The poverty Fracassi endured in his Italian childhood influenced his decision to become a priest. He developed humility regarding his own ambitions and was determined to be useful. When he was assigned a position at the church in Manchester, he served a large Italian immigrant community. He often spoke Italian when delivering a sermon on a feast day, which comforted the Britalians. At sixty-four years old, Fracassi kept Italy alive in England for his flock as he himself longed for home.
The knock at the door startled him even though he expected the visitors. He wiped his hands on his cassock and shuffled to the door. The supplicants he had waited for had arrived. He opened it and smiled when the young woman began to speak in Italian, vehemently explaining the circumstances of their dilemma. She was followed into the room by her fiancé, an attractive, robust Scot in uniform.
Don Fracassi performed the wedding ceremony. He blessed the gold bands by the firelight. The bride knelt before his statue of the Blessed Mother for the benediction while her husband stood, his head bowed, his hand on her shoulder.
The good groom gave the priest a crown, a generous tithe for an intimate sacrament. The priest accepted the offering graciously. He wished them well. He opened the door and watched the newlyweds make a run for it in the rain.
* * *
Domenica and John were soaked from a downpour when they took their room in the inn outside of Manchester. John made a fire as Domenica hung their coats to dry on the mantel. She opened a basket filled with food. She had made tarelles to eat with the hard cheese and olives. There was a fresh loaf of bread. There was a jar of peppers with alige and two cans of sardines. There was a bottle of wine and cherries canned in syrup from the nuns’ reserves. She placed the cotton napkins she had pressed beside two small wineglasses on the table.
She shivered as John poked the fire. Soon the wood was burning, throwing orange flames up the flue. She stood and watched as her husband stoked the fire. She finally felt warm after a day of being wet and cold.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Your wedding feast.”
John scooped his new wife up in his arms. “I’m not hungry. Not yet.”
John kissed Domenica as he had intended to kiss her when Don Fracassi blessed them, but somehow it had not seemed proper in the presence of the old priest. He meant to kiss her on the way to the train, but they had to run through a downpour in order to board in time. And he most resisted kissing his wife on the train. She was a modest girl, he believed, and what they were together was not something for others to see, but for the two of them to pursue with feeling in private. But now they were alone. It was simple suddenly. Any apprehension either of them had was washed away with the rain. It was just Domenica and John, the roaring fire, and a feather bed.
John carried Domenica to the bed and placed her gently on the coverlet, as if she were made of crystal so delicate, the glass would break if held too tightly. She put her hands on his face and guided his lips to hers. The moment filled her heart, which filled the room and would fill her life. There was only John Lawrie McVicars and the warmth of the fire he had built for her.
As his lips found her neck, his gentle kisses made up for the loneliness she had felt since she left Italy. Nothing, no matter how wonderful, had been able to fill her up until now. She was no longer alone in the world. She had a partner, a man she trusted, believed in, and admired. His love made up for all she had lost. Someday she would see her family again, and he would become part of them.
John loved Domenica more than his heart could hold. He had lived a rootless life until now. His mother’s home on Tulloch Street had never been his. Now he wanted a home worthy of Domenica. He was ready to build a new life and offer himself in faith to her. His past washed away like the letter Domenica had thrown into the river Clyde. All the hurt dissolved, like the ink on the paper in the undertow. Love, it turned out, could shelter the banished and lift the broken spirit, but he had no idea that it was one woman’s love that could do both.
* * *
Sister Matelda had left a letter in the guest lodge for Domenica. Her hands shook as she opened the envelope. She sat under the window and unfolded the letter.
6 June 1940
My dear Domenica,
The Sisters of the Sacred Heart in Lucca promised me that this letter would reach you. I do not want you to worry. Papa and I are in good health. We are leaving to go up the mountain where we will be safe. The Gregorios and Mamacis are going with us. We have sent word to the Speranzas to join us. Their situation is difficult, but Papa believes Speranza’s good friendship with the church will help. We have hope. Your brother, Aldo, remains in Africa. Reggimento Puglia. His last letter was brief, but he is also in good health. We trust the good Sisters will take care of you until we can be together again. Pray. We will pray too. Your mother and father and brother love you. This is the last letter I will write until the conflict is over. The Sisters cannot deliver any further mail.
Mama
The captain entered the lodge, sat on the step stool by the door, and removed his work boots. “How was your day?” He called out, “Mrs. McVicars?” When she didn’t answer, he went to look for her. He saw the letter from Domenica’s mother on the table. He read it.
Domenica stood in the doorway. “I will never see them again,” she said.
CHAPTER 29
Venezia, Italy
SUMMER 1940
The bruting wheel sustained a high-pitched screech as Romeo Speranza gently polished the ruby. Filaments of red dust fell through the air and into the work tray as the gem cutter pumped the pedal underneath the table. One carat. Peruzzi cut. Following a few final spins of the wheel, he held the stone up to the afternoon light through the street-level window. The ruby held the saturated color of burgundy wine, so red it was practically purple. He buffed the jewel in a cotton cloth between his thumb and forefinger.
Agnese collected the polished ruby and knelt to return it to the lockbox inside the safe in the floor. “Romeo, your shoes.”
Speranza looked down at his shoes with a critical eye. The oxblood leather was covered in dust from the wheel. He wiped his hands on a rag tucked in the back pocket of his work trousers.
“There’s a shoeblack on Calle Sant’Antonio.”