The Enchanted April

Chapter 13

Bright, deceptively still days slip over San Salvatore, the four female guests shunning every social ritual and recreational outing that had defined prior spring stays, leaving the house staff bewildered and yawning through their shifts. No tea parties, no day trips to Mezzago, no champagne toasts, no sharp words to break the monotony—just a deathly quiet that hangs over the sun-warmed castle except at meal times, each woman withdrawing to her own solitary corner: Mrs. Fisher to her private rooms, Rose Arbuthnot to the sun-baked rocks, Lady Caroline to her secluded top garden, and Lotty Wilkins to the hills for hours on end. To the servants, the house might as well be empty for all the life it holds, though the visitors’ minds are buzzing, stirred alive by the extraordinary spring beauty that wraps the promontory—a soft, golden contrast to the wet, gloomy March they left behind in London. Even Lady Caroline, jaded by a lifetime of travel and luxury, feels the place’s quiet power pressing on her a nagging, unwelcome sense that she is tawdry, a word she can’t shake as she tries and fails to settle into introspection. She spends her first solo day in her garden, initially relieved to be free of Lotty’s eager friendliness from the night before, but grows bored and hungry, realizing no one has thought to call her to lunch, and spends the afternoon twisting between worry that the arriving Mr. Wilkins will hover around her, spoiling her solitude and Lotty’s bright happiness, and guilt that she might be misjudging him. Mrs. Fisher, meanwhile, is uncharacteristically restless, unable to settle to her beloved books or her long-planned letter to Kate Lumley, trotting repeatedly to the battlements to stare at the glittering Gulf of Spezia, pride stinging at her own inability to sit still, refusing to confide her odd unease to anyone—dignity forbids sharing such vulnerabilities with flighty Mrs. Wilkins, and Kate would only suggest a cup of tea. The chapter’s core follows Rose Arbuthnot’s first extended day alone, as she wanders to a hidden, sun-baked corner of the grounds, tucked out of sight of the house, where thyme pads the stones, agaves thrust grey swords toward the sky, and pale irises overlook the sea. Lizards dart over her feet, tiny finches flit through the bushes around her as if she isn’t there, but the beauty does nothing to lift her spirits: she aches to share the view with someone she loves, to murmur “look, dearest” to a person who belongs to her. Her usual anchors have slipped: she can’t pray, can’t summon thoughts of the poor she has spent years serving, the routines that gave her life shape and meaning forgotten as easily as her bedtime prayers the past two nights. Lotty’s repeated suggestions that she invite her estranged husband Frederick have forced him to the forefront of her mind, and in the clear April light, Rose faces the painful truth she has long avoided: Frederick is indifferent to her, bored by her faith and the charitable work that fills her days, has let their marriage fade without protest, and would not be drawn back even if she sacrificed everything she believes in. The grief of her lost baby, long buried under duty, surges up, and she is seized by a fierce, physical yearning for a child, for tangible love she can hold to her bosom, for someone who would need her, who would never find her boring. She returns to the house dejected, the splendor of San Salvatore only highlighting the hollow emptiness of her heart. When Lotty returns at dinner, sunburnt and freckled, bubbling with stories of her long walk, she lifts the mood of the table, until she catches Rose’s eye and asks if the letter inviting her husband has been sent. Rose flushes, says no, and Lotty replies cheerfully, “Oh, well—to-morrow then.” Mrs. Fisher, curious, asks who Rose’s husband is, and Rose, flushing deeply, replies, “My husband.” When Mrs. Fisher presses, asking what Mr. Arbuthnot does, Rose’s sharp reply makes clear the truth: she is not the widow Mrs. Fisher took her for, but a married woman whose husband has never visited her at San Salvatore. Mrs. Fisher is incensed, having judged Rose a respectable, steady widow, and the revelation hangs in the air as the chapter closes.