Part 1 · Chapter 1The Bertolini

"The Signora totally messed up," said Miss Bartlett. " Seriously, she did. She promised us rooms with a view, facing south and close together, and instead, we got these north rooms looking into a courtyard, way apart. Ugh, Lucy!"

"And she has a Cockney accent, too!" said Lucy, feeling even more bummed by the Signora’s unexpected accent. " It’s practically London."

She looked at the rows of English people sitting at the tables; at the line of white water bottles and red wine bottles between them; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate, heavily framed; and at the notice for the English church (Rev.

Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),

the only other thing on the wall. " Charlotte, don’t you feel like we could be in London? I can hardly believe there’s anything else out there. I guess it’s just because we’re so tired."

"This meat definitely looks like it’s been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, putting down her fork.

"I really want to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. Seriously, she had no business doing that. It’s such a bummer!"

"Any room is fine with me," said Miss Bartlett, "but it’s still kind of a drag that you don’t have a view."

Lucy felt like she’d been selfish. " Charlotte, don’t let me spoil things: you deserve to see the Arno, too. I mean it."

The first room in the front - You should have it, said Miss Bartlett, who had her traveling expenses partially covered by Lucy’s mom - a generous gesture she subtly referenced a lot.

"No, no. You should have it."

"I insist. Mom would never forgive me, Lucy." "She’d never forgive me."

The ladies’ voices got louder, and - if the truth be told - a little snippy. They were exhausted, and under the guise of being unselfish, they bickered.

Some of their neighbors exchanged glances, and one of them - one of those people you meet abroad who just have no manners - leaned forward over the table and actually barged into their conversation. He said:

"I have a view, I have a view."

Miss Bartlett was taken aback. Usually at a pension, people check you out for a day or two before saying anything, and often don't even decide if you’re "okay" until you’re settled in. She knew he was rude even before she looked at him.

He was an older man, built like a tank, with a fair, shaved face and big eyes. There was something childish about those eyes, but it wasnn't the childishness of being old.

She didn’t stop to think what it was, and her gaze moved to his clothes. They weren’t impressive.

He was probably trying to get acquainted before everyone got settled. So she gave him a blank stare when he spoke, and then said, "A view? Oh, a view! That’s so nice!"

"This is my son," said the old man; "his name’s George. He has a view, too."

"Ah," said Miss Bartlett, holding back Lucy, who was about to speak.

"What I mean is," he continued, "you can have our rooms, and we’ll take yours. We’ll switch."

The better tourists were shocked by this, and felt sorry for the newcomers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, said as little as possible, saying, "Thank you very much indeed; that’s really not possible."

"Why?" said the old man, slamming his fists on the table.

"Because it’s really not possible, thank you."

"You see, we don’t like to - " began Lucy. Her cousin stopped her again.

"But why?" he persisted. " Women like looking at a view; men don’t."

And he thumped with his fists like a little kid, and turned to his son, saying, "George, convince them!"

"It’s obvious they should have the rooms," said the son. " There’s nothing else to say."

He didn't even look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice sounded confused and sad. Lucy was confused too, but she could tell they were about to have a major scene.

She had this weird feeling that whenever these tourists started talking, the argument got bigger and deeper, and it wasn't just about the rooms or the view - it was about something totally different, something she hadn't even realized existed.

Now the old man was attacking Miss Bartlett, practically yelling: "Why shouldn’t she change? What’s the big deal? They'd be gone in half an hour."

Miss Bartlett, who was usually good at polite conversation, couldn't handle this kind of rudeness. It was impossible to brush someone off who was so... intense. Her face got red with annoyance.

She looked around, like she was asking, "Are you all like this?"

And two little old ladies, sitting further down the table with shawls draped over their chairs, looked back, clearly saying, "Nope, we're proper."

"Eat your dinner, sweetie," she said to Lucy, and started messing with the meat she’s been criticizing earlier.

Lucy mumbled that those people across from them were seriously strange.

"Eat your dinner, sweetie. This pension is a disaster. Tomorrow, we’re moving on."

Hardly had she said that when she changed her mind. The curtains at the end of the room parted, revealing a clergyman, kind of chubby but still cute, who rushed over to take his seat at the table, apologizing for being late.

