by Sara Wilson

 

Gisella stared distastefully at her spaghetti.  Why was it so hard to have spaghetti without cheese?  Gisella had never liked cheese; at least not since her unfortunate encounter with a vat of hot mozzarella sauce, at the age of five.  She glared at the maid who was entering the room. 

“Is it so hard to inform the cook NOT to put cheese on my spaghetti?” she demanded. 

“Please ma’am,” twittered the maid, in a shrill little voice, “I only make the beds.”

Her last comment earned her a prompt slap and a plate of spaghetti.  Gisella contemplated the Cabernet Sauvignon that sat in front of her, and abruptly left the table.  It would be so simple to be a maid, she thought.  What must it feel like to be told what to do?  Ah to have no decisions in one’s life.  She turned to the mirror to examine her pale narrow face and black hair.  Why couldn’t she just look like Tora, she asked her irritated face.  She could simply blend in, and go into shops without the realization that the room had just gone silent.  She knew that people called her eccentric and cold, that she had been dubbed “spider woman,” and that she couldn’t survive a week without a mud bath and truffles, but honestly, how did all those other people live without their mud baths? 

Violet ice cream.  That was what she needed.  The taste of perfume was always preferable to wearing it.  She rang the bell and made her request.  No doubt they would send rose ice cream instead.  She desperately needed a whole new staff, but it was so exhausting to break in new maids.  What a bother. 

Chardón, the tiny black dog entered the room and settled himself in a gilded chair.  He really had to be the most agreeable creature she had ever known.  His assertiveness concerning his desirers suited Gisella perfectly.  He yipped.  She scratched him behind the ears.  The bell rang.  Who would EVER interrupt her dinner? she wondered aghast.  Surely not Mr. Ivory, and she in this dress.  The beaded black silk with the flawed hem?  Suppose he were to notice the hem?  She tucked it under her foot as the steps ascended the stairs. 

“Mr. Ivory,” announced the bewigged footman, opening the door. 

Mr. Ivory entered and bowed with a flourish.  He smiled. 

“Mr. Ivory, won’t you sit down?” Gisella indicated the nearest chair.  Gisella watched him walk across the room to the chair across from her.  He moved like a panther, elegant, powerful and dangerous.  His chestnut hair was ever-so-slightly too long and curled in the back and set off his dark eyes.   

“Miss Theobald,” he said graciously.  Gisella watched him scan the room with baited breath.  The white brocade with black accents that covered the walls and upholstered the antique furniture was a matter of personal pride.  She had chosen the color scheme despite Tora’s insistence that she needed more color.  Sisters never understood.  Tora always insisted that she needed more color.  But what good was color?  Black and white was always elegant as long as one avoided stripes. 

He kissed the offered hand and smiled again.  Gisella shivered with delight.  He liked the room, he approved of her taste, and he hadn’t noticed her hem. 

“I seem to have interrupted your private dinner,” he said, glancing at the place setting. 

“Oh, no,” she gushed.  “I was just… finishing.”  The valet walked in carrying, miraculously, violet ice cream garnished with candied violets. 

“Would you care to join me for dessert?” she asked, picking up her tiny silver spoon.  “I see you’re already dressed for dinner.” 

“Yes, well I must admit I had some idea you would be dining alone,” he said easily. 

“Oh?” she asked, then took a spoonful of violet ice cream.  She hoped that no color was coming to her face.  She hadn’t blushed since she was seven years old and she had been complimented on her flower arrangements at boarding school.  She should not have blushed then though, because the compliment had been in no way surprising, as her arrangements were, by far, the best.  “Was there something you wished to see me about?” she asked. 

“To be perfectly honest, I was asked to come here by your sister, Tora,” he said, reclining in the chair. 

Gisella choked on a candied violet and put her napkin to her mouth as she attempted to dislodge the violet.  She dabbed at her eyes and patted her coiffure before once again facing Mr. Ivory. 

“Tora sent you?” she sputtered. 

“Well, not exactly, but she did ask that I call on you while you are alone here,” he said in an exasperatingly calm tone.  “What I came to ask, is if you would accompany me to the opera tonight?” 

Gisella’s heart fluttered.  Tora might have put him up to it, but Mr. Ivory had just asked to escort her in public.  She never went out though. 

