of soft, dark curls against her cheek. When Marco moved to step back, she had surprised them both by moving closer to him. When the long tender moment found its conclusion, he had whispered in her ear something new—not bella or cara mia, not even Betta. He'd said Beloved and she had pulled back just enough to nod at him before she blushed and he kissed her again, a joyful, exuberant kiss with both hands on her face. The ring he slipped on her finger was warm from being held in his vest pocket, the old gold satin against her skin, the diamond glowing with the reflected light from the sea.
There had been telegrams, a flurry of them, and she'd had Julia to thank for convincing their parents that a return to the States only for a wedding before another trip back to Venice made little sense. Her sister had persuaded their father a family trip to Italy in several months would suit everyone and Betsy and Marco had married quietly with his three beaming aunts in attendance, a few old family friends, and Miss Wilson managing to come from Switzerland to take the place Betsy would have imagined for Tacy or Tib or Julia. There had been no forget-me-nots in her bridal nosegay, only the most fragrant pink roses and a scattering of creamy orange blossom. It had not been like a dream; it had been as if she'd been woken from a spell and found herself unfettered and cherished the more for it.
They had proved as congenial as husband and wife as they had as friends. They spoke easily and comfortably about a thousand topics, books they had read, wishes and dreams, their regrets and fears. They walked through the streets and quarreled gently about Marco's frequent desire to buy Betsy another trinket, Betsy's tendency to stop suddenly when the light hit the wing of a bird, the showering drops of another fountain. They listened to music in the Square and at La Fenice. Marco held her hand when she wept at the beauty of an aria and how she heard Julia singing it in her mind. When Marco left for work, Betsy went to her desk and wrote; his three aunts, each a Zia now and not Signorina, had the household under such careful control there was hardly the least bit of tidying for Betsy to do other than in their bedroom. Zia Angela gave her lessons in cookery as she once had in Italian, but only for a few critical dishes; Betsy learned to roast a chicken with herbs, crimp the edges of a plump ravioli and to bake Marco's favorite bocca di dama, but she never worried about the evening meal other than pouring the glass of wine for Marco when he came to the sitting room they shared apart from the boarders. She had unbroken hours to work on the novel she'd started on their honeymoon in Rome, a story of what might have become of her friend Maida in Madeira, and a collection of poems about Venice and Munich and the miles between them. She even wrote a fairy story for the pert little girl who lived across the way and who was learning English from Signor Regali's pretty American wife as Maria-Luisa listened to the latest installment of red-haired Anastacia's adventures with a lost princess of Syria.
Betsy had not thought there would be a baby so quickly but Marco had only laughed and held her, dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose at what he called her infinite cleverness. His aunts had wept with joy, even stern Zia Eleanora. There were more letters from Minneapolis and a chest arrived full of exquisitely sewn dresses and bonnets, a sturdy Teddy bear with a silk bow, and a silver cup and rattle. She had written at her desk until she could no longer fit and had then sulked until Marco found her an old-fashioned travel case for a literary lady full of secret nooks and drawers, a fat, gold tassel on the lock, a few lacy ink stains as evocative as clouds. She finished her novel the week before the baby came and occupied herself with short stories in between nursing her newborn, rocking him in the chair that Marco's mother had once used. She hadn't known how much more she would be loved by her husband, but becoming her son's mother had deepened and broadened his affections which she had already thought boundless and all-encompassing. She would look at the baby in her arms and her husband standing above her and seen in their dark eyes her own inviolable happiness.
She had worried as the War came to them what they would do. Whether he would enlist and how she would bear it; Marco had wanted her to return to the States to her family and wait for him to follow but she had been obstinate and refused and so he had relented though his apprehension stayed as another darkness in his dark eyes. She had begun to brace herself for his declaration that he must join the fight when he fell ill. Then nearly all her attention had been focused on his treatment, trying to divine what the doctors truly thought from their inscrutable expressions. His aunts managed as well as they ever had, caring for all of them, preparing every soup, tisane and posset they could, while Betsy administered the medicines that every day showed they were worth less and less. She spent hours reading aloud, singing the songs of her girlhood, the folk songs that were Marco's favorites, the hymns that settled her husband and his son to sleep and left her alone and awake, becoming acquainted with the grief that was her destiny.
He made her promise to go home "to the other people who love you." She had tried to insist Venice was her home now but he had shaken his head, so like the days when he had been well that she almost forgot how dark the circles were beneath his eyes, how drawn his cheeks, and she had stopped arguing. There were battles raging in Europe but she only cared for the one in this room, where Marco held off the angel of death every day; every day, he was a little weaker and then there was the day when she told him he might go and watched peace come into his dark, loving eyes before the light went from them. Then she whispered Beloved and felt her grief come sit beside her from where it had been patiently waiting.
There was a funeral Mass and a visit from the chaplain of the English church. There were tickets that she bought and packing that she did with tears running down her face, unchecked, unnoticed. They were not a relief. She held her son and learned how to say something when he asked for Papa; she learned not to choke. Marco had once, long before he fell ill, joked he would haunt her but she found he was not as tenacious a ghost as she yearned for—she strained to hear his voice in her ear, murmuring Buon giorno, Betta mia at dawn and she poured his glass of wine and watched it sit untouched on a polished table. She treasured any dream she had of him and she traced her wedding ring with a reverent finger before she laid her cheek against her hand to try and fall asleep.
Julia had created the moment she found herself in now. Betsy had done what she had to and nothing else. She'd answered the letters she got with a brevity that was rare. She knew her family would understand and if not, that Tacy would make them. Julia had stopped writing letters shortly before the ship departed. Instead, Betsy got a telegram telling her she would be met in New York and by whom.
"Betsy?" Joe said again, his tone softer, more tentative than she'd ever heard. He'd never sounded afraid before, she realized, and she wondered what he was worried about—that she would faint? That she would turn away? That she would fly into his arms for any comfort she could find there?
"Joe," she replied, pausing to shift the small boy in her arms. He had been so eager to be down and walking but the hall for Customs was too crowded and she needed the consolation of his little sturdy body against hers, his voicing piping up Mama? "It's good of you to meet us."
"It's nothing, Betsy," Joe said, looking at her searchingly. He saw something he understood, he had always been able to see something in her eyes even if she hadn't known it was there.
"And who's this?" he asked, reaching carefully to touch the little hand on her forearm.
"This is Robin," she said. "Roberto Regali, but we call him Robin."
"Welcome to New York, Robin. I'm a friend of your mama's and I'm going to look after you," Joe said. She heard Marco's voice saying "others who love you" and she knew now he'd meant not just her family. There had been no jealousy in his voice and she thought, perhaps the idea had not been Julia's alone, perhaps he had asked Zia Angela's help in writing a letter to her sister, making sure she would be well-loved when he was no longer there to make her beloved. She let Joe take her arm and lead her forward. She let him answer Robin's next curious question and she lifted the mourning veil from her face, to see better what lay ahead.