Lucy, who hadn’t quite mastered being proper yet, jumped up, exclaiming, "Oh my gosh! It’s Mr. Beebe! How totally awesome! Oh, Charlotte, we have to leave now, no matter how bad the rooms are. Seriously!"

Miss Bartlett said, more calmly:

"Hi, Mr. Beebe! I bet you’ve forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that freezing Easter."

The clergyman, who seemed like he was on vacation, didn’t remember the ladies as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward with a friendly smile and took the chair Lucy beckoned him to.

"I’m so glad to see you," said the girl, who was totally bored and would have been happy to see the waiter if her cousin allowed it. " It’s such a small world. Summer Street, too, makes it extra funny."

"Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street," said Miss Bartlett, filling in the awkward silence, "and she mentioned that you just accepted the living - "

"Yeah, Mom told me last week. She didn't know I knew you at Tunbridge Wells, but I wrote back right away and said: ‘Mr. Beebe is - ’"

"Spot on," said the clergyman. " I’m moving into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I'm lucky to be appointed to such a nice neighborhood."

"Oh, that’s great! Our house is called Windy Corner." Mr. Beebe bowed.

"It’s just Mom and me usually, and my brother, though we don’t see him much. The church is kind of far, you know."

"Lucy, darling, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner."

"I’m eating it, thanks, and enjoying it."

He’d rather talk to Lucy, who he remembered playing the piano, than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl if she knew Florence well, and she told him at length that she’s never been there.

It’s always fun giving advice to someone new, and he was first to offer it. " Don’t miss the countryside," he suggested. " The first nice afternoon, drive up to Fiesole, and around by Settignano, or something like that."

"No!" cried a voice from the end of the table. " Mr. Beebe, you’re wrong. The first nice afternoon, your ladies have to go to Prato."

"That lady seems really smart," whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. " We’re in luck."

And suddenly, a flood of info hit them. People were telling them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric streetcars, how to ditch the beggars, how much to pay for a fancy notepad, and just how much they’s gonna love the place.

"The Pension Bertolini was basically obsessed with the idea that they’d adore it. Everywhere they looked, friendly people were smiling and waving them down. And above it all, the clever lady’s voice rose, yelling, "Prato!

You have to go to Prato. It’s perfectly run-down in the best way.

"I’d die without shaking off all the rules and expectations, you know?"

The young man, George, glanced at the clever lady and then went back to his food, looking bummed. Clearly, he and his dad weren't vibing. Lucy, even though she was killing it, wished they were.

It bummed her out when anyone got left out, and when she got up to leave, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a quick, nervous wave.

The dad didn’t even notice. The son acknowledged it, not with another wave, but by raising his eyebrows and giving a little smile - like he was smiling through something.

She hurried after her cousin, who had already disappeared behind the curtains - curtains that smacked you in the face and felt heavy with more than just fabric.

Behind them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good evening to her guests, supported by ’Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her daughter. It was a weird little scene, this attempt by a Londoner to pull off Southern charm.

And even weirder was the living room, trying to copy the cozy vibe of a Bloomsbury boarding house. Seriously, was this even Italy?

"Miss Bartlett was already settled in a super-stuffed armchair that was the same color and shape as a tomato. She was talking to Mr.

Beebe, and as she spoke, her long, narrow head bobbed back and forth, slowly and steadily, like she was knocking down some invisible wall. "

We’re so grateful, she said. The first night means so much. When you arrived, we were having a seriously rough patch. He apologized.

"Do you, by any chance, remember the name of an older guy who sat across from us at dinner?" "Emerson." "Is he your friend?"

"We’re friendly - like you are in these boarding houses."

"Then I won’t say anything more."

He squeezed her arm gently, and she continued.

"Basically," she concluded, "I’m keeping an eye on my young cousin, Lucy, and it would be a big deal if I put her in a position of owing favors to people we don’t know. His vibe was a little off. I hope I did the right thing."

"You acted totally naturally," he said.

He seemed to be thinking hard, and after a moment added, "Still, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting."

"No harm, of course. But we couldn't owe anyone anything."

"He’s a bit of a strange guy."

He paused again, then said gently, "I don’t think he’d take advantage of your acceptance or expect you to be grateful. He has rooms he doesn’t value, and he thinks you would.

