Catarina's Ring Read online

  Text copyright © 2015 by Lisa McGuinness.

  Cover photograph copyright © 2015 by Maria Carr.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-0-9905370-5-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data available upon request.

  Design by Elysse Ricci.

  This book has been set in Adobe Garamond Pro & Bodoni Old Face.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Bonhomie Press is an imprint of Yellow Pear Press, LLC.

  www.yellowpearpress.com

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  DEDICATION:

  To the women in my family who have worn the ring: Beginning with Maria Nina Pensebene, who took the risk to leave Italy and marry a stranger; to my grandmother Odessa Savelli who wore the ring next; to my beloved mother, Monica Duncan who passed the ring to me, and finally to my wonderful daughter, Natasha, who will wear it one day.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  CATARINA IN PERDIFUMO: A PICTURESQUE-BUT-IMPOVERISHED SOUTHERN ITALIAN TOWN, 1913

  “Catarina,” Mateo called.

  Catarina Pensebene opened the heavy, black wooden door and squinted against the bright sun. She shook her head and laughed when she spied her brother Mateo, leaning against the crumbling wall of a stone house across the narrow cobblestone street and waiting for her to emerge at the usual time, on shopping day. Just seeing him brightened her mood. She hooked the straw market basket over her left arm and approached her rakishly handsome, mischievous brother while patting her side pocket to make sure the grocery list was safely tucked inside.

  The two made a striking pair. Even in her faded brown dress and dingy apron, Catarina’s vivid sky-blue eyes and dark brown, wavy hair attracted looks of admiration.

  Going to the market stalls was a task she enjoyed—especially when her brother accompanied her. It was nice to be out from under the eye of Signora Carlucci, her employer, and Signor Carlucci, her employer’s plump, balding, sweaty-palmed husband.

  “Come stai?” she asked Mateo, deeply inhaling the fresh spring air. It was late morning but the sun already warmed the day and gave a hint of the heat to come as spring sashayed its way to summer.

  “Bene,” he said, his eyes crinkling with humor as he fell into step beside her. His face was the first pleasant thing she’d seen since she arrived at the dimly lit, very formal Carlucci home early that morning. It felt good to be back outside, walking instead of soaking and scrubbing heavy clothes in scalding water since the break of dawn. She looked down at her red, chapped hands and sighed.

  “Come on then,” she nudged her shoulder against his as they headed towards the vegetable and fruit stalls. “Where do Mama and Babbo think you are this time?” she asked. Her eighteen-year-old brother should have been helping their papa with the olives, but he somehow managed to get out of more work than she and her sisters ever could.

  “They both think I’m out on an errand for the other,” Mateo said with a smirk.

  Catarina cuffed him lightly on the side of the head. “Impossible,” she laughed. “How is it that you never get caught?”

  Catarina longed for the life Mateo led, but instead of being the favored son, she was the youngest of five sisters. Her family was struggling to put food on the table and couldn’t afford to formally educate her, although she was proud that she could at least read, write and work simple sums. She was lucky to be only one year younger than Mateo, because when they were growing up, she sometimes got to sit at the table when her babbo was teaching her brother, whereas her older sisters were already busy doing farm work and barely knew how to read or write their own names.

  When there was time in the evening, Mateo taught her more of what he was learning. She knew she should be pleased to know anything at all, considering how few grown men from the region were even partially literate. Good men who were busy trying to put food on the table each day, doling a percentage of their crops to the land owners, leaving little time to worry about education. Her family was fortunate to own the acres they farmed. They had their own grapes and olives to sell, and a kitchen garden to work, but Babbo kept saying changes were coming. Catarina wasn’t sure what he meant exactly, and felt a vague sense of unease when she let her mind linger.

  When she turned sixteen, her mama had announced that she was old enough for a job and informed her that she would begin working as a maid. Catarina was devastated. She loved working on the land with her family, but her protests were quickly silenced when her sisters whispered that the family needed the money Catarina would earn. Now, days were filled working for Signor and Signora Carlucci instead of helping out with the olives and vines. She missed being outdoors in the sunshine. She even missed the back-breaking drudgery of grape picking, which she preferred to scrubbing other people’s laundry.

  Day after day, she was stuck inside washing floors, ironing sheets, and cooking. She knew she should be proud to help her family, but the money she earned didn’t stave off the tedium of her days or the clammy hands of her employer’s husband.

  Signora Carlucci was kind and lovely to Catarina, but was demure and kowtowed to the thick-lipped, hairy-knuckled Signor Carlucci, who was gradually becoming impossible by making untoward advances to Catarina and leering when his wife’s back was turned.

  Things were fine when she had begun working in the Carlucci house, but changed in an instant after an unexpected request. Signora Carlucci had left home for the day to take a meal to a sick friend and Catarina found herself alone with Signor Carlucci for the first time.