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she said wistfully.  “I never go to public performances.” 

“Yes I know that,” he responded with a smile.  “I was hoping you would make an exception for me.”  Gisella gripped the arms of her chair.  Could she make an exception?  Would people notice and gossip?  Miss Theobald has left her cave they would chuckle.  What could have induced her?  Not that it mattered.  Gossip really shouldn’t matter if she was with Mr. Ivory, known by all good people as having inherited a fortune and greatly expanded it.  While his methods of expansion had been via business and industry, he did not posses the vulgarity of a tradesman. 

Gisella was quite at a loss to understand why Tora had married a tradesman.  She had insisted that he was charming, that she loved him, and that working was admirable.  She had also said that she was proud of his having earned his way.  The idea.  To be proud of having to work?  Even now, when he no longer needed to, Gisella’s brother-in-law continued to work.  In marrying a tradesman, Tora had sold herself to a vulgar world of vulgar people.  Tora now even said “weekend,” a term Gisella abhorred as it implied that one had a working week.  So yes, Mr. Ivory was associated with trade, but he was from an old family, and was such an enthralling person that she really couldn’t refuse. 

But what would she wear?  Not this dress surely.  She must decide quickly.  The purple moiré silk with the black velvet accents. 

“I think I can make an exception,” she said, looking back at Mr. Ivory, who was eating a piece of garlic bread. 

“Excellent,” he said, taking another bite. 

“I shall be back in a moment,” she said, rising and ringing the lady’s maid.  “You may wait in the foyer.” 

Gisella descended the stairs half an hour later in the purple moiré dress, her gloved hand sliding along the mahogany banister.  Mr. Ivory looked up and smiled, offering her his arm. 

“We might just be able to catch the end of the first act,” he said as they neared the opera house.  Gisella drew her sable mantel protectively about her shoulders.  Perhaps she shouldn’t have come.   She hadn’t left her house in six months and she had forgotten to ask Mr. Ivory if he had reserved a box.  A box was the only way to see anything.  Gisella would never put up with anything less than a center box.  To be seen in a left or right box would be unthinkable. 

As they went in, Gisella forced herself not to grip Mr. Ivory’s arm too tightly.  She was sure now that he had not reserved a box at all, but rather an orchestra seat.  She would simply have to leave if that were the case.  An orchestra seat, indeed.  What was the man thinking?  Did he honestly think that she would stoop so low as to be seen in an orchestra seat?  He clearly overestimated his own self-worth.  

Mr. Ivory turned to her and said “I’ve reserved the center box for us.  Do you mind?” 

Gisella stopped short and turned to Mr. Ivory. 

“A center box?” she asked.  “Well no, of course not.  Why should I mind?” 

“Excellent,” he said, and took her up the stairs.  As they neared to top of the stairway Gisella realized that she didn’t know the music drifting out of the house.  She hoped it wasn’t in Italian.  She couldn’t understand Italian. 

“Do you know what the opera is?” she asked Mr. Ivory. 

“La Traviata,” he answered with relish, throwing back the curtain to the box.  Gisella seated herself on one of the plush red chairs of the box and peered through her mother-of- pearl opera glassed at the woman on stage below.  La Traviata.  The name sounded familiar. 

“Isn’t that the story about the prostitute who loses everything and dies?” she asked, staring at Mr. Ivory and wondering why he had brought her to see an opera about a courtesan.

Mr. Ivory shifted in his chair. 

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” he said.  “See Violetta down there, she’s wondering whether or she should give up her life of pleasure for the man she loves.”  Unconvinced, looking down, Gisella watched the woman in hypocritical white, coved in the jewels of her benefactors. 

“Really she’s very noble,” insisted Mr. Ivory, whose jaw was beginning to tighten.  “She gives up her lover, Alfredo, for the sake of his family.  Here, read the libretto.” He handed her a booklet. 

As the curtain fell, Gisella felt tears roll down her cheeks.  She quickly wiped them away.  She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried, and she couldn’t let Mr. Ivory see this display of emotion, or worse, puffy red eyes.  She felt a handkerchief being put into her hand and glanced at Mr. Ivory who was hiding a smile behind his hand. 

“Thank you,” she said, and took the hankie.