He didn’t even think about putting you in a position of owing him anything, just like he doesn’t worry about being polite."

"It’s hard - at least, I find it hard - to understand people who just tell it like it is."

Lucy was relieved and said, "I was hoping he was a nice guy; I always hope people will be nice."

"I think he is; nice and annoying. We disagree with him on almost everything that matters, and I expect - I hope - you will too. But he’s the kind of person you disagree with rather than hate.

When he first got here, people were naturally put off by him."

He’s got no tact and no manners - not that he has bad manners - and he doesn’t keep his opinions to himself. We almost complained to our depressing Signora, but thankfully we thought better of it.

"So, are you saying he’s, like, a Socialist?" asked Miss Bartlett.

Mr. Beebe used the word, though he did give his lips a little twitch.

"And you’re assuming he’s raised his son to be a Socialist, too?"

"I barely know George; he’s still learning to talk. He seems nice, and I think he’s smart. Of course, he’s got all his dad’s quirks, and it's possible he’s a Socialist, too."

"Oh, that’s a relief," said Miss Bartlett. " So, you think I should have accepted their offer? Do you think I was being closed-minded and suspicious?"

"Not really," he answered. " I never said that."

"But shouldn't I apologize, at least, for being rude?"

He replied, a little annoyed, that it wasn't necessary, and got up to head to the smoking room.

"Was I being a bore?" Miss Bartlett asked as soon as he was gone. " Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He clearly likes younger people. I really hope I didn't hog him. I was hoping you’d have him for the whole evening, and through dinner, too."

"He’s awesome," exclaimed Lucy. " Just like I remembered. He sees the good in everyone. You’d never guess he’s a clergyman." "My dear Lucia - "

"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen usually laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs like a normal person."

"You’re hilarious! You remind me so much of your mom. I wonder if she's going to like Mr. Beebe."

"I’m sure she will, and so will Freddy."

"I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it's the fashionable crowd. I'm used to Tunbridge Wells, where we’re hopelessly behind the times."

"Yeah," said Lucy, sounding bummed.

There was a weird vibe in the air, but she couldn’t tell if it was about her, Mr. Beebe, the trendy people at Windy Corner, or the stuck-up world at Tunbridge Wells. She tried to figure it out, but she messed up, like always.

Miss Bartlett insisted she wasn’t judging anyone, and added, "I’m afraid you’re finding me a bit of a downer." And the girl thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I need to be more careful. It's so tough for Charlotte, being poor."

Luckily, one of the sweet older ladies, who had been smiling kindly for a while, came over and asked if she could sit where Mr. Beebe had been.

Once she got permission, she started chatting gently about Italy - how crazy it was to go there, how successful the trip was, how much her sister’s health had improved, the need to keep the bedroom windows closed at night, and to empty the water bottles in the morning.

She handled the topics well, and they were probably more interesting than the intense discussion about Guelfs and Ghibellines happening on the other side of the room.

That evening in Venice was a disaster, not just a small problem, when she found something in her bedroom that was worse than a flea, but better than something else.

"But here, you’re as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English."

"But our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. " We’re dreading going to bed."

"Oh, then look out the window." She sighed. " If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We felt so bad for you at dinner."

"I think he was trying to be nice."

"Definitely," said Miss Bartlett.

"Mr. Beebe just gave me a lecture about my suspicious nature. I guess I was holding back because of my cousin."

"Of course," said the little old lady, and they murmured that you couldn’t be too careful with a young girl.

Lucy tried to look innocent, but felt like a total fool. No one ever looked out for her at home, or, at least, she hadn’t noticed it.

"About old Mr. Emerson - I’m not sure how to feel. He’s not exactly tactful, but have you ever noticed that some people do things that are totally inappropriate, and yet somehow...beautiful?"

"Beautiful?" Miss Bartlett said, looking confused. " Aren’t beauty and being considerate just the same thing?"

"You’d think so," the other said, sounding defeated. " But things are just so complicated, I sometimes think."

She didnn't go any further, because Mr. Beebe showed up again, looking really cheerful.

"Miss Bartlett!" he exclaimed. " It’s all sorted with the rooms. I’m so relieved. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking room, and knowing what I know, I encouraged him to offer again. He let me come and ask you.

He’s really hoping you’ll accept."

