Gramercy Park. Paula Cohen

sound of Alfieri’s knock and the opening door, her eyes so swollen that he doubts she can see him at all, until she stretches out her hands to him. He is at her side in another moment, her cold fingers covered by his warm hands.

      “Are you ill, little girl?” He says it into her hair because she has buried her face in his shoulder to hide her red and aching eyes.

      “I thought you wouldn’t come back.”

      “I promised you I would.”

      “He said I would never see you again.” Her voice is muffled against him.

      “Who told you this?”

      “Mr. Chadwick.”

      “Madonna, it will take much more than Mr. Chadwick to keep me from you.”

      “He told me …”

      “What did he tell you?” he says with great gentleness, and waits to hear what he already knows: that she is soon to be living in the lawyer’s house.

      “He told me who you are,” she whispers.

      A chasm opens up beneath Alfieri’s feet. “Ah, did he?” he says, closing his eyes in sudden pain.

      “I am sorry I didn’t know. I am very stupid.” Her voice trembles. “Don’t be angry with me.”

      “Bambina, is that what you think? That I would be angry because you did not know who I am?”

      “I meant no offense.”

      “And I took none. Is that why you cried, and made your lovely eyes all red?” He rests his lips against her hair, breathing in its fragrance. “Listen, dear heart, I am not angry with you. I was happy that you did not know.”

      “Why?”

      “The reason is not important now. Someday I will explain.” He takes her by the shoulders and holds her away from him. “Did Mr. Chadwick tell you nothing else?”

      She droops beneath his hands, and her bowed head touches his shoulder again. “I must go with him.”

      “Cara, tell me … do you want to?”

      “No.” Close as he is, he must strain to hear her. “He frightens me.”

      “Grazie a Dio,” he whispers. “That is all I needed to know.”

      “He told me what you tried to do,” she says; “that you would let me stay here with you.”

      “Would you prefer that?”

      “Oh, yes, I would like to stay.” She raises her head and looks at him for the first time. “With you.”

      Red nose, swollen eyes: Alfieri thinks that he has never seen anyone so beautiful. “Then stay with me.”

      “He won’t let me.”

      “He will have no choice. We will give him no choice.”

      “How?”

      “By making certain he can never take you away from me.”

      “How?” she says again.

      “By changing your name.”

      She stares at him.

      “Sì, your name, Miss Adler. Oh, my dear,” he laughs, seeing her bewilderment, “do you still not understand? I am asking you to marry me.”

      She has forgotten how to breathe, and her eyes brim with sudden tears. “You would do that for me?”

      “No, bambina—for me.”

      “Why?”

      “Don’t you know, little girl?” He looks at her with a puzzled smile and touches her face. “I’m in love with you.”

      She smiles back tremulously, and shakes her head. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me. I’m not clever, or talented, or wonderful.” In her eyes is the deep sadness he had seen the day he found her, and a fear he does not understand. “I didn’t even know who you are. I would disappoint you.”

      “I know what disappoints me. It is not you.”

      “How do you know? Why are you so certain? What if you’re wrong?”

      In answer he takes her face between his hands and kisses her, tasting her for the first time, and her mouth is young and sweet, and all the lost years have been found. When he lifts his head she lies against him, her heart beating wildly, fitting into the circle of his arms like a key in its lock: perfect, unfaultable, beyond all praise.

      “Am I wrong?” he says.

      She cannot think, she cannot reason, not here, pressed against him, warm and safe. Even before she had opened her eyes and seen him she had loved him, hearing his voice. What have right and wrong to do with it? What sane person would refuse such deliverance? Since yesterday she has been ill, sick in mind and body at the thought of what lies in store for her. This reprieve must have been sent for a reason, to give her another chance at life. She will tell him the truth, very soon, and he will not mind; he is in love with her. This is a miracle, a miracle … let me be worthy …

      “I love you so much,” she whispers, “so much, so much, so much … and I will try so hard to be a good wife, and to make you proud. Be patient with me, please. I will learn as fast as I can.” She touches his mouth, still not quite certain that this miracle is real, that it has happened.

      “Do you really love me?” she says.

      THE RAIN FALLS in steady sheets, and the street lamps gleam twice over, their halos of light reflected off the wet and shimmering pavement. A small fire has been lit in Buchan’s study to take the dampness from the air. The lawyer and his guest face each other from either side of the hearth. On a small table at Buchan’s elbow are two glasses and a decanter of golden brandy that glows in the firelight like the longed-for sunlight of a happy future.

      “My thanks, Mr. Buchan, for seeing me so quickly, and especially on a Saturday evening. I hope that your good wife will forgive me for taking you away from your dinner guests.”

      “Signore, you must know that the appearance of Mario Alfieri on our doorstep has raised Mrs. Buchan and me to new heights in the estimation of our guests. But besides that, did you really think we would turn you away? Especially when you come bearing the news that Miss Adler has agreed to become your wife?”

      The lawyer nods thoughtfully, regarding his guest. “I am delighted for you, of course, signore, but I must also admit to you that I am amazed. Dumbfounded, in fact, would be a far more fitting word.”

      “Why?” Alfieri says. “Do you still doubt my intentions?”

      “No, not your intentions. You have offered the young woman honorable marriage, and have informed your attorney of it. You would hardly have done either if your intentions were less than worthy.”

      “But still you do not approve.” Alfieri’s gaze is frank. “May I ask why?”

      Buchan spreads his hands. “It is not a matter of either approval or disapproval. You are a grown man with much experience of women—”

      “And Miss Adler is a very young woman. Is that what disturbs you?”

      “Not precisely, signore. After all, we are not discussing the young lady’s ruin and abandonment—”

      “I have never been guilty of that, Mr. Buchan. With any woman.”

      “I never said you have. But now you wish to marry.”

      Alfieri says: “You make it sound as if I have taken leave of my senses. Well, in a way I have. I am in love, Mr. Buchan. Is that so difficult to believe of me?”

      Buchan’s voice softens. “No, of course not. But you have met the young lady a total of—what? Three times now? You have enjoyed each other’s