  “Catarina,” he told her, “la Signora has asked me to instruct you to change the sheets on our bed before she returns.”

  Catarina stopped sweeping the floor and looked up at him. There was something odd about the way he was gazing at her and her chest inexplicably tightened with anxiety. It was an unusual request. Signor Carlucci rarely spoke to her, and had never given her any type of work instructions, which he left to his wife. Signora Carlucci had her change the bed linens on Fridays, yet it was only Tuesday.

  “It’s not the usual day, Signor.”

  “It is not your place to question, Catarina.”

  “Certamente, Signor. I’m sorry,” Catarina responded, even as the sense of unease further stole into her mind. She climbed the stairs to their bedroom and opened the door to the heavy, wooden armoire that held their sheets. The scent of the lavender water she used when she ironed calmed her nerves and she shook off the sense of disquiet. She appreciated the fine feeling of th
e fabric, which was much smoother than the coarse sheets they had at home. As she spread the bottom sheet across the mattress, she ran her hands over the material.

  When she turned to reach for the second sheet, he was there, standing beside her. She gasped.

  “Signor Carlucci, you startled me!”

  “There’s no reason to be frightened,” he said. The look on his face was rapt—drinking in every detail of her. She froze with her arms still reaching for the top sheet, not sure what to do. And then he reached over, took a stray lock of her dark hair, gently twirled it around his finger, then let it drop.

  “You have the most startling eyes,” he said in a low voice, almost a whisper. He ran his hand gently along her arm and looked at her. “I’ll watch you, to make sure you’re doing it correctly.”

  “I assure you, Signor,” she stammered, “there’s no need. Your wife has taught me well.”

  But still, he stood against the wall and watched her while she continued. Finally, after the sheets were snugly tucked in, he turned, and without another word walked out of the room.

  “Oh, mio Dio!” Catarina exhaled the breath that had been stuck in her chest, not daring to turn to make sure he was gone.

  No men in her village would ever touch a young woman. It would dishonor them both. And she had never had a man stare at her like that—as if he were ravenous. She shivered, then grabbed the bedroom door with a shaking hand and quietly closed it behind him. She wanted to latch the lock, too, but thought he might hear the solid click and she wanted to call no more attention to herself. She leaned against the door’s solid wood to give herself a sense of safety. She didn’t want him to know she was afraid.

  “Cosa dovrei fare?” she muttered. “What should I do?” she asked herself. Her instincts told her to turn and run home: to leave and never come back. But her family needed the lire she earned from this job, and Signor Carlucci was a respected man. What could she do? Speak out against him? She knew she couldn’t tell Signora Carlucci. It would be too disgraceful.

  Why would he do such a thing? she wondered. I’ve given him no reason to think he could approach me in this manner. He knows I come from a respectable family—that I am an honorable girl.

  She sank down to the floor to think, but found no solution.

  After a few minutes she stood back up and dropped her arms, which had been wrapped protectively around herself, back to her sides. She silently turned the doorknob and slowly slid the door open. She went to the armoire and closed the doors. With still-shaking hands, she put the linen-covered down comforter on top of the sheets, and fluffed the pillows to complete her task.

  “Mama?” Catarina called when she opened the front door later that evening.

  “In here, mia cara,” she called.

  Catarina walked into the tantalizing smells coming from the stove and the comforting embrace of her mother. Catarina held onto her tightly, drinking in the feeling of safety.

  “What’s this?” her mother asked, surprised by the intensity of her daughter’s embrace. She leaned back and looked at her daughter’s stricken face. “What happened today?”

  Catarina could hardly look at her. She didn’t want her to think she had done something to encourage Signor Carlucci’s actions.

  “Something strange happened today, Mama.”

  She told her about Signor Carlucci’s request that she change the sheets and his appearance by her side, but she left out the part when he touched her. Even her father hardly ever touched her now that she was no longer a little girl, but something stopped her from including that detail when she spoke to her mother about Signor Carlucci’s disturbing actions.

  “He said I have startling eyes,” she shivered.

  “Mia cara. That’s nothing, my darling. You had me worried. If I had a lira for every compliment we got about the beauty of your eyes we would be a rich family. It’s nothing. You should not be worrying yourself or me with such things. Signor Carlucci is a respected man. A married man. He probably just got confused about what his wife asked him to tell you. And we need you to keep this job, cara. Do you think it’s easy to feed the mouths of this family? Even having your sisters’ husbands help in the field barely makes up for all the food they swallow.” She clicked her tongue, shook her head, and went back to rolling gnocchi.

  “But Mama, I don’t think it was just a compliment. It was odd.”

  “Catarina, you need to ignore this and put it to rest. Capisci? He said you have nice eyes. Don’t make nothing into something. I don’t want to hear such complaints.” She gave her daughter a little squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “Now put your apron in your room and go help your sisters with the garden. The sage and rosemary are taking over along the south wall and need to be cut back.”