"Oh, Charlotte!" Lucy cried to her cousin. " We have to take the rooms now. The old guy is genuinely nice and kind." Miss Bartlett was quiet.

"I’m probably being a bit much," Mr. Beebe said after a pause. " I apologize for butting in."

Looking annoyed, he started to leave. Finally, Miss Bartlett replied: "My own wishes honestly don’t matter as much as yours.

It would be awful if I stopped you from doing whatever you want in Florence, especially since I’m only here because of your kindness."

"If you want me to kick those guys out of their rooms, I’m happy to do it. Would you mind, Mr. Beebe, telling Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer and then showing him where I am, so I can thank him in person?"

She spoke louder, and everyone in the drawing-room could hear her. The Guelfs and the Ghibellines went silent. The clergyman, inwardly rolling his eyes at women, bowed and left with her message.

"Remember, Lucy, I’m the only one involved in this. I don’t want the acceptance to come from you. Can I count on that?"

Mr. Beebe was back, looking a little nervous.

"Mr. Emerson is busy right now, but here’s his son instead."

The young man looked down at the three ladies, who felt tiny in their low chairs.

"My father," he said, "is taking a bath, so you can’t thank him in person right now. But anything you tell me will be passed on to him as soon as he’s done."

Miss Bartlett was completely thrown. All her polite remarks came out wrong. Young Mr. Emerson won a major victory, much to the delight of Mr. Beebe and the secret delight of Lucy.

"Poor young man!" Miss Bartlett said as soon as he left.

"He’s so mad at his dad about the rooms! He’s barely holding it together to stay polite."

"Your rooms will be ready in about half an hour," said Mr. Beebe.

Then, looking thoughtful, he went back to his own rooms to write in his diary.

"Oh, dear!" breathed the little old lady, shuddering as if a storm had entered the room. " Gentlemen sometimes just don’t get it - " Her voice trailed off, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand, and they started talking about men who didn’t fully grasp things.

Lucy, not realizing anything, turned to a book. She picked up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy and memorized the most important dates in Florentine history because she was determined to have a good time tomorrow.

And so, the half-hour passed usefully, and finally, Miss Bartlett got up with a sigh and said:

"I think I’m ready to go now. No, Lucy, don’t move. I’ll handle the move."

"You always do everything," Lucy said.

"Naturally, dear. It’s my responsibility." "But I’d like to help you." "No, dear."

Charlotte’s energy! And her selflessness! She’s just been killing it, honestly, especially on this Italian trip. Lucy felt that way, or at least, tried to.

But - there was a part of her that wondered if accepting everything so gracefully wasn’t a little...extra.

At any rate, she didn’t feel exactly thrilled when she got to her room.

"I want to explain," Miss Bartlett said, "why I booked the biggest room. Obviously, I would have given it to you; but I know it technically belongs to the young man, and I just knew your mom wouldn’t want you to have it.

Lucy was totally confused.

"If you’re going to accept a favor, it’s way better to owe it to his dad than to him, you know? I’m not exactly a world traveler, but I know how these things go. Still, Mr. Beebe is a decent guarantee that they won't get any weird ideas."

"Mom wouldn’t care, I’m sure," Lucy said, but she still felt like there was way more going on than she realized.

Miss Bartlett just sighed and gave her a comforting hug as she said goodnight.

It felt like being wrapped in a thick fog, and when Lucy got to her room, she threw open the window and took a deep breath of the fresh night air, thinking about the kind old man who had made it possible to see the lights sparkling on the Arno, the cypress trees at San Miniato, and the foothills of the Apennines, dark against the rising moon.

Miss Bartlett, in her room, latched the shutters and locked the door, then did a quick sweep of the apartment to see where the cabinets led, and if there were any secret passages or hidden rooms.

That’s when she spotted a huge question mark scribbled on a piece of paper pinned above the sink. Nothing else.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" she thought, and she examined it closely in the candlelight.

At first, it made no sense, but then it started to feel...creepy, annoying, and seriously ominous. She almost ripped it down, but then she remembered she probably didn’t have the right. It had to belong to young Mr. Emerson, right?

So she carefully unpinned it and tucked it between two pieces of blotting paper to keep it safe for him. Then she finished checking out the room, let out a heavy sigh - that was her thing - and went to bed.