I SPOKE OF LOVE : THE SECRET OF THE PENDANT

Prologue Part 1: "The Confrontation"

That late October afternoon in 1850, rather cold even for Turin, portended a harsh winter. The coachmen in the distance hastened to help the last ladies of high society onto the carriages, having spent a few hours strolling in the city park. The first lamplighters propped their ladders to reach the lamps and fill them with oil, the chatter of those boys blending with the street noises and the clatter of horses' hooves.

Amalia returned with Marianna, her personal maid and faithful accomplice of several years, from their secret corner, a small room used as a book storehouse by a local printer near the Parco del Valentino. As they walked briskly, Marianna exclaimed, "Miss, I believe your mother knows everything. Today she asked me again about our outings. I don't know what more I can invent. Then she continued worriedly, 'Don't turn around, your brother is with a young man and I think they are following us.'"

Amalia sighed, running her hand through her hair and loosening the blue ribbon caressed by a light breeze that ruffled the woolen cape covering her head. "I must speak to my mother before she tells everything to my father."

"Miss, I've heard them whisper several times, and they've also asked your brother the Count."

"My brother would never betray me; he is like me, he hates this world as much as I do."

"Miss, it's imprudent. More than for you, I fear for that boy."

In the sumptuous study of Countess Matilde, situated in one of the quietest wings of Palazzo Crepuett in Turin, the afternoon had passed with an atmosphere of normal routine. The walls were lined with dark wood panelling, adorned with ancient and family prints. After all, the Crepuett were respectable members of society, distant cousins of the Royal family, and Amalia had been chosen as a lady-in-waiting to the current Queen Maria Adelaide of Habsburg-Lorraine. A family tradition, the mother Countess had been a lady-in-waiting herself during the reign of Victor Emmanuel I. A large oriental rug with intricate patterns covered the parquet floor, while crystal chandeliers spread the soft light of candles and golden reflections added further breath to the room's glitter.

Upon returning, Amalia found her mother, Countess Matilde, in her private study, intent on reading correspondence. With a tumultuous heart, she decided to confront her.

"Mother, I need to talk to you," began Amalia with a trembling voice.

The Countess looked up, with a severe and worried expression. "What is it, Amalia? I hope it doesn't concern that boy again. I know everything. Your brother has denied everything, but it is impossible to have two modern children like you!"

"Mother, Pietro is not just a baker," said Amalia, trying not to show her agitation. "I love him, and I can't simply pretend otherwise."

The Countess put down the letters and stood up abruptly, approaching the fireplace. "Amalia, love! That love, and a baker no less, can lead you nowhere."

"Mother, Pietro, you don't understand," insisted Amalia. "He is cultured, intelligent, more than many noble young men who frequent this house. It doesn't matter that he is not noble. I want him, not that half-dead princeling."

The Countess turned, her eyes determined and angry. "You want him? Are you completely insane? You will marry that princeling, as you call him! And how would you live, tell me, do you want to become a beggar? I have decided. You will leave for England in a few days. I have written to our cousins; you will go to London. This modern nonsense will pass."

Amalia felt the world collapse around her, her knees trembled, and the corset tightened even more on her chest. "England? You cannot force me! I cannot leave him."

"You have no choice, you cannot choose. I can choose, not you!" replied the Countess with cold determination. "This is decided."

Amalia shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "It is not fair! Please, mother, you are a woman too, and you can understand me."

"Indeed, precisely because I understand, you will go to England. You will be presented at Court. What could be more beautiful than entering the most important Court in Europe?" The Countess caressed her hair. "Amalia, I do this for you. The love you feel for that Pietro is madness. Understand, our world is like this, you cannot change it."

"Why aren't you all like Alessandro?"

"Your brother... leave Alessandro out of this! Know that it is thanks to your brother that your father did not have that boy sent who knows where. And he can still do it! Do you understand, he can still do it!"

Amalia freed herself abruptly from her mother's grip, feeling the enormous weight of society and family compressing her chest even more. "I cannot accept it, but I will leave for London," she replied intensely, looking her mother in the eyes. "Mother, I will do as you wish."

"Stupid," muttered her mother, heading towards her desk and sitting down weakly. "Of course, you will do as I wish!"

Alessandro Crepuett was a handsome twenty-five-year-old, tall and dark-haired, rebellious like his sister, with blue eyes tinged with shades of blue. He always wore a pendant around his neck that had the peculiarity of shining with its own light, as if it had the ability to understand the young scion's deepest emotions. He crossed the wide door with a determined step. His elegantly dressed figure, though imposing a sense of sophistication, was accompanied by a casual inclination, visible in his slightly dishevelled hair and the book on politics he held in his hand.

"Mother," said Alessandro, in a tone that brooked no argument, "we cannot continue like this with Amalia. It is unfair." His voice was a mix of concern and determination, like a call for change in a perpetually still room, too stagnant for decades.

Countess Matilde looked up from her documents, her severe features softened only by a glimmer of concern in her eyes. "Alessandro," she said formally, "you understand little of the necessities of our position. Amalia must fulfil her duties to the family and the Court as I did: when will you decide to marry!"

Alessandro frowned, the book on politics tightened in his fingers, then he moved a hand to the pendant and caressed it. "And her passions, mother, and mine? Pietro is not just a baker, as you say. He is a man who reads poetry, is interested in the world, and Amalia loves him."

Countess Matilde rose slowly from her desk, causing a book under the papers to fall to the floor; a commanding gesture that seemed to fill the entire room. "Love, Alessandro, is not a matter of love. It is a matter of responsibility. And you, dear son, should better understand the difference."

"Read Sense and Sensibility, mother, and you want to marry your daughter to that Court fool?"

"Those are the readings of a young romantic, now that girl has not existed for over twenty years," muttered the Countess rigidly, trying to avoid the gaze of the young people who were openly challenging her.

Alessandro clenched his jaw, holding his mother's gaze proudly. "Perhaps it is time we start thinking about Amalia's well-being, and mine too, not just the family's reputation as you have evidently always done...

Have you really loved, mother?"

The tension grew between them like a thin crack in the palace's marble, a silent struggle between tradition and change, all accentuated by the shine of the pendant illuminating Alessandro's face. Countess Matilde, though dominant and respected, knew she was facing a son who would never accept conformity without a fight.