  Catarina slowly climbed the wooden steps up to the loft room she used to share with her sisters. They had gotten married one-by-one, so she now had the space to herself. She thought she would like it because the bed had always been crowded and her sisters snored, but instead she found herself lonely.

  She couldn’t believe her mother thought it was nothing. She had expected her to be enraged; to stomp her foot and rant against him. Her mother had always believed Catarina. She knew Catarina wouldn’t make something up to stir trouble. She had expected her to march right over to the Carlucci’s—dragging Catarina along by the arm—to give Signor Carlucci a scolding and have a thing or two to say to Signora Carlucci about how to run a household. But to tell Catarina to ignore it instead? She couldn’t understand that.

  Then it occurred to her that perhaps her mother was right.

  “Sono fessa,” she told herself as she slipped off her maid’s apron to join her sisters in the garden. “Maybe it was nothing.”

  On Wednesday and Thursday, Signor Carlucci barely even glanced at her. He kept his head down, reading over a ledger. Accounting numbers from his tailoring store, Catarina noticed. He ate his meals and spent most of his time out of the house at his business. She gradually relaxed and became convinced that she had imagined something more than had happened.

  Until Friday, when Signora Carlucci went over the daily list of chores with her.

  Catarina stood at the kitchen counter, chopping raw tomatoes for the salsa di pomodori a crudo that Signor Carlucci favored, as the signora told Catarina what to do for the day.

  “After you’ve finished preparing dinner, move on to the laundry and the ironing. I’m leaving the market list for you here, and of course, change the sheets.”

  Catarina stopped chopping and held the knife still over the tomato she had begun cutting. Without looking up she hesitated and then asked, “But, Signora, wasn’t I to change them on Tuesday?”

  “Cosa stai dicendo?” asked Signora Carlucci. “Why would you change them on Tuesday? Friday is the day to change sheets. I’ve been over this with you already,” she said with a furrowed brow and a look of exasperation on her face. “Pay attention, Catarina.”

  Catarina glanced fleetingly at Signor Carlucci, who raised his chin and gazed at her with a level stare over his ledger.

  Her heart pounded. She knew she should speak up and tell the signora that her husband had instructed her to change them on Tuesday, but she hesitated. Her voice caught in her throat. She felt afraid to speak up and her courage failed her.

  “I’m sorry. I must have been mistaken,” she turned back to his wife. “Of course, sheets are changed on Friday. I forgot for a moment.” She was filled with regret and an odd sense of humiliation.

  Catarina clenched her jaw and went back to cutting the tomatoes, paying careful attention so that she didn’t cut her finger in her sudden surge of emotions. She knew right then that there was going to be trouble with Signor Carlucci. She almost put down the knife to tell Signora Carlucci what had happened, but she knew the signora was unlikely to stand up for her maid and stop her husband. And Catarina realized that her employer would be horribly embarrassed if she knew what had transpired. That in itself was enough to stop Catarina f
rom speaking about it. But even if that hadn’t prevented her, the look of warning from her husband certainly did. She took one small glance at Signor Carlucci and his eyes locked on hers. Before she could look away he changed his expression from one of warning to a conspiratorial smile.

  After that, the situation gradually worsened. She couldn’t walk down the hall without him subtly brushing against her. Serving him at mealtime seemed to be an open invitation for him to touch her thigh. The first time it happened she was so surprised by the unexpected touch that the platter of chicken cacciatore she held clattered to the floor.

  “Catarina!” Signora Carlucci exclaimed. “Are you ok? What happened?”

  “I’m so sorry, Signora,” Catarina stammered. “I’m fine. I just lost my hold on the platter.”

  “Nina, Nina,” consoled Signor Carlucci to his wife. “Don’t worry yourself about this. Accidents happen and obviously the girl didn’t mean it.”

  “It’s true, Signora. I didn’t mean to drop it. It was an accident. I’ll be more careful from now on.”

  “Well, clean it up then.” She looked at her husband. “I’m sorry, mio amore. She’s usually so efficient.”

  “Not to worry, my dear,” he smiled lovingly at his wife. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  In the kitchen Catarina leaned her back against the wall with a hand to her chest, breathing hard.

  “This is assurdo,” she muttered, absurd. This can’t continue, but how will anyone believe my word against his? He’ll tell everyone in the village I’m lying if I speak out against him. He’ll make up some terrible tale. And if I quit, how will I ever find another position with no letter of recommendation? There are so few families who can afford to have help now.

  If I stay though, she thought, it will get worse, until what? He gets me alone and dishonors me? She shivered, afraid it was simply a matter of time before the old troll tried something more.

  She wiped her face on the one part of her apron that was free from the chicken cacciatore mess.

  This is no time for weeping, she reprimanded herself, and wet a rag to go wipe up the ruined dinner.